The Long escape Read online

  In Melipilla I asked my way to the jiizgado and talked to the alcalde, who was shooting the breeze with the judge for the municipality. They both remembered the sad case of don Roberto Ruano very well. His remains, such as they were, had been given Christian burial on his jundo, not far from town.

  I couldn't get anything definite out of them about Roberto's general appearance. He had been muy cabal-lero, keeping pretty much to himself and his hacienda during the few months that he had been around. They remembered that he had ridden a big black horse, which

  had died with him. When I showed them the fuzzy snapshot, they said it was don Roberto to the life. He always squinted so in the sun. They would have said the same thing if I showed them a picture of Boris Karloff as the Mad Apeman, so I hadn't got anywhere.

  After I had been asking questions for a while, the alcalde wanted to know the nature of my interest in the tragedy. I got him away from the juez, who looked like a pretty sharp cookie, and gave him one of my insurance-company "special representative" cards, along with a five-hundred-peso note that had stuck to it.

  "A question of insurance," I said. "When a man dies in mysterious circumstances, and there is money to be paid because of his death ..." I shrugged.

  "Of course. I understand. But there was no mystery about this, senor. A man rides alone around his properties and meets with an accident. It has happened before."

  "I am in accord. Still, would it not be possible for me to examine such documents as you may have which bear on the rnatter?"

  "Certainly."

  The documents were in a wooden filing cabinet that sported a padlock the size and shape of a flatiron. The alcalde opened the padlock by yanking at it, and began to burrow through papers. There was a lot of dust in

  the cabinet. It came up in a cloud around his head. He sneezed while he was bringing an armload ol documents over to his desk.

  I said, "Salud."

  "Gracias. Let us see. This? No. This? No. This? No."

  Each "this" was a bundle of papers held together by the remains of a rubber band. They stopped looking like bundles as he pushed them aside, because the rubber bands were so old that they had dried out, falling apart at the first strain. He finally picked one bunch of papers out of the crop, blew the dust from it, and handed it to me with a sneeze that sprayed me like a garden hose,

  "Salud." I plucked at the rubber band that held the bundle together. It snapped back against the paper with a good pop. "Some other person has examined these documents lately?"

  "No, senor."

  "You are certain?"

  "Not in years. Who would have the interest?''

  "I could not say. But observe."

  I popped the rubber band for him. He got it right away.

  "You are right." He took the papers from me. "But it was not with my permission. Eugenio!"

  He bellowed for Eugenio until a young kid came in from another room.

  Eugenio was a clerk, from the ink on his fingers. He wore shoes and had slickum on his hair. His eyes were set too close together, but they didn't miss anything. They slid over the papers in the alcalde's hand, looked at me, and looked at the alcalde, as innocent as a pair of stuffed olives.

  "^Si, serior?" •

  "Who has examined these papers lately?" The alcalde shook the bundle under Eugenio's nose.

  "Nobody, senor."

  "Do not lie to me, shameless." The alcalde popped the rubber band at him. "I am not blind. It is a new hide. Who asked to see the papers in my absence?"

  "Nobody, serior."

  "Then why does a new hule appear on the documents?"

  The alcalde didn't get an answer right away, because the dust caught him again and he began to sneeze. I salud-td him until he stopped.

  "Gracias. Answer me, insensible brute."

  "I do not know, senor. I am not responsible for the archivo."

  And that was that. Eugenio didn't even get ruffled. The alcalde yelled insults at him until his voice gave out, and then sent him away.

  "They are all pigs and liars," he told me cheerfully.

  "I can not discharge tlicni without permission from the capital, so I have to encourage them to resign from time to time. He is lying, but what can I do?"

  "Nothing, clearly. Do you have a list of the documents which should be in the file?"

  "Why would I keep a list when I have the documents themselves?"

  He thought tiiat was unanswerable, so I didn't bother answering. I was pretty sure that for fifty pesos more than the original bribe Eugenio w^ould break down and tell me who it was that had beaten me to the archivo and told him to keep his mouth shut about it. But I didn't need to spend the money. It had to be Fito or the old man—probably Fito did the leg work—and whatever had been in the file that they didn't want me to see, it was gone for good. Or they might have decided just to run over the record to make sure it looked right before I got that far. It didn't matter much. I knew I had them worried. If I had them worried, I was on the right trail.

  The alcalde snapped new rubber bands around the other bundles while I went through the Ruano papers. I read everything there was to read; the death certificate, an official report of death by the local carabineros, a statement of identification signed by the vaquero who had discovered the body, another statement of identifi-

  cation signed by Rodolfo Ruano Parker, a receipt for certain personal possessions of the dead man, also signed by Rodolfo Ruano Parker, several other papers. There was a photograph of the body, too, but it didn't help me. The buzzards had had him too long. Even his mother wouldn't have recognized what was left.

  "This Rodolfo Ruano Parker who signs papers," I said. "Who is he?"

  "A relative of the dead man. A brother, I believe."

  "Don't you know?"

  "Yes. Almost certainly a brother. Also muy caballero, with a beard. Very dignified."

  "Did he say he was the brother?"

  "I do not remember exactly what it was he said. But he was here, shortly after the body was found, and he was very helpful. He signed all the necessary papers, as you see.''

  "Clearly. Yet if you are not sure that he was the dead man's brother, of what value are the papers to you?"

  "I do not understand, seilor."

  I spelled it out another way for him, and he still didn't see what I was driving at. When a man died, somebody had to sign papers. It was the alcalde's duty to see that certain receipts, certificates, statements, documents and what not, all signed by somebody, ended up in the

  arc/iivo. When that was done, his job was finished. If the signatines on the documents turned out to be forgeries, or if the man who signed them had misrepresented himself, it was a concern of the Bureau of Identification, not the alcalde. His duty was to obtain the dociunents.

  I said, "Claro. It was stupid of me not to understand at once. This vaquero who found the body and signs himself Victor Chavarria Serra. You know him well?"

  "Certainly. He works on the jundo. He has been administrador since don Roberto's death."

  "For whom does he administer?"

  "The present owner."

  "The brother is the present ow^ner?"

  "I do not know for certain, sefior. The land records are maintained in the capital."

  That was all I could get out of him. I copied down the name signed to the statement made by the vaquero, now administrador, of the Hacienda Quilpue, asked directions, and left the alcalde carefully filing his goddamn documents back in their grave.

  The fiindo was about fifteen kilometers south of town, five or six kilometers off the highway on a side road that w-ent first through a peach orchard, then by a nice-looking patch of alfalfa in a creek bottom, and past a feeding lot where cattle w^ere tucking away green

  groceries to the tune of about two pounds of new beef per head per day. From the condition of the fences and the looks of the cattle, the fundo was paying money, Don Rodolfo hadn't suffered financially from his brother's death.

  Beyond the feeding
lot, the road climbed a little hill and dropped again to the hacienda, a group of buildings shaded by a bunch of eucalyptus trees. There was a small graveyard by the side of the road on the crest of the hill.

  I stopped the car and got out to call on Roberto.

  He had a pretty nice set-up. They had built him a little cave of fieldstone and cement, all for himself, at a distance from the other graves. The cave was closed by a grilled iron door. It was locked, but I could see inside. In the back wall of the cave was a single flat piece of marble closing the place where they had put his coffin. On the marble was chiseled AQUI YACE ROBERTO RUANO PARKER, the dates of his birth and death, and DESCANSE EN PAZ. The dates checked with what I knew about him. On the floor of the cave was a vase holding a fan of dusty artificial flowers. That was all.

  I hung around for a while, looking in through the locked grille and feeling frustrated. Bees zoomed around among the bushes that grew in the graveyard. Six feet

  away from me was the answer to the big question, and there was nothing I could do about it. Alter seeing tliat photograpli of what the buzzards had left of Roberto, all the affidavits in the world couldn't convince me that he was Robert R. Parker until I had looked at his teeth, whether the people who swore to the affidavits were on the level or not.

  I was still standing there in front of the cave when I heard a horse coming up the road at a fast canter, I walked back toward the car. The guy on the horse got there just as I reached the gate of the graveyard. He pulled up so that his horse blocked my way out.

  The horse was a big bay stallion, weighed down with a lot of flashy silver-mounted leather. The man in the saddle was about my age, dark, and had Indian blood in him. He was good-looking, in a nasty sort of way. His sideburns came down to a point just above the corners of a hard mouth. He wore tight charro pants, silver spurs, a silver belt buckle, and a silver-mounted holster holding a big hunk of artillery. He and the horse together would melt down at about two hundred dollars worth of bullion.

  I said, "Buenas tardes."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I look for a Seiior Victor Chavarria Serra."

  He jerked his head at the graveyard.

  "You expect to find him there?"

  "I stopped to call on an old friend."

  "So? Who is your old friend?"

  "Don Roberto Ruano Parker."

  The stallion skittered, kicking up dust. I put my hand on its fore-shoulder and leaned my weight on it until he gave way and I could get through the gate.

  "Can you tell me where to find Senor Chavarria?" I said.

  Sideburns didn't answer for a minute. Finally he said curtly, "I am Victor Chavarria. What is your business with me?"

  "My name is Col
  "Yes."

  "What were the circumstances of his death?"

  Sideburns wanted to tell me to go to hell. I could see it in his tight mouth. He was going to tell me to go to hell sooner or later, but I thought I might get something out of him first.

  He said grudgingly, "He fell from his horse."

  "You have no idea what caused the fall?"

  "An accident, clearly. What is your connection with him?"

  "There was insurance paid. How was the l)ody identified?"

  "Don Rodolfo knew him well. I knew him well. Others on the fundo knew him well."

  "I know. I asked how he was identified, not by whom. From the picture of the body, there was little left after the buzzards finished with him."

  "The buzzards did not eat his rings nor his clothing." Victor's spurs jingled. The stallion moved forward, so I had to back away. "If you talked to don Rodolfo, you could have learned all this from him."

  "I have to confirm the facts."

  The stallion was crowding me over toward the car. I could have had fun hauling Victor out of the saddle and wrapping him around a fence post, but there was the gun to think about. And he was in his own backyard.

  "I am told that you are administrador for the fundo." I got my feet out of the way of the horse's hooves and tried to pretend I didn't see Victor using his spurs. "Don Rodolfo is now the owner of the property?"

  "You are free to ask him."

  He had me backed up against the car by then. The damn horse practically had its arms around me. There was nothing for me to do but open the car door and climb in.

  "One more question, caballero," I said. "When the body was found ..."

  "Vete."

  He put his hand on his gun.

  I almost jumped out of the car again, gun or no gun. Vete means Beat it. So does vaya, but vete is the form you use with dogs, children, bums and very good friends. Saying vete to a man is like calling him a son of a bitch. If you know him well it's a joke, and if you don't know him well it isn't funny at all.

  I started the motor of the coupe. He still had his hand on the artillery.

  "Do you speak English, sehor?"

  "No. Vete."

  "Too bad. Before I get through with this job, I am going to haul you off that horse and bust you right in the nose. That," I said, switching back to Spanish, "means hasta la vista. Adios."

  I let in the clutch and took off in second gear, leaving a nice cloud of dust in his face.

  There was plenty of room for a turn near the hacienda, but I kept on going. As long as I was on private property, he might be able to get away with something with that big rod of his, and I didn't want to take any chances after kicking dirt in his face. I had known gun-happy guys before.

  The road kept on going over the hills, past a lot of good grazing land uhere more fat beef cattle were putting on weight, until it came out on another highway about twenty kilometers toward the east. I didn't pass any other Jiaciendns on the way. It was easy to see that the Hacienda Quilpue covered a lot of landscape. I sure wished I knew whether a lousy vaquero got to be administrador of a hunk of property like that because he was a good man or because he knew something about something.

  m

  1 HAD a short but unpleasant session with don Rodolfo the next afternoon.

  When the maid let me into the museinii on Avenida O'Higgins, she said that don Rodolfo was in the patio. I knew my way around by then, so I told her she needn't bother to come with me.

  Don Rodolfo was painting a portrait of dona Maria. He had an easel set up on the grass. She was sitting imder the tree where the lovebirds bellyached in their cage. I stood in the archway leading from the house and watched them for a minute.

  Don Rodolfo had his back to me. Dona Maria sat facing him, her hands folded in her dumpy lap, a mantilla over her hair, and an expression on her face that would have driven any other painter off his trolley. I don't know how to describe it. It was peace and contentment and affection and happiness and deep understanding all rolled up in one. It went with her old face the way beauty goes with a young face. While I watched her, don Rodolfo said something I didn't catch. She smiled and answered, "Ouerido," just the

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  one word—sweetheart, lover, beloved, however yon want to translate it. He chuckled as he pnt a brush between his teeth. I felt as if I had wandered into their bedroom.

  Doiia Maria finally noticed me standing in the archway. Her expression changed to something more appropriate for strangers. She spoke to don Rodolfo, who turned around, saw me, put his brushes in their holder, and stood up. I came down into the patio.

  "Excuse me if I do not shake your hand, Seilor Colby," he said. "Mine is covered with paint. Please sit down."

  "I will disturb you only a moment, don Rodolfo."

  I went over to shake hands with dona Maria, which is good chileno etiquette. She was all set to ring the bell and order me an eight-course tea. I told her I had little time, and that if she were to tempt me again with the cooking of her kitchen I would not be able to drag myself away. It was the kind of thing
you say.

  Don Rodolfo waited for me to get at it. I took Adams' second cablegram out of my pocket and handed it to him. He looked at it only long enough to see that it was in English.

  "I do not read English. I am sorry."

  "It says my client regrets that he will need more than the affidavits."

  Nobody took it from there. Dona Maria looked at don Rodolfo. He looked at the cablegram. I looked at the paint on his fingers, and felt like a rat.

  Don Rodolfo sighed.

  "Will you excuse us, please?"

  He bowed from the hips to doiia Maria. She nodded. I bowed as he had done, mumbled somethino;, and followed him out of the patio. Doila Maria stayed as she was, her hands folded as they had been when I arrived, still in the pose he had been painting. He would have had no trouble catching her expression then. Her face was empty, drained of life.

  We went into the small sala. Don Rodolfo gave me back the cablegram.

  "What is it you wish?"

  "An authority to open your brother's grave."

  His mouth tightened. He said, "I regret it deeply. I cannot give you that."

  "Why not?"

  "We feel very strongly about such things here in Chile, Senor Colby. The words 'Rest in peace' are cut on my brother's gravestone. I will not desecrate it."

  "It is very important to my client . . ."

  "You speak of a matter of properties, of money." His voice was still under control, but it had an edge. "Please

  do not say that my brother's final rest is less important than a certain number of dollars."

  "I did not mean to say that. I understand your feeling, and I regret that my position forces me to ask you this. I have no choice but to determine to my client's satisfaction—to the satisfaction of the California courts— that the man who called himself Robert Parker is truly dead."