Free Tour de Force by Christianna Brand Page A

The choice of possible culprits amounted to sixty – a depressed and anxious bunch of British tourists, assorted guests of various nationalities and fifteen members of the hotel staff. These last, however, he speedily dismissed with not a stain on their characters: they were natives of San Juan, the men, out of the tourist season, valued members of the smuggling fleet, and men and women alike very properly provided with two hundred pelire apiece, done up unobtrusively in little paper packages; and loud with promises of more to come if that were not enough. He sent them all off rejoicing. So! Ten minutes work and already the list was reduced to forty-five. It only showed what a man could achieve, who understood his job. He eyed the rest of them speculatively.
    A senor stepped forward, very splendid, with teeth of solid gold, weaving his way with rigidly outstretched arm, dividing up the company into two uneven clumps like a host about to institute some intricate drawing-room game for the reluctant amusement of his guests, and broke into eloquent Spanish. The Gerente, who spoke only the Spanish-Italian argot of the island, understood about half of what he said; but it did seem that the larger group had been, without possibility of doubt, far away from the premises at the relevant times, on a jaunt to the palatio, safe from suspicion beneath the very wing of El Exaltida himself. They would have to be released. He made a tiny but unmistakable sign to the beautiful senor with the golden teeth and the senor sighed and regretfully shook his head. It was bad, but it only confirmed his doubts: he must positively let forty rich suspects go and not a pelire the richer himself.
    And now they were seven. In the centre of the great, cool, whitewashed room with its shining wood floor and elephantine Iberian-Abbotsford furniture, Fernando argued, his arms nearly wrenched out of their sockets by the eloquence of his gesture. The rest drew together in a sort of protective huddle, Cockie resentful and cross, the Rodds and Miss Trapp very grave, Mr Cecil and Louli gone suddenly madly gay. ‘I feel,’ said Leo Rodd to Cockie, struggling with his one hand to light a cigarette, ‘that all this is coming unpleasantly near.’
    Cockie produced tobacco and paper and rolled a cigarette for himself: ‘It’s as well to get rid of the lot that were up at the palace. They’re obviously out of it,’
    â€˜Still, while they were in it, they did serve to complicate the issue.’
    Cockie looked up, bright eyed, over the first puff of his cigarette, ‘Do you want the issue complicated?’
    â€˜I only think,’ said Leo, ‘that all this may be very comic-opera and engaging, but it’s too terrifying for words.’
    Mr Cecil and Louli burst into their patter. But their hats! Their cloaks! Those guns, my dear! That dog!
    Their hats were apparently made of black patent leather, with circular crowns and circular brims, and the circular brims were broken sharply across the back and turned up flat against the circular crowns. The cloaks were of midnight blue, too utterly dramatic, said Mr Cecil, only just the wrong length to be really smart. They were worn over dirty white trousers with cylindrical legs; and even dirtier bare feet, except in the case of the Gerente whose dignity was served by the addition of a pair of filthy white tennis shoes. They carried what appeared to be flintlocks, splendidly chased in silver and black. The dog was a fearsome Alsatian bitch with an angry eye, obviously bred on a diet of human flesh. ‘My dears, up to one’s room for one’s sketching books this min ute, if only one dared!’
    â€˜Well, I agree with Leo,’ said Helen Rodd. ‘I think it’s not funny at all, but most terribly sinister.’
    â€˜You surely don’t imagine …?’ said Miss Trapp, mud-grey once more.
    â€˜I just didn’t care for the look of El Exaltida’s