Soma Blues

by Robert Sheckley

  “I am delighted to meet you, Major Wheaton. I only wish Mr. Draconian had been able to come as well.”

  “Hob sends his regrets. An unavoidable press of work prevented his accepting your kind invitation. He sends his best wishes.”

  “I am so glad he was able to spare you, Major.”

  “For a day or two only, alas. The agency is flooded with work.”

  “As well it should be,” Santos said. “Well, since our time is limited, why don’t we get right down to it? But first, please accept this.” He pressed a folded check into Nigel’s hand. “And of course the hotel has been instructed to send your bill directly to me.

  “You are too kind,” Nigel said, just remembering that he had seen a very nice looking silver service in the gift shop within the hotel arcade. It might be just the thing for an old lady’s eighty-third birthday.

  Santos took him on a tour of Government House, pointing out the many objets d’art the place boasted. There were rows of expensive period furniture, drapes, and wall hangings from great eras in European history and endless glass cases filled with what Santos referred to as “art treasures.”

  “This is a nice piece,” Nigel said, indicating a small graceful bronze figure of a boy mounted on a dolphin.

  “Sarzano,” Santos said. “Let me show you some more.”

  He led Nigel down a long gloomy hallway. Portraits occupied the upper portions, each dimly lit by its own individual lamp that cast a yellowish glow over the faded oils. The corridor was a long one, a hundred feet at least. Lined up below the paintings were glass-topped cabinets, and within them were a variety of objects, all neatly tagged. There was a collection of Fabergé eggs whose value Nigel estimated at perhaps fifty thousand pounds. There was quite a lot of jewelry, its value difficult for Nigel to judge but of historic interest at least, bound to be valuable. One case was entirely given over to a display of Carthaginian coins. They appeared to be gold. It was difficult to estimate their value, but it had to be better than a hundred thousand pounds.

  As he walked, Nigel kept a tab in his head. When he had reached a million pounds at lowest estimates, he stopped.

  “Señor Santos, this is indeed a remarkable collection. I suppose you know it is quite valuable.”

  “I am not an expert on these matters,” Santos said. “But I have always believed so, yes.”

  “How on earth did you get so many interesting objects together under one roof?”

  “Oh, it is not my collection,” Santos said. “Not my own personal collection, that is. What you are looking at is the official San Isidran national heritage, which is in my care for the nation. What you see on these walls, in these cases. And there is more in the cellars, a lot of it still unpacked.”

  “Who put all this together?” Nigel asked.

  “It has grown over the last two hundred years,” Santos said. “San Isidro has had various rulers, and most of them contributed their bit. Then there were the pirates. Some of them became governors of our island. They, too, contributed many of these items, which at the time were of no great value, but have grown so over the years.”

  “It is a brilliant collection,” Nigel said. “Am I correct in assuming that you are interested in selling some pieces?”

  “Perfectly correct.”

  “And that, in fact, is what you wanted to see the Alternative Detective Agency about?”

  “That is right,” Santos said. “I might add, lest there be any misunderstanding, that I do not sell these objects for the purpose of personal enrichment. I am modestly wealthy, and what I have suits me very well. It is my poor country I am thinking of.”

  “Of course,” Nigel said, trying to keep an ironic tone out of his voice.

  But Santos appeared to be in earnest. He went on, “We have no product to sell to the outside world, no natural resources like oil or minerals, not even a strong tourist industry, since the beauties of our island, though considerable, are not the equal of Jamaica or the Bahamas. With the money I hope to realize from these treasures, I want to set up training schools and colleges for our local population.”

  “Which ones are you interested in selling, if I may ask?”

  “Why, as for that,” Santos said, with a negligent wave of the hand, “I would like to dispose of all or most of them, or at least the ones of greatest value.”

  Nigel made a flying guess as to the value of the entire collection. If what was in the other rooms was up to the standard of what he had seen, and if there was, say, twice as much stored away below as appeared here on the surface, the collection might be worth ten million pounds? Twenty million?

  Nigel had the sudden feeling of a child who has stumbled into the house made of candy. “Take what you wish!” the old witch tells him. “They’re all for you, my dearie.” And he stuffs himself full. But when it comes time to leave … It was all simply too good.

  “You have been a kind host,” Nigel said. “I think it is only proper that I advise you as to proper procedure. You should contact one of the big galleries, Christie’s in London, say, or Parke-Bernet in New York. Send them a catalog of what is here, with brief descriptions—and photographs, if possible. Ask them to send an appraiser. This is how these matters are commonly conducted.”

  “Could you not appraise the items for me?” Santos asked.

  “I could have a go at it, but I am not an expert on these matters,” Nigel said.

  “But you work for a group of art dealers?”

  “I do a little work in the field from time to time. But I repeat, I’m not an expert.”

  “These experts from Christie’s,” Santos said, “I suppose there would be a lot of publicity attendant upon their coming here?”

  “It could be handled discreetly,” Nigel said. “But Christie’s would want an established provenance for all the objects. So they could announce them properly in their catalog, you see.”

  “Yes, it is as I thought,” Santos said. “But you see, any sale of these objects must be handled with discretion.”

  “The big houses are the soul of discretion.”

  “But it might try their patience if I pointed out the procedure we had to go through to get these objects to market. You see, Mr. Wheaton, I must not appear to be selling these items. They are not mine. They belong to the nation. I am their caretaker, but not their owner.”

  “You have the right to sell them, however,” Nigel pointed out.

  “Let’s not say the right. That’s a matter for the law to decide. Let’s say that I have the opportunity to sell them to provide something better for my people. They need new fishing boats more than they need old European masters. They need education into modern farming techniques more than they need a case of Venetian glass. They need a casino that will bring in tourists more than they need Fabergé eggs behind a glass case.”

  “I take your point,” Nigel said.

  “If I were to ask you to sell one of these objects for me,” Santos said, “how would you proceed?”

  “With or without papers?”

  “Without, let us say. Is that uncommon?”

  “Not at all. People walk into art dealers every day with items. No one knows where they came from. Some art dealers aren’t too scrupulous about provenance. Not a major house like Christie’s, of course.”

  “Do you know such houses?”

  “In fact,” Nigel said, “I do. But I assure you, Mr. Santos, if you can properly document what you sell, you would stand to realize a much greater profit on it.”

  “There is a difficulty about that,” Santos said.

  “I rather thought there might be,” Nigel said.

  “These pieces are part of the San Isidran national treasure. They have been amassed over the centuries for the enjoyment of the San Isidran people, of whom not more than five or ten a year come to look at their heritage. Much greater good could be done for the people if it were possible to sell these objects, and apply the income to public projects and the creation of new jobs.”

&nb
sp; “No doubt,” Nigel said. “It is a lofty ambition. Might I ask, Señor Santos, if you are suggesting the theft of these objects? I don’t mean to be insulting, but the transaction you are suggesting seems hardly straightforward.”

  “It is not exactly theft,” Santos said. “But it is not exactly straightforward, either.”

  “And you thought the Alternative Detective Agency would be interested in a situation like this?”

  “Yes, that is what I thought,” Santos said. “I got the impression while dealing with Mr. Draconian that you were people to be trusted, that you were ethical, but that you were not interested in the exact letter of the law.”

  “Isn’t that a contradiction?” Nigel asked.

  “A true morality must exist in contradiction,” Santos said.

  “Interesting,” Nigel said. “Let me pursue my question. Here we are in Government House, and here are these treasures. There are guards at the door. The treasure is not yours, by your own admission.”

  “Not mine,” Santos agreed. “But I can take what I please.”

  “By thievery,” Nigel said.

  Santos smiled painfully. “The art treasures here are the heritage of the San Isidran people. I, however, am the President of San Isidro.”

  Nigel looked at him sharply to see if he was serious. He seemed to be.

  “Are you indeed?” Nigel said.

  “I assure you,” Santos said, “I am.”

  “Why, one might ask, did you not mention this situation in your letter?”

  “I wanted you to see what we had first. I wanted to appraise you while you appraised the goods. I am satisfied, and I hope you are. Perhaps we could take a glass of sherry in the Audience Room and continue our discussion?”

  Nigel agreed. His mind was racing furiously. It was possible that Santos was selling him a line of goods, and that his real intention was to simply take the San Isidran people for whatever they were worth. On the other hand, Nigel’s reading of the man was that he was sincere. The idea of a national patrimony was a sick sort of joke, anyhow—like giving people a mansion in which to starve or a great view in which to perish of thirst. Or a glorious death in terms of an abstraction.

  “Now, about these goods,” Nigel said. “If I understand the position correctly, you want to take some things out without people knowing it, in order to sell them in international markets.”

  “Yes, that sums it up pretty well,” Santos said. “You understand I am doing this for the national good. We are a very small nation, Major Wheaton. We have the dubious pleasure of possessing the worst weather in the Caribbean. We have no industry, no resources. You may think, Major Wheaton, that this is a cynical scheme to rob the people of their heritage. But I will assure you that ninety cents on the dollar will go directly to the assistance of my people.”

  “Not that anyone is going to be standing over you checking the accounting,” Nigel said, annoyed now.

  “I have taken the trouble,” Santos said, “to learn a little about your background, Major Wheaton. I believe you had a little trouble in Istanbul.”

  Nigel stared at him. “What the hell do you know about that?”

  “Smuggling, wasn’t it?”

  Nigel knew he was under attack. He sat down, calm, composed, prepared to defend himself. Nigel never lost confidence, but he was aware that he seemed to have gotten himself into some sort of ugly set piece. It was strange and unsettling to find himself in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, in a big gloomy mansion, being badgered by this small Latin gentleman. It made Nigel realize once again how small the world was—and how situations kept repeating themselves. He thought, not for the first time, how the whole idea of multiplicity was erroneous. Life was a play in which people only pretended to be strangers. Actually they knew one another very well. And there was no escaping them. “I walked the streets of the City of Ignorance looking for a stranger’s face.” He had read that line in a story by the American writer O. Henry, and it had stuck to him ever since.

  “I suppose you’ve got my attendance records from Balliol, too,” Nigel said. “And I assume, since you know everything else, you know I read history.”

  “But didn’t take a degree,” Santos said. “Would you like to hear your marital history?”

  “No, thank you,” Nigel said, “I know it only too well. You must have an efficient agency to collect all this for you so quickly.”

  “You would know that better than I,” Santos said. “We worked with the Alternative Detective Agency. One of your sometime employers I believe, eh, Major Wheaton?”

  “I’m no longer in service,” Nigel said, shaken. “Plain mister will do nicely. Sent you my dossier, did they?”

  “Not at all, Major. The facts about you were easy enough to dig out.”

  So he said. But Nigel wondered. That old suspicion, stronger than love, for Nigel, that love that continued to vote for death, all of that rose in Nigel’s throat again. Istanbul. The bloody bad luck of it all. Or the cunning of it, if Hob had sold him out to Captain Kermak, as Jean-Claude suggested. The arrest, the trial, him and Jean-Claude led off to the pokey and released nine days later. Not much time to serve. But enough to get your name on the Interpol computer. Enough to get you stopped and searched and hassled at every checkpoint, until George brought enough pressure to bear to clear Nigel’s name from the computer records because he had been arrested but never charged, and obviously never convicted. By rights he didn’t belong on the database of known smugglers. But somehow his name stuck there for a long time. And with his criminal record he could never get a visa for the United States, could never live in New York—the city he had convinced himself, though he had never been able to visit it, was the epitome of the modern world, the city that would dominate the twenty-first century. There were ways to smuggle yourself into America, but then there was always the danger he’d be caught someday and shipped out, and all the work and time he’d have spent in New York would be in vain. He owed that one to Hob, too. If Hob had informed upon him. Which, of course, he still maintained Hob had not.

  “I just wanted to make everything clear,” Santos said. “Would you be willing to take on this work? On the understanding, of course, that Mr. Draconian is a full participant in this arrangement? We would find it a serious breach requiring action if Mr. Draconian, whom we respect, were somehow excluded.”

  “There’s no problem about that,” Nigel said stiffly, smiling but thinking unspeakable thoughts. He was wondering, Who put him on to the agency? Who does he know who knows Hob and me? Did Hob send him my dossier? What bloody game is this?

  Santos made a room available for him. Nigel telephoned Jean-Claude in Paris and spoke to him about the importation of a considerable amount of art treasures, these to bypass customs and immigration. Jean-Claude said to send them to the port of Cherbourg; he had friends there, and for the right consideration they’d be prepared to look the other way.

  “I’ll just need to make a selection,” Nigel told Santos. “Your people will take care of the packing and shipping.”

  “That will be fine.”

  “I’ll sell your items in Paris and remit the total to you less ten percent agents’ fee. For the agency.”

  “That will be quite satisfactory. And I have something else that might interest you,” Santos said. “It is a job. It involves helping a certain party buy art. European paintings. It would require your return to London immediately.”

  “No problem,” Nigel said. “Let’s hear about it.”

  4

  Hob left Lorne’s and took the underground to the Burlingame Arcade in the West End, where he went to Posonby’s Gallery. Posonby’s was all bright wood and indirect lighting and clever paintings. There were also several very large crystal ashtrays, but they were so highly polished that Hob decided not to desecrate them by filling them with cigarette butts. Derek Posonby was of medium height, plump, with a round face and round, gold-rimmed glasses. He was wearing what Hob supposed was an Edwardian suit, gray with
a discreet stripe, and he wore highly polished black cordovan pumps. His thinning hair was combed over to cover his scalp. In compensation, perhaps, he had grown his sideburns long and fluffy. It made his round, somewhat raw face look like an egg hatching from a nest of hair. Derek had an ingenuous look; he peered around like a bird looking for a crumb. He looked soft and easy to take. This was a big help in the art business, where inoffensive appearance and mild manner can translate into substantial markups.

  “What do you want Nigel for?” Derek asked after Hob asked.

  “I’ve got a job for him,” Hob said. “The agency needs his talents.”

  “He might not take you up on it,” Derek said. “You know Nigel. Put twenty quid in his pocket and he forgets all about working until it’s gone. Last of the flower children, is our Nigel.”

  “He was working for you recently, wasn’t he?” Hob asked.

  “Oh, he flogged off the odd piece of art for us now and then,” Derek said.

  “I believe he did a job for you recently,” Hob said.

  “Yes, he did. But that sort of thing is confidential. Trade secrets and all that, you know.”

  “Look,” Hob said, “I really need to know exactly what went on. I’m afraid Nigel is mixed up in something. It’s caught the attention of the Paris police. I’m conducting this investigation on their behalf.”

  Derek didn’t like it. He made a great thing of his professionalism, but he was as dotty as half the art dealers in London. Twisted bunch of people, in Hob’s opinion, but Derek wasn’t a bad sort. Quite a fine art knowledge, especially sound on fourteenth-century Dutch and French masters. Not that he saw many of them. He was no less honest than any of that breed. After all, a picture’s worth is pretty subjective. It’s worth what the dealer thinks he can get for it. Derek didn’t want to talk about how he was doing, but of course he did want to talk about it, because that’s all that bunch of dealers did, meet in Squire’s Coffee Shop on the King’s Road and brag about who they did that week. That’s exaggerating slightly, but nothing stays a secret in the London art world very long. One big pack of squabbling Janes. So it didn’t take much coaxing on Hob’s part for Derek to come out with the story. In fact, once he started, he got quite enthusiastic about it, even called in young Christopher, who had been there when Nigel performed his remarkable coup. And so, with Derek’s voice rising and falling, and the fans turning, young Christopher took up the tale.