Three and One Make Five (17 page)

‘What exchange?’

‘Could it be local?’

‘No, they’re all six figures. In fact, these days almost every telephone number you come across is more than four figures, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose with the area code it has to be, yes.’

‘And without that you’re sunk. Even a computer would get a brainstorm trying to work out all the possibilities . . .

You know, Enrique, RM could be a hell of a lot of other people.’

‘Not when the initials appear in Marsh’s notebook.’ ‘But we don’t yet know for certain that this Marsh is your Marsh.’

‘This proves he is.’

Danois smiled. ‘It only proves it if RM is Massier. And you can only put your money on that if you’re certain this is your Marsh . . . Which completes the circle!’ ‘I know I’m right, never mind the proof.’ ‘But how do I sell that idea to my superiors?’

Alvarez and Danois drove to Guichard’s home, where he lived with his parents, at a quarter past seven. It lay on the outskirts of a village and was a small house which need not have appeared as mean in character as it did if a few simple repairs had been carried out and the yard, in which chickens and two pigs roamed at will, had been cleaned up.

Guichard was of medium height, well built, and had a handsome, slightly boyish but not effeminate face. They sat at the kitchen table, Guichard facing Alvarez and Danois, while Guichard’s mother, a woman of a nervous disposition, stood in the doorway, asking ridiculous questions, until Danois quietly said they needed to interview her son on their own and would she mind leaving. She left.

‘Monsieur Alvarez has some questions for you,’ said Danois. ‘If you don’t answer them quickly and truthfully, you’ll spend the next few weeks in the stir.’

Guichard looked fearfully at Alvarez.

‘While you were living with Monsieur Marsh, did he ever travel to Mallorca?’ Alvarez asked.

Guichard shook his head.

‘Did he or didn’t he?’ demanded Danois with sharp antagonism.

‘No, he didn’t: never.’

‘Did he talk about Mallorca?’ Alvarez’s attitude remained friendly. The relationship between Marsh and Guichard had not been one he could understand, nevertheless he could accept it without condemnation and therefore had sympathy for someone who had so clearly been hurt by it.

‘He never mentioned the place.’

‘Then did he ever travel anywhere else?’

‘You mean, while I was with him?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He only went away once.’

‘Where did he go then?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So it could have been to Mallorca?’

‘I . . . I suppose so.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was going to be my birthday and when he said he’d be away for it I begged him to take me. I’ve always wanted to go abroad and we could’ve had such fun together.’

Danois made a sound of disgust. Guichard flinched.

‘He never gave the slightest hint beforehand of where he was going or afterwards where he’d been?’

‘No, he didn’t. And it wasn’t like him to be secretive, but he just wouldn’t talk about it.’

‘While you lived with him, did many of his friends visit him?’

‘Not really. He used to say that most people couldn’t understand . . .’ He stopped.

‘Did you meet anyone by the name of Roger Clarke or did you ever hear his name mentioned?’

No.’

‘How about Peter Short, Simon Allen, or Raymond Massier?’

‘I’ve never heard of any of ‘em.’

Alvarez thought for a moment, then looked at Danois. Danois stood. If we want you again, we’ll know where to find you.’

Guichard stared down at the table and fingered his lips as the two detectives left.

‘Well,’ said Danois, as they approached Nice along a straight, downhill road, ‘what now?’

Alvarez looked at his watch. He spoke sadly. ‘I was hoping to get the plane to Barcelona and then a late flight to Mallorca, but it’s no good, I’ve missed it.’

‘You’re in luck, then.’

‘Luck?’

‘We’ll book you in at a little hotel where I know the owner and they’ll give you half rates but make the bill out in full. Then we’ll go and liven up the town. If you know where to look, Nice beats Paris any day of the week.’

Neither Nice nor Paris could offer him what he really wanted, he thought sadly.

Dolores hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks several times and generally behaved as if he’d been away for months. After a while, he managed to disengage himself. ‘Have there been any messages?’

None . . . Did you have a good time?’

T suppose so.’

‘What on earth’s that mean? What did you do last night?’

‘We saw a couple of floor shows at different clubs and drank too much champagne.’

‘The next time someone has to go to France, suppose you send me? I’d enjoy it a lot more than you seem to have done.’

He realized that Dolores understood perfectly well why he hadn’t enjoyed himself as much as he might have been expected to. ‘I’ll change and then go along to the post and telephone Palma.’

‘You’ll be back for lunch?’

‘I . . . I’m not certain. It depends what work’s waiting.’

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Since when has work ever interfered with your lunch?’

‘But if there’s a lot . . .’

‘What you mean is you’ll be back if she isn’t free. No matter. Don’t worry. It doesn’t upset me to be treated like a restaurant.’

‘Dolores, I . . .’ He stopped, accepting that it was useless to try to make her understand. ‘Just a moment. I’ve a present for you.’

She regally accepted a small, elaborately packaged bottle of perfume and kissed him on both cheeks yet again, then went through to the kitchen where she banged the pots and pans about because she loved him like a brother and couldn’t bear to see him make such a fool of himself.

He went upstairs and changed into fresh clothes, then left and drove to the guardia post. Once in his room, he telephoned Palma. Salas was there, working on a Sunday!

‘Señor, on my arrival in Nice I learned that Sen or Marsh died the night before. So we now know that Massier is the murderer.’

‘Was Marsh murdered?’

‘The circumstances of his death were similar to those in the other cases in that they point to accident. So far, there’s no definite proof it wasn’t accident, but of course if one considers the previous deaths . . .’

‘Can you prove he was the James Marsh who stayed at Playa del Xima?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘Alvarez, either you can prove it or you cannot.’

‘In Marsh’s desk was a notebook he used to jot down notes when telephoning. In this were the initials RM and the numbers nought seven eight two. That has to be Raymond Massier’s telephone number. Which means he knew Massier so he is the same Marsh.’

‘You can prove that RM refers to the Raymond Massier who was the diving instructor at Playa del Xima?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then nothing is certain. Where is the telephone number located?’

‘It’s very difficult because there are just the four numbers. That means an area code isn’t included and without that . . .’

‘Has it occurred to you that the figures might not be a telephone number?’

‘But I’m certain they are.’

‘That inclines me to think that in all probability they are nothing of the sort. Well, what have you done about them?’

‘I had a word with the Nice police.’

‘What did they say?’

‘That it can’t be a local number and so there’s no way of finding out. But I’ve asked them to do everything they can to trace Massier. Since he’s French, it’s likely he’s living in France, don’t you think?’

Salas didn’t bother to answer.

‘And also I’ll put out a fresh call throughout Spain. We’ve that photo of him and he can’t have changed much in the time. Given the slightest luck, we’ll run him to earth.’

‘Unfortunately, a very considerable degree of luck is obviously essential if ever you’re to bring this case to a successful conclusion,’ snapped Salas, before ringing off.

Alvarez left his office and drove down to the port. The bay was at its most beautiful, its colouring dramatic. He gave it hardly a second glance but left his parked car, crossed the road, and walked the short distance to Tracey’s flat. The woman downstairs was sitting out on a rocker and she nodded a good-morning and watched him climb the creaking wooden stairs.

He reached the patio and the tension was sharp in his stomach. It was like being twenty again, when the sap ran strong and a man would sell his soul for the joy of a woman’s loins . . .

The door was locked. He knew a quick disappointment because he’d been promising himself that, knowing how upset he’d been last time, she’d be there, waiting: he’d step inside to feel the sweetness of her lips against his . . .

Since she wasn’t in, she must be on the beach. He turned and walked to the head of the stairs and visually searched as much of the beach as was readily visible, looking for the long, slim figure, in a minimum bikini, that looked so cool and controlled until it was making love . . . He expected to see a waving arm to show she’d seen him, but there was none . . . He went down the stairs.

The woman in the rocker stared at him with beady eyes filled with interest. He was reluctant to say anything that would fuel her gossipy inquisitiveness, but he had to find Tracey as soon as possible. ‘I don’t suppose you noticed which way the señorita went along the beach this morning?’

The woman rocked. ‘She didn’t go on the beach this morning,’ she finally answered.

‘Are you certain of that?’

‘Wouldn’t say if I wasn’t.’

‘Have you any idea where she went, then?’

‘She didn’t go anywhere.’

He tried to remain calm. Nothing would delight her more than to make him lose his temper. ‘If she’s not in her flat, which she isn’t, she must have gone somewhere.’

‘Not this morning, she didn’t.’

A terrible fear began to freeze his mind. ‘What d’you mean?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘She went yesterday and took all her things with her. She’d paid the rent to the end of the month, so there wasn’t anything wrong with that.’

Nothing wrong with it? he thought wildly.

‘Uncle,’ said Juan, ‘will you take me to the bullfight?’

Alvarez, seated on the other side of the dining-table, continued to stare into space.

‘Uncle, I want to go to the bullfight.’

‘Stop worrying him,’ said Dolores.

‘But there’s never been a bullfight in the village before and I want to see it.’

‘There was one here forty years ago,’ corrected Jaime.

‘Angel says this is the first one ever.’

‘Don’t contradict your father,’ said Dolores.

‘But Angel knows and he’s never wrong. He says the village was always too poor before.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!‘Jaime reached out for the bottle of wine and refilled his tumbler. ‘I went to one when I was about your age.’

‘But Angel says . . .’

‘Angel’s full of . . .’ Just in time, Jaime cut short what he’d been about to say. He turned. ‘Here, Enrique, you must remember it?’

Alvarez said listlessly: ‘Remember what?’

‘When there was last a bullfight in the village.’

‘How can he remember that?’ asked Dolores. ‘When he was young he lived along the coast.’

‘But he must have heard about it. A bullfight in the village!’

‘Uncle,’ said Juan, ‘was there a bullfight here years ago?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Alvarez.

‘You don’t know anything.’

‘Juan!’ snapped Dolores.

Juan, muttering mutinously, ate the last of his serving of chocolate layer cake. He stared at the piece left on the serving dish, caught his mother’s look, and gloomily came to the conclusion that he was not going to be allowed a second helping.

‘Fill your glass up, Enrique,’ said Jaime, holding up the bottle of wine.

‘Not for me.’

‘But you’ve hardly had any.’

‘I’ve had enough.’ Alvarez stood. ‘I think I’ll go on up.’ He left.

Jaime spoke in an undertone to Dolores. ‘Is he ill?’

‘Must you be quite so stupid?’

‘What in God’s name have I said now?’

Juan was becoming very bored. ‘Can I get up from the table?’

She nodded. ‘And you can go and tell Aunty Francisca-that it’s time Isabel came home.’

‘But I wanted to see Bernado and . . .’ His mother frowned and he hastily decided that his wants had better be left unstated.

After Juan had gone, Jaime finished the wine in his tumbler, then jerked his head at the ceiling. ‘So what d’you think’s got into him?’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘If you mean that woman? . . . That’s ages ago.’

‘And you can’t understand how any man’s heart can stay broken for longer than a few hours?’

‘But it must be . . . nearly a week now. I mean, lose one, find another. There are always better fish left in the sea than get hooked out.’

‘So if I drop down dead tonight, tomorrow you’ll find someone better than me?’

‘Hell, I wasn’t saying anything like that . . .’ He trailed off into silence. And as he refilled his glass, he morosely wondered how it was that she invariably manoeuvred him into the wrong?

‘All the same . . .’ she murmured.

‘All the same what?’

‘Perhaps for once you could be right.’

That she could say such a thing made him vaguely uneasy.

‘I wonder if the best way to help him forget about that woman . . .’ She spoke the words ‘that woman’ with bitter scorn. She’d never met the foreigner and didn’t even know her name, but she hated her with a sharp passion for having hurt Alvarez. ‘D’you know Maria-Magdalen a?’

‘Well, of course I know Maria-Magdalena Vidal,’ he said carefully.

‘Not her. He’s still alive,’

‘Who’s still alive? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Maria-Magdalena Belmonte. Her man died last year.’

‘Well I know that. I was at the funeral.’

‘She’s a fine woman.’

‘Provided you don’t look at her face. He married her before electricity came to everyone.’

‘Always the same stupidity! . . . Do you judge whether a cow is a good beast by the look of its face?’