Drumbeat Madrid

by Stephen Marlowe

  He stuck his hand out and I shook it. “I knew I could count on you,” he said.

  I was on Axel Spade’s payroll again.

  EIGHTEEN

  The same appraising señoritos and the same hot-eyed señoritas, or ones just like them, were taking their evening stroll on the Paseo Reina Cristina. The same casually stylized flirtations were in progress. The same older men, looking amused, and the same older women, looking comfortably padded, were watching the performances of their sons and daughters.

  The blue Volkswagen that I had seen Luz driving was parked in Prieto y Azaña’s driveway near the orange trees. The half-timbered house, its garden floodlit, looked as out of place as before. I had the odd feeling that I’d come there merely to deliver El Macareno’s marijuana to Carmen. On an impulse I took the two packs out of the Jag’s boot and pocketed them.

  Prieto appeared at the side door of the house, looking nervous. He mopped his wet forehead with a handkerchief, approached me and paid the expected homage to Axel Spade’s hallmark. “I was delighted, Mr. Drum, when Luz Robles informed me that you would be looking out for her interests. Only a formality, of course. Hardly necessary, because everything has been arranged in a manner that I’m sure both heirs will find satisfactory. Nevertheless, it is a lot of money, and I am glad that a man of your acumen, a colleague of Mr. Axel Spade, will be on hand to approve of the transaction. But come, the others are waiting.”

  I followed his waddling form into the large living room. A brace of candles flickered on the mantel, highlighting the great horns of the bull’s head mounted above it.

  “There he is now,” Ray Moyers said. “We were just talking about you, Drum.” He got up and shook my hand. He looked very boyish and unsure of himself, but he was sober. MacNeil Hollister, wearing his uniform, got up too. He had been sitting at the end of the long room, as far from Luz, who was near the fireplace, as he could get.

  “Pardon the soldier suit,” he said, “but I just flew up from Zaragoza.” He shook my hand. “How’s April?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “So good to see you again, Mr. Drum,” Luz said coolly.

  There was one other man in the room, a poised little specimen in his fifties, with horn-rimmed glasses, a careless smudge of mustache on his upper lip and an air of having gone through this sort of thing too often before to get very excited about it.

  “This is Mr. Kohler from Geneva,” Prieto told me. “Geneva, Switzerland.”

  I said hello to Mr. Kohler from Geneva, Switzerland. He moved his head down and up about half an inch in acknowledgment and scratched his mustache.

  Hollister tapped my shoulder. “Before we get started,” he said, “seeing as we’re the seconds in this little old family duel, could I see you alone for a minute?”

  Kohler looked at his wristwatch like a man who has a plane to catch. Maybe he was a man who had a plane to catch.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Out in the hall, Hollister asked me, “Is it true the wedding’s off? That’s what Ray says.”

  “So I hear. Why don’t you ask Luz?”

  “Jesus, can you beat that? You happen to know why?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You holding out on me?”

  “Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “Yeah, well, I guess it’s really off. If it was just a lovers’ tiff you can bet your bottom buck Spade would have been here to look out for Luz’s interests. That figures, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, we’d better get back inside.” Hollister smiled at me warmly and pumped my hand as though I’d just done him a big and unexpected favor.

  We reentered the living room just ahead of Carmen Prieto. She was carrying a large tray with the makings for drinks on it. “Let me give you a hand,” I said, taking the tray from her. “Qué tal?” I asked her in Spanish, “how’s it going?”

  She seemed reasonably glad to see me, but not as though she’d been holding her breath until I came through with the marijuana. I hoped I was right. El Macareno’s two decks were in my pocket, and I hoped they would stay there.

  As I set the tray down on a polished walnut lowboy she said softly, “May I see you afterward?”

  I nodded, disappointed, and then she took orders for drinks. I sat watching Mr. Kohler from Geneva. I liked Mr. Kohler, or what he stood for, very much. Geneva probably meant a Swiss bank, and a Swiss bank probably meant a numbered account, the kind the Swiss are famous for, the kind that’s only a shade less inviolate than the gold in Fort Knox.

  Prieto cleared his throat. He was pacing back and forth, sweating and sipping from a Pimm’s Cup. His face was pale. He stopped pacing and stood with his back to the fireplace, the mounted bull’s head glaring down at him. “I have waited a long time for this moment,” he said. “I only regret that your poor brother José is not here to share it with us.”

  Everybody except Mr. Kohler from Geneva mumbled a word or two of commiseration over José. Mr. Kohler from Geneva looked bored and scratched his mustache.

  “As you know,” Prieto went on, “Don Hernando Sotomayor was my friend, my very dear friend. Two days before the Guardia arrested him in 1947, he came to my ranch in Navarre. It was only a small ranch,” he said apologetically, “nothing like your father’s was or your uncle’s is, and I have since sold it. It now comprises the northeast corner of your uncle’s holdings,” he said even more apologetically, “but there were no other buyers. Carmen?”

  She was ready with another Pimm’s Cup. I sat across from Prieto, working on a martini on the rocks and watching the others. Luz looked tolerantly impatient. Hollister, who had moved closer to her, was devouring her with his eyes. Ray Moyers was staring at Prieto as though he’d never seen him before. Then he cast a quick glance in Hollister’s direction and saw where Hollister was looking. His hands, resting on his thighs, closed into fists.

  “Your father,” Prieto said, “had suspected for some time that the Guardia would be coming for him. There is no need, I hasten to add,” he added, “to dwell on the unfortunate circumstances which made his arrest and summary execution inevitable, but he was all too aware of them. He had been for some time virtually a prisoner on his own ranch. He had managed to slip away secretly to visit me, and the fact that we are all here tonight proves that he was successful. It was of course impossible for him to leave the country. He had tried, without success.”

  Prieto was speaking his excellent though somewhat stilted brand of English. He raised his second Pimm’s Cup, now half empty, for emphasis. “When he came to the ranch that night, your father brought with him your legacy,”

  “The family jewels,” Ray Moyers said in an almost reverent whisper.

  Prieto nodded. “Oddly enough,” he began, and then he abruptly stopped talking and lurched against the mantel. He clutched it for support, some of the yellow-orange liquid sloshing from his glass.

  “Papa,” Carmen cried, and she was at his side in an instant.

  “It is nothing. I feel just the slightest bit faint.”

  “Would you like Dr. Martinez to come?”

  “No. It is of no importance.”

  He went slowly, like a drunk determined to walk a straight line, to a chair. His face was covered with sweat. “If I could have a cigarette,” he said, and Carmen scowled but dutifully lit one for him. I remembered then that he had a heart condition, though Carmen had indicated it wasn’t severe enough to worry about.

  “Oddly enough,” he said again, speaking more slowly, “Ramón is correct. That is just what they were, the family jewels. How your father was able to convert his not inconsiderable fortune into a few hundred extremely valuable diamonds I was never able to discover. But he had wide contacts and also, he had served in a diplomatic post some years before in South Africa. I am sure that at least Mr. Kohler and Mr. Drum are familiar with what is referred to as I.D.B. or Illicit Diamond Buying on the international market. In any event, all your father’s wealth had been converte
d into diamonds, by whatever means. Twenty million dollars worth of really first-rate stones, valued at upwards of five thousand dollars each, some of them worth ten, twenty, or even thirty thousand dollars, can be gathered over a period of years by a man with the right contacts.”

  That was the first time Prieto had actually mentioned the sum. Luz’s eyes had narrowed. She was looking at him eagerly.

  “They may also be carried quite conveniently. Your father brought them to me in a rather dilapidated overnight case. What he was asking me to do, he realized, was a dangerous thing, but I accepted the peril to my own life. I could do no less.” Prieto leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette. His face suddenly twisted in a grimace.

  “Papa, are you all right?” Carmen asked. She was kneeling at his side.

  He nodded slowly. “Two days later your father was arrested, and a month after that I was sent to Switzerland to attend an international monetary conference in Geneva. I took the diamonds with me. Having diplomatic immunity, I was exempt from any search either on leaving Spain or entering Mr. Kohler’s splendid country.

  “By that time your father had already been executed and I had succeeded in getting your mother and Luz out of the country. The diamonds, I knew, would be safe in Switzerland. Also,” he added, again apologetically, “their removal from Spain would enhance my own safety.

  “There was still this problem. While twenty million dollars worth of valuable stones could be transported by your father in an overnight bag, and by me in an attaché case, and while they could be accumulated over a period of years, discreetly, a few at a time, as your father had done—still, what would have happened when it was time to turn them over to you? If you attempted to flood the market with twenty million dollars worth of diamonds all at once, not only would their value have been substantially decreased, but there would have been considerable suspicion, no matter where you sold them, as to how you acquired them. That is where Mr. Kohler and his fine bank enter the picture.”

  Mr. Kohler smiled the faintest suggestion of a smile and said crisply, in slightly accented English, “I work for InterKant, the Swiss Intercantonal Bank. Along with the Union Bank and the Credit Bank, we are the largest in my country. Our business is money. We are not concerned with where it comes from, only that it serves our depositors adequately.”

  “More than adequately, my dear Mr. Kohler,” Prieto said.

  “Señor Prieto came to me with his problem,” Kohler said. “We have had such problems before. Deposed royalty, secret international cartel wealth, vast trust funds set up in a fashion that might disturb bankers of other countries. We take a rather opposite view. As you may be aware, it is a federal crime in Switzerland for any employee of a bank to divulge information to an outside party regarding a numbered—that is, a secret—account. With this protection in mind, Señor Prieto opened such an account with InterKant.”

  “That is,” Prieto said, “I presented the good Mr. Kohler with the diamonds and instructed him to sell them over whatever period of time he deemed necessary to realize their full value, and deposit the money in the account.”

  “It took fifteen years,” Kohler said, “and meanwhile valuable interest was accruing to the account. City of Oslo bonds, State of New Zealand bonds—” He rattled off a few other samples. “The sum in hand is now in excess of twenty-seven million dollars, held in inviolable trust for the wife and children of Don Hernando Sotomayor and payable when the last of the children comes of age. The wife has died. One of the three children has died. That leaves Mr. Ray Moyers of Baltimore, U.S.A., and Señorita Luz Robles of Caracas, Venezuela, as the two surviving heirs. All that remains is for you to present yourselves in Geneva with routine proof of identity, such as a valid passport, and InterKant is at your disposal. You may go at any time, but I suggest that you wait a week. Your account has been my direct charge all these years, and before I return to Geneva I have business in Tangier. I would also suggest that you transfer the money to two separate accounts, as your ideas regarding your holdings might diverge. But that is entirely your decision to make. You may even,” he added in a tone of voice that indicated the possibility shocked him, “choose to liquidate your holdings and withdraw the money from InterKant. Time enough to settle that when you reach Geneva. Meanwhile, my congratulations to you both.” He stood up, looking at his watch again. Well, I thought, he is a courier for InterKant. Maybe he has to dispose of a few million more bucks before the night is over.

  “I was wondering,” Luz said, “if I might ask just one question, Mr. Kohler.”

  “Yes, of course. I should have asked if you had any.”

  “I’m puzzled. Doesn’t the fact that my brother José was shot to death mean anything to InterKant?”

  He gave her an odd look and scratched his mustache. “Mean anything? What could it possibly mean to us?”

  “If one of the heirs died violently, I would have thought—”

  “Señorita, we live in a violent age. People die all the time. Some in their beds, if they are lucky. Some in aircraft catastrophes that may or may not have been accidental. Some take their own lives. Others are shot, stabbed, poisoned, strangled. We of InterKant are not police. We are not judge and jury. Our business, as I told you, is money. Where the money held in our numbered accounts is concerned,” he said, “believe me, we take pains. But nothing else is relevant.” He laughed a very small and grudging laugh, as though it took a great effort to dredge it up from wherever his sense of humor, if any, dwelled. “The ideal situation for InterKant—but please don’t quote me—would be if all the heirs had died. The money then, after a suitable time, would pass into the possession of InterKant itself. Not that we wish such misfortune to befall our clients, but one never knows, does one?”

  Mr. Kohler of Geneva shook hands all around, solemn-faced, like a man on a receiving line at a funeral, and left.

  NINETEEN

  What Prieto y Azaña had done inadvertently, by placing the money in the hands of InterKant, was stymie Luz Robles. All Moyers had to do to collect his share was present himself at the head office of the Intercantonal Bank in Geneva, ask for Mr. Kohler, and walk out a rich man.

  But Prieto had also, not inadvertently, done Luz a favor. Had her father’s fortune remained in the form he had left it, an overnight bag full of diamonds, neither she nor Ray ever would have realized its full value. She’d hoped to get ten percent; I had optimistically predicted twenty. Her take would have been either just under two or just under four million dollars. Her take now was half of twenty-seven million, close to ten million bucks more than the best she could have hoped for. Even with half the fortune, Luz Robles would be a very rich woman.

  I wondered if that would satisfy her. It would, I thought, have satisfied almost anyone else. Why go to the trouble of cheating her brother out of his share, or taking it by force, if her own share was more than three times what she had expected the total to be?

  But Luz Robles wasn’t almost anyone else, and there was still a way—just one way—she could pick up all the marbles.

  She could kill her brother.

  While Luz and Ray Moyers were congratulating each other, while Hollister was saying how happy he was for both of them, while they were all thanking Prieto for the splendid job he had done, I mulled that over. I decided that not even Luz would try it. There was too much danger in the attempt. Sure, she’d tried to knock off her uncle and maybe she’d shot José, but she’d had less to lose then. I was sure only a nut would try it now. But even for a complete psychopath thirteen and a half million dollars would work as a pretty tight moral straitjacket.

  I came out of my reverie fast when I saw they were all standing up and preparing to leave.

  “Hey, how about that, how does it feel to be a millionaire?” Hollister was asking both of them.

  “Don’t look at me,” Moyers said. “I just feel sort of numb.”

  Prieto beamed at them, but he looked exhausted and his color was bad.

  Hollister glanced
in my direction. “What are the logistics for tonight, Drum?” he said. “Do we drive back in two cars or what?”

  Relax, I told myself. Even if she were going to try anything tonight, you’re the guy she’d come to for help. That’s why she hired you. “Not unless Luz needs me for anything,” I said. “I guess I’ll stay over at a hotel.”

  “No, I won’t be needing you for anything,” Luz said with a guileless smile.

  Moyers had gone to the mantel to admire the mounted bull’s head. Hollister joined him. As Carmen was still hovering anxiously over her father, Luz had a moment alone with me.

  “Disappointed?” she asked.

  “Why should I be?”

  “All you get out of it is five hundred dollars. I’ll give you a check in Pamplona. Or I could mail it wherever you’d like.”

  “I’ll pick it up in Pamplona.”

  “I’m not disappointed, at any rate.” She laughed. She looked as happy as anyone would who had just inherited a fortune. “I suppose I’ll learn to live with a mere thirteen million dollars. God,” she said, “pinch me. It feels like a dream.”

  She left shortly after that with Moyers and Hollister. I heard the Volkswagen grind its way out of the driveway and up the street. Prieto came back inside.

  “If I might have just one more Pimm’s Cup,” he said to Carmen. “And a nightcap for our guest?”

  “You ought to go to bed, papa. You’re tired.”

  “In a few minutes. Please make up the guest room for Mr. Drum.”

  “Don’t go to the trouble,” I said. “I’ll check into a hotel.”

  But Prieto insisted, and when Carmen left the room he said, “You wanted to talk to me, of course. Is it on Mr. Axel Spade’s behalf?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “He was hoping there’d be some connection between Hernando Sotomayor’s legacy and the Loyalist gold.”

  “I don’t understand.” Prieto looked genuinely puzzled.

  “If Don Hernando trusted you with one, Spade thought he might also have trusted you with the other.”