“YES, MURDER—OF A YOUNG BOY.”
So said Constable Fey, who had a grim, determined look when he spoke. And he spoke with a certain moral conditioning that he exhibited toward Americans (and by proxy Canadians), which was reflected in his impeccable demeanour.
Fey’s national pride allowed his mistrust of her, and there was a very delicate encouragement for John as a common man and a fellow policeman to understand why. But John refused to succumb to this psychology, even though it might have brought him closer to the constable.
“I cannot see her killing anyone,” John said, “ever.”
John knew that in Mexico it might have been a dislike based on how she dressed and carried herself. Because Fey must have seen in tourists this same duplicity of warmth and superiority—and Fey was protecting national honour against the conceit of so many from the north.
The secret was: A case of rape of a Spanish tourist had been reported in this town just two years before—and it cast a dark shadow against the lawns and buildings about the old square, the gated resorts, the mist across the golf courses, and meandered into the conscience of citizens who were told by the foreign press that they were unkempt and brutal. So this now was their turn. That is, John sensed in every fibre of his sick body the hidden—deeply hidden—delight that this now was their turn. It was now their turn to be morally outraged; and they would be. Not to be would be unthinkable for them. This is what he had already seen in Lucretia Rapone.
And in fact this is what Fey now confirmed:
“Why did she come here?” Fey asked. “She is…” Here he hesitated and looked at some papers and held them up, to make the papers launch his remark. “She is a very—well, sexual woman, people say.”
“That is what they say. But I think there is a more innocent explanation, maybe?” was all John said.
The constable paused a moment, and then answered.
“No—she killed him. They overheard the argument.”
“Only one?” John said.
Fey countered with:
“He said to her one night, ‘No más me molestes.’” That is what they do, these fading American beauties—come here looking for boys—you must know that. That’s their new liberation—”
“Well, some of them, perhaps,” John said. “A few, maybe—but not Mary Cyr. And I know why he said that—”
“Oh, you know why he said that?”
“Yes—it was because she was asking about his father.”
“But I don’t believe that,” Fey said. And his refusal to believe was impeccable, and therefore unshakable.
So John shrugged and said nothing.
It was already too hot, and his head ached; his eyes too were sore. So was his throat.
Three days before, he was sitting in a motel room where he had lived after leaving his wife, Jeannie. He had loaded his revolver. What if he had not picked up the phone as he did? In fact over the past year he often had the phone cut off for lack of payment, but he had it reconnected last week, so in a way these things were out of his hands.
Little Mary Cyr was once again sadly enough in them.
That picture of her in the car that said POLICÍA could be spotted here and there on the third page in certain papers of the world. Most of the world did not know her. Yet. The policemen here were so sure of her guilt they had a dismissive but paternal attitude toward him. They were so sure of her guilt they did not mind him asking questions, for they felt (or Fey did) that a Canadian connection in the investigation did add some weight and fair play.
“The coal miner’s daughter,” they joked. This had gone from lip to ear to lip throughout the poorer district of Oathoa, where many of the miners’ families lived. Everyone wanted to line up to see her.
“Ponemos en mejoras de carácter grave, pero no nos dieron dinero para poner más.”
That was the statement from Carlos DeRolfo. John asked at the desk for someone to please translate it for him. It said something like this:
We put in major upgrades, but they wouldn’t give us money to do any more—
He went on to say this is why the bump happened.
When they asked him if those upgrades were actually done, he said solemnly:
“Sí, en la tumba de mi madre.”
Yes, on my mother’s grave.
Besides, he said, you could see them as soon as you entered the mine.
“Then why did you continue to mine if you wanted and needed a better infrastructure?”
“Habíamos planeado para este mes.”
We had planned to stop this month.
So with all of this, and Mary Cyr in a cell, they knew they had a very big fish.
“Tell them I am just a little fish—almost no fish at all. Much like a guppy—only a small guppy at that.”
That is why people were now gathering about the cell. It is why other tourists were sitting in the cafés gossiping. It is why the archaeological expedition was interviewed about a cave Mary had visited. (Did she plan to take the body of Victor there?) And all the statements gathered were put into a giant folder tied with blue ribbon and kept in secret, even though everyone knew what was in it. And Constable Fey had this blue-ribboned folder and looked at it with a great deal of concern. As if his expression was not suitable to match his anguish over what she had done. (This folder would be transferred to the prosecutor’s office within the next few days. The well-known, importante Isabella Tallagonga.)