Murdered by Nature by Roderic Jeffries

and in the shadow of a much larger hotel. Tourists would have read in the brochures that the sea was within five minutes’ walk; it was not mentioned that the main coast road had to be crossed, and with the constant, heavy flow of traffic, five could become ten, fifteen, or even more.
    The reception clerk’s manner belied the promise of the hotel welcoming tourists. ‘You want what?’
    â€˜To know if Señor Browyer is in his room.’
    One of the four phones rang; the desk clerk answered the call, talked flirtatiously in Americanized English. Alvarez waited patiently until the clerk began to list the pleasures of lying on the beach in moonlight; he reached over and pressed down the stop bar.
    â€˜What d’you think you’re doing?’ the desk clerk demanded in Mallorquin, adding a couple of expressive adjectives.
    â€˜Saving a young lady’s virtue.’
    â€˜It’s none of your business.’
    â€˜Cuerpo.’
    The desk clerk attempted to show the contempt for authority which had become a mark of democracy. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to muck up my call.’
    â€˜It allows me not to have my work held up by some panting youth from Laraix.’
    Annoyance became uneasiness. ‘How d’you know where I’m from?’
    To a Lluesean, the Laraix accent was easily recognized, and, for a reason few remembered, the inhabitants of the two villages viewed each other with dislike and contempt. Alvarez did not answer the question.
    â€˜What . . . What d’you want?’
    â€˜As I said, to know if Señor Browyer is in his room.’
    â€˜He’ll more likely be eating.’
    â€˜A late breakfast?’
    â€˜Lunch.’
    â€˜This early?’
    â€˜Some of ’em would like it even earlier, being so hungry-gutted.’
    â€˜Get on to his room.’
    The clerk checked numbers, dialled. There was no answer.
    â€˜See if he is in the dining room.’ He might have to wait for Browyer to finish his meal. ‘What’s on the menu?’
    â€˜Fish soup, then cold meats or beef stew, salad, chips, and a sweet.’
    A half-formed suggestion was abandoned. He would not eat there however long he had to wait. Fish soup could come out of a tin, cold meats be yesterday’s leftovers, beef tough and tasteless even in a stew, olive oil from a fourth pressing, chips from green potatoes. ‘I’ll wait to talk to him. Will you organize a coñac with ice only?’
    The clerk hesitated, then spoke over an internal telephone.
    Six minutes later, a waiter entered the foyer, a frosting glass in his hand. He looked at the desk clerk, correctly interpreted the nod, crossed to Alvarez and handed him the glass.
    â€˜How much?’ Alvarez asked.
    â€˜I understood it was on the house.’
    Almost certainly a misunderstanding. The brandy was of very medium quality, but drinkable. He was considering whether hotel hospitality would support a second one when people began to leave the dining room. He walked over to the reception desk. ‘Do you know Señor Browyer?’
    â€˜Can’t say I do.’
    â€˜Call out his name.’
    Browyer was the last to leave. He came through the doorway, laughing at something he had said to the man beside him who looked bored, not amused. When he heard his name, he stopped, uncertain and uneasy. He walked slowly to the reception desk. ‘What’s the problem?’ With blustering bonhomie, he said: ‘Have I won the lottery or has Miss World phoned?’
    â€˜Inspector Alvarez wants to talk to you,’ the desk clerk answered.
    â€˜An inspector in what?’
    â€˜The Cuerpo.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜The detective division of the police force.’
    â€˜What . . . ? They’ve already found out I robbed the bank?’ He laughed, sounding like the neighing of a horse.
    â€˜I don’t think any bank has recently been robbed,’ Alvarez