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while on patrol was normal, but it was preferable to the ill-concealed fear of Guardias Torres and Carvallo. The lieutenant had never seen such a miserably demoralized post.
     
    Under the circumstances, it was not unexpected that Anselmo Montalbán did not report to the Guardia Civil when ordered. His wife, questioned the next day by Guardias Ortíz and Carvallo, insisted that she did not know where he was to be found. The morning of the thaw, Tejada gave orders for her arrest and hit another slippery spot.
     
    “How, sir?” Sergeant Márquez asked.
     
    Tejada stared. “What do you mean, how? Go over to the fonda and tell her she’s under arrest.”
     
    “And then what?”
     
    “Bring her back to the post and lock her up until we get some news of Montalbán!”
     
    “Where would we put her, sir?”
     
    For a moment Tejada was dumbfounded. Then he said slowly, “You’re telling me that we have no cells available?”
     
    The sergeant coughed. “They’re only temporary quarters,” he reminded Tejada. “They weren’t built with a full prison attached.”
     
    “But you must have had prisoners in the past!” Tejada protested.
     
    “Yes, sir. But we’ve never had married officers, sir. We were using you and your wife’s quarters for cells.”
     
    The reason for his apartment’s inadequate heating and somewhat bizarre floor plan suddenly became clear to the lieutenant. He struggled with a desire to laugh, wondering at the same time if he could safely tell Elena. He was unsure whether she would share his amusement or be disgusted. “Are you telling me we have no facilities at all for holding anyone?” he demanded, returning to the problem at hand.
     
    “I’m afraid not, sir.”
     
    Tejada considered for a moment. “What do you suggest we do then, Sergeant?”
     
    “It’s not my place to say, sir.” Márquez was wooden.
     
    The lieutenant struggled with unreasonable annoyance. His sergeant in Salamanca had combined intelligence and goodwill. When Tejada had asked for his opinion in similar cases, he had given honest and well-considered answers. Although Tejada had known that he was exceptionally lucky to have Sergeant Hernández, he could not help feeling that Márquez was an exceptionally unfortunate substitute. He would have sworn that the sergeant’s unhelpfulness was deliberate.
     
    The lieutenant considered forcing his subordinate to express an opinion, and then gave up the idea as futile. “Bring her in for questioning,” he ordered, “and don’t tell her that we have no place to put her. If we don’t get anything out of her, let her go with a warning, and then tell Ortíz to go and keep an eye on the fonda .”
     
    “By himself, sir?” Sergeant Márquez had apparently forgotten that it was not his place to have opinions.
     
    “Yes, by himself,” Tejada snapped. “And ‘keep an eye on it’ does not mean go and stand in front of it prominently. It means look discreetly from a distance, and don’t make it obvious that you’re looking. Send Carvallo in a few hours to take over from Ortíz. They can spell each other until tomorrow. If they don’t pick anything up, pull in Bárbara Nuñez again.”
     
    “The pair system of the Guardia—” Márquez began.
     
    “Is famous and venerable,” Tejada interrupted. “Which is exactly why I do not want it used now. Do I make myself clear?”
     
    “Yes, Lieutenant.” Márquez saluted and went to give the guardias their orders. Tejada was left with the feeling that they would not be well executed.
     
    He spent the next hour composing two letters, one to the local director of Devastated Regions and one to the mayor, respectfully asking about the possibility of providing a prison for the town as soon as possible. When he was ready to make copies, he discovered that there was no carbon paper in the office. Disgusted, he sent for Guardia Torres. “Is Anselmo Montalbán’s wife here?” he demanded.
     
    “Yes,