The Watcher in the Pine Read online

  “Yes, sir,” Guardia Ortíz agreed. “Corporal Battista and Torres had a little problem with the maquis a few months ago.”

  Tejada frowned. “Define ‘little problem.’”

  “Well, Don Virgilio—that’s the mayor of Trillayo—called them over there to make a complaint about poachers, and they came back after dark.” Ortíz’s tone made it clear that any guardia fool enough to do such a thing deserved what happened to him.

  “They were ambushed?”

  “I wouldn’t say it was really a formal ambush.” Ortíz spoke judiciously. “More that some of the maquis happened to be in the neighborhood, so they took a few shots at the truck. The corporal had the sense to just step on the gas, and of course Torres returned fire as best he could in the dark. There’s a report on file somewhere, if you’d like to look at it.”

  “Does this happen often?” Tejada asked, starting to understand why his subordinates had been startled by his decision to trust his safety and his wife’s to a stranger on the road.

  “Oh, no, sir.” Guardia Ortíz spoke quickly. “If we have to take the truck mostly I drive. I grew up over in Cillorigo, you see, so people know me around here, and the maquis know there’d be a lot of ill feeling if they hit me.”

  Tejada let the subject drop, although he was less than pleased with Ortíz’s logic. His annoyance increased into outright discomfort when Carvallo and Ortíz returned several hours late from a routine patrol the next day, with the news that they had been fired at from the woods. “We took cover, of course, and did our best to shoot back,” Ortíz said. “But I don’t think they were really aiming to hit us. Just trying to scare us a little.” Tejada was irritated by Guardia Ortíz’s calm assumption that being fired at while on patrol was normal, but it was preferable to the ill-concealed fear of Guardias Torres and Carvallo. The lieutenant had never seen such a miserably demoralized post.

  Under the circumstances, it was not unexpected that Anselmo Montalbán did not report to the Guardia Civil when ordered. His wife, questioned the next day by Guardias Ortíz and Carvallo, insisted that she did not know where he was to be found. The morning of the thaw, Tejada gave orders for her arrest and hit another slippery spot.

  “How, sir?” Sergeant Márquez asked.

  Tejada stared. “What do you mean, how? Go over to the fonda and tell her she’s under arrest.”

  “And then what?”

  “Bring her back to the post and lock her up until we get some news of Montalbán!”

  “Where would we put her, sir?”

  For a moment Tejada was dumbfounded. Then he said slowly, “You’re telling me that we have no cells available?”

  The sergeant coughed. “They’re only temporary quarters,” he reminded Tejada. “They weren’t built with a full prison attached.”

  “But you must have had prisoners in the past!” Tejada protested.

  “Yes, sir. But we’ve never had married officers, sir. We were using you and your wife’s quarters for cells.”

  The reason for his apartment’s inadequate heating and somewhat bizarre floor plan suddenly became clear to the lieutenant. He struggled with a desire to laugh, wondering at the same time if he could safely tell Elena. He was unsure whether she would share his amusement or be disgusted. “Are you telling me we have no facilities at all for holding anyone?” he demanded, returning to the problem at hand.

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  Tejada considered for a moment. “What do you suggest we do then, Sergeant?”

  “It’s not my place to say, sir.” Márquez was wooden.

  The lieutenant struggled with unreasonable annoyance. His sergeant in Salamanca had combined intelligence and goodwill. When Tejada had asked for his opinion in similar cases, he had given honest and well-considered answers. Although Tejada had known that he was exceptionally lucky to have Sergeant Hernández, he could not help feeling that Márquez was an exceptionally unfortunate substitute. He would have sworn that the sergeant’s unhelpfulness was deliberate.

  The lieutenant considered forcing his subordinate to express an opinion, and then gave up the idea as futile. “Bring her in for questioning,” he ordered, “and don’t tell her that we have no place to put her. If we don’t get anything out of her, let her go with a warning, and then tell Ortíz to go and keep an eye on the fonda.”

  “By himself, sir?” Sergeant Márquez had apparently forgotten that it was not his place to have opinions.

  “Yes, by himself,” Tejada snapped. “And ‘keep an eye on it’ does not mean go and stand in front of it prominently. It means look discreetly from a distance, and don’t make it obvious that you’re looking. Send Carvallo in a few hours to take over from Ortíz. They can spell each other until tomorrow. If they don’t pick anything up, pull in Bárbara Nuñez again.”

  “The pair system of the Guardia—” Márquez began.

  “Is famous and venerable,” Tejada interrupted. “Which is exactly why I do not want it used now. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” Márquez saluted and went to give the guardias their orders. Tejada was left with the feeling that they would not be well executed.

  He spent the next hour composing two letters, one to the local director of Devastated Regions and one to the mayor, respectfully asking about the possibility of providing a prison for the town as soon as possible. When he was ready to make copies, he discovered that there was no carbon paper in the office. Disgusted, he sent for Guardia Torres. “Is Anselmo Montalbán’s wife here?” he demanded.

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “Good. I want to talk to her.” Tejada stood up and held out the pad he had been writing on. “Type these,” he ordered. “Two copies of each. When you’re finished, leave one copy of each on my desk and bring the others to me to sign. Then deliver them.”

  Guardia Torres looked uncomfortable. “Type them, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about the two copies, but I can’t find carbon paper.” Tejada saw that the young man looked nervous and added reassuringly, “You can drag my chair over to the typewriter, if you like.”

  This kindness gave Torres the courage to stammer, “I-I can’t type, sir.”

  Tejada was annoyed, but not amazed. “You’ll have to hunt and peck then. Get as far as you can and if you haven’t finished when I come back I’ll finish them.”

  He was gone before the guardia had a chance to explain that he had never actually used a typewriter, was uncertain how to insert such niceties as capital letters, and was frankly terrified by carriage returns. Torres was a bold and enterprising young man, and managed to figure out the complexities of the battered Corona before the lieutenant’s return, but he was barely past the salutation of the first letter when Tejada relieved him of his task.

  The attempt to question Anselmo Montalbán’s wife had been unsuccessful and had consumed the lieutenant’s lunch hour, as well as running into the afternoon. Tejada took a certain satisfaction in banging the typewriter keys to ease his frustration. It was nearly six when he finished. He sent for Guardia Torres once more and told him to deliver the letters and inform the recipients that he would call on them the following day to discuss their contents. Made cautious by previous experience, he checked that Guardia Torres did in fact know where the mayor and the director of Devastated Regions were to be found.

  Then he considered what to do next. Ortíz was watching the Montalbáns’ fonda, probably uselessly. Carvallo was officially off duty until he relieved Ortíz of the Montalbán surveillance. Márquez and Battista were on patrol and would not be back until nightfall. The lieutenant had spent the last six hours in windowless rooms, and he felt that he deserved a break. He shut the office door a shade more firmly than necessary and marched out into the spring thaw. The Quiviesa, swollen with melting snow, burbled loudly. The peaks of Peña Vieja and Peña Sagra guarding Potes to the east and west loomed, snow-covered, in the still-warm afternoon light. If one overlooked the general charred rooflessness of the town,
it was a pleasant evening. Elena should get some fresh air, the lieutenant thought. And I’ve worked enough for one day.

  He hurried up the stairs to their apartment, smiling a little ruefully at the knowledge that his day would have been more productive had he escorted Bárbara Nuñez up them earlier instead of releasing her, and wondering again how to tell Elena that they were lodged in the Guardia’s prison.

  She was seated at the tiny square table he had dragged into the space they called the “living room,” writing a letter, when he entered. “Care to go for a stroll?” he asked cheerfully.

  She started and then looked up at him gravely. “Do I have a choice?”

  He dropped into the chair beside her, concerned by her tone. “We don’t have to if you’re tired. But I think it’s warmer outside than in at the moment. And I was just thinking of walking along by the river a bit. Why? Are you feeling all right?”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” She shook her head, impatient.

  Temperamental, Tejada reminded himself. It’s natural for her to be temperamental in her condition. He decided an apology for any outstanding sins might be in order. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get away for lunch. Something came up.”

  “Bárbara Nuñez.”

  The lieutenant winced. “It was just a routine interrogation, Elena.”

  “I know. I overheard.”

  “You overheard?” Tejada repeated, disconcerted and less than pleased.

  “The living room’s right above where you questioned her.” Elena spoke dully. “I wasn’t trying to listen.”

  Nicely designed for a prison, Tejada thought. Oh, damn. “We didn’t hurt her,” he said aloud. “Márquez turned over a table, but he was just being theatrical.”

  “You frightened her, though.” Elena wrapped her arms around her stomach and hunched one shoulder, turning her head away from him.

  “Well, I hope so!”

  “She’s lost her sons, and now her husband’s disappeared and she has nothing and you’re persecuting her.”

  Tejada, who had gathered that one of the Montalbán sons had been executed for Communist sympathies four years previously, while the other was currently in a Devastated Regions work crew in Málaga, focused on the second half of his wife’s statement. “It’s likely she knows where her husband is,” he said. “And it’s likely her husband’s a murderer. Or at the very least involved with people who are.”

  “She doesn’t know where her husband is!”

  “That’s possible,” Tejada agreed, watching carefully for signs of hysteria. “But we don’t know that.”

  “I know it,” Elena retorted. “The morning that we spent at the fonda there were three men there talking when I came downstairs and one of them said something like ‘Anselmo won’t like it’ and the other said, ‘Which brings us back to the main point: Where is he?’ and she was there, and I think they were worried about him disappearing. So she doesn’t know where he is.”

  Tejada blinked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I was going to,” Elena sighed. “But then you were talking about maquis and I thought . . . I was afraid . . .”

  “Elena.” Her husband put an arm around her. “Have I ever. . .

  ever hurt anyone because of anything you’ve told me?”

  “No, but . . . but there’s always a first time.” The words sounded childish in Elena’s ears as she spoke and she smiled involuntarily.

  Tejada smiled back. “Suppose we take that walk,” he suggested. “And you can tell me what you remember. And I promise that no matter what you say I won’t rush to beat the hills for bandits.”

  “You’d better not.” Elena’s smile was a little tremulous. “I don’t want you to end up like Lieutenant Calero.”

  “I don’t either,” Tejada agreed. “Come on, the exercise will keep you from moping.” He helped her into her coat and followed her down the stairs, one hand hovering above her shoulder in case she slipped.

  Elena took a deep breath as they stepped out into the evening. The air smelled of water and new leaves and cow manure. It was as warm outside as indoors, and considerably less musty. “The road to Espinama runs along the Deva for a little ways,” the lieutenant said, taking her arm. “Why don’t we head that way?”

  She nodded, and they turned their backs on the ruined town and walked out into the countryside. They walked silently arm in arm for a little while, Elena marveling at the stillness, and Tejada relaxing as they left man-made construction—and destruction—behind.

  Then Tejada said gently, “Now, suppose you tell me what happened that morning at the fonda? You were upset, I remember, and wanted to talk in private. But then I heard about Calero, and was worried about the quarters not being ready, and I forgot about it. And then you didn’t want to tell me.”

  Elena hesitated, and looked up at him. The sun lit his face from the side, illuminating one cheek with a warm yellow glow and casting the other into the black shadow of his tricorn. “You promise it won’t hurt anyone?”

  “You know I can’t promise that. But I . . . promise I won’t be in a hurry to do anything.”

  Elena smiled. “You are abominably honest.”

  “Are you sorry for that?”

  “No.” Elena sighed, and leaned against his arm. “But there really isn’t much to tell.” She quickly related as much as she remembered of the conversation she had overheard in Anselmo’s fonda.

  “Did Señora Nuñez say anything?” Tejada asked when she had finished.

  “Not that I heard. But she must have been in the room with them. And surely she would have said if she had known where her husband was.”

  “And they shut up when they saw you.” Tejada frowned. “You’re sure you didn’t hear anything more specific about why they didn’t want trouble with the Guardia?

  “No, but the whole thing took only a few seconds.”

  The lieutenant sighed. “So Anselmo has been missing since Tuesday morning. And maybe before that. At least as far as his underground contacts know.”

  “You don’t know that they’re underground,” Elena protested. “Lots of perfectly honest people avoid the Guardia.”

  “His possible contacts,” the lieutenant amended, unwilling to argue with her. He remembered something and added, “Elena, do you remember that old man we hitched a ride with? Luis?”

  She nodded. “What about him?”

  “We had to hammer on the door because he said that Anselmo ‘sleeps like a stone.’ So he thought that Anselmo was there. So if we could find Luis, and find out the last time he saw Anselmo, we’d know how long Anselmo has been missing.”

  Elena shook her head. “He could have just assumed that Anselmo was in. He’s not even from Potes, remember.”

  Tejada sighed. “You’re right. But I’d like to know if he’s been missing for several months. Since Calero’s murder, for instance.”

  “Surely it couldn’t be that long. Wouldn’t Sergeant Márquez have told you if there had been such an obvious suspect?” Elena was dubious.

  “I’m beginning to suspect that Sergeant Márquez likes watching me blunder my way to answers he’s known all along,” Tejada said dryly. “Speaking of which, how would you feel about finding an apartment in town, separate from the post?”

  “Fine with me. But why?” Elena hoped that she sounded only moderately pleased, instead of desperately eager. Her husband’s colleagues had studiously ignored her since her arrival, and her conversation with Bárbara Nuñez three days previously had been her only contact with the people of Potes. Her long letters home were no substitute for human contact, especially since she knew that they would be heavily censored.

  Tejada coughed. “Well, it’s not as if our quarters are terribly convenient. And the post is a bit cramped.” He hesitated, and then took the plunge. “And actually, it might be convenient to have a place to . . . keep people overnight at the post.”

  The su
nset was turning the glacier on the slopes of the Peña Sagra to gold. Elena looked up at the silent mountain thoughtfully, working out her husband’s meaning. “You mean you want to use our apartment as a prison?” she said finally.

  “According to Márquez, it was the prison,” Tejada admitted, shamefaced. “It could be awkward to not have any place to hold criminals. In the best interests of the town—”

  “Do the townspeople feel that way?” Elena asked, sarcastic.

  Tejada shrugged, annoyed. “Don’t be dense, Elena. This isn’t some sort of utopia. There’s petty crime here, the same as everywhere else. It’s not as if everything’s political.”

  “Vandalism?” Elena raised her eyebrows. “Theft?”

  Tejada smiled reluctantly. “All right, I admit that there isn’t much left to vandalize. And maybe not a lot left to steal. But still—”

  Elena noticed the smile and relented. “An apartment in town would be lovely. I just hope the neighbors don’t treat me like a total pariah.” She sighed. “It’s hard having no one to talk to.”

  “We’ll find lodgings in a place with a mistress,” the lieutenant said encouragingly. “It will be good for you to have some women friends. And perhaps if there are little ones you’ll be able to help each other with looking after the children later on.”

  “I’d like to find a midwife, too,” Elena said.

  Tejada nodded, although he had privately decided that the Guardia’s only vehicle would be used to transport Elena to the hospital in Unquera as soon as necessary. He had been rather upset to learn that the hospital in Potes had been one of the casualties of the fire of 1937, and that the town still had no doctor. “I’m ready to head back whenever you are,” he said aloud, mindful of his wife’s delicate condition, and unwilling to tire her with a longer walk.

  Elena’s face clouded as they turned back toward the ruined buildings. “So little left,” she murmured.