Francois swallowed with evident difficulty; the sound was quite harsh in the silence.
"Yes, Francois? What is it?"
"Good God! What about the bulls? They'll be on top of us."
"Yes, but that's the charm of it. The bulls are pure gold as far as we're concerned. Every eye will be on them. No one will notice us."
"But that's insane. Why not wait till they've gone by?"
"Because it won't work. The instant the bulls charge from the square, policemen and workers spring up. To handle the crowds and remove the barricades. We'd be spotted leaving the basement, or coming down the passageway."
"But what in God's name is to prevent our being gored? Or killed?"
"For my part I intend to run like the devil. If you think up anything cleverer, let me know. But, Francois, since my hide is just as vulnerable as yours, I've studied the possibilities very carefully. If our timing is precise, and no one panics, there's an excellent chance of bringing it off. Phillip, you can open the drapes now."
Sunlight splashed into the rooms. The white oval of the sea beyond the terrace was like the eye of a giant staring up at the sky.
"Now we come to your part, Angela. I want you to get up on Phillip's shoulders, and stand there till I tell you to get down."
"Are you serious?"
"Please do as I say. We have an enormous lot to do, and damn little time."
Phillip spread his legs wide, crouched slightly and gave Angela a hand.
She put a foot against his thigh and swung up on to his shoulders, as easily and gracefully as if she were mounting a horse. Phillip cupped his hands behind her knees to brace her swaying figure. When he straightened to his full height, she gasped nervously.
"You're all right," Peter said. "Phillip, move about now. Skip and dance a bit." He glanced at his watch. Let me know when you're tired."
"Very well, sir."
Angela shrieked as Phillip commenced to caper about the room with an air of elephantine gravity. She clutched at her bra and hissed questions at Peter.
"What's this for? What're you trying to prove?"
"Never mind. I'll explain later."
The telephone rang and Francois answered it.
"It's for you, Peter. Your bar-keep, Mario."
Peter experienced a quick stir of hope and excitement. He had called Grace's villa three times this morning, but she hadn't been in. The maids had not been helpful; in fact, they seemed to have no clear idea of where she was, or when she might be back. All they knew was that she had not returned from Pamplona. This had added to Peter's confusion and apprehension. He was still shaken to the depths by the astounding implications of that slim little knife with the Ace of Diamonds attached to it. If it meant what he thought it did, how could he ever trust his judgment again? Or regard the world as anything but a crazy house of mirrors? But what else could that knife mean? He recalled the spiteful hiss as it whizzed past his ear. The metallic thunk as it struck the wall. And how it quivered there like a tuning fork, inches from his eyes. Had she tried to hit him? Or miss him?
And where is she now? That was the most maddening thing of all.
He snatched the phone from Francois. "Mario? Did she call?"
"No, no. But Mr. Shahari is here. You said you wanted to talk to him."
"You're sure Grace didn't call?"
"Of course I'm sure."
He sighed. "Okay. Put Mr. Shahari on."
"Good morning, Mr. Churchman. What can I do for you today. Some money to change perhaps?"
"When are you returning to Gibraltar?"
"This afternoon."
"All right, I'd like you to do me a favour. I need a set of walkie-talkies. You can get them at Purdy's, I think."
"You wish me to buy them for you?"
"Yes. I'll be over to Gibraltar to pick them up tomorrow or the day after. I need a first-rate set, Mr. Shahari."
"The Japanese make a very good walkie-talkie. With a smart carrying case, imitation alligator leather."
"No. No Japanese. Zeiss or Audioflex. Don't economise Mr. Shahari."
"Is there anything else?"
Peter hesitated. He didn't care to mention what else he needed, not on an open telephone line. "Yes, there are several other items," he said.
"But I think I'd better make a list of them. Can you wait in my office for a bit?"
"Of course. But perhaps you will do me a favour, Mr. Churchman. You know the fat American named Morgan?"
"Oh yes."
"He tells people he is going to kill me in Pamplona. It had to do with his religion. Or philosophy. I'm not sure which. But it is very upsetting."
"I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Shahari. I'll have a talk with him. Morgan's harmless. Last month he wanted to kill all the fishermen. He feels they're poisoning the world with iodine. Before that he tried to start a children's crusade to liberate Moscow. He thinks it belongs to Belgium."
"Belgium?" Mr. Shahari's voice rose slightly. "France may have a claim. But Belgium? He must be crazy."
"Yes. So stop worrying. If you'd like a coffee or brandy while you're waiting, just tell Mario. I'll be along shortly."
Peter put the phone down and turned his attention to Phillip and Angela. Tiny blisters of perspiration stood out on the Frenchman's forehead, but Angela seemed over her first queasiness and was now balancing herself with considerable skill.
"Well, Phillip, how do you feel?"
"I could go on for a while, sir. But there's an ache starting in my shoulders."
Peter glanced at his watch. This area of his timetable would be tight and chancey, too, he realised. He made a mental note to add Metercal and Rye-Krisp to the list of things he needed from Gibraltar.
"All right, that will be enough. Come along, Phillip."
Angela slipped down from the Frenchman's shoulders and smiled at Peter.
"It's too bad you have to rush away. But why not let Phillip stay with us for lunch? After all, we should get to know each other a bit better."
"I'm sorry, but we have work to do."
"Wouldn't you like to stay, Phillip?"
"Well, yes. But work is work, no?"
"Peter, don't you want us to know Phillip any better?"
She smiled but he noticed that she was drawing a fingernail slowly across the back of her small hand, ploughing a thin white furrow in the deeply tanned skin. He couldn't bluff; she held the aces, of course.
He knew what she was up to. She wanted a line on Phillip, wanted to get her claws into him and scratch away at his secrets. But he realised it wouldn't be wise to refuse her a chance at him. That would only make her more curious. All he could hope was that the sergeant was discreet and nimble.
Angela read his expression and smiled a victor's smile. She hooked an arm companionably through Phillip's and looked up at him with innocently masked eyes. "We'll have a good talk, won't we! Francois, ask them to send up some wine. We'll order lunch later."
Peter went away with heavy misgivings.
***
Morgan had lost Quince. This had made him sad. On the sunny terrace of Peter's bar, he confided his gloom and disquietude to new friends.
"Quince was a good chap, but he had his quirks like the rest of us. Had a fear of things getting around, as he put it. Well, turn down a glass. All we can do now. He's gone back to Wales. Didn't say why. He was a deep one, all right." Morgan smiled mysteriously and tapped his forehead. "But he had quirks. Afraid of things causing rows."
Morgan's heavy sigh caused a gentle ripple on the surface of his vast stomach. "Good old Quince. He needn't have worried about it. We could have killed Mr. Shahari quite easily. Taken his money, and thrown it about like confetti."
Until that instant, Morgan's grip on his audience had been very tentative; the two Americans who shared his table by accident had been idly watching girls saunter through the sun-splashed plaza; they had kept their interest in Morgan's nostalgic rumblings quite well in hand.
But now they exchanged glances of
mild curiosity. Then they shifted their chairs and looked thoughtfully at Morgan. Their reactions seemed almost reflexive; they responded to the mention of money as men with hearty appetites might have to the sound of a steak beginning to sizzle in a frying pan.
Their names were Tonelli and Blake. Tonelli was the smaller and older of the pair, with thinning grey hair and the eyes and mouth of a migratory used-car salesman. He wore black slacks, a red sports shirt, a gold wrist watch and a 'sportsman's' ring. Blake was a hairy man with bunched-up features and bunched-up shoulders. Tufts of hair grew from his ears. More of it, the colour and texture of steel wool, sprouted from the collar of a wash-and-wear shirt, which seemed to have seen considerably more wearing than washing lately. Blake's eyes were muddy and dim, and his temper was chronically bad. He enjoyed pushing things to their ultimate limits, whether it was machines or animals or people, but that instant of fierce pleasure which accompanied the breaking point was so painfully fleeting that it set up all kinds of agitations and frustrations inside his head. Blake hated things that quit just when he got them going full speed.
Tonelli's practised grin flickered over his lips. "Who'd you say you were planning to kill, Fatso?"
"The money changer from Gibraltar. Mr. Shahari. But he's a victim like the rest of us. Know who we should get our hands on?" Morgan peered warily at groups of incurious patrons seated near them, shifted closer to Blake and Tonelli, his great face rippling with secrets. "Got to get the lawyers," he said, lowering his voice. "They feed on people in trouble, right? And since everybody's in trouble, everybody's fair game, right? Look at you two poor devils. You're thieves, I imagine. In trouble, aren't you?"
Tonelli stared at the mountains and said quietly, "You got a big mouth, Fatso."
"You could catch something in it," Blake said.
Morgan looked pleased; he leaned forward, chuckling and the press of his stomach drove the table into Tonelli's ribs.
"Of course you're thieves. You've been stealing God's precious air since the day you were born. Right?"
"Oh," Tonelli said, rubbing his side. After a moment of consideration, he added: "Well, if you look at it that way, you got a point, Fatso. But let's talk about this Indian, this Mr. Shahari, for a minute. He's got a lot of money, I guess."
"Oh, yes. One day he'll have it all. But he wouldn't come to Pamplona."
"What's that got to do with it?"
Morgan looked judicious. "Quince would be the man to see about that. He was a deep one, you know."
"Well, what were you going to do with the Indian's money?"
"We planned to scatter it about the city. A gesture of contempt, you understand."
Blake said wearily: "Let's find a bottle and go back to the hotel. Maybe we can get something besides a muchissimo gracias from them maids."
"No, not yet," Tonelli said. "Fatso's got me hooked. Okay, Fatso. The big question. Why wouldn't the Indian go to Pamplona?"
"Well, he can't. The government smiles on him in the south, but frowns on him in the north. He has a territory, you see."
Tonelli nodded slowly. "So if he got robbed up north, he couldn't squeal to the cops. That's interesting. Tell me something else. What made you think he'd go to Pamplona in the first place?"
"He would if there were enough money involved," Morgan said sadly.
"He's very greedy. But he didn't trust me. You see, I told him I wanted to change twenty thousand dollars. I told him I got it from my father's estate."
"Your old man's dead?"
"No. That's why Mr. Shahari lost confidence in me, I think." Morgan sighed philosophically. "He's a stickler for detail."
"But let's say someone he trusted asked him to bring a lot of money to Pamplona. He'd do it right?" Tonelli stared hard at Morgan. "Well? Wouldn't he?"
"Pay attention, Fatso," Blake said.
Morgan was smiling and waving at a red Porsche which had just pulled up before the terrace of the bar. "Come over and have a drink, Peter," he called out happily. "I want you to meet my new friends."
"A pleasure," Peter said, nodding to the men who had been introduced to him as Mr. Blake and Mr. Tonelli. He summed them up with an experienced eye, and was not impressed by the totals. They looked tough and street-smart, and shady as a rainy day.
Peter smiled and patted Morgan on the shoulder. He liked Morgan.
Morgan was quite, easy to do business with. "You've been giving Mr. Shahari a bad time," he said.
"Oh, that's all over, Peter. Would you tell him, please? It's the lawyers we want to get our hands on."
"Well, he'll be relieved to hear it."
"Peter, are you going to Pamplona?"
"Yes."
"It's a blast, I hear," Tonelli said, grinning. "Bunch of nuts running around in front of cows. Booze, broads, the works." He winked at Blake. "We might give it a whirl, eh, old buddy?"
"Sure. What'd you think, Mr. Churchman? Think it's our kind of town?"
"You'll be perfectly at home," Peter said pleasantly. "Everything's on the American plan, even the jails." He gave them a nod to share between them and went on into his bar.
Tonelli looked after him. "Big deal," he said drily, and smiled at Blake.
"Big deal in a little game."
"Listen, Fatso," Tonelli said. "Does the Indian trust this character, Peter What's-his-name?"
Morgan nodded enthusiastically. "Everybody trusts Peter."
Tonelli and Blake exchanged glances, and arrived at a meeting of minds.
Tonelli put a hand on Morgan's arm.
"Come on, Fatso. Let's go over to our hotel. We got some things to talk about."
"That's very kind of you. But I'm going to have lunch here. Why don't you join me?"
Blake put a big hand on Morgan's other arm. "Look, Porky, get used to doing what you're told."
They assisted Morgan from the table, and steered him into the street, manoeuvring his great bulk through the eddying crowds like a pair of ruthless tugboats.
It was all very puzzling to Morgan. He would have liked to have a good talk with Quince about it. Quince would set him straight. No doubt of that.
***
In Peter's office Mr. Shahari sat neatly in a straight chair, his rings and fountain pens and gold teeth gleaming softly in the shafts of cool sunlight falling through the windows. With a polite and interested smile he read from Peter's list: "Diet chocolate and diet crackers. Yes. And six one-quarter-inch chrome drills, specification number two-nine-seven-eight. Ring-feed diamond cutter bar, Mark Seven.
Trade name?" Mr. Shahari looked over his glasses at Peter. "I can't make it out, Mr. Churchman."
"The trade name is Wolverine."
"Oh, yes. Wolverine. And that's all?"
"Yes."
The Indian smiled benignly at Peter. "They will be expensive."
"I realise that."
"I have a friend in a sapper company on the Rock. A lance corporal who gambles unscientifically. I think he can find these items in their demolition stores."
"I'd rather counted on something like that."
"But there is a problem. Getting these items off the Rock may be difficult. If I were given to pessimism, I'd say it's quite impossible."
"I'll have to think about that."
"Yes. The customs officers are extremely sensitive to such items." Mr. Shahari smiled. "In the wrong hands, these tools might be put to criminal use."
"Yes, I see what you mean."
"Therefore, I must say one thing: While I may find these items for you, I cannot help smuggle them through customs. If there were any miscalculations, it would go very hard on me. And you, too, for that matter."
"You try to get the things I need. I'll try to get them off the Rock."
"I wish you the best of luck. It won't be easy, you know."
"Well, it's my headache, Mr. Shahari. Don't worry about it."
"In that case, I shall look forward to seeing you in Gibraltar. Perhaps you will let me give you lunch. I will ask my wife to mak
e us a curry. Would you like that?"
"Very much indeed. And thank you."
"It's my pleasure, Mr. Churchman."
"You'll remember the walkie-talkies?"
"Yes, yes. Audioflex or Zeiss. No Japanese."
***
After the Indian had gone, Peter took a table on the terrace and considered his various problems. It was not an activity calculated to bring him peace of mind; there were dark clouds everywhere and not a silver lining in sight. Hawk-eyed customs officers at the Spanish border. Angela fishing craftily for Phillip's secrets. Lethal bulls pounding along barricaded streets.
Twenty-six feet of stone and brick sealing off a great vault of tempered steel. And a timetable so exquisitely wrought that even a broken shoestring could smash it to bits. On top of all this there was Grace, flinging aside her mask to smile at him for being such a lugubrious fool. How amused she must be! But no. She hadn't been in a comic mood. Hurling that knife was not a light-hearted gesture.
The sun sank into the sea. Dancing shafts of lemon and purple light played over the softly moulded flanks of the hide coloured mountains.
The air became cool. But still Peter sat frowning at his thoughts.
The life of the village flowed by him. The plaza was a busy hub, with streets stretching out like spokes to the markets, to the hills, to the beaches. Burros clip-clopped over the old stones. Maids in black uniforms with twists of jasmine in their hair hurried about on last-minute errands before the cocktail hour. Shoeshine boys and crippled lottery vendors screamed for customers. A string of gypsies, complete from stooped ancients to black-eyed babies, stood out against the crowd like a tableau limning the ages of man. In their wake a tinker pushed a cumbersome wagon which was hung with dented and tarnished pots and pans. He was an old, old man with a flat nose and a beard the colour of moss. At regular intervals he blew into a reed, and the sound rose and fell above the noise of the plaza in slow and mournful loops.
Peter straightened suddenly and stared at the tinker's rig with narrowing eyes. Ideas and schemes began to flicker in his mind like quicksilver. He noted that a canopy protected the wagon from sun and rain. There was a work-bench, a wooden tub of blackish water, a gas flame and soldering equipment, dull knives, sharp knives and broken knives, and a big stone grinding wheel connected to a sprocket and foot pedal.
The Caper of the Golden Bulls Page 8
