The Python Project

by Victor Canning

  I went round to the Piazza Santo Spirito. Paulet was sitting on a bench under a tree opposite Number 23. He looked gloomy.

  ‘Buon giorno, François,’ I said cheerfully.

  ‘She has gone, Monsieur Carvay.’ He nodded across the street. The white Thunderbird was no longer there.

  ‘You saw her go?’

  ‘No. She went at eight o’clock this morning. This I learn from the woman in the opposite flat. I pretend to be from one of the city stores. Come to measure the big room for new curtains. With women it is always better to be something to do with furnishings. That is their world.’

  ‘What did you get out of her?’

  ‘Coffee. She is a compulsive talker and has bad breath. The woman in the opposite flat, I mean. She wants my opinion on the purchase of a new carpet, and she is watching us from the window up there now, but that is all right because I said I have to wait here for my assistant who comes from another job.’

  ‘What did you get about the Pelegrinas?’

  ‘The flat belongs to La Piroletta. She does some cabaret act, has money, and is not often here. Just a flying visit like this one. The woman does not like her but that is because she is beautiful and this woman is not. Leon Pelegrina was there more often, though not lately. His last visit was only for four or five days. She did not like him either. She would not want to be quoted but she thinks he is a crook and lucky not to be in prison. There was, some years ago, a scandal about him over some holiday villa development on the coast near Viareggio, but nothing was ever done about it for lack of proof. Also, she did not care for his taking women into the flat.’

  ‘Where else would he take them?’

  Paulet raised a sad eye to me. ‘These women were puttane.’

  ‘Well, he’d still need a flat—unless he didn’t mind frightening the horses in the street. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘You do not want to go in and have another look around?’

  ‘It wouldn’t help. Besides, I want to get down to Rome and take a plane to Tripoli.’

  ‘Tripoli? But that will be expensive.’

  ‘My client pays—for me. What about yours?’

  ‘I must contact him.’ He made a face. ‘He hates spending money.’

  ‘If you want results you’ve got to. Where is he?’

  ‘I think in Naples.’

  ‘What do you mean, you think? You know, don’t you?’

  ‘I am reasonably sure, yes.’

  ‘Then ask him to meet us in Rome. I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘But why Tripoli?’

  ‘Because I am reasonably sure that that is where Freeman is.’

  ‘How you know this?’

  I’d noticed that in moments of depression or excitement Paulet’s syntax was inclined to slip.

  ‘Later, perhaps, I’ll tell you.’

  Actually, in my pocket was a cable from Wilkins which had arrived for me early that morning at the hotel. It read:

  M.F. DEFINITELY HERE SIX DAYS AGO STOP ADVISE ARRIVAL STOP ENQUIRY BLANKET LOCAL BOGEYS STOP REGARDS H.W.

  It was the first time in her life that Wilkins had sent me her regards. Best wishes, of course, I got every year on a Christmas card, but that didn’t count. And when it came to it she could use underworld slang with the best of them. The local police in Tripoli clearly weren’t encouraging enquiries about Freeman. Wilkins didn’t care for the police any more than I did, but she could be much more vocal about it, and I knew she would be—with me—the moment I arrived.

  We took a train down to Rome that afternoon and we booked into the Hotel Eden together. Paulet was a bit fussed about staying in a four-star job, but I told him to relax and try and get in touch with Monsieur Duchêne. He went off to do this, while I had a large Negroni in the bar and sat considering the information which Mrs Burtenshaw had phoned me at the Excelsior just after lunch. My Lloyds friend had said that the only maritime interest Pelegrina had at that moment seemed to be a steam yacht of some vintage called La Sunata—though the name had been changed a few times over the years—which was Greek registered at Piraeus, and which he let out on charter.

  *

  Monsieur Robert Duchêne arrived at the hotel at eleven the next morning. Paulet had said that he would not want to carry on a discussion in the bar or any of the hotel lounges so we held a conference in my room.

  He was a tall lean man, wearing big horn-rimmed glasses, and he was in a bad temper. I put him at about fifty; his skin was like stained vellum and he smoked long Swiss cigars, each one having its own mouthpiece attached to it. He seldom took the cigar out of his mouth, talking expertly around each side of it, which gave a curious sideways waggle to his lips. It put them out of phase with his words as though his speech was being badly dubbed. However, he made himself clear in about ten minutes flat.

  Talking exclusively to me, while Paulet sat humbly in the background, he said, ‘I will be perfectly frank with you, Monsieur Carver. I understand from Paulet that following your interview with Leon Pelegrina an attempt was made on your life. Also my flat in Paris was ransacked. All this is in some way connected with Freeman, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ His English was good, but I was trying to place the accent behind it. It didn’t sound like French to me.

  ‘Then let me make this clear—but at the same time stress its confidential nature. I am in the art and antique world. And by that I do not mean I put in any appearances at Christie’s or Sotheby’s. I buy and sell in a twilight world.’

  ‘Nice way to put it.’

  He frowned. ‘There is always a nice way to put even the most unpleasant things. Freeman stole certain coins from me and I thought their recovery would be a simple matter. With simple matters like theft and recovery without aid of the police I am at home. Let the matter become complicated and I want no more to do with it. Frankly, the coins were illegally acquired by me in the first place. Equally frankly I do not wish to pursue their recovery if it is to lead into deep and unfamiliar waters. In other words I do not like my flat being searched and I do not like being involved in an affair which has room for attempts on people’s lives. I am dropping the whole matter. Monsieur Paulet will be paid off, and whether you find Mr Freeman is now a matter of indifference to me. Am I understood?’

  I looked at Paulet. This had obviously come as a surprise to him. He looked like a small boy who has had a Christmas present taken from him because he had got it by a mistake in the first place. He didn’t at that moment look like the man Thérèse loved and described as pleasant, clever and capable of being dangerous. He was just crestfallen.

  I said, ‘Since you’ve never been a client of mine, Monsieur Duchêne, it is a matter of indifference to me what you decide about Freeman. I still have my own client to satisfy. Would I be right in thinking you’re not in the mood to answer any questions about Freeman?’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Carver, I will tell you what little I do know. I met him almost a year ago in the Georges Cinq bar in Paris, and he subsequently sold me a Rajput painting of the late eighteenth century. It was of the Kangra school and was called “The Hour of Cowdust”. It showed Krsna returning with the herds to Brndaban at sundown.’

  He paused for me to register how impressed I was and I did register—but something quite different. I was prepared to lay fifty to one in fivers that this long streak of snap and bite had me figured for an ignoramous when it came to art and antiques. And maybe I was. But what he hadn’t figured—though Thérèse could have given him a pointer of two—was that what I didn’t know about I checked against the best references. And I was damn well going to check this Rajput load of cowdust which he was throwing in my eyes. I could do it at the British Council library in Rome. He’d slipped up over ancient coins once, he could be doing the same over old Indian paintings.

  He went on, ‘I met him once in Rome after that, and then not long ago he came to my flat in Paris and tried to sell me an antique Indian python bracelet. We could not agree on a price and he left. After he had go
ne I discovered that he had taken a collection of ancient coins I was holding for sale to a client.’

  ‘And you sent Paulet off to try and find him at his cottage in Kent, a cottage which, apparently, very few people knew about. How did you know about it?’

  Duchêne rolled the cigar to one corner of his mouth and the movement produced a fair imitation of a smile. ‘He got drunk the evening I bought the Rajput painting and he told me about it. When drunk, Monsieur Carver, he was most tedious with his confidences. I say tedious because they were mostly about women. You will agree that women are only interesting at first hand. Is there more you would like to ask?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well.’ He looked at Paulet. ‘I am staying at the Bernini-Bristol. Come there at three this afternoon with your account and I will give you a cheque on my Paris bank.’

  He picked up his hat, dished out two brief nods, and left.

  I looked at Paulet. ‘You expected this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it’s happened. I’m sorry. I’ve enjoyed your company.’

  ‘You would not care to hire me as an assistant?’

  ‘No thanks. My client wouldn’t wear it and I can’t afford it. Anyway, it’s now the hour of cowdust in the eyes. Let’s go down to the bar and have a couple of double Rajputs.’

  He gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing.

  I stopped at the desk and asked them to try and get me a late afternoon booking on a plane to Tripoli. Paulet and I then had our drinks and he was a very subdued man.

  ‘Always,’ he said, ‘when I begin to enjoy myself, or meet someone interesting, bam!—the guillotine comes down.’

  ‘Stick a 10 percent surcharge on your bill for loss of expectations.’ I skipped lunch and went along to the British Council library. It was no surprise to me to find in the article on Indian and Sinhalese Art and Archaeology in Volume 12—HYDROZ to JEREM—of the Encyclopaedia Britannica a full-page reproduction of ‘The Hour of Cowdust’. Well, well, even in the most careful of us there’s always a point of laxness. But what, I asked myself, was it all in aid of? It wasn’t the first time in my life the question had arisen and I knew that if I didn’t come up with an answer then time eventually would reveal it—probably with unpleasant consequences.

  The hotel desk had got me a reservation on the half-past-four plane to Tripoli. I said goodbye to Paulet and made the Leonardo da Vinci Airport by taxi with ten minutes to spare.

  There were not many people on the plane so there were plenty of spare seats. I sat down on the port side close to one of the wings and we took off out over the Mediterranean heading for Sicily, Malta and then Tripoli. I settled back with a Pan book and promised myself that in an hour’s time I would have a large whisky and soda. Just before the hour was up I began to get that feeling that someone was watching and taking an interest in me. It’s a sense that becomes highly developed in my trade, like the sense of hearing in a good mechanic who notices at once from the note of an engine when it goes slightly off tune. I glanced across the gangway. A fat number in a mohair suit and a red fez, brown as a coffee bean, was sleeping happily. I turned to take in the seat behind me.

  La Piroletta had the outside berth. The inner one held her handbag and a bunch of newspapers and magazines. She was dressed exactly as she had been in the Florence flat—except that she was not wearing the python bracelet. And she was looking at me thoughtfully. Whatever expression she had on her face suited me. It was the kind of face that could make more than the most of any expression and still be beautiful. I gave her a smile and a nod. She just remained thoughtful then she gave me the faintest of nods and there was a tiny movement of her mouth which wouldn’t have needed much more to make it a smile. Anyway, it was enough for me.

  I got up and went back to her.

  I said, T was just thinking of having a drink. Would you care to join me?’ At the same time I handed her one of my cards.

  She looked at it and then with a nice, flowing, graceful movement got up and moved to the inner berth. If you think that’s easy to do, gracefully and flowingly in an aircraft seat, you can never have tried it.

  I sat down and asked her what she would like to drink.

  ‘Gin and tonic.’

  I caught the stewardess’s eyes and gave her order and while I did I was sorting out two problems. One, the line I was going to take; and, two, this business of coincidence in life. I don’t have any great faith in coincidences—though I’ll admit they happen more often than most people think. But with me, so far as business was concerned, coincidences generally turned out not to be. I decided not to lay any bets either way on this one. As for the line I was to take, I thought it might make a nice change to be reasonably honest and straightforward. After all, one mustn’t get stuck in one routine all the time.

  I said, ‘You’re going to Tripoli or further?’

  ‘Tripoli.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Where do you stay?’

  ‘I don’t know until I get there. A friend is booking a hotel for me. And you?’

  ‘The Uaddan.’

  ‘I’ve begun to wonder what that name means.’ I hadn’t because I didn’t care, but I wanted to keep the preliminaries on a drink-chat level so that she would not feel rushed.

  ‘It is,’ she said, ‘the Arab name for some kind of mountain goat or deer. Something like an ibex, I think.’

  The drinks came. I lit a cigarette for her. She sipped her gin and tonic and there was an unembarrassed pause in the talk while we both decided the next move in the game. Daintily she picked the slice of lemon out of her drink and sucked it. That, too, she did gracefully, and with a nice little wrinkle of her nose at the citric sharpness.

  I said, ‘I gather you haven’t a very high opinion of your father?’ She considered this, then nodded.

  ‘Why not?’

  Without hesitation, and there seemed to be no question of her sincerity, she said, ‘Because he’s the world’s champion scrounger and he has king-sized dreams in a pea-sized brain. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t a protective feeling towards him—so long as he doesn’t ask me for money. At least, not too much.’

  ‘You’ve got plenty?’

  She looked at me, smiled and said, ‘I suppose we shall come presently to the point of all this, but for the moment, since I don’t actively dislike you and I like company when I’m flying to take my mind off the twenty thousand-odd feet below me, I don’t mind talking. Yes, I’m very well off. And I did it all myself. How’s your bank balance?’

  ‘Reasonable at the moment—which is a rare state of affairs.’

  ‘And you are going to Tripoli on business?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not, I hope, connected with my father?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because if you are you will either be cheated or lose your money.’

  ‘I’m not in any deal with your father. I’m looking for a man.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve been doing that for some time, but the quality isn’t what it used to be. I suppose it’s because they’re mass produced or something.’

  ‘If I can find time off work I might take you up on that. I’m one of the last custom-built models, real leather upholstery and at a hundred miles an hour all you can hear is the ticking of the clock. How much did you pay Martin Freeman for that gold python bracelet you were wearing yesterday?’

  She took it without a flicker, shook the ice around in her glass, glanced out at the strato cirrus over which the setting sun was slapping gold and scarlet in action-painting frenzy, and then said, ‘In lire the equivalent of two thousand pounds.’

  ‘It’s been valued at five thousand.’

  ‘I got a bargain then.’

  ‘It was also stolen.’

  No flicker again. ‘That’s his problem. Not mine.’ There was a touch of the father’s daughter there.

  ‘My client wants it back.’

  ‘Your client can have it for two thousand five hundred pounds.�
��

  ‘I’ll consult her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Yes. His sister. He makes a habit of financing himself out of her collection.’

  ‘She’s wealthy?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘The price has gone up to three thousand. Now ask the next question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Where did I get to know Martin Freeman and why did I buy it?’

  ‘Well—where did you and why did you?’

  ‘He once helped me with some publicity work in Rome. He’s a likeable layabout and the same kind of dreamer as my father. Maybe his brain is a bit bigger. I wanted to help him—in return for what he’d done for me years ago.’

  ‘You go for him?’

  ‘No. Even amongst the mass-produced goods he’s strictly a reject—with me, anyway.’

  ‘Somali mother, Italian father, you speak English almost too well.’

  ‘My mother was an octoroon. I’m a fast studier, an international cabaret star, and English, French and German are obligatory. I weigh a hundred and thirty, have a Greek passport, and a star-shaped mole on the inside of my left thigh. If you are custom-built I might show it to you sometime. As for the Greek passport, I thought I would like to be a member of one of the most illustrious civilizations of the past. By the way, I get most of my clothes at Courreges, don’t care for oysters much, but am inclined to make a pig of myself over pasta. I’d like another drink and suggest that from now on we just keep to this kind of small talk. Unless, of course, you want to tell me the story of your life?’

  It was a sudden dismissal, and I wondered what had prompted it. However, I didn’t quarrel with it. Small talk suited me. The big fat facts of life often show for a brief, shy moment in small talk.

  ‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘As for the story of my life, I really think it began when you walked into the Piazza Santo Spirito flat. Stout Cortez and a peak in Darien and all that.’