Читать книгу Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Sylvia Maultash Warsh - Страница 29

The stairs were carpeted in an orangey-red that reminded her of Spanish tiled roofs and the satin dresses of flamenco dancers. She stood in the doorway of the club, halted by the smoke and the noisy rhythm of the music that set the floor vibrating. Middle-aged couples clung to each other in the centre of the dance floor, gliding to some tango. The sultry beat was being produced on the opposite side of the room by a band of trumpet, guitar, and drums, and Isabella Velasco. Her voice insinuated itself along the melody of some song about rain, while her fingers punctuated the journey, her hands opening and closing to click her castanets like little clams. A long black dress, slit to the thigh on one side, hugged her bony figure. Her dark hair was pulled tightly off her face. She was not young. A well-preserved forty-nine, as she swayed to the rhythm.

Rebecca took a moment to observe the room. It looked like a club for homesick Latins: a rigid toreador, with charging bull, had been painted across the wall behind the band. David would not have approved. The two figures were naively drawn and the colours flat and childish. Near the entrance hung several paintings of, presumably, the Spanish countryside, as well as the requisite rendering of a señiorita in lace mantilla. A set of bull’s horns and a sword were suspended in one corner.

She couldn’t keep standing in the doorway. How was she going to find the man Vogel talked about? Rebecca took off her trenchcoat and hung it on the rack in the hall. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was surprised to see how pale and unhealthy she looked even in the subdued light. Her dark hair was more unruly than usual after the run outside. She smoothed it down with a quick hand then applied some lipstick to give her at least a semblance of life.

To the left of the entrance was a bar. Two men sat drinking at the far end, laughing over something. Rebecca took a deep breath, then entered the noise and smoke. She found herself a stool at the empty end of the bar. The noise, she realized, was loud music alone rather than a combination of music and chatter. There were not enough people in the room to make an appreciable noise but the band more than made up for it. She was surprised they would bother with a band on an evening when only four tables were occupied by maybe fifteen people.

After ordering a glass of wine, she turned so she could see the band. Isabella Velasco’s voice caressed the room in a sensuous Spanish. Hay lluvia.... It was raining.

After a minute a sleek dark man in his forties boldly sat down on the next stool, facing her. Maybe she should have expected this. It had been so long since she was single that she had quite forgotten the procedure. She was in no mood for it now. He lit up a cigarette, then offered her the package.

“I don’t smoke,” she said.

“Very smart.” Hispanic accent. Sure of himself. His angular features, his dark hair, salted with grey, gleamed in the reflected light of the bar.

He turned his head to exhale a long column of smoke away from her. At least he was polite. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I guess that’s because I haven’t been here before.”

“And you are here alone? A beautiful woman like you?”

He was going through the motions but she didn’t quite buy it. The attitude seemed more reflex than real intention. Despite the warm approach, there was something cold about him. His black eyes studied her as one hand played with a gold cigarette lighter on the counter. The barman placed a glass of whiskey in front of him without a word. A regular. A candidate for the mystery man.

“She’s very good,” Rebecca said, glancing at the sultry, severe woman growling out her song.

“You like our Spanish music?”

“Its very moody.”

He smirked. “For an English it is moody. For a Spanish it is passionate.”

“Maybe it’s the singer who’s passionate.”

Without looking at the stage he said, “All Spanish singers are passionate. It is in the blood.” He stared at Rebecca as if Spanish blood and passion were unimportant for the moment. Crushing his cigarette in an ashtray, he slid off his stool.

“You would like to dance?” It wasn’t a question. He stood in front of her, his hand out, not tentative at all. There was a dangerous charm in the well-defined cheekbones, the sharp nose. His expensive suit clung sensually around his waist.

A couple heading toward the dance floor turned toward them. “Buenos noches, Capitán” said the man, nodding with more than respect.

Capitán. This must be her man.

“Pardon my manners. I am Manuel Diaz.” He bowed his head slightly, very elegantly.

“Capitán Diaz,” she smiled. “Rebecca Temple.”

It had been a long time since she had danced and she gave herself credit for nerve. The straight calflength skirt she had worn gave little leeway for the strides that the tango required of her. He led her easily, holding her at a polite distance. His eyes half-closed in the rhythm of the dance, but he was alert, watching her under heavy lids. She hadn’t been held by a man since David and she wasn’t ready. Just the proximity was unnerving, the pressure of the man’s fingers on her back. Maybe a murderer’s fingers. The music died away. He led her back to the bar.

“You’re a military man?” she said, in the lull between the music.

He waved away the suggestion. “A title of respect. In South America, where I come from, soldiers have the most respect. So when I come here, they call me el Capitán.” He stretched his hand out like a priest indicating his flock. “This is my place. When you give orders, you must have a rank.” He motioned to the bartender for more drinks. Another glass of wine appeared before her.

He was certainly in charge. But he seemed to have more power than ordering changes in the menu or setting the price of Tia Maria.

“Then you know Isabella.”

He lit up another cigarette. “I know everybody here.”

“She was acquainted with a patient of mine. Goldie Kochinsky.” She watched his reaction.

His eyelids rose slightly. “You are a doctor.” Then he shook his head, furrowing his brow in the appropriate response. “It is terrible what happened to the old woman. We were all shocked. It is what you expect in Argentina, where I come from; not here.”

“Did you know each other in Argentina?”

“The old woman? No.”

“You know what happened to her there?”

He blew out a long stream of smoke, observing her. “You mean her kidnapping. I heard something. It was a terrible time. It was bad for everybody.”

“Did you know the men who tortured her?”

He watched her for a moment. “I knew men in the junta. I didn’t ask them what they did. The trick was, not to know too much.”

“So. You were not involved?” His waiting eyes prodded her to add, “In the junta?”

He tapped impatiently on his cigarette. “I’m a businessman. I don’t kill people.”

“What kind of business are you in?”

“ Import-export.”

“What do you import and export?”

“Anything I can buy low and sell high. Nothing you would be interested in, Doctor.”

“Then you managed to escape the terror when you were in Argentina.”

“I was lucky. The old woman was not.” He shrugged.

Rebecca wasn’t going to get any more information out of the Capitán than he wanted to give her. He turned toward the band where Isabella was purring out a suggestive version of “The Girl from Ipanema.” “What about Isabella?” she said. “She knew Goldie in Argentina.”

“Isabella hated the old woman because she was weak. She told the junta where Isabella’s son was hiding and they killed him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t blame the old woman. She didn’t want to die. So she gave up a name.” His tone was too casual for the information. He was accustomed to government-sponsored murder while it still appalled her.

The song ended. Someone turned on a Latin version of canned muzak and the band headed toward the bar. Isabella held her head stiff, her gait self-consciously haughty. She looked even older close up, the lines around the edges of her mouth and darkly lined eyes visible through her pancake make-up.

She smiled coyly at Diaz. “Buenos noches, Capitán.”

He nodded formally. “Maravilloso, your performance, as always, Isabella.” There was no feeling in his voice, merely rote. He touched Rebecca’s arm lightly. “This is Dr. Temple. She was Doctor to Goldie Kochinsky.”

Isabella turned to look at her for the first time.

“Tell her that you forgive Goldie for what she did,” Diaz said, sipping another glass of whiskey that the bartender had automatically poured.

He was toying with them both, thought Rebecca.

The woman searched her face for a clue to the mystery, but found none.

Rebecca jumped in. “I’m sorry if this brings up painful memories for you, but on Goldie’s desk there was a notice of your son’s death dated 1977. Do you have any idea why it was there?”

Isabella turned toward the room. “Come, let’s sit,” she said, motioning to an empty table. “I must get off my feet.”

At the table, both the Capitán and Rebecca watched her, waiting. Her neck arched higher, the severe bun black against her skin; her eyelids drooped. “It was like an anniversary. I sent the card every year. So she wouldn’t forget.” Isabella took a gulp of what looked like vodka. “She killed my son, but now that she is dead, I must forgive her.”

The Capitán smirked, every now and then nodding recognition toward those greeting him from a distance.

“Why do you think she was responsible?” Rebecca asked, trying to ignore him.

“Because he is dead and she knew where they were. My son, her son, together in a safe house. Only a few close friends knew where. She was the only one who was tortured. They grabbed her because she was weak and they can smell weak. The junta were afraid of their songs — the boys sang songs in protest. Here it would be nothing, nobody would notice. But there, they killed people who opposed them. When they tortured her, she gave in.”

“Isn’t it possible someone else told?” said Rebecca. The Capitán smirked again. He was enjoying this.

Isabella finished her drink. “It doesn’t matter anymore. She is dead. Why do you care?”

“Someone killed her. I’d like to know why.”

Isabella lifted her glass high, motioning to the bartender. “It was a robbery, I heard. These things happen.”

“I believe it was something more.”

The Capitán no longer smiled. “You shouldn’t get involved,” he said, crushing out his cigarette, pretending lack of interest. “This is not a job for a doctor. You must have more important things.”

What was he hiding, she wondered. Who was he really?

“I hope I haven’t upset you,” she said, pleased with his reaction.

His nostrils flared but she couldn’t take complete credit for his displeasure since he stood up at that moment to greet someone at the door.

Isabella stood up, both arms extended, her shoulder blades taut. “Leo,” she sang. The man embraced her, kissing her the European way, on both cheeks.

“My dear lady, ravishing as always.”

He turned toward the table and smiled at Rebecca. “Why, Doctor, what a delightful surprise!” said Feldberg. “How nice to see you again so soon.”