Murder Begets Murder (10 page)

He looked curiously at her.

‘Well?’

‘Suppose Betty was poisoned — who poisoned her? The murderer would have had to have a very strong motive and that surely means knowing her well. The man at the house, if there was such a man, must have known her well.’

‘And because Harry was sometimes seen with her in town he has to be that man?’

‘That’s the way people are talking.’

‘God, you can’t get stupider than that.’ Just because Harry had been friendly with her . . . Other men must have known her, far better than Harry. . . Yet in a small community where everyone knew everyone, why was it no one could suggest another name?

The waiter brought them their first course and they ate.

Compton, with quiet tact, turned the conversation away from Betty and Harry Waynton and soon had her laughing at one of his droller stories.

They returned to Llueso over the mountain road, often dramatically and starkly beautiful, and they were passing above Laraix monastery, encircled by mountains, when he said: ‘You know I mentioned Jocelyn’s place in Cannes earlier on? I thought I’d go and stay with him later, maybe nearer the autumn. I’ve always had a yen to live in the south of France. How about coming over sometimes and joining us there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It would be great for me and it would let you escape from the rather claustrophobic atmosphere of this place.’ She didn’t answer. Harry, she kept assuring herself, couldn’t have done such a vile thing. And yet each time she told herself this, the thought floated through her mind that Betty had had a lover and no one else was known to have been friendly with her.

The phone rang at twenty minutes past eleven on Saturday morning and Alvarez, grunting from the effort, reached over and lifted the receiver.

‘You remember the Cifret case?’ said Superior Chief Salas. It was more a directive than a question. ‘He is reported to be in England — the police there have been on to us through Interpol. We’ve no prints for a definite identification so as you know him by sight you’re to go over and, if necessary, arrange for extradition.’

‘Do what, señor?’ asked Alvarez, misbelieving his senses.

‘You’re booked on this afternoon’s flight. There’ll be a man at the airport at fourteen hundred hours to give you your ticket, the file on the case, and our official request for extradition. Detective-Inspector Fletcher will be arranging for you to be met at Heathrow airport and driven down to Bearstone.’

‘Señor, surely there is someone else. . .’

‘While I’m on to you, I can tell you that the post-mortem conducted on Señorita Stevenage has been concluded.

No trace of organic, inorganic, or vegetable poison was discovered in her body so death is assumed to have been caused by ordinary food poisoning. In view of the con­ tents of her stomach and of your preliminary report this is named as mytilotoxin. I am assured that because of the advanced state of decomposition it is quite impossible to be more specific. There will, of course, have to be an investigation into the source of the mussels she ate, but that will not directly concern us. Is everything clear? Goodbye.’

He slowly replaced the receiver. Mother of God, England! Fog, rain, snow, ice: people of frozen emotions . . . He poured himself out a very large brandy.

Some considerable time passed before his thoughts became sufficiently calm for him to consider the rest of the message. Señorita Stevenage had not been poisoned, she had died a natural death from food poisoning: taken ill, she had waited too long before trying to summon aid and then, because of the isolated position of the house, she had tragically discovered she had left it too late. That she had had a lover even while a former lover lay dying upstairs was of no account except to her immortal soul. And since she had been English, she would never have considered that.

London had frightened him, not because of the size since he had expected a vast city, but because of the cold inhumanity of the endless streets of tight-packed grey houses. A man could be born, live, and die, among such surroundings and never know what colour meant.

As they had driven southwards and left behind them those millions of prisoners, they had passed through countryside. He had stared at the fields with amazement. Not even when it rained for a week on end on the island did the fields grow so lushly green. And the trees. Huge chestnuts, ashes, oaks and beeches, which spread majestically upwards and outwards, almost without end. And the fat sleek cattle in herds so large it was difficult to believe each herd belonged to only one farm.

Throughout the journey the driver, a sergeant, had talked about Mallorca. Three years before, he and his family had spent a fortnight on the island, he didn’t know where but it had been great. Grand hotel, cheap booze, plenty of other couples to drink and dance with, and sun from dawn to dusk just like the travel posters had promised. Proudly, Alvarez had tried to explain that the coastal concrete jungles were totally unrepresentative of the island, so beautiful where man had not betrayed his heritage in the pursuit of money, but sadly he’d discovered that the sergeant wasn’t interested in the natural beauties: on holidays he wanted sand, sun, and cheap booze.

Bearstone proved to be a large market town, its previous character all but obliterated by development. It was ringed by low-cost housing and as they drove through the streets of semi-detacheds Alvarez once more felt a chill settle on him. Perhaps hell was not really a place of fire and brimstone, but of grey houses, all alike, under a leaden sky.

County police headquarters was a large, pseudo­ Georgian building, with an imposing entrance hall and grand staircase up to the first floor. Above the first floor, however, the staircases were very ordinary and the corridors were uncarpeted. The sergeant led him along to an end room on the third floor. It was not a large room, yet two desks had been packed into it, together with a glass-fronted bookcase, a battered coat-stand, and two tall filing cabinets.

‘I’m Detective-Inspector Fletcher: Tom Fletcher,’ said the only man present, who had been seated behind the left-hand desk. He came forward and shook hands.

Alvarez saw a tall, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted man who looked as if his suit had been ironed on to him only half an hour before. He was masculinely yet smoothly handsome and obviously completely self-assured, the kind of combination demanded by the importers of the better Havana cigars for their TV commercials.

‘Glad to see you. Do grab a seat. I’m sure you’d like some coffee.’ He turned and spoke to the sergeant, his voice now a shade more clipped. ‘Organize two cups, will you please, Breeden. And get them from the canteen, not that vending machine which makes everything taste so peculiar.’

As Alvarez sat he gloomily reflected on the fact that he had not been asked if he would like some coffee, it had just been assumed that he would. Men of the stamp of this detective-inspector were always so very quick to assume.

Fletcher, his movements crisply economical, sat down behind his desk. ‘Did you have a good trip over?’

‘Yes, thank you, señor.’ He was about to talk about the journey when the D.I. spoke again.

‘Good . . . Now, you won’t want to waste time so let’s get down to business. You’ll go along to the prison tomorrow morning and interview the man on remand to see if he is Cifret. We’re holding him on one charge, but I gather that if you do identify him you’ll ask for extradition on a far more serious one. I presume you’ve brought the usual T three-one-six form?’

Alvarez tried to sort out his muddled thoughts. ‘The what form, señor?’

Fletcher’s eyebrows rose fractionally, but otherwise he had the manners not to show his astonishment. ‘You did not — ’ He paused, as if having trouble in finding the exact words he wished to use — ‘glance through your paperwork before leaving?’

‘There was no time. All the papers were only given to me at the airport.’

Fletcher nodded, but it was impossible to believe that he would have boarded the plane before satisfying himself that all necessary papers were tabulated and indexed.

‘Then we will have to make certain in a moment that everything’s in order. The courts can become very sticky over ridiculous procedural questions.’ He picked up a sheet of foolscap paper and briefly looked down at it.

‘I’ve had an itinerary drawn up for you — perhaps you’d care to glance through it?’

Alvarez tried to rise, but first he had to uncross his legs and by the time he’d done this — his right shoe caught in some part of the chair — Fletcher was round the side of the desk and handing him the paper. He read. Provisional time of arrival at county HQ-he was delighted to discover they’d been a few minutes out — provisional time of departure to The Round Tower Hotel where he would occupy room no. 61, evening meal served between seven and nine. Sunday 25 June police car to arrive at hotel at 0900 hours, proceeding to Bearstone Central Jail where prisoner Rodolfo Zamora (as he claimed he was named) to be interviewed. Monday 26 June, provisional time for consultation with legal experts on subject of application for extradition . . . Mother of God, was life itself timed and dated to the last second?

Fletcher looked at his watch. ‘I’m afraid that I have to leave in five minutes, but Detective-Sergeant Wraight will be coming in and he’ll drive you to your hotel. Incidentally, he’s in charge of the evening’s entertainment.’

‘Entertainment, señor?’

‘There’s a very popular film on which I’m sure you’ll like and provided you have a quick dinner you’ll be in , time to make the last showing.’

Alvarez longed to explain that he was tired and mentally worn out and that he liked to take his time over dinner, so he’d really rather not go anywhere, but he funked telling the D.I. that he wanted to disturb the so carefully prepared itinerary.

The McKays were American and rich and, unusually, they lived the kind of social democracy their nation so often preached. People who accepted their invitations could never be certain whom they were going to meet, but since their parties were justly famous most people were willing to risk the hazards.

It was after nine when Waynton arrived at Ca Na Chunga. He pulled his Mobylette up on its stand and then went round the side of the house to the large covered patio and the swimming pool. After a quick check he saw Diana on the far side of the pool. She was talking to Jessica Appleton.

‘I’m hell’s bells late,’ he said, as soon as he reached Diana. ‘Couldn’t get the Mobylette to go. Tried every­ thing from cleaning the plug to draining the carburettor and in the end I suffered a wild anger and kicked the flywheel. Started like a bird after that.’ He half turned.

‘How’s life with you, Jessica ?’

Jessica had, not without reason, been compared to a hoopoe: her face was long and beaky, her dresses were often extravagantly coloured and she liked ruffled hats, and she was always bobbing her head. She looked at Waynton with a sharp interest which she made no effort to hide.

‘I’m surprised to see you here . . .’

Diana interrupted her. ‘Harry, have you got a fag on you? I meant to buy some at the bar and clean forgot when I came past.’

He offered her a pack.

‘You ought to stop smoking,’ said Jessica, who had two.’

‘And my grandfather smoked umpteen cigars a day and lived to be ninety,’ snapped Diana. She flicked open her lighter.

‘Cigars are different. They’re gentlemanly . . . I didn’t expect to see you here, Harry.’ She tilted her head to one side.

Diana said: ‘Simone told me the Youngers have come back. Is that right?’

‘They came back at the end of last week and are renting a really awful place at seventeen thousand a month. I told them, seventeen thousand for that kind of a place is quite ridiculous and it only leads the Mallorquins on to asking stupider and stupider rents from other people.

Harry, have you . . .’

‘Someone said the new people have moved into the Hannas’ house,’ interrupted Diana. ‘They’re supposed to be rather pleasant and she paints.’

‘Perhaps she sells to chocolate-box manufacturers . . .

Harry, is it true they’ve confiscated your passport?’

A maid came round with glasses and a bottle of champagne, wrapped in a napkin, and Diana and Jessica had their glasses refilled and Waynton was given a glass newly filled.

‘When I was trying to get the Mobylette to start,’ said Waynton, ‘I nearly went mad from visions of chilled champagne.’

‘Daddy always called it a ladies’ drink.’ Jessica turned.

‘Harry, what’s happened to your passport?’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve still got it.’

‘D’you mean that the detective didn’t take it away?’

‘That’s right. He came to my place and asked a few questions, then left, empty-handed. No passport confiscated, no handcuffs, no early morning meeting with a garotte.’

‘But he did ask you a lot of questions?’

‘As I’ve just said.’

‘Why did he ask them?’

‘Because someone had told him I used to be friendly with Betty. When I assured him the friendship had been highly platonic, he left.’

She studied him, plainly disappointed. Then she looked past his right shoulder. ‘There’s Pauline. Mary says she’s had a terrible row with the Maddons. She is
so
hot­ tempered, especially when she’s had one or two too many drinks.’ She suddenly darted off, pushing her way between people or, when necessary, loudly demanding they let her pass.

Waynton finished his drink, then said to Diana: ‘At first I wondered why you kept interrupting her. Then I realized you were trying to head her off from asking me why I wasn’t in prison.’

‘She’s a tongue that just can’t stop clacking.’

‘She can’t clack much over what she’s learned from me.’

‘Are you really that naive? By this time tomorrow she’ll have convinced herself and most of the residents that you all but confessed to her.’

A middle-aged couple, the man dressed casually, the woman in a beautifully embroidered blouse and long silk skirt, moved round a group of people to come in sight of Diana and Waynton. The man smiled and began to approach, the woman murmured something and hung back, but then realized her husband had placed them in a situation from which there was no immediate escape.