Death of a Siren Page 4

  “Is this the man?” he asked in English, sitting as López, the commandant, and I all stood.

  “Sit down,” he ordered with an expression of distaste. “He’s the one who murdered the baroness?”

  “That’s very possible, Your Excellency,” agreed López, “but it’s also possible it may have been somebody else.”

  “An Ecuadorean?”

  “Again, possible. She was far from popular.”

  “Another German? One of those perverts she kept as slaves?”

  “If it was an Ecuadorean I can find him, Excellency, but I’ve always had difficulty dealing with the foreigners. Especially the Germans. I don’t understand their language, and I’m not sure I understand how they think.”

  “And you think your prisoner does?”

  “Before he took up sailing he had experience investigating crimes. He speaks German; he must have German relatives, so he’ll understand how their minds work. I think he’ll be able to learn much that I can’t.”

  “It’s important that this murder be solved quickly. One way or another. It won’t look good for me if it’s not. It will make it impossible for me to ever get permission to return to Quito. I’ll die in this godforsaken place.” The governor bent his head down and clutched his hands, only to raise them to cover his eyes. But not before I noticed his tears. His whole body now quivering, he reached out, snatched a glass of water, and shattered it against the wall, exploding water and glass shards in all directions. The abject despair that flowed from his eyes along with the tears was all but overwhelming.

  The commandant eyed the governor and then spoke very slowly in broken English. “The murder of the baroness must be solved, and the criminal caught, but I am much more concerned about the other matter we have discussed. Perhaps this man can work his way in among the Germans and learn what we need to know.”

  “Yes, he’ll undoubtedly be able to help there also, although I would prefer he concentrate on the baroness,” insisted López.

  “Yes,” said the governor.

  “We’re agreed, then?” concluded López. “Mr. Freiman is to find out who killed the baroness. He’s also to learn more about a certain German national who’s wandering around our islands.”

  The governor looked up, his tears still evident. Then both he and the commandant nodded in agreement.

  “And if he fails to provide us with what we need, we’ll have to send him to the mainland for trial as the baroness’s murderer. Ever since the penal colony was closed we’ve had a reputation as a very peaceful place, and we’d all like to keep it that way.”

  Once again the governor and the commandant nodded. I looked around the table and realized that none of them were looking at me or even at each other. An overpowering sense of loneliness, and a very sharp sort of fear that I hadn’t felt for some time, swept over me. I was totally alone, totally friendless, in a land where I couldn’t even speak the language. If I disappeared into some dungeon or just died, nobody would know or care. In a way the scene was horribly comic. Despite the seemingly offhanded way they were discussing my future, they were all totally serious. If I didn’t produce a suitable killer, I was as good as dead.

  “Are you angry with me, Fritz?” asked López as he led me out of naval headquarters. I just looked back at him, still a little shocked at the way I’d let myself be so neatly skewered and set to roast over a raging fire. And I still didn’t like the tone of his voice when he said “Fritz.” For a moment—a very brief one—New York almost looked safer than where I was.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll succeed. You’ll have little trouble learning more than any of us really want to know from the gringos, the foreigners. Most, if not all, disliked, even hated the baroness and her drones, and many dislike each other. They’ll want to tell you every bad thing they can think of about each other. They’ll tell you things they wouldn’t say to an Ecuadorean. You’ll fit in. They’ll sympathize with you. Do you want a cold beer?”

  Yes, I thought. I could very much use a cold beer. Dusk was settling in; the temperature was edging down; the breeze continued to build, gracing the exposed harbor with a noticeable chop; and the air was thickening as an evening haze developed. Despite the cooling I was damn thirsty, my mouth dry from tension, and the sergeant’s calculated cynicism did nothing to relieve my discomfort. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  López, my new employer, so to speak, led me across the settlement’s plaza of damp sand, returning the guarded greetings of various passersby, all of whom were barefoot. The men were dressed in long trousers and undershirts and the women in well-worn dresses, most adorned with what had once been bright prints. When we were about halfway across the plaza, a young woman in a splotched dress walked past, eyeing me. She stopped and winked, her smile as wide as she was and her two missing teeth just as obvious. “¡Que guapo!” she said, her eyes twinkling in the dim light as she looked intently into mine.

  “No, Esme,” snapped López, shaking his finger at her with the same expression he’d awarded Bobo, the dog.

  “We have a few of those here, Fritz, like everywhere,” commented the sergeant after Esme had winked again and continued on, dismissed but not apparently intimidated. “Just like in New York. I keep my eye on them and don’t let it get out of control.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She thinks you’re a handsome fellow.” I can’t really say he was smiling as he said it.

  A few minutes later we turned into a dim passageway between two weather-stained wooden palisades. The air was filled with the smell of human existence—food, sweat, garbage. It smelled just like Manhattan in the summer, except for the addition of the cloying stench of sizzling coconut oil, the sharp tang of drying seaweed and salt, and more than a whiff of dead marine life. We passed a tiny, tired store and then an open-air workshop in which an almost toothless carpenter was planing a plank by the light of a kerosene lamp. A few steps beyond, López stopped before an unmarked opening in the palisade on the right and pointed for me to enter. I found myself in a small, sand-floored, roofless area filled with three or four rickety tables and perhaps twice as many equally decrepit wooden chairs. Along one side there was a small cooking area—an open grill, a table, and an ancient, shoulder-high icebox—protected by the overhanging corrugated metal roof of the adjoining weather-stained house.

  “Hola, sargento,” said the little man standing next to the grill. López replied, holding up two fingers as he did. He then gestured for me to sit at the nearest table. There were two other customers, sitting at a table in the corner. The two, both men, looked up at us and quickly looked away. As we waited, I listened to a pig snorting and snuffling someplace close by but not in sight.

  “Well, Sergeant López,” I said as the proprietor placed two coolish beers in front of us and lit a small kerosene lamp in the middle of the table, “you seem to have trapped me pretty well. If I don’t find the baroness’s murderer then I’ll hang for it.” I spoke in a jovial tone but was certain that every word was the literal, awful truth. López was proving to be a very hard man.

  “We don’t generally hang people for murder in Ecuador, Fritz. Especially when the victim is an unpopular foreigner. Sometimes, if it’s political, we shoot them. Otherwise we just send them to prison for a very long time, and our prisons make yours seem like the Plaza Hotel in New York. Unless they’re rich and have powerful friends, people often never come out.”

  “I’m as totally trapped here as your governor seems to feel he is.”

  “Yes, the governor. He’s a very sad case.” There was little sympathy in López’s eyes as he started to explain. “He’s the son of a very important family and entered the diplomatic service. At some point he made an error of some sort and was sent here as punishment. Unfortunately, he’s very much a man of the capital—the glittering parties, the glittering ladies, the glittering future—and has been totally unable to come to terms with our way of life here.” As he spoke, López turned and glowered at the owner o
f the place, who’d been floating around us as if trying to eavesdrop. The man hurried back to his kitchen. “He was on his best behavior today,” continued the sergeant. “Generally he’s too drunk to move or is running around screaming and throwing things. I fear for his sake, and for ours, that he will still be here long after you’re free to sail away.”

  “What makes you think I’ll succeed?” I asked, perking up at the optimism in the sergeant’s words if not in his expression.

  “You speak German and English, and you’re not Ecuadorean. And you’re a very resourceful fellow; otherwise you’d never have lived long enough to see our shores.”

  “I could just sail away,” I suggested, using my fingertips to delicately explore the big, purple bruise Ritter had pounded into the side of my head and wondering vaguely what else López thought he knew about my past.

  “Not without an engine. You’re no fool. And we keep an eye on who rides the boat to the mainland.”

  “You seem to have all the answers.”

  “No. It’s up to you to find them for us.”

  “It may not take that long. Where were Ritter and Ernst when their mistress was killed?”

  “An excellent question. You should ask them.”

  I thought for a minute about motive; that’s always one starting point. Especially if it’s obvious. And it looked to me at first glance that the motive must have been passion. A savage anger. Planting a hatchet in somebody’s head isn’t usually a premeditated act. But there was, of course, another classic motive. “Who owns the castle, Sergeant? Whose name is on the deed? The three of them?”

  “I’m certain the grant from the government is to the baroness herself. She’d never share it with others.”

  “Does she have a will?”

  “I’ve never seen it. You’ll have to look for it.”

  “Relatives?”

  “Maybe in Europe. None that I know of here.”

  “So who’ll end up owning the castle?”

  “The government, probably. Unless those two degenerates manage to find a very good lawyer in Quito.”

  “Could she have owed somebody money? Or maybe somebody owed her money. Or there was some sort of financial dispute.”

  “All possible, Fritz.”

  “What’s this other business?” I asked, changing the subject. “Some mystery German wandering around?”

  “Yes, you saw him not twenty minutes ago. Becker. That’s what he says his name is, and that’s what his passport says. Martin Becker. He’s not like the others. We, especially the commandant, want to know who he really is and what he’s here for.”

  “That tall, starchy guy? Marches around like a Prussian general?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s he different?”

  “He’s clearly not a settler. He just wanders around exploring and talking to people. He says he’s a businessman looking for opportunities, but he never seems to find one he likes.”

  “Do you think he’s involved with the murder?”

  “It’s possible, anything’s possible, but I doubt it. We’re interested in him for other reasons.”

  “You think he’s a spy? War with Germany does seem almost certain. At least for us.”

  “That’s what the commandant wants you to find out. But remember, your priority is finding the baroness’s killer. That’s highest on the governor’s list and we, you and I, work for him.” López then raised two fingers again and called out to the owner.

  I looked at my bottle and realized it was empty. “These Germans live on different islands?” I asked, returning to the business at hand.

  “Three, for the most part. Here on San Cristóbal, on Santa Cruz, and Floreana.”

  “How do I get around? On Pegasus?”

  “No. You’ll be able to get a ride from the navy sometimes, and it’s always possible to hire a fisherman to take you from here to there. I’ll give you some money.”

  “And where will I live?”

  “Many will be eager to offer you a room. Otherwise, you can live on your boat, which we’ll move here tomorrow. If there’s wind you can sail it. If not we’ll tow it.”

  “You’ve thought this all out.”

  “I truly wish it wasn’t necessary. Now I must go and take care of other matters. I’ll walk back to the navy headquarters with you, then you make yourself at home there.”

  With no streetlights and one generator that served only the naval facility, Wreck Bay at night was dark and shadowy, lit by the occasional kerosene lamp shining through a window or the flare of a cooking grill. Much as I was growing to dislike and distrust the sergeant, I was a little grateful to have him with me as we walked back through the narrow passages toward the plaza.

  After we’d reached naval headquarters, I watched the sergeant climb on an old motorcycle that I hadn’t noticed before. What, I asked myself, did López wish wasn’t necessary? That he might inconvenience me? No, I’d already pegged him as one hard son of a bitch who wouldn’t care in the slightest if he inconvenienced God. It was the investigation itself that he wished wasn’t necessary. Somehow it was a threat to him.

  I continued to watch as López kicked the bike to life and roared off into the night, headed inland over a sandy track that wouldn’t be called a road anywhere else.

  I then realized that he’d never bothered to pay for our beers. I’d never seen Sergeant McGrath pay for any, either.

  6

  Early the next morning I walked along the shaky pier carrying a small case of beer and feeling much better about the world than I had the night before. My head was a bit sore, but a good night’s sleep always seems to make the world look a lot better. And I was on my way to do something positive—reclaim my boat. Alf’s boat. Best of all, I was going to be free, at least for a while, of López, whose company had already become oppressive.

  I stopped beside the gunboat and turned to watch as a familiar launch pulled alongside the dock. The boat was skippered by the same thin, hard-looking Ecuadorean with a revolver at his hip that I’d seen the day before. He was old, I thought, but still looked and acted very fit. I spotted Ana de Guzmán standing next to the skipper, dressed in dungarees and a white blouse with a tan jacket under her arm. She studied me a moment, then waved. I waved back and waited.

  “Good morning, Miss de Guzmán,” I greeted her as she jumped from the launch to the pier. Life really was looking up! Unless she was about to tell me to go to hell.

  “Good morning, Mr. Freiman. Is the navy loaning you their boat so you can do a little sightseeing while your engine is repaired?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  Damn it, she was playing with me! “No, I’ve agreed to help Sergeant López find whoever killed the baroness. I’m off to talk to various people.”

  “Why did he recruit you, an outsider?”

  “He says because I’m an outsider. He thinks people, especially the foreigners, will tell me more than they’ll tell him.”

  “And because you were a New York cop, right? Before you took up sailing around the world. And because you found the body, so he can always say you did it if you can’t find who really did.”

  “How do you know all this?” I was beginning to find her game irritating as hell, and my expression must have shown it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out and touching my forearm gently. “I’m being childish. Roberto told me. Navy sailors have big ears, and big mouths, and some understand a little English. Plus it’s a small settlement, and everybody knows just about everything,” she explained, nodding at the skipper as she spoke.

  “And Roberto knows everybody?”

  “He’s been in the islands most of his life. He arrived as a prisoner when there was a penal colony here and stayed when his sentence ended. Now he’s Papa’s launch captain, among other things, and sometimes my bodyguard. I don’t really need one, but I don’t argue since Roberto and I work well together.”

  “Does he know who killed the baroness?”

  �
��I don’t think so, but I’m sure there’s somebody who does. In addition to whoever really did it. There’s always somebody, isn’t there?”

  “Almost always,” I replied, hoping I’d find that somebody damn soon. “You and Roberto seem to spend a lot of time riding around in that launch.”

  “Yes, everybody in Las Encantadas does. We’re constantly going from island to island for some reason or other.”

  “What are you up to today?”

  “Picking up some tobacco seeds from a friend of my father’s. He has a farm on the mountain a few miles from here. He and Papa are trying to develop a new strain of tobacco, one milder than the horrible stuff we grow here now.”

  Cigarettes, I thought. I used to smoke them, but I’d run out so long ago I couldn’t remember what they tasted like, although López’s cigar had been pleasant. From the smell of her breath, I wouldn’t be able to mooch any from Ana if I did decide to take up smoking again.

  “So your father isn’t the only person who likes to tinker with things around here.”

  “Half the people here tinker in one way or another. It’s part of surviving on the edge of the world.” As she spoke, there was a gleam in her eyes. Pride, I guess. And perhaps wonder.

  What a fascinating, irritating, and beautiful woman, I thought, as I felt a tingling sensation all over. Like practically everybody in New York, I’d always imagined South American princesses as lofty, distant beings from another world. Ana looked the part but didn’t seem to play it unless it suited her convenience. I knew damn well what I liked about her but wondered what she could possibly see in me. Maybe it was just that I was a new face. I glanced toward the gunboat and spotted the skipper frowning at me. “I’d better move along,” I said, “but I’d really like to see you again. How do I get hold of you?”

  “If you don’t see me or Roberto wherever you are, ask the navy to radio me at Papa’s plantation on Santa Cruz. We use radios here like telephones. And let me warn you—I know all about New York cops.”

  “What?”

  “One night I was out with some friends. The men got very drunk, and we all got arrested.” She was laughing again.