Michael Pearce - A dead man of Barcelona

‘She was seen. She was seen in Barcelona. Someone recognized her — they knew the family. They said, “Why is she here?” And they thought, If she is here, she will surely come to see us. But she did not, and they were surprised. So they asked after her. And then another person said they had seen her, too. Near the prison, right by the gate. As if she was going there. And they said, “Surely Farraj could not be there? Because if he is, we must go and see him.” So they asked her, and she said, no, it was not Farraj. It was Lockhart, and she was taking something to him. And they came back and told others, and they said, “Perhaps we should do something.” But then they heard that Lockhart had died. So they put the thought from them. But nevertheless, some of them remembered that they had seen Aisha, and wondered.’

‘I would like to speak to Aisha,’ said Seymour.

‘That will be a hard task. For she is no longer in Spain. Her father sent her back to Algiers.’

‘When did he do that?’

‘Afterwards.’

‘How long afterwards? Immediately afterwards? Or long afterwards?’

‘Immediately after,’ said Um Hanafi.

Seymour noticed that some of the street names had been freshly painted out and other names substituted in their places. Often the change seemed insignificant: avinguda for avenida, passeig for paseo, carrer for calle — all basic names for thoroughfares, avenue, passage, street. But the changes were significant, all right. They were from Castilian, the usual, official, language of Spain, to Catalan. It was an attempt to assert Catalonia against Spain, another Tragic Week, as it were, only this time without bloodshed. The Catalonians had been defeated but they had not gone away.

Some of the names had been painted over again and the original, Spanish, name restored. But that wouldn’t work. The language of the ordinary man here was Catalan. The fishermen spoke Catalan not Spanish, the language in the cafes was Catalan. Even the cabezudos spoke Catalan.

It was the Catalans throughout who had helped him. It was their effort at remembrance with the coffins in the church that had brought Lockhart to England’s attention. Ricardo, throughout, had been on his side. And so, in their curious, elliptical way, had been the cabezudos. It was they, for instance, who had put him on to the smuggling. It was as if the whole underground side of Barcelona had been anxious that he should not miss the point about Lockhart. Lockhart, they were saying, was a Catalonian at heart. There are no Catalonian Nationalists in Spain, the authorities kept telling him. Well, that was plainly wrong, for Lockhart was one.

And that was why he had been killed, that was what they were all saying. They were anxious that he should get the message.

And, of course, the corresponding message was that it was someone who was opposed to the Catalonians who had killed him. Like the Spanish Government or its agents.

But Seymour was not so sure about that. That was clearly the message he was intended to get; but was it the right one? For one thing, if Lockhart had been a Catalonian Nationalist, he had been other things as well: an anarchist, or certainly an anarchist sympathizer. Seymour had no reason to think that his sympathies were not genuine. It was just that they didn’t seem to be exclusive. He had had sympathy for all the underground causes.

As they were walking along they met the Chief of Police, also taking the air. He had a lady on his arm.

He detached his arm and bowed low. ‘Senor, Senorita! Allow me to introduce-’

‘Don’t make such a fuss about it, Alonzo,’ interrupted the lady.

‘-Constanza,’ finished the Chief hurriedly. ‘My wife.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Senora,’ said Seymour.

‘I like to meet everyone my husband is working with,’ said the Senora. ‘That way I can keep my eye on them. And him.’ She caught proper sight of Chantale. ‘And sometimes it is a good idea,’ she said severely.

‘Constanza-’ murmured the Chief deprecatingly.

‘Mademoiselle de Lissac,’ said Seymour.

‘French?’

‘Moroccan,’ said Chantale firmly.

‘Ah! You are very pretty, Mademoiselle. I am not surprised my husband has said nothing about you.’

‘Constanza-’

‘But, Senora,’ said Seymour, ‘he has said a great deal about you.’

Constanza laughed.

‘I try to loom large,’ she admitted. She turned to Chantale. ‘Are you going to be here for long, Mademoiselle?’

‘Probably not,’ said Chantale.

‘That is just as well.’ She turned her attention back to Seymour. ‘Does that mean you have found out who killed Lockhart?’ she demanded.

‘Quite possibly,’ said Seymour.

‘Ah!’ said Constanza. ‘That is something my husband never did.’

The Chief shrugged.

‘It was just one thing among many on my desk,’ he said.

‘Ah! Your desk!’ said Constanza. ‘Many things finish up on your desk. Finish up and then never move again!’

‘You are too hard, Constanza-’

‘Did you know Lockhart, Mademoiselle?’ Constanza asked Chantale.

‘Not personally,’ admitted Chantale.

‘Well, that is a relief!’ said Constanza. ‘He seemed to know most of the attractive young women around here. Personally.’

‘Including you, Senora?’ asked Seymour.

‘Including me, certainly. In fact, I knew him better than most.’

‘That is quite a claim, Senora,’ said Seymour.

‘It is,’ said Constanza, ‘and perhaps we should start there. Would you care to give me your arm, Senor Seymour, for a little walk along Las Ramblas? And you, Alonzo,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘can walk with Mademoiselle de Lissac. Just walk. I shall be watching you. And keep fifteen yards behind. Exactly. Now, Senor…’

She put her arm through Seymour’s. ‘You think, then, that you have discovered who killed Sam Lockhart?’

‘I am beginning to have an idea of that, yes.’

‘Cautious, cautious! Well, that’s something that Sam certainly never was. But you are beginning to? You think? Well, that is good! It is time somebody found out. The thought that it could go unavenged partly because of my husband’s bungling is intolerable!’

‘You keep a pretty firm hand on your husband, don’t you, Senora?’

‘ Someone has to,’ said Constanza. ‘Otherwise nothing would get done around here.’

‘He has told me about your guidance during Tragic Week.’

‘It caught us out,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t see it coming. And then when it did I nearly let Alonzo become involved in it.’

‘You wanted him to keep out of it, of course. So that you could have a free hand?’

‘It was not so much that, I always see that I have a free hand. I just didn’t want him mucking things up.’

‘You knew that Lockhart was out there, of course.’

‘Of course. And he was another one I would really have preferred to keep out of it. Naturally. I told him so. “Sam,” I said, “for God’s sake, watch what you are doing. With all those tiles flying about, one of them may hit you. And it will probably come from me!” “Don’t worry!” he said. “I shall be all right. I assure you I shall be functioning perfectly when I come to see you this evening. While your husband is sitting in the bar watching the pretty girls go by.”

‘But, of course, he didn’t come to see me. Those imbeciles picked him up, along with everyone else, and put him in prison. “Alonzo,” I said, “your men need a good kick up the backside. Apply yourself usefully for a change.” ’

‘You visited him in prison,’ said Seymour.

She looked at him in surprise.

‘Yes, I did,’ she said. ‘How did you know that?’