‘ Another woman!’ cried Enrico’s wife. ‘You are not a man but a beast!’
‘Look — ’ began Enrico despondently.
As they walked away from the house Manuel was silent. He seemed to be thinking something over. He had not expected this, he said then, not this bit about the woman. She had obviously been employed, he said, for the occasion. A woman would attract less attention and it would seem more natural, he said, for a woman to be wanting to pass food in than it would have been for a man. A minor accomplice, he said: any woman would have done.
But he backed off quickly when Seymour asked him if it was possible for him to make further inquiries and see if he could find any clue to the woman’s identity. Seymour did not press him. Manuel had done more than could reasonably be expected already. But, given his initial enthusiasm — he had, after all, volunteered his services — and given what he had already done, Seymour was surprised. And then an idea came to him: could Manuel be backing off because he had suddenly thought where such inquiries might lead?
‘Senor Seymour!’ cried the governor of the prison, with what appeared to be genuine pleasure and — or had Seymour got it wrong? — a definite relief. The relief on second thoughts, and perhaps much of the pleasure, could have been to do with the fact that the governor’s desk was covered with sheet after sheet of numbers.
‘I hope I am not interrupting you?’
‘You are,’ said the governor. ‘Thank God!’
Seymour recognized the situation. ‘Budget time?’
‘You’ve hit on it. And now what can I do for you? There must be — ’ with a hint of desperation — ‘something I can do for you to take my mind off-’ he looked around him — ‘all this?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact-’
The governor almost rubbed his hands.
‘Oh, good!’ he said. He broke off to go to the door and called for coffee.
‘How are you getting on with your inquiries?’
‘Oh, progressing. Progressing. And how is the report of the investigation into Lockhart’s death getting on?’
‘Oh, progressing,’ said the governor.
They both laughed.
‘I shall not ask you about it,’ said Seymour, ‘but there is a little point — you will certainly think it a little point — which I would like your help on.’
‘Big things I probably can’t help you on; little things, just possibly I may.’
‘You will probably think this trivial, and, anyway, there may not be a record of it: but while Lockhart was in the prison, did he have any visitors?’
‘Senor Seymour, I am mortified to have to tell you — yes, he did.’
‘Why mortified, Senor?’
‘Because it reveals all too clearly the situation in the prison which my superiors falsely believe I have under my control. I think I told you that as soon as I found out that Senor Lockhart was among those admitted, that he was, in fact, in my cells, I sent someone down to see him. So I did. And it was then — then only — that I learned that he was dead. Well, I couldn’t believe it. I summoned the doctor — I think I told you I summoned the doctor?’
‘You did.’
‘And it was only then that the full enormity of what had happened was revealed to me. But this was several days after he had been admitted, and all that time I did not know that I had Senor Lockhart in my prison. I did not know, but — but it appears that half of Barcelona did! That is what is so mortifying! There were no fewer than three requests to be allowed to visit him. I have only just found that out. Following your visit the other day I went back through the papers. And it was then that I found the records of the requests.’
‘The requests were not granted, I presume?’
‘Two of them were granted. The third was from a lady known to me. Known, in fact, to all of Barcelona. Known as one of the biggest liars in Catalonia! I turned it down. Goodness knows what might have got out if she had had a word with him!’
‘This lady — her name wouldn’t be Dolores, by any chance?’
‘My God!’ said the governor. ‘You don’t mean — you don’t mean that you already know about her? Have, perhaps, talked to her?’
He struck himself a blow on the head with the heel of his hand. ‘But that means she has been telling everybody about what she saw in the prison! Even though she didn’t see it!’
‘Actually, Governor, I think it’s possible that somehow or other she may have wriggled her way in.’
‘Oh, my God!’
The governor took a great gulp of the coffee that had now come in.
‘It fits,’ he said, sunk in gloom. ‘Didn’t I tell you, when you came before, that I was surrounded by anarchists? There are anarchists everywhere. In prison, out of prison. Spain, I sometimes think, consists entirely of anarchists. And they are all bent on subverting the system.’
‘Tell me about the other two,’ said Seymour, ‘the ones you did allow in.’
‘Not I,’ said the governor. ‘I had nothing to do with it. My subordinates — my alleged subordinates — agreed it without reference to me.’
He hesitated.
‘I think I can understand it,’ he said. ‘One of them was an important lady, the wife of a very important person, high up in the Administration, and I don’t think they felt that they had much choice: if they wanted to stay in their jobs. At least, that is the impression she gave them.’
‘You couldn’t give me an idea of her identity, I suppose?’
‘No,’ said the governor decisively, ‘I couldn’t. Because if I did, my own wife would never let me hear the last of it. The lady knows her and would be round to our house in a flash. No.’ He shook his head regretfully, but firmly. ‘No, I couldn’t. Life would not be worth living. You see, Senor Seymour, there is a kind of romantic solidarity among Spanish women.’
‘Especially where Senor Lockhart was concerned.’
‘Exactly. Especially where Senor Lockhart was concerned.’
‘And the other lady? She was a lady, I take it.’
‘She was, but this was rather a different case. It was made on compassionate grounds. By Senor Lockhart’s daughter.’
‘Senor Lockhart’s daughter?’
‘Or so she claimed. And I think there may have been some truth in it. For although every woman in Barcelona who wasn’t Lockhart’s mistress claims to be his daughter, I think in this case it may be with more justice. Or so I gather from the police at Gibraltar and, more reliably, my wife.’
‘Her name?’
‘I do not think that would help you, Senor. For while it is a good, honest Spanish name, it is not the name of her true father. A matter of considerable joy to the ladies of Barcelona. Including my wife.’
‘It is true,’ admitted Hattersley, ‘that he did — well, put himself about a bit. There were rumours about the child. A daughter, I think. And yes, I’ve heard the other story — about the wife of the high-up official. Not to mention,’ he said with a wink, ‘plenty of others. And some of them were true. I can vouch for it myself. But I’m not so sure about those two. Still, if you’ve had it from the governor…’
They had met Hattersley on Las Ramblas.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I am switching a lot between the two just at the moment — between Gibraltar and Barcelona. I’m having a big argument with Spanish Customs, and British, too, but the Spanish are worse. They take up more time. But I’ll get there, I’ll get there.’
He had suggested a coffee and taken them to a little place they had not discovered, where you sat outside and had a good view right along Las Ramblas. And it was there that Seymour had put it to him.
‘These two women,’ he had said, ‘have you any idea who they might be? The daughter, I think I might know; but the other?’
‘I couldn’t put a name to her,’ said Hattersley, ‘but I’ve heard the story. The wife of a high-up. On the judicial side, I think. But, you know, there are always these stories and, in fact, I have my doubts about this one.’
‘Why?’ asked Seymour.
Hattersley hesitated.