Death of a Siren Read online

  “I’ll ask around about Sofía.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to Thompson and get back on Becker’s trail.” I didn’t mention López again because I didn’t want her deciding to investigate him herself. Being involved with me was dangerous enough as it was.

  “I may still be able to help with Becker. I told you he likes me. He may yet come to me.”

  I stiffened at the thought. “You mean use you as bait somehow? The man’s a shark.”

  “I’ve dealt with sharks before.” As she said it, there was a tiny gleam in her eye. I already knew that she liked to tiptoe along the edge; I now realized that if she’d been a man she’d undoubtedly have taken up bullfighting.

  “Do you think Rojas is still alive? He tried to keep up with me last night,” I said as I leaned over to adjust my new sandals.

  “He’s tougher than you are. I saw him in the plaza, talking to a girl.”

  “Well,” I replied, not to be outdone by my young naval assistant, “that’s just what I’m doing at the moment, isn’t it?”

  There was nothing wrong with that little shack I was renting, but of course it didn’t feel like home, like Pegasus. After Ana and Roberto left to head back to Santa Cruz, I decided to walk down to the beach and do a little more thinking, out where I could see the world around me. I found my guide and assistant standing in the plaza, looking out to sea. “How do you feel, Seaman Rojas?”

  He studied me a moment. “Very well, sir,” he then replied with a smile that seemed to confirm his words. Or maybe it was a slight smirk, since I might still have appeared a little worse for wear.

  We bought a few beers and settled down on the beach not far from naval headquarters to try again to work it all out. The breeze, which was stiffening and carried with it the sharp smells of salt and the black-green seaweed drying on the beach, drove the remaining cobwebs from my head.

  “There, you see them, sir?” said Rojas, breaking a silence that had temporarily settled over us. As he spoke, he pointed across the bay.

  “What?” I replied, squinting at the opposite shore.

  “Seals, sir.”

  I squinted more vigorously and managed to spot what looked like four or five swimming dogs. They had the heads of dogs, but their speed and motion were more like porpoises. “Don’t the sharks ever get them?”

  “Probably, but I’ve never seen it in person.”

  “Everybody in these islands is a fisherman.”

  We turned at the sound of an engine and watched a big, shiny sedan drive slowly up the path to the stone building and stop. “That’s the governor’s car,” remarked Rojas between sips of beer.

  The driver, who was dressed in slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and real leather shoes, got out, walked over to us, and said something to Rojas. All I understood was “sargento López.”

  “He’s been sent to take you to Sergeant López, sir. At his office in the governor’s mansion.”

  The summons was no surprise. “He’s using the governor’s car now?”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s beginning to act like he’s the new governor.”

  “He’s not, but until a new one arrives there’s nobody to stop him from using the car. Even the commandant would consider this official business.”

  It sounded irregular and more than a little threatening to me, but then what choice did I have? I finished off my beer, handed the bottle to Rojas, and followed the driver to the car.

  Thanks to the condition of the local roads and the driver’s evident desire not to ding or dent the car, the drive out to the mansion, which was several miles up the coast from the settlement, took about half an hour. I looked out at the ocean, then out the other window at the rocks and sand and cactus and the occasional shack set right beside the road. Along the way I had time to think more about my current position and my future and found my anxiety level increasing. In the past, López had always popped out of nowhere to deliver his broadsides, but this time the routine had changed. I’d been summoned and was now being driven off into the falling night, a virtual prisoner. Had I run out of time? I tried the door handle and was relieved to see that it worked. If I got too spooked I could always throw the door open, dive out, and run like hell. But to where? I doubted the driver would even bother to chase me. No matter what happened, the only way I would ever leave Las Encantadas was on the Guayaquil boat. Either as a passenger or as a prisoner.

  The governor’s mansion vaguely resembled Don Vicente’s house—stucco and red tiles—but was considerably larger. It was surrounded by a low wall that seemed of little value other than symbolic. Inside the wall, the grounds were as barren as those without, although Eduardo, the late governor, had clearly made an effort to civilize the bleak scene by placing huge flowerpots filled with blossoms and greenery here and there. Despite his efforts, the mansion appeared a cold and lifeless place, especially in comparison with Don Vicente’s. It’s possible, though, that the difference wasn’t the climate or the gardening or the architecture but rather the presence of Ana.

  We parked in the unpaved driveway. Instead of going in through the front entrance, the driver led me around the side of the building. Ahead of me I could see a small inlet with a dock. Tied to that dock was a boat that looked very fast and very familiar. Without stopping, we entered the building through a small door into a corridor that was lined on both sides with heavy wooden doors. I assumed that at least some of these were the colony’s civil archives and was proven correct when a door opened and an elderly man came out. Before he closed the door behind him, I saw the room was filled with shelves and boxes, all jammed with papers. The man nodded and turned in the direction from which we’d come. We continued on until we stopped at the last door on the corridor. The driver knocked, then ushered me through into an office.

  López stood, hands on hips and wearing his usual gray uniform, looking out a window at the inlet and the launch. “Sit down, Fritz,” he said as the driver disappeared through the door. I sat in the chair facing the desk, and López turned and sat in the one behind it. Right there, sitting on the desk, were half a dozen rock samples. They looked just like the ones Ana had found in Becker’s camp. And that I’d seen in the baroness’s living room.

  “You’ve proven to be a great disappointment, Fritz,” he said with an expression of intense, soulless cold. “You keep doing things I tell you not to, and you fail to do what I want you to do.”

  “Why did you burn Pegasus?” I practically snarled, forgetting for a moment my perilous position.

  “An unfortunate event for you and also for your uncle. I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned there.”

  Son of a bitch, I thought. The bastard knows everything! But why not? Alf had undoubtedly reported the boat’s disappearance. There was a knock at the door, and the old clerk’s head appeared. He said something quickly, and López responded brusquely, “Bueno.”

  “Don’t go anywhere, Fritz,” he said without a hint of humor as he stepped into the hall.

  I stared at the rock samples a moment. There was a well-thumbed book sitting beside them. I looked more closely. It was a DKW motorcycle maintenance manual. I glanced at the door, then stood and leaned over the desk, picking up the manual and opening it. Somebody had been reading it, underlining words and making notes in Spanish. But the manual was in German.

  López! The son of a bitch did understand German. That pretty much settled it for me. López and Becker were working together. And that was why López wanted Becker cleared of the murder no matter who else had to be railroaded for it. Unfortunately, that still didn’t prove that Becker had killed the baroness. Or why the sergeant was working with him. Nor did it clear Thompson. I put the manual back where it had been, returned to the chair, and waited.

  “Listen carefully, Fritz,” said López as he stormed back into the room. “You have three more days to find the murderer and provide me with evidence, totally convincing evidence that will satisfy me, the judge, and the Quito newspapers. If you f
ail you’ll be on the next Guayaquil boat, charged with the three murders here as well as one in New York and stealing a boat. You’ll never leave prison alive. And don’t think your little señorita and her papa can save you. They may be rich, but they’re not as well connected as you may think. Some think the papa is undependable, perhaps not as patriotic as he should be.”

  As he spoke, López opened the desk drawer and pulled out a pair of rusty and very ugly manacles. “These are from when this was a penal colony,” he explained, glowering at me.

  I chewed on his threats a moment, then spoke up. “Why do you want me to be the one to identify the murderer?”

  “Isn’t that obvious? There are many here who don’t like me, who don’t trust me. If I charge somebody there will be doubts. If you make the charge and provide the evidence, people will believe, because you’re an outsider, an objective outsider.”

  “And a New York cop?”

  “It won’t be necessary to mention that, and you probably won’t even have to appear in person.”

  It still made perfect sense. Even more now. López was a German agent, or the agent of a faction in Quito that was pro-German. I considered pushing my luck by telling López we’d seen his boat leaving Becker’s camp and asking why he was there. But that would achieve nothing at the moment. He didn’t know that I knew he spoke German, and he probably didn’t know we’d seen him at Santa Cruz. It was better left that way. For me and for Ana. So I just stared at him.

  “Do we understand each other, Fritz? I hope so.” He tapped on the cuffs again with his index finger. “Three days, no more. The driver is waiting outside. He’ll take you back to the settlement.”

  When I got back to the beach, I found Rojas sitting right where I’d left him, looking at the whitecaps out in the bay. The seals were still visible. They’d scooted up onto some rocks just off the opposite shore. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes,” I assured him, though I felt like I’d just been drawn and quartered. “We’ve got three days to find the killer. Otherwise I’ll be on the next Guayaquil boat headed directly for prison.”

  “I have good news, then. We’ve located Mr. Thompson. He and his boat are at Baltra Island.”

  “How’d you find him?”

  “We called him on the radio and asked where he was.”

  21

  It wasn’t hard to find Southern Cross, Thompson’s schooner. Baltra is a small island, and while its southern end is dominated by cliffs and an old volcano, its northern end is flat. The boat’s two towering masts were visible long before we turned into the island’s roundish harbor. As we approached the schooner, I couldn’t help but be impressed. It was about sixty feet long and obviously built and equipped for long-distance sailing. It was totally squared away; the brightwork and brass sparkled in the sun, and the canvas awnings glowed. It could have been a warship.

  The skipper took the gunboat right alongside the schooner, where we were met by one of the boat’s hands—the only person, it turned out, who was aboard.

  “Good morning,” I shouted.

  “Good morning,” replied the hand, who was sitting cross-legged on deck, splicing a line. His tone wasn’t really friendly, but it wasn’t hostile, either.

  “Is Mr. Thompson aboard?”

  The hand, who wasn’t much older than Rojas, squinted at the gunboat a moment and decided he was dealing with authority. “He’s ashore, sir, with everybody else.” As he spoke he pointed at the flat northern end of the island.

  “Thanks,” I replied as cheerily as I could. I turned to Rojas. “Ask the skipper to move in closer to that beach and have us rowed ashore. And get some water for us to take along.”

  Once ashore, there was only one way to go: up and in over the sand and outcrops of sharp volcanic rock. The soles on my newly acquired sandals were infinitely better than those on my canvas shoes, but they provided little protection from sharp pebbles and cacti. I hated to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I did wish Don Vicente had sent some real shoes.

  We found Thompson standing at the edge of a large open field decorated with a variety of rocks and stones of all sizes. Beside him, one of his crew was peering through the eyepiece of a surveyor’s level. As he watched me approach, a frown appeared on his face. “I assume you have something important to say, Mr. Freiman, since you’ve chased me all the way out here. Please make it quick; we’ve got a lot to do today.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Is this about the baroness?”

  “Yes. You said you visited her within a couple days of her murder. Did you visit her the day she was killed?” I asked, curious if he’d lie about it.

  He squinted at me a moment in the bright sunlight. “Yes, although I don’t know why I should tell you.”

  A gust of wind blew a cloud of brown dust around us.

  “When?”

  “About midmorning.”

  “And?”

  “We socialized.”

  “Was anybody else there?”

  “Her two flunkies, but she sent them away.” The guy who was peering through the transit tried to act as if he weren’t listening. But, of course, he was.

  “Nobody else?”

  “I think the maid may have been there at one point. And maybe the cook, but they left.”

  “Was there anything at all unusual?”

  “Not for her. She was in fine form.” A brief smile flickered across his face. “She could be very sweet, agreeable, when she wasn’t in a rage. I told you she had a temper.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “We got under way shortly after noon. You can check our log or talk to my crew.”

  “They’re your crew.”

  “Any court will accept their oaths.”

  I looked around. “As a matter of curiosity, what are you doing?”

  “Surveying.”

  “For what?”

  “We’re thinking about building a new fish cannery here. Tuna. Tuna’s hot now, what with the new long-distance tuna clippers.”

  I glanced at the transit—PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES WAR DEPARTMENT. Thompson noted my expression. “Freiman, that’s it. I know who you are—you’re wanted in New York for murder and the theft of a boat. And you’re tied in a little too tight with López. You’re not going to ask me any more questions, because I have a lot of work to do and very little time to do it. In fact, you’re going to get the hell off this island, right now!”

  The shock I felt at Thompson’s knowledge was nothing in comparison with that showing on Rojas’s face. I knew I’d been bested, and there was no way of getting around it. “OK, Rojas, back to the gunboat.” And then, just to maintain a shred of self-respect, I added, “See you around, Thompson.”

  I explained my sordid past—Sergeant McGrath, that hot evening in Hell’s Kitchen, even Erin—to Rojas as we walked back to the beach. By now my feet were totally lacerated despite the sandals’ thick soles. It took Rojas a minute or two to digest the sorry saga. “I think you did the right thing to that killer,” he concluded. “It’s sad you had to leave your friends.” As he spoke he looked a little disappointed, almost vexed. I suspect he was unhappy that I hadn’t told him the sordid details of my life before. That I hadn’t trusted him.

  It had been another hot, buggy, frustrating day—one down, two to go—so when we got back to Wreck Bay, I handed Rojas some cash and sent him off for beer. I changed into the swimming shorts Don Vicente had given me and headed down to the beach. Once again, the cool blue water worked its magic, driving away my frustrations, nagging fears, and infuriating bug bites. At least for a few minutes. I was a new man again in a strange new world when I walked out of the Pacific and joined Rojas on the beach.

  As I settled into the sand, the seaman popped the top on a bottle and handed it to me. It was almost cold. “The Crazy German is dead,” he said with no preamble.

  “What?” I demanded. For a few minutes, while I’d been floating in the bay, I’d managed to escape reality. My m
ind had been filled with Ana and her parents’ wonderful plantation and impossible visions of my being part of it. Now all I could do was wonder if the old man’s mad story about the SS was true. Had Becker not only eluded me but also achieved his true objective? I could easily imagine those cold eyes, that granite face not changing in the slightest as he killed the old man. Once again I’d let myself be distracted and overlooked the obvious. But what was the connection with the baroness and her lovers? That they were all Germans?

  “Señor Marco, who sold me the beer, said a farmer went by the old man’s place this morning and found him lying dead in his bed.”

  “Any sign that he was murdered?”

  “Marco didn’t say so. He did say López went there and came back and told the priest to go.”

  I looked up at the sun. Still hours to go before nightfall and only two full days left. “I’m going out to look,” I said as I headed for my shack to change into long trousers.

  “May I come with you?”

  “Yes.”

  It was fortunate that Rojas had chosen to join me, because the priest was still there when we arrived. It was a peaceful scene except for the flies circling and attacking from all directions. The Crazy German was lying on his bed as if asleep, a slight smile on his face. There was no evidence of violence, nothing was broken that hadn’t been for some time. A pot of stew hung over the now-dead embers out back, and the orphaned chickens and goats were calmly pursuing their perpetual, largely fruitless foraging. Rojas greeted the priest, who was standing scratching his head, and explained who I was.

  “Do you think he was Catholic?” asked the priest sadly. “I never saw him at Mass. Most Germans are Protestants.”

  “He might have been,” I replied. “Many Germans are Catholic.”

  “Yes. I sometimes forget that.”

  “Either way, did he ever harm anybody?”

  “Not that I know of. He kept very much to himself.”