Rocco produced a transparent, waterproof bag from his pocket, slid it open and extracted a smartphone. With two finger swipes he switched on its flashlight app. Ruby could now see that the cave was about thirty feet wide and sufficiently high that if any stalactites came loose it would hurt. The air was stale and damp. Rocco’s beam of torchlight swung carefully, lighting everything apart from one wall. Shadows danced eerily. He turned off the app and they were engulfed in pure darkness.
‘Imagine, Ruby. Sense this place. Feel its history.’
‘Get on with it. I don’t trust you without the light on.’
‘The year is 1937,’ said Rocco.
‘No it isn’t.’
He sighed.
‘Imagine it is 1937. Catalonia is in turmoil. The civil war is raging all around. Salvador Dalí is at the peak of his fame. He has travelled and worked throughout Europe and America, and he wants to come home to his beloved Catalonia. But he is terrified for his life. He knows of the tragic fate that befell Lorca in the hands of the revolutionaries and he daren’t show his face. He feels the urge to paint a great work close to home, but he knows it can never be publicly acknowledged. So he comes here. To this cave.’
‘Are you saying you’ve found a painting Dalí left behind in a cave?’ she asked, not knowing if she was facing her invisible companion.
‘Sense his presence, Ruby. His slim body sliding through the fissure in the rock face, into a cave that only he knew about. Picture him with his paints, projecting his dreams onto the wall so that the image would remain here long after his life was over. You can feel him standing here, can you not?’
‘There’s no mention that Dalí did cave paintings in any of the books about him. This must be a fake.’
‘No one knew, therefore no one wrote about it. That doesn’t make it impossible,’ replied Rocco.
‘So how come you’ve found something that no one knew about?’
‘I’m sure you’re aware of the legends of portals in the Pyrenees,’ Rocco began.
‘Only in the sense that Dalí had a fascination with the idea and depicted portals in many of his paintings,’ she replied. ‘Are we going to stand here in the dark all day or are you going to show me this thing?’
‘Some think that caves might be the entrances to such portals. Dalí also wrote about a sacred cave that he had found, and most people believe it to be the Devil’s Cave, which is just a kilometre or two from here. But I studied his paintings of the era. I compared the shapes of objects and clouds with the coastline of this area. The clue was there for all to see. It’s just that I was the first to see it.’
‘So just turn on the bloody torch and let me see this painting,’ groaned Ruby, attempting to cloak her childlike enthusiasm.
‘Are you ready for this?’ asked Rocco.
‘If course I am. Get on with it.’
Rocco fiddled with his smartphone and produced a beam of light which illuminated their feet. He teased Ruby’s eager eyes by shining it back and forth without actually showing her the wall. Finally, he relented and pointed the light directly at the spot that Dalí had worked on decades before.
The wall of the cave was blank.
‘Where is it?’ she asked.
‘What? Shit! What happened? It was here!’
He shone his light around the rest of the chamber in the vain hope that he had lost his bearings and was looking in the wrong place. There was nothing.
‘Really, Rocco, you’ve gone too far this time. I’m fed up with your stupid practical jokes. I could have been killed climbing down that cliff face. Once I’ve dropped you back at Figueres I never want to see you again.’
‘No,’ he protested, ‘it was here. I saw a genuine Dalí right on this wall. I can’t believe those maniacs destroyed it.’
He sounded earnest. He believed his little story, even if she thought it ridiculous.
‘And what did this fictional painting depict?’ she asked him.
It took him a few moments to compose himself before he could answer coherently.
‘It incorporated many of the themes that appear in his works from that period,’ he explained. ‘There was a door representing a portal in the sky above the mountains, which you see in lots of his pictures. There was a crutch, a loaf of bread, some dismembered bits and pieces of I don’t know what. Wait. What am I thinking? Look on my phone. I have the photos I took last time.’
He fumbled with the screen and produced a slightly blurry image of a painting that covered almost the entire wall of the cave. Its themes were surreal. Mind-bending.
‘It is his style I suppose,’ she said.
He flicked through a series of shots of the same picture, a mixture of close-ups and varying angles that resulted from his attempts to avoid a reflective glare from the flash.
‘Interesting,’ said Ruby.
‘I accept your apology.’
‘What apology?’
‘Very gracious of you.’
‘But Rocco, tell me why you think it dated from the Thirties? After all, you could have done this,’ she said. ‘Anyone could have come here and painted something in the Dalí style.’
He turned the flashlight app back on and searched around the floor of the cave.
‘Ahah,’ he said, bending down to pick up a small tin box from the floor. It was heavily calcified by its decades-long exposure to water rich in minerals. Ruby failed to recognise it as anything in particular. ‘I found this, and several others. These boxes contained his paints. I have opened one. They are packaged in a way that was discontinued in 1940. And that correlates to the date Dalí has put in the bottom corner of the painting.’ He switched from the flashlight to the photo of the painting and zoomed in on the appropriate part. ‘Thirty-seven. See?’
Ruby had to admit that it resembled Dalí’s hand, and the photographs appeared to show a tinge of age and patchy calcification over the painting that meant it could not have been created in recent times. The idea that this had been a genuine, lost Dalí masterpiece started to plant itself in her sceptical mind.
‘If you’re right about this, Rocco, it would have been worth millions.’
‘Millions? Absolutely. But no one could have taken it away in one piece.’
‘They got a Banksy off a wall,’ pointed out Ruby. ‘It can be done.’
Rocco aimed the light at the base of the vandalised wall. He picked up some pieces of rubble and turned them around in his hand.
‘Look. Paint. It’s all still here. They smashed it but they didn’t steal it.’
‘Perhaps it can be put back? I’ve restored Roman murals that were in smaller pieces than this. We’ll have to get this place officially protected.’
She had no need to question the reason for Rocco’s sudden laughter. His distrust for authority was blatant in his expression.
‘Who else knows about it, then?’ asked Ruby.
‘Obviously, someone with an interest in Dalí is aware of this place. And I’m fairly sure it’s the same person who wants me dead.’
‘You think someone connected with Dalí is after you?’
‘It’s not just me,’ he replied. ‘Other chrononauts had brake failures too. All of us associated with Project Keo have been targeted. While we were all looking up at the sky, someone was under our cars sabotaging them.’
Ruby recalled the Spanish car she had seen making a rapid exit from the car park at Périllos. That could have been the culprit. She was glad to have used trains and taxis that day.
‘But the chrononaut message in the sky thing was over the border in France,’ she said. ‘It had nothing to do with Dalí.’
‘It’s Project Keo that’s the problem. I know too much.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ she mumbled.
‘Seriously. I think someone from the future is trying to change their past by eradicating me and the other chrononauts.’
Now it was Ruby’s turn to laugh.
‘I don’t see why your knowledge of Keo is a problem to
anyone,’ said Ruby. ‘The Keo satellite hasn’t launched. The time capsule is still on the ground somewhere. What’s the big deal about Keo?’
Rocco said nothing. He drew a deep breath for dramatic effect, then produced one of the photographs on his phone once again. He slid his fingers to magnify the part of the painting that featured an open door in the sky, signifying a portal to another dimension. It was a glass door, and there was writing depicted on its far side, readable in reverse.
‘O. E. K,’ said Ruby.
‘Keo,’ said Rocco. ‘Don’t you see? Keo worked. The time capsule will be received in the future. A message will be sent back in time.’
‘You mean like the one you were looking for at Périllos?’
‘Exactly. Only it came too soon. Maybe they had a reason to send it too early? Who knows? But what I know is this: a message was sent. And the person who received it is the same person who painted the picture in this cave.’
‘So, when the chrononauts chose Opoul castle at Périllos as the site for the receipt of the message, they based their choice on a clue in Dalí’s painting of the station at Perpignan, not realising that he had created that painting precisely because he had already seen the message they were looking for?’
‘You are correct, Ruby.’
‘So what do you think the message said?’ she asked.
‘If I can figure that out, perhaps I can find out why they want to kill me. And you.’
***
Charlie yawned. The reclining chair was too comfortable, accommodating his bulk with ease. As a form of imprisonment and torture, Charlie reckoned he could do worse. At times during the hours he had spent alone in this plain, subterranean room he had drifted off, dreaming of the busy museum above his head, then waking up and wondering why the old man was keeping him locked up for so long.
When the old man finally unlocked the door and entered the room, he appeared to have lost none of his earlier irritability.
‘You’re a busy guy,’ said Charlie, standing up, ‘so I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for the chance to use this chair and stuff.’
‘I have a proposal for you,’ the old man said, pulling a digital camera from his pocket. ‘Sit down.’
Charlie sat back down in the chair. He didn’t know what the old man meant by a proposal, but it sounded like it might involve work. This could be bad.
‘You are in a great deal of trouble,’ stated the old man, his unique accent laden with gravitas. ‘But if you will do something for us, we will not prosecute you and we will not inform the authorities in London and New York that we have you in our custody.’ As he spoke, he fiddled with the controls on the tiny camera, seemingly unfamiliar with its workings. When he eventually mastered it, he took a close-up snap of Charlie’s face, and then returned the camera to his pocket.
Charlie’s fears were confirmed. There was going to be work involved.
‘I’m kinda booked up,’ said the American, ‘but I could probably fit you guys in next year sometime.’
‘You will immediately embark on this task. Our museum has a fine collection, in spite of the efforts of crooks such as yourself. But there is a piece missing. A classic Dalí painting. It was stolen from us many years ago. We have tracked it down. It is not far from here. You will steal it back for us.’
‘Can’t you guys just ask them nicely to give it back?’
‘The keeper of this painting is not someone to whom it would be appropriate to make such a request.’
‘What is he? Gangster dude? Godfather?’
‘I cannot tell you anything about the person from whom you will retrieve our property.’
‘What about sending the cops to get it?’
The old man seemed to shudder.
‘Police know nothing about art. We need a professional.’
‘And he’s coming with me, is he?’
‘Who?’
‘The professional dude.’
The old man failed to betray even a glimmer of a smile. This obese American art thief had a relentless sense of humour, and humour was something that the old man had never been able to comprehend. The earlier comment about eating a Dalí portrait, he now understood, was something known as a ‘tongue-in-cheek’ remark, but why anyone would make such a remark remained a mystery to him.
He didn’t trust Charlie, but that didn’t matter. The mission was not important in itself. The artwork Charlie was going to steal for him wasn’t even genuine and the person from whom he would steal it wouldn’t even object. For the painting in question hung on his own wall, in his own home. He just wanted to know if this brazen thief would obey his instructions. If not, he was no great loss. The police would deal with him in their own way, probably deport him back to the United States or to London to face prosecution for the recent thefts of Dalí paintings. But, if he returned with the painting, he would be instructed on the true mission.
He handed Charlie an address and a postcard-sized print of the painting. There was a bed and a chair in the foreground, with depressions in the mattress and cushions suggesting the presence of invisible people. Adjacent to these items was a pedestal upon which sat a sparkling ruby.
‘This it?’
‘This is the portrait. Surrealist Composition with Invisible Figures.’
‘Can’t be worth much.’
‘Why would you make such an observation?’
‘Tiny.’
The old man again failed to smile. His inability to relate to the sense of humour of his new recruit caused an icy moment.
‘You must cause no visible damage to the property or to the painting, which, I’m sure I do not need to point out, measures a metre in height with the frame.’
‘No damage, huh?’
‘None whatsoever. I want you to show me how professional you can be. The property is secured with five lever locking systems and a remote-monitored Yale alarm system, with movement sensors in every room and a magnetic sensor behind the painting.’
‘Magnetic sensor, huh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting.’ Charlie knew nothing about magnetic sensors.
‘You know how to deal with this challenge?’
‘Piece of cake.’
***
Ratty pressed his nose against an opaque pane. The window rattled loosely on its sashes and the glass misted up. Through the condensation he could see two sofas, a coffee table and a bookcase. Bull’s-eye. He stepped aside, crushing a chrysanthemum, and let the Patient stand next to him in the damp shrubbery.
‘That’s her book collection,’ he said.
‘How can an individual nurture their mind on such a meagre library?’ asked the Patient.
‘Precisely,’ replied Ratty. ‘Her attitude to the male sex may indeed indicate a paucity of learning. Greer has a great deal to answer for. Anyway, she’s out. Come on.’
He led his friend to the rear of the cottage. They were dressed in the nearest Ratty could find to an all-black costume appropriate for housebreaking and burglary: dinner suits minus the bow ties. The Patient carried an old chisel with a wooden handle, and Ratty held a hammer in his hand. Constable Stuart, had he cycled past them on his daily beat, would have had trouble believing their pre-prepared excuse of doing a favour for a neighbour with a sticky door, thought Ratty. It was a risk he was comfortable taking. Retrieving his mother’s copy of The Female Eunuch would give him the final letter in the series of clues she had left for him before her disappearance. He took the chisel, held it against the edge of the door, and whacked it with the hammer. When it was jammed in the gap between the frame and the lock mechanism he pushed it from side to side until the catch popped open. He pulled the door, nodded at the Patient, and the two men compounded their criminal damage with trespass by entering the home of their victim.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ whispered Ratty. ‘Finger dabs and wotnot.’
The Patient had already run his fingers along the textured wallpaper. Ratty turned round and saw him feeling the col
d, steel bumps on the radiator. He shook his head and entered the living room. There was the bookcase. He scanned its resident tomes, cringing at some of the overtly intellectual and female-centric titles. And there, on the second shelf down, was the book he had come for.
‘Did you bring something to replace it?’
The Patient nodded and produced a hardback book from inside his dinner jacket. Ratty swapped the books, noting with amusement that the Patient had selected a collection of the invectives of Jeremy Clarkson to exchange for The Female Eunuch. The theft would be mitigated by leaving a replacement volume, and that eased Ratty’s conscience as he gripped his mother’s book and led the Patient back to the rear door of the cottage.
He was feeling so satisfied with the execution of Operation Book that he barely noticed Constable Stuart standing in the garden, surveying the damage to the door frame. Ratty recognised the policeman and ducked behind the kitchen table before he had been spotted. The Patient, however, walked out the door and introduced himself.
‘Pleased to meet you. I am a friend of Lord Ballashiels.’
‘Justin? Is that you in there?’
Ratty stretched to his full height, but couldn’t lift his shamed head. He had been caught in the act. This was going to take some explaining. The officer had seen it all during his long career, and his path had crossed with Ratty’s on many occasions, not all of them social. Most recently he had been involved in the repossession of Ratty’s stately home following years of declining wealth and accumulating debt, and decades previously he had been there during the sad months when the whole village had searched for Ratty’s mother. He appeared to have a soft spot for the aristocrat, and had expressed pleasure upon learning that a benefactor had bought the manor and returned it to its rightful owner.
‘Obviously, I have an excellent explanation for my behaviour, constable,’ said Ratty.
‘Obviously.’
‘And I intend fully to provide you with that explanation. No questions will remain unanswered, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I understand that anything I say may be taken down and wotnot.’
The Dali Diaries (The Ballashiels Mysteries Book 2) Page 7