Law of Return (30 page)

“Errr . . . no.” Tejada shook hands with the professor, and then stood, facing him, uncertain how to continue. After a moment, Guillermo resumed his seat. Tejada gulped. “I wanted to inform you . . . to ask you . . . that is, I realize this must be a somewhat unexpected question . . .” Only his pride prevented him from turning to Elena for help. She took his hand and squeezed it encouragingly. “A startling question,” Tejada repeated, more strongly. “After all, you don’t know me, or my family, but . . .”

“I am sure that they are honorable people.” Guillermo’s voice, slightly amused, filled the awkward silence. “And,” for an instant his smile was bitter, “at the moment you are far better able to support Elena than I am.” Tejada gasped. Guillermo stood and held out his hand. “I don’t know that I have reason to like you, Lieutenant, but I have excellent reason to trust you. And Elena seems to have made her choice already. In Biarritz.”

“You
knew
?” Tejada and Elena spoke at the same time, in identical tones of outraged embarrassment.

“And you said—?” the lieutenant choked.

“And you didn’t say—” Elena stammered.

“Professor Meyer and I have been friends for a long time,” Guillermo said mildly. “We had a chat the evening before he left.” The professor smiled at his daughter. “He was worried about you, Elenita.”

Elena made an embarrassed noise, somewhere between a groan and a giggle. Tejada absently folded one arm around her shoulders. “Well,” he said, almost dizzy with relief, “that makes my next question much easier, then.”

Chapter 22

T
he Roman bridge over the river Tormes had been a favorite spot of the university’s old rector. He had frequently crossed it, sometimes spent half hours staring down into the sluggish water, and had even made it a part of his novels. Guillermo had avoided the bridge since his old colleague’s disgrace and death. It belonged to a world that no longer existed. So it was with a little shock of recognition that he turned a corner and saw the Roman arches once more, as if he were coming face-to-face with his own past.

It was the middle of the siesta and the bridge was deserted. Guillermo moved toward it hesitantly and placed a tentative hand on the sunbaked stones before starting across. They were almost unpleasantly warm against his bare skin. He leaned on the ancient wall and squinted down into the courtyard of the Church of Santiago, situated in the little park by the river. The brightness of the sun on the flagstones almost blinded him and he turned his head toward the yellowed grasses that clung to the dusty bank and the slow, greenish water beyond them. The river was low at this season. The paths through the park were dusty, and the scrubby bushes and crabgrass that grew in the shade of the ancient arches were coated with a fine golden grit. It was breathlessly hot. No whisper of wind touched the sweat pooling on Guillermo’s forehead, or disturbed the footprints along the path by the river that wound into the welcome shade and continued on by the water’s edge. No women scrubbed clothes on the opposite shore. No children splashed in the shallows. The relentless sun had driven everyone indoors.

A rhythmic tap on the cobblestones of the street behind him interrupted Guillermo’s thoughts. It was regular but not quite symmetrical.
Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
He turned, looked up and shaded his eyes with one hand, and the taps resolved themselves into measured footsteps and the click of a silver-handled walking stick. “Professor Fernández?”

Guillermo nodded. “Good afternoon. It was kind of you to meet me here.”

“Not at all.” The voice was hearty, self-assured, not low or furtive in the least.

I hope he’s the right one, Guillermo thought, with a trace of nervousness. He doesn’t seem worried. Aloud he said simply, “I thought you might prefer it. I am known to the Guardia Civil. People are sometimes reluctant to associate with me too publicly.”

“What a shame.” The words were a social reflex. To the professor’s relief his companion brought the conversation to the point. “Why, exactly, did you wish to consult with me?”

Guillermo considered what to say for a moment. “I was a friend of Manuel Arroyo’s,” he said finally. “He and I . . . had certain interests in common. I understand that you had his complete confidence. And now, in his absence, I wished to ask your advice.”

“It’s kind of you to say that Professor Arroyo trusted me. And certainly I hope it’s true. I’m at your disposal, Professor Fernández.”

Guillermo bowed slightly. “Thank you. I merely wanted to know if you were the other signer on Arroyo’s second account.”

“What?” The question was startlingly, unnecessarily loud. Guillermo glanced around involuntarily, although the area was obviously empty. His companion caught Guillermo’s sign of nervousness, but did not lower his voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Arroyo’s other Swiss account,” Guillermo explained, keeping his voice low. “I held the number for one of them, but I know there was another, and I thought that now that he was dead, it was important to have the number for it as well.”

Guillermo’s companion frowned. “What makes you think I would lend myself to such an illegal enterprise?” His voice was still loud, but it was no longer hearty.

Guillermo looked apologetic. “Because Arroyo mentioned to me that you had similar investments. A few days before his unfortunate demise.”

Tap-tap-tap.
The cane bounced thoughtfully on the stones. “I am afraid that I can’t help you, Professor Fernández. But I think it might be a good idea if you provided me with the number of Arroyo’s account.”

“Why?” Guillermo demanded, startled.

The other man smiled. “You do realize, Professor, that you have just provided yourself with an excellent motive for Arroyo’s murder? After all, now that he’s dead, you are presumably the only person who can access his wealth. And, as you say, you are already known to the Guardia Civil.”

The professor looked apologetic. “Well, yes. But on the other hand, if I were arrested, I would certainly tell the Guardia all that I knew about Arroyo’s investments and yours.”

“Are you attempting to blackmail me, Professor?” The words were amused.

“Blackmail is an ugly word,” Guillermo said gently. “Why don’t we call it an exchange of mutually profitable information? I can tell you the account number that I know and you can tell me the number that you know. Or the numbers.”

To Guillermo’s surprise, his companion actually laughed. “And what would my clients say about my sharing such private information? I’m sorry Professor, but one account number isn’t enough
mutual
benefit—no matter how much Arroyo had squirreled away.”

Guillermo shrugged and turned away to hide his confusion. “I’m sorry you feel that way. You don’t leave me much choice.”

“Or you, me.” Something in the tone of voice made Guillermo turn back, just in time to be blinded by a flash of sun on silver as the walking stick was raised, handle first, and brought down with savage swiftness.

The professor dodged instinctively; his ear stung from a glancing blow. He staggered against the wall of the bridge and clumsily tried to roll sideways as the glittering silver-headed cane was raised again. Blood spattered on the warm stones. Guillermo dodged again, panting for breath, aware that his opponent was twenty years younger and considerably more experienced at this type of combat. He yelled for help, a futile gesture in the deserted street, and then kicked out desperately. His foot connected with something solid, probably a shin, and he surprised a grunt out of his attacker. But the counterattack had been a bad idea. Guillermo felt himself lose his footing. He stumbled to his knees, clutching the rough stones of the bridge’s railing to remain semiupright. He cried out again as another blow landed, clinging stubbornly to consciousness, though nearly blinded by his own blood.

Then, quite suddenly, the shadows under the bridge erupted into motion and noise, there was the report of a pistol as someone fired into the air, and footsteps clattered on the cobblestones. Guillermo’s last thought before he passed out was that he had never been happy to hear the words “Guardia Civil! Hands up!” before.

When he awoke, the first thing he was aware of was the unpleasantness of the beads of sweat dribbling down his upper lip. He licked them away and realized that they were blood. Someone was pressing his forehead, and a voice was saying, “No, head wounds always bleed like that. Why don’t we just take him back to the post?”

“Because the university clinic is closer.” Guillermo cautiously opened his eyes, squinted against the sun, and made out the vaguely familiar shape of Sergeant Hernández. “And because the lieutenant will kill me if we bring him in looking like that.”

“Yes, sir.” The first voice was submissive. Guillermo had closed his eyes again, but he guessed that the sergeant had turned away when he heard the voice above his head add in a rebellious mutter, “I still don’t see why. It makes a better case for attempted murder this way.”

Something in the mutter made the professor suspect that the boy holding his head was the same age as an undergraduate. He smiled, and realized that he had a splitting headache. “Have you ever had a broken head?” he demanded with a slight groan.

“Are you awake then, sir?” This voice might have belonged to another student; young, deferential, slightly embarrassed.

“More or less,” Guillermo agreed. He tried to sit up, and discovered that he could not. “But I can’t move.”

“He caught you a couple of good cracks.” The guardia kneeling by the professor spoke comfortingly. “But you were only unconscious for a couple of minutes or so. You’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Guillermo had the feeling that he ought to ask about the success of the operation. But his head hurt and he found himself uninterested in anything beyond his immediate physical discomfort. He kept his eyes shut and allowed the conversation of the guardias to flow around him, responding only when they asked him direct questions to make sure that he was still conscious. The pair of guardias who sounded like students stayed with him until a stretcher arrived, and then took him to the hospital, where—deference forgotten—they managed to obtain surprisingly fast service.

It was only several hours later, when his head had been neatly stitched and bandaged, and a brisk nurse had forced him to drink a seemingly huge quantity of water, that Guillermo managed to interest himself in external practicalities. When he emerged from the consulting room the two guardias who had escorted him were waiting. They started to their feet and moved toward him, and Guillermo reflected that they were probably only half aware of the menacing picture they presented. “We’re here to take you home, sir,” one of them explained as they took the places of the nurses at Guillermo’s elbows. “Lieutenant’s orders. There’s a car waiting.”

“Thank you.” It occurred to Guillermo that if María saw one of the Guardia vehicles drive up and deposit him on the doorstep in his current state she would probably have hysterics. “Do you think it would be possible for me to call my wife and explain what’s happened?”

“The lieutenant’s already spoken to your daughter, sir.”

“Of course.” Guillermo allowed himself to be led out of the hospital and driven home without further protest.

Elena met him on the doorstep, her eyes full of tears. “I’m so sorry, Papa,” she whispered as she hugged him. “We should never have asked you to do this.”

Guillermo returned her hug, and thought, a little sadly, that she already said “we” when she spoke of the Guardia. “At least it worked,” he said, resigned to the inevitable.

“Oh, yes, it worked like a charm,” Tejada assured the Fernández family that evening at dinner. “We have enough evidence to convict Crespo of attempted murder right now, and we’ll have enough to try him for murder and money laundering within a week, I think.”

“Has the captain given you a week?” Elena asked.

Tejada smiled at her. “Yes. He won’t let us touch Crespo because he’s afraid of his powerful connections, but based on the evidence we have, he’s letting us hold on to him. And I think he’ll let us be a bit more persuasive once I talk to Judge Otero.”

“You think Judge Otero will support you?” Elena was dubious.

“I think so.” The lieutenant sounded pleased with himself. “After all, I can give him two very good reasons. First of all, that walking stick Crespo used is a twin to Otero’s. I’m going to suggest that Crespo deliberately chose it and planned to abandon it by the body as evidence to implicate the judge.”

“But that’s nonsense!” Guillermo protested. “He couldn’t have come definitely intending to kill me. And lots of men must have canes like that.”

“True,” Tejada admitted. “But I think if I plant a little seed of doubt about Crespo’s loyalty, His Honor will be more willing to listen to my second argument: that it would be very unpleasant to be charged with illegal money laundering.”

“Arrest Judge Otero!” Guillermo laughed. “You must be joking. He’ll know you’re bluffing.”

Tejada shook his head. “Not if he thinks Crespo will finger him. And Crespo
will
finger him if the captain allows us to question him properly.”

“Which he’ll only do if Otero withdraws his support,” Elena pointed out.

“Which Otero will do, if he thinks that Crespo will betray him first,” Tejada finished.

“Classic prisoner’s dilemma,” Guillermo commented.

“It’s not just used in philosophy classes, Professor,” Tejada smiled. “And thanks to you we know that Crespo had more than one client with a Swiss account. With any luck, by the time we go through his office we’ll have half a dozen pressure points.”

“What do you mean?” Elena, who had only heard a summary of Guillermo’s encounter from the lieutenant, looked puzzled.

“Crespo didn’t just have a Swiss bank account for himself,” Tejada explained. “He specialized in setting them up for other people. If we can find a list of names in his files, we’ll have that many more men to lean on. One of them is sure to crack.”

“You think that was what he meant when he said his clients wouldn’t like him sharing that information?” Guillermo asked.