The Night People (11 page)

“Good,” Kane told him. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown, the poet.”

“Why?”

“I want to take a picture of it.”

“Of a grave?” The man pushed a hand through his hair and smiled a bit.

“Mandown was a great poet. He won the Nobel Prize. I want to write an article on him.”

Juan Vyano shrugged. “There is no grave.”

Kane was beginning to lose patience. “What do you mean? There must be a grave. Was he cremated?”

“No. But there is no grave to see. It is unmarked.”

“Do you know who Ramon Mandown was?”

“Certainly. He was a close friend of mine, of us all.”

“Have you read his poems?”

Vyano nodded. “Some of them, yes. They are very beautiful.”

“Mandown is a world-famous literary figure. He is certainly the greatest man your poor village ever produced. And you tell me he is buried in an unmarked grave?”

“I am sorry, but that is correct.”

“All right. Could I see it?”

“What good would it do?”

Kane shifted the camera to his other shoulder, feeling the leather strap suddenly heavy through his clothing. “Look, what about Mandown’s wife, Carla? Could you take me to her house?”

The dark eyes narrowed. “How did you know her name?”

“It’s on the backs of all his book jackets. Does that satisfy you?”

Vyano nodded. “Do not excite yourself. Carla Mandown is dead also.”

“All right.” Somehow he wasn’t surprised. What did poets’ wives have to live for, after their husbands had gone? “Is there any family at all? Brothers, sisters?”

“No one here. I am sorry.”

“Who might know something about him? You said you were his friend.”

“He was a great man and he died. There is nothing more to tell.”

Kane gazed into the sunlight, looking down at the cobbled village street. “I don’t suppose you have a bookstore here.”

“The nearest one is back in Puerto Vale, where you came from.”

“You knew I came from there?”

The man shrugged. “The car. Cars always come from Puerto Vale.”

Against his better judgment, Kane handed the man a few coins and went back to the car. In a few moments he was heading back the way he had come.

On the main street of Puerto Vale he parked the rented car and started off on foot, half expecting to encounter Doris coming out of some shop with an exotic native carving for their new home back in the States. He found a bookstore in the second block, a dimly lit place that was deep and narrow like some overlooked alley between the stores on either side. Inside, he hesitated before the long shelves of books, uncertain of their arrangement.

“Can I be of assistance?” a voice asked in unmistakably American tones. Kane turned and saw a stout middle-aged man with a short black beard.

“Is this your shop?”

The man nodded. “Harry Green’s the name. You’re American, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Kane Wingate. I just stopped over here for a few days. I think perhaps you can help me.”

The beard wagged up and down. “Certainly. Were you sent here by anyone?”

“No, not really.”

“I think I have just what you want,” Harry Green decided suddenly, and hurried away down the alley of books. Kane stared after him. He returned in a moment bearing an oversized volume under his arm. “The finest engravings,” he told Kane, opening it at random. The picture was an obscene photograph of two men.

“That isn’t what I had in mind. Do you have any books of poetry by Ramon Mandown?”

“Who? Mandown? No, you have to realize that this is something of a specialty shop.”

“I can see that. Where could I find some?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know. Mandown isn’t read much around here.”

“I gathered that. He’s buried in an unmarked grave.”

Harry Green’s expression changed. “You’ve been looking for his grave?”

“I have. Do you know anything about it?”

“Why should I?”

“Were you here at the time of his death?”

“Yes.”

“Look, damn it! Will somebody please tell me why everyone is afraid to talk about it?”

Harry Green looked down at the floor. “Sometimes you can get in real trouble talking about murder.”

“Murder!”

“I have to go now. I’ve said too much.” He patted his beard into place and retreated once more into the rear of the shop.

“Wait a minute!”

“We’re closing. Go away.”

Kane felt the frustration well within him, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by staying just then. Outside, he jotted down the address of the bookstore. Perhaps he would want to speak with Harry Green again.

Doris was resting on the bed when he returned to the room. She propped herself up on one elbow and asked, “Well, did you see your cemetery?”

“No.” He sat down opposite the bed and lit his first cigarette of the day.

“Isn’t that what we came here for?”

“Mandown is buried in an unmarked grave. His body is hidden for some reason, and I think it’s because he was murdered.”

“Oh, Kane!”

“Really. And perhaps his wife was murdered too, because she knew about it.”

“But how could such a thing be kept quiet for nearly two years?”

“That’s what I don’t know. How, and why.”

“Well, I guess we shouldn’t have come here after all. Your trip was all for nothing.”

“You call this nothing? I may be on the verge of the most important literary discovery of the decade.”

Doris got up and began to apply her lipstick before the room’s only mirror. “Will it wait until after dinner?”

“Of course, dear. You must be hungry.”

He watched her adjust the shantung skirt over smoothly curved hips, wondering still at the good fortune that had given her to him.

They dined at a side-street restaurant that paradoxically featured French cooking, and when they emerged the sky was darkening with the coming of night. “What’s there to do in this town now?” she asked.

“We could walk for a while down by the harbor.”

“That sounds exciting. I’ve had better times back in …”

She stopped suddenly as two men emerged from the shadows. They wore tropic suits and matching white hats, and the one in front had a hand in his pocket.

“Kane Wingate?” he asked in a tone that was not altogether pleasant.

“Yes. What do you want?”

“Come with us.”

His hand reached out for Kane’s arm, and Kane pulled away with a sudden reflex. “Like hell I will!” He gave the man a shove and backed quickly away.

The second man blinked his eyes and drew a gun. It was a little snub-nosed automatic that looked almost like a toy. “We are police,” he said. “I will shoot.”

Behind him, Kane heard Doris gasp in fright. “All right, let’s not get excited.” He took Doris by the arm and walked between the men to a waiting car. The one he had shoved said something unpleasant under his breath.

Ten minutes later they were seated on uncomfortable wooden benches in a bare, harshly lighted room at the local police headquarters. They were kept waiting about ten minutes before a man in the uniform of a police chief came to them with an aide. “Mr. Wingate,” he said in English, “forgive me for the difficulties. My man should not have drawn his weapon.”

“Would you mind explaining what you want with us? We’re American citizens.”

The police chief smiled without showing his teeth. “I hope that is not meant as a threat. Let me introduce myself—Captain Pallato of Puerto Vale’s security force. I want only a few moments of your time.”

“About what?”

“You visited a man named Harry Green this afternoon; a fellow American, I believe.”

Kane felt an immediate sense of relief. “I didn’t buy any of his books or pictures.”

Captain Pallato sat down behind his desk. “The dirty books are just a front. Harry Green is a dangerous revolutionary.”

“That’s a switch,” Kane said, feeling the new chill begin to form around his spine.

“What did you go there for?”

“Information about books, strange as it might seem. The place is a bookstore, you know.”

The man’s eyes were hard. “Exactly what information?”

“I’m writing an article about Ramon Mandown. I wanted to see his grave.”

“He is not buried at Harry Green’s shop.”

Kane sighed and reached for a cigarette. The whole thing was getting more impossible by the minute. “No, but there seems to be a certain reluctance on the part of most people even to talk about Mandown. I thought a bookseller might tell me something.”

“And did he?”

Kane lit his cigarette, taking his time about it. “Perhaps.”

Captain Pallato stood up and placed one booted foot on his chair. “I’ll give you a bit of good advice, Mr. Wingate. It could be dangerous for you to return to Harry Green’s shop.”

“It could be dangerous for me to cross the street, or get out of bed in the morning.”

“Correct. But the American embassy can be of little help to a dead man.”

“Look, let’s not play games. I’m not interested in Green’s books or in his revolution, either. I’m only interested in Ramon Mandown and what happened to him. Did you investigate his death, Captain?”

“The village is outside my territory. I can say nothing about it.”

“All right,” Kane sighed. “Tell me one thing, though. When did his wife die?”

“Carla Mandown? The same day he did. They are buried together.”

“Yes,” Kane said, almost as if he’d expected it. Juan Vyano hadn’t mentioned that little fact. The grave was hidden, but someone would know where. Someone in that whole village would know. And he was going to stay until he found it.

Captain Pallato released them after another warning to stay away from Harry Green’s shop, and Kane and Doris returned to the hotel in silence. She spoke, finally, on the way up to their room. “Fine country. Nice friendly country. Can we get a plane out of here tomorrow?”

“I’m sure we could, dear, but we’re not going to. I’ve got to find that grave now.”

“Find it? And do what?”

“Mandown and his wife died the same day. I think they were both murdered by someone in that village—maybe by Juan Vyano himself. The bodies will tell me something.”

“You’re not going to …”

“Dig them up? If I have to.”

She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Kane, are you out of your mind? We’re in trouble with the police already, thanks to you.”

“There will be no trouble.”

“You hope.”

He stared out at the scattered lights of the city. It was not New York, but there was a certain beauty in it, nevertheless. A man like Ramon Mandown might have been inspired by sights like this, might have written of these lights, and the village beyond, in poems that the whole world read. “There will be no trouble,” he repeated, almost to himself. “But why would anyone want to murder a poet?”

The telephone next to the bed gave off a faint, almost hesitant tingle, but it was enough to rouse Kane from the lightness of morning slumber. It took him an instant to remember that he was still in Puerto Vale, then he cleared his throat, picked up the phone and spoke, “Hello?”

“Kane Wingate?”

“Yes.” The voice was familiar.

“This is Harry Green. You were in my bookstore yesterday.”

“Oh, yes.” Kane had a sudden unreasoning fear that Captain Pallato might be tapping the lines. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got some news for you. About Ramon Mandown’s death.”

Kane felt his pulse quickening. “What is it?”

“I have a witness to whom you can talk, for one hundred American dollars.”

It was a good deal of money to Kane, but a real witness might well be worth it. “Where is he?”

“Come to my shop after lunch.”

Kane thought about Captain Pallato’s warning. Obviously the bookstore was being watched. “Can’t we make it somewhere else?”

Harry Green chuckled into the phone. “The police have thrown a scare into you?”

“I don’t want to get involved in local politics. We’ll meet somewhere else.”

“All right. The church of San Dardo. You can see it from your window. I’ll be there with the witness at exactly two o’clock this afternoon.”

When he hung up, Kane heard Doris stir in the bed next to him. “Who was that?” she mumbled.

“Harry Green, the man from the bookstore.”

Wide awake, she sat up in bed. “What did he want?”

“I’m to meet him. He has news about Mandown’s murder.”

“You’d go to meet him after what the police told you?”

“Not at the bookstore. At a church.”

“I’m going too.”

“Doris …”

“This is still our honeymoon, remember? If you’re going to rot away in a jail cell, I’m going to be there too.”

He knew it was useless to argue. “All right,” he said. “Maybe the police will think we’re just sightseeing.”

It was nearly noon when they ventured out after a light breakfast in the hotel, finding the streets warm beneath a cloudless blue sky. There was little traffic, and Kane had no trouble spotting the car that followed them. Though it was unmarked, the high aerial on the rear fender told him it was a police vehicle. He didn’t mention it to Doris.

They arranged to arrive at the church just before two, and Kane saw the bearded figure of Harry Green already waiting beneath the shadow of the front arch. There was something now slightly sinister about him, and what had passed as natural in the context of the bookstore took on an unmistakable air of menace in the presence of the church. Kane almost expected him to pull some dirty pictures from his inside pocket, or some stolen religious relics at the very least.

“Your wife?” Green asked, obviously uneasy at her presence.

“Yes. Doris, this is Harry Green.”

She nodded slightly, unable to keep a look of distaste from her face. “Hello.”

“Where’s your witness?” Kane asked impatiently, because it was obvious Green was alone.

“Not far from here, but you’ve got to come alone, without her.” The bearded man glanced around. “The police are watching you. Leave her here and they’ll think you’re just inside.”

“How long will it take?”

“Five minutes, ten minutes,” Green answered with a shrug. “Not long.”

“All right,” Kane decided, because he could see there was no other way. “Wait here, Doris. Look over the place and wander around like a tourist.”