THE COUNTRY WAS HOT and fly-swept, and Doris hated it from the first. They’d barely reached the hotel from the airport when she turned from the latticework window and told him, “This is one hell of a place to spend a honeymoon!”
Kane Wingate paused in the act of unpacking his bag. “I’m sorry, dear. I suppose it’s the first of many pitfalls in the life of a professor’s wife. It’ll only be for two days, though. Just long enough for …”
“Just long enough for you to visit the cemetery.”
He went over and put his arms around her. “The way you say it I suppose it isn’t really much of a honeymoon trip. I’m sorry, dear.”
She was a decade younger than his thirty-eight years, but he was still a match for Doris. Perhaps that explained why he expected her to share the interest in his work, which came before anything else. She’d agreed to a side trip to Puerto Vale so he could visit the grave of Ramon Mandown. Now, together in the stuffy drabness of the hotel room, the error of it was all too obvious to them both.
“All right,” she said finally. “I suppose I’m being a bit unreasonable. Go to your old cemetery. I’ll look around in the shops.”
He kissed her, and felt good again. “I shouldn’t be long. Mandown lived in a little village up in the hills, but it’s only an hour away by car. I’ll be back for supper. Meet you here in the room? Around six?”
“Fine.”
Ramon Mandown had been dead nearly two years. He had died in the little mountain community where he had lived most of his life, surrounded by people who little knew or cared what the Nobel Prize for Literature meant to the outside world. The seven volumes of Mandown’s verse were almost unknown in the United States until he won the prize, but after that his fame had grown steadily until his death at the age of fifty-seven.
Now, thought Kane Wingate and any number of other literature professors, there was only a lull before the name of Mandown became a household word in literate American circles.
A month before his marriage to Doris, a balding little man with a cigar in his mouth and a checkbook in his hand had approached Kane to commission a ten thousand-word article on Mandown and his works. “We want to be on top of this thing,” he had said. “We want his picture on our cover for the second anniversary of his death. They tell me you’ve studied his stuff.”
“I’ve lectured on him,” Kane had admitted.
“Then you can do an article for our magazine.”
There had been a $500 advance, and Kane did not intend to spurn such an offer. Besides, the pressure was on at the University to publish something—anything—and ten thousand words might easily flower into fifty thousand for a book on Mandown.
The article was coming along, slowly, but Kane didn’t feel he could pass up a visit to the great man’s grave. He hardly expected a bolt of inspiration, but it might make a good lead for the thing. A few weeks ago, as I stood staring down at the final resting place of Ramon Mandown … Something like that. Something dignified, as befits the subject.
Kane parked his rented car in the village square and stopped the first man he saw. “The grave of Ramon Mandown?” he asked in a good approximation of the language.
The man shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I don’t know, sir.”
Kane sighed. “Which way to the cemetery?”
“Up the hill. You will see it.”
“Thanks.” It seemed only a short walk, so he left the car where it was. He had brought the camera, to take a picture of the grave and any tribute that might be there, but as he neared the place he began to realize that all he would find was a score of crumbling tombstones, overgrown with tropic weeds.
“Can I help you?” a man in shirtsleeves asked him. He spoke English with an accent, and seemed to be in charge of things.
“Is this your cemetery?” Kane asked.
The man chuckled. “A cemetery belongs only to the dead. I care for it.”
Kane glanced again at the weeds and wondered what the care consisted of. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown.”
“He is not buried here.”
“Well, where is he?”
“I could not tell you that.”
“This was his village?”
“Yes.”
“And he died here two years ago.”
“Almost two years. It was in the autumn, I think.”
“Then where is his body? Back in the town?”
The man shrugged and said nothing.
“I just want some information! Do you have a mayor or anyone up here? A headman?”
“I am the headman.” He pushed a hand through hair beginning to gray. “My name is Juan Vyano.” He held out his hand in a gesture of westernized greeting. It felt oily from the sweat of his hair.
“Good,” Kane told him. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown, the poet.”
“Why?”
“I want to take a picture of it.”
“Of a grave?” The man pushed a hand through his hair and smiled a bit.
“Mandown was a great poet. He won the Nobel Prize. I want to write an article on him.”
Juan Vyano shrugged. “There is no grave.”
Kane was beginning to lose patience. “What do you mean? There must be a grave. Was he cremated?”
“No. But there is no grave to see. It is unmarked.”
“Do you know who Ramon Mandown was?”
“Certainly. He was a close friend of mine, of us all.”
“Have you read his poems?”
Vyano nodded. “Some of them, yes. They are very beautiful.”
“Mandown is a world-famous literary figure. He is certainly the greatest man your poor village ever produced. And you tell me he is buried in an unmarked grave?”
“I am sorry, but that is correct.”
“All right. Could I see it?”
“What good would it do?”
Kane shifted the camera to his other shoulder, feeling the leather strap suddenly heavy through his clothing. “Look, what about Mandown’s wife, Carla? Could you take me to her house?”
The dark eyes narrowed. “How did you know her name?”
“It’s on the backs of all his book jackets. Does that satisfy you?”
Vyano nodded. “Do not excite yourself. Carla Mandown is dead also.”
“All right.” Somehow he wasn’t surprised. What did poets’ wives have to live for, after their husbands had gone? “Is there any family at all? Brothers, sisters?”
“No one here. I am sorry.”
“Who might know something about him? You said you were his friend.”
“He was a great man and he died. There is nothing more to tell.”
Kane gazed into the sunlight, looking down at the cobbled village street. “I don’t suppose you have a bookstore here.”
“The nearest one is back in Puerto Vale, where you came from.”
“You knew I came from there?”
The man shrugged. “The car. Cars always come from Puerto Vale.”
Against his better judgment, Kane handed the man a few coins and went back to the car. In a few moments he was heading back the way he had come.
On the main street of Puerto Vale he parked the rented car and started off on foot, half expecting to encounter Doris coming out of some shop with an exotic native carving for their new home back in the States. He found a bookstore in the second block, a dimly lit place that was deep and narrow like some overlooked alley between the stores on either side. Inside, he hesitated before the long shelves of books, uncertain of their arrangement.
“Can I be of assistance?” a voice asked in unmistakably American tones. Kane turned and saw a stout middle-aged man with a short black beard.
“Is this your shop?”
The man nodded. “Harry Green’s the name. You’re American, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Kane Wingate. I just stopped over here for a few days. I think perhaps you can help me.”
The beard wagged up and down. “Certainly. Were you sent here by anyone?”
“No, not really.”
“I think I have just what you want,” Harry Green decided suddenly, and hurried away down the alley of books. Kane stared after him. He returned in a moment bearing an oversized volume under his arm. “The finest engravings,” he told Kane, opening it at random. The picture was an obscene photograph of two men.
“That isn’t what I had in mind. Do you have any books of poetry by Ramon Mandown?”
“Who? Mandown? No, you have to realize that this is something of a specialty shop.”
“I can see that. Where could I find some?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know. Mandown isn’t read much around here.”
“I gathered that. He’s buried in an unmarked grave.”
Harry Green’s expression changed. “You’ve been looking for his grave?”
“I have. Do you know anything about it?”
“Why should I?”
“Were you here at the time of his death?”
“Yes.”
“Look, damn it! Will somebody please tell me why everyone is afraid to talk about it?”
Harry Green looked down at the floor. “Sometimes you can get in real trouble talking about murder.”
“Murder!”
“I have to go now. I’ve said too much.” He patted his beard into place and retreated once more into the rear of the shop.
“Wait a minute!”
“We’re closing. Go away.”
Kane felt the frustration well within him, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by staying just then. Outside, he jotted down the address of the bookstore. Perhaps he would want to speak with Harry Green again.
Doris was resting on the bed when he returned to the room. She propped herself up on one elbow and asked, “Well, did you see your cemetery?”
“No.” He sat down opposite the bed and lit his first cigarette of the day.
“Isn’t that what we came here for?”
“Mandown is buried in an unmarked grave. His body is hidden for some reason, and I think it’s because he was murdered.”
“Oh, Kane!”
“Really. And perhaps his wife was murdered too, because she knew about it.”
“But how could such a thing be kept quiet for nearly two years?”
“That’s what I don’t know. How, and why.”
“Well, I guess we shouldn’t have come here after all. Your trip was all for nothing.”
“You call this nothing? I may be on the verge of the most important literary discovery of the decade.”
Doris got up and began to apply her lipstick before the room’s only mirror. “Will it wait until after dinner?”
“Of course, dear. You must be hungry.”
He watched her adjust the shantung skirt over smoothly curved hips, wondering still at the good fortune that had given her to him.
They dined at a side-street restaurant that paradoxically featured French cooking, and when they emerged the sky was darkening with the coming of night. “What’s there to do in this town now?” she asked.
“We could walk for a while down by the harbor.”
“That sounds exciting. I’ve had better times back in …”
She stopped suddenly as two men emerged from the shadows. They wore tropic suits and matching white hats, and the one in front had a hand in his pocket.
“Kane Wingate?” he asked in a tone that was not altogether pleasant.
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Come with us.”
His hand reached out for Kane’s arm, and Kane pulled away with a sudden reflex. “Like hell I will!” He gave the man a shove and backed quickly away.
The second man blinked his eyes and drew a gun. It was a little snub-nosed automatic that looked almost like a toy. “We are police,” he said. “I will shoot.”
Behind him, Kane heard Doris gasp in fright. “All right, let’s not get excited.” He took Doris by the arm and walked between the men to a waiting car. The one he had shoved said something unpleasant under his breath.
Ten minutes later they were seated on uncomfortable wooden benches in a bare, harshly lighted room at the local police headquarters. They were kept waiting about ten minutes before a man in the uniform of a police chief came to them with an aide. “Mr. Wingate,” he said in English, “forgive me for the difficulties. My man should not have drawn his weapon.”
“Would you mind explaining what you want with us? We’re American citizens.”
The police chief smiled without showing his teeth. “I hope that is not meant as a threat. Let me introduce myself—Captain Pallato of Puerto Vale’s security force. I want only a few moments of your time.”
“About what?”
“You visited a man named Harry Green this afternoon; a fellow American, I believe.”
Kane felt an immediate sense of relief. “I didn’t buy any of his books or pictures.”
Captain Pallato sat down behind his desk. “The dirty books are just a front. Harry Green is a dangerous revolutionary.”
“That’s a switch,” Kane said, feeling the new chill begin to form around his spine.
“What did you go there for?”
“Information about books, strange as it might seem. The place is a bookstore, you know.”
The man’s eyes were hard. “Exactly what information?”
“I’m writing an article about Ramon Mandown. I wanted to see his grave.”
“He is not buried at Harry Green’s shop.”
Kane sighed and reached for a cigarette. The whole thing was getting more impossible by the minute. “No, but there seems to be a certain reluctance on the part of most people even to talk about Mandown. I thought a bookseller might tell me something.”
“And did he?”
Kane lit his cigarette, taking his time about it. “Perhaps.”
Captain Pallato stood up and placed one booted foot on his chair. “I’ll give you a bit of good advice, Mr. Wingate. It could be dangerous for you to return to Harry Green’s shop.”
“It could be dangerous for me to cross the street, or get out of bed in the morning.”
“Correct. But the American embassy can be of little help to a dead man.”
“Look, let’s not play games. I’m not interested in Green’s books or in his revolution, either. I’m only interested in Ramon Mandown and what happened to him. Did you investigate his death, Captain?”
“The village is outside my territory. I can say nothing about it.”
“All right,” Kane sighed. “Tell me one thing, though. When did his wife die?”
“Carla Mandown? The same day he did. They are buried together.”
“Yes,” Kane said, almost as if he’d expected it. Juan Vyano hadn’t mentioned that little fact. The grave was hidden, but someone would know where. Someone in that whole village would know. And he was going to stay until he found it.
Captain Pallato released them after another warning to stay away from Harry Green’s shop, and Kane and Doris returned to the hotel in silence. She spoke, finally, on the way up to their room. “Fine country. Nice friendly country. Can we get a plane out of here tomorrow?”
“I’m sure we could, dear, but we’re not going to. I’ve got to find that grave now.”
“Find it? And do what?”
“Mandown and his wife died the same day. I think they were both murdered by someone in that village—maybe by Juan Vyano himself. The bodies will tell me something.”
“You’re not going to …”
“Dig them up? If I have to.”
She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Kane, are you out of your mind? We’re in trouble with the police already, thanks to you.”
“There will be no trouble.”
“You hope.”
He stared out at the scattered lights of the city. It was not New York, but there was a certain beauty in it, nevertheless. A man like Ramon Mandown might have been inspired by sights like this, might have written of these lights, and the village beyond, in poems that the whole world read. “There will be no trouble,” he repeated, almost to himself. “But why would anyone want to murder a poet?”
The telephone next to the bed gave off a faint, almost hesitant tingle, but it was enough to rouse Kane from the lightness of morning slumber. It took him an instant to remember that he was still in Puerto Vale, then he cleared his throat, picked up the phone and spoke, “Hello?”
“Kane Wingate?”
“Yes.” The voice was familiar.
“This is Harry Green. You were in my bookstore yesterday.”
“Oh, yes.” Kane had a sudden unreasoning fear that Captain Pallato might be tapping the lines. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got some news for you. About Ramon Mandown’s death.”
Kane felt his pulse quickening. “What is it?”
“I have a witness to whom you can talk, for one hundred American dollars.”
It was a good deal of money to Kane, but a real witness might well be worth it. “Where is he?”
“Come to my shop after lunch.”
Kane thought about Captain Pallato’s warning. Obviously the bookstore was being watched. “Can’t we make it somewhere else?”
Harry Green chuckled into the phone. “The police have thrown a scare into you?”
“I don’t want to get involved in local politics. We’ll meet somewhere else.”
“All right. The church of San Dardo. You can see it from your window. I’ll be there with the witness at exactly two o’clock this afternoon.”
When he hung up, Kane heard Doris stir in the bed next to him. “Who was that?” she mumbled.
“Harry Green, the man from the bookstore.”
Wide awake, she sat up in bed. “What did he want?”
“I’m to meet him. He has news about Mandown’s murder.”
“You’d go to meet him after what the police told you?”
“Not at the bookstore. At a church.”
“I’m going too.”
“Doris …”
“This is still our honeymoon, remember? If you’re going to rot away in a jail cell, I’m going to be there too.”
He knew it was useless to argue. “All right,” he said. “Maybe the police will think we’re just sightseeing.”
It was nearly noon when they ventured out after a light breakfast in the hotel, finding the streets warm beneath a cloudless blue sky. There was little traffic, and Kane had no trouble spotting the car that followed them. Though it was unmarked, the high aerial on the rear fender told him it was a police vehicle. He didn’t mention it to Doris.
They arranged to arrive at the church just before two, and Kane saw the bearded figure of Harry Green already waiting beneath the shadow of the front arch. There was something now slightly sinister about him, and what had passed as natural in the context of the bookstore took on an unmistakable air of menace in the presence of the church. Kane almost expected him to pull some dirty pictures from his inside pocket, or some stolen religious relics at the very least.
“Your wife?” Green asked, obviously uneasy at her presence.
“Yes. Doris, this is Harry Green.”
She nodded slightly, unable to keep a look of distaste from her face. “Hello.”
“Where’s your witness?” Kane asked impatiently, because it was obvious Green was alone.
“Not far from here, but you’ve got to come alone, without her.” The bearded man glanced around. “The police are watching you. Leave her here and they’ll think you’re just inside.”
“How long will it take?”
“Five minutes, ten minutes,” Green answered with a shrug. “Not long.”
“All right,” Kane decided, because he could see there was no other way. “Wait here, Doris. Look over the place and wander around like a tourist.”
“I don’t like this, Kane. I want to come along.”
“Then the police would follow us all. They’re right in that car across the square.”
“Kane, Kane! You’re getting in deeper all the time!”
He squeezed her hand and turned to follow Green into the depths of the dimly lit church. They walked quickly down the side aisle, past kneeling figures in black shawls, until they reached a woman alone before a bank of flickering multicolored vigil lights.
“Maria,” Green whispered.
The girl turned, and even in the dim light Kane was struck by her youthful beauty. He hadn’t expected it to be a girl. But then, what had he expected? “Is this the witness?” he asked Green.
“Yes. Her name is Maria. That’s all you need to know. She comes from the village and she was a neighbor of Ramon Mandown. Do you have the money?”
Kane took out some American bills and slipped them, crumpled, to Green. “Where can we talk?”
The bearded man looked around. “Right here. What better place than a church?”
“Then why couldn’t Doris come in too?”
“Wives are nothing but trouble. Even if you start out loving them, it can turn to hate in a lifetime of sameness.”
Kane said nothing, wondering if the comment went with Green’s line of business. He knelt beside the girl and saw Green kneel behind them.
“Tell me about Ramon Mandown,” he said, keeping his voice almost to a whisper in the stillness of the church.
Maria started to speak, keeping her eyes on the altar. “He was a good man,” she said, “good to me when I was only a child. Sometimes he would give candy to us, to my sisters and brothers. I never read any of his poems until after he died. I think they’re beautiful.”
“How did he die, Maria?”
“I remember the night,” she continued, still staring at the altar. “I’d been out, and when I came home I saw them going into Ramon’s house.”
“Who?”
“Juan Vyano, the headman. And many others. All of them angry.”
“Ramon was dead?”
“No, he was still alive then. I saw him in the doorway.”
“How many persons were there?”
“Vyano and eleven others. I remember counting them. There was Hernando, and Miller, and Jose, and the shoemaker, and the barber, and the Quan brothers, and I forget who else. After they were in the house for a long time I heard the shots.”
“Shots?”
She nodded. “When they killed Ramon Mandown.”
Vyano and eleven others, Kane stared hard at the flickering vigil lights. “You mean they all killed him? The whole village?”
“Those that were there. Vyano and the others. I’ve been afraid to say, but his poems were so beautiful I had to tell someone. I told Green the bookseller.”
A girl’s statement, but he needed more evidence. “Do you know where they buried him?”
She nodded. “I know the place.”
“Take me there.”
Green leaned over between them. “That was not in the agreement. Another hundred dollars for the location of the grave.”
Kane hesitated only a moment. He was too close to the truth to stop now. “All right. Right now?”
But Green answered, “Tonight, just after dark. Meet me here. I’ll have Maria with me. Now go, before the police grow suspicious. And don’t bring your wife tonight. It might be dangerous.”
He was already heading for the side door, clutching the young girl’s wrist to pull her along. Kane wondered if he would really find the grave for his two hundred dollars, or if he would only find the bottom of a ditch somewhere while Green and the girl named Maria robbed him of the rest of his money. He was not gullible enough to believe a man like Green completely, and yet there had been a fantastic ring of truth in the girl’s story.
“You took long enough,” Doris said when he’d rejoined her. Across the street, the police car was not in sight.
“It was time well spent. I talked to a girl who practically witnessed Mandown’s killing, and she’s going to show me the grave tonight.”
“Kane, where is this all going to end?”
“I won’t be satisfied until I can write the truth about Mandown’s death.”
“If the police see you with Green again …”
“They won’t. That’s why we’re waiting until tonight. And, once we’re up in the hills Pallato can’t follow us. He said it was outside his territory. We should be safe.”
“I’m not going up there with you.”
“I don’t want you to, dear. I didn’t want you to come along here. Wait for me at the hotel.”
“Be careful, Kane.”
The night was starless as a blanket of clouds settled heavily over the region. Kane sat huddled in the front seat of Harry Green’s car, wondering for the first time if Ramon Mandown were really worth it all. Seated here between Green and the girl named Maria, he was not nearly as sure of things as he had been by daylight. The old doubts about Green’s motives asserted themselves once again. After all, he knew the man as a pornographer and a revolutionary—which were hardly traits to inspire confidence on a dark night. He thought of the ditch again, and was thankful he’d left most of his money back at the hotel.
“We’re nearly there,” Green said. “Do you have the other hundred dollars?”
“Of course. Does Maria get it?”
Green gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t be foolish. She wouldn’t know what to do with it. Would you, dear girl?”
Maria, obviously uneasy, shifted in her seat. “I only want to help, to tell the truth about Ramon Mandown.” After a few moments’ silence, she said, “Stop right here.”
Green pulled the car off the road, its headlights pointing out a little weed-strangled graveyard by the side of a church. Kane stared through the darkness with distaste. “It doesn’t look like it’s been used in a hundred years.”
“This is the place,” the girl insisted, hopping out of the car on her side. Kane and Green followed her. She led them up a rise of soft damp ground, past tumbled tombstones that caught and held the glow from Harry Green’s flashlight. “Here!”
It was a low grave, a sunken rectangle of earth and grass with only a simple stone marker flat against the earth. Ramon Mandown—Carla Mandown. Only that, without dates. Kane read the words, and his heart beat faster.
“Should we dig them up?” Green asked.
“For another hundred dollars?” Kane knew that, much as he might want to, he could never desecrate the great poet’s grave. Perhaps fifty years from now someone might open it, but not yet.
Harry Green shifted the flashlight to his other hand. “There’s somebody coming,” he said.
A powerful spotlight cut through the night from the direction of the road, pinning them in its path. “Green!” a voice shouted.
The bearded man’s hand came out of his pocket, holding a tiny automatic pistol. But he was blinded by the light, and before he could take aim the muffled splatter of an automatic weapon split the damp night air. Harry Green toppled backward over a gravestone, and Maria started screaming.
As the light turned toward him, Kane dived behind the gravestone too and felt in the grass for Green’s fallen gun. Up on the road there were men talking, at least two of them. One was unmistakably Captain Pallato. After a moment’s frantic searching, Kane’s fingers closed around the gun. He aimed it at the light, and then thought better of it. He was no hero, and their weapons could spray the entire area with bullets.
The girl’s screams had settled into a dull sobbing as she scampered away among the gravestones. Kane put a hand on Green’s chest, searching for a heartbeat, but there was only gently pulsating blood, coming from a line of massive wounds. If the bearded man was still alive, death was very close. Kane gave it up and hurried after the girl. Behind him, he could hear Pallato and the others moving in to inspect their kill.
Kane caught Maria back in the woods, grabbing her arm and pulling her to him. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered harshly, aware that his actions hardly fitted the words.
“They killed him,” she sobbed.
“It was Captain Pallato. Was Pallato one of the twelve men who called on Mandown that night?”
“No—no. They were all from the village.”
“Can you take me to Juan Vyano’s house?” Suddenly he remembered that his right hand was still clutching Harry Green’s gun. Without thinking, he dropped it into his pocket. Green would have no further use for it.
She led him through thick underbrush, avoiding main roads, until they were in the more populated area that Kane remembered from his earlier visit. “That is his house,” she said, pointing toward a pinpoint of light that came from a nearby window.
“Thank you, Maria. Go home now, and tell nobody what happened. You’ve seen more than your share of death, and it may be dangerous for you.”
He hovered by the side window of the house until he saw Juan Vyano appear in the circle of light. Then he stepped onto the rickety porch and knocked at the door. When Vyano opened it, Kane showed him the gun. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “This is just for my protection.”
Vyano stepped aside to let him enter. “You hardly need it here.”
“I’ve been shot at already tonight.”
“You are the man from the cemetery yesterday—the one who asked the questions.”
“And got a lot of wrong answers to them. You said Mandown’s grave was unmarked, and I’ve just come from looking at it.”
Juan Vyano hesitated, running a damp hand through his graying hair. “Who took you there?”
He decided not to mention Maria. “An American named Harry Green. He was followed to the cemetery by a policeman named Captain Pallato, and shot down in cold blood.”
Vyano nodded sadly. “Green was an evil man. I suppose he deserved it.”
“He thought he’d be safe from Pallato outside of Puerto Vale,” Kane said.
“He was safe from Pallato only in Puerto Vale. The police captain could not kill him like that in his own territory, but as soon as Green left the city, Pallato must have seen his chance to do what the courts could not do.”
“Is that the way of justice here?”
The man shrugged. “It is the way of public safety. Green corrupted the youth and subverted the adults. Pallato did the right thing.”
Kane held the gun steady. They were standing in the center of the shabby room, seeing each other only by the light from the single naked bulb that burned in one corner. It might have been a poor man’s home, except for the bookcase of expensive volumes along one wall. Kane wondered if any of them were Green’s special stock. “What about Mandown?” he asked. “I suppose you did the right thing with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ramon Mandown was murdered.”
“That would be difficult for you to prove.”
“Give me a shovel and I’ll dig up the grave. You know what I’d find. Skeletons can still show bullet holes.”
“There is no need for that,” Vyano said quietly. He shifted his position slightly and Kane brought up the gun.
“You admit they were both shot?”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly.
“You went there, Vyano. You and eleven other men from the village. Did you eat a last meal with him, listen to the great man’s words one last time before you all killed him?”
Juan Vyano closed his eyes for a moment, with something like an ultimate sadness. “You do not understand the way we live here. You are a stranger from a strange land.”
“I understand that Ramon Mandown had a sort of greatness you couldn’t comprehend here. I understand that you killed him for it.”
“Killed a man because he was intelligent and famous and saw poetic beauty in these poor valleys? Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I’ll tell the world when I get back. That’s what I’ll write about.”
“Are you married, sir?”
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
“Then you are too young to understand. Too lacking in worldly experience.”
“I understand murder. I understand Harry Green shot down in a graveyard. I understand Mandown and his wife in their grave together.”
Juan Vyano sighed. “Do you really think Mandown was a great man?”
“Of course.”
“Then put away your gun. I will tell you the truth, and you will never print it.”
Kane stared hard into the bleak eyes. “What truth do you mean?”
“The truth about Ramon Mandown’s death. You see, we didn’t hate him for his fame. We tried to protect that fame, and we succeeded until you came here with your questions.”
“Why did it need protection?” Kane asked, and suddenly he didn’t want to hear the answer.
“What do you do when a great man sins?” Juan Vyano asked, with a touch of sadness in his voice. “Is any man so great that he is above the law?”
“No.”
“Of course not. And yet, here in our little village, we could not subject our leading citizen—our greatest man—to the shame of a scandal. Just as Captain Pallato had his ways of justice, so did we. Justice was served, and yet the fame of Ramon Mandown lives on.”
“Tell me,” Kane said, putting the gun in his pocket.
“We did not murder Ramon Mandown that night. We were only twelve jurors. Ramon Mandown was tried, convicted and executed for the murder of his wife.”