Free The Twenty-Third Man by Gladys Mitchell Page A

Beatrice bought the piece of pottery and asked how many members there were of the woman’s family.
    ‘We are eighteen,’ was the reply. ‘Six dead. So twelve.’
    ‘And you all live behind that curtain?’ asked Dame Beatrice, pointing to a horse-blanket which decorated the back of the cave.
    ‘Certainly, but I cannot show you. We show only the sala de recibo. ’
    ‘And do you take lodgers?’
    ‘With twelve living here? Good gracious me!’
    In the next cave, the hostess was a black-eyed, tousle-haired girl of about sixteen who seized the lace-edged handkerchief Dame Beatrice held out and then, with a shrill cry, disappeared behind the curtain which, again, separated the whitewashed front of the cave from the malodorous living-quarters.
    The apparently ubiquitous family photographs, an old-fashioned gramophone, and a basket chair of island manufacture formed the principal features of the parlour. Dame Beatrice scrutinized the photographs and wondered how best to introduce the reason for her visit. She was not left alone very long, for the girl reappeared, accompanied by a negroid crone of uncertain age who walked with the aid of a stick.
    ‘I am blind,’ announced the crone. ‘I have lived in this cave since birth. I love the Americans, all of you. The Americans are good people. They always give money. I do not object to payment in dollars. I shall sell you a piece of pottery. The like is not to be obtained by your friends. Unique. Indestructible. I do not love Communists. I love the American nation. Give me much money.’
    To one so single-minded, Dame Beatrice thought it might be well to introduce the object of her visit as bluntly as possible.
    ‘Where does the Señor Carlos Emden lodge?’ she asked, pressing a ten-shilling note into an outstretched hand.
    ‘You must take back your money. I do not know,’ said the old woman. ‘I have heard nothing of a gentleman so named.’
    ‘No? That is a pity. But the money is for you, not for what you can tell me. Have you really not heard the name before? Karl Emden. He came to live in a cave. He left his hotel in Reales to become a cave-dweller like yourself. He is fascinated by the people of this island.’
    ‘No. He has not come. I should have heard. I hear everything. When you are blind you hear everything and you feel the sunshine. Give me more money. It is your duty.’
    ‘Tell me about Karl Emden.’
    ‘I tell you that I do not know him. He is not here. He is not one of us. From Reales, you say? I have not been in Reales for twenty-five years. Have you looked at the photographs of my sons and daughters? And of my brothers and sisters? Do you wish to buy pottery? Would you like to buy a bottle of wine or a basket chair? I will make you a special price. You are old, like me. I can smell it.’
    So it went on, until Dame Beatrice had visited six of the curious homesteads. No one would acknowledge any acquaintanceship with Emden and she was forced to the conclusion that, whatever his intentions might have been, he could not have come to the caves. If he had, the cave-dwellers were saying nothing about it. She was interested. She returned to the hired car while she considered the matter. It was easy to see cause and effect, especially when the evidence was circumstantial, as she very well knew, but, all the same, there was something disturbing in the fact that, the day after the Alaric had docked, the most individual and (if one admired the dress of the islanders) the most picturesque guest at the Hotel Sombrero had elected to forego the comfort and good food provided by Señor Ruiz and had announced his intention of joining the troglodytes.
    Pepe Casita, with the sympathy of his kind, realized that she was troubled.
    ‘You do not care for the caves?’ he inquired. ‘They are of the beasts, those people. Well I know it.’
    ‘They are most interesting. Did you know that the Señor Emden, who was staying at the Hotel Sombrero, told us that he proposed to go