Death of a Siren Page 7

  “No, not if I could avoid it,” shouted Olaf. He grabbed the ax from Paquita and slammed the blade into a log. “Once or twice. On business.”

  “What sort of a businessperson was she?”

  “She was a hard negotiator. She could be fierce.”

  “Do you owe her any money?”

  “No. And she owed me none, either.”

  “You said she had an Ecuadorean cook. The only Ecuadorean I saw there was Sofía, the maid.”

  “She had four or five servants around the house.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Some at the settlement at Blackwater Bay; others have little farms spread through the hills.”

  “What do you know about her past?”

  “Nothing. She said she was a baroness and came from Germany. She has—had—a lot of money. She was a very cruel woman, one of the devil’s generals. God has taken His revenge on her, and the Earth is now cleaner.” As he spoke, Olaf Hanson’s eyes flared.

  “What about Dr. Ritter and Ernst?”

  “They came with her. They lived for her cruelty.”

  “Did you see either of them the past day or two?”

  “No. Not for four or five days.” Hanson was pacing back and forth now, clearly agitated.

  “Where were you yesterday? We stopped by, and you weren’t here.”

  “At Blackwater Bay with Paquita. Visiting my brother, Piers. You should talk to the Germans.”

  “Which Germans?”

  “The ones on San Cristóbal and Santa Cruz.”

  “What will they tell me?”

  “You talk to them. Now leave me. Tell López that I’ve helped you as much as I can.”

  I sighed. This conversation was going nowhere. “Do you know a German named Martin Becker?”

  Olaf, who’d already turned away, spun back. “Him! He’s different. There’s something wrong about him. He’s even more evil than the other Germans. He thinks he is a god. He belongs back in Europe, not here.”

  “Besides thinking he’s a god, why else is he so different?”

  “He hasn’t settled down. He wanders all over asking questions and studying the land and the rocks and asking who owns this and who owns that. He says he’s a businessman looking for investments for rich people in Europe. Maybe he is, but something’s wrong. I’ve seen him many times standing on the top of the mountain with his binoculars looking all around as if he’s looking for something in particular. Now go!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hanson. Is there a trail that goes to Blackwater Bay?”

  “Yes, over there.” He pointed.

  I glanced at Rojas, who was staring at the fruit trees. “Mr. Hanson, may I buy some fruit from you for me and my companions? We have a long walk ahead of us.”

  “Take it, take what you want. Get water over there if you need some. Then go.”

  9

  It took us an hour to descend through the temperate forest and the dry, faintly spicy coastal forest to Blackwater Bay, where the air was filled with the sharp perfume of sun-baked, long-dead seafood. The settlement was far smaller than Wreck Bay. There were a dozen wooden houses of various sizes and conditions, two short, narrow piers, and half a dozen fishing boats pulled up on the beach. Beside some of the boats were piles of fish traps and half barrels filled with long lines with hooks every few feet, several being overhauled by their owners, none of whom looked Norwegian. “Ask one of these fishermen if they know where Piers Hanson is,” I directed Rojas.

  Rojas asked, and the fisherman pointed over my shoulder. “He’s in his house, sir. Over there,” reported my translator.

  I turned. Directly behind me about a hundred feet away and set off by itself was one house that was larger, neater, and better maintained than the others. “Let’s go see what Olaf’s brother has to say about things,” I thought aloud as I led the way up the beach.

  After climbing up onto the front porch I knocked on the door, which opened immediately. Piers Hanson looked so much like his brother that they could almost have been twins. I introduced myself and explained my mission. Hanson looked past me a moment, out over the bay, and then invited me in. I turned to Rojas. “I want you and the skipper to wander around the settlement and see what people have to say about the baroness and what they might know about her death. I especially want you to find anybody who worked for her. They must know something.”

  Rojas nodded and explained the mission to the petty officer, who shot me another of his resentful looks. I could understand how he might feel—he was supposed to be commanding a gunboat, not running errands for me—but we both knew that he would do it or take his chances with Sergeant López, the governor’s coldly jovial enforcer.

  Hanson told me to take a seat in his living room and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later he returned with two cool glasses of a juice that tasted like orange but more spicy. “So,” he said, settling onto a couch upholstered in a tired floral print, “somebody killed the baroness and her toadies, and López has you doing his work for him. What does he have on you?”

  “If I don’t find the real killer then I stand trial for it.”

  “He’s a vicious bastard.”

  “You’re a fisherman?”

  “Yes, my younger brother is the farmer and I’m the fisherman.”

  “How well did you know the baroness?”

  “I sold fish to her. Usually to her cook or one of those German fools who worshipped her, but I did see her at times. Everybody on Floreana saw her from time to time. The cook lives right here at Blackwater. His name is Elías.”

  “Did you talk with her?”

  “From time to time. She wasn’t the absolute bitch that some of these people believe she was.”

  “Any business disputes?”

  “None. We understood each other perfectly.”

  “How about Ritter and Ernst?” As I asked I looked around the living room. It had a barren air. A dining table in one corner, four or five plain wooden chairs, and a few prints of what must have been Norway. But no books and no other decoration. It didn’t look as if Piers was much interested in the homey look.

  “Every now and then. Mostly about fish and the weather. They were both very distant and unpleasant fellows. They believed they were very superior. She often acted that way, too.”

  “Did they ever say anything about the baroness?”

  “Only that the rest of us didn’t appreciate her as much as she deserved. They were very secretive.”

  “Did they ever quarrel?”

  “I never saw them. What they did in private I can only guess.”

  As he spoke, Piers glanced out the window, then jumped up and ran across the room, grabbing a rock from a small pile next to the door. He threw the door open, stepped out on the porch, and hurled the rock. A high-pitched cry of pain quickly followed. Hanson slammed the door shut and turned back toward me, a smile of triumph on his face. “I got the little son of a bitch!”

  My lack of understanding must have been obvious, for he continued, “The little Ecuadorean brats play around the boats. I’ve told them not to play around mine, but they’ve not obeyed. Now maybe they will. Or that little rodent will, anyway.”

  I thought about all the kids I’d shouted at over the years for playing in the wrong places. Most had been innocent, mindless little fools. A few had been criminals in training. I’d never found it necessary to throw a rock at any of them, or even cuff their ears, although, to be honest, I have roughed up a few teenaged punks from time to time. But they weren’t little kids, and they were doing more than just playing in the wrong place.

  “Tell me, Mr. Freiman, what do the Americans think about Hitler? Do you think they’ll turn against him or accept him as an ally against the Reds?”

  My spirits slumped. This conversation wasn’t going any better than the one with Olaf. Most of what I knew about Hitler came from the newspapers, which said he was building a new nation and hurting people in the process. On the streets, some said we had to fi
ght, others said we had to concentrate on defending our homeland, and a few said the Nazis were the future. Most of the talk, however, had been about finding work and wondering how the Yankees might do during the coming season. I told Hanson that I really didn’t know the answer.

  I looked around the room again, comparing it to his brother’s house. “Do you have a wife?” The change of subject didn’t seem to bother him, although the topic did.

  “Yes, Christina. I suppose she’s still my wife.” His face and the tone of his voice suddenly reeked of anger and resentment. “She didn’t like it here, so she went home to Norway.”

  “When?”

  “About two months ago.”

  I looked again at the couch and suspected that Christina had tried to make a home here but Piers’s fury had proven too much for her.

  It was time for the second half of my mission. “Do you know a German named Martin Becker?”

  “Yes, of course. Everybody does.”

  “Olaf seems to think he’s looking for something.”

  “Undoubtedly. Everybody who comes to these islands is looking for something.”

  “Olaf seems to think he’s evil in some way.”

  “Olaf does have an imagination. Becker is strange but not evil. He’s a young fellow and can be very interesting and even pleasant in a stiff way.”

  I sat up. Could this possibly be leading somewhere? “What do you think he’s looking for?”

  “He’s never said, but I can guess.”

  “Yes?”

  “Pirate treasure. For hundreds of years pirates used to hide here and repair their ships. If you believe the stories, there are at least twenty treasures buried on the different islands.”

  “Do you believe the stories?”

  “No, but he’s young and probably does.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “No. I heard he got another fisherman to take him to Santa Cruz, or possibly all the way to San Salvador.”

  “When?”

  “A week or two ago. Maybe last week. I don’t remember. It’s not important.”

  Becker really did get around, I thought. I’d seen him at Wreck Bay two days ago.

  “Do you know which fisherman?”

  “Pepe Hernández, I think. He doesn’t live here, but he drops by sometimes. He sets some traps a mile or two up the coast.”

  I nodded.

  “Listen to me, Kraut. If you really want to know about the baroness, you go talk to the Herzog brothers at Navy Bay. They’re fishermen like me. They get all around these islands.”

  “Where’s Navy Bay?”

  “On Santa Cruz.” Was there a hint of contempt in his voice at my ignorance? Then it hit me—Santa Cruz, Ana’s island.

  I finished the juice, thanked Piers Hanson, and started to leave. As I stepped through the door, one final question came to mind. “Why aren’t you out fishing today? The weather’s fair.”

  “The weather’s usually fair. We fish when we feel like fishing. That’s how we do things here.

  “I should warn you about Becker,” he added as I was halfway across his porch. “He’s a smart fellow, but he has one hell of a temper and doesn’t like answering questions.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said, adding to myself, who does like answering questions around here? Or anyplace else?

  I walked rapidly across the rocky sand, my canvas shoes doing nothing to protect my already bruised feet, to the cluster of little wooden shacks that constituted the rest of the settlement. I found Rojas and the petty officer talking to a young, well-built Ecuadorean man. Rojas turned to me. “This is Elías, sir. He was the baroness’s cook.”

  I nodded to Elías and smiled. He struck me as exceptionally well scrubbed, better than me to be honest, his undershirt spotless. Must be the baroness’s influence, I thought. “What has he told you?” I asked Rojas.

  “He worked for her for about a year. The money was good.”

  “Ask him how she treated him. Did he get along with her?”

  “He did what he was told and got along all right. He says once or twice she said she wanted to sleep with him, but he always refused. He didn’t want to get too involved.”

  “Involved in what?” I asked, assuming the Ecuadorean was fantasizing. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine the baroness sleeping with the help.

  “In her business. In her life. With the other two Germans. He just wanted to do his job and get paid.”

  “Did he ever get angry with her?”

  “He just did his job.”

  “Were any of the other Ecuadoreans angry enough to kill her?”

  “They just did their jobs and got along.”

  “What about Dr. Ritter and Ernst? Did he ever see them angry at her or her at them?”

  “That was part of the game they played.”

  “Does he have any idea who might have killed her?”

  “Except for her two friends, nobody liked her. She was an outsider. Just like the other Germans. It could have been anybody.”

  “When was he last at the castle?”

  “The day before she was killed, sir. He says he hasn’t been back since.”

  “Does he know where Dr. Ritter and Ernst were when she was killed?”

  “No, sir. The last he saw them was when he was last at the castle.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Nobody, sir, except Sofía, the maid.”

  “Did the baroness have any visitors during the week or so before she was killed?”

  Elías paused a moment to think, then replied.

  “He says he can only remember one visitor, several days before she was killed. It was Mr. Thompson.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s an American with a big sailboat,” explained Rojas. “He’s visiting on vacation. For adventure.”

  “Did they argue?”

  “No, just the opposite. They were very friendly.”

  “Were Ritter and Ernst upset about that?”

  “He says he has no way of knowing. May he go now?” Rojas was really getting into the translation bit. Not only was he reporting the words, but his tone of voice reproduced the emotions that were so clear on the cook’s face.

  I checked my watch and looked up at the sun. “Thank him. We should eat and get going.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We found a waist-high rock under a stunted tree and settled down to enjoy our lunch of rice, beans, and plantain slices. There was something about Elías that didn’t ring true. He had trouble looking me in the eye, and he had a number of small bruises and welts on his arms and shoulders. Cooks who got along with their employers didn’t end up with bruises. Burns, maybe, or cuts, but not bruises like those. Unless he was a brawler of some sort, a guy who just couldn’t keep out of fights. And I didn’t know what to make of his claim that the baroness wanted to sleep with him. It was possible, I suppose, but the woman seemed to have a great many more impressive choices. Somebody had once told me that all men who speak Spanish have a thing about being real men. In fact, I thought, that applied as well to the guy who had said it. Maybe the cook was just embellishing his manhood.

  What have I learned today? I asked myself. That the baroness had been one hell of a woman, even if she’d also been a bitch. Based on Paquita’s reactions, and much that was left unsaid, the baroness had managed to seduce both Norwegians, possibly Elías, and some American yachtsman named Thompson. How Ritter and Ernst felt about this remained unclear. She’d made enemies by trying to lord it over everybody. As things now stood, just about every man and woman in Las Encantadas could reasonably be considered a suspect. I knew a great deal more than I had twenty-four hours before and still I knew nothing. The means were as obvious as the motives, but the particulars remained totally unknown.

  We were back at the castle by three in the afternoon. I opened the doors and took another look at Ritter and Ernst. So far nothing had nibbled on them, although it was still hot in the room and they were beg
inning to both bloat and reek. I considered moving them someplace, but where? Or at least wrapping them in sheets or blankets. No reason to, I decided. López might want to see them as they lay. I stepped out onto the patio again, closed the doors, and looked out at Pegasus, anchored in the still water. The breeze had died, leaving only the long, slow swell. There was no way I could sail back to Wreck Bay without a breath of wind. “Rojas, tell the skipper that we’re going to tow my boat back to San Cristóbal. You ride with me.”

  “Yes, sir.” I think the kid was getting to like his new job. Hiking and riding around with me had to be more interesting than scrubbing, painting, and walking around with a rifle, or whatever else it was that he would be doing at Wreck Bay.

  The tow was long, slow, and uneventful. As I steered to stay in the gunboat’s wake, I went over the events of the last two days. Ana was right. Somebody knew about the baroness, and about Ritter and Ernst, and I was now willing to bet there was more than one somebody. Undoubtedly on Floreana, and very possibly on some of the other islands. They were, after all, only a few hours’ sail apart. Less in a motorboat. Everybody I’d spoken to had plenty to say about the baroness, and about their neighbors. But, at best, all I’d uncovered were hints, many of which contradicted each other. How many people really knew who’d committed the murders, and how many just suspected one of their neighbors? How many were trying to disappear into the woodwork, to protect themselves or somebody else, and how many were trying to pin it on somebody? And how many believed it was a matter of good riddance to bad garbage and didn’t care who’d done the deed?

  When we finally reached Wreck Bay, the only visible lights ashore were two windows in naval headquarters and one dim white light at the end of the pier. After Pegasus was securely anchored, I thanked Rojas and told him to go ashore with the rest of the gunboat crew. I then grabbed a lukewarm beer and settled back in the cockpit, looking up at the stars.

  Prior to taking up sailing with Alf, I’d never paid much attention to the night sky, probably because it’s almost impossible to see in Manhattan. But once you’re at sea, and the night is clear and quiet, the stars are brilliant, overwhelming. If you let them, they fill your mind and soul and then absorb you. You dive into them and find yourself in some distant time and place, far from the petty concerns of life and death. In my case they also clear my mind and help me to think and see through impassible thickets.