A Dead Man in Malta (17 page)

‘If anything makes me mad, that does. “I’m in the pay of the Maltese Government,” I said. “Maltese, not British, can’t you understand that, you daft bastard?” (I shall deny ever having said that, if it becomes an issue.) “There’s a difference between the two.”

‘“Ah, yes,” he said, “but—”

‘“No buts,” I said. “Maltese!”

‘“All right, all right!” he said. “Perhaps I can trust you, if that’s the way it is. I’ll send you a copy of the letter.” “Thank you very much,” I said, and would have walked away, but he said: “Wait! I will read it to you.”

‘So I waited, and he read it to me. At first, I thought it was just another anonymous letter. I get them all the time. I think there are people in Valletta who, when they’ve got nothing to do, say to themselves: “I know, I’ll write to Lucca!” Anyway, this one said, as quite a lot of them do, the British are behind it.’

‘Behind what?’ said Seymour.

‘Behind killing the German. It was something to do with this new destroyer that’s in. Kiesewetter’s technicians were British, the letter said, and in England’s pay. They had sabotaged Kiesewetter’s balloon so that it would crash and kill Kiesewetter.

‘“Look,” I said, “this is nothing new. I’ve had the idea myself. What I need is evidence.”

‘“Ah,” Backhaus said, “but there is more.” The letter went on to say that an agent of the British Government had been seen talking to the technicians at a pub that morning. And that afterwards the agent had gone over with the technicians to Marsa racetrack to see the balloon and tell them how to do it.

‘That made me stop for a minute because it was quite specific. It even gave the pub by name. It gave the pub and the time. And the writer said he could supply witnesses.

‘Well, that made me think. People who write this kind of letter don’t usually go into details. And they don’t usually offer to give the names of witnesses. Witnesses, plural. I began to wonder if Backhaus was quite as crazy as I had thought.

‘And then he said: “There is yet more!” and looked at me sort of triumphantly.

‘And this bit
was
new, and when I heard it I didn’t like it at all. The letter said the agent was a woman and a nurse. And that she had been there when Kiesewetter was admitted and had been near him the whole time he was in the hospital. Including when he died.’

‘Yes,’ said Seymour. ‘I think someone is about to make the same point to me. Did the letter say any more?’

‘It did, and I didn’t like this, either. It said that after Kiesewetter had died, she left the hospital and went straight down to the Navy place, the new one at St Angelo. To report, says the letter, and Backhaus.’

‘Well,’ said Seymour, ‘that ought to be easy to check.’

‘And that is just what I am about to do,’ said Lucca.

‘Yes, we were in the Eagle,’ said the technicians.

‘Doing what?’

‘What do you think? Having a beer.’

‘And something to eat,’ said the other technician. ‘We’d been on since four getting things sorted out for the launch. Making sure that everything was ready.’

‘And hadn’t had anything to eat.’

‘Not even breakfast.’

‘And I said to George, we’re not going to get through the day if we go on like this. Let’s go out for a bite. We’re well ahead.’

‘Why didn’t you find somewhere at the racetrack to have a bite?’ asked Seymour.

‘They don’t do an English breakfast,’ said George. ‘The Eagle does.’

‘A proper breakfast,’ said the other technician. ‘And a big one. That’s what we needed.’

‘Two,’ said George.

‘Two breakfasts?’

‘Two eggs. And bacon and sausages. And black pudding, but they don’t do black pudding in Malta.’

‘I suppose it was getting on towards lunch by this time,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes, it was. And we knew we were going to miss out on that as well. So we had a beer with the eggs and chips. To put us on.’

‘And see us through.’

‘Did you check it with Kiesewetter?’

‘Kiesewetter was off somewhere.’

‘Looking for milk.’

‘He’d been on since four, too.’

‘Did we check with him that it would be all right? No. Because he wouldn’t have agreed.’

‘How long were you in the pub for?’

‘Three-quarters of an hour. No more. We had to get back.’

‘While you were in there, did you talk to anyone?’ asked Seymour.

‘We certainly did! This beautiful bird walks in. She said she was a nurse and had been on duty all night. And what she wanted was a bit of breakfast, too. “Join the party,” we said. So she sat down beside us. But all she had was a cup of coffee and a bread roll. She said she had to go back to the hospital because it was a special day, what with the balloons and the crowds, and that they were sure to be called in at the hospital at some point. But what she needed was to get out for a bit of fresh air.’

‘Did she know you were working on the balloon?’

‘We told her. She said it must be wonderful to go up in a balloon and see everything spread out below. It is, for the first few times, we said, but then you get used to it. She said how much she would like to go up in a balloon and asked if there was any chance of going up in ours. “You’d have to ask the Herr,” we said. “And he’ll probably say no, because he’s like that.” She said what a pity. And we said we could show her the balloon if she liked. She could come back with us.’

‘And did she come back with you?’

‘Oh, yes. We let her look over it. The balloons were about ready to go by then.’

‘Of course, you’d got yours ready before you went to the pub?’

‘Pretty well, yes.’

‘And it was all right when you got back, was it?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘No chance of anyone getting at it?’

‘There were police all round it.’

‘It was in a sort of roped-off area,’ explained George. ‘They all were, and no one was allowed to get in.’

‘And we’d asked the technicians next door to keep an eye on it for us.’

‘In case the wind started taking it or something.’

‘But they said there had been no problem and they hadn’t had to do anything.’

‘There were just a few last things you had to do? Was the nurse with you while you did them?’

‘No, no, no! She’d gone off. Wouldn’t even make a date with us for the next morning.’

‘Went off when the band next door started striking up.’

‘There was a band there, was there?’

‘God, yes! Lots of them. I reckon you could have heard them from the harbour!’

‘They’d made a big thing of it, you see,’ George explained. ‘Something like this was a big do for them.’

‘You don’t happen to know the nurse’s name, do you?’

‘You bet we do, Melinda was her name.’

‘Yes,’ said Melinda, ‘I went to the Eagle.’

‘For a drink?’

Melinda laughed. ‘When you’re on duty? No. For a breath of fresh air, mainly.’

‘Talk to anyone?’

‘I expect so. Why?’

‘Who?’

‘Well, a couple of blokes. They said they were technicians on a balloon.’

‘Did you know they would be there?’

‘No.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Why would I?’

‘I thought maybe you knew it was the place where technicians might go.’

‘Well, I didn’t.’

‘I wondered if you were interested in balloons especially.’

‘Not especially. I’d seen them as I was coming in the day before. I go past the racetrack, and there they were. Not ready to go up, of course, but some of them were partially inflated. It was odd seeing them there like that, on the racetrack. Like whales, stranded whales. It was very odd.’

‘They took you over to see them, I gather?’

‘It was kind of them. I had told them I probably wouldn’t see them that afternoon, not when they were up, because I would be on duty. So they said: “Come on up and have a look now.”’

‘And after?’

‘After? Well, I went back to the hospital. I was on duty, as I said. Only just made it.’

‘And then, of course, you were very busy.’

‘Not at first. But then they brought Kiesewetter in and after that the afternoon just flew away.’

‘And after that?’

‘After that?’ said Melinda, puzzled. ‘Well, I finished my stint and went home.’

‘Straight home?’

‘Well, yes. I’d been on the night before, and this was an extra shift because of the balloons. I was pretty tired.’

‘I’ll bet you were. I’m surprised they asked you to do the extra shift.’

‘I’m the senior nurse,’ said Melinda simply.

‘Still—’

‘Oh, I didn’t mind, you get used to that sort of thing. I mean, it was like an emergency, and if it’s an emergency, you go on until it’s over.’

‘And then you went home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Straight home?’

‘Yes,’ said Melinda, puzzled. ‘As I told you.’

‘Well, I’m not sure you told me everything.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You didn’t go anywhere else on the way?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t call in at St Angelo?’

‘St Angelo? What would I want to call in there for?’

‘That’s what I’m asking you?’

Melinda shrugged. ‘No, I didn’t call in at St Angelo. At the Navy, if that’s what you meant. I know some of the blokes there but I didn’t go there.’

‘No?’

‘No. I went past it. Home.’

‘We shall check, you know.’

‘Hey, what is this?’

‘Someone has told us you didn’t go straight home.’

Melinda stared, and then thought.

‘You’re right,’ she said then. ‘Or they’re right, whoever told you. I didn’t go straight home. I called in on someone. For about five minutes!’

‘Can you tell us who?’

‘I can,’ said Melinda, ‘but I don’t know that I will. What’s all this about?’

‘Kiesewetter.’

‘
Kiesewetter
?’

‘Just tell us, Melinda,’ said Lucca.

‘Well, all right, then. If it’s that important. I took a message for Mr Vasco.’

‘Mr Vasco in the hospital?’

‘That’s right. He’d given it me that morning.’

‘And it was to—?’

Melinda hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t know if it’s any of your business, but—it was to his brother. The one who works in the boatyard at Volkare. My flat’s not far from there so I didn’t have to go out of my way.’

‘We shall check, you know,’ said Seymour.

Melinda flared up.

‘You can check away as much as you like,’ she said. ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do.’

‘I don’t like this,’ said Lucca, as they walked away.

‘Nor do I,’ said Seymour.

‘Melinda had nothing to do with Kiesewetter’s death,’ said Lucca. ‘I’ll take my oath on it.’

‘But that’s not the point,’ said Seymour.

Lucca stopped and stared at him. ‘Not the point? For Christ’s sake!’

‘Someone is obviously trying to fix her,’ said Seymour. ‘Now the point is: who?’

Chapter Thirteen

‘“The Victoria Lines in themselves are not important; it is the Victoria Lines inside the Maltese that are.” How about that for a start?’ said Sophia, with much satisfaction.

‘Terrific!’ said Felix, impressed; and then, after a moment, ‘What, um, does it mean?’

‘It means that the Maltese have accepted too tamely the rules laid down by the British. Wait a minute, let me get that down.’ And then, after a moment: ‘Where have you got to?’

‘“The Infermeria was built in 1574. It could accommodate seven hundred and forty-six patients. Its principal ward, at five hundred and eight feet, was the longest room in Europe.”’

‘No arguing with that!’ said Sophia; and then, after a moment: ‘Don’t you think there ought to be? I mean, wouldn’t it be more exciting to get into an argument straightaway? I mean, it’s a bit dull as it stands.’

‘I could put in the bit about the chickens, I suppose.’

‘Chickens?’

‘They used two hundred chickens every day.’

‘Well—’

‘Which they ate off silver plates.’

‘That is certainly more interesting. But—’

‘I suppose there isn’t much argument about it,’ said Felix despondently.

‘Oh, but there could be. “The Hospitaller Knights, brutes though they were, fed their patients well.”’

‘That is certainly more argumentative.’

‘I know, I know,’ conceded Sophia. ‘It makes a statement rather than asks a question. It’s always better to pose a question. “What were the Knights doing in Malta anyway?” That would sort of open it up.’

‘Doesn’t it open it up a bit too far? I mean, take the argument away from the Infermeria?’

‘Hmm,’ said Sophia.

‘I know,’ said Felix, suddenly pleased. ‘I could start: “How did a hospital on such a grand scale (the length of the principal ward was five hundred and eight feet) come to be built in a place like Malta?”’

‘That’s better,’ said Sophia. ‘But—leave out “place like Malta”. It makes Malta sound a bit of a dump.’

‘We are coming to the end of our sojourn in Malta,’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr, ‘and it is time to pull our thoughts together. I have, actually, prepared a draft. Based, of course, on your discussion yesterday morning.’

‘But you weren’t there!’

‘I have gleaned the results of your deliberations,’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr with dignity, ‘and incorporated them into the draft.’

‘I hope we shall have time to discuss the final draft?’

‘We certainly will,’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr. ‘I have planned to set aside the next two days for that purpose.’

‘Two days?’

‘There is much to discuss.’

‘I thought we were going to have an opportunity to do some shopping?’

‘And to go to the beach.’

‘We can do that on the last morning. In the evening Mrs Ferreira has invited us to a
fenkata
.’

‘A what?’

‘
Fenkata
. A traditional Maltese picnic.’

‘Oh, how nice!’

‘Rabbit picnic.’

‘Rabbit?’ More doubtfully.

‘And other traditional dishes, of course. It will give us an opportunity to mingle with our hosts and talk to them informally about Ambulance work, which I am sure you will be only too glad to take advantage of.’

‘Someone to see you, Mr Vasco.’

‘Oh, him. And him! Well, I don’t want to see them.’

‘That’s not very nice of you!’

‘I’m not feeling very nice this morning.’

‘Go on like this,’ said Inspector Lucca, ‘and I’ll not say how sorry I am to see you here.’

‘You don’t care a toss about me.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Lucca. ‘But I do care a toss about some other people.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Melinda, for instance.’

‘Melinda? What has she got to do with it?’

‘She’s in trouble.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But that’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh, but it is, Vasco,’ said Seymour.

‘And you keep out of it!’ said Vasco.

‘But I can’t! I’m investigating the murders of two British seamen and a German balloonist. Right here, in the hospital!’

‘Melinda is nothing to do with that.’

‘We wonder,’ said Lucca, ‘we wonder if you’re right there.’

‘You’re a fool, Lucca,’ said Vasco contemptuously. ‘You always were.’

‘Quite possibly, Vasco. But still I’m wondering.’

‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. As usual.’

‘Very probably. But still I’m wondering.’

‘You know nothing about it, Lucca!’

‘True!’ said Lucca. ‘And therefore you’re going to have to tell me.’

‘Me?’ said Vasco, surprised.

‘She’s been carrying messages for you, Vasco,’ said Seymour. ‘What were they about?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘To the British Navy. At St Angelo.’

‘What?’ said Vasco incredulously, raising himself from the pillow.

‘So someone has told us.’

‘Bollocks!’ said Vasco, lying back.

‘She took one just after the German had died. From you.’

‘You’re making this up!’

‘She admits it herself.’

‘Taking a message?’

‘Yes.’

‘To the British Navy? I don’t believe it!’

‘So our informant says.’

Vasco spat contemptuously.

‘She certainly took a message,’ said Seymour.

‘She took a message, right,’ said Vasco. ‘And from me. But to the British? Never!’

He raised himself from his pillow. ‘Never! To the British? Melinda? You’re a bloody fool, Lucca.’

‘Didn’t she take a message?’

‘Yes, she took a message. And from me. But not to the Navy—Christ!’

‘Who to, then?’

‘My brother. You can ask him.’

‘But he’s in it, too!’ said Seymour.

‘In what, for Christ’s sake?’

‘That little group you’ve got down there around the boatyards.’

‘I don’t have a little group.’

‘Built around the band. For cover.’

‘I don’t have a little group!’

‘What message did you send them, Vasco, after the German died?’

Vasco looked at them savagely but said nothing.

‘Was it simply to say that the German had died? That that part of the plan had been successful?’

‘What plan?’

‘To kill the German. And bring trouble on the British.’

‘There was no plan!’

‘Ah, but, you see, our informant says there was. And Melinda was part of it. In the hospital, as well as afterwards. So our informant says.’

‘Your bloody informant! I don’t believe there was one.’

‘There was. And what he says is that Melinda had a hand in the killing. And then took the news to your band of brothers.’

‘Had a hand in—?’ roared Vasco, raising himself from the pillow. ‘You bastards! You’re trying to pin this on her! Lucca, you bastard, I’m warning you! If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see that someone gets you for this!’

‘That wasn’t the message, then?’ said Seymour.

‘No, it bloody wasn’t! Ask my brother. Ask anyone down there. Look. I’ll admit we’ve got a group there. And, yes, they don’t love the British. And if we could harm them we bloody would. But I can’t get them to do anything! They just talk, and—and do nothing! That’s what the message was about. To kick them up the backside. Get them going. I want to see something done before I croak. But Melinda—! Look, Melinda’s never been anything to do with this. She’s not even a member of the group. She just carries messages. And she does that because—because she’s got a bit of time for me. Unlike you, Lucca. Unlike everybody else.’ He began to cough. ‘I know what you’re doing, Lucca. You and the British. You’re trying to pin it on her. Because you can’t find anyone else to pin it on. Well, I’m warning you. I’m warning you—’ Seymour watched him detachedly.

‘Well, you’re right in one thing, Vasco,’ he said. ‘Someone is out to fix her. But it’s not us.’

Vasco looked up at him balefully but uncertainly. ‘Not—?’

‘Not us. It’s someone else. And I want you to tell me who that is.’

‘Shut up, for a moment, Vasco,’ said Lucca, ‘and listen to him.’

‘You don’t sleep well at night, do you, Vasco?’

‘No, I bloody don’t!’

‘I think you were awake the night the sailor was killed in your ward.’

Vasco didn’t say anything.

‘There was a lot going on that night. There were two people in that cupboard for a start. Suzie and one of the sailors.’

Vasco went on lying there, just looking.

‘At one point, the sailor came out. Did you see him? On hands and knees. So that the nurse—Bettina, it was—didn’t see him.’

He waited. Vasco said nothing.

‘I don’t think anyone else went into the cupboard. So it was just Suzie in there. But she was there the whole time. While the doctors and nurses were working on the sailor. And then afterwards, when things quietened down, she left. But in between the sailor leaving on hands and knees and the time she left, quite a lot happened. The attack on the seaman, for instance.’

He waited.

‘Did you see that, Vasco?’

‘No,’ said Vasco, after a moment. ‘I didn’t realize what had happened until afterwards.’

‘But you saw something?’

‘Maybe,’ said Vasco grudgingly.

‘You saw a man come in, didn’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘He came in when the nurse had gone out for her break.’ He waited.

‘Maybe,’ said Vasco, after a moment.

‘I think you knew him.’

He waited again. Vasco said nothing.

‘Would you like to tell me his name?’

‘No,’ said Vasco, ‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not my business.’

‘And you didn’t altogether disapprove of him,’ said Seymour.

Vasco looked surprised but then gave a little laugh.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t.’

‘I think he may have guessed that,’ said Seymour. ‘Because I think he knew that you were awake and guessed that you had seen him. But he did nothing about it. Why do you think that was?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Vasco.

‘He knew that you were not unsympathetic to what he was doing, and at first he thought you wouldn’t tell. But then, I think, after a while, after he’d got away, that was, he thought again. And he thought that perhaps you
might
tell. So he thought he’d better guard against that possibility. Well, of course, he might have killed you too.’

‘I’d like to see him try!’ said Vasco.

‘Yes. Sick though you were, there could have been a problem. Especially as you’d seen what could happen and might have taken precautions. So he thought he would try another way. He set Melinda up and drew attention to her link with you. He set both of you up, Vasco.’

He saw that Vasco was thinking this over.

‘How do I know that you’re not tricking me?’ Vasco said at last.

‘You don’t. You’ll have to take a chance. But meanwhile the spotlight is on Melinda. That’s the way he’s left it.’

Vasco was thinking hard.

‘He knew you were sympathetic to what he was doing. Are you still sympathetic, Vasco? Because he was doing it against you, Vasco. And against Melinda. He was quite ready to sacrifice her. Still sympathetic?’

He could see the internal wrestle.

‘Still sympathetic?’ he said again.

Vasco was on the brink of saying something. Then he turned over on to his side and said: ‘Bugger off!’

But as they were leaving he suddenly heaved himself up on to one side.

‘I’ve always had a soft spot for them,’ he said. ‘You may not like them but at least they try to do something. Not like my bloody lot!’

Sophia was working on her project at the kitchen table when Paolo came in to pick up his clothes.

‘What are you doing, Sophia?’

‘My project.’

He bent over her shoulder and read the opening sentence. Then he read it again. And then he sat down and read it yet again.

‘“The Victoria Lines in themselves are not important. It is the Victoria Lines in our hearts that are.” That’s pretty good, Sophia. That’s pretty good! It’s the Victoria Lines that you carry about with you that matter.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so. The Victoria Lines are engraved on every Maltese heart.’

‘That’s what I think!’ said Sophia, pleased.

‘I don’t know how they get engraved, but it starts early.’

‘It’s your parents,’ said Sophia.

‘Your mother is a wonderful woman, Sophia. Don’t ever forget that!’

‘On the whole she’s not bad,’ conceded Sophia.

‘And her heart’s in the right place. You know that, Sophia.’

‘Her heart’s in the right place. But sometimes she’s distracted by realism.’

Paolo laughed.

‘Well, that’s something that could never be said of me,’ he said.

‘You’ve always been an idealist, Paolo,’ said Sophia.

Paolo laughed again. ‘Oh, Sophia, if you only knew! If you only knew.’

‘You want to pull yourself together, Paolo. You’re wasted. And it’s you who are doing the wasting.’

‘You can only do what you can,’ said Paolo. ‘It comes back to the Victoria Lines. Once they’re there you can’t get them out.’

‘You let them loom too large,’ said Sophia.

‘Maybe I do,’ said Paolo thoughtfully.

He got up from the table and went over to the window and looked out.

‘But, you see,’ he said, ‘there’s another question: if you don’t do anything about them, can you ever put things right? Can you ever get yourself right?’

‘I ask myself that,’ said Sophia. ‘I’ve asked Chantale that, too—you know Chantale? Of course you do!’

‘I know her,’ said Paolo. ‘Chantale: is that her name?’

‘Miss de Lissac is what other people call her,’ said Sophia offhandedly.

‘And what does she say?’

‘She says that in the end everybody has to compromise. That’s life. Now, in fact, I don’t altogether agree with her. It seems to me that if you really believe in something, you let yourself down if you don’t go for it absolutely. But Chantale says you can’t go for things absolutely, in the end you always have to compromise. It’s the point at which you decide to make your compromise that’s the thing. It’s a question of balance, she says. And, she says, you nearly always get it wrong.’

Paolo laughed. ‘Well, I certainly get it wrong.’

‘I may do,’ admitted Sophia. ‘Sometimes.’