She said, ‘I am having them watched.’
‘That’s fine, but it’s not enough,’ I said. ‘I want to do to Metcalfe what he’s been doing to us. I want Torloni watched in Genoa; I want the docks watched all along this coast for Metcalfe’s boat. I want to know when he comes to Italy.’ I gave her a detailed description of Metcalfe, of Krupke and the Fairmile. ‘Can you do all that?’
‘Of course. You will know all about this Metcalfe as soon as he sets foot in Italy.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then what about a drink?’ I looked at Coertze. ‘It seems you didn’t scare Metcalfe off, after all.’ He looked back at me with an expressionless face, and I laughed. ‘Don’t look so glum. Get out the bottle and cheer up.’
V
We didn’t see the Contessa or Morese after that. They stayed out of sight, but next morning I found a note in the cockpit telling me to go to the Three Fishes and say that I wanted a watchman for Sanford.
I went, of course, and Giuseppi was more friendly than when I had last seen him. He served me personally and, as he put down the plate, I said, ‘You ought to know what goes on on the waterfront. Can you recommend a watchman for my boat? He must be honest.’
‘Ah, yes, signor,’ he said. ‘I have the very man—old Luigi there. It’s a pity; he was wounded during the war and since then he has been able to undertake only light work. At present he is unemployed.’
‘Send him over when I have finished breakfast,’ I said.
Thus it was that we got an honest watchman and old Luigi became the go-between between the Contessa and Sanford. Every morning he would bring a letter in which the Contessa detailed her progress.
Torloni was being watched, but nothing seemed to be happening; his men were still in Rapallo watching Sanford and being watched themselves; the trucks had been arranged for and the drivers were ready; the timber was prepared and the tools had been bought; she had been offered a German caravan but she had heard of an English caravan for sale in Milan and thought it would be better—would I give her some money to buy it as she had none.
It all seemed to be working out satisfactorily.
The three of us from Sanford spent our time sightseeing, much to the disgust of Torloni’s spies. I spent a lot of time in the Yacht Club and it was soon noised about that I intended to settle in the Mediterranean and was looking for a suitable boatyard to buy.
On our fifth day in Rapallo the morning letter instructed me to go to the boatyard of Silvio Palmerini and to ask for a quotation for the slipping and painting of Sanford. ‘The price will be right,’ wrote the Contessa. ‘Silvio is one of my—our—friends.’
Palmerini’s yard was some way out of Rapallo. Palmerini was a gnarled man of about sixty who ruled his yard and his three sons with soft words and a will of iron. I said, ‘You understand, Signor Palmerini, that I am a boat-builder, too. I would like to do the job myself in your yard.’
He nodded. It was only natural that a man must look after his own boat if he could; besides, it would be cheaper.
‘And I would want it under cover,’ I said. ‘I fastened the keel in an experimental way and I may want to take it off to see if it is satisfactory.’
He nodded again. Experimental ways were risky and a man should stick to the old traditional ways of doing things. It would be foolish, indeed, if milord’s keel dropped off in the middle of the Mediterranean.
I agreed that I should look a fool, and said, ‘My friends and I are capable of doing the work and we shall not need extra labour. All that is required is a place where we can work undisturbed.’
He nodded a third time. He had a large shed we could use and which could be locked. No one would disturb us, not even himself—certainly no one outside his family—he would see to that. And was milord the rich Englishman who wanted to buy a boatyard? If so, then perhaps the milord would consider the boatyard Palmerini, the paragon of the Western Mediterranean.
That brought me up with a jerk. Another piece of polite blackmail was under way and I could see that I would have to buy the yard, probably at an exorbitant price—the price of silence.
I said diplomatically, ‘Yes, I am thinking of buying a yard, but the wise man explores every avenue.’ Dammit, I was falling into his way of speech. ‘I have been to Spain and France; now I am in Italy and after Italy I am going to Greece. I must look at everything.’
He nodded vigorously, his crab-apple head bobbing up and down. Yes, the milord was indeed wise to look at everything, but in spite of that he was sure that the milord would unfailingly return to the boatyard Palmerini because it was certainly the best in the whole Mediterranean.
Pah, what did the Greeks know of fine building? All they knew were their clumsy caiques. The price would be reasonable for milord since it appeared that they had mutual friends, and such a price could be spread over a period provided the proper guarantees could be given.
From this I understood the old rascal to say that he would wait until the whole job was completed and I had fluid capital, if I could prove that I would keep my word.
I went back to Sanford feeling satisfied that this part of the programme was going well. Even if I had to buy Palmerini’s yard, it would not be a bad thing and any lengthening of the price could be written off as expedition expenses.
On the ninth day of our stay in Rapallo the usual morning letter announced that all was now ready and we could start at any time. However, it was felt that, since the next day was Sunday, it would be more fitting to begin the expedition inland on Monday. That gave an elevating tone to the whole thing, I thought; another crazy aspect of a crazy adventure.
The Contessa wrote: ‘Torloni’s men will be discreetly taken care of, and will not connect their inability to find you with any trickery on your part. They will have no suspicions. Leave your boat in the care of Luigi and meet me at nine in the morning at the Three Fishes.’
I put a match to the letter and called Luigi below. ‘They say you are an honest man, Luigi; would you take a bribe?’
He was properly horrified. ‘Oh no, signor.’
‘You know this boat is being watched?’
‘Yes, signor. They are enemies of you and Madame.’
‘Do you know what Madame and I are doing?’
He shook his head. ‘No, signor. I came because Madame said you needed my help. I did not ask any questions,’ he said with dignity.
I tapped on the table. ‘My friends and I are going away for a few days soon, leaving the boat in your charge. What will you do if the men who are watching want to bribe you to let them search the boat?’
He drew himself up. ‘I would slap the money out of their hands, signor.’
‘No, you won’t,’ I said. ‘You will say it is not enough and you will ask them for more money. When you get it, you will let them search the boat.’
He looked at me uncomprehendingly. I said slowly, ‘I don’t mind if they search—there is nothing to be found. There is no reason why you should not make some money out of Madame’s enemies.’
He laughed suddenly and slapped his thigh. ‘That is good, signor; that is very good. You want them to search.’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But don’t make it too easy for them or they will be suspicious.’
I wanted, as a last resort, to try to fool Metcalfe as I had fooled him in Barcelona, or rather, as I had hoped to fool him before Coertze put his foot in it. I wrote a letter to the Contessa telling her what I was doing, and gave it to Luigi to pass on.
‘How long have you known Madame?’ I asked curiously.
‘Since the war, signor, when she was a little girl.’
‘You would do anything for her, wouldn’t you?’
‘Why not?’ he asked in surprise. ‘She has done more for me that I can ever repay. She paid for the doctors after the war when they straightened my leg. It is not her fault they could not get it properly straight—but I would have been a cripple, otherwise.’
This was a new light on Francesca. ‘Thank you,
Luigi,’ I said. ‘Give the letter to Madame when you see her.’
I told Coertze and Walker what was happening. There was nothing else to do now but wait for Monday morning.
FIVE: THE TUNNEL
On Monday morning I again set the stage, leaving papers where they could easily be found. On the principle of the Purloined Letter I had even worked out a costing for a refit of Sanford at Palmerini’s boatyard, together with some estimates of the probable cost of buying the yard. If we were seen there later we would have good reason.
We left just before nine, saying goodbye to Luigi, who gave me a broad wink, and arrived at the Three Fishes on time. The Contessa and Morese were waiting and we joined them for breakfast. The Contessa wore clothing of an indefinably English cut of which I approved; she was using her brain.
I said, ‘How did you get rid of Torloni’s boys?’
Morese grinned. ‘One of them had an accident with his car. The other, who was waiting for him at the dock, got tired of waiting and unaccountably fell into the water. He had to get a taxi to his hotel so that he could change his clothes.’
‘Your friend Metcalfe arrived in Genoa last night,’ said the Contessa.
‘You’re sure.’
‘I’m certain. He went straight to Torloni and stayed with him for a long time. Then he went to a hotel.’
That settled that. I had wondered for a long time if my suspicions of Metcalfe hadn’t been just a fevered bit of imagination. After all, my whole case against Metcalfe had been built up of supposition and what I knew of his character.
‘You’re having him watched?’
‘Of course.’
Breakfast arrived and all conversation stopped until Giuseppi went back to his counter. Then I said, ‘All right, friend Kobus, this is where you tell us where the gold is.’
Coertze’s head came up with a jerk. ‘Not on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you there, but I’m not telling first.’
I sighed. ‘Look, these good people have laid on transport. How can they tell the trucks to rendezvous unless we know where we’re going?’
‘They can telephone back here.’
‘From where?’
‘There’ll be a phone in the village.’
‘None of us is going anywhere near that village,’ I said. ‘Least of all one of us foreigners. And if you think I’ll let one of these two go in alone, you’re crazy. From now on we don’t let either of them out of our sight.’
‘Not very trusting, are you?’ observed the Contessa.
I looked at her. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Not much.’
‘Then we’re even.’ I turned back to Coertze. ‘Any telephoning the Contessa is going to do is from that telephone in the corner there—with me at her elbow.’
‘Don’t call me the Contessa,’ she snapped.
I ignored her and concentrated on Coertze. ‘So, you see, we have to know the spot. If you won’t tell us, I’m sure that Walker will—but I’d rather it was you.’
He thought about it for quite a while, then he said, ‘Magtig, but you’ll argue your way into heaven one day. All right, it’s about forty miles north of here, between Varsi and Tassaro.’ He went into detailed explanations and Morese said, ‘It’s right in the hills.’
I said, ‘Do you think you can direct the trucks to this place?’
Francesca said, ‘I will tell them to wait in Varsi. We will not need them until the second night; we can go to Varsi and direct them from there tomorrow.’
‘O.K.,’ I said. ‘Let’s make that phone call.’
I escorted her to the corner and stood by while she gave the instructions, making sure she slipped nothing over. A trustful lot, we were. When we got back to the table, I said, ‘That does it; we can start at any time.’
We finished breakfast and got up to go. Francesca said, ‘Not by the front; Torloni’s men will be back now and they can see this café. We go this way.’
She led us out by the back door into a yard where a car was standing with an Eccles touring caravan already coupled. She said, ‘I stocked up with enough food for a week—it might be necessary.’
‘It won’t,’ I said grimly. ‘If we don’t have the stuff out by tomorrow night we’ll never get it—not with Metcalfe sniffing on our trail.’
I looked at our party and make a quick decision. ‘We look English enough, all except you, Morese; you just don’t fit. You travel in the caravan and keep out of sight.’
He frowned and looked at Francesca. She said, ‘Get into the caravan, Piero; do as Mr Halloran says,’ and then turned to me. ‘Piero takes his instructions from no one but me, Mr Halloran. I hope you remember that in future.’
I shrugged and said, ‘Let’s go.’
Coertze was driving because he knew the way. Walker was also in front and Francesca and I shared the back seat. No one did much talking and Coertze drove very slowly because he was unaccustomed to towing a caravan and driving on the right simultaneously.
We left Rapallo and were soon ascending into the hills—the Ligurian Apennines. It looked poor country with stony soil and not much cultivation. What agriculture there was was scattered and devoted to vines and olives, the two trees which look as though they’ve been tortured to death. Within the hour we were in Varsi, and soon after that, we left the main road and bounced along a secondary country road, unmetalled and with a poor surface. It had not rained for some days and the dust rose in clouds.
After a while Coertze slowed down almost to a stop as he came to a corner. ‘This is where we shot up the trucks,’ he said.
We turned the corner and saw a long stretch of empty road. Coertze stopped the car and Walker got out. This was the first time he had seen the place in fifteen years. He walked a little way up the road to a large rock on the right, then turned and looked back. I guessed it was by that rock that he had stood while he poured bullets into the driver of the staff car.
I thought about the sudden and dreadful slaughter that had happened on that spot and, looking up the shaggy hillside, I visualized the running prisoners being hunted and shot down. I said abruptly, ‘No point in waiting here, let’s get on with it.’
Coertze put the car into gear and drove forward slowly until Walker had jumped in, then he picked up speed and we were on our way again. ‘Not far now,’ said Walker. His voice was husky with excitement.
Less than fifteen minutes later Coertze pulled up again at the junction of another road so unused that it was almost invisible. ‘The old mine is about a mile and a half up there,’ he said. ‘What do we do now?’
Francesca and I got out of the car and stretched our stiffened legs. I looked about and saw a stream about a hundred yards away. ‘That’s convenient,’ I said. ‘The perfect camp site. One thing is certain—none of us so much as looks sideways at that side road during the hours of daylight.’
We pulled the caravan off the road and extended the balance legs, then we put up the tent. Francesca went into the caravan and talked to Morese. I said, ‘Now, for God’s sake, let’s act like innocent tourists. We’re mad Englishmen who prefer to live uncomfortably rather than stay at a hotel.’
It was a long day. After lunch, which Francesca made in the little galley of the caravan, we sat about and talked desultorily and waited for the sun to go down. Francesca stayed in the caravan most of the time keeping Morese company; Walker fidgeted; Coertze was apparently lost in contemplating his navel; I tried to sleep, but couldn’t.
The only excitement during the afternoon was the slow approach of a farm cart. It hove into sight as a puff of dust at the end of the road and gradually, with snail-like pace, came near enough to be identified. Coertze roused himself enough to make a number of small wagers as to the time it would draw level with the camp. At last it creaked past, drawn by two oxen and looking like a refugee from a Breughel painting. A peasant trudged alongside and I mustered my worst Italian, waved and said, ‘Buon giorno.’
He gave me a sideways look, muttered something I did not cat
ch, and went on his way. That was the only traffic on the road the whole time we were there.
At half past four I roused myself and went to the caravan to see Francesca. ‘We’d better eat early,’ I said. ‘As soon as it’s dark we’ll be taking the car to the mine.’
‘Everything is in cans,’ she said. ‘It will be easy to prepare. We will want something to eat during the night, so I got two of these big vacuum containers—I will cook the food before we go and it will keep hot all night. There are also some vacuum flasks for coffee.’
‘You’ve been spending my money well,’ I said.
She ignored that. ‘I will need some water. Will you get me some from the stream?’
‘If you will come with me,’ I said. ‘You need to stretch a bit.’ I had a sudden urge to talk to her, to find out what made her tick.
‘All right,’ she said, and opening a cupboard, produced three canvas buckets. As we walked towards the stream, I said, ‘You must have been very young during the war.’
‘I was. We took to the hills, my father and I, when I was ten years old.’ She waved at the surrounding mountains. ‘These hills.’
‘Not a very pleasant life for a little girl.’
She considered that. ‘It was fun at first. Everyone likes a camping holiday and this was one long holiday for me. Yes, it was fun.’
‘When did it stop being fun?’
Her face was quietly sad. ‘When the men started to die; when the fighting began. Then it was not fun, it became a serious thing we were doing. It was a good thing—but it was terrible.’
‘And you worked in the hospital?’
‘Yes. I tended Walker when he came from the prison camp. Did you know that?’
I remembered Walker’s description of the grave little girl who wanted him to get better so he could kill Germans. ‘He told me,’ I said.
We reached the stream and I looked at it doubtfully. It looked clear enough, but I said, ‘Is it all right for drinking?’
‘I will boil the water; it will be all right,’ she said, and knelt to dig a hole in the shallows. ‘We must have a hole deep enough to take a bucket; it is easier then.’
The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter Page 13
