Law of Return, page 11
“That’s very considerate of you,” Tejada said. “Shall we say, four o’clock?”
“Agreed.” Judge Otero was brisk.
Tejada thanked the judge, and broke the connection, wondering if “four o’clock” in fact meant 4:30. After some consideration, he decided to err on the side of promptness. The Otero family lived in a handsome townhouse opposite the Church of San Martín. Tejada allowed himself ten minutes for the walk, made a point of dawdling, and arrived just as the clocks were striking 4:15. A servant opened the door, and led him across a wide hallway, and up a flight of stairs to a large parlor, furnished with the same subtle opulence that characterized Judge Otero’s office.
The room was exactly what Tejada had expected. He could have made shrewd guesses at the titles of the sheets of music lying on the closed piano, and the names of the painters of the family portraits on the walls. Even the diamond-patterned wallpaper felt familiar. His rapid and unconscious assessment of the room left him free to focus on the three figures within it. Judge Otero had stepped forward to meet him, lightly swinging his silver-handled cane, followed by two women. Tejada recognized one of them as Manuel Arroyo’s wife. The other woman was unfamiliar to him, but he guessed that she was Otero’s wife.
The judge confirmed this immediately. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Thank you for coming. May I present my wife? Josefina, this is Enrique Tejada’s nephew. He’s investigating Manuel’s death.”
Tejada automatically acknowledged the introduction and took the seat offered, while thinking rapidly. Señora de Arroyo was wearing mourning, as were her brother and sister-in-law. And the judge had spoken of “Manuel’s death” as if it were a settled fact, although Sergeant Hernández had made it clear to him the previous day that the body found in the Quiñones warehouse had not been positively identified. He wondered exactly what Judge Otero had said to Rodríguez about closing the case. “Now, do you have any information for us, Lieutenant?” the judge asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Tejada answered carefully. “But if it isn’t too much of a bother I do have some questions.”
“Of course.” The judge was gracious.
Tejada turned to Señora de Arroyo. At three in the morning, as an unwilling guest of the Guardia Civil, she had been merely self-possessed. Now, at ease in her brother’s home, she was formidable. “I am afraid, Señora, that it is likely that the man found on Thursday was your husband,” he said carefully. “I’m sure this must be a terrible blow.”
“I’ve been prepared for the worst since Manuel’s disappearance.” The presumed widow spoke calmly.
“Very wise,” Tejada agreed. “But we would like a positive identification of the body as that of your husband.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you implying that my husband may have staged his own death?”
“No, no.” Tejada reassured her hastily. “You understand, it’s only a formality. But—forgive the question, Señora—did your husband have any distinguishing characteristics? Apart from facial ones, I mean?”
“No. Not to my knowledge.” Her voice was disgusted.
“Perhaps I could view the body, once your men have finished with it,” Otero interjected. “I knew Manuel for many years, and I’m sure that I would recognize him.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Tejada decided not to press the point. It would not, he thought, be tasteful to explain that Arroyo’s skull had been fractured, and much of his face had been rendered unrecognizable even before decomposition had further damaged his body. “I do apologize for asking such a distressing question, but I was hoping that we might be able to expedite Professor Arroyo’s death certificate.”
“Is there likely to be any further delay?” Somewhat to the lieutenant’s surprise, it was Señora de Arroyo who had spoken, and rather sharply.
“Not a long one,” Tejada replied. He decided to needle the widow a little. “In cases like this, it could be oh, six to eight weeks. But perhaps we could issue one in, say, a month, given the special nature of the case.”
The lady was frowning heavily now. “I would like Manuel’s affairs settled more quickly if possible, Lieutenant.”
Tejada wondered what affairs needed to be so urgently settled, and took a shot in the dark. “Did your husband leave a will, Señora?”
“Yes.” Once more, it was Judge Otero who answered. “It was a simple affair really, as there were no children to be considered. My sister is the sole beneficiary.”
“You are aware of the contents of this will, Your Honor?” Tejada raised his eyebrows.
“I’m his executor.”
“I see.” Tejada’s eyes passed over the Persian carpets, and rose to the claw-footed side tables with their lace antimacassars and porcelain shepherds, until they once more encountered Señora de Arroyo’s face. “Forgive me, Señora, but would a delay in putting your husband’s will through probate leave you in any financial difficulty? Naturally, if that were the case, we would make every attempt to issue a death certificate promptly.”
The lady pursed her lips. “No,” she said reluctantly. “It would not.”
“It’s not a question of financial difficulties, Lieutenant,” the judge intervened. “But Manuel’s estate should not be neglected. It includes some significant investments which should be overseen by an experienced money manager.”
Tejada suppressed a flicker of surprise—he had only thought of Arroyo as a petitioner, and not as a rich man. An aristocrat, perhaps, but one who had definitively thrown in his lot with the masses. He wondered if Arroyo’s fortune amounted to a sum that men would kill for. “What investments would these be?” he asked baldly.
Otero hesitated. Then he said slowly, “Large amounts of stock in Banco Bilbao Vizcaya. And smaller holdings in several foreign companies.”
“Also banks?”
The judge shook his head. “Pharmaceuticals, I believe. They’re German firms, not ones I’m familiar with. Manuel probably bought them on the advice of his medical colleagues.”
Tejada had been doing rapid mental arithmetic. Depending on the number of shares involved, Arroyo’s estate could well be worth murderering for. And the immediate beneficiaries of the lawyer’s death were sitting comfortably in front of him, probably the least arrestable people in all of Salamanca. He remembered that Señora de Arroyo had not reported her husband’s absence to the Guardia. But that doesn’t make sense, he thought. Not if she killed him for his money. She’d want everyone to know he was dead. And she wants a death certificate as soon as possible. So she’d want him to be easily identifiable. Unless she simply gave instructions and whoever carried them out got a little rough. But if she was involved she’d still come forward and report him missing. He dismissed the train of thought, and focused on the judge’s last words. “His medical colleagues?” he repeated. “Was your brother-in-law friendly with any doctors, Your Honor?”
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
Really, 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.
