The Twenty-Third Man (8 page)

‘Then it is unfair to compare them with savages, who, so far as my experience goes, obey a stricter code than our own. But you say that the cave-dwellers are grasping. What, precisely, do they grasp?’

‘It is not possible to be precise. Their tastes are catholic. The young girls have a tremendous liking for ladies’ fancy handkerchiefs, particularly if these be edged with lace. Brooches and bracelets, necklaces and wrist-watches they also find highly desirable, and from gentlemen they are apt to extract cigarette cases, lighters, and tie-pins. Nobody begs for any of these things but the young girls.

The boys are too proud and the older people are too dignified to be mendicants. On the other hand, the old women always have goods for sale – mostly rubbish, of course.’

‘How very interesting. I heard that the parents sell the young girls to South America. Is there any evidence of that?’

‘I have no idea. I shouldn’t think there’s much in it. The girls are the only members of the family who earn any money. They work in the cigar factories and on the banana plantations, you know.’

‘But a lump sum down, and no marriage dowry for the family to find –?’

‘Well, maybe. But if you got the story from Pilar I shouldn’t put too much faith in it. What she doesn’t know she invents, and her imagination is a lively one.’

‘How long has Mrs Angel lived on the island?’

‘She came here when
I
came, and I’ve lived here for twenty years.’

‘You remember her as a young woman, then?’

‘As a good-looking one, too. Of course, she wasn’t resident in the sense that she is now. She was always cutting her stick and going off to South America.’

‘Really? Oh, yes, Pilar the Unreliable seemed to think that Mrs Angel had interests over there.’

‘Not so unreliable, you think? I agree that her information is occasionally correct. It’s the use she makes of it, and the interpretation she puts on it, that make her a person to beware of.’

‘I will make a note of it. How long will it take me to reach the cave-dwellers?’

‘It depends.’

‘On the means of transport, I presume. How many cave-dwellers are there?’

‘A couple of hundred: not more; possibly fewer. The caves are part of an ancient stronghold and form two or three galleries, as it were, in a hillside. They are very interesting. Of course, they’re all liars and thieves up there. They are not Spaniards. They are probably the only true survivors of the original inhabitants of the island. Take a guide, or you may run into Tio Caballo and his band. Their haunts are all over these mountains.’

‘Tio Caballo and José the Wolf are sensible creatures. They would know that the chances of anybody wishing to ransom
me
are small indeed, and smaller than that word. I think we may discount the theory that they will capture me if I go without a guide.’

‘They might even murder you, dear lady. There is no adequate police force on the island to take action in such
an
eventuality. I feel it my duty to warn you of that, and to beg you to take Pilar’s young man, or someone else who is known to the band.’

‘Pepe Casita appears to be a person of parts.’

‘He’s an out-and-out young villain! They will make a pretty couple, he and Pilar, when they’re married. Nobody’s money and nobody’s reputation will be safe.’

‘Dear me! And both of them so young! And Pilar, apart from her tendency, as you say, to shatter reputations, such a good, kind girl!’

Peterhouse snorted.

‘She’s an impertinent little busybody!’ he declared. ‘I wouldn’t trust her even as far as I could see her. Do you know what she told Ruiz about me? She told him I manufactured dope up in the mountains and sold it to the sailors when the liners put in here to disembark passengers.’

‘Dear me! That was extremely indiscreet of her. What made her think of such a thing?’

‘I could not say. She likes to make mischief. I wonder what she will find to say about you? Nobody is safe from her exaggerations.’

‘It will be interesting to find out what she says about me, then. I do hope that, if rumours come to your ears, you will keep me posted.’

‘Be assured that I will. Where is the young man Clun? I saw him go by with a fishing-rod. I wonder whether he will take long to recapture the art? He can hardly have practised it in prison! You would be well advised to have as little to do with him as possible.’

‘Oh, I scarcely think he will prove dangerous.’

‘You think he has had his lesson? I doubt it. Once a killer, always a killer, you know.’

‘Such is not my experience. Besides, Mr Clun had no intention of killing, I am certain.’

‘He looks a violent, uncontrolled person. Personally, I shall take great care never to be left alone with him. I was not sorry when he did not join the party which went to the cave. I wish you could have come, though.’

‘I did come, if you remember.’

‘Oh, did you?’ He looked thoughtful, but Dame Beatrice knew that he was suffering from a state of mental fugue. She shook her head, but decided that, at the moment, it was no concern of hers. He came to with a start. ‘What were we talking about?’ he asked. ‘I’m so sorry. I think the years of sunshine have addled my pate. Do forgive me! Are you an expert on forestry?’

‘No, I fear not. I know the names of several trees, but there my knowledge ends.’

‘A pity. I was going to ask you whether you thought the Turkey oak would flourish here. I must find out from Kew. Perhaps they would send me some acorns to plant.’

He walked briskly away. Dame Beatrice followed him with her eyes. As though he felt that she had called to him, he swung round and came striding back.

‘I was going to ask you’, she said, ‘to tell me more about the bandits.’

‘Ah,’ said Peterhouse, ‘I can tell you no more than I have told you already. As for that boy, I shouldn’t believe a word he says, if I were you. He follows people about, you know, and spies on them. I believe he knows perfectly well where Emden has gone. You ask him, and see whether he does not.’

‘Why not ask him yourself?’

‘I don’t care to be answered rudely.’

‘I call that a very unchivalrous reason. If one of us is to suffer, does not convention demand that you, the male, assume the mantle of heroism?’

‘You are jesting with me, dear lady.’ He smiled with his lips, disclosing large, uneven, yellow teeth, but the smile did not extend to his eyes.

THE HOTEL GRAPE-VINE
, it appeared, had apprised most of the guests of Dame Beatrice’s determination to visit the community of cave-dwellers.

‘Nothing could be easier,’ Mrs Angel assured her. ‘And on no account take any notice of Mr Peterhouse. He specializes in jeremiads. He believes that the poor old cave-dwellers deal in witchcraft and less innocuous matters. He really
is
a silly old man.’

‘
Less
innocuous matters?’

‘Sodom and Gomorrah couldn’t hold a candle to that man’s mind, and, if they did, it would explode.’

‘Really?’

‘You sound incredulous. My Talkie has gone! It was that wretched Karl Emden.’

‘It is in the hope of seeing him that I propose to visit the troglodytes.’

‘Their caves are extremely insanitary. Have you brought a small-tooth comb? But, whether you have or whether you have not, remember to take no notice of anything Mr Peterhouse tells you. A most unreliable man, and hopelessly misinformed. You need to beware of him, you know. I do not believe he can distinguish between fat and fiction, and his memory is faulty, too. He would make a very bad witness in a court of law. And on no account allow him to accompany you. The cave-dwellers do not like him.’

Dame Beatrice certainly did not propose to seek his company on her visit to the troglodyte community, yet she agreed with him that it might be as well to take a guide. She spoke of this to Pilar.

‘Your Pepe. Is he at liberty to escort me to the community of cave-dwellers?’

‘For how much?’ inquired Pilar, who believed in the direct approach.

‘That is for him to say.’

‘Then it will be too much. Offer fifty pesetas. It is plenty.’

‘What about thirty?’

‘That’, said Pilar readily, ‘would also be plenty. Give him twenty-five.’

‘Very well, and here are ten pesetas for yourself. Please ask Pepe to undertake the hire of the mules.’

‘No, no. You must not hire mules for that excursion. You go there in state, in a motor car.’

‘Why?’

‘The cave-dwellers have their pride. They are always visited by motor car. No one would think of anything else. There is quite a good road.’

So Dame Beatrice, accompanied by a newly shaven Pepe Casita, journeyed to the caves of Nuestra Doña de Mercedes in a hired limousine of 1935 vintage driven by a reckless islander named Ignacio Verde on Pilar’s idea of a good road.

‘We are here,’ announced Ignacio, skidding to a halt on the edge of a thousand-foot drop. ‘I wait two hours. Or more. Or less. As you wish. Your time is mine. Let us say two hours, shall we?’

They said two hours; then Pepe led the way to the caves. These as Peterhouse had stated, formed part of what had been a stronghold of the islanders before the time of the Spanish conquerors and it overlooked a deep river valley. The entrances were walled up except for the narrow doors. These were all closed and there was nobody to be seen.

‘They heard the sound of the automobile,’ said Pepe, a graceful, sad-eyed youth wearing a distressing pin-striped suit of navy-blue and a fancy hat like a fringed lampshade. ‘They are within. I shall shout.’

This he did, and, without waiting for the result, retired to the car which had brought them. A boy’s face appeared round the edge of a door and was immediately
withdrawn.
A moment later a lacquer-haired, full-faced woman of about twenty-five appeared in the doorway and beckoned to the visitor.

‘We are here since twelve hundred years,’ she announced, ‘and we are the native peoples of the island. Before us we have photography showing my father’s family, my mother’s family, and an iron candlestick, property of Philip II, Spanish Armada, of Madrid, the Escorial. You are English lady, yes? Please to look around, and then I sell you the island pottery, not made on a wheel, secret of this place since ancient history times. I am educated in a convent. You may rely on me.’

Dame Beatrice bought the piece of pottery and asked how many members there were of the woman’s family.

‘We are eighteen,’ was the reply. ‘Six dead. So twelve.’

‘And you all live behind that curtain?’ asked Dame Beatrice, pointing to a horse-blanket which decorated the back of the cave.

‘Certainly, but I cannot show you. We show only the
sala de recibo.
’

‘And do you take lodgers?’

‘With twelve living here? Good gracious me!’

In the next cave, the hostess was a black-eyed, tousle-haired girl of about sixteen who seized the lace-edged handkerchief Dame Beatrice held out and then, with a shrill cry, disappeared behind the curtain which, again, separated the whitewashed front of the cave from the malodorous living-quarters.

The apparently ubiquitous family photographs, an old-fashioned gramophone, and a basket chair of island manufacture formed the principal features of the parlour. Dame Beatrice scrutinized the photographs and wondered how best to introduce the reason for her visit. She was not left alone very long, for the girl reappeared, accompanied by a negroid crone of uncertain age who walked with the aid of a stick.

‘I am blind,’ announced the crone. ‘I have lived in this cave since birth. I love the Americans, all of you. The
Americans
are good people. They always give money. I do not object to payment in dollars. I shall sell you a piece of pottery. The like is not to be obtained by your friends. Unique. Indestructible. I do not love Communists. I love the American nation. Give me much money.’

To one so single-minded, Dame Beatrice thought it might be well to introduce the object of her visit as bluntly as possible.

‘Where does the Señor Carlos Emden lodge?’ she asked, pressing a ten-shilling note into an outstretched hand.

‘You must take back your money. I do not know,’ said the old woman. ‘I have heard nothing of a gentleman so named.’

‘No? That is a pity. But the money is for you, not for what you can tell me. Have you really not heard the name before? Karl Emden. He came to live in a cave. He left his hotel in Reales to become a cave-dweller like yourself. He is fascinated by the people of this island.’

‘No. He has not come. I should have heard. I hear everything. When you are blind you hear everything and you feel the sunshine. Give me more money. It is your duty.’

‘Tell me about Karl Emden.’

‘I tell you that I do not know him. He is not here. He is not one of us. From Reales, you say? I have not been in Reales for twenty-five years. Have you looked at the photographs of my sons and daughters? And of my brothers and sisters? Do you wish to buy pottery? Would you like to buy a bottle of wine or a basket chair? I will make you a special price. You are old, like me. I can smell it.’

So it went on, until Dame Beatrice had visited six of the curious homesteads. No one would acknowledge any acquaintanceship with Emden and she was forced to the conclusion that, whatever his intentions might have been, he could not have come to the caves. If he had, the cave-dwellers were saying nothing about it. She was interested. She returned to the hired car while she considered the
matter.
It was easy to see cause and effect, especially when the evidence was circumstantial, as she very well knew, but, all the same, there was something disturbing in the fact that, the day after the
Alaric
had docked, the most individual and (if one admired the dress of the islanders) the most picturesque guest at the Hotel Sombrero had elected to forego the comfort and good food provided by Señor Ruiz and had announced his intention of joining the troglodytes.

Pepe Casita, with the sympathy of his kind, realized that she was troubled.

‘You do not care for the caves?’ he inquired. ‘They are of the beasts, those people. Well I know it.’