Relatively Dangerous by Roderic Jeffries Page B

sharp concern.
    ‘Good morning, señor.’
    ‘What d’you want?’ Taylor asked belligerently. To see my driving licence because the law says a photostat copy isn’t good enough even though I couldn’t have one if I didn’t have the original?’
    ‘To ask you some questions concerning two hundred and fifty thousand pesetas.’
    He hunched his shoulders, as he might have done if expecting to have to ward off a blow.
    ‘Mike . . .’ began Helen.
    ‘Look, love, suppose you take the van and find the builders and use all your charm to jerk them into some action?’
    ‘But surely you phoned them only an hour ago . . .’
    ‘Just go, eh?’
    ‘No, I won’t.’ She walked forward until she could grip his free hand in hers. She had no idea what was wrong, but whatever was the trouble, she was going to share it.
    ‘Perhaps it would be more pleasant if we sat down?’ suggested Alvarez.
    Taylor looked as if he were obstinately going to refuse to move, then suddenly changed his mind. After releasing his hand, he led the way into the restaurant which was reasonably cool, thanks to the open windows and the slight sea breeze. The tables and chairs had been stacked to one side, leaving three walls clear for painting, and after putting the can down, using more force than was necessary because violent action was one way in which he could release a little of his bitter anger, he moved out one table and three chairs. He sat, deliberately not waiting for them.
    Helen, in an attempt to neutralize his all-too-evident antagonism, said to Alvarez: ‘Would you like a drink?’
    ‘Thank you, I would very much. Do you have a coñac?’
    She went through to the kitchen, to return with a tray on which were three glasses, one with a drink in it, a bottle of 103, and a soda siphon. She put the tray on the table, turned to Alvarez. ‘I’m sorry, but we haven’t any ice at the moment —the wiring of the kitchen is one of the things we’re waiting to have done so neither of the refrigerators is working. It makes me wonder what on earth people did with food in the heat in the old days.’
    ‘There was an ice factory in Llueso and each morning two mule carts brought ice down to the port for the iceboxes.’
    ‘You’ve lived here a long time?’
    ‘Long enough to remember the ice-carts, señora, but I wasn’t born at this end of the island.’
    ‘When you first came to the port, it must have been quite small?’
    ‘There were the few big houses on the front which belonged to the rich in Palma, one hotel, two or three shops, and many fishermen’s cottages.’
    ‘But no memento shops, or tourist bars, or discos . . . It must have been so lovely.’
    ‘Lovely for the rich,’ said Taylor. ‘While the poor could always feast on the scenery.’
    ‘Mike,’ she said, worried.
    ‘What you suggest is true, señor,’ said Alvarez pacifically. ‘There was much for the few, little for the many; now that has changed, but so has the life. Who can say which is the better?’
    ‘The poor sods who didn’t have anything then, but do now.’
    ‘I suppose you are right. And yet . . .’
    ‘Spiritually, so much has been lost?’ she suggested.
    ‘Crap!’ Taylor said crudely.
    ‘Mike, how can you be so certain that it’s always better if the many benefit at the expense not only of the few, but also of the quality of life?’
    ‘Because I’ve no time for an elitist society unless I’m one of the elite.’ He finally poured out two brandies. ‘Soda?’ he asked Alvarez curtly.
    ‘No, thank you.’
    He added soda to his own drink. ‘All right, we’ve sorted out the problems of the world; now let’s sort out yours. What’s bugging you if it’s not my bloody driving licence?’
    ‘Did you pay two hundred and fifty thousand pesetas to Señor Cantallops for the funeral of Señor Thompson?’
    Helen exclaimed: ‘So that’s why . . .’ Abruptly, she stopped.
    ‘No,’ said Taylor loudly, I didn’t.’
    ‘Perhaps I should explain