Death on the Black Sands, Chapter Seventeen

Death on the Black Sands

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When they came out into the merciless wind Carolus noticed that Mr. Gorringer was not wearing his Cordobese hat, but a large creation in straw, no less exotic and somewhat Mexican in shape, which he had to hold on because of the levante.

“To tell you the truth, Deene,” he said when he saw Carolus glance at this, “I purchased another hat which I felt accorded better with the dignity of a headmaster holidaying in Spain.  But my wife did not care for it.  Usually, as you well know, a woman of wit, in this case I can only describe her remarks as facetious.  It was cordobese in type and she chose the second and third syllables of the name for a play on words which was not, I considered, in the best of taste.  I’m afraid I said so with acerbity whereupon there was some dialogue between us which I regretted.  I made the second purchase as a peace-offering.  I felt it was due to her. 

“You will stay the night, headmaster?  Mrs. Stick will be delighted to make you comfortable.

“And I, my dear Deene, shall be delighted to accept.  My wife has gone to Gibraltar for a few days for what she describes rather ominously as a shopping spree and I took the opportunity of coming to see you.  I little thought that I should find you in durance vile, or been moved to use my influence to have you released.  We must take care that the story never reaches Newminster.  The boy Priggley is here?”

“Yes.  Rupert’s about somewhere.  He seems to have several young women attached to him along the coast.”

“Precocious, I fear.  It is doubtless his unfortunate upbringing.  His mother, I venture to assume, is not here?”

“No, she’s in Beirut, I understand.”

“I do not disguise the fact that I am relieved to hear it.”

Dinner, with Rupert Priggley, was a somewhat difficult meal.  When Mrs. Stick made some reference to ‘the gentlemen in the spare room’ Mr. Gorringer waited until she had left them then said to Carolus––“you have another guest, did I gather?”

“Scarcely guest.  A young assassin who tried to scare me off by shooting through my window.”

Mr. Gorringer put down his knife and fork.

“You are not serious, Deene?”

“Oh, he’s quite tame now.  His employer was murdered last night so he really has no further motive.  Besides, he has a broken leg. 

Mr. Gorringer, after a meaning glance at Priggley, said he thought the matter had better be discussed between them later.

When Mrs. Stick brought their dessert she made a disclaimer.

“I can’t answer for the sweet, sir,” she said.  That Carmelita, as she calls herself, insisted on doing it.  Flan, she calls it.  I told her, I said, if that’s a flan then I’m a . . .”

“A flaneuse, Mrs. Stick,” said Mr. Gorringer and laughed heartily at his joke which he described later as ‘not unworthy of Mrs. Gorringer at her lightest, I fancy’.

When he was alone with Carolus on the terrace he asked earnestly for information.

“I was prepared to find that you had given yourself some light holiday task of investigation,” he admitted, “something appropriate to our surroundings in this land of manaña.  But when I reach Los Aburridos to hear that you are with the police, and find you flung in a common cell from which I am constrained to rescue you, things take on a darker hue.  I make a point of reading no newspaper on vacation, but rumours fly up and down this coast and at Marbella whispers come to our ears that the sands of Los Aburridos were littered with corpses.”

“The usual exaggeration, I’m afraid.  But there have been a couple of noticeable deaths.  Both Englishman.”

“You see?  We are not so grossly misinformed.  Then at dinner tonight, in front of one of the pupils for whose moral welfare we are jointly responsible, you made some ill-advised reference to a shooting affray.  I feel you owe it to me as your headmaster to give some explanation of all this.  In a word, Deene, what is afoot?”

Carolus patiently gave Mr. Gorringer an outline of the case as it stood on which the headmaster nodded wisely.

“It will not be the first time I have felt able to interest myself in one of your nimble investigations,” he remembered.  “And here we have the advantage of being far from inquisitive eye of the British press.  So you are left with a range of motley suspects?”

“You may call them that.  You will not find them models of decorum or good taste.  I tell you what we will do, headmaster.  I shall give a party for you tomorrow and ask the whole boiling.  Then you can see for yourself.”

“That is most kind and flattering of you, Deene.  I fancy we should be breaking new grounds here.  The headmaster of a famous English public school present at a cocktail party for the suspects in a murder case on the Costa del Sol.  But I fear it would never do.  The chances of subsequent revelation are too great.”

“You could remain incognito,” Carolus pointed out.

Mr. Gorringer considered this.

“It would, I suppose, be possible.  Some false identity, you mean?”

“A visiting lawyer, perhaps.  No need to enter into the parts too much,” said Carolus anxiously, remembering the other occasions when Mr. Gorringer has enthusiastically assumed a role. 

“You tempt me, Deene, I must own.  I should like to make my own observations of this miscellaneous collection of suspects, to try my own fledgling gifts.  It is not impossible that I should be able to identify your murderer, is it?  But I see another objection.  How can you possibly arrange a gathering at such a short notice?  It would surely give offence.”

“On this coast no one has ever been known to take offence from an offer of free drink.  They are so accustomed to gathering to consume it that no notice is too short, no premises too small, no company too intolerable.  They will all be here, I predict with confidence, and with their tongues out.  I will start telephoning immediately.”

Carolus, whose object was a far more serious one than the entertainment of Mr. Gorringer, was soon busy telephoning, encountering, as he had predicted, no refusals.

The Pluggetts hesitated.  “Won’t it be awkward?” asked Mrs. Pluggett, “with us being friends of Mrs. Stick?”  But Carolus assured her that Mrs. Stick was accustomed to coping with situations far more complicated than that and said that he particularly hoped Bill Pluggett would be present.  Mrs. Pluggett promised that he would be.

The whole household of Devigne’s flat, the Vogels, Daphne, Killain, Bindle accepted en bloc.  But Lolly Mellon was slightly more problematical. 

“Me, darling?” she said.  “Will that heavenly young man be there?  Because I’ve just met rather a pet and we were going to have a quiet evening in my flat.  No, of course not.  I’d adore to come.  Did you say lawyer?  But I adore lawyers, darling.  I will, yes.  Tomorrow then, sweet.”

Georgie and Sweetie accepted but Hilary at first seems doubtful. 

“I suppose you’ve asked that terrifying Lolly Mellon, haven’t you, my dear?  We’d like to come but she is like a tigress as soon as she sees poor Tommy.  I mean, I don’t mind but it’s such a bore for him.  Oh, will she?  Oh, I see.  Oh, very well.  Oh, thank you.  Yes, we’d love to.  See you tomorrow.”

One call Carolus made without mentioning it to Mr. Gorringer.  At the office of Hacendoso he got hold of Señor Borg and invited him rather pressingly, promising that as an ‘observer from Interpol’ his time would not be wasted.  Borg agreed to come. 

This left only Jock Dribble and Carolus decided to leave him till the following day when Rupert Priggley could round him up at the last moment.  Carolus telephoned to the Esmeralda Bar and arranged with Pepe that he should take a night off and help with the drinks. 

“Most interesting,” said Mr. Gorringer.  “To hobnob with suspects.  To rub shoulders, mayhap, with the murderer himself.  It will be indeed a novel in a gruesome experience.  After our quiet academic backwaters it’ll be a truly startling evening.”

He little knows, thought Carolus, how true this might turn out to be.

“And do you anticipate being able to make a Revelation?” queried Mr. Gorringer.  “Is this gathering for the purpose, so dear to you as I know, of astounding us all with one of your lucid expositions of the facts?”

“That’s depends on the course of events tomorrow.  I am still in need of some material evidence.  It may be that certain people will conduct themselves in a way which could give it to me.  It may be not.”

“You anticipate startling events?  No violence, I hope?  You are not suggesting that there might actually be danger?”

“I don’t quite know how things will go.”

“I shall look forward to the occasion with considerable curiosity.  I have a feeling that it will be in my experience, unique.”

It was.  The first to arrive was Lolly Mellon and she had fortified herself against any possible shortages of liquor. 

“Hullo, darling,” she said kissing Carolus.  “Where’s that divine young man you keep imprisoned in your spare room?”  Carolus introduced Mr. Gorringer under the name he had chosen of Pargiter.  He bowed punctiliously.  “Hullo, darling,” said Lolly. 

“My name, madam, is Pargiter, not Darling.”

“Is it, darling?  Well, never mind.  We can’t help our names, can we, darling?  Now give mother a little drinky, there’s an angel child.  Aren’t you going to have one yourself?  You look as though you need one, darling.”

“I do not feel,” said Mr. Gorringer severely, “that the time for refreshments has yet arrived.  I like to preserve a certain decorum in such matters.”

“Oh, darling, don’t be a bore.  There really isn’t time for all that.  And you haven’t given me that drinky.  Yes, please, darling, two to one, brandy and soda.”

Mr. Gorringer turned for relief to Bill Pluggett, who was thoughtfully flapping his braces against his chest. 

“You are holidaying in Spain, sir?” Mr. Gorringer suggested. 

“You may call it a flaming holiday,” said Pluggett.  “I’m flamed if I do.”

“You don’t care for this resort?”

“Care for it?  I’d like to blow the whole bloody place up.  And all the flaming travel agents with it.  It’s Frinton for me next year and no more messing about.  You can have Spain.”

“I adore Spain,” put in Hilary Ling, joining them at that moment.  “So does Tommy.  Don’t you Tommy?”

“It’s not bad,” admitted Tommy Watson. 

“I think you have to be unimaginative not to adore it.  Oh, are you a lawyer?  That’s marvellous because you’ll be able to tell me all about poor Davy Devigne’s Will.  Will there be lots of delicious lolly, do you think?”

“I am,” said Mr. Gorringer, “a member of the legal profession, but I did not act for the late Mr. Devigne.  You should approach his lawyers.”

“I keep approaching them, my dear, but it doesn’t do the smallest good, they simply won’t tell me a thing.  I’m getting desperate.”

Carolus, passing, received a muttered confidence from Mr. Gorringer. 

“You warned me to expect certain eccentricities in my fellow guests,” he whispered.  “But these pass all bounds of propriety.  That woman called Mrs. Mellon was most indiscreet.  It was a moment of great embarrassment.  A Mr. Pluggett, no doubt a worthy person in his own walk of life, seemed singularly out of place here.  While that fair young man has a gushing and hysterical manner of speech which is anathema to me.”

“You’ve plenty more to see,” said Carolus.  “Try those two women standing together over there.”

Mr. Gorringer obediently approached Georgie and Sweetie. 

“My name is Pargiter,” he said politely.

“Queer?” asked Georgie in a businesslike voice. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh.  One of those.  Your have to buck up your ideas up in this town, my lad.  Won’t he, Sweetie?”

“Yes,” said Sweetie in her soft voice, obligingly.

Georgie adjusted her bow-tie and flicked some cigar ash from her hacking jacket.

“Straight from England, I suppose?” she said to Mr. Gorringer. 

“On the contrary, I am quite an habitué of Spain,” said Mr. Gorringer.  “From Algeciras to Malaga there is scarcely a nook or cranny . . .”

“Can’t call that Spain,” said Georgie. 

Mr. Gorringer grew huffy.

“I bow to your superior knowledge,” he said.  “I was under the impression that I was in the country of Cervantes and Goya.”

“You can’t be more mistaken,” said Georgie.  “You’re in the country of the beats and the package tourists.  Have a cigar?”

Mr. Gorringer, going a little purple, said “Thank you.  I rarely smoke them.  Never in a mixed gathering of this sort.”

“Quite understand,” said Georgie.  “Prefer a pipe myself.”

They were approached by Paddy Killain, with whom Mr. Gorringer hoped to find some relief from a situation which, he felt, was growing impossible. 

“Paddy Killain,” said Georgie, by way of introduction.  “Rather your tea I should think.  Full of Hibernian charm and blarney.”  Then to Paddy—“This character says his name is Pargiter.”

“You must excuse Georgie, sir,” said Paddy as the two woman moved away.  “She exaggerates a little but she has a heart of gold.”

“She offered me a cigar!” said Mr. Gorringer disgustedly. 

Paddy shewed his teeth in his famous smile.

“That’s just her way.  We’re used to her here, but I expect you find her a wee bit masculine.  I hope you will be tolerant with us all.”

“With you, sir, I have no need of tolerance.  You, if you will allow me to say so, I’m a first person of breeding and discretion I have met this evening.”

Paddy grinned.

“Well, if it isn’t charming of you to say so.  Let me get you a drink.  What will you be taking?”

“I thank you.  I could do with something to revive me after these somewhat bizarre encounters.  A little Scotch, perhaps?”

“It’s the Irish you should drink, colonel.  But I’ll get you what you wish.”

Afterwards Mr. Gorringer described Paddy Killain to Carolus as ‘a very civil fellow’.

Somewhat refreshed Mr. Gorringer was able to meet Bindle without too many apprehensions.  She was sensible and polite, discussed Marbella, explained that you had to know Hilary but that Mr. Gorringer need not be alarmed.  Mr. Gorringer was tempted to a more confidential tone.

“I do not forget,” he said, “that we meet here in the shadow of tragedy.  Two violent deaths in as many weeks are enough to give us all food for thought.”

“I don’t know anything about the second,” said Bindle in her downright way, “but Davy Devigne was no loss.  I had known him for years.  All show with nothing behind it.  It turns out that he hadn’t a bean.”

“So I understand,” said Mr. Gorringer.

“After all that fol-de-rol of making a Will in our favour it’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“I can understand your disappointments and that of your friends.  But that the time of his death he was believed to be a rich man, I think.”

“Yes.  I suppose he was.”

“That gave a motive to each of a wide circle, did it not?  It will take a Carolus Deene to decide who was responsible for the fatal deed.”

“Think so?  The police made an arrest immediately afterwards.  Why do you suppose they are wrong?”

“I do not suppose they are wrong.  I suppose nothing.  It may well be they are right in which case Deene will say so.

“You have great confidence in your friend, Mr. Pargiter.”

“In many respects, yes; unbounded confidence.  Also in the eventual triumph of justice.  ‘Murder, though it have no tongue, We’ll speak.  With most miraculous organ.’  At least to Deene.  But tell me, who is the only with blonde hair and a pronounced sun tan whom I have not yet met?”

“That’s Daphne, Devigne’s girlfriend.”

“Indeed?  I see she is talking to a young . . . charge of mine.”

“Rupert Priggley, yes.  That’s quite an affair these last few days.”

“I hope you exaggerate.  The boy should be with young people of his own age.  I think I will indulge myself in joining them if you will excuse me.”

Mr. Gorringer stood looking down at Priggley in what was meant to be and awe-inspiring manner.

“Ah, Priggley,” he said.

“My mother’s lawyer, Mr. Pargiter,” said Rupert Priggley off-handedly.  “This is Daphne Losch.”

“I am indeed charmed,” said Mr. Gorringer, inclining his head.  “And now, Priggley, I feel you should busy yourself in assisting our host.”

“Are you really a lawyer?” asked Daphne with innocent staring eyes.  “I am in terrible need of one just now.  You know what it is when a girl suddenly loses the man she has been with for years and years.  I mean, I’m really lost.  I honestly don’t know which way to turn.  I’ve no idea where Jack Trotter is since he got out of prison, and Paddy’s absolutely furious with me because of course I can’t marry him now we know there’s no money to come from Davy’s estate.  I mean you can’t live on nothing, can you?  So I really need someone like you to advise me.  I’m sure you’re awfully reliable, I mean.”

“I hope so.  We men of the wig and gown try to be that, or where should we be in our clients estimation?”

“I mean, a girl really has to have someone to count on, doesn’t she?  It’s all very well have friends like Davy, but he got himself murdered, didn’t he?  And it leaves me just nowhere.  I’m sure if someone like you were to advise me I should feel much safer.”

“My dear young lady,” said Mr. Gorringer inevitably, “I think you somewhat misinterpret the situation.  I am here for a well-earned rest from the dusty demands of my profession.  I could not undertake the management of anyone’s affairs just now.”

“But just to advise me!” said Daphne plaintively.  “A girl really need someone to turn to.  All I’ve got from all that time with Davy Devigne is just the bits of jewellery he gave me . . .”

“Really, Miss Losch,” said Mr. Gorringer sternly.  “I don’t feel you should confide in me such details.”

“Well, I have to tell someone, don’t I?  Of course the diamond ring would be quite easy to sell if I absolutely had to, but it would be an awful shame because everyone says it really suits me.  Jack always said he was going to give me a bigger one but now I don’t know where he is.  You’d have thought he’d get in touch with me after escaping from prison, wouldn’t you?”

“I really don’t know,” said Mr. Gorringer thunderously.  “Such matters are out of my sphere.  Wholly out of my sphere.”

He gave a stiff bow and walked firmly away.  He was looking for Carolus, intending to take his leave.

❦

Death on the Black Sands, Chapter Sixteen

Death on the Black Sands

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Carolus examined a slip of printed paper only just large enough to carry the titles of the persons concerned and the courteous phraseology of Spanish officialdom.  It was a entreaty that he would ‘have the goodness’ to call at five o’clock precisely that day at the office of Fidelio Hacendoso de Bustamente, Comandante del Servicio de Policia Judicial, Region de la Costa del Sol.  In other words a police summons.  The politeness of the request contrasted quaintly with the ‘precisely’ of the time mentioned, as the verbose courtesy of the official concerned would, Carolus guessed, contrast with a certain menace behind the mask.

He would go, of course.  He looked forward to a cross-examination in which he would be determined to learn more than his examiner.  But he realized also that there was a certain danger here, at least of inconvenience.  If the Spanish police thought he knew more than he was saying they would be perfectly capable of keeping him there all night or longer.

Things had a way of being reported in Spain where the police pay for ‘denunciations’, and if by any evil chance he had been seen coming from the playa last night he could even be suspected of the murder of Roderix.  From the police point of view his behaviour, since he had arrived, had been highly suspicious.  They might know of Martin’s presence in his house and what had caused it; they might know of his meeting with Roderix.  They certainly knew that he had been to see Jack Trotter in prison shortly before his escape. 

Besides, the police along this coast over-run by foreigners, felt, he had heard, a sort of general exasperation with the British and Americans who chiefly formed the foreign colony.  The visitors’ behaviour was so out of key with Spanish tradition, their drunkenness and excesses, their oddities of dress and undress, the beats among them, the boozers, drug-takers and sexual eccentrics on the one hand, and the mobs of package tourists determined to get full value from their inclusive payments on the other, had driven the respectable Spanish from the coast and left only those who lived like lice on the foreign bodies.  It was not a population likely to endear itself to a hard-working police force, accustomed to investigating nothing more vicious then an anarchist cell or an attempt to form a trade union. 

Then the two murders which had followed one another and must surely be connected had been a further exasperation.  One way or another Carolus did not expect to be welcomed with open arms at the office of the Comandante del Servicio de Policia Judicial, Region de la Costa del Sol.

He found, however, a blank beneficent-looking person in his early fifties who spoke excellent English and extended to Carolus a hand which looked soft and well-kept but had a grip like a vice.  Señor Fidelio Hacendoso de Bustamente was in fact a mass of contradictions; his cheeks were plump and good-natured while his eyes were steel-cold, his lips were full and generous while the chin below them jutted out rocklike.  His words were gentle and courteous spoken in a voice which could cut like a razor.

With him was a gloomy individual with a high narrow forehead and very small pursed mouth.  He was of indeterminable nationality and was introduced to Carolus as Señor Borg, ‘an observer from Interpol’.

“It is to Señor Borg that you owe the consideration I hope we shall be able to shew you,” said Hacendoso somewhat ambiguously and with a cold smile.  “He has been able to inform us of your activities during certain investigations in England and considers that they have been on the whole harmless.  You describe yourself as a private investigator, I believe?”

“Oh, no.  I describe myself as a schoolmaster with over-developed curiosity.”

“So?  What is your full name?  Father’s name?  Mother’s maiden name?”

Carolus shewed no surprise at this sudden meticulous catechism.  He knew something of Spanish police methods.  He gave his mother’s maiden name, the place and date of his birth, his late father’s profession, his late mother’s father’s profession, and confessed to having a birthmark on his right buttock.  Then he expected the Comandante del Servicio de Policia Judicial to come to business.  But no.

“What brought you to Los Aburridos,” Señor Deene?

Carolus explained about the villa and Rupert Priggley. 

“How was it, then, that on your first afternoon in the town you went straight to the flat of the murdered man and made acquaintance with his following?”

“I was interested in that, too.”

“Oh, you were.  As a private investigator perhaps?”

“As a very inquisitive man.”

Hacendoso shook his head.

“A dangerous quality, inquisitiveness,” he said.  “How fortunate for you that Mr. Borg knew something of your activities.  We should otherwise have found your movements here unaccountable.  Your question to the concièrge, for instance.  What would one have thought of those?  The way you turned the conversation at dinner that night.  One would have thought you had something personal interest in the death of Devigne.  One couldn’t have escaped that impression.”  He paused, then sharply—“Had you, Mr. Deene?”

“Had I what?”

“Any interest in Devigne’s death?”

“I never knew the man.”

“That is not quite an answer, Mr. Deene.”

“I wanted to know who killed him.  That was my only interest.”

“And do you know who killed him?” asked the Comandante, very blandly.

“Oh, yes,” said Carolus.  “Don’t you?”

The face change to a mask.

“Señor Deene, I suggest that for your own good you do not treat this matter with levity.  That evening, on your way home, you met the man who was killed last night.  Was that by appointment?”

“You have very well informed of my movements.  No.  I made no appointment.”

“You knew the man’s name?”

“I knew what he called himself.”

“Did you think it might not be his name?”

“When I knew he had a forged passports, yes.”

As if unwillingly Hacendoso and ‘Mr. Borg’ exchanged glances.

“A forged passports, Señor Deene?” said Hacendoso, apparently amazed.  “What made you think that?”

“Exactly what makes you think it, Señor Comandante.  It was one of the Amsterdam forgeries.”

Hacendoso cleared his throat.

“So you believed that Larner was not this man’s name.  Did you take any steps to discover the truth?”

Here, Carolus was nearly sure, a tension came into the manner of both of them.  He realized with some amazement that they were approaching the only question they really wanted to ask him, that they were in fact unaware of Larner’s real name.  That they would learn it in time could not be doubted but in the meantime they were frustrated by having an anonymous corpse on their hands.  He wondered whether to bargain with this piece of information.  But there was something about Hacendoso which told him this would be unwise.  If Carolus gave him what he wanted frankly and easily he would not, Carolus thought, mistake this for stupidity.  He would know he owed Carolus something and might, in his own way, probably through Borg, repay it. 

“Oh, yes,” said Carolus.  “I wanted to know who he was.”

“Perhaps you have been unable to discover?” asked Hacendoso with the smile of a dentist about to extract a tooth. 

“I know, as of course you do, Señor Comandante.”

“I am waiting, Señor Deene.”

How cleverly this man could suggest the force behind his geniality, Carolus thought. 

“His name was Albert Roderix, known as ‘Snatch’ Roderix.  He was a highly successful English criminal.”

Not the slightest sign of interest appeared in Hacendoso’s manner.  On the contrary, he went off humorously at a tangent.

“In Spain we have no highly successful criminals, Mr. Deene.”

“No?  Then I think your policeman are wonderful.  That’s really all you want to know from me, isn’t it?” smiled Carolus.

Oh, no.  Please remain seated.  May offer you a cup of coffee?  Yes?  You were telling me about this man known as Albert ‘Snatch’ Roderix.  He was checking the name.  It was he who employed the young man now in your house, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“Also a highly successful criminal?”

“Only in Spain, I believe.  England was too hot for him.”

“As it was for the man who escaped from prison here soon after you had visited him—the man Trotter.”

“Was it?  Yes.  I don’t know a lot about Trotter.  I find him less interesting than Martin.”

“You don’t think Trotter murdered Devigne?”

“Devigne?” said Carolus in surprise as though caught unawares.  “Certainly not!”

“We are not, I need scarcely state, interested in the opinions of gentlemen who call themselves private investigators.  In Spain we do not suffer from any such aficionados.  But you seem to have some very definite ideas about this case.”

“These cases.  Yes, I’m glad to see things are working out nicely.”

“You have some personal experience to aid you, perhaps.  On the night of the second murder you went to the balneario of the Imperatorio building to interview the night watchman, I believe.”

“I did.”

“You were long with him?”

“Half an hour I daresay.”

“You saw a fire on the beach?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who was responsible for that fire?”

“I could make a guess.  But it would be no more than the opinion of one of those ‘gentlemen who call themselves private investigators’, wouldn’t it?”

Again, Hacendoso cleared his throat to express displeasure.

“After you had been to examine this fire you returned with the guardián to the balneario?

“Yes.”

“And left him there to return to the Esmeralda Bar?”

“That is so.”

“On your way across the sands did you notice anything unusual?”

“No,” said Carolus.  It was not such a lie as all that.  Corpses were becoming less unusual in the place. 

“You did not see the body of the man you say is named Roderix?”

Carolus shook his head.

“You did not stoop over it?” asked Hacendoso with concentrated emphasis.

For a second Carolus nearly fell for this.  Then he saw the nature of the bluff.  If he had come on the body of Roderix he would obviously have stooped over it.  Hacendoso was trying to make him think he had been watched.

“I came straight from the BEI to the Esmeralda Bar.  I stooped over nothing,” he said.

“I will not press the point,” said the Comandante.  “You have, I believe, some information about the financial affairs of the late David Devigne.”

“Yes.  Rocky,” said Carolus.  “Distinctly rocky.”

“You mean his estate is bankrupt?”

“According to his executor, yes.  He leaves nothing but debt.”

“Yet he went to the trouble of making a Will, only a week before his death.”

“He was an exhibitionist, bluffing it out to the last.  He had to be thought a wealthy man by those around him.”

Hacendoso nodded.  This was a phenomenon he could understand. 

“You are aware that the Imperatorio was owned by a limited company?”

“Yes.  I should imagine that the shares were mostly in the name of Larner.”

“Larner or Roderix?”

“Larner, of course,” said Carolus. 

It was here that he in turn might gain some information. 

“Why, Señor Deene?  Why are they in the name of Larner rather than in the man’s true name?”

“That you will know better than I, Señor Comandante, when Señor Borg receives his reports on Roderix from London.  I am not in the confidence of Scotland yard—as you will be.”

Hacendoso nodded.  Was he aware that he lost a trick?  Coffee was brought in and the atmosphere grew relaxed.

“You have been very frank with us,” said Hacendoso.  “Perhaps there is some little thing you would like to ask?”

But Carolus was not deceived by the amiability of that.  He knew, better than anyone, that it was possible to learn more from another’s question than from many answers.

“It is very kind of you,” he said.  “There’s nothing at this moment.  No leading information matters.  I would like to clear up one minor point.”

Hacendoso gave his wily smile.

“I cannot promise to answer your question.”

It is scarcely a question because I know something of your efficiency.  It is this:  have the men investigating the second death noticed a bloodstain on a block of concrete?”

Hacendoso laughed out right.  “Very good, Señor Deene!” he said.  “Very good indeed!  You are up to scratch as they say.  Do you plan to stay long in Los Aburridos?”

“It is difficult to say.  I am greatly enjoying my holiday.”

“That’s good.  It is always good to have a rest.  A complete rest is best of all.  I think you should contemplate that, Señor Deene.”

“I will, when I can,” said Carolus with a friendly smile. 

They all rose.

“Should you wish to communicate anything to me, I shall be at your disposition,” said Hacendoso. 

“I won’t forget that.”

The protracted leave talking of Spain was interrupted by the entrance of a policeman in uniform who handed a slip of paper to Hacendoso.  He studied this for a moment, then turned to Carolus. 

“It is someone who wishes to see you,” he said.  The name is Gorringer.

Carolus grinned.

“Señor Comandante,” he said.  “Could you accommodate me for half an hour?  Have you a cell attached to this office?”

“A cell?  Certainly.  You wish?”

“Put me in it to receive this visitor.  This is the headmaster of the school in which I teach.”

Hacendoso fought for a moment then smiled grimly. 

“I see.  The English sense of humour.  Very well, I will arrange it.  In the meantime, good-bye, Mr. Deene.  We shall doubtless meet again.”

The cell was of the American open-barred kind so that from it Carolus could see the headmaster being led towards him down the passage. 

“So it has happened at last!” cried Mr. Gorringer.  “After all my warnings!  The number of times I have begged you not to play with fire!  I have always feared that sooner or later a day of reckoning would come, and now the hour has struck!  This is a lamentable situation, Deene.”

“Sit down, headmaster.  Perhaps things are not as bad as they seem.”

“Ah, no, Deene.  Even your effrontery is of no avail now.  To think that I should live to find my senior English master behind the bars of a Spanish gaol!  What is the charge against you?  Not m . . . mur . . .”

“No.  Not m . . . mur.  I don’t think I shall be here very long.”

“Perhaps if I were to intervene on your behalf?  Surely the good opinion of the headmaster of the Queen’s School, Newminister would carry some weight?  I have with me, quite by chance, a copy of my book The Wayward Mortarboard or Thirty Years on the Slopes of Parnassus.  Perhaps if I were judiciously to present this to one of the officials responsible for your arrest it might lighten your load?”

“I don’t think it will be necessary, headmaster.”

“But you don’t seem to realize the extreme seriousness of the situation, Deene.  Suppose some of the parents were to see you here!”

“It’s not very likely, is it?  No one is admitted.  I don’t know how you managed it.”

“My name, perhaps; the office I hold.  I cannot say.  I am not, I believe, without a certain air of authority.”

“I wonder if it will be sufficient to get me out of here,” said Carolus.  “Perhaps if you were to ask to see the Comandante he might listen to you.”

“We can but try,”  said Mr. Gorringer.  “Anything would be preferable to this.  If but a whisper was to reach England that you were suffering incarceration, and that I, no less, had visited you in these gloomy surroundings, what horrific headlines would meet our eyes?  I will certainly see this official and plead with him, if it is only for your temporary release.  It is fortunate that I speak the language.”

Mr. Gorringer was gone for ten minutes and returned with the policemen bearing keys.  He looked, however, anything but triumphant, seeming quiet and puzzled.

“A very strange race, the Spaniards,” he reflected.  “The official, Señor Hacendoso de Bustamente I gather was his name, seems to treat the matter with extraordinary levity.  He actually laughed in my face.  And when I asked him in good Castilian whether he would grant you at least a temporary respite from imprisonment he said that you could go when you liked.  His very words!  Somewhat undignified I considered.  However, the main purpose is served.  You may consider yourself a free man!”

❦

Death on the Black Sands, Chapter Fifteen

Death on the Black Sands

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When Mrs. Stick brought his breakfast in the morning Carolus saw that her holiday mood had vanished and her lips were tight in a thin red line of suspicion and disapproval.  He did not suppose this was caused only by the howling wind which had got up during the night.

“It’s no good,” she said.  ‘I shall have to speak.”

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Stick?”

“I think you know as well as what I do, sir.  It’s what I hear from Carmelita.”

“What’s that?”

“She says there was another murder in the town last night.  I only wish I could believe it was just talk.  Only I know only too well.  I was only saying to Stick, wherever we go there seem to be murders breaking out.”

“I don’t know whether it was murder,” said Carolus feebly.

“I don’t know what else you’d call it, then,” said Mrs. Stick.  “A gentleman from the Maryland Hotel with all the back of his head smashed to smithereens.  And just when we were beginning to enjoy here.  I don’t like to face Mrs. Pluggett after this, upon my word I don’t.  She won’t believe it when I tell her.”

“She’ll believe it, Mrs. Stick.  Her husband saw it happen.”

“Saw the murder you mean, sir?”

“Yes.  At least, I’m almost sure he did.”

“Then they’re mixed up in another case?  That’ll upset them when all they want is to go back to England.”

“Pluggett won’t admit he saw anything.”

“I should think not, sir!  Get himself questioned by policeman and have his passport taken away?  You can’t blame him.  If he did see anything, that is.  I hope you’re not having anything to do with it, sir?  I couldn’t help noticing it was getting on for three o’clock when you came in last night.”

Carolus drank his coffee, and Mrs. Stick, after a searching stare, dropped the point.

“I think the gentlemen in the spare room would like to see you, sir,” she said.  “To say good-bye, I think it is.  He says his friend’s coming for him today with an ambulance.”

“I’ll look in after breakfast then, Mrs. Stick.”

Carolus found Benny Martin sitting up and looking cheerful, having adapted himself, as sufferers do, to the circumstances.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Carolus.

“Yes.  To say au revoir, Deene.  I am being fetched today in an ambulance.”

“I shouldn’t count on that, if you’re depending on Snatch Roderix, that is.”

He watched the effect of his use of Larner’s real name and saw that Martin’s reaction was instant.  He was angry.

“Very clever, Deene.  You know a great deal, don’t you?  If I knew as much as you I couldn’t sleep at night for remembering that story The Man Who Knew Too Much.  What you didn’t know is that the man himself, whatever you like to call thim, is coming here this morning to take me away and God help you if you try to stop him.”

“No.  I didn’t know that.  And as I say, I shouldn’t count on it if I were you.”

“Why?  What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should have thought that was fairly explicit.  Dead.  Found on the sands with the back of his skull cracked.”

Martin’s face took on an ugly yellow pallor.  He looked desperate.

“You’re not lying?”

“No.  I can lie when I want to, Martin.  But not over life and death.  Roderix is dead.”

“God, then what will happen . . .”

“To you?  You’re not surely so dependent on Roderix?”

“You don’t understand.  I suppose you’ve got the Law’s view of Snatch.  Just a big villain they couldn’t ever hang anything on.  But he was much more than that.”  Recognizing a touch of hysteria in the voice, knowing that he would probably never hear Martin or anyone like him talk in this way again, Carolus listened.  “Snatch was the biggest man in the business.  There was scarcely a successful tickle in the last few years he didn’t set up.  You could trust Snatch, every way.  Trust him to work it out so that you got away with it, trust him to give you your corner with no strings attached.  Trust him when you were in trouble, too.  There was no one else like him and there won’t be.”

“Who do you think killed him, Martin?”

“No one would have, if I’d been there,” said Martin grimly but evasively.

“He had enemies?”

“Yes.  But not to do that.  I don’t know.  He didn’t tell everyone everything.”

“You knew what he was doing here?”

“No.  He had some interests here I think.  He had them everywhere—Switzerland, Beirut, all over the place.  They say he was worth a million and I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“You worked for him?”

“Now and again.”

“He called you in to get me out of the way?”

Martin looked contemptuous.

“You?  You were nothing to Snatch.  Just a bloody little nuisance being too nosy.  He told me to get rid of you—out of the town, he meant.  But he wasn’t much bothered.  If he had have been you wouldn’t be alive now.  That’s for sure.”

“Still I want to know who killed him.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“The back of his skull was cracked.  That could happen in several ways.”

“I see what you mean.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t give me what’s information we have about this, Martin.  I’m not the Law.  I’m not interested in anything you may have done or not done.  Except murder.  I came here to get at the truth about Devigne and I mean to satisfy myself on the whole case.  Frankly, I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell me everything you know.”

“Don’t talk about Devigne,” said Martin, once more avoiding giving a direct and stuff.  “Devigne was nothing.  I know all about him and you’re welcome to that.  He was a cheap little gambler who couldn’t go back to any chemmy table in London.  He’d gambled away what money he had from his old man.  His life was one big con trick.  He liked to go round with a string of showy broads, and get a reputation as a big spender.  The Law never had him because he’d never done anything big enough.”

“Did Snatch Roderix know that?”

“Know it?  He’d used Devigne for years as a front of one sort or another.  It suited Snatch.  He didn’t mind Devigne making a show with his money—but he kept his accounts.  Snatch knew everything.  I don’t know any details, mind you.  But that was the general set-up.”

“Do you know how long Roderix had been in the town when Devigne died?”

“About a week.  He sent for me here.  I was in Ceuta.  I can tell you this—he was vurry vurry worried about something.  But if you think he killed Devigne you’re crazy.  Snatch would never do that.  He might have told me to do it if he wanted it done, but he’d never have done it himself.”

“And did he tell you to do it?”

“You make me laugh, Deene,” said Martin, not laughing at all.  “Do you think if I’d cut up Davy Devigne I’d tell you so?”

“I’m always interested in your answers,” said Carolus simply.  “Villainy is a new field for me.”

Martin smiled.

“I can’t make you out,” he said.  “You could make a lot of money if you wanted.  I shouldn’t mind working for anyone like you.  You’ve got the In.  But you go on being a flicking schoolmaster.  It beats me.”

Martin shook his head sadly as though pained at such a waste of talent.

“Then this detection lark of yours.  You don’t even know who killed Devigne, do you?”

“I think so,” said Carolus steadily.

“Oh, you do?  Who was it then?  Snatch?”

“No.  Not directly.”

Martin look at them with some hostility.

“That’s a funny sort of answer to give.  Perhaps you know you killed Snatch, too?”

“Perhaps I do,” said Carolus.  “Though I wouldn’t be too sure about that one.”

“You give me the gripes, Deene.”

“Yes?  Your friend Mrs. Mellon will be along to see you presently.”

“If you let her in I’ll kill you.”

“That sounds like a serious threat.”

“I mean it.  You keep that crazy broad out of here.”

“We shall have to see.  I have another question to ask you, Martin.”

“Blackmail, eh?  What is it?”

“What do you know of the Vogels?”

“Nothing!” cried Martin, instantly and plaintively.  “Absolutely nothing.  I’ve never spoken to them or heard anything about them.  I can’t tell you what I don’t know, can I?  Now don’t let that Lolly Mellon in here, will you?”

“Did Roderix know Jack Trotter?” asked Carolus as though he had not heard the appeal.

“No.  Yes.  Must have done.  I don’t know.  Only keep that . . .”

Mrs. Stick tapped and entered.

“There’s a young man on the terrace asking for you,” she said to Carolus.  “Well, not all that young.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“Yes, sir.  Ling, he said it was.  Only now you’re mixed up in one of these murders again, you never know, do you?”

“Does he looks murderous, Mrs. Stick?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir.  But he seemed to be crying.”

Carolus left the spare room, conscious that Mrs. Stick wanted to discuss his lunch with the ‘perfect gentleman’ on the bed.

He found Hilary Ling on the terrace, trying to shelter from the winds.  He was in a state of great distress bordering on hysteria.  Carolus led him indoors.

“I thought you might be able to help me!” he said in a tragic voice to Carolus.  “They’ve got Tommy down at the police station.  He has been there the whole morning.  What will they do to him?”

“Ask him a few questions I expect.  Sit down.”

“I can’t sit down.  I’m in such a state.  Do you think they’ll torture him?”

“I think you’ve been reading a lot of nonsense.”

“You hear such awful things.  Tommy’s so sensitive.  He feels things more than most people.  It was bad enough last time.  What on earth can they want with him this time?”

“Probably they want details of his finding the body.”

“But if it was just that why don’t they asked me as well?  We were together when we found it.”

“I daresay they’ll ask you a few questions later.”

“Whatever shall I tell them?”

“The truth.”

“Oh, yes, about that.  We just came on the awful thing, lying there.”

Carolus, watching narrowly, decided to take advantage of this.

“Of course it may not be about last night they are questioning your friend.”

Hilary’s eyes opened very wide.

“What do you mean?” he asked shrilly.

“They are investigating two deaths, after all.  Perhaps they have a few more questions about the other.”

“Why?  Why should they ask Tommy questions about the other?  We told them all we knew at the time.  About hearing those screams and everything.”

“Did you, Ling?  All you knew?”

“Of course we did!”

“Then you won’t mind them going over it again.”

“I think you’re being rather beastly.  I came to you because I thought you might help.”

“It is very difficult to help anyone who doesn’t speak the truth.”

“How can you talk to me like that?  I always speak the truth.”

“You’re a very remarkable man, then.  Unique, I’d say.  Why did you say last night that you had never seen the dead man before?”

“I hadn’t!”

“Now, Ling . . .”

“Well, only once.”

“You recognized him?”

“Not at first.  Then I did.  I said to Tommy, it’s the man we saw that afternoon.”

“Which afternoon?”

“You may as well know, I suppose.  It was the day Davy Devigne was killed.  Only I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Why not?”

“In case they thought I was jealous of Lolly Mellon.  As if I could be jealous of a wicked designing bitch like that.”

“What had she to do with it?”

“Well, if you must know I came up from the beach when the others did.  I thought Tommy had already come home, but when I got up to the flat he wasn’t there.  So I waited a bit, then decided to go back to the BEI.  I guessed what was happening.”

“What was?”

“That awful evil-minded immoral creature Lolly Mellon had got poor Tommy in a changing cabin.  I soon found that out.  Then I went and knocked on the door.  My dear, you’d never believe it.  There was silence!  I knew they were both inside.  So I shouted ‘Tommy!  Come out of there at once.’  After a minute he tried to bluff it out.  ‘Just ready!’ he said, ‘you go and wait in the bar.’  So I pretended to go, and they came creeping out, the pair of them.  She looked like Dracula, my dear.  Or like something in Charles Addams.  Poor Tommy was guilty as could be.  I went over to them and said to that Lolly––‘You disgusting old woman!’ I said.  ‘How dare you take Tommy into a changing cabin?  Haven’t you any shame at all?’  Tommy tried to interfere but I soon put him in his place.  ‘As for you,’ I said, ‘you’ve got a weak character.  That’s what you’ve got.  Fancy you looking at an old person like this.’  Then Lolly called me something I shall never forgive her for.  Something absolutely wicked that no real lady would have said.”

“What was that?” asked Carolus curiously.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you.  Something only a fiend like Lolly would have said.  Something really dreadful.  I felt like going for her.  She deserved it for saying a thing like that.  But just then we all happened to notice Davy Devigne sitting out on the stands in a deck-chair.  He looked terribly sort of lonely, I thought.”

Hilary paused, remembering.

“Please go on,” said Carolus.

“Then we saw this man.”

“The one you found last night?”

“Yes.  He seemed to come from nowhere.  One moment you could not see him and next he was there, talking to Davy Devigne.  I thought there was something horrible about him.”

“Was he long with Devigne?”

“I don’t know.  We went into the Bar.  Lolly tried to make it up with me, but I wouldn’t, not after what she had called me.”

“So the last you saw off Devigne was sitting in a deck-chair talking to this man?”

“Yes.  I don’t think he was talking much.  The man seemed to do that.”

“What time was this?”

“Oh, I’m hopeless at times.  I should guess it was around six.  Of course we didn’t know then that Davy was going to be murdered or I might have noticed.  Do you really think they’re asking Tommy about that?”

“It’s possible.”

“Will they keep him long?”

Carolus did not need to answer this question for that moment there was an “Oo-oo!” from the drive and Lolly Mellon and Tommy Watson appeared together.

Hilary flew to Tommy.

“Oh, Tommy!  Oh, thank God they’ve let you out!  They didn’t start torturing you, did they?  What did they ask you about?  Are you all right?  Oh, thank God!”

“Hilary, darling!” said Lolly Mellon.

“Lolly, darling!” returned Hilary ecstatically.

“Old Lol brought me up in a taxi,” said Tommy, by way of adding something to these congratulations.

“Did you, darling?” asked Hilary.  “That was sweet of you.”

Mrs. Stick appeared with a tray of drinks.

“Oh, marvellous!” said Lolly Mellon.  “Lovely drinkies!”

“You’re wonderful, Lolly!” said Hilary.

Mrs. Sticks lips were tightly closed, Carolus noticed.  If there were one thing she disapproved of more strongly than murder it was gush.

Lolly turned to her.

“How’s that divine man in the spare room?” she asked.

“He’s asleep,” returned Mrs. Stick.

“I must go and wake him up!” cried Lolly.  “Poor sweetheart, he’s always being left on his own.”

“The gentleman in the spare room,” said Mrs. Stick to Carolus, “asked particularly not to be disturbed.”

“He’ll be thrilled at seeing me,” said Lolly.

“Of course he will, Lolly, darling,” said Hilary.

But it was Mrs. Stick who had her way.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Lolly, with flat and definite finality.  “But the gentleman is not to be disturbed this morning.”

Lolly gave up.

❦