Law of Return (18 page)

He flipped hastily through the remaining pages of the address book in such a hurry that he almost missed what he was looking for: “
Yves, Alain. 18 Avenue de l’Impératrice. Biarritz
.” He copied the French address out next to the Swiss one, and for a moment everything looked crystal clear: Arroyo had staged his own death, and had disappeared to the north, taking his yacht to the relative safety of Biarritz, staying there with a friend until he could make the trip to Switzerland—either Geneva to visit old colleagues, or Zurich, where the mysterious Vogel lived.

Then the lieutenant sighed. It was a pretty theory, but it didn’t completely make sense. He looked again at the entries he had copied, wishing that Sergeant Hernández, or someone else whose judgment he trusted, was around to discuss the odd clue. He quickly discounted the idea that Arroyo had used the address book recently to contact Yves or Vogel or anyone else. He was sure that the lawyer had not been near the house in San Sebastián since 1936. If Arroyo
had
contacted someone in France or Switzerland, he had used a different source for the address. Which is odd, Tejada thought. The point of an address book is to be easily at hand to refer to it. Arroyo might have accidentally left the book behind the last time he was here. But why would he put it in a locked box, and store it at the back of his closet, as if it were something vitally important? Carefully, Tejada inspected the book again. It seemed quite ordinary. The addresses and telephone numbers in it seemed ordinary as well. He could positively identify some of them as friends or family of Arroyo’s, and verify both the addresses and phone numbers from personal experience. It was hardly the sort of thing a man would feel the need to hide.

The only anomalies were the Swiss and French entries. But why would he hide that in ’35, Tejada wondered. He couldn’t have foreseen the business with Unamuno, and the war, and everything. Why would he care? The string of numbers below the Swiss address caught his attention. Idly, he counted the digits, and tried to see patterns in them. None appeared. But presumably they were not merely random. Tejada was no cryptographer, and he felt reasonably sure that if the numbers were a code they were a code that would defeat him. But there was no reason to suppose that Arroyo was a cryptographer either. He looked through the rest of the address book again, confirming what he already knew: the Swiss entry was the only one with a long list of digits below it. They were too long for phone numbers. Perhaps, Tejada speculated, they were the number of some kind of identity card. The Swiss did everything by numbers, didn’t they? Even bank accounts. . . . Another piece of the puzzle clicked. Bank accounts! Tejada thought. That’s where his money went. And I’ll bet that’s what Otero meant when he said, “It’s only since the war that he started—” Arroyo wasn’t withdrawing money from his accounts in Spain to accumulate cash. He was illegally transferring it abroad. And that’s why he hid the address book. It had his account numbers in it. My God! Two hundred thousand pesetas moved into Switzerland in the last year alone. And who knows how much before the war! And Otero knew about it! But did he know Arroyo was planning to flee?

The lieutenant closed the address book with a snap, and rose quickly. He paused to ask Guardia Espinal for directions, and then headed for the San Sebastián yacht club almost at a run. It was imperative to know whether Manuel Arroyo’s boat was still “rotting in storage.”

It was just before five when he reached the club. Siesta had just ended and the few members, festively dressed in blue and white, cast curious glances at Tejada’s uniform as he presented himself to the secretary at the main desk. The secretary was courteous. Yes, the club kept membership records, and yes, naturally there were records of whose boats remained in the marina, and in dry dock. Yes, the war had disrupted the usual activities somewhat, although this year the members were coming back. Yes, a few boats had been left in storage since before the war. The club had continued their upkeep, assuming that their owners remained members in good standing. Yes, it would be possible to check the club’s records for a specific ship. Did the Señor Guardia know her name? The name of the owner, then? Tejada gave Arroyo Díaz’s name with barely controlled impatience, and waited eagerly for the reply.

The secretary seemed to be taking her time among the records. A quarter of an hour passed before she returned. “Yes, Señor Guardia, you’re correct. Manuel Arroyo Díaz is listed as the owner of the
Santa Justicia
. She’s a yacht, put in dry dock on August 28, 1935.”

“And?” Tejada demanded.

The secretary looked puzzled. “And what?”

“When was she taken out of dry dock?” he asked.

“I’m sorry. We have no record that she was.”

For a moment Tejada was struck dumb. Then his need to verify information reasserted itself. “In that case I’d like to inspect the
Santa Justicia
,” he said firmly.

The secretary looked nervous. “Under normal circumstances—” she began.

“I’d like to make sure that the
Santa Justicia
is in fact in dry dock,” Tejada interrupted bluntly. “I’m investigating a felony, and I will consider any individual or organization—including this yacht club—which hinders my investigation as an accessory to subversion.”

The secretary blinked. “I’ll speak to Señor Montero,” she managed. “He’s the only one who can approve your request.”

“Good,” Tejada said grimly, and settled down to wait.

Señor Montero, when he appeared, was inclined to demur. But Tejada was insistent and Montero finally became aware that antagonizing the Guardia was stupid. Somewhat nervously, he led Tejada past the marina to a large hangar, where boats of various sizes and shapes sat propped on huge blocks, covered by canvas tarpaulins. “Here,” Montero said, reluctantly gesturing to a canvas-draped shape. “This is the
Justicia
.”

He made an unhappy noise as Tejada stepped forward and lifted the tarp. The lieutenant ignored him. “
Santa Justicia, San
Sebastián
,” read the lettering on the boat’s prow.

Damn
,
thought the lieutenant. Damn, damn,
damn.
Why can’t anything be simple?

Tejada returned to the post discouraged. Gold-edged clouds were floating across the sky, as if echoing the stately promenade of the tourists enjoying the rain-scented evening breeze. Why is it, he thought with disgust, that as soon as I’ve figured out one thing in this case, something else turns up to contradict it? At the moment I don’t even know whether Arroyo’s alive. I suppose he could have slipped across the border some other way, especially if he was known at the yacht club and wanted to avoid attention. And he must have realized that we’d find out about the boat. But why stage his own death, if not to gain time? And who did he stage it with? Did he murder someone else whose family haven’t bothered to report
him
missing yet? Or is he actually lying in the morgue in Salamanca, and I’m on a wild-goose chase!

When he reached the post, the guardia on duty told him that Captain Alfanador wanted to see him.

“Was your search productive, Lieutenant?” the captain asked courteously, when Tejada reported to him.

“Yes and no, sir,” Tejada said. Seeing that the captain looked quizzical, he added, “Well, it was productive, sir, but not exactly enlightening.”

“Ahh.” Alfanador made a sympathetic noise. “Well, I’m sorry to add my mite to your frustration, but there’s been a development that I thought you might be interested in. Perhaps it will clarify things.”

“Sir?” Tejada could not imagine anything, short of a positive identification of Manuel Arroyo, which would simplify his life.

“The manager of the Hotel María Cristina reported a guest missing this afternoon,” the captain said. “He said she was a young lady, traveling without family. She stayed for two nights and then walked out yesterday evening and didn’t return. Her bed hadn’t been slept in. I thought you might be interested, because she was a recent arrival from Salamanca.” He picked up a piece of paper on his desk and held it out. “Here’s the report filed. The woman’s name is Fernández. Elena Fernández.”

Tejada felt a knot in his stomach. A frustrating day had just gotten dramatically worse. “Is he . . . worried about the young lady’s safety, sir?” Tejada asked, although his lips did not appear to be working too well.

The captain laughed. “Actually, Tejada, I suspect he’s worried about getting paid. She left without settling her bill. But her things are all still in the hotel, so it’s possible that she simply ran into friends and has decided to stay with them for a few days. As I said, I wouldn’t have mentioned it if she hadn’t come from Salamanca. Does the name ring a bell?”

“I doubt that she has anything to do with the Arroyo case,” Tejada lied. (I gave her permission to travel. Rodríguez is going to have my head on a plate. Damnit, how could she be so stupid?) He took a deep breath. “But I do think it’s possible that Arroyo may have crossed into France from here, sir. With your permission I’d like to make some inquiries across the border.”

“You’re not under my command,” Alfanador pointed out. “And I assume your own captain trusts your discretion enough to let you make whatever inquiries you think necessary.”

Tejada did not challenge this assumption. “I’d like to borrow a truck, sir,” he said. “I’ll try to return it within forty-eight hours.”

Alfanador responded readily enough. “I’ll see what we can do tomorrow, Tejada. The problem is really the gasoline. The war in France hasn’t made getting supplies any easier.”

Tejada considered the prospect of a sleepless night, turning over the day’s various revelations. Arroyo probably had a week’s start already. But Elena had only left the previous evening. Time was of the essence in catching up to her if she was going to meet Arroyo in France. “Tonight, sir,” he said, as firmly as possible. “I don’t want to waste any more time than necessary.”

“If Arroyo’s already in France, he’s out of our jurisdiction, Tejada,” the captain pointed out mildly.

“I know, sir.” Tejada swallowed. “I give you my word, I won’t make a scene, sir. But I’d like to go as quickly as possible.”

The captain considered for a moment. “It’s probably a wild-goose chase, you know,” he said.

“I know, sir.”

Alfanador tapped the report of Elena Fernández’s disappearance thoughtfully against his desk. “All right,” he said finally. “We can spare a truck and a tank of gasoline, I suppose. And I can phone the border and let them know you’re coming, so they don’t make a fuss over visas. Give me an hour.”

For a moment Tejada was wildly relieved. Then he remembered the dual purpose of his errand, and his stomach clenched again. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly. “I’ll go and get my things together.”

Chapter 15

L
ike San Sebastián and most other summer resorts, Biarritz took its life from the crowds of transients who descended on it in the summertime. The town gained color from the bright clothing of the strolling tourists, and gained prosperity from the money they spent on ice creams, parasols, and all the protection against the sun and heat that they had forgotten to bring from home. It was easy to be a stranger in Biarritz.

This year most of the summer visitors had worn uniforms, but the town was beginning to return to normal. The flood of desperate refugees had slowed to a trickle, and those few who still came had the decency to attempt to blend in. Of course, even among the tourists, there were eccentrics. No sane tourist, for instance, would wear a heavy wool suit in July, or read incomprehensible Greek texts on vacation. But the gentleman with reading glasses and a white mustache, sitting alone at a table overlooking the sea on the terrace of the Café Lyon, was wearing a musty gray worsted suit and had buried his nose in a book whose title Louis, his waiter, could not make out.

The gentleman had been sitting in the Café Lyon for some time, and although he always nodded amicably when someone expressed a wish to share his table, he seemed to have attention for nothing but his book. He had successfully made two cups of coffee last for three hours and Louis and his colleagues were getting used to avoiding the table.

So it was something of a surprise to Louis when a dark-haired young woman headed for the reader’s table and greeted him. She could have done better, Louis thought. There were other tables available, with more agreeable clients, and she was a good-looking woman. Perhaps the eccentric gentleman noticed this. In any case, he emerged from his book long enough to begin what seemed to be a friendly chat. When Louis approached to take the young woman’s order (and inspect her more closely), she asked for coffee. Her voice held the faintest hint of an accent, but her words were too few for the waiter to be sure. He withdrew, wondering where she was from. Her clothing was not local, he was sure. Spain or Italy, he decided finally, and turned his attention to other, more demanding, clients.

When the waiter had departed, the gentleman with the reading glasses smiled. “So, Helenka,” he said, in thickly accented French. “You have grown. A foolish remark, but true.”

Elena looked embarrassed by this comment, a normal reaction for anyone over the age of sixteen. “I’m glad you recognized me,” she temporized.

“You have not changed so much. And I am glad that I have not changed so much either, so that you could recognize me.”

“It was your book,” the young woman admitted. “My father has the same edition.”

“I have always found Homer reliable.” The old man smiled again, and patted the battered hardcover fondly. “But this is unexpected, that you are alone. Were your parents unable to cross the border?”

“Actually, I came north alone,” she admitted.

The professor looked surprised. “But why?”

Elena rapidly summarized the chain of events that had led to her traveling to San Sebastián without her parents. Professor Meyer was frowning when she finished. “I am sorry,” he said. “I add to your trouble at a bad time, it seems. Forgive me.”

Elena shook her head. “It’s not your fault.”

“No.” Meyer’s face twisted briefly into a humorless grin. “And you will note that I do not offer to release you from your offer to help. I have spent several weeks here avoiding the German troops in the town. The presence of so many Germans makes me uncomfortable.”

“We’ll leave tonight,” Elena promised.

“How?” the professor demanded reasonably. “How did you come? You do not have a passport?”

“No. A pair of fishermen took me along the coast last night, and set me down on the beach at around four o’clock this morning,” Elena explained. “After that, I just had to follow the inland road as far as the town.”

“You came alone? In a fishing boat?” The professor was shocked.

Elena thought it was a little ungracious of him to exclaim at her lack of a chaperone. She smiled, but her voice was not as light as it might have been as she said, “It was nothing. But I wish you had been more specific about our meeting place.”

“Telegrams are expensive.” Meyer spoke apologetically.

“I know. Actually, I didn’t have trouble getting directions. It was knowing how to ask for you when I got there that was the challenge.” Elena’s annoyance subsided, although her experience at the Pension d’Or had not been pleasant. It had been quite awkward appearing at an unknown pension, and facing the landlady’s wary hostility as she asked hesitantly to speak to a guest she was afraid to name for fear that he was using an alias. Fortunately, her stumbling description of “a German gentleman, a colleague of my father’s” had been instantly recognized by the landlady, and she had been directed to the Café Lyon without further difficulty.

“I’m sorry.” Meyer’s regret was genuine. “But you speak French very well.”

“I wish it were true!” Elena laughed. “We’ll need it, before the day’s out.”

“Oh?” the professor asked.

“We need to make contact with our transportation out of here,” Elena explained, quickly relating what Jorge had told her on the beach that morning. “So the next thing to do is to find the Magdalene,” she finished. “Do you want to wait here, or should we meet back at the pension?”

“No!” Meyer looked aghast. “I will go, of course. You cannot enter a strange bar called the Magdalene by yourself!”

“I’m not going to drink there,” Elena pointed out.

“That does not matter.” The German was inflexible. “You will go back to the pension and I will find this Daniel and give him the password he asks for.”

For a moment, Elena was tempted to agree. She was exhausted, hungry, and frightened, and the thought of letting someone else do a little work was extremely appealing. Then certain practicalities presented themselves. “No,” she said firmly. “You can’t go. At least not alone. Daniel wouldn’t talk to you.”

“And he will talk to you? Why?” the professor retorted.

“Because . . .” Elena hesitated, unsure how to explain without hurting his feelings. “Because I’m a Spaniard, and so’s his cousin.”

“He knows this?” Meyer protested.

Elena sighed. “It’s the accent. You sound very German. And . . . well, would you talk to a mysterious stranger who sounded like a German, in Biarritz now?”

Elena had avoided the explanation merely because she did not want to seem to boast of her own mastery of French. But as she spoke, she realized that even her gentle comment had hurt Meyer more deeply than she had imagined. He looked haggard. “You are right.” His voice was humble. “I had not thought that it could ever hurt to be mistaken for a German but you are right. But I will come with you. I will not speak, I promise.”

Elena, who was in fact a bit uncomfortable with the idea of seeking out a strange fisherman in a bar of unknown reputation on her own, accepted his offer with relief. At her suggestion, she and Meyer returned to the pension where he collected his suitcases, and settled his bill. “You can leave them at the station,” Elena said. “That way you won’t have to worry about an inconspicuous departure this evening. No one will care if you redeem the claim ticket at an odd time.”

Once the professor’s luggage was safely stowed, he and Elena started up the Rue Gambetta, doing their best to look like casual strollers as they searched for the Magdalene. They spoke little. Just as well, Elena thought. If no one overhears us we might be mistaken for relatives, I suppose. She wondered if Meyer was silent because he was still brooding on her comment about his accent, and for the first time it occurred to her to puzzle over his phrase “be
mistaken
for a German.” Perhaps he had become a naturalized citizen. “Do you have a French passport?” she asked, when she was fairly sure they would not be overheard.

“If I did, I would not impose on your kindness.” Meyer spoke with a trace of bitterness.

“But surely Germans can enter Spain?” Elena’s puzzlement grew. “It’s a friendly country.”

“I imagine they can. But my passport is a Jewish passport. It has a . . . what is the word? . . . a stamp on it.”

Elena bit her lip, aware that discussing the subject in the street was unwise, but she was too curious to let it go. “Is it so hard for Jews in Germany, now?”

The professor cast a furtive glance around the street. His voice, when he spoke, was so low that Elena could hardly hear it. “Yes. In Germany now, I cannot walk certain streets, enter certain shops. This is by law, you understand.” He glanced around again, to make sure that they were not being overheard, and then continued. “And always there are the deportations, of course.”

“Deportations?”

“To the work camps. They will put up a notice, telling all Jews to meet at the train station on a certain day. And then they are taken to the camps. And no one hears from them again.”

Elena shuddered slightly, remembering the posters plastered across Madrid at the end of the war. “
All members of the Red Army
are to report to Chamartín Stadium to surrender their weapons. No
reprisals will be taken against common soldiers . . .
” Machine gun fire had sounded to the north of the city all day. “Was that why you left?” she asked.

“Not exactly. It is difficult to explain. They took my work from me four years ago. But I had in 1937 a student, a former student rather, who came to see me. A fine boy. He was translating
Oedipus
at Colonnus
. After our visit, they called him a Jew-lover and beat him to death in the street. That was when I decided to leave.”

Meyer’s voice was calm as well as quiet; almost emotionless. But Elena found herself listening with the horrified fascination of a child picking at a scab to make it bleed. “What will happen if they find you?” she asked, her voice as soft as his own.

He shrugged. “I will be deported and sent to one of their work camps. I will die, probably. I am old. I will die soon anyway. But we are all like Admetus; we want to live on, even if it is only for a short while longer.”

Elena began looking for the Magdalene with renewed determination. She found herself shuddering at the sight of a German soldier, obviously off duty, strolling by on the other side of the street. Her overwhelming desire was to be safely back home. She had forgotten that she was hungry and tired. Adrenalin kept her muscles clenched, and her eyes darted from side to side in a constant quest for the bar Jorge had named. Clouds had been gathering all day, and Elena jumped, nervous as a cat, as the first drop struck her cheek.

“It’s raining,” she said, and then wondered with sudden fear if bad weather might prevent their crossing.

“Look.” Meyer ignored her comment and jerked his chin in the direction of a bar across the street. A grimy wooden sign with a woman’s profile painted on it proclaimed the single word “Magdalene.”

Elena gulped. “All right,” she said softly. “We need to talk to the owner.”

Meyer took her arm as she crossed the street and Elena was glad of the gesture. As she pushed open the door of the bar, she realized that he had been right to insist on coming with her. The Magdalene was not only a bar avoided by ladies of good reputation, it was a place completely devoid of female presence. The dim room reeked of liquor, cheap cigarettes, and unwashed bodies. Men were sprawled at tables in darkened corners she preferred not to examine too closely, and a few were hunched over the bar. Her entry attracted the same amount of attention as a small explosion.

She forced herself to run the gauntlet of eyes all the way to the counter. She wondered if Meyer’s German accent if he spoke would really be as noticeable as she had thought. He tagged behind her now, silently. The barman was staring at her with unconcealed curiosity. “Can I help you, Miss?” As soon as he spoke she knew that Meyer’s accent would have been as damaging as she had suspected. Her own would be remarked upon. She might pass, for a sentence or two, as Parisian. But there was no way that she could imitate the thick patois of the barman.

Elena swallowed, feeling gauche. “I am looking for the owner of the Magdalene.” She pronounced each word carefully and quietly, wishing that the bar had not gone dead silent at her arrival. She was convinced that her carefully lowered voice echoed in the farthest corners of the smoky room, and was certain that every man there was hanging on her words.

“You’ve found him. What do you want?”