by Antony Trew
At last, pressing her hand where it rested on her lap, Black said, ‘You all right?’ And she whispered, ‘Yes,’ and returned the pressure.
The Land-Rover left the tarmac and set off up the valley, following the dirt road through the foothills and coming presently to the terraces where the night air was sweet with the scent of almond and lemon.
Although he had walked along the road at different times in recent weeks, mostly in darkness, Black found the snatched glimpses in the headlights strange and unfamiliar, shadows and movement camouflaging features he would otherwise have recognised.
They slowed down for the final S-bend and the headlights illuminated alternating sweeps of terrace as the car swung first right and then left. Tomaso changed down and they started up the last slope, ahead of them the wrought-iron gates shut across the drive.
As the Land-Rover approached, its occupants were dazzled by a beam of light. Tomaso slowed down and switched off the headlights. There was the staccato barking of dogs, and a man came forward from the gate.
It was Pedro. He and Tomaso exchanged greetings and he went back, opened the gates, and they drove into the grounds of Altomonte, drawing up at the flight of steps which led to the front door.
There the housekeeper greeted them, unsmiling and formal, but at least she inquired after Black’s ankle before taking them into the hall where a fire was burning.
‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘I will inform Señor van Biljon that you have arrived.’
After she’d gone Black said, ‘I should have thought the dogs had done that.’
‘I guess so,’ said Manuela.
He looked at his watch. It was ten to nine. Moments later van Biljon came into the hall, tall and straight in a black velvet smoking jacket, scarred features immobile, eyes shielded by dark glasses. Black stood up. The old man went over to Manuela, bent to take her hand and kissed it. Afterwards he turned to Black, bowing faintly and clicking his heels.
‘It is kind of you to come. I am delighted,’ he said. ‘Did Tomaso pick you up in good time?’
Black said, ‘Yes,’ and added, ‘We were pleased to see him. Didn’t have to identify ourselves.’
For a moment van Biljon seemed puzzled, then he said, ‘Ah you mean my letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had intended to order a car to pick you up. Then Techa, my housekeeper, informed me her husband would be shopping in Ibiza this afternoon. So I told him to do so. He will drive you back to town after dinner.’
‘That is very kind of you,’ said Manuela.
‘Not at all.’
A servant with a tray came from the archway on the far side of the hall. It was Juan.
‘Now,’ said van Biljon. ‘You will join me, I hope, in an apèritif.’
Chapter Nineteen
It pleased Manuela that van Biljon proved over dinner to be a charming host, for it confirmed the judgment she had made when they’d met at the airport. He was a good though restrained conversationalist, always producing openings for his guests, ever solicitous of their needs. He listened with interest to Manuela’s description of life in Puerto Rico, and to Black on the subject of contemporary art, to whom he explained courteously why he preferred the older school of painters. To Manuela his wide knowledge of the subject was impressive, yet he never sought to imply that it was in any way superior to theirs.
The French dishes, elegantly served and delicious, had been cooked by Techa, van Biljon told them. Manuela barely tasted the wines but she gathered Black was impressed. It was after he had remarked upon the excellence of the white Montrachet that van Biljon said, ‘The things that have given me most pleasure have come from France. Her wines, her cooking, above all her art.’ That led him on to the general statement that he had devoted much of his life to collecting the French Impressionists and post-Impressionists.
But Manuela noticed that he made no further reference to his pictures other than to say that they would see them after dinner when they could judge for themselves.
‘Are you pleased with your latest acquisition?’ she asked.
He hesitated for a moment. ‘Ah. You mean the picture I collected on Thursday. When we met in the harbour. Yes. I am delighted with it.’
‘What is it, Mr. van Biljon?’ said Black.
The old man held up a hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You shall see.’ He turned to Manuela, changing the subject. ‘Have you seen my motor-cruiser, the Nordwind?’
‘Oh, yes. A fabulous boat.’ She leant forward, clasping her hands together. ‘Once I watched her go to sea on a rough day. It was beautiful. She cut through the waves. Such clouds of spray.’
‘She is a fine boat,’ said van Biljon. ‘Built in England.’
‘But you give her a Dutch name.’
‘Yes. I am Dutch.’
She smiled apologetically. ‘Of course.’
‘There is another fine boat in the harbour. A recent arrival.’ Van Biljon looked down at his side plate as he broke a roll with his fingers. ‘The Snowgoose. A staysail schooner from the Piraeus. She has magnificent lines. I am too old for sail, but I must concede that it has something, a je ne sais quoi, that power-driven craft lack.’
They agreed with him and he went on: ‘The Snowgoose has a most interesting mission, I am told. Two young men have chartered her for six months. They are cruising round the Mediterranean gathering material for a yachtsman’s guide to the islands.’
‘Yes,’ said Manuela. ‘I have met them. Helmut and Francois.’
‘Really,’ said van Biljon. He turned to Black. ‘You know them?’ he asked casually.
‘Not really. I’ve bumped into them once or twice in bars. Haven’t really sorted them out. I gather Manuela likes them.’
‘Perhaps they are more attractive to young ladies.’
To Manuela it seemed that the Dutchman’s voice reflected an amusement which contradicted the impassivity of the scarred face.
‘And the Snowgoose?’ Again van Biljon addressed Black. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘Looks all right. I’m no judge really.’
The old man worked the pepper-grinder vigorously over the cheese soufflé. ‘I hear she has unusually powerful auxiliary engines.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Black. ‘Never been on board.’
Van Biljon turned to Manuela. ‘Do you approve of the soufflé, señorita?’
‘It’s fabulous,’ she said. ‘Delicious. Your housekeeper’s a super cook.’
‘She’s a remarkable woman,’ said van Biljon.
It seemed to Manuela that Black was unusually hesitant in replying to remarks addressed to him, and she had the feeling that his mind was not on what he was saying so much as on what he was thinking.
For the rest of the meal their host had to do most of the talking, telling them of life in South America and of the manner in which his family had left the Transvaal and settled in the Argentine as refugees after the Boer War.
‘To my parents it must have seemed a disaster of the first magnitude. To me it really meant nothing. I was born and brought up in South America.’ He looked up at them quickly. ‘You know it is my belief that all that happens in our lives is in the end for the best. It was in the Argentine that I made my fortune, and it was that which enabled me to collect my pictures and they …’ he paused, to finish the sentence in a low voice … ‘are my life.’
After dinner he took them to the drawing-room where Juan stood by a table with coffee and liqueurs.
While these were being handed round, van Biljon said, ‘Normally I have coffee and liqueurs in the gallery. But to-night Techa insisted they be served here.’ He chuckled. ‘She is a great believer in the conventions. It is very much to her sorrow that I do not entertain. When I told her I was going to have a dinner party to-night, she looked at me as if I had gone out of my mind. But she was happy. Ah, yes, I could see that.’
When Juan had gone, van Biljon brought up the subject of Ibiza and its growing flood of tourists. While he s
poke his eyes travelled round the room as if he were searching for something. Presently, he said, ‘Please excuse me. I must have left the cigars in my study. I shall not be a moment.’
When the old man had gone, Black went over to Manuela. She looked up inquiringly and he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘You’re worried about something, aren’t you?’
‘And you?’ she challenged. ‘Why are you so silent? You should be excited. You are to see the pictures.’
‘I know I am. Feel all dithery. But what’s on your mind?’
She shook her head.
‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said and then, as they heard the sound of footsteps on the landing, she whispered, ‘I’m afraid.’
Black went back to the other side of the room as their host came down the stairs.
‘Please follow me,’ said van Biljon, gesturing with the hand that held a cigar. He was standing before them, tall and elegant, the black velvet smoking-jacket emphasising the white hair which lent a curious distinction to the scarred face.
They followed him into the hall, through french windows and up stone steps to the patio where the long pool reflected the lights of the house and the bright scatter of stars. The tall figure moved ahead, skirting the pool, leading them along the white walls of the west wing on which the patio lights, shining through vine-covered pergolas, cast intricate shadows. The heady perfume of wistaria reminded Manuela of her childhood in Puerto Rico.
The line of windows on their left rose suddenly from eye level to high in the wall above them, and van Biljon stopped before a doorway. He unlocked the wrought-iron gate and swung it open. Beyond was a wooden door, massive and iron bound, and this, too, he unlocked. Touching a light switch, he went into the gallery, beckoning them to follow.
He shut the inner door, and led them across to the furnished recess at that end of the gallery which adjoined the house. Manuela saw many pictures on the walls and screens but since the lights which were on served only the entrance and recess, the greater part of the gallery was dimly lit.
She had a quick impression of leather armchairs and settees, of Persian carpets, walnut bookcases and cabinets, of glossy art journals, a mahogany desk, and a long, low hi-fi with a matching cabinet next to it. ‘How lovely,’ she said. ‘You have done this attractively.’
Van Biljon stood facing them, his eyes invisible behind the dark glasses, but when with quiet modesty he said, ‘I am glad you like it. I spend the happiest hours of my life here,’ she knew he was pleased with her remark.
He lifted the lid of the cabinet. ‘In a moment I shall show you my pictures, but first,’ he paused, the cigar clenched between his teeth as he ran his fingers down the index sheet, ‘but first music. Good music and good pictures. They go together. And now,’ he went on. ‘I look for something which is both Spain and France. Ah! Here it is.’
He straightened up and drew the record from its sleeve, slowly, almost reverently, while they wondered what he had chosen. He put it on the turntable and set the pick-up arm. With his back to them, he said, ‘Ravel. You will know it.’
As the opening chords of Rhapsodie Espagnole broke the silence in the great room, van Biljon went over to the screens, reached for a switch and the pictures in the gallery came to life with dramatic suddenness. He beckoned to them. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’
Wall by wall, screen by screen, he showed them the pictures, keeping to the order in which he always viewed them. At each picture he would explain the period in which it had been painted, the history and character of the artist, his changing techniques and the influences to which he had been subject at the time. Van Biljon’s excitement, his emotional involvement, communicated themselves to Manuela, and she felt a curious disquiet, a disturbing surfeit of emotion. It seemed to her that Black, too, might be experiencing the same thing, for she was aware of symptoms of stress: his constant throat clearing, the hands behind his back clenching and unclenching, the skin on his knuckles white where pressure forced the blood away. But he said little and she presumed he was dazzled by the scale and importance of what he was seeing.
Not once, she noticed, did the old man boast in any way about the collection; never did he say what he had paid for a picture, or what it might be worth, and Manuela found this modesty attractive, for she realised the collection was beyond any price she could imagine.
At the recess end of the third screen, van Biljon stopped before the picture of a water-mill at Argenton-sur-Creuse. ‘That Cézanne is the picture I most prize,’ he said. ‘And of the French Impressionists, he is the painter I most admire.’
Manuela was puzzling at his subdued hesitant tone, when things happened of which afterwards she had only a confused recollection: at one moment Black was standing in front of her, chin in hand, silent, considering the picture—the next, she heard the door of the gallery open, then shut, as she turned to see Pedro and Juan come in: at first she thought they were holding out their hands in some sort of greeting, but then she realised that the hands held automatic pistols, aimed at her, and she let out a stifled scream. At much the same time she saw Black lunge towards the end of the screen, and the lights in the gallery went out as he fell to the floor. But the lights in the nearby recess remained on and she saw Pedro jump forward and stand over Black, and van Biljon was shouting, ‘Hands up! Do not resist.’
Chapter Twenty
When he heard the gallery door open, Black swung round and saw the Spaniards. Instantly he lunged for the light switch, the position of which he’d so carefully marked. As he turned it he threw himself to the floor in anticipation of shots that never came, and at much the same time he heard van Biljon shout, ‘Hands up! Do not resist.’
It was not possible to comply with this request lying on the floor, so he sat up, feeling that it was all rather theatrical and unnecessary, and lifted his hands above his head He got to his feet as the main gallery lights went on again, to see that the Spaniards had ranged themselves on either side of him. Bad drill, he thought—if you have to shoot there’s a chance you’ll hit each other. Two or three feet ahead of him Manuela had her hands above her head, and in the sudden silence he could hear her breath coming in gasps.
Van Biljon moved towards him, stopping a few feet away, tall, sinister, the dark glasses concealing any emotion the eyes might have revealed. But he was breathing heavily and trembling, and Black, tense though he was, realised that he had the psychological advantage: he was calm, alert, and his mind was clear.
The tense silence was broken when van Biljon pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘You told me at dinner that you scarcely knew the men in the Snowgoose. That you had never been on board.’ The voice was hoarse, strangely subdued, and the pointing finger shook. ‘In that case perhaps you can explain what you were doing in the schooner in the early hours of Thursday.’
Black said nothing, simply because there was nothing to say. And because it was difficult to outstare the anonymous black lenses, he concentrated on van Biljon’s left ear, wondering how on earth the man knew that he’d been on board Snowgoose on Thursday. If that part of their security had blown, how much else?
The old man was off again.
‘So you’ve no answer?’ He took a step forward, thrusting his face close to Black’s. ‘You and your friends are playing with fire. You must not be surprised if you get burnt.’ The voice was rising, charged with emotion. Waiting for what might come next, Black thought of Manuela: what would she be making of all this? It was something he had half expected—if not quite in the form it had taken—but for her the shock must be immense.
As if she had read his thoughts, she swung round on him, frightened and confused. ‘What are you trying to do? You …’ Her indignation was too much for her. She turned to van Biljon in her distress, pointing at Black. ‘He lied to me, too. About Helmut and Francois. Pretended they were strangers. He never’, her voice faltered, and she began again. ‘He’s never said a word about go
ing on board Snowgoose.’
She switched to Black again. ‘Why did you tell me those lies? Why have you got me into this?’ Her face was ugly with frightened anger.
Black shrugged his shoulders. He knew what she was thinking: that he’d traded on her emotions, won her affection, used her. How right she is, he thought. And yet … but it was hardly the moment to explain that if he had used her, if he had landed her in this, at least it hadn’t all been an act: his affection for her couldn’t have been more genuine.
Van Biljon’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘That story does not impress anyone,’ he was saying to Manuela. ‘Keep your hands up.’
With relief, Black saw that she was doing what she was told. He expected tears, but they didn’t come. She was tougher than he’d thought.
Quietly, with resignation, he spoke to van Biljon. ‘Manuela is telling the truth. She has had nothing to do with …’ He hesitated, turning his head from side to side as if to indicate the gallery. ‘I told her I didn’t know them. I never let her know that I’d been on board Snowgoose. She’s absolutely blameless.’
Van Biljon trembled with disbelief, his voice hoarse and menacing. ‘You’re lying, Black. You and the girl are always together.’
‘I’m not lying,’ said Black.
‘Then if you’re not lying to me, why did you lie to her?’
‘Because I didn’t want her to get mixed up in my business.’