On the left side of the screen a younger Peter stood apart from the group bunched at the doors of the vault, his hands moving in gestures of encouragement, his head tilted critically, his eyes studying every move, organising and controlling the operation like a conductor with a symphony in full cry.
The holes were punched; Bendell and Canalli moved forward, tilted their test tubes. They streaked away from the vault, merged with the darkness. Peter stared tensely at the massive doors, watched streams of vapour curling langurously from the holes circling the combination.
He began to count. "Five! Four! Three! Two…"
He snapped his fingers. The vault doors buckled; a puff of smoke shot upward.
"I wish I could have got the sound," Angela said.
"There was very little," Peter said. "Just an innocent sort of thump, as a matter of fact."
The figures raced back to the vault doors. The younger Peter bent over the combination dial, his body a carving in competence. He twirled and fiddled; then with a silent cry of triumph, he pulled at the doors.
They swung open. The four men dashed into the vault.
Angela cried, "Bravo!"
The four men reappeared in what seemed a twinkling. They carried valises so stuffed with banknotes they couldn't be strapped shut: in their hands were more banknotes, thick wads of then, with satisfyingly long rows of zeros after the numerals.
Angela stretched sensuously. There was a dull, sluggish flush in her cheeks, a glaze of sweet agony in her eyes. "Mother of God, look at the money," she said. "Look at it, Francois. Look what miracles Peter can perform."
The four men filled the screen. They held packets of banknotes aloft, and their grins were wide and merry.
Peter inspected his image critically, but with an over-all sense of satisfaction; he stood behind Bendell and the Irishman, not hogging the limelight, so to speak, letting them have their share of the applause.
That was gracious of him, he thought, since all they did was hit their marks like well-schooled actors. Holding up the money in that fashion was a callow gesture, but on the other hand his smile was modest and his manner nearly apologetic, disclaiming, as it were, complete credit for the triumphant success of their venture. Francois turned off the projector and threw back the curtains. Peter blinked at the sunlight, re-orienting himself in time; he had been out of focus for a moment, drifting in a blur between past and present.
"What are you thinking of, Peter?"
She would never understand, Peter knew, so he only smiled and shook his head. Francois took a can of film from the projector and went into the bedroom. Peter was thinking fondly of his friends. They had come through, too; they were intact. Free to face whatever it pleased them to call the violet fields of peace. The Irishman in the North Counties mounting his devious, quixotic raids against the British. And Bendell, in Liege, with his flower shops, creating worlds of colour and fragrance to replace those which had been destroyed for him in the war.
Canalli enjoyed at last a young and loving wife, a villa ascreech with babies, and fishing boats with purple sails and holds full of sardines.
God bless them, he thought; they had all come through. There was a welling in his eyes and breast; he decided indulgently, and with some satisfaction, that he was just a sentimental ass, breaking goblets at the hearth to the memory of absent friends.
"Peter, I would hate to send that film to the police. I would hate to have to, I mean."
A wave of shock went through him. "Don't say things like that. Do you realise what would happen? In twenty-four hours Interpol would have its hand on the Irishman. On Bendell and Canalli."
"And on you, Peter."
"Well, yes. There's that, too, I suppose Francois came out of the bedroom, locked the door and dropped the key in his pocket. "I wouldn't get any ideas about taking it away from me," he said. "I am armed."
"Now let's get down to business," Angela said. "Unless you agree to help us, Peter, that film goes to the Interpol offices in Madrid. Tonight."
Peter studied the situation and its ramifications with care. Then he said thoughtfully, "My answer is still no. You're both frightened of something. I can smell it. I imagine the danger is quite real, and quite immediate, since you're planning something quite desperate to escape from it. But sending me to prison won't solve your problems, will it?"
"No, it won't."
"It would probably give you a certain vindictive satisfaction, but you'd still be in danger, wouldn't you?"
"That's right."
"Well then. I think I'll be on my way, Angela. If you point the finger at me, I shall point the finger at you. Then whoever you fear, or whatever you fear, will know pretty well where to find you."
"You see, Francois? I told you he was clever "And dangerous," Francois said, nodding gravely.
"There's one other thing," Angela said.
Peter noted with resignation the glitter of excitement in her eyes, the herringbone pattern of ski-tracks her fingernails were making on her creamy knee-caps. More aces, he thought wearily.
"Yes?"
"You'd have a hard job proving I was involved in the job at the Banco Commerciale. I was using a forged passport. Technically I never left Paris. But that's beside the point.
Listen carefully: If you refuse to help us, we can't make you. But if you refuse, we will have to go to the Irishman. Or to Canalli or Bendell."
"I wish you all the luck in the world," he said dryly. "They are competent mechanics. But without enough imagination among them to open a box of cracker-jacks."
"But they will try."
"No. They're not fools, Angela."
She smiled at him. "But they loved you, Peter, and were grateful to you. When I tell them what I intend to do with the film, they won't think of themselves, but only of you. They will do anything I ask, regardless of the risk, to keep you safe and free."
The case ace, he thought bitterly; for what she said was literally true. They were staunch, loyal friends; and to such stout-hearted atavisms, loyalty and friendship were not mere words, but joyous frenzies which charged their lives with meaning and excitement.
"They love you, Peter. They would die to save you."
"And you'd even use that?"
"Make no mistake about it, Peter. I most certainly will."
Francois said: "Your refusal may well sign death warrants for your old comrades."
"And you'll go to prison, in any case," Angela said. "For I won't let you off, Peter. I'll still send the film to the police."
Well, I didn't come through after all, Peter thought, with mild wonder.
There had been an interlude, a moment of grace, which he had confused with a terminal dispensation. Now he was trapped again, jailed by fears and loyalties. I've even lost the philosophic view, he thought gloomily, and somehow this was the unkindest cut of all. The most unkindest cut… "Isn't there any other alternative?" he asked Angela. "I could try to raise money for you. Or maybe we could straighten out your difficulties peacefully. Robbing banks is a damned drastic business, you know."
Angela and Francois smiled and shook their heads.
"Very well," Peter said, accepting the inevitable. "I'll do what you wish. However, let's get a few things straight. If the job is theoretically possible, I'D give it a try. If not, I won't. Is that clear?"
"You'll find a way," Angela said.
"All right. One other thing. I'm to be in complete charge. One doesn't rob banks by the democratic process. I will choose the means; the time; whatever outside assistance I feel is necessary. Agreed?"
"Yes, of course," Angela said. "That's precisely what we want you to do."
"One other thing," Peter said. "Now, in my presence, I want you to cover the latches on that reel of film with candle wax." He slipped off a signet ring and gave it to Angela. "Then seal it with this."
Angela smiled. "How trusting you are. But I understand."
When this was done, he said: "Now what is it you want me to steal?"
&nb
sp; Angela told him and Peter turned quite pale.
CHAPTER THREE
Antonio Gonzalez y'Najera, the policeman, accepted Peter's cheque with a gratified smile.
"You're most generous, Peter. Are you ill?"
"I beg your pardon!"
"Oh. Forgive me." Antonio laughed apologetically. "It was an unfortunate implication. Totally accidental. No. The glass of whisky at your elbow prompted my question. Are you coming down with a cold?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"I was sure of it. I couldn't imagine you drinking whisky this early in the day. You're pale, too."
"I didn't sleep well last night."
The policeman chuckled sympathetically and adjusted his plump frame to a more comfortable position in the chair beside Peter's desk. "It's going around the village. I had an ache in my back this morning. And a heaviness behind my forehead. You find that a whisky helps?"
"Oh, yes." Peter called for Mario. Whisky was provided for the policeman.
"Ah, it seems better already."
"Mario, leave the bottle."
The policeman's mood became expansive. "The procession of the Virgins at San Fermin will be a glorious sight. Think of it. Centuries of precious stones and metals to blind the eyes of tourists. Are you going up to Pamplona for the fiesta?"
"Well, I'm not sure. Another touch?"
"If you'll join me. I think it's helping." He looked judicious. "Yes, definitely. Thank you. But you must go to Pamplona."
"If I must, I must," Peter said sighing.
"You'd better have another drink. You sound hollow. You need a holiday. I promise you this: the treasures that will adorn the Virgins of Spain at Pamplona have no equals anywhere in the world. Think of it! Precious stones and metals which haven't been displayed in public for centuries. The Contessa of Altamira's Net and Trident of diamonds, for instance. Locked away in Seville since the time of Philip the Second. And just think! The Silver Slippers of Saint Peter will grace the feet of the Virgin of Cordoba. The Duke of Bourbon-Parma is lending the Ropes of Pearls to the Virgin from Granada. And the Blue Tears of Santa Eulalia. The Lacrimi Christi will sparkle at the breast of Madrid's Virgin. The Golden Oars have been promised by the House of Navarre. Barcelona is sending the Evening Stars and the Golden Bulls of the Popes of Avignon. Just a bit more, Peter. No. seriously. Only a drop. Then there will be the Diamond Flutes of Carlos…"
Dear God, Peter thought; the splendour of the images evoked by the policeman made him dizzy. His soul swooned as he heard in fancy the lids of all the treasure chests in Spain slowly creaking open; as he saw through the cobwebs of time the shimmering glories of a nation's art and faith and history. The bullion of the conquistadors; the jewels of mighty monarchs; the masterworks of artisans down the centuries all of it collected in one place at one time, all of it glowing and blazing from the statues of the Virgins at Pamplona.
The policeman was chanting on like a herald at a ball. "Isabella's coronet of diamonds; Ferdinand's Sighs of Barbara; the Marques de Santander's ruby and emerald Crown of Thorns; the platinum spark plugs from Hispano-Suiza; the-"
"What!"
"The platinum spark plugs? Oh yes. Industry is participating, too. But they lack the baubles the old families collected over the years. So they're contributing in kind, you might say. Platinum spark plugs from Hispano-Suiza. Gold wine goblets with precious gems from the Fundador brandy people."
This seemed to remind him of something; he looked in mild wonder at his empty glass. Peter filled it.
"Oh, thank you." The policeman sighed and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. "I find it all very confusing, Peter." He sipped his drink. "Once there was a nice division of activity between the north and south of Spain. We sold the tourists -as it were gypsies, bandits, romance, tall tales." He laughed softly. "Ah, yes… maidens fleeing from storm devils. Their little nipples pinched by the hot figures of ogres riding the west wind. It went over nicely with tourists. The north, on the other hand, sold good plumbing, comfortable hotels, and shops full of handbags and brass candlesticks. And that went over nicely too. But now the north wants to borrow our poverty and mix it up with their coal mines and real estate."
Peter's head was beginning to ache.
"Peter, let me give you a recipe for a tourist boom. Only one thing is necessary. Comfortable seats from which visitors may examine the edifying old virtues of hunger and poverty. That is the only reason the administration of Pamplona has invited our little peasant Virgin to the Fiesta. Amidst the splendour of the grand Virgins, poor little Santa Maria with her cracked eyeball and broken fingers will provide the touch of poverty which is essential to the contentment of tourists. They must have someone to pity; someone to patronise. That is all we are providing. I ache with the shame of it, Peter."
The maids had been sniffling about the same thing this morning, Peter recalled; Santa Maria had nothing to wear to the ball. Only seed pearls and tarnished bracelets.
Peter's phone rang. It was Grace.
"You didn't come by last night, Peter. Are you sulking?"
"No, of course not."
"Not about my children? Or the other thing?"
"No."
"Then why did you stand me up?"
"I had a cold. I went to bed."
"How very prudent of you!"
The phone clicked in his ear.
The policeman had not stopped talking. "Of course they won't admit it. They discussed the security regulations with me quite gravely. Just as if our poor Virgin owned anything worth stealing." He laughed and poured himself Scotch. "This might interest you, Peter. All the treasures will be kept in one bank. And that bank was chosen by lot. Interesting? Guess what bank they chose?"
"Antonio, I don't think you should tell me."
The policeman looked blank. "Why not?"
"Obviously it's a matter of security."
"Ha, ha. You don't want to be tempted, eh?" The policeman laughed heartily; Peter's headache grew worse. "No, I trust you, Peter. The treasures will be kept in the vaults of the Banco de Bilbao. In all seriousness, that is a secret. But it doesn't matter. There is no point to robbing banks in Spain."
"You're quite sure of that?"
"Oh, yes. Remember when those Greeks stole the money from the Banco de Navarre? The Guardia Civil apprehended them on the road to Algeciras. They formed a semi-circle about the car, machine-gunned the occupants to death. Fortunately, they were indeed the culprits. Examples of that sort, plus the fact that the garrotte is used in capital crimes, encourages criminals to take a prudent view of things. They can rob and steal with great confidence in other countries. But they stay out of Spain. Look at Aristide Broualt, for example. One of the most formidable thieves to ever operate in Europe. Correct?"
"Well, I suppose so. But there was something vulgar about him, I felt."
"Notifying the police in advance, that sort of thing? Well, perhaps you're right. But he was enormously clever. And yet, he never tried his tricks in Spain. Nor did the one the papers dubbed the Ace of Diamonds."
"Frankly, Antonio, as a policeman, didn't you find him rather tiresome? Take that playing card and stiletto he always left at the scene of the crime. With gryphons drawn on it! Trademarks are childish, to start with. But theatrical ones are downright embarrassing."
"Yes, I agree. But the custom is an ancient one. Perhaps he was an old man. But young or old, he kept out of Spain. And so did Christopher Page, the Englishman. They were wise, Peter. Jimmy Fingers, Karl Maganer, and the one they called the Count of Soho they were supreme in their line of work, but they all stayed out of Spain."
"Supreme? That's an interesting point. Would you say, for instance, they were more accomplished than the American, Stuart Carmichael?"
"Oh, definitely, Peter. Definitely."
"Then how about the Black Dove?"
"The Black Dove?" The policeman frowned and shook his head slowly.
"The Black Dove? I don't recall that one. Was he a man or a woman?"
"You must remember, Antonio. Think, for heaven's sake."
"I have just a vague memory."
"The Banco Commerciale in Lisbon. The Credit Lyonnais in Paris. The Nationale in Rome. To name only a few."
"Oh, yes, yes," Antonio said. "I remember now."
"I should rather think you would."
"Yes, the Black Dove. A clever one. But again, Peter, he never set foot in Spain. But this is idle talk. No intelligent person would bother stealing the jewels from the Virgins."
"Why do you say "bother"?"
"Because they are priceless; therefore worthless."
That was neatly put, Peter thought with a touch of envy. He might have used it in his journal. Things beyond value have no value. Or something like that. But the policeman's was better. The jewels were priceless; therefore worthless. He wondered if Angela had considered that.
Antonio stood with care. "I must be going." He looked through his pockets. "By the way, I found your parking summons. Lucky thing, eh?"
"Oh, yes."
"Peter, you're pale. You don't look well. I'd have a drink, if I were you."
***
He went fluidly through the door. Peter sighed and put his fingertips to his temples. Then he frowned faintly, and considered the policeman's last words. At last he began to smile. Relief flooded through him, sluicing away his headache. Scooping up the phone he dialled the Pez Espada. "Angela? I've got to see you and Francois. Immediately."
"Is anything wrong?"
"I've got ghastly news."
He hung up on a hiss of angry questions. Smiling thoughtfully, Peter strolled to the bar and told Mario he wanted a whisky. Reconsidering, he said, "Better make it a double."
On the terrace of Peter's bar, Mr. Shahari was explaining the rate to an American named Morgan and an Englishman named Quince, while under their table a mongrel dog fed on peanuts and the husks of shrimp.
"Yes, the rate of exchange is sixty-seven in Tangier, Mr. Morgan. You've got it quite right. It is sixty-nine in Fez, as a matter of fact. And in Dakar it is even higher. But unfortunately, here on the southern coast of Spain it is only fifty-eight."
The Caper of the Golden Bulls Page 3