Law of Return (7 page)

María was almost unnerved by the change in her husband over the next few days. In spite of the alarming news from France, and in spite of the fact that the Guardia had almost certainly stepped up their surveillance again, he seemed more decided and more contented than he had been in years.
He’s
glad
that Meyer wrote to him,
María thought resignedly.
It’s like that
business with Don Miguel all over again
. It was noble of Guillermo to take risks to help colleagues. His generosity was one of the things she loved about him. But she sometimes suspected that it would be more restful to have a husband who was content without taking insane risks. It was, María supposed, merely the law of averages that Elena seemed to be falling to pieces just as Guillermo pulled himself together. A family vacation! María thought, as her husband began to talk of writing to hotels in San Sebastián. It will be a wonder if we all come out of this one alive!

Guillermo’s good mood received an abrupt check when the mail arrived on Wednesday afternoon. The postman had brought only one envelope. It was crumpled, but the address, in Professor Fernández’s own handwriting, was still legible:
12 Rue
de Lafayette, Toulouse
. One end had been slit, and resealed with the stamp of the Spanish censors, but the seal on the envelope remained untampered with. Stamped across the back of the envelope were the words: UNDELIVERABLE: SERVICE SUSPENDED, and a black stamp of an eagle perched over a swastika, its wings spread, with the words: OBERKOMMANDO DER WEHRMACHT.

Guillermo brought the letter into the kitchen without speaking, and held it out to María. She looked at the envelope that her husband had mutely offered for her inspection, half hoping that Guillermo’s newfound and possibly suicidal determination would falter under this blow. Then she raised her eyes to his face. “Perhaps the mail is only disrupted for a few days,” she suggested gently. “After all, a lot has happened lately.”

Guillermo sank into a chair, shaking his head. “Wasn’t that what you said about Madrid?” he remarked.

It was his wife’s turn to wince. The nightmare months of Guillermo’s imprisonment, when she had tried over and over again to write to Elena, too frightened to telephone her, and never certain if the letters went through, were all too vivid. “Try again in a few days,” she pleaded, forgetting that she had hoped that the problem of Joseph Meyer might be solved by continued postal delays. “You don’t have anything to lose.”

“I suppose not.” The professor sighed, and leaned his forehead on his hand. “But I don’t see the point.”

“We’ll find a way.” María spoke soothingly, and tucked the offending letter into the cookbook she had been reading, as if it were a bookmark, so that it would be out of her husband’s sight.

“I don’t see how.”

The gist of this conversation was repeated at intervals during dinner, until Elena thought that she would go mad. She had noted the impending approach of her father’s Friday interview with the Guardia Civil with increasingly guilty dread. Now, adding to her guilt, was the feeling that she should have been helping her mother to cheer her father.

“The letter to Hipólito was sent without any difficulty,” María reminded him. “And Friday you’ll ask about San Sebastián. . . .”

“My God!” The professor shuddered. “I’m not looking forward to that either.”

“Perhaps you could ask the lieutenant if he knows anything about when the mail will be back to normal,” Elena suggested without thinking.

Her parents turned to stare at her, and she flushed as she recognized the absurdity of her idea. But she succeeded in striking a spark from her father. “You ask him,” he said, wryly, “since you’re so at ease in his company.”

Elena was grateful for the note of humor, but decided somewhat unhappily that this was not the best time to explain that she wished to avoid another meeting with the lieutenant.

Chapter 7

T
ejada spent a good deal more time than he would have liked thinking about his encounter with Elena Fernández over the next few days. He told himself that he was merely worrying about her to take his mind off of his work, which was proving irritating. He might, however, have devoted even more mental time to the professor’s daughter had he not been so busy. Circumstances certainly seemed to conspire to bring her to mind.

In the absence of actual clues to Arroyo’s whereabouts, Tejada had fallen back on careful scrutiny of the records of Arroyo’s fellow petitioners. He instinctively and unconsciously avoided scrutinizing Guillermo Fernández’s too closely, until a chance comment made by Sergeant Hernández on Monday morning about the failure to check on Fernández’s associates made him aware of the oversight.

“What do you want me to do?” he snapped. “Send to Madrid to see if there’s a file on his daughter as well? I’m sure
that
will help with Arroyo!”

“No, sir,” the sergeant replied quickly. Hernández had quickly come to like the lieutenant, and he had not expected the sharp note in Tejada’s voice. Because he liked Tejada, however, he risked another question. “How did you know she was in Madrid, sir?”

Tejada deposited the Fernández file in the filing cabinet, and slammed the drawer shut with slightly more violence than necessary. “Because, Sergeant,” he said with careful formality, “you may recall that I interviewed Fernández on Friday and, despite your apparent opinion, I did my best to avoid negligence.”

“Understood, sir.” The sergeant knew when not to ask more questions.

To satisfy his conscience, Tejada persuaded himself that there was no evidence that any of the petitioners had had any contact with Arroyo recently. It was far more likely that his wife or his employer knew something about his whereabouts. The idea of another interview with Señora Otero de Arroyo was not attractive. Tejada looked up the address of Arroyo’s employer, and set out to meet the man who had hired Professor Arroyo after his enforced retirement from the university.

Tejada found the law offices of Doctor Eduardo Crespo without difficulty. They were on the Rua Mayor, in what had been a wealthy neighborhood, halfway between the Plaza Mayor and the university. Like all of Salamanca, the row houses along the Rua Mayor were made of yellow-gold sandstone. Unlike much of the city, they were in excellent repair, clean and golden, instead of sooty. A discreet and highly polished brass plaque proclaimed that Eduardo Crespo, Doctor of Jurisprudence, would be found on the main floor of number eight. The concierge who opened the door bowed the lieutenant up the stairs to a large set of rooms overlooking the street.

A fair-haired man in a gray suit sat behind a desk in the outer office, typing something. He was not an expert typist, and his index fingers hovered over the keys like pistons, pouncing occasionally. He was apparently absorbed in what he was doing. Tejada coughed to get his attention. The man looked up. His eyebrows rose as he took in the lieutenant’s uniform, but all he said was, “Yes, Señor Guardia? Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Eduardo Crespo.” Tejada did not waste words.

“Do you have an appointment, Señor?”

“I am here in an official capacity.” Tejada’s voice was absolutely calm, but he was somewhat puzzled. People very rarely asked uniformed guardias civiles if they had appointments. Crespo’s clerk (or secretary, or junior partner) was either exceptionally brave or exceptionally stupid.

The fair-haired man held Tejada’s gaze a moment longer, and then stood up. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

“Thank you.” Tejada, watching the young man’s progress towards an oak-paneled inner door, noticed a slight limp. War wound, thought the lieutenant, revising his estimation of the clerk.

The door closed briefly, and then opened again. The fair-haired man emerged, and a voice spilled after him, saying, “Show him in then, man!”

Tejada’s first impression of Eduardo Crespo’s office was of a blizzard of papers. Files were stacked on top of bookshelves and filing cabinets, on chairs, and scattered across the broad mahogany desk in the center of the room. Since the lieutenant was accustomed to less than pristine offices, the general air of chaos did not prevent his forming a second impression, which was of wealth. The leather-bound, gold-embossed legal tomes on the bookshelf behind the desk lost only a little of their dignity by being buried beneath large manila folders laid sideways on top of them. Tejada had a shrewd suspicion that the freestanding telephone sitting near one corner of the desk was worth the better part of his monthly salary, and the brass lamps flanking it were probably of equal value.

Crespo himself gave off the same aura of disorganized opulence. He was in his mid-forties, and even his excellently tailored suit could not quite conceal a small paunch. As he came around the desk his unbuttoned jacket flopped sloppily back to reveal a gold watch chain spanning his vest. “Good morning, good morning.” Like most lawyers, his voice was a shade louder than necessary. “Forgive the mess. My partner is on vacation and we’re short staffed.” He held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry, I’m stupid about ranks. Captain? Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Lieutenant,” Tejada said, wondering why he resented having his rank inflated. If it was honest ignorance there was no reason to be irked by it, and if it was a clumsy attempt at flattery, then Crespo was clearly trying to be friendly.

“No, really?” Crespo was still genial. As he shook hands Tejada noted that he wore a ring on his smallest finger that looked like it bore the insignia of a fraternity of some sort. “Well, no doubt you have a great career ahead of you. What can I do for you, young man?”

He waved the lieutenant to a seat in front of the desk, and then returned to his own. Tejada sat, and realized why he had resented the lawyer’s assumption that he was a captain. He implied that he wouldn’t ordinarily deal socially with anyone below a captain’s rank, Tejada thought. His sense of humor rescued him.
I’m sure he would enjoy dealing with Rodríguez.
He smiled slightly as he replied, “I’m here regarding a criminal investigation, Doctor Crespo.”

“Criminal?” The lawyer’s voice was still loud and jovial, but Tejada noticed that he no longer leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid I can’t help you very much, Lieutenant. I have a strictly civil practice.”

“The Guardia Civil retains its own legal counsel,” Tejada remarked dryly. “I am actually looking for a missing person. That is, there is a gentleman whom the Guardia is looking for. I believe you may have information as to his whereabouts.”

“Who would this be?” To Tejada’s satisfaction, Crespo looked considerably less comfortable now.

“Manuel Arroyo Díaz.” Tejada inspected Crespo narrowly as he spoke.

The lawyer sighed. “Professor Arroyo?” The inflection of his voice made the words a question, but he did not seem overly shocked.

“Are you surprised?”

Crespo shook his head. “Quite frankly, no. I’ve been afraid that something was amiss with him since he didn’t show up for work.”

“He didn’t show up for work when?” Tejada took out a notebook with a feeling of satisfaction. Crespo might be obnoxious personally, but he was proving more helpful than anyone else had been so far.

“I’d have to check the actual day.” The lawyer was apologetic. “As I mentioned, we’re short staffed, and things have been chaotic around here. But he wasn’t in at all last week. I’d meant to telephone him and ask if something was wrong.” He nodded at the phone on the desk. “But I’m afraid it slipped my mind. And now I gather that something
is
wrong.”

“Were you aware that Professor Arroyo reports to the Guardia Civil on a weekly basis?” Tejada asked, struck again by the ease with which some people accepted mysterious disappearances.

“Yes, yes, of course I knew,” Crespo admitted. “The professor’s never made any secret of it, poor man. Not that he could.”

“Yet you didn’t report his absence to the Guardia?” Tejada asked.
It’s bizarre,
he thought.
A man disappears for a week, and neither
his wife nor his employer thinks of reporting it to the Guardia. I
could understand it in Madrid, if they were Reds, but these are
respectable people.

The lawyer sighed and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. “May I speak frankly, Lieutenant?” He was attempting to use a confidential tone.

“It would be appreciated.”

Tejada’s gentle irony appeared lost on Crespo. The lawyer’s voice dripped with sincerity as he said, “I didn’t report Professor Arroyo’s absence to the Guardia Civil because . . . well, in all honesty, I suspected that he might not want me to. He was always a proud man and he still is, now, in spite of everything. I respect him too much to . . . to run to the Guardia to tell on him like a child tattling to a teacher.”

Once again, Tejada’s sense of humor saved him from annoyance. That
,
he told himself, must be the truth, because no one who went through law school would be capable of inventing such a clumsy lie. Aloud, he said, “Of course I have to respect such loyalty, even if I do feel that it is a bit misplaced.” He allowed the pause after these words to become slightly tense before continuing. “You speak as if you’ve known the professor for some years, Doctor Crespo. Could you tell me something about your connection with him?”

“Certainly.” As Tejada had expected, relief made the lawyer voluble. “I was Arroyo’s student, oh, twenty years ago. Nearer twenty-five now, actually. Hard to believe that. He was one of the few truly inspiring professors I had. A brilliant mind, but also such a passion for teaching. He could ignite a lecture hall. It’s impossible to explain, if you haven’t experienced it.”

Tejada, whose experience with Arroyo’s lectures had inspired only somnolence, nodded understandingly. “And you’ve kept in touch with him over the years?”

“Well, naturally more frequently when I first graduated.” Crespo became cautious. “He took me under his wing, as it were, for the first couple of years. We saw less of each other as time went on, but I’ve run into him and his wife socially over the years. At Christmas parties, and things like that. A friendly acquaintance, you might say.”

“And how did he come to work for you?” Tejada asked, puzzled. The sort of relationship described by the lawyer was perfectly plausible, but did not explain the dogged loyalty that would make a man stand by a convicted Marxist during the bitter days of the war.

Crespo sighed. “Well, I suppose you know what happened to him at the university.” Tejada nodded, and the lawyer continued. “He could have retired completely, you know. He wasn’t badly off, and his wife’s family are also comfortable. But he wanted to work. One of the endearing things about him is his determination to keep himself busy. Naturally, an academic career was out of the question, and it was impossible for him to practice law on his own, and well, feelings here ran rather high during the war. No one wanted to take him on as a partner, and since, as I said, he’d been something of a mentor to me, well, you understand, Lieutenant, I didn’t agree with his politics, but I couldn’t just stand idly by and let him lose all self-respect. And it’s worked out very well.”

“Of course.” Tejada felt the glimmerings of a grudging respect for the stocky lawyer. “What title does he hold in your firm?”

“Maintenance director,” Crespo replied unhesitatingly. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to have a janitor who’s literate, and can be trusted not to shuffle everything out of order.” He waved a hand at the piles of paper. “And he gets on well with the charwomen too.” Then, since Tejada seemed bereft of speech, Crespo continued, “I’m fond of Arroyo, Lieutenant. He’s someone you can’t help liking, even when you know he’s being pigheaded as he was over that university business. I hope you can see now why I didn’t run to the Guardia Civil.”

“Of course,” Tejada said automatically, his mind still reeling. He glanced at his notes, thinking of the little biographical sketch in Arroyo’s file, and then said slowly. “So, you’re saying that Professor Arroyo has been working here as a
janitor
for the last three-and-a-half years?”

“That’s correct.” Crespo opened his desk, and withdrew a damascene-inlaid cigarette case. “He comes in three evenings a week, generally after everyone’s gone home. He has a key, of course, and this way he doesn’t meet any of our clients. Some of them might be uncomfortable with having him—a man of his political sympathies—working here.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Something in Tejada’s expression must have struck him, because he held out the cigarette case with an air of embarrassed contrition. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, you must think I’m terribly ungracious. Do you smoke?”