Death of a Nationalist (11 page)

“Thank you.” A woman in a light blue skirt, with dark, unfashionably long hair wound in a crown around her head stepped into the room. “Good evening, Sergeant Tejada,” she said in a clear voice, and he recognized Alejandra’s teacher.

Chapter 11

V
ásquez withdrew, tactfully closing the door behind him. Tejada did his best to stand up straight, woefully aware that he had sleep in his eyes, stubble on his chin, and cobwebs in his brain. “Good evening, Señorita—” He reached for her name for a moment. “Fernández,” he finished, after a barely perceptible pause. Some remnant of inculcated manners made him add, “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“You are very kind.” She formed the words carefully, enunciating each syllable with such clarity that Tejada was surprised to realize that she had spoken very softly. She stood motionless, her coat folded over her crossed arms. She looked perfectly composed but apparently had nothing more to say.

“Won’t you sit down?” Tejada asked before the silence became too awkward. “And please, tell me why you’re here.”

She sat down slowly on the edge of the chair he had indicated, and set her feet parallel on the floor with the same precise economy of movement that marked her speech. Her back was very straight, and that, combined with the masses of hair pinned to her head, reminded Tejada obscurely of a ballerina. He took the chair behind the desk, wondering irrelevantly if her hair was really black or if it only seemed so in the artificial light, its darkness accentuated by her pale face. “I hope”—she hesitated for a moment—“that I was not wrong to ask to speak to you personally, Sergeant. But I thought. . . .”

“Yes?” Tejada said, as encouragingly as he could.

“You asked me a number of questions about Aleja Palomino’s notebook.” The teacher seemed to reach a decision. “May I ask if your interest in it stems from the death of one of your colleagues last Friday?”

Tejada had been unsuccessfully trying to guess why Señorita Fernández had sought him out. She might, of course, have come on behalf of a prisoner but he did not think that she was one of those who would stoop to attempting to use personal influence, and he disliked the idea that she might be associated with any of the prisoners. It had seemed impossible that she would have any further information to give him. Now she seemed uncommonly well informed. He leaned forward. “May I ask what suggested that idea, Señorita?”

“Alejandra was back in school today,” she said. “She was very upset about the loss of her notebook, and she confided in me.”She hesitated. “I am, perhaps, breaking her confidence by coming here.”

Tejada took a deep breath and made sure that his voice would be calm before he spoke. “I appreciate your coming,” he said truthfully. “And I assure you that I have no interest in harming Alejandra. In fact, she may be safer if I know all that she has to tell.”

“That did occur to me.” A smile flickered across the woman’s face. “But I appreciate your reassurance. Aleja explained to me that she lost her notebook last week, on her way home from school. She says that a guardia civil passed her, and that a little while later she heard gunshots. She was frightened and hid. She says she saw a guardia civil come past her hiding place right after that. At first she thought it was the same one but when she went on, she found the body of the man who had passed her in the street. She realized that the other guardia must have killed him, and she fled. I know that you probably don’t want to look for one of your own, Sergeant. But Aleja’s a truthful child.”

Tejada frowned, skeptical. “And the notebook?”

“She dropped it when she saw the dead man and ran for home. She was frightened, Sergeant.”

Tejada’s first impulse was to believe that this was a story concocted to mislead him. Elena Fernández knew of his interest in the notebook, and therefore was the perfect person to come forward with the information. But if the notebook was linked to the black market, it was an incredible coincidence for her to be part of the same ring of smugglers. Or was it? Under what circumstances had Alejandra seen . . . whatever she had seen? He felt a certain disappointment. He had admired the teacher for her composure. He did not really want to believe that she was a criminal. And yet . . . “Alejandra’s notebook was not found by Corporal López’s body,” he said, narrowly observing her.

She looked grieved, but not guilty. “Oh, dear. Had Tía Viviana already found it, then?”

The sergeant stifled a gasp. Nerve was one thing. This casual naming of a murderous criminal was another. He considered the possibility that Señorita Fernández was telling the truth. “Tía Viviana?” he asked.

She smiled, but her voice was sad as she replied. “That is what Aleja calls her. I never knew her full name, or even if she was a blood relation or simply an aunt by marriage, or something like that. That’s really why Aleja was so upset about losing her notebook, of course. Viviana promised she would get it back for her.”

“What?”
Tejada said, feeling slightly dizzy.

“Aleja found out that she had lost the book when she got home. She says that Tía Viviana agreed to go and get it back for her. Apparently. . . .” the teacher hesitated. “Well, naturally, the guardia civil were still acting under wartime orders, and. . . .”

“Oh, my”—Tejada remembered, barely in time, that there was a lady present, and rapidly swallowed several of the curses he was thinking—“goodness,” he finished, with a vehemence that did not match the words. “So you’re saying that Corporal López never had the notebook in his possession
at all?”

“In his possession?” If Elena Fernández’s surprise was not genuine, she was a very good actress. “Of course not, why would he?”

Tejada choked on another swallowed curse. “And you came here to tell me?”

“That Alejandra may have been the witness to a murder,” the teacher said quietly. “That was why I asked to speak to you, instead of another guardia. Her testimony implicates a guardia civil, you understand, and I wanted to protect her.” She flushed faintly. “I assumed that
you
would not be guilty of the murder, Sergeant.”

Tejada put his head in his hands, hardly sensible of the compliment. “Did you ever meet this aunt of Alejandra’s?” he asked, without much hope. “Viviana?”

“Once or twice.”

“Could you describe her?” Tejada felt his last hopes that the teacher was lying fade away and die under her hesitant description. It would have fit many people, but the height, age, and coloring all matched what he remembered of the miliciana. As he strained to remember the woman he had taken the notebook from, he suddenly remembered that she had denied killing Paco. “Who did kill him then? One of your friends?” he had asked. “One of
your
friends, more likely!” she had retorted. If Alejandra had told her that a guardia civil had been responsible for the killing . . . “I
hope
there’s a special Providence for fools,” he said when Señorita Fernández had finished her description.

“Sergeant?” She sounded a little puzzled.

He raised his head and smiled bitterly. “Señorita, before you came forward with this information I was positive that I knew who had killed Pa—Corporal López, and fairly sure why he had been killed. Now I have no idea who killed him or why, and I have just spent the last week working on a false lead.” He opened the pouch designed for spare cartridges, where he had been keeping the notebook, and tossed it onto the table. “Here. Give this to Alejandra, with my compliments. I’m sorry she has missed it for so long.”

She hesitated for a moment. “That’s very kind of you, Sergeant. . . .”

“I doubt she would think so,” he retorted, thinking that if he and Jiménez had been five minutes slower Alejandra would have had her notebook without delay.

“If you would be so kind as to give me Aleja’s address I will gladly return it to her.”

Something in Elena’s tone caught the sergeant’s attention. “Give you her address?” he repeated. “It’s in the school records. And surely you’ll see her after the Easter break?”

“I do hope that Aleja will return to school after the vacation.” Her voice was colorless. “But unfortunately, I will not.”

It occurred to Tejada that Señorita Fernández was twisting her hands in her lap, and that this was the first unnecessary motion he had ever seen her make. “Why?” he asked.

For a moment he thought she would not respond. Then she said, reluctantly, “Today was my last day of employment at the Leopoldo Alas School.”

“Isn’t that rather sudden?” Tejada said with surprise.

She stared at her lap. “Señor Herrera thought it would be best for the school if I resigned.”

Tejada remembered the fussy little man. “He thinks you’re a Red because I asked to talk to you, and he’s afraid that we’ll close the place and arrest all the staff,” he translated.

She made no reply. Bravo, Tejada thought. So far in this investigation you’ve killed a woman looking for her niece’s notebook and thrown another one out of a job. “You’ve been very helpful,” he said. “Would you like me to speak to Señor Herrera?”

“No.” She smiled at him, and her voice had regained its calm. “No, thank you. He deserves to be left in peace.”

At another time, Tejada would have quarreled both with Señor Herrera’s merits and with the implication that the Guardia Civil harassed people. At the moment he was preoccupied. “What will you do?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Go home, probably. My parents are in Salamanca.”

“Salamanca? Your people are Nationalists then.” Tejada was irrationally pleased. Paco might still have been killed because he knew something about the disappearing provisions, he thought. It just means that they did it themselves. And now I know what to look for, I can find the bastard who killed him. He smiled at the teacher, certain now that she was telling the truth. “I’m very much in your debt, Señorita,” he said, standing and holding out his hand.

He had risen rapidly and the movement caught Elena unprepared. She stood up more quickly than she had intended and, to Tejada’s surprise, leaned her palms on the table as if to balance herself. The shaky furniture shifted under her weight, and she swayed unsteadily for a moment. “Are you all right?” Tejada leaned across the table to steady her and found that his hand easily spanned her arm.

“Yes, thank you.” She put her free hand up to her head for a moment. “It’s nothing, just a touch of dizziness. I’ll be fine.”

Her blouse was cream-colored, with long tapered sleeves. They were designed to cling to the forearms, but as she raised her arm one sleeve sagged, and Tejada saw the bones of her wrist and arm clearly defined against the skin. He wondered if the train with foodstuffs for the civilian population had arrived as scheduled. “Have dinner with me,” he said abruptly, releasing her arm.

“What? Oh, thank you, but I couldn’t possibly. . . .”

“Consider it a payment of the debt,” Tejada suggested. “It wouldn’t be anything too elaborate. Just the officers’ canteen. It would be my pleasure.”

Elena looked distressed. “Thank you. But I’m not . . . accustomed to eating much in the evenings.”

Tejada, who correctly guessed that she had intended to say “not hungry,” was pleased by this further evidence of veracity. “Then come and have a drink with me,” he said, taking her elbow and guiding her out of the office.

The dormitory housing the Manzanares post had been selected partly because it contained a large cafeteria with adjacent kitchen, originally intended for students, suitable for adaptation to a mess hall. Lieutenant Ramos had designated one of the nearby common rooms as a canteen. Tejada escorted his guest past the cafeteria with as much haste as possible and ushered her into the canteen. It was empty when they entered, except for Ramos, who was eating with the single-minded intensity of a man who has things to do and does not wish to waste time on supper. He looked up as the door opened and then gaped, with unaesthetic results.

Tejada saluted, wishing that his superior officer would close his mouth. “Permission to bring a guest, sir?”

“Restricted to family members, Tejada.” The lieutenant swallowed hastily, and then stood, brushing crumbs from his uniform. “Is the young lady . . .?”

“My cousin, sir,” Tejada said firmly.

“Then of course.” One of the maddening things about Tejada, Ramos reflected, was his capacity to tell barefaced lies with absolute assurance. Still, he had never abused the privilege before, and it would be a shame to embarrass the girl. Ramos held out his hand. “Your servant, Señorita,” he said, making a mental note to have a discussion with his sergeant about the definition of family members. He finished his supper and left, still wondering about Tejada’s guest.

As Tejada had expected, Señorita Fernández did not protest when food was set in front of her. She took a few deep breaths and then began to eat. Tejada, watching her carefully take tiny bites and chew each one with painstaking thoroughness, marveled that she had still had sufficient pride to make a token protest earlier. She was clearly well past the kind of hunger that made people gobble and into the region where a morsel of food was slowly treasured. He sat and watched her eat. After a few minutes she looked up, aware of his silent scrutiny. She blushed. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. Did you say something?”

“I asked how long you’d been in Madrid,” Tejada said, quickly picking the first question that came to mind.

“Almost eight years now. Since I started university.”

“You didn’t want to study at Salamanca?” Tejada asked.

She smiled. “I grew up at the university in Salamanca. I wanted to see the capital.”

She would, Tejada thought, have arrived in Madrid just around the time the Second Republic was proclaimed. He found that he did not want to probe her political convictions. “I got to Salamanca a few years before you left,” he said, to avoid asking another question. “Perhaps we have acquaintances in common.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed politely. “It’s a small world. Do you have family from there?”

“No,” Tejada laughed. “I have a law degree from there. A souvenir of the last time I let myself be guided by my father.”

She set down her fork, and her eyes widened. “You’re a university graduate?” There was something very like horror in her voice. “But you’re a guardia civil. I mean . . . I thought they came from their own academy?”

Tejada snorted. “It’s a long story. When I was eighteen I wanted to do my military service. My father wanted me to buy a substitute and continue my education. He finally told me that he would support me at university and pay for a substitute, and that if I still wanted to go into the army when I graduated he would see about a commission but that otherwise I’d be disinherited. I agreed to study law and planned to spend four years sulking.”