Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

“This was the room, Scape. Steph broke in that window. The bed was as it is now, stained of course and occupied.”

Scape looked into the very small room, it was tiny. The door was a masterpiece, a magnificent chunk of wood; and he noticed that old time Spaniards had mastered the art of getting a door to fit its frame. His hotel room door didn’t even come close. “Head was turned toward the window. What about the injury?”

“Quite unmistakeable. Not only the blood but the entire top of his head had been caved in.”

“Signs of violence?”

“None. Though a 14th Century crucifix that had always been imbedded in the stone had fallen out of the stone and broken. It was right there, you can see where it was.”

“The murder weapon?”

“Yes, according to the police.”

“And no evidence of anyone or thing?”

“Not according to the police. There was no way It’s not a house that can be broken into. The door was locked, windows are barred.”

Scape took out the police photograph and walked around the little room. In the photograph the blood-stained bed had three empty bottles on the floor beside it. Otherwise, it was the same.

“A man named Delgado headed the investigation,” Scape said. “I’ve read his report. What was he like? He seem competent?”

“Officious. Authorities are in every country.”

“You saw him here. When you came back he was in that front room.”

“He was.”

“Marks of dragging, any blood?”

“Not that I saw. But he had been dead for days. We figured we probably were in Tunis when he was killed.”

“With Lord Vandelaff keeping second to second tabs on you, so there was no chance you could have flown back for the kill.”

“You suspect me or murder, Scape,” Ewa Crop said. “What motive?”

“How about the grieving widow and her money? You’re not exactly well to do, are you?”

“No. I’m not.”

Scape looked around the room again. A very small circular Spanish carpet was beside the bed, the floors were marble, the ceiling was decorated. There wasn’t anything in the room that said anything. Reluctantly, he moved away from the cold air coming from the sleeve-mounted air-conditioner, and he walked from the room, the way the body had allegedly walked or been transported by the ghosts.

“Where was the torturing done?”

“In the old days? A dungeon. It’s been sealed for a few hundred years, absolutely sealed.”

“Maybe the weird noises are things down there.”

“Perhaps. Anything else you’d like to see?”

“No. I guess not.”

“Ewa going to get your approval, Scape?”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Scape said and led the way outside where the two women were standing under a tall old shade tree. Scape moved to the car, Mike following and the women coming over. Then Scape looked back at the great old house. “Oh, what’s up on the second floor?”

“There isn’t any,” Randolf-Wilson said. “Oh, no. That’s just the air space. It’s nothing.”

“An attic?”

“No. There’s no way into it. It’s sealed. The old time architecture. I think it’s a Moorish touch or maybe even Roman.”

Inspector Delgado smiled at Scope “Superb dinner, I’m grateful to you, Mister Scape.”

“It’s my treat, Inspector. May I ask those few questions?”

“Entirely improper, official business, impossible to discuss it without authorization from Madrid. Okay. Go ahead, ask,” Delgado smiled.

“No criticism. I’m hardly in a position to criticize, but why have you dropped it?”

“Of course it’s criticism. Certainly the three of them or at least the two of them engineered the murder, but without the murderer—” he shrugged his shoulders. He was a tall, handsome man who’d been an Embassy brat, had grown up and been educated all over the world, including the States. “It’s hardly a locked room murder. Presumably someone was paid, given the key. The dead man was drunk in bed. The hired killer smashed his head in and then the body was carried into the living room. The killer left and he’s now in England or Sweden more probably.

“It’s difficult, Mister Scape. We have an immense tourist industry. Most probably one of them came and did it and left the island even before the body was discovered. For your purposes that may not be agreeable, but for me it’s a matter of near indifference. Europe stops at the Pyrenees. We’re medieval, a remnant from the Middle Ages. That’s your view. The truth is that our bias is even greater than yours. We generally refrain from killing each other, but have the inclination to believe that it’s one of your normal societal behavior patterns. This killing was investigated, we made a genuine attempt to find evidence to bring the widow and her friends to court. We were unable to do that and very frankly I’m considerably more concerned with the incidence of motor vehicle fatalities on our roads.”

“I understand. But I wonder whether your bias hasn’t hurt you on this. We may murder each other all the time, but with it we have a certain sophistication. I don’t think we usually hire a murderer if it’s a c old-blooded murder for money. Basic reasoning. If money is the goal, money is all important; and if that’s so, we do our damndest not to put ourselves into positions where we could be blackmailed.”

The Inspector smiled.

“That’s neatly rational, but are murderers?”

“Are you absolutely certain they didn’t kill him?”

“There’s no way they could have done it. The medical examiner placed the time of death.”

“Could he have been wrong?”

“Of course, but his credentials are excellent and the extreme time span still makes it impossible. They were at least a hundred miles away when it was done. Lord Vandelaff was with them.

“Look, my friend, I accept that you may have an inclination to distrust us, but we’re both a product of your system. The medical examiner is a Harvard Med product. I studied with the F.B.I., N.Y.P.D. Maybe Spanish police work could have pinned it on them, but I used American police work and I didn’t come up with a case.”

“This was your first murder on the island?”

“My first investigation. I’d just been assigned here. But in the States and England, Germany I’ve been an observer in plenty of them.”

“They did it,” Scape said. “I don’t know how. Vandelaff wasn’t drunk or drugged?”

“Sorry. Everything was checked and this is Spain, we have the means to check things. I’m afraid your company is going to have to pay. Certainly I believe they killed him, but I don’t know any way to prove that.”

Scape got progressively more sour. He checked at the offices of the Majorca Daily Bulletin and in their back issues checked the extremely brief account of the murder. He also talked to an effeminate columnist who knew all the gossip but nothing useful. And, just curious, he noticed the weather. He couldn’t avoid noticing it. They had photographs and stories about how miserable it had been. It had gotten rainy and cold in late October, it had been quite cold.

He walked out of the Bulletin office and headed for Iberia to change his flight. He’d give it twenty-four more hours. If he still couldn’t think of anything by then he’d give it up. They wouldn’t be the first people who’d gotten away with murder.

But he was disgusted about it. Somehow the two or three of them had killed old Stanley and for some reason there didn’t seem to be any way to prove it. How had they done it?

He walked, looking into the spectacular old court yards, admiring the mansions and visualizing how they must have been when horses and carriages and even Imperial Spain had commanded the world. And he looked into store windows. There were a lot of American products, very expensive compared to their competition. Zenith, Westinghouse, General Electric, Fedders, Kelvinator. Fedders!