Death of a Siren Page 6

  “Thank you, Seaman Rojas.” I wondered if a hundred years from now the Ecuadoreans of Floreana would be celebrating the day of the baroness’s death as a sort of secular Christmas.

  “Did you see that other building over there, sir?” asked Rojas, pointing off to the right at a weathered shack set back in the scrub. I followed him over to the small structure. It had one room and three screened windows. Like the barn, it was built of wood. And it had been stripped just as clean. I carefully sorted through the little that was left—two wooden bed frames, a few magazines, and some scraps of paper—but they told me nothing except that whoever lived here turned to girlie books for solace.

  I looked overhead and spotted the sun through the leaves. It was still morning, late morning, anyway. As every cop knows, the sooner you get on the trail of a criminal the better chance you have of catching him. I just had to find the trail. I started to work my way along the side of the shack, scanning the brush and the ground, and alert for any hint of a shotgun pointed in my direction. Despite the cool air and the breeze, I was sweating thinking about shotguns. There was no evidence here of the blood trail, although I was still able to spot places where the ground had been scuffed. Was it the murderer, or just the locals making off with their booty? I followed the scuff marks across the open area to a trail that led into the brush.

  “Do you have any idea where this goes?”

  Rojas consulted the petty officer.

  “He says there’s a small settlement on the other side of the island. And some farms on the side of the mountain. He’s landed on the beach at the settlement a few times but never really been ashore and never to the farms inland. He thinks it probably leads around the mountain to the settlement.”

  “Then we’ll find out,” I announced as I jogged toward the brush.

  I continued on, despite the intense irritation evident on the skipper’s face, and was soon vaguely aware that the land wasn’t sloping up as I’d expected. I stopped to look and realized that we weren’t headed inland, toward the mountain, but were running roughly parallel to the shore. Whatever the growing personal discomfort, and the nagging fear of ambush, I was determined to continue. I had to pick up the killer’s trail before it became hopelessly cold. About a mile later, the path split. I looked behind us. The castle was long out of sight. I evaluated the choices, swatting wildly at the meat-eating insects as I did, and considered asking my companions’ opinions. That, I assured myself, was a waste of time. They’d have no more idea than I did. The right branch, I guessed, must lead down to the shore while the other must continue on around the mountain. After mentally tossing a coin, I turned onto the path to the right. Within another half mile we jogged out of the bush onto a small, rocky beach that looked out over the Pacific.

  “Here, Mr. Freiman,” called Rojas a few moments later. I trotted over and saw the gouge in the sand where a boat’s bow had been pulled up.

  “So he, or they, used a boat to get away,” I mused aloud. A pair of black-green marine iguanas sunned themselves on a rock outcrop and watched silently. Ugly, hostile beasts, I thought, with their scales and hard eyes and the ridge of long spikes that ran along their spines. They were almost three feet long, and their expressions said that if they were only a little bigger they’d consider having me for dinner.

  I looked up and out over the water again, and my hopes of progress evaporated. There, bobbing so very gently in the tiny waves, were a dozen foot-long sections of tree trunk. They were anchored, I realized, and must be marking some sort of trap—for fish or maybe lobster. So the fact that somebody had pulled a boat ashore here within the past few days meant nothing.

  Despite the faint breeze, I was hot. Rojas was hot. The petty officer was hot. And we were all parched. I watched the two of them splash saltwater on their faces and necks and followed their example. Even the sting of the salt on the bug bites felt refreshing. The temptation to turn back was almost overwhelming, especially since I could see mutiny boiling in the petty officer’s eyes. But if I didn’t find the baroness’s murderer I’d spend the rest of what would undoubtedly be a short life in a house of horrors on the mainland. “We continue,” I said to Rojas. “It’ll start getting cooler soon.”

  “But sir, we’re thirsty!”

  “Yes, but we must continue.”

  Rojas started to speak to the petty officer, but the skipper wasn’t really listening. His eyes flared with fury, and he strutted toward me, reaching down for a rock with very sharp edges as he did. I reached for the revolver in my pocket. He saw my movement and straightened up without the rock. Bitter resentment still oozed from his eyes, but the determination to attack appeared to have evaporated. I turned and led the way back along the path until we reached the junction and headed up the branch not taken.

  Within a few minutes we were marching uphill and my two companions were falling even farther behind. In fact, they were out of sight, hidden by a thick patch of brush. I stopped a moment to let them catch up. Alone again, I thought, in a place I don’t understand.

  But I wasn’t alone. There was something, somebody in the brush off to my left. I could hear it and feel it. I could imagine that damn shotgun pointed right at me. I squatted down and raised my revolver. It was either that or running like hell and getting a back full of shot. At first I saw nothing more than sun-dappled leaves and branches. Then there was motion, a large, gray-brown mass in among the gray-brown-green undergrowth. Sweat ran down my neck and back. I tensed, desperate to locate my target and fire.

  The mass moved and became more defined. It looked like a horse. Or a caricature of one. As my mind caught up with my eyes, I could see the creature’s head; it was chewing on the sparse leaves. Only then did I recognize it as a mule. Or maybe a jackass. A very big one.

  I heard heavy breathing behind me and spun instinctively. It was Rojas. “That’s one big burro, sir. A wild one. They’re all over the islands. Somebody brought them here sometime, and they ran away. There are also many wild goats and pigs.” He was staring at my drawn pistol as he spoke. For some reason he seemed on the verge of laughing, prevented only by his shortness of breath.

  I looked back at the beast and stood up. Was Rojas laughing at me, at the near-panicked expression on my face, or was he laughing at the ass? “We have to keep moving. Where’s the petty officer?”

  “He’s coming along, sir. We’re both very thirsty.”

  “So am I,” I snapped. “We’re bound to find water someplace around here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As we climbed, the slope continued to steepen. Up ahead, and off to one side, I spotted a small hummock of ten-foot-high palmettos. Then another. Within another fifteen minutes of steady marching, we’d climbed a couple hundred feet and the vegetation was much greener and thicker, the soil distinctly darker and even muddy in low areas. The taste of dry seaweed and burnt rock in the air had been replaced by a softer sensation of dampness, of freshwater and mold and decaying vegetation. The temperature had also dropped. Unfortunately, the horseflies seemed just as comfortable here as farther down.

  “¡Agua, agua acá!”

  I turned and looked at Rojas. “He says he’s found water, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Back where he is.”

  That was all it took for me to start running back down the trail, only a few paces behind my interpreter. We found the gunboat skipper kneeling beside a small, moss-covered, water-filled stone pool about ten feet off to one side of the trail. Following the Ecuadoreans’ example I knelt next to the pool and tentatively scooped up a handful of water. It was the best I’d ever tasted in my life. Cool, clear, and crisp. After drinking to excess we paused, then wiped off our faces. My two companions turned and looked at me. I looked up and managed to find the sun among the ever-thickening greenery. “We’ll continue for another hour and then return.”

  They looked at each other and shrugged. A good drink of water can be a wonderful thing.

  The climb became more challengin
g as the afternoon advanced, although it was far from truly difficult. At the same time, the vegetation not only thickened but also changed. Trees that resembled oaks or maples began to replace the big-leafed tropical species through which we’d been passing. About halfway to my self-imposed cutoff time, the ground leveled. A few minutes later I stepped out of the forest into a large, lush valley. A gentle breeze, smelling of forest and damp soil, and oranges, cooled me. Set in the middle of the grassy expanse was one of the farms the skipper had mentioned. And what a farm it was!

  In the center was a small but seemingly well-built and comfortable-looking farmhouse with a roofed porch, a barn, and a pen occupied by a dozen cows. Surrounding this were maybe twenty acres of planted land and dozens of fruit trees—not only the bananas, oranges, lemons, and mangos that one might expect but also pears, peaches, and apples.

  For many years, Alf, Lisl, and I—and sometimes Erin—had taken Sunday drives up the new parkways north along the Hudson River. We glided past the planted fields and orchards, smelled the air, and stopped at the stands along the roadside to eat fresh fruits and buy fresh vegetables. It had, for me, been a total joy, a release from the grinding pressure, the sense of constriction, of the city. But the vision of this farm and its little valley, only a few miles south of the equator on an island of acrid volcanic ash and lava, was a revelation. It was a fantasy right out of a storybook.

  I advanced, Rojas and the petty officer only a few feet behind me, praying there wasn’t a shotgun waiting for me. I heard the chickens clucking, rooting around the house, before I saw them. A large black dog shot out from around the side of the house, barking furiously and baring its teeth. “Hello?” I shouted. For some reason that seemed enough to satisfy the dog. It trotted off to one side of the yard and sat, watching us. “Hello?” I tried again. Then I glanced at my companions. The wonder on their faces was obvious.

  After shouting once more and not receiving a face full of shot in reply, I stepped up on the porch and knocked politely on the door. Following a second knock I decided nobody was home. I looked around again. All seemed in such perfect order. And so peaceful. I really had no business entering. The last time I’d charged into an unoccupied house on Floreana I’d found a room filled with blood and evil. I clutched the revolver in my right hand and unlatched the unlocked door with my left. The dog watched me carefully but said nothing.

  8

  The interior of the farmhouse—a modest combined living and dining hall, a small bedroom, a kitchen, and what was either a very large closet or a small storeroom—was sparsely furnished with what must have been homemade furniture. It was immaculately clean, and totally free of blood or dead bodies. Despite the roughness of the furniture it was clear that somebody had worked hard to turn this place into a home. A colorful green spread covered the bed, a white cloth was on the dining table, and embroidered cushions cozied up the chairs. Half a dozen vases and pots filled with colorful and fragrant flowers were placed here and there. Along one wall was a surprisingly large bookcase. I examined the spines of its contents. Most were in some language that looked vaguely German. A few were in English. Almost all appeared to be religious in nature, a conclusion supported by the prints illustrating the life of Christ that shared the walls with various photographs of somebody’s family, the people warmly dressed against the northern winter.

  We returned to the porch, and I stepped out from under the roof. The sun was at most an hour from the horizon. “OK,” I said, “we have to hurry to get back to the beach before dark.”

  My companions looked at each other. “Sir,” said Rojas, “there’s water in the kitchen. Can we get some?”

  “Good idea; let’s fill up and get going.”

  The trip back to the beach was understandably faster than the trip up to the farm, but even so it was almost dark when we finally reached the boat. The crew, whom we’d left lounging on the sand, were now pacing up and down, looking nervous. We pulled out to the gunboat, where I had the skipper radio Wreck Bay to report the new murders and that I intended to stay at Floreana one more day to find the owners of the farm and to visit the settlement on the other side of the island. The radio operator at naval headquarters took the message, and I felt a sense of relief. This way there could be no arguments with López. At least not until we got back. I ate aboard the gunboat—rice, beans, some fish the crew had caught during the day, and more plantains—and rowed myself back to Pegasus for what I hoped would be a quiet night.

  The night did prove quiet. There were no car horns and no squealing of steel on steel as elevated trains passed overhead. And no shotgun blasts ashore or afloat. A gentle breeze blew from the northwest while a long, slow swell from the west barely made it into the bay. Overhead, the sky was a glittering symphony of silver and black. I’d hoped to take advantage of the calm to review what I knew about the murders, but I didn’t know much, so my mind wandered off to other matters. I was a good cop, I tried to reassure myself, despite my current predicament. I’d badgered Alf to lean on one of his German American politician friends to get me on the force because I’d believed what the teachers said in school about America being all about justice and decency. I’d wanted to help and protect people. A lot of others had joined just because they needed a job—and at that time there weren’t many jobs around. Fortunately, I’d never actually come out and said how I felt at the station house. If I had, I’d have been laughed out into the street.

  The next morning the weather was cool and clear, except for the mist wrapped around the highlands. When we landed on the beach this time, we were better prepared; my two companions and I set out equipped with several water bottles and some bread and cheese.

  We made good time through the forest, meeting nothing more intimidating than a couple wild goats and only stopping once or twice to catch our breath. We paused at the edge of the grassy plain when I heard a faint noise that sounded human. Once clear of the surrounding trees and undergrowth, the faint noise resolved itself into a voice singing in Spanish. As we approached the farmhouse I spotted a woman positioning a small log for splitting. We turned toward her, and the black dog that had been sitting on the ground beside her jumped to its feet, barking furiously. The woman turned and grabbed the ax lying on the ground next to her, an expression of surprise on her face. She was a very pretty young Ecuadorean. After a moment she leaned down and said something to the dog. The beast barked twice more, then stood silently waiting, I’m sure, for some justification to do something more dramatic.

  We stopped about twenty feet away from her. Rojas stepped forward and introduced us. Still holding the ax, she studied us a moment, smiled very slightly, then replied.

  “She says ‘welcome,’ sir, and we must speak with her husband. She doesn’t speak English.”

  Almost before the words were out of Rojas’s mouth a tall, blond fellow appeared out of the forest behind us and limped rapidly over. We must have walked right by him without my noticing, I thought a little uneasily. At least he didn’t have a shotgun under his arm. He spoke quickly to Rojas in Spanish then turned to me. “I’m Olaf Hanson, and this is my wife, Paquita,” he said in English. “You’re American?”

  “Yes, Frederick Freiman.”

  “You look German.” A look of distaste passed over his face.

  “I’m an American, Mr. Hanson.”

  “Very good. I’m Norwegian. Welcome to my farm, Mr. Freiman. This sailor says you’re investigating the murder of the baroness and her two lovers.”

  “Yes. Did you know about them?”

  “Not until he just told us. What happened? Did they all strangle each other? Or maybe shoot?”

  “The woman was killed with an ax, and the two men were shot the next night.”

  Hanson glanced briefly at the ax in his wife’s hands. “Do you have any idea who did it and why?” He appeared far more curious than sad.

  I told him what I knew. As I did, I noticed that Paquita was concentrating on every word I said. She might not speak English,
but it was very possible that she could understand bits and pieces. By the time I was halfway through my account she was pouting, looking accusingly at her husband.

  The dog continued to stand beside Paquita, its tongue hanging out, its face exhibiting that inscrutable expression of eager anticipation that dogs so often wear.

  “Why are you, an American, investigating this matter?”

  “It’s a complicated story, but to make it short, I have to find the murderer or Sergeant López will send me to the mainland to be tried for it myself.”

  “That still doesn’t make sense,” said Hanson, a look of suspicion on his long, coarse-featured face.

  “He thinks I’ll understand how the foreign settlers think better than he does.”

  “Do you speak German?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sergeant López is a very clever fellow. Very dangerous. Watch out for him.”

  “So I’m learning. Did you know the baroness?” This time I knew Paquita understood my question by the bitter resentment that flushed her face. The ax remained in her hand.

  “How could we not? She and her lapdogs arrived several years ago, and she tried to make us all her subjects. She had an unlimited supply of money, so she hired just about everybody on Floreana to build her castle. And from other islands, too. And she said we had to treat her like a baroness. At first she even tried to force her workers to bow to her.”

  “Did you work for her?”

  “No, of course not. Only the Ecuadoreans.”

  “You seem to be her closest neighbor. How often did you see her?”

  “I sold her meat and fruit. Every week or so one of her lapdogs, sometimes her Ecuadorean cook, came to get them.”

  “She never came?”

  “At first, once or twice. After that, no.”

  “And you never visited her castle?” Anger flashed across Paquita’s face.