Death Trick

  When a corrupt Mallorquin solicitor, the highly unlovable and unscrupulous Pablo Roig, is found murdered on his private estate, the suspects are almost too numerous for deceptively lazy, brandy-sipping Inspector Alvarez to count. He’d rather be taking a siesta, or perhaps enjoying a good meal, but instead finds himself questioning suspects with motives all over the map—from love betrayed, to money stolen, to revenge exacted. Could the murderer possibly have been young Eulalia Garcia, the innocent whom Roig seduced and then abandoned, or her arrogant Basque cousin, who can think of nothing but the dishonor Roig brought upon their family? Or Roig’s long-suffering wife, homely Elena, who must know that Roig had cheated on her a thousand times. Perhaps it was Joe Braddon, a choleric Englishman with a quick temper and a blunt tongue, whom Roig tricked out of remuneration for a wrong, or Gerald Oakley, Roig’s business associate in a highly profitable development venture that Roig may have jeopardized with underhanded dealings. And then there is Julia, Roig’s housekeeper, whom he employed only to humiliate. . . .

  But there are also drinks to be accepted, sun to be taken in, naps to be napped, and Alvaraz’ highly excitable superior, Salas, to be appeased; juggling these myriad responsibilities, while shrewdly homing in on the killer, is what Inspector Alvarez does best.

  In Death Trick, Roderic Jeffries has woven another satisfyingly complex tangle of motives and mischief.

  Death Trick

  Also by Roderic Jeffries:

  Relatively Dangerous

  Almost Murder

  Layers of Deceit

  Three and One Make Five

  Deadly Petard

  Unseemly End

  Just Deserts

  Murder Begets Murder

  DEATH TRICK. Copyright © 1988 by Roderic Jeffries. All rights

  reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of

  this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever

  without written permission except in the case of brief quota-

  tions embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information,

  address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York,

  N.Y. 10010.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jeffries, Roderic.

  Death trick / Roderic Jeffries.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-02189-5

  I. Title.

  PR6060.E43D45 1988

  823’.914—dcl9 88-11589

  CIP

  First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons &

  Co., Ltd.

  First U.S. Edition

  10 987654321

  Death Trick

  CHAPTER 1

  Pablo Roig studied with Pepysian pleasure the final figure on the sheet of paper—his capital wealth had increased yet again; not bad for a man who’d been born in a miserable casita and who’d once been a schoolmaster in a village school, obliged to speak deferentially to the mayor, the council, and any of the larger landowners who’d condescended to speak to him.

  His rise from such humble beginnings had called for intelligence, ambition, hard work and a touch of genius. Intelligence had persuaded him to show respect to those he despised but who had the power to affect his future; ambition had been the spur which had driven him first to becoming a schoolmaster, then to qualifying as a solicitor; hard work had been the cement of his success; and the touch of genius had been to foresee what use could be made of the fact that Elena’s cousin, Rodolfo, was a weakling. No one had liked Rodolfo, but as his father had been rich in land, no one had openly insulted him; yet only he, Pablo Roig, had seen reason to seek his company and buy him drink after drink while patiently listening to his stupid, rambling conversation . . . Once satisfied that Rodolfo had reached a state of alcoholism which must ensure an early death, he’d proposed to Elena. Even though financially he was apparently a poor catch for any woman, he’d never doubted she’d accept him. After all, she’d already passed thirty—most women were married by twenty—and the best anyone could say about her looks was that she was kind-hearted. When people had heard of the engagement, they’d laughed; the laughs had been on the other sides of their faces when, eighteen months later and after Rodolfo’s death, Rodolfo’s father had died and left all his land to Elena.

  If, he thought with continuing satisfaction, he were asked to define the art of success in business in one word, he’d say forethought. The ability to look ahead while the next man’s eyes were fixed on the ground; to realize that the trickle of tourists must become a flood and developers would want to build near to the sea and that therefore a clever man did not sell land as soon as its value began to rise—as would the greedy peasant—but would hold on to it until the price had reached astronomical heights; to realize that foreigners who bought property would need legal assistance and that they would always patronize a solicitor who spoke their own languages, so that the hours spent learning English, French, and German, would eventually repay for themselves a thousand times over.

  He mentally listed his major possessions, ignoring those which Elena had, in her stupid stubbornness, insisted on keeping in her own name. (On the Peninsula, the law had been far more sensible and just, holding that everything belonged to the husband.) The large estate among the foothills of the Sierra de Alfabia—about which she knew nothing, any more than about the many ladies who had visited him there; the fine properties, about which she did know, that he’d bought when clients had run into financial problems and needed money quickly (amusing to recollect that in at least two instances those financial problems had arisen because of his legal advice); the large portfolios of shares, held in Switzerland, about which the tax inspector knew nothing; the jewellery he’d given her because it was a fine investment rather than, as she thought, a token of his love and affection . . .

  The intercom buzzed to interrupt his pleasant thoughts. He leaned forward and pressed down the switch.

  ‘Señor Braddon is here with his wife and he says he must talk to you,’ said Marta, his secretary.

  ‘I’m too busy.’

  ‘I told him you weren’t seeing anyone, but he’s insistent.’

  ‘Tell him that I’m even more insistent that I’m too busy.’ He once more leaned back in the chair. Marta was eighteen and very attractive, she responded to his verbal pleasantries with knowing pertness, and when his hand brushed her body she moved away casually rather than indignantly. But she had a novio. Could she be leading him on for as long as she judged it safe, because she was saving for married life? . . .

  The intercom buzzed again.

  ‘The señor says that you’ve got to see them.’

  A wise man knew when to accept the inevitable. ‘All right. Show them in in a couple of minutes.’

  He picked up the sheet of paper and put it in the central drawer of the desk, which he locked. Although the figures could not possibly have meant anything to anyone else, life had taught him that a man could never be too secretive.

  He prepared to smile a welcome to Braddon, a pompous fool who’d lived on the island for years and yet had not learned a word of Spanish, believing it to the the natives’ duty to know English.

  Marta showed the Braddons in. Roig stood, came round the desk, and shook hands. ‘Señor Braddon; Señora Braddon, how nice to meet you again.’ His English was fluent, his accent good. ‘How well you both look.’

  ‘I don’t feel bloody well,’ said Braddon resentfully, annoyed that he’d been unable to withdraw his hand in time to prevent its being seized with Continental exuberance.

  ‘You have a cold, perhaps?’

  ‘I have had a letter from you. Goddamn it . . .’

  ‘Joe,’ said Letitia warningly. She was thin and rather faded, as if she had been
left in the sun too long.

  ‘I told you, I’m not beating about the bush . . .’

  ‘But it’s much better if you stay calm.’

  ‘And just how am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘But it upsets your blood pressure so to get excited.’

  ‘It’s a wonder it’s not gone through the bloody roof.’

  Roig said soothingly: ‘Let’s all sit down and find out what has so upset the señor. I am certain we can very soon sort everything out. As one of our nineteenth-century philosophers said, There is a solution for everything, but death.’

  ‘I don’t give a . . .’

  ‘Joe,’ pleaded his wife.

  They sat. The Braddons on chairs set in front of the desk. Roig smiled benignly at them. ‘Now, tell me what is the trouble and I will help.’

  ‘What d’you mean by your letter?’ demanded Braddon.

  ‘I did not explain myself clearly? I must apologize.’ Roig thought that Braddon, with his beaky nose, and many chins, looked like an aged turkey cock.

  ‘You explained yourself very clearly; don’t make any mistake over that.’

  ‘Then I am afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘How the goddamn hell can you decide you won’t represent me any longer?’

  ‘But as I said in my letter, my wife is a cousin of the aparejador’s wife and that is not a good relationship to have if one is going to court.’

  ‘I like that! I really bloody like it! Not a good relationship to have!’ His voice rose. ‘Didn’t you have it the day we first came here and talked about the trouble with the house?’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about it then?’

  ‘Because it was not necessary.’

  ‘What d’you mean, not necessary? I’ve never heard anything bloody like it . . .’

  ‘Please, Joe,’ said Letitia, ‘do keep calm.’

  He swung round and seemed to be about to say something to her, but checked the words. After a moment, he turned back and spoke to Roig in a quieter manner. ‘When we first came in here and I told you that cracks were appearing in some of the walls of the house, did you tell me I’d the right to sue the architect, the builder, and whatever the other man’s called, because the house was less than ten years old?’

  ‘That is exactly true.’

  ‘And I handed you all the papers and plans which gave the names of the people concerned?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Then you could see right then that your cousin was involved?’

  ‘It’s my wife’s cousin who is married to the aparejador, señor.’

  ‘What’s the difference? You could see it then? You knew right from the beginning there was a conflict of interests?’

  ‘Indeed, no.’

  ‘What the hell d’you mean? If you knew you’re related to someone on the other side . . .’

  ‘Señor, it is not I, but my wife who is . . .’

  ‘The relationship meant there was a conflict of interests.’

  ‘Not at that time.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Braddon’s growing anger was momentarily overtaken by surprise.

  ‘Until a case actually goes to court, nothing can be so certain. Imagine what could happen here. I might die, my wife’s cousin might die, far more regrettably, you might die. A hundred possibilities. So until it is known precisely what is to happen, how can one be certain there is a conflict of interests?’

  Braddon’s anger, reinforced, returned. ‘In England, a solicitor with an ounce of honesty would have declared it immediately.’

  ‘But, señor, here you are in Spain.’

  ‘I don’t bloody need reminding of that . . . Don’t you make the mistake of thinking you’re pulling the wool over my eyes. I now know exactly what’s been going on. You’re just a . . .’

  ‘Please, Joe,’ said Letitia.

  He ignored her. ‘You’re just a miserable little crook.’

  ‘That is not very polite,’ said Roig sadly.

  ‘I’m not trying to be polite. I’ll say it again. You’re a miserable little crook. You decided to keep your cousin out of trouble . . .’

  ‘It is my wife’s cousin who is the wife . . .’

  Braddon expressed himself in terms which made Letitia wince, then continued: ‘From the beginning, you’ve done all you could to string me along. You never told me that the court case had to be actually started within the ten years; you said that just writing to the other side was good enough. I couldn’t understand what the hell was going on so I showed your letter to a friend this morning and he said that if I didn’t start things actually rolling inside the ten-year period, I wouldn’t have an action and now there are only days left. You’ve tried your damnedest to make certain I can’t sue the bastards. But you won’t get away with this. I’ll speak to the College of Solicitors and tell ‘em precisely what’s happened; I’ll see you’re struck off the Rolls.’

  Although his expression remained the same—suggesting concern that Braddon should be under such an unjustified misapprehension—Roig was amused. Did this pompous little man really believe that any complaint of his would carry weight? If every foreigner’s complaint against his solicitor was acted upon, who’d be left to carry out the necessary legal work?

  CHAPTER 2

  Casa Gran, as was suggested by the name, was the largest home for many kilometres and it was set in grounds of a hundred and fifty hectares; any local farm of three hectares was considered to be of a good size. For over two centuries the estate had been owned by a Barcelona family but, despite their great wealth, they had supported the Republicans in the Civil War and all their property had, sooner or later, depending on the tides of battle, been confiscated. The island having declared for the Nationalists, the house was used as a barracks and inevitably had suffered considerable damage; after the war, it had been abandoned.

  The two-room casita in which Roig had been born lay six kilometres to the south and on a clear day it had been possible to see Casa Gran from there; he could clearly remember, when young, standing in front of his mean, crude home and looking across the land. In identifying the big house for what it represented, he experienced the first surge of ambition that was to drive him forward and upward through life. At that time, however, such ambition had not reached so high as to envisage actual ownership of Casa Gran; that had come years later.

  Eventually, the estate had come up for sale and he’d bought it. He’d spent a fortune on restoring the house to its former glory, satisfied that no one could mistake its new owner for anyone but a man of position and power. Often he would stand outside and look south and with deep satisfaction would once more reassure himself that it was impossible, even with the aid of glasses, to pick out the casita in which he’d once lived.

  It always amused him that Elena had no idea he owned Casa Gran or to what use he put it. She was a woman of limited knowledge and even more limited curiosity. She had only three interests in life—her two children, traditional island crochet, and soap operas on television.

  He parked the Citroën BX 19GT in front of Casa Gran and climbed out into the harsh sunlight, to Stare up at the three-storey, stone-built house. Twenty-seven rooms. How many other men owned houses with twenty-seven rooms?

  The entrance was traditional to the period, but unusual by modern standards; instead of a main doorway, there was an arched passageway which gave direct access to the inner courtyard, or patio, and off this there was on either side a tall, heavy wooden door, each of which led into an entrance hall. The courtyard was enclosed and so part of it was always in shade. In the centre was a fountain with a three-foot-high jet of recirculated water which dampened and freshened the air; radiating out, like the spokes of a wheel, were beds in which grew citrus trees and flowering bushes.

  He entered the house through the right-hand doorway. Julia.’ There was no answer. He called again. This time he heard her noisy approach as heels rapped on a flagstone floor.

  She�
��d spent most of her working life in the fields and her long, narrow face was heavily lined, her skin dry and rough; she looked years older than he, yet was the younger by two months.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me call the first time?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘I was in the far room, cleaning,’ she answered, in a flat, expressionless voice.

  ‘A friend will be here soon; make certain everything’s ready.’ He wondered what were her thoughts concerning the women who visited him; but then perhaps she didn’t really think about anything much? When they’d been young, they’d often played together if able to snatch time from working in the fields. Then, her family had owned the land they worked, whereas his had been sharecroppers. That had made her socially superior to him. He hoped she remembered those days so that she could fully appreciate the irony of the present ones. ‘You can bring up a bottle of white wine and put it outside for me now.’

  He went up the wide, curving staircase, with intricate wrought-iron banisters, to the landing, where he turned down the right-hand passage. The large, high-ceilinged bedroom was delightfully cool, even though the temperature outside was nearly 40°C. All the antique furniture glowed from recent polishing and the ancient floor tiles had been newly scrubbed; she might be little more intelligent than a cow, but she knew how to keep a house.

  He changed out of his lightweight suit. In the summer, few Mallorquins wore coats, let alone suits, but he had been told years ago by an Englishman that one could always distinguish an educated gentleman not by the way he behaved—a gentleman laid down his own standards of conduct—but by the way he dressed. He had never forgotten that. He put on a newly laundered cotton shirt and linen trousers, looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the door of the huge wardrobe; smart and trim, he decided with complacent pride.

  He returned downstairs and went out into the courtyard. A table and two chairs had been set out on the shady side, near a tangerine tree on which the fruit was now the size of peas. He sat and poured himself a glass of wine. The grapes had been grown on his land and had been pressed in his press, the wine had matured in his cellars. A man of much property. He looked at his Breguet—Raquel would soon arrive. She hadn’t been to Casa Gran before, so she was in for a big surprise; a surprise that would assuredly bring to an end her conquettish hesitations. He knew the growing excitement of expectation; as Julio Benavides had written, novelty was the sharpest of aphrodisiacs. The reverse was equally true. Eulalia should have remembered that. She’d really believed he’d divorce his wife to marry her. As if he could ever be such a fool as to lose all chance of gaining possession of the properties his wife retained in her own name with all the fervour of a miser! He remembered Eulalia the last time he’d seen her, made ugly by the tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to remind him of all the promises he’d made when intent on seducing her. Was she really as naive as she behaved?