After a moment, the door was swung back, and Ross faced a huge man. He wore a butler’s uniform, tails with a starched white collar. He was not terribly tall—perhaps six-two—but his shoulders were massive, blocking the doorway, and his body was stocky and powerful.
“Good evening,” the man said, touching his neck. The voice had a rasping, mechanical quality. Ross looked and saw the black voice box.
“Good evening, Joaquim,” Angela said. “We are here to see the count.”
“Yes, Madame,” Joaquim said, touching his voice box again. “He is expecting you.”
With a flourish, Joaquim turned and led them inside. He moved gracefully for such a big man, Ross thought. But he had some peculiar, hook-shaped scars on his hands, very deep. Several, all over his hands. He was wondering how he had hurt his neck when Angela whispered, “Knife fight. Two years ago.”
“I see.”
“The blade went straight through. They didn’t think he would live. The count paid for all the operations.”
Ross nodded.
“Joaquim is the count’s most trusted servant.”
“This way, please,” Joaquim said. The voice grated, crackling, rebounding off the cold stone walls. Ross looked around the inside of the castle. The rooms and halls were cavernous and chilly, decorated with medieval armor, weapons, and tapestries. He felt as if he had stepped into another century, another era.
There was no electric lighting in this section of the castle; smoking torches burned from high brackets near the ceiling, and Joaquim, walking ahead of them, cast a long shadow. They followed him down endless passages, cold, slightly damp, and depressing, until at last they came to a long open room. It had once been a banquet hall; the ceiling was high and elaborately carved and inlaid with gold. However, there was no long table. Instead, there were hard wooden chairs and benches, and rushes on the stone floor.
At the far end, barely visible in the flickering yellow torchlight, was a heavy, ancient desk. Behind it, in a dark chair, sat a man, writing. He looked up as they entered.
“Your visitors, sir,” said Joaquim.
The man smiled. He had a full beard and close-cropped dark hair. He wore a blue blazer and a wine-red sweater underneath. His face was oddly childish.
“Good, good.”
When he spoke, his voice was high and squeaky, like the voice of a young girl.
Angela and Ross moved forward, down the long hall. Their footsteps were muffled by the rushes. In a corner, a large Doberman pinscher growled, but the count waved his hand irritably, and the dog subsided.
Ross approached, and Angela said, “The Count of Navarre. Dr. Ross.”
“I am glad,” the count said, stroking his beard, “to meet you at last.”
And then he stood, and Ross saw: the Count of Navarre was a dwarf.
“A shock, I suppose,” the count said, coming around the desk and walking up to Ross. He held his hand up to shake, and Ross bent slightly to take it. “It always is a shock,” the count said. “Uncomfortable, but there it is.”
He turned to Angela, who bent over so she could be kissed on both cheeks.
“How are you, my dear?”
“Fine, just fine.” She smiled.
“Good. And you brought the good doctor. There was no trouble with the police?”
“No,” Ross said. “Thanks for getting me out.”
The count shrugged. “My pleasure. How do you like the castle?”
Ross found it cold and gloomy and depressing, but he said, “Very interesting.”
“I have tried to preserve it,” the count said, “as best I could. I feel a strong link to my ancestors and wish to maintain the surroundings. Even my … stature. Small people have always been associated with the Spanish court. You have seen ‘Los Niños’?”
“Yes,” Ross lied.
“Ah, well, then you know. But come: the house is not all rushes and torches.”
The count led the way out of the room. Near the fireplace, the Doberman roused himself and growled again.
“Quiet, Franco,” said the count
The dog was silent.
“An amusing name for a dog, do you think? And so well trained.”
He led them down another corridor, past a door, and suddenly they were in a large, very modern room. The walls were whitewashed, the furniture Scandinavian, the lighting electric. Everything was built low; Ross noticed that the legs on the couches and chairs had been cut to lower them.
“Please sit down,” the count said, dropping into a chair. He clapped his hands, and Joaquim appeared. “What will you drink?”
“Scotch,” Ross said.
Angela nodded.
“Two double Scotches,” the count said, “and a brandy with soda for me.”
“Of course, sir,” Joaquim rasped, and left.
“I keep a part of the castle modern,” the count said, waving to the room. “In a sense, you could say I live in two worlds. But that is the fate of all nobility. We are outmoded, living relics. Our very names are fossils. Doctor, will you be my guest for the next few days?”
Ross shrugged.
“I think you will enjoy it,” the count said. “And I intend you no harm.”
“I think you ought to know,” Ross said, “that within forty-eight hours, I will be declared persona non grata in Spain.”
The count laughed delightedly. “PNGed, as they say in diplomatic circles. Wonderful.”
He looked at Angela: “You’re very quiet, my dear.”
“I’m tired.”
“We’ve had a little argument,” Ross said.
The count laughed, a high, squeaking child’s laugh. “An argument with Angela? How absurd.”
“I realized she knew what was going on.”
“Oh,” the count said, “Angela knows nothing. In fact, she knows less than you.”
“Impossible,” Ross said. “Nobody knows less than me.”
The count laughed again. “I see you have a sense of humor.”
“I’m learning to lose it.”
“No doubt, no doubt. This must have been a very trying experience for you. But it will all be explained shortly.”
“That’s good.”
“I can see you don’t believe me. That is your prerogative. But you have mistreated a very fine girl and you should apologize.”
The drinks came.
“Later,” Ross said.
The count turned to Angela. “Is he always so hostile?”
“No,” she said.
“Let’s say I’m confused,” Ross said.
“All in good time,” the count said. He raised his glass. “Salud.”
“Salud.”
Ross sniffed his drink. “I suppose this is poisoned,” he said.
“I suppose,” the count said, nodding. And then he laughed. “You Americans,” he said. “So morbid.”
He sipped his drink, smacked his lips, and said, “Well now. You’re undoubtedly hungry. Dinner will be served in twenty minutes. In the meantime, would you care to see my collection?”
“Why not?” Ross said, wondering what kind of collection it was.
“Good,” the count said. “Come along.”
On the way, he showed them their quarters. Two rooms along a long corridor. Each was stunning in its simplicity and its blending of Spanish antiques with modern furniture. Then he led them into the largest bathroom Ross had ever seen.
It was the size of a large living room, and it adjoined the count’s own bedroom, also large. The bathroom was done in Perugina marble, white with veins of gold. The tub was eight feet long and sunken, the sink and mirror were equally large, but the majority of the room was given over to shelves. Along the shelves were bottles of all shapes and sizes, colors and descriptions. Ross looked: it was like a library of bottles, like an old apothecary shop.
“What are they?”
“Aftershave lotions,” the count said gravely, “and cologne. You are looking at the finest collection of cologne in the w
orld. Five hundred and forty-seven different varieties, at last count, though I now have the Givenchy line, which increases the number somewhat. Look here.”
He removed a bottle.
“This was made up specially, from an old formula. It is an exact duplicate of the cologne that Cortez was known to have favored. Smell it.”
Ross bent over and sniffed the opened bottle. It smelled like furniture polish.
“Not very elegant, eh?” The count laughed. “No sophistication in those days, no ability to blend and meld the spices. What you smell is a very heavy lemon oil extract. It was in vogue, then. Try this.”
Another bottle was pushed under Ross’s nose.
“From the court of Henry VIII. Wintergreen and cinnamon, essentially. Unusual, but interesting. Of course, Henry used it because he thought it was an aphrodisiac. Poor man. He needed one.”
The bottle was replaced on the shelf, and a new one selected, a slim green flask with a ground glass stopper.
“Now this,” said the count, opening it with a flourish, “is a great rarity. It was used during the time of the Medicis, in Florence. An alcohol solution of cantharis vesicatoria, with oil of wintergreen and crushed orchids to give the proper odor. The basic ingredient, of course, is derived from the dried bodies of Spanish flies.”
“I see.”
“Russian flies, too, for that matter. Popularly regarded as an aphrodisiac. Absorbed through the skin, you see, but only useful if applied topically to the appropriate areas. The nether regions, as it were.”
He waved the bottle under Ross and put it back.
“The collection goes on. Most of them have been made specially for me. There is, for instance, a selection from Abdul of Cairo—do you know him?—the marvelous magician of scents in that part of the world. Very subtle, indeed. And, too, I have all the standard commercial varieties.”
“Fascinating,” Ross said.
“A hobby. A mere hobby. But it passes the time. Naturally, I also have a collection of gems, prized stones which have been in the family for centuries. That is, of course, the heart of the matter.”
“Of course.”
“I can explain further,” the count said, “at dinner.” He reached for a bottle, a small, squat, purple jar with a cork stopper, opened it, and handed it to Angela.
“What is it?”
“A widely used item in Spain during the latter half of the sixteenth century. It was manufactured by the royal perfumers in Seville. Called ‘Remorse.’ It was used by leading ladies of the day. The story is that it will ensnare the heart of a loved one who seems to be drifting away.”
Angela took the bottle, and poured a few drops into her palm. Then, looking directly at Ross, she rubbed it behind her ears and over her neck.
“I don’t believe it,” Ross said.
The count smiled. “We must not always be so contemptuous of the past, Doctor,” he said. “We may have the advantages of modern science, but they had the benefit of experience.”
With a laugh, he led them to the dining room.
The count pushed his plate away and motioned to Joaquim for more wine. As the glasses were refilled, he said, “The story you wish to hear begins a long time ago. To start it, I must go back to my most famous ancestor.”
“Who is that?” Ross said.
“The count lifted his wineglass, holding it thoughtfully to the light. “Montezuma,” he said. He looked over at
Ross. “That surprises you? Montezuma had many children, and two—a son and a daughter—embraced Christianity. They came to Spain and founded noble houses here. That was more than four hundred and fifty years ago.”
Ross nodded.
“Montezuma,” the count said, in a low voice. “You must imagine him. A tall, thin man of forty, with a palace in the jungle so vast, so huge that the conquistadors became exhausted walking through it. No Spaniard ever saw it all. Montezuma had a thousand wives, of which two were lawful, and no one knew how many children he had. He had become king of Mexico at twenty-three and his power was absolute. It was said that he could change his sex from male to female if he wished. The rumors, the stories, the fables of his power were endless. And his treasure was vast.
“When he died at the age of forty-one of battle wounds, the looting of his treasure had already begun. According to a prior agreement, one-fifth of all booty was sent directly to Charles V, King of Spain. Cortez sent off two shiploads of booty with a letter dated Cojohuacan, May 15, 1522. That shipment was very important. Very important. It is a story told in bloodshed—bloodshed which continues to this very day.”
The count drank his wine in an impulsive gesture, as a child might He wiped his mouth delicately with a handkerchief and set the glass down.
“I deplore the bloodshed, naturally, though I recognize the historical parallels. The stakes are very great. You have heard of the Emerald of Cortez?”
“No,” Ross said.
“In the original accounts, it was said to be cut in the shape of a pyramid, and so large that the base was as broad as a man’s palm. This makes it one of the largest emeralds known to exist in the world. Cortez described the stone and sent it to Charles by ship. The ship touched at the Azores and then, en route to Spain, was captured by a French privateer. The stone was found and confiscated. Later, it became part of the crown jewels of Francis I, His Most Christian Majesty. Christian, but not above a little thievery. An honored religious custom.”
The count frowned and twisted his empty wineglass in his hand.
“What happened then?” Ross said.
“The jewel remained in France until the Revolution in 1789. Then it was lost and presumably destroyed. Historians have long felt that some petty merchant came into possession of the emerald and, not recognizing its historical value, broke it down to make a number of smaller gems.”
“I see.”
“However, there have always been rumors that the stone still existed intact. My family has followed those rumors faithfully for generations. At one time, it was thought to be in Copenhagen, and then to be lost in a fire. Fifty years later, it was reported in Vienna. My grandfather tracked it to Switzerland, but died in a rather mysterious rockslide before he could recover the gem. And there the story ended. Until last month.”
“What happened then?”
“Last month,” the count said, “I heard that a very large emerald in the shape of a pyramid had been stolen by a Neapolitan from a wealthy Greek living in Capri. The stone was sold on the black market to a Genoese merchant. I made the proper inquiries and found my efforts crowned with success.”
“You obtained the stone.”
“Yes. I hired a team of four rather disreputable gentlemen to manage transport. I took this precaution because I had heard that an eccentric in Paris was also attempting to obtain the stone.”
“The professor.”
“Yes,” he said. “The professor. You’ve been to see him, of course, and he has filled you with all sorts of nonsense, knowing that it would eventually get back to me. I’m not interested in any of it. You see, the professor and I have been playing a game of wits. He is immensely clever, if I say so myself.”
He smiled slightly.
“I heard that the professor was arranging purchase for a buyer in America.”
“Tex?”
“Heavens no,” the count said. “Tex is a cheap hood, his hired assassin. Was, that is.”
“He’s dead?”
“I assume so,” the count said carefully. “You see, Tex was all part of the professor’s plan to sidetrack me. And Carrini—that wasn’t his real name, of course—was part of my plan. Carrini was pretending to prepare the emerald for shipment to America; the autopsy was planned out in great detail. I knew that the professor would get word of this and that it would throw him off. He would naturally assume that Carrini, my hired agent, was double-crossing me.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“No indeed. He was following orders.”
“Why was he k
illed?”
The count sighed. “That was a sad mistake. When the body was stolen, I assumed that Carrini had done in fact what he was doing in pretense. I did not know then that it was all Hamid’s fault.”
“I’m getting confused,” Ross said.
“Understandable. You see, Hamid was the driver of the hearse. He was supposed to ‘steal’ the body and deliver it to me. But the professor had apparently anticipated my ruse and had bribed Hamid.”
“Then Hamid did not deliver the emerald to you?”
“No,” the count said, frowning. “As you know perfectly well.”
Ross shook his head. “I don’t know anything. This is all screwy as hell.”
“On the contrary. It is quite logical. A game of chess between the professor and myself.”
“I never was any good at chess.”
“You may learn quickly,” the count said, “under stress.” He turned to Angela and glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. Are you sure you were followed?”
“Yes,” she said. “Quite sure.”
Ross frowned. “We were followed?”
“All the way from Barcelona. Two black Peugeots.”
“Excellent,” the count said “Then obviously, they do not know.”
“Do not know what?” Ross said.
“Where Hamid finally decided to hide the body. You see, he was killed before he could tell them.”
“Who killed him?”
The count shrugged. “Difficult to say.”
“The police said it was done with a scalpel.”
When the count heard this, he laughed very hard. “A scalpel? Did they really? How frightfully amusing.”
Ross looked over at Angela. She was watching the count, watching his laugh. Her face was pale.
“The police,” the count said, “are not very intelligent. As a rule. But we digress from the crucial point.”
“Which is?”
“Which is that you talked with Hamid before he died. You, and you alone. I want to know what he told you.”
“He told me nothing.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“It’s the truth.”
The count sighed. “Perhaps. There are ways of telling. As you may know, the castle is equipped with an exemplary dungeon. All the finest equipment, from the fifteenth century. It was the time of the Inquisition, and the inventiveness was remarkable. We can discuss it in the morning.”
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