Michael Pearce - A dead man of Barcelona

She frowned, however.

‘If it’s that bad, Enrico,’ she said anxiously, ‘perhaps I ought to put something in a pot? Then you could take it in and give some to everybody.’

‘No, I couldn’t!’ snarled Enrico. ‘This is a prison, not a bloody hotel.’

‘Our Lord bids us to take care of all those in need,’ said Enrico’s mother piously.

‘Look, I’m just a warder, not the bloody caterer!’

‘There’s no need to swear at me!’ said his mother severely.

‘Even the beasts of the field,’ said his wife, timid but supportive, ‘need their food.’

‘Animals now, is it?’

‘So, Enrico,’ said Seymour, intervening swiftly, ‘when you were given the food to take in, you did not know it was poisoned?’

‘Of course not! Do you think I would-’

‘My son would never do a thing like that!’ said the warder’s mother, shocked.

‘No, no. I didn’t mean-’

‘Enrico’s a good man,’ said his wife indignantly.

‘What was it?’ said Seymour. ‘A pie, or something?’

‘Yes, with a good crust on it.’

‘That the way I do them,’ said his mother approvingly.

‘Enrico likes a good crust,’ said the wife.

‘Look, can you keep out of it?’

‘I’m just wondering, you see,’ said Seymour quickly, ‘how it was done. For the poison to work, he’d have to have taken quite a lot of it. So the dish must have been tasty-’

‘Oh, it was!’

His wife looked at Enrico suspiciously. ‘How do you know that, Enrico?’

‘Well, I tried a bit, didn’t I?’

‘Oh, Enrico, you might have been poisoned!’

‘So I might! The bastards! They should have known I might have a taste.’

‘But, Enrico, it was not your pie!’

‘He was always putting his fingers in,’ said his mother fondly, ‘even when he was a child.’

‘I didn’t put my fingers in! I just took a bit of the crust.’

‘It was a mercy you didn’t.’

‘And there was nothing unusual about the taste?’ asked Seymour.

‘A bit sour, perhaps.’

‘He always likes it sweet,’ said his wife.

‘Or about the smell?’

‘Not that I noticed. Mind you, you wouldn’t notice, not with the general stink in there.’

‘Do you collect the plates afterwards? How was he then? Did you notice?’

‘He was sleeping. At least, that’s what I thought. I don’t collect the dishes straight away, I go in a bit later. And there he was, huddled up in a corner.’

‘Poor man!’ said his mother, sympathetically.

‘He wasn’t in there for nothing, you know,’ said Enrico. ‘So let’s not bother too much about him.’

‘How was the food actually given to you?’ asked Seymour.

‘She gave it me that morning as I was on my way to the prison.’

‘She?’

‘Yes.’

‘A woman?’

‘That’s usual when it’s a she. She had talked to me the day before. As I was on my way home. She stops me and says, “You’re Enrico, aren’t you?” “That’s right,” I say. “And you work in the prison?” “I do,” I say. “On the third floor?” she says. “You’ve being doing your homework,” I say.

‘She smiles. “Maybe I have,” she says. Then she holds a hundred peseta note up in front of me. “I’ve got a brother in there and I don’t think he’s eating enough. So I wanted to get something to him. Something that would tempt him, you know. If I gave it you, could you see that he gets it?” “Well, I could,” I say. She smiles again, and waves the note. “A hundred now,” she says “and two hundred afterwards.”

‘ “For your brother?”

‘ “That’s right,” she says. “Cell number five.”

‘And then I knew she was lying. Because I knew who was in the cell, and it was an Englishman. And she was speaking Spanish, so he couldn’t be her brother,’ said Enrico triumphantly.

He shrugged. ‘But what the hell did I care? Spanish or English, as long as the note was all right.’

‘I expect she was in love with him,’ said his wife.

‘Perhaps she was his wife,’ said Enrico’s mother.

‘Not his wife,’ said Enrico.

His mother clicked her tongue reprovingly.

‘I expect she loved him passionately,’ said his wife, brooding.

‘Well, that’s as may be-’

‘I expect there was a file in that pie. So that he could file through the bars.’

‘Look, there aren’t any bars. There isn’t even a window.’

‘She would do anything for him. She would lay down her life-’

‘Yes, well, she didn’t, did she? She laid down his.’

This checked her. But only for a moment.

‘She loved him,’ she said, softly. ‘She loved him passionately. And then he betrayed her.’

‘Look-’

‘And so she killed him. As I would kill you, Enrico, if you betrayed me.’

‘You don’t need to worry about that

‘What about Conchita?’

‘Conchita?’

‘She’s always standing at the corner waiting for you.’

‘No, she’s not. She’s just on her way to the baker’s to get a loaf for the evening meal.’

‘She makes eyes at you.’

‘The shameless hussy!’ said his mother indignantly.

‘I should be so lucky!’ said Enrico: mistakenly.

‘Ah! So it’s not just on her side? You’ve had eyes for her, too?’

‘No, no-’

‘I shall kill her!’ cried his wife.

‘Quite right!’ said his mother.

‘Hold on a minute-’

‘You don’t love me!’ cried his wife. ‘You have betrayed me. I will kill her!’

‘Now, look-’

‘Let’s leave Conchita out of it,’ said Seymour, mistakenly, too. ‘Let’s go back to this other woman-’

‘ Another woman!’ cried Enrico’s wife. ‘You are not a man but a beast!’

‘Look — ’ began Enrico despondently.

As they walked away from the house Manuel was silent. He seemed to be thinking something over. He had not expected this, he said then, not this bit about the woman. She had obviously been employed, he said, for the occasion. A woman would attract less attention and it would seem more natural, he said, for a woman to be wanting to pass food in than it would have been for a man. A minor accomplice, he said: any woman would have done.

But he backed off quickly when Seymour asked him if it was possible for him to make further inquiries and see if he could find any clue to the woman’s identity. Seymour did not press him. Manuel had done more than could reasonably be expected already. But, given his initial enthusiasm — he had, after all, volunteered his services — and given what he had already done, Seymour was surprised. And then an idea came to him: could Manuel be backing off because he had suddenly thought where such inquiries might lead?

‘Senor Seymour!’ cried the governor of the prison, with what appeared to be genuine pleasure and — or had Seymour got it wrong? — a definite relief. The relief on second thoughts, and perhaps much of the pleasure, could have been to do with the fact that the governor’s desk was covered with sheet after sheet of numbers.

‘I hope I am not interrupting you?’

‘You are,’ said the governor. ‘Thank God!’

Seymour recognized the situation. ‘Budget time?’

‘You’ve hit on it. And now what can I do for you? There must be — ’ with a hint of desperation — ‘something I can do for you to take my mind off-’ he looked around him — ‘all this?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact-’

The governor almost rubbed his hands.

‘Oh, good!’ he said. He broke off to go to the door and called for coffee.

‘How are you getting on with your inquiries?’

‘Oh, progressing. Progressing. And how is the report of the investigation into Lockhart’s death getting on?’