Complete Short Stories (39 page)

One of the gentlemen, who could speak Spanish, heard what I said. He was a little game-cock of a man, and had a habit of tilting his head on one side inquiringly, as poultry often do. From his black mushroom hat, I judged him to be less important than the other, who wore a black silk stove-pipe hat. ‘Then let me congratulate
you, Don Antonio,’ he said. ‘My friend here, Mr P.P. Jonés, will soon remedy your financial straits. If you listen to his proposal, he will fill your pockets with silver
duros
. My own name is Charley Estrutt, at your service.’

‘He does not require me to violate the Law?’ I asked.

Mr Estrutt translated this question to Mr Jonés, who resembled a large, well-cured ham. Mr Jonés shook his head violently,
saying: ‘On the contrary!’ – a phrase which I understood, the word ‘contrary’ being identical in our Majorcan idiom, though we sound it differently.

I asked them both upstairs, to take a coffee. They accepted, and when we had emptied our cups I waited until they should come to the point, after all Mr Estrutt’s compliments on the beauty and tranquillity of our village. When he continued silent,
I said boldly: ‘By your gold watch-chains and your reticence, gentlemen, I judge you to be lawyers; and your black clothes indicate that you are here on business, not on a vacation. The labels on your brief-cases say “London”. Therefore, since this village has had the honour of welcoming only one compatriot of yours during the past twelve months, that is to say a certain young girl with hair cut
short like a boy’s, who stayed for a week in May at the Hotel Bonsol with a tall foreigner from God-knows-where, may I conclude that your business somehow concerns her?’

Mr Estrutt’s face lighted up. He said: ‘You are very intelligent, Don Antonio! That is almost precisely the case, though Señor Jonés alone is a lawyer. In effect, he represents the short-haired girl’s disconsolate mother, recently
widowed.’

I asked: ‘And your profession, Señor? Would it be inconvenient to divulge it?’

Mr Estrutt smiled. ‘No inconvenience at all,’ he said. ‘I used to be an inspector in our Metropolitan Police force. I am now retired, and have become a private detective employed by rich people to conduct delicate inquiries. The remuneration is better.’

I went on: ‘By the formality of Mr Jonés’s appearance,
he must be a
lawyer of great importance?’

Mr Estrutt whistled. ‘He never accepts less than fifty thousand pesetas a week for a case! The fact is that the disconsolate mother in question reeks of money. Her father was a multi-millionaire from Chile. I worked for the family once; an illegitimate son of his happened to be blackmailing him.’

I remarked: ‘One recognizes your accent as South American.’

He blushed a little: ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘you Spaniards despise South Americans for their abuse of your ancient tongue.’

Since Mr Charley Estrutt seemed a pleasant enough man, for all the ridiculous black mushroom-hat balanced on his knee, I assured him that here in Majorca we speak an even coarser dialect of Spanish than the Chileans. Our talk proceeded in this inconclusive manner until Mr
Jonés, who did not understand a word, looked at his big gold watch and made some observation to Mr Estrutt. Clearly, the moment had come to discuss business. I told myself: ‘These people can pay well. I shall certainly not accept the first price they offer – for whatever it is that they require of me.’

Mr Estrutt now put forward his proposal. He explained that the short-haired girl, a minor,
having run away from a French convent where she was being educated, had been brutally kidnapped by a Bulgarian artist. The pair had, with great difficulty, been traced to our village. The disconsolate Viscountess, her mother, wished to collect sufficient sworn evidence about the tragedy to incarcerate this Bulgarian heretic for life. Yet scandal must be avoided at all costs, and therefore the Spanish
police had not been invited to assist. Well, if I and two friends of mine could testify before an English judge to the Bulgarian’s having dragged the wretched girl to our Hotel Bonsol, and there committed an offence against her, the unfortunate entanglement could be legally proved, and the criminal punished.

Mr Jonés, so Mr Estrutt told me, knew that I had conveyed the couple in my taxi from
the mole at Palma to the Hotel Bonsol; that a certain Sebastián Vivés (meaning Sentiá Dog-beadle) had carried their bags up to a bedroom at the said hotel; and that Damián Frau, meaning ‘Damián the Coachman’, the hotelkeeper, had brought them breakfast in bed, on a tray, the next morning. Mr Jonés hoped that we would kindly visit London in a month’s time, to avenge the honour of a noble English house,
more particularly because the disconsolate Viscountess was a very devout Catholic; he had heard of our Majorcan zeal for the sanctity of a Catholic home.

I replied: ‘Speaking between ourselves, Mr Estrutt, the short-haired girl seemed to be in no way acting under duress; in fact, on our journey from Palma she was embracing and caressing the heretic – as I could not help seeing in my driving-mirror
– with every appearance of genuine enjoyment.’

Imagine my surprise, when Mr Estrutt winked at me (but with the eye
hidden from Mr Jonés) and answered: ‘Don Antonio, in England our young girls have been completely demoralized by the excitements of the recent war. Moreover, the poor child may have feared that, unless she caressed him in public, he would ill-treat her most cruelly once they were
alone.’

To be brief, the terms offered us three witnesses for a visit to London were twenty pesetas a day, besides travelling expenses, bed, board, laundry, wine, cigars, and anything else within reason that we might need, not omitting sight-seeing excursions; and another five hundred pesetas each, if we gave our evidence in a way that convinced the Judge. He also asked, would I be kind enough
to repeat this offer to my friends, Don Sebastián and Don Damián?

I wanted to know how long we should be away, and Mr Estrutt estimated that we should be home again within three weeks. My reply was that we should answer yes or no after a night’s reflection; but Mr Jonés urged us to sign a contract that same night. He intended to catch the Barcelona boat.

Well, I left the Englishmen at my house
while I went to the Bonsol and took Damián for a little stroll. ‘You are a knowledgeable man,’ I said, ‘and acquainted with the ways of the rich. I have been invited to visit London as witness in a kidnapping case. Now, for a commission of this sort, are twenty pesetas a day, all found, sufficient? I shall be away for about three weeks.’

Damián stopped, gazed at me in wonder, spat with emphasis,
and said: ‘Ka, man, you would be a fool to refuse! Myself, I would gladly go without pay – if only to escape from this dull hole and see grand civilization again.’

Damián, you must understand, had earned his nickname himself as coachman to the President of the Argentine Republic, and still remembered those days of glory. He added: ‘But what, in the Devil’s name, has the kidnapping case to do
with you?’

‘Patience, friend,’ said I. ‘First advise me whether the fee is correct in principle.’

He considered the matter. Then he spat again and said: ‘In principle, Toni, you should insist upon thirty pesetas a day. The English, as a rule, allow fifty per cent for bargaining where Spaniards are concerned.’

‘And five hundred pesetas on top of that!’

‘A tidy sum, by God! I wish I had the
chance to earn so much by a three weeks’ holiday.’

‘Then be joyful, Damián! You are invited too!’

He took this for a joke, but when he heard my story he threw his hat so high into the air that it sailed over the terrace, down the valley and into the torrent, and was not found again.

We went off together at once and acquainted Sentiá with his luck. As Sentiá was earning hardly five pesetas a
day, a casual labourer’s wage at
that time, his eyes truly bulged with greed. Yet we had to pour a deal of
coñac
down his throat before we could persuade him to join us. Never having left the island in his life, Sentiá cherished a tremendous fear of being drowned by a tempest at sea. Finally, however, he agreed; and after Damián and I had won the extra ten pesetas a day from Mr Jonés, without
a struggle, we took Sentiá along to the Mayor, who was the local Justice of the Peace, and persuaded him to witness the amended contract. In effect, we all signed the document, which had been prepared by a Spanish notary. Sentiá scrawled his name and rubric with a trembling hand, saying: ‘God grant that this be not my death warrant!’

Nobody from our village had ever seen the shores of England,
and it seemed a great thing for us three to be the first. Naturally, our wives did not favour the adventure, unless they could come too; is that not so, Isabel? But Mr Estrutt declared that such an arrangement would be most unwise, even if we cared to pay those extra passages and expenses out of what we should earn. Then Sentiá’s wife created a scandal. She called us fools for not asking fifty pesetas
a day, and a thousand at the close, Mr Jonés having agreed to our demand so readily. She knew in her heart, she shrieked, that I had been bribed by the Englishmen to keep the payment low. But Isabel here, and Damián’s wife, Angela, told her to be silent, since the offer was a handsome one and the document had now been securely signed.

Nothing more. After promising to write frequently, and making
our wives promise to behave themselves during our absence and keep the children in good order, we declared, hands on heart, that we should never have dreamed of leaving the village even for three weeks, were the preservation of a Catholic home not at stake. Indeed, the women of this island are hardly less zealous in this matter than Mr Estrutt suggested; and I doubt whether any of the three concerned
would have let us go for the money alone. I learned later that, while we were away, Isabel here spent half her days in church, praying for my safety and for the spiritual consolation of the unhappy widow.

Well, you have made that journey more than once, Don Roberto, so it is nothing new to you, but for me it was tremendous once we had crossed the frontier into France! It seemed a miracle that
within half a mile of country the aspect of so many things could suddenly change: the clothes, the language, the uniforms, the telegraph-poles, the colour of the mailboxes, the very shape and taste of the bread!

Mr Estrutt had fetched us by taxi from the village in order to shepherd us through the customs, the passport inspections, and other troubles. He seemed a very different man, once he had
emerged from the shadow of the serious Mr Jonés: being dressed now in a cream-coloured gaberdine suit, a hard straw-hat with a canary-yellow ribbon, and carrying a gold-headed cane. He also began to tell us jokes of the sort we call ‘green’. He arrived
at my house somewhat fatigued, having spent the previous night at the Bar Macarena. Perhaps you know the Macarena? If so, you will consider it
no small feat that he escaped alive from those gipsies and even contrived to preserve his wallet, his pearl tie-pin, and his gold-headed cane. The Metropolitan Police must be a race of lions.

We embarked on the night-boat to Barcelona, and the tears streamed down our wives’ faces as they waved us good-bye from the quay; and I confess that, for a moment, I wondered whether my decision had been
a prudent one. As for Sentiá, he was in a lamentable condition, and Mr Estrutt made him swallow a tablet which rapidly put him to sleep.

As soon as we were clear of Palma harbour, Mr Estrutt invited Damián and me to join him in the Bar. Over a
coñac
, he said: ‘Boys, presently I shall go to the cabin to restore my loss of sleep, but first let me be honest with you. That kidnapping story, you must
understand, is a work of fantasy. The old Viscountess and I thought it out together as a means of convincing your wives that it was their duty to let you go. Moreover, we decided that we should say no word about it to Mr Jonés. Though an intelligent lawyer, he is insular and highly moral, and would never practise a little deception even to assist a good cause.’

‘Well, then for God’s sake tell
us the truth at once!’ Damián demanded fiercely.

‘The truth,’ he replied, ‘is that this old witch of a Viscountess lost her husband, the Viscount, three months ago – he fell from the balcony of their bedroom at the Hotel Espléndido, Cannes, and perhaps it truly was an accident – who can say? But no matter! The widow is now enamoured of a retired officer in the King’s Bodyguard; and this officer,
whose profession is to direct a pack of foxhounds, possesses a large estate, but little money to maintain it – only a mountain of gambling debts. In fact, he is willing to marry the old trout, who is not bad-looking by candle light, if one places the candle well behind her and wears sunglasses. The sole bar to their union has been his young wife, an actress, who married him not long ago, thinking
he was rich but, finding that he had cheated her, now considers herself free to take what consolation she can find in the company of others. Yet she carefully covers her tracks when she goes hunting – hunting men, not foxes, of course. She is good-looking, you agree?’

Since Mr Estrutt was clearly referring to the short-haired girl, Damián and I pronounced that, yes, she was a delicious morsel,
though a little thin perhaps, and her eyes of too pallid a blue.

Mr Estrutt went on. ‘So you see, boys, that your testimony will be most valuable to the Viscountess. If the fox-hunting officer wins his decree of divorce from the short-haired girl, the Viscountess can them marry him, having paid all the expenses of the trial. Now, this is how I enter the story. Last May, the short-haired girl
was invited to stay with her elder sister at Tossa on the Costa Brava; but when the Viscountess sent me there in July
to make inquiries, I found that after only a single morning at Tossa the girl had crossed over to Majorca at the side of the Bulgarian artist, whom she had met on the Paris train. I discreetly followed their tracks and obtained your names, without visiting your village, from a
friendly corporal of Coastguards. With such information I went back to London, where Mr Jonés resolved to make the Viscountess pay a capital sum for his corroboration of my story. I should add that other acts of adultery are charged against the short-haired girl; but this is the only one which Mr Jonés at present dares to bring into Court. Well, boys, do you forgive me for the lies I told you?’