Three and One Make Five by Roderic Jeffries Page B

the floor. Alvarez asked her in Spanish to leave and she looked at them with worried curiosity before going.
    Alvarez said: ‘I fear I have some serious news which you may not have heard. Sadly, during Monday night señor Peter Short suffered a serious accident from which he died.’
    ‘My GodI’
    Alvarez led the way over to one of the tables and sat. Prade brought out a pack of cigarettes and took one, then, with a start, remembered his manners and offered it. ‘What kind of an accident?’
    ‘The señor had chartered a boat in Palma and sailed it round to Puerto Llueso, where he moored. He was aboard when there was an explosion which started a fire. It was impossible to put the fire out and the boat sank. His body was recovered.’
    ‘Jesus!’ Prade fiddled with his cigarette. ‘Even though he wasn’t a close friend, it’s still one hell of a shock! I mean, when you see someone in the evening and you learn he died that same night . . .’
    ‘Señor, were you not expecting to sail to Menorca with him?’
    ‘You seem to know more about me than I do myself! How d’you learn that?’
    ‘The harbourmaster told me, after he’d spoken to the charterers . . . Were you not surprised when you didn’t see him again on the Tuesday?’
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    ‘But you didn’t try to get in touch with him to find out what had happened?’
    ‘I was going to, of course, but his name wasn’t in the telephone book and one of the desk clerks told me that there are still a lot of houses without the phone. Then I went down with this tummy bug and that made life very difficult. And on top of that . . . I don’t know quite how to explain without making myself seem a bit . . . well, precious. When he first suggested taking me for a boat trip I reckoned it was probably because he’d nothing better to do. You know what it’s like—a holiday in the sun sounds wonderful, but if you’re on your own it can become pretty boring. So when I didn’t hear from him again I put it down to the fact that he’d probably found something better to do. And I suppose I’d better admit that I was a bit piqued and wasn’t going to go chasing him.’
    The door opened and a waiter, carrying a tray, entered. He put the tray down on the table in fronts of them and left.
    They helped themselves to milk and sugar.
    ‘Señor, because of certain facts concerning the death of señor Short, I have to try and find out more about him. Will you help me do this?’
    ‘Yes, of course. But I must stress that we weren’t close friends.’
    ‘I understand. When and where did you first meet him?’
    ‘In Paris, something like eighteen months ago. We were both staying at the Hotel Grimauld—in the Rue Clement-Marot, I think—and having a drink at the bar. When you’re abroad you talk more freely to strangers and we were roughly the same age so we started chatting. We got on quite well together and went out and about a couple of times.’
    ‘Was he on his own?’
    ‘Yes, there was no one with him.’
    ‘Was he on holiday?’
    ‘Not completely. He did talk about having some business to do.’
    ‘Did he mention what kind of business?’
    ‘If he did, I’ve forgotten.’
    ‘Can you suggest what it might have been?’
    ‘No, beyond the fact that he obviously made a fair bit of money at it.’
    ‘When did you next see him?’
    ‘A couple of months later on. I was in my flat in London and the phone rang and it was him. He suggested dinner together.’
    ‘Where did he live?’
    ‘I never found out. He seemed always to be on the move. As a matter of fact, I did ask him once where his base was, but he very carefully didn’t answer.’
    ‘If he had no permanent address, how did you get in contact with him?’
    ‘I didn’t. He always got in touch with me.’
    ‘Did you not find this unusual?’
    ‘Yes. But then there was something just a bit odd about him . . . He was good fun, amusing, knowledgeable about a lot of things, but the moment the