The Twenty-Third Man Read online

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Dame Beatrice.

  ‘Not on your first visit, though? Not when you went with Mother and Mr Peterhouse? Are you sure?’

  ‘Go to bed, Clement, and stop pestering people,’ said Mr Drashleigh, with unwonted firmness.

  ‘I want something to eat; something decent. The bandits’ food was horrible!’

  ‘Very well. Pilar shall bring you a menu as soon as you are in bed, and you can have your meal on a tray.’

  ‘And I can really have what I like?’

  ‘Well, not shell-fish, my boy.’

  ‘Who wants shell-fish? I tell you I want something to eat!’

  He was hustled away, intoning, with the relish of a gourmand, a recital of all the dishes he would choose if these should be on the menu. The gong was sounded for lunch – very late, as usual – and Dame Beatrice went to the table which she shared with Clun.

  After coffee on the terrace, he left her, on the excuse that he was going fishing out in the bay. Dame Beatrice, relaxed and slightly somnolent after her morning’s expedition, lay back in a comfortable chair and speculated idly upon Clement Drashleigh. She wished she knew some way of persuading his foolish foster-parents to send him to an English boarding-school. Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Ruiz, who came up to her and said softly, but in a voice hoarse with fury:

  ‘If he had not left my hotel, I would have kicked him out. I would have strangled him. Even now, if ever I meet him, the villain, the cesspool, the pig, I will tear him in pieces! I will have him deported! I am Ruiz! He has dared to attempt to compromise my daughter, my Luisa! But that she carries always in her stocking a knife which she would not hesitate to use in defence of her modesty, he might even have contrived to take advantage of her. He is a beast, an ape, a baboon!’

  ‘Dear me!’ Dame Beatrice remarked. ‘You, my good host, appear to have cause for complaint. How much of a German is Mr Emden, I wonder? One cannot go by physiognomy, of course, so it is of no avail to say that he has not the appearance of a true Nordic of unmixed blood. One can sometimes go a little by accent, but his, so far as I have been privileged to hear it, seems to be that of Walthamstow overlaid by the B.B.C. An original mixture, one would be inclined to think, to trip from the tongue of a Prussian. You do speak of Emden, I take it?’

  ‘Speak of him? I spit upon his name!’ declared Ruiz, in the same low, vindictive tone. ‘And he shall go. I, Ruiz, have said it. He shall return to the slum that spawned him!’

  ‘Was he, by any chance, talking of Emden?’ asked Peterhouse, who had come up before Ruiz had finished speaking, and who now took the cushioned wicker chair next to that of Dame Beatrice.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ she replied. ‘It was odd that Emden should vanish before we had time and opportunity to make his acquaintance.’

  ‘I didn’t like him,’ said Peterhouse, ‘and I consider that his departure from the hotel was opportune. If he really has insulted Luisa Ruiz, he will do well to keep away. Spaniards are notably temperamental where their womenfolk are concerned, and, so far as I can discover, this island has no law against murder.’

  ‘Really? How very interesting.’

  ‘What, do you suppose, made that extraordinary child pay two visits to the cave of dead men? Anything more than sheer curiosity?’

  ‘Curiosity would have much to do with it, no doubt. He’s an intelligent little boy.’

  ‘Too intelligent to tell as much as he knew, I expect.’

  ‘Now, why should you suppose that?’

  ‘I have no notion, dear lady. Just a passing thought.’

  ‘I believe that thoughts should linger. I am inclined to distrust vapours and thin airs.’

  ‘Yes, and there’s such a thing as thin ice,’ said Peterhouse, half to himself. Dame Beatrice gazed at him and raised her black eyebrows.

  ‘Thin ice?’ she inquired. ‘You believe we are treading on thin ice?’

  Peterhouse shook his head.

  ‘I believe we have not heard the last of Emden,’ he said. ‘I wish I thought we had. He’s been on the island two months – no longer – and has contrived to set everybody by the ears.’

  ‘Two months? He came here –?’

  ‘You can check from the visitors’ book, but, to the best of my recollection, this would be his ninth or tenth week in Reales. Now tell me about the man Clun. Is he really a killer?’

  ‘I would not put it like that.’

  ‘But he did kill a man, and was put away for a stretch in prison, I believe?’

  ‘He killed a man in a fight, I understand, and went to prison for manslaughter.’

  ‘An uncomfortable fellow-traveller! I shall steer clear of him. Is it true that he and that young fellow Telham had a quarrel?’

  ‘Mr Telham arrived here in a highly nervous state, but his sojourn on the island seems to have done him good.’

  ‘It hasn’t done his sister good. I’m told she had a fit of hysterics in the cave of dead kings.’

  ‘You are told? But you were there!’

  ‘I was there?… Oh, so I was! How stupid of me.’

  It was a curious lapse of memory, Dame Beatrice thought, and lapses of memory were psychologically interesting. To relieve him from embarrassment, she referred to her impending visit to the troglodytes, adding that she supposed such visits were quite common.

  ‘Certainly. Visitors to the island often go to look at the cave-dwellers. There are just one or two things to remember,’ said Peterhouse, seizing on the chance to impart information.

  ‘The outer room is clean, neat, unoccupied, and for show,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘The inner room, divided from the outer by a curtain or screen, is the family dwelling-place and has to be smelt to be believed.’

  Mr Peterhouse looked disappointed.

  ‘I thought it would be new to you,’ he said. ‘But there is another thing. The cave-dwellers are quite untutored and are as grasping as savages. They have neither manners nor morals.’

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Living Troglodytes

  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.

&nbs
p; ‘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.’