Death of a Nationalist (10 page)

“Your supplier is dead,” Gonzalo continued, matching his stride. “He was killed last week, wasn’t he? In the Calle Amor de Dios. That’s why you can’t get me the stuff now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The smuggler’s voice shook. He stopped and turned to face Gonzalo.

“Right,” Gonzalo said, pleased at the man’s reaction. “So you weren’t buying from a guardia civil and you didn’t kill him last week? Why didn’t you kill him, by the way? Weren’t you having an argument about the profits?”

“No!” The smuggler’s self-control crumbled. “I never killed anyone. I didn’t even know he was dead until . . .” He stopped, his face blanched above his dark coat. “Why the hell do you care anyway? Oh, shit, are you a guardia?”

In answer, Gonzalo drew his gun and held it against the other man’s ribs. “Didn’t know he was dead until when?” he asked.

“Until you told me!” The smuggler stared at the gun, seemingly fascinated.

Gonzalo mentally cursed himself for giving the man time to recover from his slip. “Was he demanding too high a price?” he asked again.

“No.” The smuggler held his hands a little away from his sides and seemed to be sucking in his stomach to break its contact with the gun. “No, he never gave a damn about the profits. Sent them all to some girl. We had no quarrel with him. And that’s the truth, I swear. For the love of God, I
swear.
He did his part, and we did ours but I never killed him. None of us did!”

“Who did, then?”

“I don’t know.” The man’s voice had a ragged edge. “A Red sniper, I thought.” He gasped as the gun burrowed into his rib cage again.

“Who told you that?”

“Our new supplier. He said it was a coincidence.”

Gonzalo’s voice was tense. “What happened to the sniper?”

“I don’t know! I swear, I don’t know. I heard he was dead. But it wasn’t any of us! It was the guardias civiles on patrol from another post.”

“Which other post?”

“Manzanares, I think.” The smuggler gulped. “But it wasn’t anything to do with the goods. A Red killed Paco, and then someone from Manzanares killed the Red. That’s all!”

“Isn’t this mystery man from Manzanares your new supplier?” Gonzalo asked.

“No. Honestly! This guardia—a sergeant, I think—he’s straight as an arrow. That’s what señor . . . that’s what our supplier says. To watch out for him!”

“A sergeant, from the Manzanares post,” Gonzalo repeated slowly. “You’re sure?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Say, what are you interested in anyway? First it’s the goods, and then it’s Paco, and now it’s this sergeant. Who are you and what are you after?”

Gonzalo realized that he had better end the interview quickly. There were a few people around the lake in the distance and while it was unlikely that any of them had noticed the figures on the walkway, the longer he delayed, the more chance there was of discovery. Besides, the smuggler seemed to be losing some of his initial fear. He might yell for help, or simply flee, at any moment. “You’re lucky I’m not like them,”Gonzalo said. “Or you’d be a dead man by now.” He hesitated a moment. “Put down the suitcase. Now turn around. Keep your hands where I can see them.” He pressed the gun into the small of the smuggler’s back, then withdrew it a little. Now for the tricky part. He bent his knees and picked up the suitcase. It was heavy for him to lift with one hand, and his other arm was starting to ache from the weight of the gun. “Start walking,” he ordered, hoping that none of his nervousness showed in his voice. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Very slowly, the man began to walk, hands still held a few inches from his sides. Gonzalo kept a pace behind, doing his best to move silently over the gravel. Slowly, he allowed himself to fall farther and farther behind the smuggler. A little way from the lake, a smaller, dirt-covered path crossed the main walkway. Gonzalo waited until he reached the cross path, then hastily slipped the gun into his pocket and ducked down the narrow path, lugging the suitcase with both hands. In summertime, the high shrubs would have rendered him invisible. As it was, he hoped that the brown and tangled bushes would provide sufficient cover for him to get well away. He pounded down the path, heading for what had once been the rose gardens. He was tempted to abandon the suitcase but its weight promised food, and to give it up now after risking so much seemed cowardly.

The smuggler, Gonzalo hoped, would not rouse the guardia civil. Gonzalo had not absolutely denied that he was a member of the guardia and it would be difficult for the man to avoid awkward questions about the contents of the suitcase in any case. Still, he did not breathe easily again until he was well out of the park and back in the shelter of the streets. Then he leaned against a gray stone apartment house, pockmarked with shells, and allowed his pounding pulse to return to something resembling its normal rate. Bracing himself against the building, he realized that he was dizzy, and sank down onto the suitcase between his knees, and then leaned over, so that his hair nearly brushed the cobblestones.

A sergeant from the Manzanares post, he repeated, as he slowly forced himself into a sitting, and then a standing position. It wasn’t wasted time. A sergeant from the Manzanares post. The walk home took him a long time. The suitcase was heavy and his flight through the park had weakened him. Nevertheless, by the time he reached home, breathless and sweating, he was closer to happiness than he had been since the day he had learned that Viviana was dead. He dragged the suitcase into the dim living room. “Carmen?” he called.

“Gonzalo?” She appeared from the kitchen. “Gonzalo! Oh, thank God! Thank God!” She rushed at him and hugged him fiercely, gasping with dry sobs.

“I’m glad you’re glad to see me,” he said, bemused. He remembered how he had calmly contemplated the possibility of dying without telling her, and felt a flicker of remorse. “But look what I’ve brought.” He pushed her away, and bent to open the suitcase.

It fell open with a thud, and a few roundish objects bounced out. Carmen dropped to her knees and picked one up. “Potatoes,” she whispered. “And . . . meat! Gonzalo, how . . .?”

“It’s a long story.” He watched the tears spilling freely over her cheeks now and felt something approaching contentment.“I’ll tell you while you cook.”

She nodded, and carefully placed the packages back in the suitcase, holding it to her chest as if it were an infant. “Of course.” She smiled at him. “Of course, Gonzalo. Oh, thank God.”

“Now why were you so worried?” he asked, trying to smile at her as they headed for the kitchen. “Don’t you have any faith in your brother?”

To his surprise, she did not rally under his teasing. “It wasn’t that.” She set the suitcase on the kitchen table. “There was a guardia civil here while you were gone. Asking all kinds of questions. I think he suspects that I’m hiding a carbinero.”

A day earlier, Gonzalo would have accepted her statement with fatalistic calm. Now, with his search for Viviana’s killer so close to its goal and the pleasurable feeling of having found food for the family flooding over him, it stirred him to action. “We’ll talk about it over dinner,” he said firmly. “There must be a way out.”

Chapter 10

T
ejada had found his way as far south as Atocha fairly easily but finding the Calle Tres Peces presented some difficulty. He had visited the capital as a student and was acquainted with the major streets, and he had gained some more recent knowledge from studying maps but the twisting and ill-marked pathways of the inner city were unfamiliar to him. The fact that shells appeared to have hit many of the street signs (if there had ever been street signs) did not make his quest easier. He finally stopped an old man and demanded directions. His demand was brusquer than he realized, for he was annoyed by the unaccustomed feeling of incompetence and the stink of the streets depressed him. Looking at the chipped and peeling facades, and the houses unsteadily propped up by planks where neighboring buildings had decayed or been destroyed, Tejada found himself longing for a bulldozer and a decent architect. A grid, he thought. Modified, designed to radiate around the central boulevards. You could finish knocking down these relics and rebuild the streets wide enough for a jeep to pass, if you added a few stories on to make up for lost depth. The street he had been following merged seamlessly with another, without bothering to change its name. Definitely a grid, Tejada thought with disgust, wondering if the directions he had received were still accurate.

By the time he found the Calle Tres Peces, he was in no mood to search for nonexistent numbers. He selected a building at random, marched up to it, and pounded on the first available door. There was a long pause, and then a voice said hesitantly, “Who’s there?”

“Guardia civil. Open up.” Tejada considered adding a further threat, and then decided that he probably would not be able to make it good alone.

The door swung open and a woman with a shawl over her head faced him. “We’ve done nothing wrong.” Her voice trembled, and Tejada wondered for a moment what she had on her conscience.

He dismissed her probable sins as irrelevant. “Can you tell me where number 25 is?”

She stared at him, open-mouthed for a moment, and then slumped against the doorjamb in relief. “Yes, Señor Guardia. Yes, of course. It’s across the street and three doors down.”

“Thank you.” Tejada turned on his heel and marched away. Behind him he heard the door slam shut.

When he reached the building indicated, he realized that he did not have an apartment number. Clearly numbered buildings, he thought, expanding his urban planning instincts. With a reliable concierge who has an up-to-date list of who is in which apartment. He stifled a sigh and pounded on the door of the first floor. “Guardia civil! Open up!” Whoever lived in the first-floor apartment was either not at home or trusted that he would not break down the door.

Tejada considered for a moment. It was possible that this was the apartment he was interested in. If it was, then several other possibilities presented themselves. If the miliciana who had killed Paco was Carmen Llorente, Maria Alejandra’s mother, then the apartment might well be locked and deserted. On the other hand, even if the miliciana who had killed Paco had no connection to Alejandra aside from a carelessly dropped notebook, the Palomino family might have its own reasons for avoiding the guardia civil. Or whoever lived in the apartment might simply be away. Or it might be the wrong apartment entirely. The simplest way to find out was to talk to someone. He moved on to the apartment in the rear of the building, and knocked again. “Guardia Civil! Open up!”

This time the door opened after only a few moments of hammering on it. “Yes?” Again, it was a woman who answered. Tejada wondered briefly if there were no men left in Madrid. If there were, they seemed to hide behind their women. Typical of the Reds.

“Do you know a little girl named Maria Alejandra Palomino?” Tejada asked. “About seven years old. She lives in this building, I believe.”

The woman gaped at him. “Alejandra? Why yes. But why . . .?” She shut her mouth abruptly, suddenly realizing that questioning a guardia civil was the worse part of valor.

“She lives with her mother?” Tejada asked.

“Yes. Her mother and—” The woman stopped.

“And?” Tejada raised his eyebrows, remembering that Ale-jandra’s mother was supposed to be a widow.

“And . . . and she lived with her . . . aunt.” The woman gulped slightly. “But her aunt . . . passed away a few days ago.”

If she was not lying, Tejada thought, then obviously she was trying to conceal something. But she was frightened and a poor liar. It might be worth questioning her further, instead of merely asking for the correct apartment number. At that point, however, he was distracted by the sound of footsteps behind him and the rhythmic thump of someone trudging up the stairs. The woman glanced past him and gasped with relief. “There she is,” she babbled. “You can talk to her yourself. Car-men! Carmen, this officer’s been asking for you.”

Tejada turned and looked upward. A woman with a shawl tied over her hair and a dark coat wrapped tightly around her was standing on the staircase, as if frozen. As he came nearer, he saw that she was squarely built, with broad shoulders that formed a strange contrast to her extreme thinness. “Señora Llorente?” he asked.

He saw her lips move and guessed from her faint nod that she had spoken. But her whisper was inaudible.

“I’m glad I caught you.” It did not occur to Tejada that this was not the happiest of phrases. “I have a few questions.”

She bowed her head. “What do you want to know?”

“There’s no need to stand in the hallway,” Tejada said easily, rounding the banister and beginning to climb toward her.“We can go upstairs and talk in private.” He had not pitched his voice particularly loudly, but it carried clearly in the silent hall, and Carmen’s neighbor rapidly shut her door.

Tejada had continued advancing on Carmen and she had no choice but to turn and begin climbing the stairs again. “What do you want to know?” she repeated, a little breathlessly.

“I’m actually looking for one of your relatives,” Tejada said. “Careful,” he added, as she tripped on one of the steps and plunged forward. “Your daughter, I believe. Alejandra.”

“Alejandra?” The blood pounding in Carmen’s ears subsided somewhat. She hoped that the guardia could not tell that her voice was unusually high and quavering. “Why?”

“She may have some information of interest to the Guardia Civil,” Tejada replied as they reached the landing.

Carmen hurried ahead of him and unlocked the door. “I don’t understand, Señor Guardia.” She raised her voice as much as she dared. “Why should the Guardia Civil be interested in Aleja? She’s only a little girl.”

The door swung open. Carmen did her best to take off her coat slowly and noisily, praying that the guardia would not push past her. He stood quietly, apparently unaware of her delaying tactics. “She may have witnessed a murder,” he said. “Speaking of which, your neighbor tells me that you are recently bereaved. My condolences.”

“What?” Carmen stared, bewildered. In her experience, the Guardia Civil did not offer condolences.

“Your sister,” Tejada said. “I understand she lived with you. Or would this be your sister-in-law?”

“My sister,” Carmen said quickly, internally damning her downstairs neighbor for being a bitch and a gossip. Perhaps the guardia did not know of Gonzalo’s existence. “She was my sister.” Judging that it was impossible to delay any longer, Car-men led her unwelcome guest into the living room. To her profound relief, it was empty. She wondered whether it would be wise to say that she and Viviana had lived alone. But if someone in the building had told him about Gonzalo . . . “I’m afraid Aleja’s at school,” she said hastily. “But if there’s anything I can tell you?”

Tejada had been inspecting the living room. It displayed no signs of wealth. It was barely furnished. And Carmen Llorente’s hunger-pinched features did not suggest that she had access to the black market. He was inclined to think that if Alejandra had been a witness, she had been an accidental one. Alejandra’s mother radiated fear, but so had everyone else he had spoken to in the neighborhood. “When will she be home?” he asked.

Carmen realized with horror that the guardia must intend to wait for her daughter. If Gonzalo was already in hiding, that was fine. But if he came back unexpectedly . . . “I don’t know,” she said automatically, then thought it best to explain. “I mean, Aleja’s school is some distance from here. I gave her permission to go home with a friend who lives closer to the school today and she may stay the night there.”

“Where is that, Señora?” Tejada wondered if it was worth a trek north to try to find Alejandra.

Carmen was prepared for the question. “Along San Mateo,” she lied glibly, carefully not specifying whether she meant the Calle San Mateo or the Travesía San Mateo.

Tejada did not notice the omission but the idea of searching through another set of winding and unmarked streets was not appealing. Lieutenant Ramos expected his report, and delaying further would be irresponsible. Tejada decided to share his suspicions with the lieutenant and wait for further orders. He stifled a sigh. “Very well, Señora. I will try to come back tomorrow. You understand that your daughter’s information may be of vital importance to the Guardia Civil. I will expect to find her at home tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Carmen’s mouth was dry.

Tejada had the feeling that he was overlooking something important. But he was tired, and he wanted a chance to file the information he had gathered. He left the white-faced Señora Llorente, wondering how much of what she had told him was the truth. Alejandra was proving surprisingly elusive. If her mother knows she saw something, she might be trying to keep her out of the way, he thought. There’s no reason they would stop at killing a child. Easier really than to kill Paco unless they only knew that there was a witness and didn’t know who the witness was. He realized, with a not entirely pleasant sensation, that he was now carrying with him the notebook his friend had been killed for. No one knows that except Jiménez though, he reassured himself. All the same, he was glad when he reached the end of the winding alleys and gained a broader and better patrolled thoroughfare.

By the time Tejada had finished making his report to the lieutenant, it was well after five. A lingering worry over the information contained in Alejandra’s notebook made him look for Jiménez. To his disgust, Guardia Jiménez had gone on a twenty-four-hour leave three hours previously. Resigned to the inevitable, Tejada headed for the tiny room that served as both his bedroom and office. He sat down and stared at his notes. They swam in front of his eyes. It isn’t fair he thought, leaning forward slightly and propping his elbows on the table. We’ve won, and we work twice as hard now that we’re at peace. Paco had time to get involved with that Isabel during the war, but now he wouldn’t have a moment. Or did he meet her before the war? I wonder how, if she was in Cantabria. . . . I’ve heard Cantabria’s beautiful. Next to the Basque country. . . . Filled with rain. . . . But Paco hated rain. . . .

A thunderclap interrupted his thoughts. He started, and realized that the thunder was in fact the stamp of Guardia Vásquez’s booted foot. Vásquez was standing at attention, looking embarrassed. “Sergeant Tejada, sir!” he said, staring forward and doing a poor job of not noticing that Tejada’s head had been resting on the desk.

Tejada silently cursed himself for wasting time and then added a brief imprecation in the direction of Lieutenant Ramos for waking him at an ungodly hour. “Yes, Guardia, what is it?” he asked, trying not to sound irritated.

Vásquez’s posture remained rigid. “A lady to see you, sir!”

Tejada winced. Female hysteria ranked high on his list of work-related annoyances, and he felt he had dealt with enough white-faced and terrified women for one day. “What time is it?” he snapped.

Vásquez checked his watch. “Twenty hours, thirty-two minutes, sir,” he said, doing his best to make the military phrasing disguise his opinion that the sergeant could perfectly well have looked at his own watch.

“Then she’s here to see Sergeant González,” said Tejada grimly. “I went off a twelve-hour shift two minutes ago.”

“Err . . . she asked to speak to you specifically, sir. By name.” The guardia had lost much of his rigidity and almost all of his assurance.

“What?” Random guesses whirled through Tejada’s brain like the paper on Lieutenant Ramos’s desk during a crisis. With a sudden sinking feeling he remembered his final words to Doña Clara: “I am always at home to you.” It was inconceivable that Clara Pérez should make a social call at a post but . . . “A dignified older lady, gray hair, wearing a black dress?” he hazarded, desperately shuffling through his thoughts.

“No, sir.” Vásquez’s embarrassment increased. “A younger lady, with a blue skirt and dark braids.”

The guardia’s words snagged a piece of useless knowledge from Tejada’s hasty and ill-assorted pile of civilian memories. “
Ce doit être Micaëla
,” he said automatically.

Vásquez blinked. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Never mind.” Tejada remembered enough French to understand the gist of the quote, but he had no idea where he had pulled it from. “Is Lieutenant Ramos still in his office?”

“No, sir. He went off duty half an hour ago.”

“Then bring her to the lieutenant’s office,” Tejada said. “I’ll meet you there.”

He headed for the office, still trying to figure out who the lady asking for him might be. He could think of no friends of the family who still lived in Madrid. And no one in their right mind would travel to the capital now. Perhaps a friend of a friend? But what young lady would call at a guardia civil post to see someone she did not know? He reached the office and automatically began to tidy the papers on the desk, scanning them to make sure that no sensitive material had been left out for prying eyes. Who in Madrid—outside of fellow officers— even knew his name? “Micaëla,” obviously, he thought with disgust. Whoever that is. He tapped a stack of papers on the table to align their edges, and then turned them face downward, idly pursuing the smaller enigma: Where had the quote come from? Something about a blue skirt and dark braids, with an inane little tune attached, probably for mnemonic purposes. He hummed, trying to remember. The door swung open, and he heard Vásquez’s voice saying, “This way, Señora.”