The Watcher in the Pine Read online

  Tejada remembered reading that the fire that had devastated Potes had been set by the Reds. He felt that not pointing this out to his wife was an act of truly noble self-control. “We’ll rebuild it,” he said, emphasizing the “we” a little more than necessary.

  “And while we are rebuilding we will quarter ourselves in citizens’ homes, won’t we?” Elena asked, turning toward him with a faint smile.

  “You talk as if we were some kind of ravening horde out of The Mayor of Zalamea or something like that,” Tejada said, torn between amusement and annoyance. “We’ve stayed one night in town already, remember?”

  “Mostly I remember being dragged out of there because you were so afraid of how the townspeople feel about the Guardia!”

  The lieutenant sighed. “It was an overreaction. I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just that Márquez had just told me about the bandits and I was tired, so I made a snap judgment. I’m sure we weren’t in any actual danger.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Elena said dryly. “I was just reminding you why I thought the townspeople might not be thrilled to have us as guests.”

  Tejada saw her point, although he was unwilling to admit it. “We don’t have to commandeer space,” he said. “I’m sure that someone in town will be happy to have paying boarders.”

  “And given how prosperous everyone is, I’m sure every family has a spare furnished apartment,” said Elena sardonically.

  “The Montalbáns do!” Tejada retorted. He stopped abruptly, remembering that their one night outside the post had produced an interesting piece of information. “I wonder . . .”

  Elena’s eyes narrowed. “You wonder?” she prompted, half-guessing what he was about to say and disliking it already.

  “The Montalbáns have plenty of extra space,” her husband said neutrally. “And Señora Nuñez was very hospitable.”

  “Carlos, you just arrested the woman!”

  “We brought her in for questioning,” Tejada corrected primly. “And we let her go.”

  “Because you didn’t have any place to hold her!”

  “You make too many inferences,” he said.

  “What will you do if we move back into the fonda?” Elena demanded, smiling but earnest-voiced. “Arrest the owners and move them into our quarters?”

  “It does seem a bit like musical chairs,” Tejada admitted. “But look, Elena. At the moment, I’ve got Ortíz and Carvallo watching the fonda in shifts. Ten-to-one nothing will happen, because twenty-to-one Ortíz and Carvallo will make a mess of the surveillance. And . . . well, you know how unpleasant it is to have a shadow.”

  Elena nodded. Her father had been tailed by the Guardia for a number of years, sometimes more obtrusively and sometimes less so. “So you’re proposing to live with them and take away whatever shreds of privacy they have left?”

  “No.” Tejada shook his head, serious. “I’m proposing to live with them because we need a place to live. I can take Ortíz and Carvallo off surveillance duty then, and still feel that someone is there just in case. I won’t pry into their personal lives. I won’t even be around most of the time.”

  Elena turned red with indignation. “I’m not going to spy for you!”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” replied Tejada. “But you did say you’d like someone to talk to. And Señora Nuñez must know other women in town. It would be a chance for you to socialize a little.”

  “Socialize! As the lieutenant’s wife? I’ll be a leper.”

  “Everyone in town will know you’re the lieutenant’s wife anyway,” Tejada pointed out gently. “But I don’t see why that means you should be a leper.”

  Elena rolled her eyes. “What were you doing this afternoon?”

  “My job.” Tejada’s mouth was tight.

  “And that’s guaranteed to make friends!”

  “For goodness’ sake, Elena, I’m trying to be civilized about this.” They had almost reached the post, and Tejada lowered his voice. “We can find lodgings elsewhere if you like. But you seemed to like Señora Nuñez, and I thought this might be a way of giving her a little breathing space. Of making everything . . . a bit less official. And after all, times are hard. It will be money in her pocket.”

  Elena sighed. She knew that Carlos was doing his best. “I imagine her husband will be dropping by for dinner and to play checkers, too?” she said lightly, as they reached the Guardia building, and he held the outer door for her.

  Tejada laughed. “Darling, I’m an optimist. Not an idiot.”

  “I’m not sure there’s that much difference these days.” Elena laughed also.

  “Thank you very much!”

  They had reached the door to their apartment. Tejada unsnapped the padlock and drew back the bolts that prevented intruders from entering in their absence, reflecting as he did so that it might be pleasant to live in a place with a more conventional lock. Elena still smiled, but her voice was serious as she said, “I don’t want to spy on anyone. But I’d like to live somewhere else. I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter 5

  With all due respect, Señor Alcalde, it would be to the advantage of the town if the Guardia had adequate facilities now.” Tejada, watching the blandly benevolent face of the Honorable Don Eduardo Caro y Peña, knew that his words were useless.

  “I understand completely, Lieutenant.” The mayor of Potes was courteous. “But any construction work in the town falls under the purview of Devastated Regions.”

  “I spoke to the director of Devastated Regions yesterday,” Tejada said. “He informs me that while any long-term construction is, of course, the responsibility of his directorate, the civil administration is responsible for the allocation and maintenance of space in existing public buildings.”

  “And that is correct, Lieutenant,” Caro agreed. “However, as you must have seen by now, Potes’s facilities are stretched to the breaking point as it is. It’s simply impossible to allocate more space to the Guardia. Even if all the decisions regarding the use of municipal lands and buildings hadn’t been already made for this calendar year,” he added as an afterthought.

  Tejada gritted his teeth. A week in Potes had convinced him that the village had a more ornate and immovable bureaucracy than the Ministry of the Interior in Madrid, but it had also taught him that the only way to deal with this bureaucracy was with the kind of dogged persistence he had previously associated with prisoner interrogation. And during interrogations he was allowed to smack people if they tried his patience too far. As he stood in Don Eduardo’s well-heated and comfortably furnished office, he wondered—not for the first time—if the determination to be unhelpful was a general feature of Potes’s civil administration or if it might be directed at him personally.

  Once again he tried to appeal to the mayor’s self-interest. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the facilities we have,” he explained. “They’re more than adequate for administrative purposes, and the barracks are ample enough for my men. But there aren’t enough cells for prisoners.”

  The mayor spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m not arguing with you, Lieutenant. We all see the need for a jail. There were plans for an independent one last year, and then Devastated Regions had the idea of attaching it to the new town hall and courthouse, off the plaza. It should be more than sufficient.”

  Tejada’s hopes sank. It was, he had learned, worse than useless to denigrate Potes’s mythical “plaza”—currently two elongated trapezoids of bare land that sloped steeply down to the banks of the Quiviesa River and still bore traces of the debris of previously demolished structures. The director of Devastated Regions had proudly shown him blueprints of the fine public buildings—including courthouse and prison—that would surround the plaza, and had then waxed lyrical over several artists’ renderings of Potes’s hypothetical city center in what appeared to be high summer. When pressed, he had admitted that groundbreaking for the town hall was slated to begin at the end of April, once the weather was reliable. “Althoug
h with this late snow, perhaps we’ll have to put it off until May, and by then they’ll probably have pulled most of our workers for rebuilding Santander, because of the fire,” he had finished, so mournfully that Tejada had not bothered to ask when the plaza was supposed to be finished.

  “Yes, Señor Alcalde,” Tejada agreed patiently. “I’ve seen the plans. But, unfortunately, as you know, criminals do not wait on architects’ plans. I’m sure you don’t want miscreants loose on the streets until the new jail is finished.”

  “This isn’t a town with much criminal activity, Lieutenant,” the mayor said comfortably. “Of course, the convicts that Devastated Regions has brought in aren’t our type of people, but they’re penned in. Well, most of the time anyway.” He paused significantly, giving Tejada a chance to suppress his rage at the unfair aspersion. “And, of course, the more of them there are, the sooner the work gets finished. In fact”—Señor Caro stood up, ending the interview—“I think you should talk to the director of Devastated Regions. He has that barracks set up for workers, and I’m sure that he’d be willing to let you use the space if you do see the need for any arrests.”

  The need for arrests also would be obviated if the Guardia simply shot suspects on sight, Tejada reflected, but that was probably not the best way of obtaining information. He thanked the mayor for granting him an interview and left.

  Sergeant Márquez was waiting for him outside the mayor’s office. “Did you make any progress, sir?” he asked, as the two men left Señor Caro’s home, which was also currently serving as the town hall.

  The question was perfectly reasonable, and the tone of voice could not have been called disrespectful, but the sergeant’s calm moderation irked Tejada. Márquez had dutifully accompanied his superior on three such visits in the last two days (two to the mayor and one to the director of Devastated Regions) and had been the silent witness to Tejada’s lack of success. Tejada felt that a normal human being would have shown sympathetic frustration, or at least some amusement. The lieutenant would even have been grateful had Márquez stooped to saying, “I told you so.” But Tejada was beginning to take the sergeant’s bovine indifference as a personal insult. “He suggested that we use space in the Devastated Regions barracks,” the lieutenant said, as they headed back across the river to the office of the director of Devastated Regions. “And he implied that we weren’t doing enough to capture the Valencians.”

  “I’m sure you’ve done everything possible, sir.”

  Tejada thought that the sergeant’s tone implied that someone else would have done more and better. He told himself that he was imagining things. “So am I,” he said dryly, as they stepped out into the street. “Goodness knows, I’d have more time for trying to find them if I didn’t have to keep worrying about space,” he added, hoping to force Márquez to express some sympathy.

  “You’re moved in all right?” Sergeant Márquez succeeded in misinterpreting the comment in such a way as to imply that Tejada was neglecting his duties to take care of personal business.

  “Yes,” the lieutenant said shortly. To justify himself he added, “It’s only common sense to have some place to hold prisoners. And we’re comfortable at the Montalbáns’.”

  Márquez nodded. “Yes, sir. You explained that when you moved.”

  “Besides, I thought it would be a good way to keep an eye on the fonda,” Tejada said, wondering why Márquez always went out of his way to be hostile.

  “Good thinking.” From the sergeant, this was high praise. “At least you’re there nights. And probably no one who’s actually wanted would come into town in daylight.”

  Tejada’s mouth twisted, recognizing what Márquez was not saying. The guerrillas in the hills obviously were receiving a good deal of support from the townsfolk. Passing messages along would still be possible. Sergeant Márquez had eloquently refrained from comment when his commander had dropped the surveillance of the Montalbán house. Márquez was not easy to work with, but the lieutenant felt that his subordinate deserved some explanation. “My wife is there during the day,” he said, hoping that he would not have to amplify the statement. Elena had strenuously resisted all pleas to help with what she referred to as spying and Tejada preferred to think of as simply keeping her eyes open.

  “I hope she’s comfortable.” The sergeant was unusually solicitous.

  “She seems to be settling in all right,” Tejada said.

  “A little town like Potes must be quite an adjustment, after the capital.”

  Tejada turned toward his colleague, startled. “We’d been living in Salamanca, not Madrid.”

  “Of course.” Márquez was wearing a faintly malicious smile. “But I meant before her marriage.” His smile widened a little at Tejada’s raised eyebrows. “I was the interim ranking officer, remember, Lieutenant? I read your files, in Lieutenant Calero’s place.”

  “Naturally.” Tejada forced himself to smile back, although he wondered a good deal what the Guardia’s files said about Elena. Not that there’s anything incriminating, he told himself firmly. No one could think that a girl alone in Madrid at the outbreak of the war could have done anything except go along with the Reds, for her own safety. I hope.

  They had reached the incongruously impressive administrative headquarters of the directorate for Devastated Regions. The director’s office was in the Torre del Infantado, the squat medieval tower that sat in the center of Potes’s as yet unbuilt plaza. The tower’s businesslike crenellations and narrow window slits bore witness to its history as a fortress. Its red-gold stones had been scorched by fire many times, and the devastation of 1937 was imperceptible here. The tower’s facade was broken at ground level by only one massive wooden door. Tejada rapped on the rusty hinges as he spoke. He was too preoccupied to notice that they bruised his knuckles.

  “Of course it could be awkward if—” Márquez began. He stopped as the door swung backward and a man in a ragged overcoat greeted them with a resigned expression.

  Tejada, discomfited by the topic and by Márquez’s unusual tendency to talk, cast a sharp glance at the sergeant, but it was too late for further conversation. The director’s assistant was already holding out his hand and saying, “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

  Tejada made a mental note to find out what Márquez thought might be awkward, and then fell into a by-now familiar routine. “Is Señor Rosas in?” he asked. “We’d like to see him.”

  “He just arrived a few minutes ago, Lieutenant. It’s—”

  “Through that door,” Tejada finished. “I know the way, thank you.”

  He pulled open a door that creaked on ancient hinges, before Señor Rosas’s deputy could say more. The regional director of Devastated Regions was huddled in a greatcoat by a fireplace built on a magnificent scale fit for roasting deer, and currently home to a miserable, smoky excuse for a fire. His desk was littered with papers of all shapes and sizes, from torn scraps of notepaper to scrolls of blueprints. “I told you I’m not—,” he began irritably, turning around. His voice did not noticeably alter when he saw who his guests were. “Oh, it’s you. Good morning, Lieutenant. Sergeant. What is it now?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Señor Rosas.” Tejada was not in the least sorry, and his tone perhaps hinted this. “But I’ve just spoken to the mayor, and he suggested that I speak to you about housing prisoners.”

  “If Caro is listening to complaints from those bastards, he’s soft in the head,” snapped Rosas. “They’re housed properly. My God, they’re probably better off than I am! Would you believe those idiots made a woodpile in the mud? Look at this!” he gestured to the fire. “It’ll never burn. And the rest will probably take until next winter to dry out.”

  “Black birch burns when it’s green,” Tejada said absently. “You might try that. And I didn’t mean your prisoners. I meant mine.”

  Rosas turned fully away from the fire for the first time. “Martin!” he bawled.

  His assistant stuck his head around the door. “Yes, sir
?”

  “Go find some birch.” The director returned his attention to Tejada. “Sit down. You’ve found the Valencians?” he asked hopefully, in a slightly more conciliatory voice.

  Tejada sat, cautiously encouraged by the invitation. “Not yet, I’m afraid,” he admitted, hoping that he was not about to undo any goodwill he might have created. “We’re doing our best. But at the moment we have exactly three cells at our disposal. If we were—for example—to want to hold someone for interrogation regarding the Valencians’ escape, we could easily run out of space.”

  Rosas frowned. “Why aren’t you talking to the mayor? He’s responsible for allocation of space.”

  “I have spoken to him,” Tejada said patiently. “He suggested that you place some of your facilities at our disposal. Only until other space is available,” he added hastily, seeing Señor Rosas’s mouth open to protest.

  The director considered. “How much space would you need?” he asked finally.

  Tejada, who had been expecting another denial, was caught off guard. He had to think a moment before replying. “Our current facilities can hold ten men, maybe a dozen in a pinch. I’d like to have room for at least twenty. Could you spare space for ten?”

  “You mean keep cells open just in case?” Rosas’s voice was dubious.

  Tejada shook his head. “No. I don’t want to be unreasonable. But could you house more on short notice if necessary? I’ll try to avoid it, but I don’t want a riot on my hands and no place to stash people.”

  “We have the space,” the director admitted. “But I’m not sure we have the other facilities.”

  “They don’t need beds,” Tejada said reassuringly. “Just floor space. And naturally if we park them with you we’ll provide guards.”

  Rosas was silent. Then he said slowly, “I’d like to help you, Lieutenant. But under the circumstances . . .” He trailed off, looking unhappy.

  “What circumstances?” Tejada demanded. “I doubt we’d leave anyone with you for the long term, but if it’s a question of rations?”