Deadly Petard

After some difficult times in England, Gertrude Dean has finally found a sunny haven on the island of Mallorca and put behind her that nasty business involving Keir West’s wife. Barbara West was very rich and ten years older than her philandering husband. She was also considerate: When she died with a plastic bag over her head, she left a suicide note. It was the cleaning woman who made trouble, accusing Keir West of murder.

The police were almost sure that the maid’s allegations were true, but they could not prove him guilty because Gertrude Dean, who had found him irresistible since childhood, gave him an alibi.

Harassed by both the police, who tried to make her confess she was a liar, and by West, who was desperate for her to keep lying, Gertrude made her way to Mallorca, where she found peace at last—until Inspector Alvarez was asked by the English police to question her, and West himself suddenly appeared, pleading with her to keep his secrets.

As always in the delightful series of detective novels featuring the Mallorcan inspector whom H. R. F. Keating has called “human and humane,” Roderic Jeffries brings us a delicious mixture of compassion, suspense, and ingenious plotting in his newest book, DEADLY PETARD.

Deadly Petard

by the same author

UNSEEMLY
END

JUST
DESERTS

MURDER
BEGETS
MURDER

TROUBLED
DEATHS

DEADLY
PETARD
. Copyright © 1983 by Roderic Jeffries. All

rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No

part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever

without written permission except in the case of brief

quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For

information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue,

New York, N.Y. 10010.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Ashford, Jeffrey, 1926-

Deadly petard.

I.     Title.

PR6060.E43D4     1984          823’.914          83-21127

ISBN 0-312-18531-6

First published in 1983 in Great Britain by

William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.

First U.S. Edition

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Alvarez watched the barman carefully place the small balloon glass of brandy down on the bar, next to the cup of coffee. The barman rested his elbows on the bar and his chin in the palm of his hands. ‘You’re not very busy at the moment?’

‘Busy enough to need a break every now and then,’ corrected Alvarez.

Another man entered. The barman made no move until the newcomer impatiently called for a coffee and then he reluctantly stood upright and slowly moved down the bar.

Alvarez sipped the brandy, after which he poured what remained into the coffee. He stirred in another spoonful of sugar and thought contentedly that there were now only two and a half hours to lunch and the lomo con col Dolores had said they would be eating. When his cousin cooked loin of pork wrapped up in cabbage leaves and flavoured with pine kernels, raisins, and sobrasada, it was a dish fit for a king.

The barman returned. ‘How about a ticket in the lottery, Enrique?’

‘Why not? I’m feeling lucky.’ Then his native sense of caution returned. ‘One minute—how much is it this week?’

‘Five hundred for a decimo and the top prize is forty million.’

Then a winning decimo would be worth four million.

Provided one kept away from the tourist areas, four million could still buy a modest finca with enough land to enable a man to earn a living. ‘OK. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

The number of one of the tickets contained three fours and four was his lucky number. It was clearly a sign from above. He paid with a five-hundred-peseta note and then carefully folded the lottery ticket in half and tucked it into the inside compartment of his wallet. He called for another brandy to celebrate his coming good fortune.

The walk back to the guardia post was a short one, but the day was sunny and the temperature was nearly twenty degrees higher than it had been recently and by the time he reached his office on the first floor he was out of breath and sweating. He hurriedly sat and as he slowly recovered he thought about the finca he would buy, with its ancient, twisted olive trees, its bountiful almond trees, rich land giving three or perhaps four crops a year when carefully irrigated . . .

The telephone on his desk rang, jerking his thoughts back to the present. ‘Is that Inspector Alvarez?’ asked a woman with a plum in her mouth.

‘Speaking,’ he answered, regretfully certain that only one woman in the world had a voice quite like that.

‘Superior Chief Salas wishes to speak to you.’

Gloomily, he reflected that he could not return the compliment.

‘Alvarez,’ said Salas, typically not bothering with any polite social greeting, ‘where the devil’s your latest monthly crime report?’

Alvarez looked at the jumbled mass of papers on his desk: presumably, the form was somewhere among them. ‘Señor, I have been very busy . . .’

‘Does that mean you haven’t yet returned it?’

‘In a sense, yes. But . . .’

‘Are you aware that in the past year there has not been a single month in which your report has arrived on time?’

It was not something to which he had given much thought.

‘I want it in my office by tomorrow morning.’

‘I will do my best, señor. But I’m very busy . . .’

‘Another thing. We’ve received a request from England asking us to interview an Englishwoman by the name of señorita Dean, who lives at number fifteen, Calle Padre Vives, Caraitx. You’re to go and question her . . .’

‘Señor.’

‘What is it?’

‘Caraitx is not in my department. The inspector in charge of CID there is Inspector Antignac’

‘Would it be too much to ask you to credit me with sufficient intelligence to know who is the inspector of each department under my command? The señorita is English and Inspector Antignac does not speak a word of English. Further, he already has a great deal of work in hand.’

‘I, also, am a very busy man, señor.’

‘You will see her and ask her if she can identify a woman by the name of Sandra who is a friend of an Englishman, Keir West. England wants to know her full name and address and any other available information concerning her.’

Alvarez wrote the name on the edge of an envelope. ‘What are the circumstances of the case?’

There was a short pause. ‘I am reluctant to go into much detail,’ said Salas coldly, ‘because experience has proved that, given the opportunity, you invariably introduce chaos into order. However, I suppose you must understand the broad outline. Señora West has died, some time ago. Her death initially appeared to be suicide, but circumstances later pointed to murder. She left a diary and while most of the entries in this were in plain language, a few of the later ones, all very short, were in a code, based on substitution. Because these entries were so short, and a different master sentence was used for each one, it has taken the experts until now to decipher them all. Every entry refers to the fact that Señora West’s husband has been out with a woman called Sandra. It has proved impossible to identify the woman and so, since señorita Dean has known señor West for a long time, it is thought she might be able to help.’

‘Is she likely to prove co-operative?’

‘I’ve no idea. But I’d remind you that one of the duties of any competent detective is to persuade a reluctant witness to give evidence.’

‘Indeed, señor. It was just that I was wondering how best to go about interviewing the señorita.’

‘In the most efficient way,’ snapped Salas, before ringing off.

No one, thought Alvarez, as he replaced the receiver, could ever mistake the fact that Salas came from Madrid. He checked on the time. There were now less than two hours to lunch so obviously there was no point in doing anything before the afternoon. He settled back in the chair and gradually his previous sense of contentment returned.

During the night snow had fallen in the mountains, but just before daybreak the wind had backed to the south to bring clear skies and the warmth of Africa.

As he drove towards the snow-capped mountains, starkly etched against a vivid blue sky, Alvarez thought that, despite all the depredations of the foreigners, this was the most beautiful island in the world. No wonder no Mallorquin ever wanted to leave: who willingly exiled himself from heaven? He rounded a tall earth bank to come in sight of Caraitx. Could any other land boast anything half so dramatically attractive as this village of dappled brown roof tiles and honey-coloured walls, climbing around a conical hill . . .

The roads through the village were steep and narrow and his ancient Seat 600 creaked and groaned as it climbed. Calle Padre Vives ran almost up to the crest of the hill and stopped just short of the ancient, now derelict watch-tower from which there had once flared the alarm whenever the Moors had landed and were sacking the countryside. No. 15 proved to be the last house on the right-hand side of the road. He knocked on the wooden front door. There was a longish wait before a woman opened it. He said in English: ‘Señorita Dean?’ And when she answered, he introduced himself.

She opened the door fully. ‘Come on in.’ He entered. She was a tall woman, perhaps as much as five centimetres taller than he, and thin: but then English women were so often too thin for Mallorquin tastes. She was dressed in a check shirt and jeans and both were paint-stained: he was surprised she should dress so scruffily. She had the kind of face that Spanish cartoonists so often pictured when portraying Englishwomen—long, heavily featured, almost more masculine than feminine: horsy. She immediately struck him as an unhappy woman.

The room he’d entered was the sitting-room. Not large, it contained a few nice pieces of Spanish furniture and these, together with a couple of gaily coloured carpets, created an effect of peaceful charm. In the far corner was a semi-circular fireplace in which several logs were laid ready for firing.

‘Sit down over there,’ she said, pointing to the chair to the right of the fireplace. ‘And would you like some coffee?’

‘Thank you, señorita, but there is no need to bother.’ ‘It won’t be any bother as I always have coffee at around this time.’

‘In that case, I should very much like some.’

‘Good. Excuse me, I shan’t be a moment.’

She left, passing through an arched doorway across which was drawn a heavy curtain. He studied the framed painting which hung on the wall opposite where he sat. It showed sharply descending roofs, the central plain, and distant mountains and the sea, and he guessed it to be the view from the roof of this house. If she had painted it, then that would explain the condition of her clothes.

She returned, carrying a tray on which were two mugs of coffee, a sugar bowl, and a milk jug. She held the tray for him to help himself, then put it down on a glass-topped occasional table and picked up the remaining mug. She added milk to the coffee, but no sugar, sat on the armchair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Well, what brings you here?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Have I filled in the papers for my residencia wrongly or got the car papers in a muddle?’

‘Nothing like that, señorita. I have been asked to come here and speak to you by the police in England.’

Her concern was immediate. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked thickly. ‘Has . . . ‘ She stopped.

He waited, but she picked up her mug and drank, making it clear that she’d overcome her first sense of shock and wasn’t going to say anything more until he’d detailed the reason for the English police’s request. ‘I believe you knew señor and señora West?’