Death of a Siren Page 3

  “Then why am I in custody?”

  “Because the governor wants to talk to you. He’s already very upset about this murder. We don’t have many here. And now that I know you, I also want to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “These islands are very strange.”

  “Yes, they’re said to be enchanted. For a long time sailors thought they could move around on their own.”

  “I mean the people.”

  “The people? We Ecuadoreans are very normal. Poor, hardworking, but normal.”

  “What about those Germans? Ritter, Ernst, and the woman?”

  “Yes, we consider them a little strange. All of them. Many Germans live here now. They’ve come to escape the troubles in Europe. And there are others, also. French, Italians, English, Norwegians, even Americans. In my opinion they’re all fugitives. If you’re in the Galápagos and aren’t a native, then you’re a fugitive. From the law, from your past, or from reality.”

  “What do you know about the murdered woman and her friends?

  “Ah, you are becoming interested in the problem! The baroness and her two lovers arrived about five years ago. They had all the necessary papers from Quito, the capital, to settle and build right where they did. They also had money, a lot of money, so they hired islanders to build that castle, complete with a tower. Then they hired more to take care of it and to wait on them.”

  “What’s in the tower?”

  “Nothing that I know of. I think it’s there because a castle has to have a tower.”

  “Was she really a baroness?”

  “I assume she was. Quito calls her one. She’s from some part of Germany I never heard of.”

  “And her two friends?”

  “All I know about them is that one is a dentist and both loved to be dominated by her. One of the reasons she’s unpopular with the other Germans is that when she first arrived she insisted they treat her like a baroness. Most of them came here to get away from that sort of thing.”

  Unfortunately, López was right—I was becoming interested in the problem and not just because the sergeant, who was the major authority figure in my life at the moment, wanted me to be interested. It was, I realized, a triple mystery—who had killed her, why had they killed her, and who was she, really? “You say she was especially unpopular?”

  “Yes, she had many enemies. She was domineering, and nobody likes a domineering woman. She also had a temper and very imperfect morals. You have met two of her lovers. She had others.”

  “Did she have any friends?”

  “None that I know of. Except those two.”

  López lit his small after-lunch cigar and stared off at the horizon. I guess that’s all I’m going to get for now, I thought, looking at San Cristóbal, the tan and black pile of volcanic cinder that lay ahead in the distance.

  The sun was well on its way to the horizon and the temperature had fallen to that of an early autumn night in New York when we reached our destination. Wreck Bay may have been the administrative and legal center of the islands, but few Americans would have believed it. There was no main street lined with streetlamps and brick stores, and no county courthouse fronted by columns and overlooking a paved, tree-shrouded square. There was no main street at all, although there was a sandy central plaza of sorts. The settlement was composed of a large cinder block and stone building that served as naval headquarters, and about fifty wooden structures, some roofed with thatch, some with corrugated and rusted metal. Except for the headquarters, all the buildings were built of wooden planks so weathered they might have been driftwood. Many had been erected leaning against each other and were surrounded by low wooden palisades built to keep the pigs from roaming. Or maybe to keep roaming dogs from attacking the pigs. Or the goats. And all was set on a wide, brown beach that was frequently flooded, thanks to the islands’ often freakishly high tides.

  The gunboat turned into the open-mouthed bay and slowed as it approached the long, rickety wooden pier that connected land and sea. An ancient, rust-streaked coastal steamer had just stopped alongside the dock. A crowd of waving, shouting Ecuadoreans was there to greet it. “That’s the boat from Guayaquil,” López explained.

  The gunboat approached the other side of the pier, which was already partially occupied by a handsome, businesslike launch about forty feet long with a small cabin. A police whistle blew aboard the Guayaquil boat, a short gangway appeared, and a parade of passengers, some holding on to their hats in the stiffening breeze, marched ashore. All were dressed in their best outfits and carried an incredible array of sacks and boxes. The air was filled with loud shouts of welcome and joy. I might not understand Spanish, but I can understand emotion when I hear it. As the new arrivals rushed to embrace their greeters, the ship’s two cranes swung into action, swaying everything from furniture to God knows what ashore.

  “Ah!” said López, staring at the freighter. “She’s returned. And dressed like a foreigner.”

  I followed his glance, and my eyes settled on a tall, slender young woman wearing loose-fitting pants and a checked, long-sleeved shirt. She was standing on the ship’s deck, talking with the captain. “Come,” commanded López after the gunboat had been moored to the dock behind the big workboat, “I have to speak with her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Señorita Ana de Guzmán. Her father, Don Vicente, owns a large plantation on Santa Cruz, in the highlands. He’s one of the wealthiest men in the islands, although he only lives here part of the year. He sent her to university in the United States, and we’ve been told she’s here now to learn more about operating the plantation. She’s his only child.”

  “Was she raised here?”

  “Partly here and partly on the mainland.”

  “Sargento,” said the young woman as we approached. Close up, she was stunning. She had a strong face, yet it possessed a powerful hint of sensuality. It was a vibrant face topped by a knot of light brown hair and dominated by blue eyes that sparked with good humor and a mouth that seemed made to smile.

  “Señorita,” replied López, nodding. “You’ve returned to our beautiful islands!” he continued in English. I suppose for my benefit.

  “For a while.”

  “May I present Mr. Frederick Freiman? Mr. Freiman is an American sailor who’ll be spending a little time in our islands while his engine is repaired.”

  “Mr. Freiman,” she said, sticking out her hand.

  I shook her hand and looked into those sparkling, almost laughing eyes. My visit to the Galápagos might very well prove to be more enjoyable than I’d assumed.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,”

  “And how is the mainland?” asked López.

  “The poor are still poor, the politicians are determined to kill each other, and everybody’s worried about which war will ruin us first,” she replied, her smile fading but still hanging on.

  “Do people really think the war in Europe will reach here?” I asked, wanting to be part of the conversation.

  She studied me a moment. “Definitely an American,” she finally said, shaking her head slowly. “The Germans are very busy in South America trying to make friends, but they aren’t the only problem. It also looks like we’ll have a war with Peru over who owns which scrap of worthless land. And our own country is, as usual, inches from a new civil war. The right, the left, the aristocrats, the labor unions, the big American companies are all maneuvering, trying to either defend or overthrow the current government. And it’s not only the Americans. The Germans are up to their necks in it. And so are the British. Right, sargento?” She was no longer smiling at all.

  “You are correct, señorita.

  “I see you’ve brought your father some presents,” continued López, waving toward the steady stream of boxes moving across the pier from the ship to the launch moored ahead of the gunboat.

  “Oily gears and strange tools and chemicals and all the other things he so lik
es.” She paused. “I suppose I’ll soon learn to love them, too.” As she spoke, her smile returned and her eyes seemed to have locked on me. López noticed. “How have all our foreign settlers been behaving?” she asked.

  “One of them,” remarked López drily, “got herself killed just last night.”

  “Who?”

  “The baroness.”

  “Ah!” The wind ruffled the señorita’s hair. “She wasn’t a nice woman. Very strange, in fact. There are all sorts of stories about her.” After a pause she continued: “Maybe I shouldn’t say that. I’ve only met her once or twice, briefly. She seemed cold, hard, but all I really have to go on is gossip. They say she has—had—many lovers. Sometimes,” she paused, “I wonder if sirens sing their songs intentionally to trap sailors or if they sing because it’s their nature to sing.”

  Another pause followed. “Who did it?”

  “I don’t yet know who killed her, señorita.”

  “We all count on you to find the answer, sargento,” she replied. “It’ll be dark soon. I’m afraid I really must get going. I’ve got to help Roberto finish loading this stuff.” She turned away, then turned back to me. “Perhaps you’ll come visit my parents and me. We don’t get much new blood out here.”

  “I’d love to,” I managed to get out, hope blossoming within me, the first I’d felt in what seemed like forever. She smiled again briefly and winked, then her businesslike frown reappeared, and she hurried down the gangway and across the pier to superintend the loading of her father’s machinery into the well-maintained launch. About halfway across the pier she looked over her shoulder at us, her smile now replaced by a frown that suggested I wasn’t totally sure what. Disapproval? Suspicion? Worry? I glanced at López and realized that he was staring at her, a far-from-friendly expression on his face.

  The sergeant was not only surprisingly well informed about many things but also clearly rational. He even had a sense of humor of sorts, and he’d saved me from Metal-Mouth. He was a cop, I was a cop. I should have felt a connection. I didn’t. I didn’t like him, and I didn’t trust him. I didn’t understand him, either.

  5

  “A very beautiful woman,” I remarked as López led me down the pier toward land. “And, I bet, very smart.”

  “There are many who think she’s too smart. The way she sometimes dresses, the way she talks in public. But then her father is very powerful, and we’re becoming accustomed to foreigners and their habits.”

  “I keep learning things from you.”

  “Soon you’ll be learning things for me.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “What American university did she go to?” I asked, hoping to change the subject to a more attractive one.

  “Is there a Barnard University in New York?”

  “Barnard College. It’s connected to Columbia University.”

  “So you both have just come from New York. Perhaps you know some of the same people.”

  “I doubt it,” I answered quickly, certain I was right. I didn’t know any college girls from wealthy South American families. All I knew were twisted Irish cops, drunks, bums, thugs, and a couple OK Krauts. And Alf. And Erin. “New York’s a very big city.”

  “Come, Fritz. The governor is waiting.”

  I followed my keeper off the pier and across the soggy sand toward the stone building.

  “Are those really metal teeth in Ritter’s mouth?” I asked.

  “Yes, stainless steel. He’s a dentist.”

  “A dentist with stainless steel teeth?”

  “He learned before he came that he’d be the only real dentist in the islands, so he had all his teeth removed and the steel ones put in. That way he’d never have to worry about having a toothache and nobody to fix it.”

  López chuckled coldly, and I wasn’t really sure whether or not to believe him. But what other explanation could there be? “What about you? Where are you from?”

  “Me? I’m a native Galapaguino. Most of us live our entire lives here. A few move to the mainland. Some, like me, leave and then return. I sailed aboard merchant ships for almost thirty years. Both oceans and the Mediterranean. I’ve been to Rome and London and South Africa and even Hong Kong. You name a port and I’ve probably been there. Along the way I worked very hard to learn English, because I wanted to know what lies others were telling about me. I learned many, many things. But I never forgot Las Encantadas, so I came back, and the last two governors have asked me to work for them. The navy is really in charge, but they don’t want to deal with civilians, and there’s very little crime here anyway. Whenever a problem does come up, they let me take care of it.”

  “And I’m your current problem?”

  “Yes. You and the baroness. But there are complications. Both the governor and the naval commandant are concerned. You are a policeman, aren’t you?”

  I tensed. How did he know?

  “A New York policeman? Why did you leave New York?”

  Of course! It was my revolver. It was a standard-issue snub-nosed revolver. Only cops and crooks carried them.

  “All my life I’ve wanted to sail around the world. So now I am.”

  “Is that all there is to it?”

  “You ask far too many questions around here.”

  “Just the opposite. We ask very few. Most of the people who live here don’t like questions. I only ask because I think you may be able to solve a problem for me so I can concentrate on other matters—Becker!” he suddenly snapped, half to himself, looking to one side with an irritated expression. I followed his gaze to a tall, blond fellow with a ramrod-straight back and a face that looked as if it had been chiseled out of granite. The new arrival was strutting across the sand, dressed in a sharply creased gray cotton shirt and trousers of a military cut. “Señor Becker, I didn’t realize you were at Wreck Bay.”

  “I am here for a very short time, Sergeant, to collect a package from the mainland, and then I will proceed on my business.” As he spoke, Becker exhibited the same distaste for López that the sergeant had for Becker.

  “Yes, of course,” replied López.

  The tall German—for what else could he be?—looked me over a moment with coldly dismissive eyes. “López?”

  “This is Mr. Freiman. He’s an American sailor who’s visiting us for a while so he can repair his boat.”

  “Freiman? American? Are you American or German, Mr. Freiman?”

  “American.”

  “Perhaps. You know we are reshaping Germany and, in time, the world. Will America join us in our crusade to rid the world of Reds and Slavs and other lesser peoples?”

  “I have no idea what the United States will do,” I replied, not wanting to make any more new enemies. At the same time I was certain, Kraut or not, that he wasn’t my kind of guy.

  The German continued to stare at me a moment, then turned and marched off toward the pier.

  “Another one of your German settlers?” I asked.

  “No,” replied López in a slightly distracted tone, “he’s German, but he’s a visitor, not a settler.”

  As we trudged over the rocky sand, passersby nodded quickly at López or tried to avoid eye contact completely. Very few smiled, and those who did smiled nervously. It was the way people in most places react to cops. Or maybe a little more so. The exception was a half dozen small, raggedy children, no more raggedy, really, than many I’d seen in New York. They were utterly oblivious to him. They were playing a game of soccer on the sand and took no more note of our passing than they did of the falling night.

  Suddenly a small but vicious-looking tan-and-white mutt appeared from nowhere, barking and charging. “No, Bobo,” said López, leaning over and waving his index finger at the beast. Bobo skidded to a stop, licked his lips, and trotted off, while two sailors, who’d stopped talking to a girl to watch the attack, chuckled. López looked sharply at them, and they quickly returned to romance.

  We slogged past a very tired and very small stake truck and then a fa
r-from-impressive old Ford sedan that I later learned was for the commandant’s use. When we reached the building, the sergeant held the door open for me and then entered himself. A sailor sitting at a table within stood and stiffened, coming to attention. López said something to the sailor, who turned and hurried down a hall. Meanwhile, the sergeant led me to a spartan conference room and sat at the big, scarred table, indicating that I should do so too. The room was cool, almost cold, and damp. The door opened, and a tall, middle-aged naval officer with a large nose came in. López jumped to his feet and greeted the officer in Spanish, then pointed at me. “This is Mr. Freiman, Commandant.” I stood, and the officer looked at me a moment with what I can only describe as a skeptical expression, then nodded and sat down. “The commandant’s still perfecting his English,” said López to me. López and I sat, and we all looked at each other in silence. There was the taste of tension in the air. At first I assumed it was rooted in the baroness’s murder, but then I realized there might be something more. The sergeant and the commandant didn’t like each other.

  The governor arrived. He was small, thin, and stooped, and dressed in a rumpled white linen suit and tie. He was also surprisingly young, in his twenties I would guess. But his most obvious, and most memorable, characteristic was the overpowering stink of gin that surrounded him and soon filled the room.