The Twenty-Third Man (11 page)

He produced
gofio
, the unleavened bread of the island, cheese, and fruit, and the five of them perched themselves on boulders for a picnic. The bandits offered no conversation, but champed and swallowed, or spat out bits of fruit-skins and pips, in what Dame Beatrice recognized as a comradely and sociable manner. At the end of a quarter of an hour of stolid mastication, and a swig all round from a flask of raw, red wine, the escort rose as one man, and Carlos led the way to the bank and began to climb. The woods were thick here on the mountain-side, and formed an effective screen up to a thousand feet. After this there was nothing but heather until they had climbed to the next wooded slope. Above this was the cave, which they reached by a narrow gulley between two lava streams.

When the party were all assembled at the mouth of the cave, the bandits lit their lanterns, crossed themselves, and advanced towards the stone table around which the dead men were stiffly and majestically seated. Dame Beatrice made a rapid count, and then, accompanied by Carlos, who seemed not to relish the task, she inspected each cadaver closely.

‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Ask your comrades to gather
round.
I must have witnesses.’ She stripped the mask from the swathed head of the tallest dead man. The bandits, who had gathered round, recoiled and crossed themselves. ‘Here, you see,’ she said, ‘is the face of Mr Emden. Help me to lay him flat and take off his robes.’

‘
STABBED IN THE
back, and with an islander’s knife? So we know where we are,’ said Peterhouse, ‘and that is something. Now the authorities will have to deal with it. Not that they’re the slightest bit of good. They will probably think that the fact that a modern man has joined the kings in the cave will add to the attractions for tourists.’

Pentland Drashleigh took it upon himself to report to Ruiz, and to order him to call in the police. Ruiz became excited, and retorted that his hotel had always borne a good name.

‘What are the police?’ he demanded with impassioned rhetoric. ‘Dogs, cowards, assassins, creeping cut-purses, usurers, spies! I tell you, you can trust them with nothing! This Emden was an Englishman. Why should my hotel be turned into a sty for these pigs of policemen? If an Englishman is killed on Hombres Muertos, is it my fault? Can I help it if other Englishmen wish to send him to hell? It is you others who must see to it. I will not countenance the police. They would eat my food, drink my wine, and ravish my daughter. No, I tell you! A thousand times, no! If the police come here, I tell them at once that the English do it. You!’ He pointed dramatically at Mr Drashleigh. ‘You, perhaps, are the man!’

‘Very well,’ said Dame Beatrice, coming to the rescue. ‘There is much in what you say, Señor Ruiz. I have had experience of investigating the causes of unnatural death, and am prepared to undertake the duty of finding Mr Emden’s murderer. I shall rely upon the willing cooperation of you all.’

‘Clement,’ said Mr Drashleigh, ‘must be taken back to our home on Santa Catalina. He cannot be mixed up in this horrible business.’

‘He has contrived to mix himself up in it,’ Dame Beatrice pointed out, ‘but I agree with you in principle. He cannot, however, be
taken
. He must be
sent
. As a public-spirited and enlightened man, you will appreciate that you and your wife must remain here, pending some result of our inquiries.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. But the boy must go. For one thing, his life may not be safe. It seems to me that, but for his naughtiness in going to the cave in the first place, the subsequent substitution of Emden’s body for that of one of the kings would never have been discovered.’

‘The bandits know of the substitution, of course, because it was they who discovered the mummified body after it had been tumbled down the mountain-side. All the same, I think it very unlikely that they would have reported the matter, as Clement did. I understand your feelings perfectly well. By all means get the boy away from here, although, if he has told all he knows, I do not think he can be in any physical danger.’

‘I am greatly concerned for his safety, none the less.’

Theodora Drashleigh did not share these fears. She even went so far as to reproach her husband for wishing to make Clement (as she expressed it) into a nincompoop.

‘But, my dear,’ said Mr Drashleigh, ‘if the boy’s life is in danger –’

‘It can’t be, Pentland! Clement is a high-spirited, naughty boy, but he knows no more than he has told us. I am sure of it. And he is not to be allowed to run away from danger, real or fancied. It would stunt his spiritual growth. You know our compact. You must abide by it. You promised.’

‘Very well, Theodora. All I say is that you are taking an unwise risk and must accept the responsibility it entails.

He sought Dame Beatrice and begged her to add her arguments to his own. She set out his point of view clearly to Mrs Drashleigh, but Clement’s foster-mother was not to be persuaded.

‘Clement is in no danger. It’s to be inferred that everything that he knows about this distressing business he has confided to us,’ she insisted. ‘Are you really thinking of interesting yourself more deeply in the affair? I refer to what you told Señor Ruiz.’

‘More deeply?’

‘Well,’ put in Pentland Drashleigh apologetically, ‘one cannot help but know of your
alter ego
, you know.’

‘I have no
alter ego
. I am, first and last, a psychologist. I could even tell you why you wish to take Clement away from this island and why your wife wishes him to stay.’

‘I have no concern but the boy’s safety. My wife has no concern but the proper development of his character.’

‘Pull devil, pull baker,’ murmured Dame Beatrice in her beautiful voice. Drashleigh looked startled.

‘I assure you we are wholly at one over Clement!’ he said hotly. ‘We see him steadily, we see him whole.’

‘It is just as well to see him steadily. I will answer your question before we tread on dangerous ground. I meant what I said. I propose to solve the problem of Mr Emden’s death.’

This (to begin with, at any rate) was, from her point of view, in the nature of an intellectual exercise, for she had no idea and did not, at that stage, intend to formulate one, of what she would do when she discovered the identity of the murderer. Information, mostly of a negative kind, was soon forthcoming, and did not, at first, seem helpful. The first conversation in which she joined was between Caroline and Mrs Angel.

‘I
knew
,’ said Caroline. ‘That day we went to the cave, I
knew
something was wrong. Badly wrong. Terribly wrong. And it was soon proved.’

‘Are you psychic, Mrs Lockerby?’ Mrs Angel leaned forward with an avid and unpleasant expression upon her once-lovely countenance.

‘Psychic? I’ve never thought so until now, but, really, it was the most extraordinary feeling, and it left me thoroughly unnerved. Dame Beatrice will bear me out.’

‘Certainly. The fall of rock, no doubt, is the incident to which you refer,’ said her leering sponsor.

‘I could no more have gone any further along that road than I could have made myself walk into a furnace. I was completely terrified. I’ve never felt like it before, and I certainly don’t want to have a repetition of it. It was bad enough to go back to the cave, but it was certainly preferable to taking that dreadful mountain road,’ declared Caroline.

‘But you didn’t go into the cave, of course?’ inquired Dame Beatrice. ‘You rested where we had picknicked, I suppose.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ Caroline admitted, ‘I did take a peep into the cave. I persuaded myself that it was idiotic to think that one of the kings had moved.’

‘And was it?’

‘Was it what?’

‘Idiotic to think that one of the kings had moved.’

‘I’ve no idea. What do
you
think?’ It was a strangely defensive answer.

‘I am like the youth in the poem. My thoughts are long, long thoughts. Also, in this case, my will is the wind’s will.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘That does not disconcert me.’

‘Telham,’ said Caroline quickly, ‘thinks that the bandits murdered Mr Emden.’

‘What have they gained, I wonder?’

‘I suppose, if they
did
do it, they robbed the body.’

‘We cannot tell. No inventory was taken, before the murder, of the contents of Emden’s pockets. But, if he was murdered by bandits, the motive could only have been robbery, as you say. I thought, though, that the bandits preferred to hold their prisoners to ransom.’

‘He’d lived here a long time, though, hadn’t he? He may have made enemies.’

‘Two months is not a long time.’

‘He seemed like one of the islanders.’

‘He was probably a romantic. I see him as a Stevensonian figure. I think I will go and talk to Señor Ruiz.’

‘Is it true that Emden tried to compromise Luisa Ruiz?’

‘I heard something about it.’

‘If he did, you surely need not look elsewhere for a motive; and Ruiz would have had knowledge of the cave of dead men.’

‘So had we all.’

‘We?’

‘Emden was murdered after the
Alaric
docked, you know. Does that suggest nothing to you?’

‘There is such a thing as coincidence.’

‘You have taken the words out of my mouth. I must certainly speak to Señor Ruiz.’

The proprietor of the Sombrero was in his private sanctum. This was a room reminiscent of a monastic cell. It had a door into the lounge and another into a tiny, ground-floor bedroom. Dame Beatrice knocked at the door which led into the lounge. Ruiz opened it, and, not surprised, it seemed, by the visit, stood aside, bowed, and indicated that she was to enter. The room contained a large crucifix confronted by a prie-dieu. There were also an armchair, a small chair, a table, a telephone, and a bookcase which housed a complete set of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
.

‘You wish to complain about my hotel, Doña Beatrice?’ asked the square-faced, dark-visaged proprietor of the Sombrero; but he smiled as he spoke, his previous passion forgotten.

‘By no means. I find the arrangements excellent. It is upon another matter that I would like to speak to you.’

‘About Señor Emden, no doubt. You will have realized that I had cause to dislike him. I know of your work. You will wish to know what I can tell you about his death. It is little. Did you determine the time when he died?’

‘Yes, but approximately only. From what I saw in the cave, I should say that he had been dead for about four days.’

‘In other words, he must have been killed the day after your ship docked and you came to my hotel?’

‘Exactly. At what time of day I could not determine.’

‘You will wish to know how I conducted my affairs on that day.’

‘I wish to know whether Mr Emden’s papers were in order.’

‘We are not anxious here to make difficulties.’

‘I see. Had he a passport?’

‘That, yes.’

‘Please conduct me to the room he occupied. I should like to see that passport.’

‘You wish to ascertain from which country he came? I can tell you that. He carried an English passport. Still, you would prefer to see it for yourself. Come with me.’

The bedroom which had been allotted to Emden was locked. Ruiz opened it with a master-key. There was nothing to distinguish it from a dozen other bedrooms in the hotel. It was a double room containing two beds, one of which had not been made up. The dead man’s luggage consisted of a small trunk and a couple of suitcases. These were unlocked and an examination of their contents provided no clue to their owner’s violent death. The odd thing was that he had not taken them with him when he left, if he had really intended to live with the troglodytes.

The passport was in the top right-hand drawer of a dressing-chest. It appeared to be in order and the photograph was recognizable.

‘One would think he would have taken his passport with him, also his luggage. It has its interest, yes?’ said Ruiz.

Dame Beatrice admitted that it had its interest.

‘I would like’, she said, ‘to speak with Doña Luisa, your daughter.’

‘You will ask her whether I had cause more than once to show anger against this Emden? You may ask her what you will. As for myself, if I could meet this slayer of Karl Emden, I would kiss his hand,’ said Señor Ruiz, with
feeling.
‘I will bring Luisa from the kitchen. A good daughter, one would say. I beg you to question her. I assure you I have nothing to fear.’

He went out and returned in a moment with his daughter. Luisa Ruiz was short and plump, with a red mouth and a skin of the colour and something of the texture of magnolias. To Dame Beatrice she was not the epitome of beauty, but her body was seductive and her head had a haughty carriage which many might find attractive. She was courteous and cheerful.

‘The Señor Emden? His behaviour was not that of a gentleman. One felt sorry for him, but I am not sorry to find him dead.’

Ruiz got up and went out. Luisa, at this, seated herself, put her neat feet together, and smoothed her plain black frock.

‘When did Mr Emden begin making himself tiresome?’ asked Dame Beatrice, encouraged by this conversational attitude.

‘Oh, very soon. He was here since two months, and in a week he proposes to escort me to the bullfight, although he is aware that I have an understanding for four years with Miguel Plaza, who learns hotel management in Barcelona in order to return here and inherit his father’s hotel in Puerto del Sol. I have explained that, in Miguel Plaza’s absence, I go to the bullfight only with my relatives, but he was crude, that dromedary.’

‘To put it bluntly, Señorita,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘I am to understand that if your father, or any other relative of yours, had made up his mind to kill Mr Emden, he would not have waited two months to do it.’

‘That is so. A Spaniard does not wait upon vengeance.’

‘I am so certain of it that I shall not consider any of your relatives as possible murderers, Doña Luisa.’

‘It would be foolish to do so, Doña Beatrice. May I return to my duties?’