Death of a Siren Page 18

“Then he wasn’t a bad man.”

  “No. I’ll ask God to judge him kindly and give him the benefit of the doubt. Not a Mass, of course, but a few words on his behalf.”

  “That would be good. Here,” I said, handing him some sucres, “I hope this will cover the expenses.”

  The priest looked at the money. “It will more than cover it, thank you. I’ll ask one of the neighbors to help prepare him, and we’ll bury him tomorrow. Right here.”

  With his crisis solved, the priest set off to make arrangements while I knelt and examined the body. As far as I could tell there were no new wounds and no old ones that looked fatal. And no suspicious bruises. He could have been poisoned, I supposed, but would he have that slight smile on his face? I didn’t know, but I doubted it. The man was old, and old men sometimes just die.

  I looked around the room, but there wasn’t much to see. The table, the chairs, and the rag-like clothes hanging from the wall. There was also a tin box, the kind candy comes in, on the floor in the corner. I put it on the table and opened it. Again, not much. Four small, ragged photographs of several middle-aged men and women and one child, who looked like a boy. The photos were well coated with greasy fingerprints. Aside from the photos there were several round, white pebbles, a Dutch passport, and what looked like a .30-caliber rifle casing.

  I opened the passport. There was the Crazy German’s photograph. He looked a few, but not many, years younger. I read on: Willem Beeckman, born in Amsterdam in 1872, occupation, businessman. There was only one immigration stamp indicating that Beeckman had entered Ecuador during the summer of 1929.

  All very interesting, especially since I was certain the Crazy German wasn’t Dutch. He spoke German like a German would. Or so it seemed to me. I picked up the rifle shell. Why would a German have a Dutch passport, and why would he save a shell casing from what was probably a hunting rifle? Could his story about the guy who killed the SS officer be true? Could he have been that guy? And if the story was true, had he really been crazy? Had he been driven over the edge by fear, loneliness, or even monumental self-satisfaction at a job well done? Or had he faked it all? I felt certain that I’d never know for sure; the truth about the man was just one more secret that Las Encantadas would keep. I decided on reflection, however, that he was probably no crazier than half the residents of the islands.

  Whatever the truth of the Crazy German’s story, it now seemed obvious that no matter who else he may or may not have killed, Becker had nothing to do with this old man’s death.

  I was even hotter, more tired, and more bug bitten when we got back to Wreck Bay than I had been before we went out to the Crazy German’s. Once again, the bay’s cool waters worked wonders, and by nine Seaman Rojas and I had decided to treat ourselves to another meal at the Miramar. The way things were going, I would only have the chance twice more. If I was lucky.

  No matter what López’s intentions were with regard to my future, as far as the public was concerned I remained the sergeant’s friend and favorite, which meant we received our usual high level of service. And an increasing number of quick, suspicious glances from those around me.

  The night was hot and muggy, and after returning to my rented hovel I spent it tossing and turning. I tried to think about Ana, but harsher, less attractive facets of reality kept intruding. The Guayaquil boat was due in two days, and I didn’t want to be on it when it left. It was always possible that Don Vicente might be able to help, but that seemed a long shot. It certainly didn’t worry López. Ana’s father was rich and well established, but from what everybody said López might have stronger political backing.

  I could squander my few remaining days of freedom going back and questioning everybody I’d already questioned, but I was certain that would lead nowhere. I had to find Becker and Sofía and talk to them. With luck, Ana might track down the maid, but I had to do something dramatic to corner the elusive German. At the same time I had to face the bitterest of the many bitter truths: even if I did provide López with the killer and a carload of convincing evidence, he was perfectly capable of still sending me to prison if it suited his mysterious purposes. Or he could send me back to New York. Or telegram New York and invite my many friends there to come visit.

  Almost from the start I’d suspected that both López, and possibly the commandant, knew more than they were admitting to me or anybody else. López clearly had no intention of telling me anything about Becker. I had no choice but to see if the commandant would talk. He was the one who insisted he had to know more about the man, but I now felt certain he already knew more than he was saying.

  I arrived at naval headquarters a little after nine in the morning, without having bothered with breakfast. The commandant’s sedan was already there. I said good morning to Rojas, who was chatting with another sailor, and went directly in to the commandant’s office. It must have been a slow day—I suspect the officer had many slow days out there in the middle of nowhere—because I was able to see him immediately. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

  “It is my pleasure. What do you have to tell me about this German?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. I still haven’t been able to catch up with him, although it appears that he is a geologist and is looking for some sort of minerals. We found some of his samples, and Miss de Guzmán thinks they might be a kind of tungsten ore.”

  “Tungsten? Yes, of course. She is a very clever young woman. It’s a very important mineral for hardening steel. Becker’s papers say he has permission to search for any minerals that interest him or his employer, the Krupp Group.”

  “What!” I gasped. “If you know what he’s here for, why have you told me to find out what he’s doing?”

  “I know what he is supposed to be doing, Mr. Freiman, not what he is, in fact, doing.”

  “What do you think he might be up to? Trying to track down the man who killed a German officer years ago and came here to hide?”

  “I understand that you talked to the Crazy German. He just died, did he not? Did you believe his story?”

  “Yes. He was definitely German, yet he had a Dutch passport with a Dutch name that says he was born in Amsterdam. He also had a .30-caliber rifle shell that he seemed to be keeping as a memento.”

  “That proves nothing, but I am inclined to agree with you.”

  “So the mystery of Becker is solved.”

  “No, I fear not. There are other things, dangerous things, he might also be doing.”

  “What?”

  “Gathering information about possible locations for German military or naval facilities. A submarine base, maybe. One that could be used against American shipping in the Pacific.”

  I felt like laughing. “You mean like Thompson, the American? He says he’s looking for a site for a fish cannery, but his surveying instruments are the property of the United States War Department.”

  “Yes, the North American government is very worried about the Japanese, not just the Germans.”

  “This is insane!”

  “I have thought so at times. My superiors favor a policy of working with your country, so naturally I do nothing to hinder Thompson. There are other factions who favor Germany and do what they can to assist people like Becker.”

  “Would any of those factions include López’s superiors?”

  “They might.”

  “Then you’re no longer interested in Becker?”

  “I still want you to find him. The way he keeps wandering around makes me and my superiors nervous.”

  “I think he killed the baroness and probably her two friends.”

  “Then you have two good reasons to find him.”

  And only two days to do it, I thought. And then a name hit me with all the force of Babe Ruth’s bat. A name that had always been there, yet I’d totally overlooked it.

  Pepe Hernández.

  22

  “Seaman Rojas,” I demanded as I found my aide still chatting in front of the naval headquarters, “do you know a fi
sherman named Pepe Hernández?”

  “No, sir. May I ask why?”

  “Because Piers Hanson said Hernández has been ferrying Becker from island to island. When he was visiting the baroness, Hernández would have been there, or close by. He would have seen if Becker had any blood on him. Can you find out where he lives?”

  “I’ll try, sir.” About half an hour later he returned to where I was waiting on the dock, watching some gulls fight over a long-dead fish head. “They say he lives right here, on San Cristóbal, a couple miles up the coast, but nobody’s seen him in some time.”

  “Does he have a family?”

  “A wife and two or three children.”

  “OK, we’re going visiting. Do you think you can find the place?”

  “There’s a path that runs along the shore. We can just keep following it and asking until we find the right place.”

  I looked down at my feet and imagined the path we’d be following. “Is there a shoe store in Wreck Bay?”

  “Señor Marco, the man who I’ve been buying our beer from, also has some shoes.”

  In addition to beer and shoes, Marco’s tiny store sold local cigarettes, fishing hooks, canned peaches, bags of wheat, and just about every little odd or end I could think of. He didn’t have many of each, but he had a few, so I ended up with a sturdy pair of locally made lace-up shoes. I also bought several pairs of socks, since the shoes were far too big.

  As advertised, the path led along the rocky, sandy, treeless shore. Not knowing what we were looking for, Rojas asked questions at every little shack we came to, and we did, eventually, find Pepe Hernández’s small house. It was the sixth one we came to and, to give Pepe credit, it was the best maintained. The siding was weathered and had clearly never seen an ounce of paint, but there was a small garden, and several small trees had been planted and nurtured. Our arrival was announced by the frantic barking of a small tan dog and carefully monitored by two almost naked children with huge eyes. They looked to be about four or five at most. One was a boy and one a girl. A worn middle-aged woman stepped out of the little wooden house and waited. Rojas walked up to her and introduced us. I noticed that when the seaman said “López” the woman frowned.

  “My husband isn’t here,” she told him.

  “Is he off fishing?”

  “No, a gringo, a foreigner, hired him to take him around the different islands.”

  “How did the foreigner find him?”

  The woman glanced back and forth between us. “Sergeant López. We needed the money.” She sounded embarrassed, almost apologetic.

  “Have you seen your husband since he started working for the foreigner?”

  “They have been back several times. I see him briefly.”

  “What does he say about the foreigner and what they’re doing?”

  “He says the man is harsh and impatient. He doesn’t completely understand what he is doing. Collecting rocks. Looking around. Drawing maps.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “Has he done something wrong?”

  Rojas glanced back at me. I nodded, and he continued, “Very definitely not. We’re trying to find the gringo to deliver an important message.”

  The woman looked at Rojas skeptically, as would anybody who knew or suspected we were working for Sergeant López, but the seaman’s marvelously innocent expression seemed to win out. “He sent word that they would be back in another day or two. He’s been gone so long. I want him back. And so do the children.”

  Rojas looked around at the house and the healthy-looking vegetable garden that enlivened the otherwise bleak yard. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to be home after so long and will be proud of how you’ve kept the house and garden in his absence.”

  “I hope so.”

  And I hoped so too, since I now suspected it was the wife who not only worked the garden, tended the children, and kept the place tidy but who had also made the effort to create a little beauty with the trees.

  “Are you sure he’ll be back in a day or two?”

  “Yes. He said the gringo has to catch the next boat to Guayaquil.”

  I’d better not be with him, I thought glumly.

  “Is there any message you want me to give him?”

  Again, Rojas looked at me. “Tell her there’s no special message, although she might mention to the gringo that Sergeant López was getting a little worried about him.”

  The seaman paused a moment, furrowing his brow slightly as he glanced at me, then repeated the lie.

  When we got back to Wreck Bay, Rojas and I naturally decided to celebrate regaining Becker’s trail by a good dinner at our favorite restaurant, but first I stopped at home to take advantage of the “sea cure” I was finding so essential for my mental health. On my way back from the beach I encountered my landlord, the tailor. I smiled at him and said buenas noches, one of my growing collection of Spanish phrases.

  “Buenas noches, señor Freiman,” he responded, eyeing my new clothes. “New clothes. Who do alterations?” he asked in very broken English.

  “A friend, Señor Ramos, but when I need more I’ll be sure to bring them to you.”

  “Yes, por favor.” From his expression I think he was worried that new competition may have suddenly appeared in the settlement.

  We nodded again and each proceeded on his way.

  Eating at the Miramar had come to seem like eating at home. The food was good, the setting rustic but attractive, and the spirit lively. That’s why I’d let it grow on me. Even though we arrived early, long before the combo had even finished their own dinner, and left long before the action really heated up, the night proved to be both memorable and instructive.

  When I arrived, Rojas was already seated at “our” table. “You see, Seaman, it’s true. The more time you spend with me, the more important a person you become. Now you have your own table at the Miramar. May I join you?”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  The night was hot, and the air was dead except for massive squadrons of flies and gnats.

  “Rojas,” I asked in a very low voice, slapping a housefly to death on the table, “has it occurred to you that Sergeant López may have killed the baroness?”

  My aide looked hurriedly around. “It has, sir, but why would he?”

  “He’s a man, to begin with, and it seems just about every man in the islands was involved with the woman. And I’m certain he can be violent.”

  “Nobody has mentioned seeing him there the day she was killed.”

  “Perhaps Sofía saw him. That may be why she’s made it so difficult for anybody to find her.” As I said it I felt a twinge in my chest. Why hadn’t I heard anything from Ana? What the hell was she up to? Had she managed, despite her cleverness, to get herself in trouble?

  “Then we must hope the doña manages to find her.”

  “Yes. But there’s another possibility to consider. From what the commandant tells me and from what we’ve learned, Becker is a geologist working for a big German corporation. He has permission to look for minerals. Indeed, one faction in the capital, the pro-German one, seems to be backing him. I also understand that López is supported by that same faction. From the way he keeps telling me Becker didn’t kill her I suspect he’s Becker’s guardian angel. Is it possible that Becker killed the baroness and then López killed Ritter and Ernst to make sure they hadn’t seen anything? We know Becker was there.”

  “Why would Becker kill her?”

  “Like López, he’s a man with a temper. And she, or so everybody says, also had a temper and sometimes insisted on being the boss.”

  “Sir, now you’re worrying me. I can see what you want to do next.”

  “I’m afraid so. We have to investigate López, learn more about him. Find out where he was the night the baroness was killed and also the night Ritter and Ernst were killed.”

  “This is going to be very dangerous, sir. Even for a nobody like me.”

  The hot, damp night was shatt
ered by a trumpet blast. The combo had just finished its dinner, and the trumpeter was clearing his lungs and preparing us all for a night of island revelry.

  “You want to jump ship? Not go any further with me?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I want to do, but I won’t. I’ll continue on with you, but remember that I would like to live so someday I can have a wife and a family and a career.”

  “That makes two of us, Seaman.”

  I looked at his face and for the first time saw real fear on it. I felt sick. I was dragging Ana and Rojas into the mud, a burning, acidic mud, with me, and it all had started when I shot that punk in Hell’s Kitchen and then stole Alf’s boat.

  “Do you see Esme over there, sir, at that table with two other girls?”

  I looked and nodded.

  “López became very angry last night; nobody’s sure why, but they say he almost beat her to death. He’s never done that before to one of his girls. The only reason she’s alive is that she makes money for him.”

  I peered across the space at the girl and thought I could see discolorations on her face. She also seemed to be holding her arm strangely. “Do you think she’ll talk to us?”

  “She’d have to be insane.”

  “Go over and ask her.”

  Rojas took a deep breath, stood, and walked over toward the girls just as the combo stopped tuning and launched into a raucous tango. I watched as he approached the table and, nodding slightly, started talking to Esme. At first she didn’t appear to pay the slightest attention, but suddenly she exploded, shouting and waving her fists in the air. A moment later Rojas was ushering the still-fulminating girl in my direction. I stood as she approached the table and offered her Rojas’s chair, but the Miramar management was ahead of us—a third chair magically appeared before the girl reached it.

  “Buenas noches,” I said. Esme laughed bitterly, then took the chair. Close up, the damage was appalling—her face was both bruised and lacerated, it looked like a tooth or two was missing, and something was wrong with her arm and also with one leg.

  “Thank you for talking to me,” I said, then waited for Rojas to translate.