Death of a Nationalist (8 page)

Chapter 8

A
lthough his visit to Toledo, with its various ghosts, should have left him brooding and wakeful, Tejada slept the sleep of the just when he returned to Madrid that evening. That was as well. He was scheduled for the morning shift the following day, and he was barely dressed when Lieutenant Ramos sent for him.

“We’ve got a problem,” the lieutenant said, looking, in Tejada’s opinion, disgustingly alert and enthusiastic given the hour. “And solving it may take some discretion. At ease,” he added. “And pull up a chair, Tejada.”

Tejada, who had no objection to standing at attention but would have dearly loved five minutes to finish shaving, sat without comment. “I wanted you here because I’m expecting a phone call from Captain Morales at any minute,” Ramos continued. “And I think it would be a good idea for you to hear part of it.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “He was supposed to call five minutes ago.”

“It’s not eight-thirty yet, sir,” Tejada pointed out, struggling for a moment to place Captain Morales. Then he remembered: the commander of Paco’s post.

“I know,” said the lieutenant, with the sublime incomprehension of a naturally early riser. “He said he’d call at eight-fifteen. The thing is”— he lowered his voice—“we’re losing rations. Someone in the quartermaster’s office is on the take.”

In Tejada’s considered opinion, this was one of those statements like “Anarchists burn churches” that were not worth the breath expended in saying them. “Surely that’s not unusual, sir,” he suggested.

Ramos shook his head. “If you mean that they always skim a little, of course. This is more than that. And it’s affecting all the posts in our company. And you know the saying ‘An army travels on its stomach.’ A general who understands that will never be defeated.”

“Napoleon said that, sir,” said Tejada, feeling that his commander deserved something for interrupting his shave. “And he didn’t do so well in Spain.”

Perhaps fortunately, the telephone rang at this point. The lieutenant picked it up. “Guardia Civil, Ramos. . . . Good morning, Captain. . . . Yes . . . yes, the man I mentioned is here. Yes, Tejada Alonso y León.” He gestured to Tejada, with one hand over the mouthpiece. “Listen,” he mouthed.

Tejada rose and walked around the desk so that he could lean over the phone as well. Ramos held out the receiver, and then spoke into it. “Yes, Captain, go ahead.”

“I’ve spoken with the colonel,” Morales’s voice echoed oddly from the phone, but it was perfectly understandable.“He says that the company’s rations are inspected and that they leave as they should.” Ramos made an eloquent face at Tejada. “I’ve also questioned a number of guardias, and their estimates of their meat rations agree with yours.”

Ramos pulled the receiver away from Tejada for a moment. “That’s fine then.” He glared at the sergeant, and gestured his skepticism again. “At your orders, Captain.”

“Nothing further about the rations then,” Morales said. “But you might send Sergeant Tejada to me about that other matter.”

“Other matter?” Ramos blinked. “Oh, yes, of course. Right away, Captain.”

Tejada spared a moment to hope that “right away” was a flexible concept that included breakfast.

“Yes, Captain.
Arriba España
.” Ramos put down the phone. “Morales is worried too.”

“I gathered,” Tejada resumed his position on the other side of the desk. “What are your estimates of the meat rations that leave the quartermaster as they should, sir?”

“Two hundred and fifty grams per man,” said the lieutenant.

Tejada raised his eyebrows. “
Exactly
two hundred and fifty grams?” he asked.

Ramos snorted. “It’s very regular,” he said grimly. “A number of the men told me not to worry, because they were sure it was the correct amount. It’s a round number, and it’s nearly twice civilian rations, you know.”

“Someone’s being clever then,” Tejada commented. “Have you found any evidence of hoarding?”

“Jesus, Tejada, you know what this place is like. Do
you
think someone’s hoarding?”

The sergeant shook his head. “I suppose you want me to find out what’s going on at Alcalá?”

“Yes,” Ramos sighed. “Ten to one you don’t find hoarding there either. My guess is that it’s going straight to the black market.”

Tejada nodded, thinking of the shuttered stores and the crowds surrounding the post begging for food. “When are civilian provisions supposed to arrive for the city, sir?”

“Officially? Yesterday. Tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”

Tejada winced. “So it looks like the Reds will be fasting on Good Friday, like it or not.”

The lieutenant snorted briefly. “Good for their souls, but bad for us. When this is settled, we’ll try to shut down the black market once and for all. But for now, I don’t want our provisions going to them. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. You’ll wish me to report to Captain Morales, sir?”

Ramos nodded. “Yes. The problem has affected the whole company, but it’s been worst at the Alcalá station. Morales will give you the details there. And Tejada—”

“Sir?”

“Be discreet.”

When Tejada presented himself at the Alcalá station, a little over an hour later, he announced only that he had come to collect the personal effects of the late Corporal López. He stated, with an assurance that cowed the corporal on duty, that of course Captain Morales would need to see him and approve the transfer. Captain Morales, who initially looked slightly puzzled when the corporal announced Tejada, was suddenly enlightened when the sergeant said meaningfully, “Lieutenant Ramos sent me, sir. He thought that since I was a personal friend of Corporal López’s I might be able to tell
if anything was missing
. I believe he spoke to you by telephone, early this morning.”

“Oh, yes.” Morales signaled to the corporal. “Thank you, dismissed.” Then, when the door had closed, he said quietly, “At ease, Sergeant. Congratulations on your excuse, by the way. Would you like to tell me the real reason you’re here?”

“Thank you, Captain. I believe you wished to communicate something about rations to Lieutenant Ramos that was too delicate for the telephone?” Tejada observed the man in front of him as he spoke. Morales was a burly man of perhaps forty. Unlike Ramos, he did not look like a paper-pusher, although his job involved as much desk work as that of Tejada’s own superior. His desk, Tejada noted, was a real desk as well, and it was possible to see the surface. An organized man, Tejada thought, wondering who had first noted the disappearance of rations.

The captain quickly summarized his findings. As Ramos had predicted, they tallied exactly with the information Tejada already had. He took notes, although it was difficult to see how the notes would be helpful. When the captain had finished, Tejada said carefully, “Do you have any suspicions about any of the men here or at our post, Captain?”

“No,” Morales said curtly. “I wish I did. Or rather”—he smiled briefly—“I don’t really want to find out that one of my own men is behind this. You’d know Ramos’s post better than I would.”

The sergeant noted that Morales had quickly taken advantage of the slim opportunity offered to shift the blame. Ramos, Tejada reflected, had said that the Alcalá post was worse affected. But that might be an attempt to shift blame as well. No commander liked thinking ill of his own men. None of these thoughts showed in his voice as he said, “Lieutenant Ramos has asked me to try to find out who’s responsible. If I find something, how should I contact you?”

Morales hesitated. Then he said, “By phone. Alcalá-2136.”

“Is that secure, sir?”

The captain nodded. “Admirable discretion, Sergeant. But if you find out anything, I’d like to know as soon as possible. And this is a private line. Ask to speak to me personally and say simply that you have information.”

“Very good, sir. Alcalá-2136.” Tejada saluted. “At your orders, Captain.”

“Question the guardias,” Morales said. “I’ve already spoken to my officers but I don’t have time to talk to all of the men.”

“Yes, sir.” Tejada hesitated for a moment. He had once met a lieutenant experienced in prisoner interrogation who had insisted that questioning was an art form. He added doubtfully, “But you must realize, Captain, I’m not trained as an interrogator.”

“Your commander speaks very highly of you, and I have every confidence in your ability,” Morales said. “And frankly, there is no one else available.”

“Yes, sir.” There was, Tejada felt, nothing else to say in the face of such a flattering analysis. He doubted that he would find anything useful, but Lieutenant Ramos clearly expected him to do something, though he had no good idea where to start. Captain Morales escorted him to the door and handed him into the care of the guardia on duty. “Take the sergeant to the dormitories,” he ordered.

The Alcalá post had been a barracks before the war and was arranged with considerably more convenience than the one Tejada was accustomed to since the quarters for the guardias had actually been built for that purpose. Tejada spent the rest of the morning interviewing guardias. Some were confiding, some were openly hostile, and most were cautiously reserved. None of them, so far as the sergeant could tell, revealed anything important. If they were guilty, this was to be expected. If they were innocent, they might have nothing to reveal. Or they might know that revealing information is dangerous, he thought, and filed the idea away. He waited until lunchtime when a new set of men came off patrol duty and interviewed them, without success. It was well into the afternoon when he reported again to Captain Morales’s office. The captain heard him out, and then shrugged. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck at your own post.”

“Yes, sir.” There was nothing in Tejada’s expression to show that he resented the slur. He played his last card. “Permission to collect Corporal López’s things now, sir?”

Captain Morales looked dubious. “You mean you’re really interested in doing that?”

“Yes, sir,” Tejada chose his words carefully. “I
was
a friend of López’s, sir, and I would like to send his effects to his mother. But . . . no doubt you’ve already thought of the implications, sir.”

“Implications?” Morales looked blank.

“You don’t think that Corporal López’s death might have something to do with the disappearance of provisions, Captain?” Tejada asked. “After all, it’s a surprising coincidence.”

“No, of course not.” Morales sounded surprised. “I thought López was killed by a Red.” He laughed. “I could be wrong, but I believe that’s based on the report that
you
filed, Sergeant.”

“Yes,” Tejada said slowly. “But of course you’ve considered that if the black market is involved, there’s probably someone outside the guardia civil who knows about it.” Something Paco found out, he thought, as two mental notes neatly combined themselves into one entry. Perhaps something based on what that little girl saw—a guardia civil selling something to a Red, maybe? I have to find that child this afternoon, if only to rule it out.

“Possibly.” Morales shrugged. “But it seems to me that you took care of poor López’s murder very efficiently. Good work, that.”

Tejada was beginning to think that it had been extremely sloppy work, but he kept his opinion to himself. “I may look through his things, though, sir?” he asked patiently.

“Oh, I suppose, if you like. He was a friend of yours, you said? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Fortunes of war, sir.”

“Well spoken.” Morales clapped him on the shoulder and opened the door. “Guardia! Send me Sergeant de Rota, right away.”

The guardia on duty outside the door saluted and disappeared, returning shortly afterward with a thin, stooping man in a sergeant’s uniform. “Captain!” The man’s shoulders sloped even when he stood at attention.

“Sergeant de Rota.” Morales introduced the thin man. “Sergeant Tejada, Manzanares post. He’s here to pick up López’s things.”

Sergeant de Rota’s face took on an expression that Tejada recognized as a variant on the “I-am-not-arguing-with-a-superior-officer-even-though-he-is-insane” look. “Yes, Captain,” he agreed. “At your service, Sergeant Tejada.” Tejada acknowledged the salutation and wondered idly why his counterpart seemed so surprised by the command.

Sergeant de Rota led him past the dormitory where he had spent the morning, down a hallway, and to a small room, with two sets of bunk beds. Three of the beds were neatly made. The fourth one was occupied by a snoring man. Tejada glanced at the snorer and raised his eyebrows. Sergeant de Rota looked sullen. “Corporal García is on the night shift,” he said stiffly. “There’s the stuff you want.”

He was pointing at the bunk bed below the sleeper. Tejada now saw that a soldier’s pack was sitting in the center of the bed. He crossed the room, sat down, and opened the pack.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sergeant de Rota’s voice was far from friendly. “You want his kit. It’s there. Take it and get out.”

Had Rota been a superior, Tejada would have obeyed. As it was, he ignored his fellow sergeant, and upended the pack onto the bed. Few of the articles that tumbled out could have been called personal. They were standard issue, like the pack itself. But Tejada recognized some of them. A ribbon denoting bravery under fire, awarded by Colonel Moscardó. A leather-bound Bible, much worn. A penknife with a damascene handle. And—Tejada blinked suddenly prickling eyes— a fragile paperback copy of Azorín’s
Castilla
. He carefully opened the creased book, afraid that bending back the cover one more time would detach it completely. His own handwriting looked back at him from the first page:
16/9/36 For
Paco, who loves Castile—Carlos
.

Very gently, Tejada thumbed the little book. Something stiff had been placed between the cracking pages, perhaps as a bookmark. He let the book fall open to the beginning of “The Fragrance of the Vase,” and discovered a photograph, carefully trimmed with pinking shears. Surprised, he took it between two fingers and examined it more closely. It was a portrait of a girl, apparently a candid shot, taken out-of-doors. She was looking over her shoulder, hatless, and her bouncy blond curls matched the ruffles of her light dress. She seemed to be laughing at the camera.