The Spanish Daughter(12)

A knock on the door startled me.

Have they found Cristóbal?

I rushed to open, drying my tears with the back of my hand and tightening my husband’s smoking jacket across my chest.

The lady on the other side of the door must have read the disappointment on my face. Cristóbal was dead. When was I going to accept it?

“Good morning,” she said. “I believe we met the other night when my husband was tending to you?”

I had a vague memory of those loose curls framing her pale face. When she smiled, her pointy canines disrupted the harmony and alignment of her front teeth, but otherwise, she was lovely, with a statuesque nose and full mouth.

“Your husband?” I said.

“Dr. Costa.”

“Oh, yes, the Catalán.”

“Yes. Forgive me for bothering you, but—” She looked down the hall. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“No, of course not.” I opened the door wider.

“It’s understandable that you don’t remember me, with all that’s happened.” She took a seat on Cristóbal’s cot, which remained as tidy as he’d left it. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I haven’t even told you my name.” She extended her hand out to me. “I’m Montserrat.”

“Purificación, but everyone calls me Puri.”

“And you can call me Montse.”

I liked her immediately. She had one of those friendly faces that promised late nights, wine, and entertaining conversation. Under different circumstances, Montse and I could’ve become close friends.

She removed a box of cigarettes and matches from a silver purse and offered me one. I shook my head. I’d never been one to smoke.

My vice was chocolate.

“Listen, I don’t want you to think that I’m a busybody,” she said, “but us compatriots must stick together, ?sabes?” She lit her cigarette. “I just overheard something that might interest you. My husband and I were talking to Captain Blake—isn’t he handsome? —about your husband’s investigation. The captain said there had been no progress made and that he was closing the case and blah, blah, blah when one of his men came in with a valise.” Smoke escaped her lips. “This valise was apparently found in one of the storage rooms by the galley, where they keep cleaning supplies, mops, brooms. Well, the thing is, they believe it belonged to that man who attacked you and your husband, and they think he’d been hiding in that room all along because there was a blanket on the floor.”

So, I wasn’t crazy. There was proof that the man had been here.

I stood up.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“To talk to the captain, what else?”

“That’s not going to do you any good.” She uncrossed her legs. “Captain Blake asked me and my husband not to tell you anything. I think he just wants to turn the page and forget this ever happened.”

“Well, I’m not going to allow that.”

She smiled.

“Do you know where the valise is?” I had to see it before they disposed of it.

“I saw the captain leaving it by his desk. We should go now while they’re having breakfast.”

*

Montse stayed outside the captain’s office while I snuck inside. A worn-out suitcase sat by the desk, in the same spot Montse had said it would be. I set it on top of the sofa, unclasped the draw bolts, and lifted the lid.

Beneath two shirts was a pair of trousers, underpants, a shaving kit, a box of soap. I was desperately looking for a wallet or something that would give me a name, but all I found was a book: a Bible. I nearly laughed at the irony.

I flipped through the book, scanning for his name. There was an envelope tucked inside. Glancing at the door, I opened the flap and removed two pieces of paper: one was a check, postdated, from a bank in Vinces. The beneficiary’s name was left blank, and the signature was illegible.

The other paper had only one name: mine.

My suspicions were real. This man had been sent to kill me. This was enough proof to continue with the investigation, but I didn’t trust the captain to do the right thing; it was too much of an inconvenience for him. He’d already proven that he wasn’t interested in pursuing the case by not mentioning the suitcase and ruling the murder an accident. He wasn’t a detective or a private investigator. He would simply send these papers to someone else, papers that would end up collecting dust in someone’s cabinet. No, I didn’t want the British authorities to handle this. Who knew how many months (or years) that would take?

I slipped the envelope inside my sleeve.

I would have to find Cristóbal’s killer myself.

*

I didn’t tell Montse about the papers. She was affable, but she’d just proven to me that she couldn’t keep a secret. The first thing she’d done after the captain had asked for discretion was to come and tell me about the valise. Not that I wasn’t grateful for the information. Thanks to her, I’d found the first clue I needed to discover who was behind all of this, but I barely knew the woman. I couldn’t trust anybody.

I could hardly sleep that night. The little sleeping I did resulted in ghastly nightmares where I was either attacked by a group of men in the jungle or wandering by a cacao field in my camisole, lost. As I shifted positions in bed, the captain’s words kept echoing in my mind: “A journey of that magnitude could be quite dangerous for a woman traveling alone.”