Hostage to Death Read online

  “At least I can answer that last one. As soon as we possibly can be.”

  “You’ll have to go out first, won’t you, to get everything straightened out as the solicitor suggests?”

  He shook his head. “Why? The house is empty and surely no one can stop us living in it even if all the legal ends haven’t been tied up yet? Why don’t we just pick up sticks and go, before the prospect starts looking too daunting?”

  “But what about the bank?”

  “I’m officially bound to give them a month’s notice, but I’m sure if I ask Wraight for an earlier release he’ll give it to me, knowing the circumstances.”

  “What do we do with this house?”

  “We’ll see the agents and arrange to put it up for sale right away. I read that the market’s improving, so they should be able to sell it without too much trouble. We’ll have to apply to emigrate so we can have an external account… At least that’s one thing I can do on my own!”

  “Then how soon d’you think it’ll be before we go?”

  “We’ll leave as early in October as we possibly can. It’s the end of October when you so often catch a nasty cold.” They both knew what he really meant, but between them had grown up the habit — superstitious in origin — of never referring to the possibility of a bad asthma attack.

  She walked over to the south facing window. As she stared out at the distant woods, she said: “I wonder if the house will remember us?”

  *

  Rook received a telephone message that Wraight would like to see him. He cut short the work he was doing and walked from divisional H.Q. to the bank.

  In his office, Wraight shook hands, then resumed his seat and stared at Rook with an aggrieved expression. He was a man who had always known exactly where his duty lay and had had no hesitation in following it. Yet now his duty lay in opposite directions. He must help the police because it was every citizen’s duty to do so: he demanded allegiance from the staff and in return it was his duty to give them his loyal support.

  Rook, who read the other’s character accurately and could understand the mental conflict, waited patiently.

  Wraight coughed. He locked his fingers together and rested his hands on the desk. “You asked me to inform you of any developments in connexion with William Steen’s inheritance of his uncle’s estate in Mallorca, Inspector.”

  Rook nodded. “That’s right.”

  Wraight coughed again. “He came to me this morning and showed me a letter from a solicitor on the island. His uncle has died and left him the estate and as a result he has given in his notice. He asked me if he might be released from the contractual need to work for a further full month and I have agreed to his working for only the next fortnight.”

  Rook rubbed his chin. “What kind of a letter was it? Was it on headed notepaper?”

  “Yes. And it was written in English, of course, or I certainly should not have understood a single word.”

  “Did you by any chance remember the name and address of the solicitor?”

  “I made a point of remembering them.” He pulled a sheet of paper to himself. “Cifret Alvarez is the man’s name — Steen was telling me that he believes all Spaniards have two surnames, although they’re commonly known only by the first one. The address was fourteen, Calle de la Huerta. I’ll spell that out as I’m sure I’m pronouncing it wrongly.”

  Rook wrote down the name and address. “Have you any kind of idea what the estate consists of?”

  “From what Steen has told me the house isn’t large, but it is more than adequate — a three hundred-year-old farmhouse, built in the local kind of sandstone. There’s a garden with all sorts of flowers and fruits — lemons, oranges, persimmons. I must confess I understood the entire island had long since become a concrete jungle, but he says that parts of it are still very beautiful and he’s going to live in one of the beautiful ones.”

  “He’s very lucky. Not many people get the breaks.”

  “And of those, how many have the necessary mental courage to do what he’s doing?” asked Wraight shrewdly. “He’s throwing up a good career. But then if the move really helps the health of his wife, I’m sure he’ll consider that a small price to pay.”

  “Did he say when he’s leaving England?”

  “As soon as possible in October. The wet weather so often affects his wife’s health.”

  “What’s he going to live on? Fresh air and hope?”

  “There’s enough capital to pay death duties and leave something over. He’ll have the money from the sale of his house here, less the mortgage and overdraft repayments. And on top of that he’s also hoping to sell some of his paintings. I gather there’s quite an artists’ colony in and around Llueyo.”

  “From what I saw of his paintings I wouldn’t have thought he’d earn much from them.”

  “One never knows,” replied Wraight didactically. “He says he can do landscapes which are immediately recognisable and that’s what most visiting tourists want.”

  “I suppose he’s probably right there.” Rook closed his notebook and replaced it in his pocket. “Well, that seems to cover everything. Thanks a lot for getting in touch with me.”

  Wraight nodded.

  Back at divisional H.Q., Rook telephoned London and spoke to the county liaison officer at New Scotland Yard and asked for a request to be put through to the Spanish police for a check to be made whether there was such a person as Cifret Alvarez living at fourteen, Calle de la Huerta, and if so that he be questioned concerning the death of Silas Steen.

  *

  Torcuato was short, even for a Mallorquin, but by way of compensation he had a thick, stocky body which spoke of considerable strength. His black, curly hair was just beginning to be threaded with grey and when he was tired nowadays his pleasantly ugly face became drawn.

  He parked his rattletrap Seat 600 and walked along the Calle de la Huerta, so narrow that at this time of the day the harsh sunshine failed to reach the surface of the road. He knocked on the door of number fourteen and stepped inside, as was the custom, and when the woman with gapped teeth came into the entrance hall he said, “Good afternoon, señora.”

  “Good afternoon, señor. The señor is very busy…”

  He interrupted her. “Cuerpo General de Policia.”

  Her expression became wary. The power of the C.I.D. had grown no less, even if they now seldom exercised it to the full.

  “I want a quick word with Señor Cifret.”

  “Please sit down, señor. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  He sat and waited, without any sense of impatience because he was an islander and time was unimportant. After a while, Cifret came out of his office with a couple to whom he spoke in English. More rich foreigners buying up the best parts of the island, Torcuato thought resentfully.

  Cifret saw them out of the front door, then hurried over to Torcuato and shook hands. He led the way into his untidy office. “You’ll have a cognac, señor?”

  “I certainly will.”

  He crossed to a pile of books and brought from behind them a half-full bottle of brandy and two glasses. He poured out the drinks and passed one glass across. “At this time of the afternoon, a cognac is very soothing for the stomach.”

  Torcuato nodded and drank. He seldom spoke when it wasn’t necessary.

  Cifret leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, Señor, what brings you here?” His manner was easy, but there was a sharp, watchful expression in his eyes.

  “Do you know the name of an Englishman, señor…” Torcuato took a piece of paper from the pocket of his lightweight jacket. “Señor Silas Steen?” He had difficulty in pronouncing the two names.

  “Señor Steen has recently died after an illness.” Cifret’s thoughts were uneasy. Had he made a ghastly mistake in helping to fake the ‘death’ of Silas Steen? At no time had he imagined that the Cuerpo General de Policia would become interested in the case…

  “Where did he live?”

  “In C
a’na Xema. A nice house with a beautiful garden, but one that needs a great deal of water.”

  “Have you handled the matters arising from his death?”

  “I have. All the papers are with Madrid now — perhaps in a few months’ time they will begin to deal with them. I’ve written to the heir and he says he’s coming very soon to live in the house.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “William Steen.”

  “Is there any money as well as the house?”

  “You mean after all the taxes have been paid, and my fees? A little. Perhaps a million.”

  “I’d call a million a lot of money.”

  Cifret shrugged his shoulders. “You and I would call it a fortune. But these foreigners have many, many millions.”

  Torcuato finished his drink.

  “Will you have another cognac?”

  “Not for me. I’ve got to get back to the office and send a message to London.”

  “What’s the trouble — something to do with the will?”

  “Search me.” Torcuato stood up.

  Cifret decided to increase his bill to Steen by way of compensation for this extra worry.

  *

  Rook stared at the neatly typed report. The Spanish police confirmed that Señor Cifret Alvarez was a solicitor, living in Llueyo. He was dealing with matters arising from the death of Señor Silas Steen and the estate consisted of a house and a limited amount of capital, all of which had been left to a nephew in England, name of William Steen. Probate had not been granted, but all necessary papers were with the authorities in Madrid.

  Rook dropped the report on his desk. That was that, then. Steen really was the heir to his uncle’s estate and the fact that he had first heard of this possible inheritance after the bank robbery was no more than a coincidence, however fortunate. Since Steen had ended up as the only reasonable suspect who could have switched the money, it was now logical to assume that the money had not been switched. From this followed the fact that Dutch Keen’s murder had had no direct connection with the bank job.

  He swore. Until now he’d always had the hope that he’d be able to trace the money and so salvage something from the case.

  *

  Drude arrived at the house in Yexton as night was beginning. He parked the car in the garage and used the inside door to go through to the kitchen. From there he went into the sitting room. Thomas, Chase, Brent, and Jenkins, were slumped in chairs, watching the television.

  Thomas looked round. “Have you got any news?” he asked.

  “Yeah. But it’s bad. The splits have checked Steen right out. He did have an uncle who died and left him a house and some cash. The Spanish police talked to the mouthpiece who handled the business. So Steen’s legit and the splits say that’s an end to it. The money wasn’t switched after all and Dutch was murdered for a reason they don’t know.”

  Had Dutch fooled them all? Wondered Thomas. Had he switched the money and hidden it and then somehow found the courage to keep quiet through all that torture? If the splits couldn’t trace anyone who could have done the switch… But surely his original assessment of Dutch’s courage was the correct one? Ten seconds of the lighter and he’d sing, ten minutes and he’d betray his wife, daughter, mother…

  The others were staring at him, waiting for him to speak. The silly bastards, he thought. Goddamn it, did they expect he could perform miracles? He’d played it every way he could, so if it had closed up, it had closed up, period. But two hundred and seventy-five thousand quid couldn’t just disappear. It had to be somewhere. If Dutch hadn’t had the guts, the truth was that the money had been switched. And only a member of the bank could have switched it. But the splits had investigated and come up with the fact that everybody was as white as Persil…

  If the police had known for certain that the money had been switched, would they have had a different starting point and would it matter what was their starting point? He saw that it mattered a great deal. In the one case, failure to uncover someone living richly suggested there had been no switch: in the other, this failure said that the investigations must be incomplete.

  There had been a switch, only one of the bank staff had ever seriously been under suspicion, he’d come into money, but legitimately… If one wanted to hide a fortune, didn’t the really smart man hide it by turning it into legitimate money? Mightn’t Steen have proved himself cleverer than the splits because they didn’t know for certain there had been a switch?

  “So what do we do now?” demanded Brent.

  “What do we do, you stupid git?” shouted Chase. “We don’t do nothing because there ain’t nothing we can do.”

  Jenkins swore violently.

  Brent spoke to Thomas again. “Val, what do we do?”

  It infuriated him that they should rely on him totally. Left to themselves, he thought, they’d give up because they were ready to accept the police’s assessment of events since it didn’t occur to them that in a case like this the police could have been fooled. They now believed Dutch had had more courage than any of them had ever given him credit for and since he was dead…

  He suddenly realised that he should be delighted, not infuriated, at the way their minds were working He spoke slowly and bitterly. “I reckon Ginger got it dead right. There ain’t nothing more we can do.”

  Chapter 17

  Like most Mallorquin farmhouses, Ca’na Xema was architecturally very simple and although its stone walls blended in perfectly with the drystone terracing and the mountains behind, it was functional in appearance rather than attractive. Inside, however, it had been restored and altered with considerable taste and attention to period features so that it no longer remained austere: there were high, beamed ceilings, tiled floors, a stone staircase which wound round in two tight right angles, an arched entrance into the sitting-room which had been the cowshed, and one of the two large open fireplaces still contained the stone vat in which clothes had occasionally been boiled.

  Penelope loved the house from the moment she first walked into it. For her, houses always had a specific character: happy, sad, welcoming, resentful… Ca’na Xema was as happy as Tudor Cottage had been and in addition it was filled with calm. The spirit of mañana, she called it, distilled from decades of letting life flow by.

  She found the Mallorquins — those who had not done business with foreigners — warm-hearted and generous and because this was her character she made friends with them quickly and effortlessly. She began to try to speak Castilian to them, despite her self-consciousness, and they helped her, correcting her whenever necessary with smiling tact. She met a number of the local English residents and discovered that among those who were rich there were just as many who were smugly confident of their own superiority as they would have been back in England, but that the majority were far more informally friendly than she had expected.

  In the latter part of November she caught a cold. Within a day it was obvious it was going to be a heavy one and experience told her it must develop into asthma and bronchitis. She waited in dread for the first bubbling breaths which would herald the coming storm and she wondered if the hospitals in Palma would be as efficient as had been the general hospital in Scranton Cross. Three days later, and without a single bubbling breath, she realised the cold was fast waning. “Bill, it’s a miracle! I was so certain I was for it.” It was the first time she had ever confessed that she had been afraid.

  *

  The gallery was a newly built, L-shaped building just outside Llueyo. In the courtyard were various statues and inside were hung paintings by local artists, both Mallorquin and foreign. Vives’s office was at the far end of the short part of the L.

  He came round his desk and shook Steen’s hand. “Good morning, señor. A pleasure to meet you once more. You will have a cognac?”

  “I’m afraid it’s still a bit early for me.”

  “You are an Englishman who waits for the sun to get so high? We Mallorquins do not have such a custom.” He smile
d. “Sit yourself, señor, in that chair.” Vives sat behind the desk. “The weather has been good, has it not?” He fidgeted with some promotional material on his desk: he seldom was still. “I see that you have not brought me more of your paintings. Why is that?”

  “I gave you three only the other day.”

  “But I wish for many more.”

  Steen smiled. “I can’t afford to paint too many!”

  “Señor, that I understand! Every time you paint a picture you make yourself two thousand pesetas poorer. But now I have some news for you. An American was in here and he saw one of your paintings and bought it. So I have to give you eight thousand pesetas and I already have my two thousand.” He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the top right-hand drawer of his desk. “Señor, I shall hang your paintings for longer instead of taking them away quickly because I think people will buy them. They have much brightness and are not too big to return to another country and remind a person of this island.”

  “Perfect chocolate-box art.”

  Vives stared shrewdly at Steen. “Señor, I think you should not be so severe about your paintings. They are not great art, but people like them. Be proud of them. There are artists who live here who would be pleased to paint as well as you.”

  Steen was surprised because it seemed that Vives was speaking genuinely.

  “I will tell you how I feel, Señor. In your paintings is something which tells me that one day you may paint better pictures. Not great pictures, you understand? But paintings that make a person look again.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right.”

  “I am right very often.” He finally pulled open the desk drawer and brought out a number of thousand-peseta notes, from which he counted eight. He passed these across.