Three and One Make Five (11 page)

‘Don’t get angry. I’m trying to help you.’

‘You’ve a very funny way of showing that.’

‘I love you too much to stand around and see you being hurt.’

‘It’s you who’s hurting me, not Tracey.’

She stared at him for a few seconds, desperate to find the words that would make him understand, then she turned away, shoulders slumped. The foreigners had brought with them so much money that every islander’s life had been changed out of all recognition. But as far as she was concerned, far from being grateful, that was one of the reasons for fearing and disliking them.

Gala B as ton, fifteen kilometres along the coast from Puerto Llueso, was an alien, anonymous place of hotels, apartment blocks, villas, restaurants, shops, discotheques, and topless bars, which existed solely to serve the tourist trade: it owed nothing to the island. Although holiday-makers of many countries did stay there, by far the majority were German and this fact was reflected by the menus printed in German, the rye bread, the variety of lagers, and the memento shops with their carved wooden figures of ample proportions and slightly salacious natures.

The Don Emilio was on the front at the western end of the town and the tall, oblong building, using coloured panels on the outside walls to break up the otherwise stark lines, was set in gardens which were bright and colourful almost all the year round.

The receptionist said Sen or Prade was, as far as he knew, still in his room. He telephoned Room 231, then handed the receiver over. Alvarez introduced himself.

Prade, around thirty, just short of six feet tall, a head of straight black hair, rugged rather than handsome, wearing a casual blue shirt and grey cotton trousers, came down the main staircase to the lobby. He shook hands with a firm, dry grip.

Tm sorry to bother you, señor, when I understand you are not very well,’ said Alvarez.

‘How the hell d’you know that?’

‘I had a word with señorita Brown.’

‘Did you, then! Nice girl that, and efficient. Got hold of some medicine for me that really did the trick so I’m virtually back to normal.’ He grinned sardonically. ‘Got to be fit to go back home and tell everyone what a wonderful holiday I’ve had.’

‘Señor, can you have a coffee with me in the television room?’

‘I’m up to drinking coffee, yes . . . Look, what’s wrong?’

‘Please come with me.’

There were no guests in the television room, but a maid was sweeping the floor. Alvarez asked her in Spanish to leave and she looked at them with worried curiosity before going.

Alvarez said: ‘I fear I have some serious news which you may not have heard. Sadly, during Monday night señor Peter Short suffered a serious accident from which he died.’

‘My GodI’

Alvarez led the way over to one of the tables and sat. Prade brought out a pack of cigarettes and took one, then, with a start, remembered his manners and offered it. ‘What kind of an accident?’

‘The señor had chartered a boat in Palma and sailed it round to Puerto Llueso, where he moored. He was aboard when there was an explosion which started a fire. It was impossible to put the fire out and the boat sank. His body was recovered.’

‘Jesus!’ Prade fiddled with his cigarette. ‘Even though he wasn’t a close friend, it’s still one hell of a shock! I mean, when you see someone in the evening and you learn he died that same night . . .’

‘Señor, were you not expecting to sail to Menorca with him?’

‘You seem to know more about me than I do myself! How d’you learn that?’

‘The harbourmaster told me, after he’d spoken to the charterers . . . Were you not surprised when you didn’t see him again on the Tuesday?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘But you didn’t try to get in touch with him to find out what had happened?’

‘I was going to, of course, but his name wasn’t in the telephone book and one of the desk clerks told me that there are still a lot of houses without the phone. Then I went down with this tummy bug and that made life very difficult. And on top of that . . . I don’t know quite how to explain without making myself seem a bit . . . well, precious. When he first suggested taking me for a boat trip I reckoned it was probably because he’d nothing better to do. You know what it’s like—a holiday in the sun sounds wonderful, but if you’re on your own it can become pretty boring. So when I didn’t hear from him again I put it down to the fact that he’d probably found something better to do. And I suppose I’d better admit that I was a bit piqued and wasn’t going to go chasing him.’

The door opened and a waiter, carrying a tray, entered. He put the tray down on the table in fronts of them and left.

They helped themselves to milk and sugar.

‘Señor, because of certain facts concerning the death of señor Short, I have to try and find out more about him. Will you help me do this?’

‘Yes, of course. But I must stress that we weren’t close friends.’

‘I understand. When and where did you first meet him?’

‘In Paris, something like eighteen months ago. We were both staying at the Hotel Grimauld—in the Rue Clement-Marot, I think—and having a drink at the bar. When you’re abroad you talk more freely to strangers and we were roughly the same age so we started chatting. We got on quite well together and went out and about a couple of times.’

‘Was he on his own?’

‘Yes, there was no one with him.’

‘Was he on holiday?’

‘Not completely. He did talk about having some business to do.’

‘Did he mention what kind of business?’

‘If he did, I’ve forgotten.’

‘Can you suggest what it might have been?’

‘No, beyond the fact that he obviously made a fair bit of money at it.’

‘When did you next see him?’

‘A couple of months later on. I was in my flat in London and the phone rang and it was him. He suggested dinner together.’

‘Where did he live?’

‘I never found out. He seemed always to be on the move. As a matter of fact, I did ask him once where his base was, but he very carefully didn’t answer.’

‘If he had no permanent address, how did you get in contact with him?’

‘I didn’t. He always got in touch with me.’

‘Did you not find this unusual?’

‘Yes. But then there was something just a bit odd about him . . . He was good fun, amusing, knowledgeable about a lot of things, but the moment the conversation ever became at all personal, he clammed up. I remember I once asked him where he’d gone to school. He behaved as if I’d just tried to borrow a hundred quid. His secrecy used to irritate me, but I learned to live with it.’

‘When did you last see him before you came here?’

‘A few weeks ago, in London. We had dinner together at a Chinese restaurant. I said work was getting me down and I was worn out and ripe for a holiday and that’s when he said I ought to have a break out here. He told me he’d hire a boat and sail to Menorca. Incidentally, and just to show you how secretive he could be, that’s the first time I heard he’d a house on this island.’

‘Did he invite you to stay with him?’

‘No, he very carefully didn’t.’ Prade finished his coffee, drew on the cigarette. ‘I just didn’t understand that! I mean, there he was, asking me to join him on the boat trip, yet there was no invitation to stay at his place. If he couldn’t stand his secrecy being breached, how come I was asked on the boat?’

Alvarez stubbed out his cigarette. He’d been so certain that if he could identify Short’s friend, the friend would be able to tell him sufficient about Short’s background for him to be able to judge whether the death was, in fact, connected to the other two . . . Prade had been able to tell him nothing other than that Short had been strangely secretive. He said wearily, now not believing there was anything further to be learnt: ‘What happened on Monday when he met you at the airport?’

‘I was surprised to see him because the arrangement had been that he’d get in touch at the hotel. But he said he’d drive me to his place and we’d have drinks before he ran me out to the hotel, so I went back and found the courier and told her what was happening.’

‘You drove straight to his house?’

‘That’s right. We had some drinks and he showed me round the place: I was quite tired but I had to look at absolutely everything. And I don’t mind admitting that when I saw the empty bedrooms I wondered again why he couldn’t have asked me to stay with him—it would have saved me a few quid . . . Still, that’s history. In the end, he drove me all the way back here. Said he’d pick me up fairly early in the morning because he wanted a good start. I had the earliest breakfast I could bully the staff into giving me and then sat around.’

Alvarez thought for a moment, then said: ‘Did señor Short have any physical peculiarities, such as scars?’

‘I never saw any. But then I never saw him stripped.’

‘Were his teeth his own?’

‘That’s one hell of a question—after all, we didn’t share a bedroom! . . . Though, come to think of it, I do seem to remember him once mentioning his teeth were soft and always giving trouble.’

‘What about gold fillings?’

Prade was silent for a moment, then he said: Tm pretty certain one of his front teeth was gold-backed. You noticed it when he smiled.’

‘Was this in his upper or lower jaw?’

‘God knows! . . . And what’s it matter?’

‘I have to confirm that it was he who died in the boat.’

‘Can’t you tell by looking at him?’

‘He was too severely burned for any normal visual identification.’

‘Oh!’ For the first time it seemed Prade realized how serious the fire had been.

‘Do you know if he wore a ring?’

‘Yes, he did. Some kind of signet ring that was too big for my taste.’

‘Can you say what kind of design the signet had?’

‘No. No way.’

‘One last thing, señor. Would you be kind enough to let me take your fingerprints?’

‘Would I what?’

‘I will need them to help identify señor Short, by elimination.’

‘I don’t like it, and that’s straight. Fingerprints are . . . To us British, they’re a bit of an emotive issue: police state and all that sort of thing. But I’ll give them if it’ll really help.’

‘You are very kind. Please wait here while I return to my car for the necessary equipment.’

Ten minutes later, after thanking Prade for all his help, Alvarez left.

At 6.36 that afternoon. Professor Fortunato’s secretary rang from the Institute of Forensic Anatomy in Palma.

‘Inspector Alvarez? The Professor has asked me to give you preliminary details of the post mortem on señor Peter Short.

‘The deceased was aged between twenty-five and forty years of age and was one metre eighty-two or eighty-three in height. It has proved impossible to determine the colour of his hair or eyes. He had at no time suffered any major fracture or undergone any major internal surgery.

‘There are no signs of injuries other than those consistent with an explosion, but because of the extent of tissue destruction it is impossible to state categorically that he received no others.

‘Analysis of his stomach contents shows that he consumed a meal four to six hours before his death and his blood alcohol ratio was just over point one per cent—in other words, he would have been influenced by the alcohol, but would not have been drunk.

‘His teeth show signs of regular and frequent attention and the pattern of fillings has been taken. The second front tooth of the upper jaw had at some stage become badly chipped and a gold backing introduced: the quality of this dental work was high.

‘Because his right hand must have been partially under his body much of the time, it did not suffer such severe tissue destruction as most of the rest of his body. It has thus proved possible to obtain subdermal prints of his third and fourth fingers. Copies are being sent to you.

‘The Professor is of the opinion that the deceased met his death in an explosion and the subsequent fire.’

Alvarez was closing the shutters in his office when the phone rang. It was still rather early for him to be stopping work for the day so, reluctantly, he returned to the desk and answered the call.

‘Superior Chief Salas has asked me to tell you,’ said the woman with a plum in her mouth, ‘that they have received a report from England. The passport number which you asked to be transmitted there is that of a passport which was stolen from the consular office in Mettram, northern Italy, just over a year ago. They are therefore unable to furnish any biographical details of the holder.’

‘Then there’s now no shadow of a doubt! Tell señor Salas that the three deaths are connected, they’re murder, and it’s ten to one that somewhere along the line we’re dealing with a criminal conspiracy.’

After replacing the receiver, he sat down behind the desk. By God, he thought, he’d been right all the time, even in the face of Salas’s supercilious disbelief! So what now?

Clarke and Allen had known each other, but this fact had only come to light through the photograph Tracey had had. The third person in that photo had clearly not been Short, being a much older man. Was he, whoever he was, also connected with the conspiracy, whatever that was?

Short had had plenty of money. Assume he’d come into this as suddenly as had Clarke and Allen and then there were three men who’d become wealthy. The odds had to be that the source of this wealth was criminal. Yet Clarke and Allen did not have criminal records. How often did amateurs make a fortune from crime? In practical terms, and ignoring computer frauds, virtually never. Successful crime demanded hard experience and a mentality which had been brutalized into ignoring consequences. So here was a total contradiction.

Could anything fresh be learned from studying their backgrounds again? (This meant concentrating on Clarke and Allen—Prade had been able to tell him nothing about Short.) They came from very different backgrounds so was it odd that they’d known each other? Had they been on holiday when they first met? Had this holiday been the start of whatever it was that had led them to their fortunes? . . . But assuming that photo had been taken in Mallorca (Allen’s wife had said her husband had been to the island for holidays), how could they, as foreigners, commit any but the simplest, and therefore unrewarding, crimes without being found out or betrayed?