Law of Return (12 page)

There was a tense silence. It was broken, oddly enough, by Judge Otero’s wife. “I imagine you’d know more about them than we would, Lieutenant.” Her voice dripped malice.

Judge Otero seemed to think that the remark had been unnecessarily vehement. He turned reprovingly to his wife. “Really, dear. Poor Manuel is dead.”

“Only to be expected, given the sort he was mixed up with,” she retorted.

“Are you referring to these gentlemen’s political sympathies?” Tejada asked smoothly.

“Of course.” Señora de Otero jerked her head. “I imagine you’ve seen his file. He was mixed up with Reds. And Reds killed him.”

“My husband was never a Red,” Señora de Arroyo snapped.

“I suppose he signed that petition with a gun held to his head?” her sister-in-law retorted.

The judge and the lieutenant exchanged swift and silent glances. One looked rueful, and the other compassionate. Tejada’s sympathy for the judge increased. Dealing with two venomous women was more than any man deserved, especially when one was his wife and the other his sister. “Were you referring to Doctor Velázquez or Doctor Rivera, Your Honor?”

Judge Otero cast a slightly apprehensive look at his sister before replying. “I suppose I might have been thinking of them. But Manuel’s association with those two was years ago. Before the war.”

“Your brother-in-law’s stock holdings date from before the war, then?”

“Yes, he made almost no acquisitions during the war. The markets were disrupted, you know. In fact it’s only recently that he—” The judge stopped himself. “Started buying again,” he finished after an almost imperceptible pause.

Tejada noted the pause, but could think of no graceful way to pursue it. Instead, he turned to Señora de Otero. “You say that Reds killed Professor Arroyo, Señora. May I ask why you think that?”

“Because he was bound to end up making a public show of himself somehow,” the lady replied, with more annoyance than logic.

“How you can blame a man for being martyred by those bloodsuckers?” Señora de Arroyo began fiercely.

“Pepa! Margarita! I’m sure we don’t want to bore the lieutenant with this!” Judge Otero’s voice could have cleared a noisy courtroom. Both women fell silent, and the judge turned apologetically to Tejada. “Do you have any further questions?”

Tejada turned back to Arroyo’s widow. “You say you’ve been prepared for the worst since your husband disappeared, Señora. Could you tell me exactly when this was?”

Señora de Arroyo looked reluctant, but her voice was steady as she said, “I haven’t seen Manuel in over two weeks.”

“Then your husband disappeared sometime before. . . .” Tejada frowned a moment, calculating. “Saturday, the fifteenth? Is that correct? Can you give me an exact date?”

Señora de Arroyo put her fingers to her lips, a gesture of contemplation rather than silencing. “Yes, I think so. It was in the evening . . . Wednesday? Yes, Wednesday.” She looked apologetic at her own hesitation. “I do remember that it was exactly six o’clock, because the radio was on, and they announced the hour.”

A complication presented itself to Tejada. “It might have been Thursday?” he suggested, without offering a reason.

She shook her head decidedly. “No, it must have been Wednesday. Or . . . no, it wasn’t Friday.”

“You weren’t sure before,” the lieutenant pressed gently. “Why couldn’t it have been Thursday?”

Señora de Arroyo looked annoyed, and for a moment Tejada thought that she would refuse to answer. Then she said a little sharply, “Because Manuel was on his way to his . . . job.” She cast a glance at her sister-in-law, and then continued defiantly, “And that was Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

“I see.” In fact, Tejada did not see at all. Señora de Arroyo had given an absolutely plausible account of her husband’s movements, except for one trifling detail: according to his file, Manuel Arroyo Díaz had presented himself, alive and in good health, at the Guardia Civil post on the Thursday evening after his disappearance. Tejada could think of no reason why the lawyer would have avoided his home for twenty-four hours, shown up for his parole appointment, and then been murdered. He made a note to check with Eduardo Crespo as to whether the lawyer had in fact presented himself for work on the evening of Wednesday the thirteenth. And then, Tejada thought with distaste, I’ll have to ask Rodríguez about his last parole appointment. And fat chance of getting anything reliable out of him about Arroyo’s state of mind. Maybe Hernández will remember something. The lieutenant turned to Judge Otero and his wife. “Did either of you see or speak to Professor Arroyo later than his wife?”

Señora de Otero pursed her lips and did not reply. Judge Otero shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“And none of you thought of reporting his absence to the Guardia Civil?”

“In my experience the Guardia are quite zealous enough without encouragement.” Señora de Arroyo spoke with unmistakable significance.

“Fortunate for those of us who are law-abiding citizens,” her sister-in-law added with deadly sweetness.

Señora de Arroyo turned on her, swift to avenge insult. “I notice that you never called them when—”

“Do you have any further questions, Lieutenant?” Judge Otero’s voice cut across his sister’s.

“Not at present.” Tejada, who had been trying to think of a way to change the subject, gratefully seized the judge’s opening. “Thank you for explaining the need for releasing a death certificate as soon as possible. I’ll try to have one for you right away.”

“You’re most welcome, Lieutenant.” The judge saw him out into the hallway. As they descended the stairs he said apologetically, “I’m sorry you were witness to that little scene. My wife is naturally quite upset.”

Tejada, who could scarcely remember a time when his mother had been on speaking terms with all of his aunts at once, nodded understandingly. “Shock sometimes has that effect,” he said.

“Poor Manuel.” Otero’s voice was reflective. “I suppose in some ways his death was a blessed release.”

“Your Honor?” Tejada’s voice was respectful, although it occurred to him that the phrase “blessed release” was generally not applied to crushed skulls.

“He couldn’t work anymore. Well, you know what he was doing. He’d lost his friends, his career, everything really. And he lived with the knowledge that he was an embarrassment to his family. A sort of millstone around their necks. All the same,” the judge sighed, “I imagine that he wouldn’t have wished for an end like this.”

“Probably not,” Tejada agreed.

Otero smiled a little. “I trust you won’t find this callous, but Manuel always had the most fatal sense of timing. My wife was planning a little party for our granddaughter’s birthday next weekend, and now it will have to be curtailed, of course. That may be part of the reason for her distress.”

“Very unfortunate for the young lady as well,” Tejada said sympathetically, as they reached the door.

“Oh, Eugenia was never close to Manuel.” The judge’s voice was dismissive. At the doorway he paused. “I suppose, having mentioned Eugenia’s party I should issue an invitation. Naturally, the officers of the Guardia will receive formal invitations as well, but may I offer a personal one, Lieutenant?”

“I would be delighted.” Tejada knew that this response was mandatory, but it was not completely untruthful. He was still not sure of the motive behind Judge Otero’s graciousness. But he would have been foolish to waste it. The Oteros’ party was sure to include a vast number of people who had known Manuel Arroyo Díaz well. The lieutenant intended to take every opportunity to observe them while they were at ease, and off guard.

Chapter 11

R
eally, dear, it’s not as if you’re going to a party,” María reminded her daughter, a few days after Judge Otero’s “ invitation to the lieutenant.

Elena nodded, and made a disgusted noise. “Just as well. Honestly, who could possibly
wear
these things?” She held out the magazine she had been reading for her mother’s inspection.

María glanced at the picture Elena was pointing to. “Which one? The beach pajamas or the winter underwear?”

Elena laughed. “That’s a bathing suit, Mama.”

Her mother looked startled. “You mean it’s to wear on the beach? My goodness, I can’t imagine who would wear it anything so dowdy.”

“Just as well we aren’t ordering new suits then. All the patterns are along these lines ‘to oprotect our Christian morality!’.” Elena cast another glance at the penciled illustration. The black bathing suit had caused her initial exclamation, but she secretly thought the lean silhouette of the beach pajamas, with their flared legs and high-waisted belt, looked rather elegant. Pale blue, she thought. With white trimming, maybe . . . not that I’d ever actually
wear
it but. . . .

“I don’t think we need to attract any more attention than absolutely necessary.” Her mother’s dry voice interrupted her thoughts. “And regardless of the opinions of
Blanco y negro
, I do
not
think that the standard dress in San Sebastián this summer will resemble those drawings.”

“I doubt His Holiness, Bishop Eijo Garay, will be policing the beach,” Elena agreed. She stood up, dropping the magazine as she did so, and her mother swung open the dark trunk she had been sitting on, releasing a strong smell of mothballs.

The Fernández family had decided, after a nerve-wracking family conference, that their obligation to Joseph Meyer must be honored. Guillermo had sent a return wire, bearing the words, “MESSAGE RECEIVED. STOP. WILL CONTACT SOON,” and had written to several hotels in San Sebastián, asking about the possibility of rooms for his wife and daughter. The family had agreed that it would be best for María and Elena to arrive in San Sebastián as tourists, explaining simply that Guillermo had been detained in Salamanca on business. Guillermo had initially suggested that Professor Meyer join them and masquerade as “Señor Fernández,” but Elena had pointed out that even if they had been able to provide the necessary papers, the Guardia Civil in San Sebastián were quite capable of telephoning their counterparts in Salamanca to verify Señor Fernández’s identity. “And it would be very awkward to have you in two places at once,” she’d said.

“Besides,” María had added, “Meyer’s practically a caricature of a German. And even if his appearance could pass for Spanish, he’d be recognized as a foreigner as soon as he opened his mouth.”

After some further argument, pending a better idea, the family had decided that Joseph Meyer would have to pose as a distant relative of María’s. “Deaf!” Elena had suggested with sudden inspiration. “So no one will think it’s odd if he has trouble understanding, or sounds a little strange.”

Guillermo had laughed a little at the idea of his colleague posing as an afflicted relation, but he had approved the scheme. He had retreated to his study to write another careful letter to his son, asking if Hipólito could arrange to book a passage for Joseph Meyer. Meanwhile, María and Elena, determined to act as normally as possible, having consulted a magazine devoted to summer fashions, were carefully assembling clothing to pack for a few weeks at the seashore.

The Fernández’s had not taken a family vacation in over four years. The battered, metal-hinged trunks that María and Guillermo had used since their honeymoon were buried in back of the attic, amid yellowing piles of Guillermo’s old manuscripts, dust-laden games and toys (some of them broken) from Elena and Hipólito’s childhood, and other miscellaneous residue of a more prosperous era. The two women braved the forgotten corners of the attic one evening, after the worst of the day’s heat. María occupied herself searching out long-neglected bathing suits and sandals. Elena perched herself on one of the black trunks and leafed through the magazine, allowing her fancy to roam over new fashions, before turning once more to the faded reality, stiffened by salt and musty with the odor of the long-forgotten sea.

María carefully began to unpack the trunk. “These will be no use. They’re all your father’s. Except for the hats.” She gently laid the old summer suits to one side, and lifted out an eggshell-shaped hat, once white but now slightly yellowed, trimmed with lace.

Elena smiled. “I remember that one. You wore it the year we did the play in school.”

“You’re right.” Her mother laughed. “I’d forgotten.”

“The year after Professor Meyer visited us.” Elena was thoughtful.

“I’m afraid wearing it again would attract as much extra attention as one of those bathing suits.” Her mother smiled slightly. “It’s not exactly in style.”

“No,” Elena agreed, shaking off her memories. “But maybe we could bring along a few of papa’s old suits for Professor Meyer. They’re out of fashion, but they’re local at least, and they might make him a bit less conspicuous.”

“Good idea,” her mother agreed.

The two women made several trips from the attic, bearing old bathing suits, sandals, parasols, and all the paraphernalia of barely remembered trips to the seashore, into the living room. Following Elena’s suggestion, they also brought along an old suit of Guillermo’s as a possible disguise for their guest.

Guillermo, poking his head into the living room that evening, gave a startled exclamation. “You’re not planning to take all of this?”

“It does seem like a lot,” Elena admitted, observing the miscellaneous objects strewn over couches and tables. “But it’s no more than we used to take with us. Less, really, since you and Hipólito aren’t coming.”

“Most of it should fit in the trunk,” María confirmed. “And then there are the two little suitcases.”

The professor’s private opinion was that he and his son together had contributed less than a tenth to the family packing in the past, but he contented himself with saying mildly, “Are the bags still up in the attic? I’ll give you a hand bringing them down.”

María accepted her husband’s help with a gratitude that turned out to have far-reaching consequences. Had she thanked him with a little less alacrity, and had she been more successfully furtive as she wiped sweat from her face, Elena would not have realized the extent of her mother’s exhaustion. And had Elena not realized, she would not have insisted on helping her father carry the bulky trunk downstairs. And had Elena and Guillermo not been fully occupied with the black trunk, María would not have returned upstairs alone to drag down the two “little” suitcases.

Father and daughter had just set down the trunk in the living room and swung open its top, when they heard a muffled crash, and then a cry of distress. “María! Are you all right?” Guillermo ran for the stairs with Elena one step behind him.

“Mama?”

They found María lying on the first landing, surrounded by the two hard-sided suitcases that had been her downfall, holding back tears. “It’s nothing. I tripped over the bags. I’m an
idiot
. It’s nothing.” María’s little gasps of pain belied her words.

“You could have been killed!” Guillermo knelt by his wife, tried to pull her upright, and was interrupted by an involuntary cry of pain.

“My hip! Don’t, Guillermo. I’ll be fine in a few minutes, honestly. Ow! No, I really can’t sit up.”

The professor looked up at his daughter, white-faced. “Call Doctor Velázquez, Elena!” he ordered, and then returned his attention to María. “What happened? Did you fall from the top of the stairs? Are you
certain
you can’t move?”

In spite of the urgency of the situation, Elena hesitated. “Doctor Velázquez? Are you sure? I mean, the Guardia Civil questioned both of you so recently—”

“Don’t argue, damn it!” Fear made Guillermo’s voice sharp.

María spoke at the same moment. “No, don’t call Velázquez. It’ll only bring the Guardia down on us.”

“Who then?”

María’s breath hissed between her teeth. “Antonia Santana has mentioned a Doctor Ferrer. Call her, and see if you can get his number.”

Elena ran for the phone, more frightened by her mother’s willingness to see a doctor than by the sight of her lying on the landing apparently unable to move. Fortunately, Doña Antonia, a garrulous former baby-sitter of the professor’s daughter, was at home and only too happy to provide Doctor Ferrer’s telephone number, though not before she had wrung the details of Señora de Fernández’s accident out of Elena. Although Elena had not issued an invitation, Doña Antonia arrived within a few minutes to soothe the professor and “his little girl,” and to fuss over the invalid. Her exclamations were little appreciated by any of the Fernándezes, but her assistance in carrying María to bed when the doctor arrived was helpful.

Doctor Ferrer, who arrived half an hour after Doña Antonia, heard the details of the accident, made a cursory examination, and delivered his verdict. “You may well have fractured the hip, Señora. It’s impossible to tell without X-rays. But in any case, the treatment is simple: rest and complete immobilization.”

“For how long?” María’s voice was low. She was in considerable pain, and the effort to remain conscious without crying left her little energy for speech.

“Difficult to say. Two to three months, probably.”

María’s breath hissed between her teeth. Doctor Ferrer drew the professor aside. “I’ll prescribe an opiate if you wish, Señor. It may help some of her pain. But medicines have been in short supply since the war. And they’re expensive.”

Professor Fernández glanced over his shoulder at his wife. She was crying silently. “There are no coupons for them in the ration books, I suppose,” he said, resignedly.

The doctor snorted. “Keep dreaming.”

Guillermo sighed. “Write the prescription. We’ll fill it somehow.”

Elena was kept fully occupied by the intrusive benevolence of her old baby-sitter, the grave instructions of Doctor Ferrer, and the suppressed panic of her father until quite late that evening. Guillermo flatly refused to leave his wife’s side until she finally fell into an exhausted sleep, without the aid of narcotics, a little after two in the morning. His daughter, who had been waiting in the hall outside his room, firmly steered him downstairs to the kitchen. “Doña Antonia left soup,” she said, in a tone of voice she had developed for the benefit of her elementary school students. “And we have some old bread left.”

“I’m not hungry.” Guillermo sank limply into a chair without bothering to turn on a light.

Elena ignored his words, lit the lamp, and brought him a bowl of soup and a spoon. “Eat. You won’t do Mama any good by starving yourself.”

He obediently picked up the bowl, but stood. “I’ll take it upstairs in case she wakes.”

His daughter blocked the doorway. “What she needs now is rest. You’ll do more good by leaving her alone.”

Guillermo ate in silence for a little while. Then he said, in a slightly choked voice, “This is all my fault.”

“How’s that?” Elena demanded gently, feeling as she did when she escorted her father to the Guardia Civil on Friday afternoons: strong and competent, and maternal and resentful.

“She wouldn’t have been getting out the suitcases if it wasn’t for me.” The professor spoke bitterly. “A fine head of the family I am, risking you and María, for the sake of some foreigner.”

Elena had almost forgotten the trip to San Sebastián and its ultimate purpose in the tumult of the afternoon. “We agreed to the risk,” she said slowly. “Because it was the right thing to do. Because we’d want someone to do it for us.”

“Because we thought Meyer was at greater risk than we were,” Guillermo finished dryly. “And I don’t
know
if that’s true. I got a feeling of urgency from his letters. But it’s hard to tell. He could just have been dramatizing.”

“It would have to be urgent for anyone to want to get
into
Spain, now,” Elena remarked with a slight twist to her mouth.

“Well, it looks as though we’ll have to let him down, doesn’t it?” Guillermo said. “I can’t leave Salamanca, and even if I could, I wouldn’t with your mother like this. The only question is how to let him know.”

“There’s no need to do that,” Elena said slowly, aware that she was committing herself. “I can go to San Sebastián on my own.”