The Twenty-Third Man (6 page)

‘Twenty-three. I counted them,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Pay the guide and get into the car. You must be hungry.’

‘I am. I’m absolutely starving. I had no idea it would take so long. I say, can you lend me any money?’

Dame Beatrice paid the grinning guide, and restored the truant to his parents. The last sounds she heard, as she went up to her room for a short siesta, were Clement’s clear, confident tones in argument with his father’s baritone utterance and his mother’s thin, tired voice.

‘But there
are
twenty-four! I counted them twice, I tell you! I
could
tell you something else, something terribly important, but, as you don’t believe me, I shan’t.’

‘Curious,’ she thought. She had considerable faith in the assertions of children when the child could neither gain nor lose by a plain statement of fact. ‘There were only twenty-three when
we
were there,’ she said over her shoulder as she left.

She lay in the darkened room and took a cat-nap, but soon was wide awake again. The hotel was very quiet. Everybody, she supposed, was either taking a siesta or was on the beach. From force of habit she began to run a professional ruler over the various people she had met on Hombres Muertos.

The most obviously interesting, from a psychiatrist’s point of view, were the brother and sister. Caroline’s extraordinary outbursts at the cave were certainly symptomatic of emotional upheaval, and Telham’s altered attitude, from near-hysteria to comparative calm, was, in its way, not very much less startling. That there was a very close tie between brother and sister was evident. What was not evident was the reason for their apparent exchange of parts.

Karl Emden had put in no further appearance at the hotel. It looked as though the lively and informative American girl had been right, and Dame Beatrice made a mental resolve to visit the troglodyte community. It might make an interesting study, she thought, in more ways than one.

The ex-gaolbird Clun was another subject for speculation. She wondered why he had not joined the expedition to the cave. It could have been that he thought it might be better to avoid making one of a party which included Telham and his sister, yet he had not struck her as a young man who would be deterred by any false delicacy from doing anything he had a mind to do.

She thought of Tio Caballo and José el Lupe, and wondered how Clun would figure as one of the band. She wondered whether to ask him why he had not gone to the cave with the others, but she doubted whether he would make a truthful reply.

The thought of the visit to the cave brought her to Peterhouse and Mrs Angel. About the former she no longer reserved judgement. He was abnormal and not altogether harmless. In the mind of the fantastic Mrs Angel, however, she thought that something solid, sensible, and even sinister might well have being. In other words, she thought that Peterhouse might be slightly mad, but that Mrs Angel, who seemed to have made herself into a caricariture, was, probably, beneath the façade she had chosen, completely, if unhappily, sane.

At six Dame Beatrice took a tepid bath and dressed in most leisurely fashion. In this she was assisted by Pilar, who, since dinner on the previous evening, had attached herself to the bedroom and its occupant.

‘It is said’, Pilar observed, as she fastened Dame Beatrice’s dinner frock, ‘that the Señora Angel has seen a vision.’

‘Well, with a name like that, why not?’ Dame Beatrice demanded. Pilar gave a shocked little giggle.

‘The señora does not understand.’

‘Don’t I? Well, you had better explain.’

‘The Señora Angel has seen the señorito carried away by devils.’

‘Why not? It would be a likely fate.’

‘The señorito spoke of twenty-four men.’

‘And so?’

‘There are but twenty-three in the cave.’

‘Granted. What of it?’

Pillar giggled uncontrollably.

‘But, see! If there are twenty-four, one is a
dead
man.’

‘They are all dead men.’

‘I mean recently dead,’ said Pilar. ‘Do you believe in dreams, Señora?’

‘Only when I have considerable knowledge of the dreamer.’

‘Would you believe that the señorito could be carried away by devils?’

‘As I said before, judging from the little I know of him, I should think it not at all unlikely.’

‘You jest, Señora. Yet he did go to the cave, and he did say he saw twenty-four dead men. One of them could be Señor Emden. If not, how can one account for the flight of the birds? Ah, I knew it had significance! I knew it!’

‘The flight of the birds?’

‘Twenty-five quails, Señora. I see now what was meant. I can count, can I not? It is the adding together that matters.’

‘I believe so, in spite of Mr Chesterton. He maintained if I understand his writings, that two and two do not necessarily make four.’

‘But God has made it so! Listen: twenty-three kings, and one man murdered, and one who has killed him. Twenty-five. No?’

‘What makes you think it is Mr Emden who makes the twenty-fourth man in the cave? And why should anyone wish to murder him?’

‘That has arranged itself, if you knew all, Señora.’

‘Is there any reason why I should not know all?’

‘Knowledge is worth a little money, Señora.’

‘I am obliged and grateful for the information.’

Pilar looked at her distrustfully.

‘You do not pay?’ she asked. Dame Beatrice shook her head.

‘Not for gossip which can be picked up on the Mole, in the
plaza
, in the restaurants, in the lounges of this hotel, no.’

‘Then I shall tell you for nothing. I trust in your generosity. I am your
camarera
, am I not?’

‘Not only my chambermaid but the inspiration of Pepe Casita, I believe.’

Pilar giggled.

‘You have the understanding heart, although you are old,’ she said.

‘
Because
I am old,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Now cease to talk nonsense about money you will not be given, and unburden yourself.’

Pilar seated herself on the edge of a hard chair, held herself
as
erect as a nun, folded her hands in the lap of her short black skirt, and addressed herself to the task in hand by enquiring:

‘Do you know that Señor Peterhouse owns an island?’

‘It would not surprise me if he did.’

‘He has taken my Pepe there. It is not more than a rock. They have climbed.
Madre de Dios
, how they have climbed!’

‘For what purpose?’

‘What purpose ever have men?’

‘The riddle of the Sphinx.’

‘I do not understand you.’

‘What else should I know, that I know not yet?’

‘Ah, that! What expedition makes your honour tomorrow?’

‘I go to the island of Zlotes.’

‘Who is to say whether you go there or not? You know, Señora, it is a puzzle where goes anyone from this hotel. The beach, the garden, the excursion into the mountains, the steamer to Zlotes, the little boat from which men may fish off Puerto del Sol – who shall bear witness? Often I say to myself – yes, I, Pilar, who should be thinking about my marriage or my next confession or a new dress – I say, instead, that I do not know what one or another does when he has had breakfast or lunch at the hotel and then makes an expedition. What, I ask myself, of the Señora Angel? What of the Señor Peterhouse? What, even, of the couple who have yoked themselves with the wild boy who came to them, an orphan, in their old age?’

‘You give me food for reflection. Accept this poor token of my gratitude.’

‘A thousand thanks, Señora. You understand that I must take a marriage portion to Pepe when I marry him? But why did you refuse it before?’

‘I have my own ways of doing things. Will Pepe make a good husband?’

‘He will, at any rate, make a husband. One cannot ask more.’

Dame Beatrice went by steamer to Zlotes on the following morning, and it needed only an hour until dinner when she returned to the hotel. Her trip had been interesting and informative and she was tired enough to find pleasure in the thought of relaxing on the terrace for twenty minutes before she needed to go up to dress.

Of relaxation that evening, however, there was to be none at all. The whole hotel was humming with excitement. Clement Drashleigh had not been seen since breakfast. Search parties had been out; he had been traced as far as the Mole, but there he had disappeared and further search had been unavailing.

Mr Drashleigh had upset the whole economy of the hotel by offering so large a reward for news which would lead to the recovery of his son that every servant who could manage to sneak away had deserted his task and was organizing his own search-party from among his relatives and friends.

Dame Beatrice, confronted by the news as soon as she set foot on the terrace, went to her room and rang the bell. Pilar appeared and was catechized.

‘Tell me more about Mrs Angel and her vision.’

‘But there is no more to tell. You see, it was true. She dreams. The
niñito
goes. All are in search. What do you think? What will be, will be. No?’

‘I suppose the police have been told?’

‘Of what avail? All the hotel is searching. The police could do no more.’

‘All the hotel?’

‘Of a truth. I am the only person to wait at the tables except for Mercedes, from the kitchen, and she is
loco
. All the waiters are gone, all the cooks. There is Berto, the head waiter, and myself, also Mercedes. No others.’

‘Good gracious me! And here am I in a state of semi-starvation!’

‘When night falls, they will return. I will bring you a fish and some bread, here, in this room. Also wine. You shall not die.’

She was as good as her word. Dame Beatrice ate as much of a three-pound bass as she could, drank half a bottle of a local wine which tasted not unlike Marsala, and felt equal to dealing with the problem of Clement’s disappearance. She had her own solution, and lost no time in testing it. She rang again for Pilar.

‘
Tio Caballo y José el Lupe
,’ she said.

‘Yes?’ Pilar looked puzzled. Then her face lightened. ‘Ah, those types! Yes, it is more than possible. If the little boy had gone again to visit the cave of dead men – if Uncle Horse knew he was going –’

‘Had, perhaps, dared him to go there again?’

Pilar nodded, put her hands on her hips, and swayed excitedly.

‘Yes, yes! It could be! I think it was like that. But what can we do? We cannot hunt brigands during the wilds of the night.’

Dame Beatrice agreed, displaying a gravity that befitted the situation.

‘Will the bandits ill-treat the boy?’ she asked. Pilar looked astounded.

‘Ill-treat him? Would anyone on Hombres Muertos ill-treat a child? No, no! Have no fear for that. If the child is made to vomit, it will be with rich food; if to cry, it will be after much wine; if he should seem to moan, it will be the bagpipes they teach him to play; if to scream, it will be with the laughter they make up there.’

‘In other words, he’ll be safe enough tonight and we may as well leave it until the morning before we attempt to rescue him?’

‘It will be easier to pay the money. It will cost less in the end,’ said Pilar.

‘That may be so, but nobody pays money if he can get what he wants for nothing. Tell me, Pilar, everything you can about Mrs Angel.’

‘That one? But I am forbidden to discuss the guests with other guests.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You know perfectly well what I want
to
know. If you do not, I will tell you in words that cannot be misinterpreted.’

Pilar gave a wilder giggle than usual, glanced round the room, drew nearer to the small, spare figure in the dragon-strewn dressing-gown, and whispered:

‘It’s true. They sell their daughters to that wicked old woman. Yes! Three or four years she lives here, and always the cave girls, they go.’

‘The cave girls?’

‘Sí, Señora. No one else will sell daughters. They are needed for the cultivation – the bananas, the terraced lands, the sugar-cane. But the cave people have no cultivation. They are the old people of the island. Not Spaniards, not anything now. There is nothing up there, nothing. They go into the cigar factories and spend their money on finery, so their fathers and brothers sell them to Mrs Angel and she pays for them to go to South America, and they are never heard of again. But it is lawful, so they tell me, because the girls all say they want to go.’

‘I see. That might explain the field-glasses, I suppose. No wonder she was flustered when I mentioned David and Bathsheba.’

‘Please?’

‘Not a story you would know, Pilar. Does Mrs Angel
really
watch birds?’

‘Oh, yes. It is true. The boatmen take her round the coast to the wild places. They say she climbs cliffs. She is bold and strong. Also they say that she can make bird-call, and that eagles feed out of her hand.’

Dame Beatrice ruled out the eagles, but was inclined to believe the rest of the report. Mrs Angel, it seemed, was a woman of parts compounded of good and bad, like the curate’s egg.

‘And Mr Peterhouse?’ asked Dame Beatrice.

‘He? He has great curiosity. He takes much interest in everything, but for no information is there payment. Pepe has complained much of that.’

‘What information does he seek?’

‘Of the fish, the birds, the soil, the rocks, the crops, the houses, the number of children, the age of marriage, the cave people, the bandits – everything.’

‘Including, I suppose, the plants and flowers.’

‘No, Señora. Never of the plants and flowers.’

‘I thought he collected orchids.’

‘It may be so; he does not speak of them to Pepe. However, he climbs much, and always alone. Sometimes he puts out to sea and climbs mountains in other islands.’

‘Is that not dangerous?’

‘It may be dangerous. I know nothing of that. He makes maps.’

‘Maps?’

‘Sí, Señora. When I have taken coffee to his room I have found him busy making maps.’

‘How do you know they were maps?’

‘He has said so,’ replied Pilar, with dignity. ‘What is more, they were very pretty, with colours of green and yellow and red.’