Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 123, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 751 & 752, March/April 2004

Guilty by Luis Adrián Betancourt

Translated from the Spanish by Donald A. Yates

Cuban writer Luis Adrián Betancourt has been for some forty years one of the most important contributors to and supporters of the crime-fiction genre in his country. He is the author of many crime novels and mystery short stories, all published in either Cuba or Spain. “Guilty” is his first work to be translated into English. Mr. Betancourt is currently at work on a P.I. novel set in Cuba in the nineteen twenties.

He did not like traveling by train because train trips were slow and boring. They brought back sad memories of farewells, absences, and inevitable emotional distress. In his teeming recall, the train evoked a tangled blend of distances and sleeplessness. All in all, an unpleasant experience.

But this time it would be different. He was coming back. Ignoring the hours, the miles, the stops, he was returning home, to the place where waiting for him would be Rosario, anguished over the lost years spent alone and deserted, Chela, well along toward becoming a young woman, unsuited now to a child’s dress, with her hair pulled back into a bun, and Ivan, with more curiosity than feeling for the father he didn’t remember and who, after so many years, was returning to his home.

They all were wondering what their lives would be like from now on living together. Antonio himself did not have a clear idea of his immediate future. He needed to sit down with them and humbly, without omitting any details, tell them the true story of that nightmare and ask them if, in spite of everything, he deserved another chance.

Soon after passing under the overhead crossings on the outskirts of Havana, it began to drizzle. Just as it did on that afternoon when a rainfall coincided with the funeral of Pancho Vasallo. The gravediggers had drunk a whole bottle of Bacardi and stumbled through the mud, cursing the weather and their task.

The sky was an unbroken gray. It had been raining gently and without letup for hours, like tears falling from above. Only the deceased man’s family and the two rural policemen on duty remained to the very end, unaffected by the rain that soaked them. Amalia had wept for some time, tormented by the thought that she was responsible for that tragedy and inconsolable over the loss of her beloved father.

Vicente, the agronomist, gave the eulogy, taking only five minutes to say that the man whom they now covered with damp soil had been, above all else, generous and a good friend.

By then, the killer had confessed. It was a simple matter for the authorities — a complete and spontaneous statement, leaving no doubts. Antonio meekly admitted his guilt. At moments it seemed that he had no interest in defending himself.

There was no need to waste time with interviews or questioning. The weapon had not been found, and no one suggested looking for it. Antonio was the only one to mention it, when he gave his statement, saying he had thrown it into the river. No one ever attempted to determine if Vasallo had been killed by a bullet fired from an old Parabelum. The confession eliminated any need to be concerned about proof.

The motive emerged from the testimony of witnesses present, all of whom repeated the same series of tedious facts. Their statements were so similar that a single one of them would have sufficed to satisfy the needs of the investigation.

The trial was carried out promptly, and since the crime was so recent and the victim so widely respected, a sentence of twenty years seemed fitting to everyone except Rosario and her children.

Standing as his sentence was read, Antonio learned with little surprise that he would spend the next twenty years behind bars, far from his family and his town. His gaze cast down, biting his lip, he came to the understanding that there would be many blank pages ahead in his life and that he would experience that death in life that is called solitude. He also did some figuring. By the time that he ceased to be State Inmate 33455, on his release, he would be fifty-three years old, his hair turned gray, and his body weakened. But in this he was mistaken.

After hearing his sentence, he was given a few minutes to say goodbye at the door of his house, while the dogs howled mournfully, as if they understood the role of those accompanying strangers. When he was leaving, Antonio said only one final thing:

“Wait for me.”

“We’ll wait for you,” his wife replied. And she embraced him. She could offer him no encouragement, for she could feel none for herself. The children remained asleep even at the last kiss. They had no way of knowing what that farewell meant.

Standing on the train platform, Antonio took a long, anguished look at the town, as if he wanted to preserve the image of that place in a corner of his memory.

That day the train was on time. The villagers whispered to each other as the prisoner shuffled by. His head was bowed, his hands bound. One of the soldiers helped him onto the train. The other one offered him a cigarette. His face looked out from the coach window until he was lost from sight.

Now, so many years later, the countryside had changed. That may have been the reason the trip back seemed to take so long. The soldiers with him were relaxed, giving little attention to keeping an eye on him.

They were almost there now. Antonio closed his eyes and remembered the morning many years earlier when he had first arrived in that town. It was July and the hives were full of decanting honey and the tomeguines were in full bloom in the fields and on the floor of the pine forests.

He found her strolling amidst the hovering bees and the flowers. He watched her come and go, fascinated by her fleeting smile. He attempted a flattering remark that made the girl smile again, and Antonio knew then that he would remain to live in that town for many years, perhaps for the rest of his life. They were married. There were happy times and others not so happy.

“I would have liked to start all over again,” he wrote to her from his prison cell, “and then I would not have wasted a single moment at your side. No one understands what he has until he loses it.”

It was something he had discovered when he least expected to. When it was too late to act on that understanding and he was being taken away on a train with only a one-way ticket.

Rosario could not bear to go to the station, but she knew the time when the train would leave and the sound of the departure whistle confirmed it. That night she received an unexpected visitor. Lorenzo Puente indicated that he was there to offer her assistance. She reacted with distrust, suspecting that he was intent on taking advantage of the situation. He did not rate favorably in her estimation.

Lorenzo had not been a particularly good friend of Antonio. He had never wanted to give him a job on the Vasallo ranch. It was easy to see that the nature of their relationship was based on casual circumstances and shared interests, but in no way was it a true friendship. It was rather that life had led them down similar paths of parties, drinking, and casual women. In truth, they had been more like accomplices than friends. The last thing she found out about that superficial connection had ultimately turned into a public scandal.

Rosario was embarrassed by what people were saying. Antonio wanted to save the marriage, begged her forgiveness, and in the end she once again forgave him. She said her reason was the children, who were innocent of any blame. They decided to work to keep the family intact at whatever cost. But for now there was nothing he could do. The matter of Pancho Vasallo’s daughter did not emerge in Antonio’s confessions and he persistently denied any suggestion that it was relevant. But the death of the old man indicated otherwise.

In view of all this she cautiously let Lorenzo speak his piece.

“I don’t want people saying that just because of a drunken argument I could desert my close friend in his hour of need. Let me help you.”

Rosario asked for some time to consider his offer and wrote a letter to her husband filled with doubts and anxieties. The reply took two long months to arrive, during which time she refused to accept any help. Finally, Antonio’s answer came, urging her to agree without questions or hesitation to what Lorenzo was proposing. He said that she should accept the offer of help as something she rightfully deserved, but that in all other respects she should keep her distance from Lorenzo.

“I owe you an explanation,” Antonio added, and that would not be the last time he would leave her perplexed over an explanation that was not forthcoming.

“You owe me two,” she replied, alluding to Amalia.

Lorenzo took charge of the family’s debts, day-to-day expenses, and other matters such as the children’s schooling and medical care, the upkeep of the house, and other emergencies that unexpectedly arose.

At no time did Lorenzo try to take advantage of his role as a benefactor, and never did he attempt to play on the woman’s helplessness for his own purposes, even when circumstances seemed propitious. Nonetheless, throughout the neighborhood there circulated dark rumors, gossip, wagers, surveillance behind shutters, all nurtured by the desire to discover what mysterious reason was behind the rancher’s generosity.

Even the most distracted of townspeople wondered why that proud and lustful neighbor was making such a cult out of friendship. No one had ever seen that sentimental side of Lorenzo.

The gossip increased. Rosario learned about all of the suspicions and assumptions and patiently put up with the constant spying. She tried to protect the children from the rumors, but at times people came to call on her and report the latest lie. On other occasions, it was the children themselves who came home with questions that were hard to answer.

On several occasions, Rosario received terrible anonymous letters, whose offensive content was aimed at both her and Antonio. In a large scrawled script, the first of the messages assured her that her husband had killed because of another woman, and she would be well advised to pay him back with similar currency. The second letter was a warning from someone who was waiting for Antonio’s return so that he could administer his own justice, since that meted out by the court was too lenient and did not demand an eye for an eye. Despite the seriousness of the matter, the pages were burned in Rosario’s fireplace without her having reported them to the authorities. The important thing was for her to alert her husband in one of her letters. But he replied that it was nothing more than the provocations they had to endure, possibly organized by old Vasallo’s relatives.

Rosario dedicated more than one sleepless night to trying to find a way out of her situation. She was prepared to make any sacrifice for her children, but she saw no other path of action than the one she was following, which was causing so much cruel speculation. She ended up going along with the arrangement, trusting to her own integrity and the approval that her husband had given her.

From his cell Antonio managed to keep informed of virtually everything that was going on. In time, he set up a rapid and dependable means of communication that involved a series of individuals: a lobster fisherman from Batabano, a truck driver, and the firemen on a train. He wrote lengthy letters that tried to capture features of the unattainable reality of home, that tried to control it and make decisions from his remote position, all in an effort to overcome the consequences of his separation. Even though he shared in Rosario’s suffering and wondered about the strength of her resistance, he urged her to wait for him, to trust in him, and to continue accepting what Lorenzo offered. He explained that his generosity was not motivated by charity or the desire to do a favor, but rather by something associated more with a duty, the carrying out of a sworn promise. Just what that promise was he could not reveal until the day when, free to speak, he could tell her in detail what was involved. Antonio also wrote a lot about his intimate feelings and made repeated promises of loyalty and eternal love. This made her cry.

Lorenzo religiously kept the vow that he had made to the prisoner. He never failed to carry out what he promised, nor did he deny any of Rosario’s requests. This continued each day, each month, each year up until the morning when he awoke with the realization that he did not have long to live.

It was an old condition that at times he was able to forget, but that suddenly would reappear and affect him severely. It was winter, and that season helped to speed up death’s work. The moment arrived when he understood that there would be no reprieve, no doctor, no medicine, no miracle cure or accident that could save him.

After a long night of feverish reflection, he had his wife call a clergyman, an old family friend who had married them and baptized their children, a Franciscan priest who came immediately to tend to his soul, since there was no hope for his body.

“Father,” he said, “I feel that I am dying and I don’t want to go without confessing my sins.”

The priest listened to him patiently. At first there were everyday issues, minor sins, the Devil’s little tricks, but then he went on to capital sins, mentioning pride, anger, and lust. Then he said:

“I have a great debt before God, and before man. I committed a grave mistake and I scarcely have time left to do anything about it.”

The proximity of death terrified him, but worse was facing it burdened with guilt. He scarcely had the strength to make that accusation of himself. The dying man’s wife placed a white cloth on the table and the priest laid out on it the objects of the extreme unction: the cross, the candles, the saucer with the bread and the cotton, the holy water. The priest’s words were not enough. He needed someone other than God to hear him.

“My son, you have good reason, but it is not in my power to help you. Not even your wife could be a party to what you have told me.”

The priest explained to him the necessary secrecy of his confession. It was intimate and inviolable even if it involved a crime in the eyes of the law. Death came before the dying man had ceased to protest. Thus it was that Lorenzo’s carefully guarded secret remained forever with the Franciscan. If human justice had been as benevolent as that of God, he would have confessed much earlier and to a court of law.

Vicente the agronomer gave the eulogy. Since he didn’t know the deceased very well, he had to make inquiries concerning his person and he was careful about the words he used. Based on what he was told, he offered this observation:

“If death is seen as a punishment of God, only Lorenzo will know which of his sins provoked that blind rage. I merely want to give this farewell by acknowledging at least one of his virtues: silence.”

Rosario felt abandoned now for a second time. She wrote to Antonio telling him about the unfortunate death of Lorenzo and asking him what he would suggest that she do about this new crisis.

For the first time, Antonio reread his wife’s letter several times. The news of Lorenzo’s death was unbelievable, but there it was, clearly described, with details from the funeral that left no room for doubt. He did not sleep that night, and the next morning he requested an interview with the prison counselor. The counselor, Lieutenant Ramos, was familiar with his case. As a consequence of several previous discussions between Ramos and Antonio and the examination of his file, there was a pending application for a reduction of sentence for inmate 33455. It was supported by the prisoner’s exemplary behavior over the period of more than ten years. Contrasting with that, however, was the fact that Ramos had never been able to understand that inmate’s refusal to speak openly. When he committed the crime, he had no previous record and a reputation as a peaceful man, which matched his behavior in prison. When the regime of Fulgencio Batista collapsed in 1958, the word reached Antonio through a group of prisoners who came to him announcing their liberation. One of them was carrying the keys to all of the cells and the locks were soon opened. The few guards who remained on duty were paralyzed with fear. It was now just a matter of walking out of prison, into the street, and finding liberty. There was no longer a Batista, no longer a government.

All of the other inmates made their escape, but Antonio felt compelled to honor something above and beyond those events. He remained behind, stretched out on his bed, together with an old man who refused to leave because his sentence was nearly over and he didn’t want to endanger his release with new infractions.

When his new custodians arrived, they found him there, meekly waiting, just as he had been the day when he held out his hands to be handcuffed after confessing to the murder. At that time, Ramos was an army private who met Antonio when he worked for him in the prison kitchen. Even then, Ramos found it hard to believe that Antonio had taken a man’s life.

His behavior had always been impeccable, the only exception being when he was involved in a violent incident when he was trying to prevent a killing behind bars.

Lieutenant Ramos had had frequent conversations with inmate 33455, whom he called by his first name. The reason for the murder was a constant topic, since Ramos had trouble squaring Antonio’s character with the facts in his case. He had always been sceptical about prisoners’ claims of innocence. They rarely accepted any guilt, and in most cases claimed to be victims themselves. They were in prison because of a miscarriage of justice, or some unfortunate coincidence or error. At other times they refused to talk about what sent them to prison just to show that they were tough and thick-skinned. But when Antonio assured him that he had no reason to feel repentant, he believed him.

At the time he began to attend the therapy sessions for men convicted of homicide, Ramos realized immediately that Antonio was an exception. The group was very diverse, and the personalities varied widely. There were morally depraved persons, others given to uncontrolled aggression, and those who were the victims of circumstances, like the man who came home drunk and found his wife with a lover, or a man driven to despair by a blackmailer, or one who had been humiliated in front of his woman, or a peasant who could not stand by when authorities came to evict his parents from their home and burn it to the ground.

Antonio clearly did not fit into the therapy group, although he adapted to it and the others ended up calling him “the secretary” because his handwriting was good and he agreed to write letters and petitions for them. Antonio’s conviction was based on a common situation, a dispute over a woman, yet he continued to be devoted to his wife and children.

So when on that morning Ramos heard Antonio insist that he was innocent, it was like the confirmation of an old suspicion. But there was no easy way to deal with it. Or was it possible that Antonio was simply echoing the protests of his fellow inmates, who all swore that they were unjustly convicted?

Antonio scarcely offered any support for his claim of innocence. All he did was tell Ramos that if he examined the case against him carefully he would soon see where the truth lay.

The officer asked to hear Antonio’s version. In response, Antonio alluded vaguely to how he had gone to the Vasallos’ celebration and how, after a stupid argument, he had decided to get his horse and leave. It was when he had already started for home that he heard the gunshot.

The account seemed too simple to be believed. Moreover, there was no explanation for his ten-year-long silence. Antonio said that he became confused when he was arrested and saw no way of defending himself, that he was very young and the authorities refused to listen to him, that everything happened so quickly and so he resigned himself to his fate. But now, he said, with so much time gone by and his children now of an age to begin asking questions, he wanted to take steps toward allowing the truth to be known.

Nonetheless, Ramos sensed that the man was lying, or that at least he was offering an incomplete account. He promised Antonio that he would see that the investigation was reopened according to regulations. They took him to the prison’s administrative office; there also he had to answer questions. He kept to his story without adding or eliminating details, as if it all was a memorized statement. He made a formal declaration. The decision was that in two weeks he would be returned to “the scene of the events.” An official investigator was named who began making the first new inquiries. Time elapsed and the faulty memory of witnesses complicated the process.

The death of Pancho Vasallo was now recalled in a series of personal anecdotes, some of them obviously contradictory. It was very hard to find dependable witnesses, and equally difficult to locate family members, since they had in many cases moved away, and in any event were not interested in digging up the past. The only unassailable fact was that no one would be able to bring Pancho Vasallo back.

The victim’s immediate family members were no longer in the area. Amalia Vasallo had married and lived abroad and Celso Vasallo could not be found. The death of his father had left him shaken. All of his plans had been destroyed with that one shot and he had thereafter wandered about aimlessly with no permanent home.

The judge from the old trial was now retired and spent his time raising fighting cocks outside town. He remembered the case very well. With one sentence he gave his final judgment: “Let the hearing go ahead, but I don’t know what’s going to change.”

The letter of the law had been observed.

Now, as the train approached, Antonio was thinking ahead to the moment of his arrival. He imagined different ways in which it might occur. The idea of being able to spend a few hours in his town filled him with happiness.

Ramos had promised him that before the new hearing he would take him first to his home and find something else to do while he spent a few hours with his family.

Lulled by the movement of the train, Antonio’s thoughts turned back to the fatal evening. The party had gotten into full swing and the dancers were swaying to the rhythm of the music when he arrived dressed in his Sunday best, a fancy cigar lit up and his spirit lifted by a few strong drinks under his belt. The musicians were warmed up and playing at their best, performing a sultry melody:

Antonio glanced into the dance hall and saw her immediately. She was off in a corner, talking with Lorenzo, a foreman from the Vasallo ranch, El Paraiso. He knew that that rancher had his eye on Amalia, but he didn’t particularly care, or at least that was what he told himself. He was going to turn away and ignore the couple, but then it appeared to him that the girl was being harassed and that called for some action. So he made his way across the dance floor, now feeling quarrelsome from the effects of the alcohol.

The rancher was trying to get Amalia to agree to something and she was attempting to turn away when Antonio reached them, now openly aggressive like a prize gamecock. But the girl ignored him also.

Belen, who was a kind of watchdog for the Vasallo family, saw what was happening and went to look for the old man. He gave him the message, adding his own interpretation and saying that it was a family issue that needed to be addressed. He asked Vasallo for permission to intervene, but the old man said that it was his matter to attend to personally.

Rumor had it that the two men had both enjoyed Amalia’s favor, but that she had ended things with both of them. The discussion had become heated when Pancho Vasallo arrived. He dealt with the situation in his own way: He slapped Amalia across the face and ordered the two men to leave the party. Lorenzo withdrew immediately. Antonio cursed the old man and said that his treatment of him left an account to be settled.

Pancho Vasallo responded to the threat with an oath: “From now on, as long as I live, you will never set foot on my property.”

“I don’t have to come here to be with Amalia.”

“Then I’ll have to go to your home and let Rosario know the kind of husband she has.”

“Amalia is your daughter, not your mistress.”

“She won’t be yours, either, you son of a—”

Suddenly they were struggling. The dancers managed to separate them. Since no blows had been struck, they glared at each other, hurling curses.

“I’m going to settle this with you. And soon!” was the last thing Antonio said before going for his horse. At least, that was what the witnesses recalled.

Belen clapped his hands together over his head and announced that the party was not over, that the night was still young. He called to the musicians to play a lively guaracha. The people returned to the dance floor. It was soon after that the gunshot was heard. The men came running out of the dance hall, looking in all directions. They saw Antonio riding off at a trot. They recognized his Stetson hat. They called out to Pancho Vasallo, but he did not answer. They found him sprawled on the paving stones, gravely wounded. Lorenzo ran for his jeep, brought it around, and many arms helped lift the dying man. Lorenzo drove recklessly down a long and winding muddy road. It took almost an hour before he reached the doctor, who, after one glance, said:

“This man is dead.”

The bullet had struck him in the chest and had not exited. Lorenzo, in time, took charge of everything, assumed all the expenses, saying that he did not hold a grudge and that Vasallo’s death had put an end to any resentment. Back at the El Paraiso, one of the ranch hands said to Belen:

“It was Antonio.”

Someone claimed to have seen him escaping at a gallop. Everyone set out to look for him. The first to arrive, in his jeep, was Lorenzo.

Antonio was prepared to continue their fight, but Lorenzo cut him short.

“They’re coming for you. They think you killed Vasallo. But I know you’re innocent.”

Antonio’s first urge was to flee, to go into hiding until the incident could be cleared up. Lorenzo pointed out to him how slow and ineffective justice was, that he couldn’t desert his family. What would they live on?

“Unless you could leave them enough money.”

“Where would I get money?”

Lorenzo said he could provide it, that he would pay generously for what Antonio gave him, if he was willing to make a sacrifice for his family.

Antonio protested that he was innocent, that it would be just a matter of time before the truth would come out. Lorenzo pointed out that it was a time when justice was hard to come by. Antonio would be dealing with the police and with judges, which was difficult without having money and the type of connections that he himself happened to have.

“I want to make you a proposition.”

“Well, I suppose I can listen.” Antonio began to adjust his horse’s saddle. “But you’d better talk fast.”

“It’s simple. I’ll take on all of your family’s problems and you’ll confess to the murder.”

In case he hadn’t understood, Lorenzo added: “I’m paying you a lot for the only thing you have, your freedom.”

Antonio thought about his sick mother, his children, the debts and the deprivations of his family.

“And what if you don’t do what you promise?”

“Then all you would have to do is tell what you know.”

The deal was sealed.

Lorenzo returned home and described to his wife the enormous tragedy.

Antonio resigned himself to being arrested, and understood that it would be a long time before things would be as they had been.

Now the arrangement had ended. Death had put an end to his wait. The train began to slow down. After it rounded a curve, Antonio could see the train platform. There was only a small group gathered there, but they were among them. Rosario and Chela were weeping. Ivan stood quietly, his arms crossed.

The train came to a stop. Antonio moved with deliberate slowness. Now every second held profound meaning. He let two old people laden with packages get off, and a couple with two noisy children. Then he helped several nuns with their baggage.

Finally, his feet were on the ground. He breathed a deep sigh and began walking toward his family. They, too, were moving forward to the encounter. Two steps away from their embrace, someone stepped out from behind a pile of boxes and fired. Celso Vasallo had come from far away to fulfill an unjust promise on his father’s soul when there was no way to avenge his death, and now his bullet found its mark.

Since it was raining the gravediggers had had a lot to drink and were having problems with their footing and the job at hand. Rosario, Ivan, and Chela, their weeping behind them, stood huddled at the graveside. Few people had come to the funeral service.

Vicente, the agronomer, gave the eulogy. He took only one or two minutes to state that the man whom they were covering with earth had been, in spite of everything, a family man.