The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter

by Desmond Bagley

  The memory of that week remains with me as a dark and shadowed mystery punctuated by bright flashes of colour. We melted and poured gold for sixteen hours a day, until our arms were weary and our eyes sore from the flash of the furnaces. We dropped into our berths at night, asleep before we hit the pillows, and it would seem only a matter of minutes before we were called again to that damned assembly line I had devised.

  I grew to hate the sight and the feel of gold, and the smell too—it has a distinctive odour when molten—and I prayed for the time when we would be at sea again with nothing more than a gale and a lee shore to worry about. I would rather have been alone in a small boat in a West Indies hurricane than undergo another week of that torture.

  But the work got done. The mass of gold in the mould grew bigger and bigger and the pile of unmelted ingots became smaller. We were doing more than 250 melts a day and I calculated that we would gain half a day on my original ten-day schedule. A twelve-hour gain was not much, but it might mean the difference between victory and defeat.

  Metcalfe and Torloni were keeping oddly quiet. We were watched—or rather, the boatyard was watched—and that was all. In spite of the reinforcements that Torloni had pushed into Rapallo, and in spite of the fact that he was personally supervising operations himself, there were no overt moves against us.

  I couldn’t understand it.

  The only cheering aspect of the whole situation was Francesca. She cooked our food and did our housekeeping, received messages and issued instructions to the intelligence service and, although in the pace of work we had little time to be together, there was always something small like a hand’s touch or a smile across the room to renew my will to go on.

  Five days after I had seen Metcalfe she received a letter which she burned after reading it with a frown of pain on her brow. She came to me and said, ‘Eduardo is safe in Rome.’

  ‘Metcalfe kept his promise,’ I said.

  A brief smile touched her lips. ‘So will I.’ She grew serious. ‘You must see the doctor tomorrow.’

  ‘I haven’t time,’ I said impatiently.

  ‘You must make time,’ she insisted. ‘You will have to sail Sanford very soon; you must be fit.’

  She brought Coertze into the argument. He said, ‘She’s right. We don’t want to depend on Walker, do we?’

  That was another worry. Walker was deteriorating rapidly. He was moody and undependable, given to violent tempers and unpredictable fits of sulking. The gold was rotting him slowly but certainly, corrupting him far more surely than any alcohol.

  Coertze said, ‘Man, go to the doctor.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘It’s my fault you have a bad back, anyway. I could have shored up that passage better than I did. You go, and I’ll see the work doesn’t suffer.’

  That was the first time that Coertze admitted responsibility for anything, and I respected him for it. But he had no sympathy for my scraped knuckles, maintaining that a man should learn how to punch without damaging himself.

  So the next day Francesca drove me to see the doctor. After he had hissed and tutted and examined and rebandaged my back, he expressed satisfaction at my progress and said I must see him at the same time the following week. I said I would come, but I knew that by then we would be at sea on our way to Tangier.

  When we were again seated in the car Francesca said, ‘Now we go to the Hotel Levante.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back,’ I said.

  ‘A drink will do you good,’ she said. ‘A few minutes won’t hurt.’

  So we went to the Hotel Levante, wandered into the lounge and ordered drinks. Francesca toyed with her glass and then said hesitantly, ‘There’s something else—another reason why I brought you here. I want you to meet someone.’

  ‘Someone here? Who?’

  My father is upstairs. It is right that you see him.’

  This was unexpected. ‘Does he know about us?’

  She shook her head. ‘I told him about the gold and the jewels. He was very angry about that, and I don’t know what he is going to do. I did not tell him about you and me.’

  This looked as though it was going to be a difficult interview. It is not often that a prospective son-in-law has to admit that he is a gold smuggler before he asks for a hand in marriage—a hand that is already married to someone else, to make things worse.

  I said, ‘I would like very much to meet your father.’

  We finished our drinks and went up to the old man’s room. He was sitting in an armchair with a blanket across his knees and he looked up sharply when we appeared. He looked tired and old; his hair was white and his beard no longer bristled, as I had heard it described, but had turned wispy and soft. His eyes were those of a beaten man and had no fight in them.

  This is Mr Halloran,’ said Francesca.

  I walked across to him. ‘I’m very glad to meet you, sir.’

  Something sparked in his eyes. ‘Are you?’ he said, ignoring my outstretched hand. He leaned back in his chair. ‘So you are the thief who is stealing my country’s gold.’

  I felt my jaw tightening. I said evenly, ‘Apparently you do not know the laws of your own country, sir.’

  He raised shaggy white eyebrows. ‘Oh! Perhaps you can enlighten me, Mr Halloran.’

  ‘This treasure falls under the legal heading of abandoned property,’ I said. ‘According to Italian law, whoever first takes possession of it thereafter is the legal owner.’

  He mused over that. ‘I dare say you could be right; but, in that case, why all this secrecy?’

  I smiled. ‘A lot of money is involved. Already the vultures are gathering, even with the secrecy we have tried to keep.’

  His eyes snapped. ‘I don’t think your law is good, young man. This property was not abandoned; it was taken by force of arms from the Germans. It would make a pretty court case indeed.’

  ‘The whole value would go in legal expenses, even if we won,’ I said dryly.

  ‘You have made your point,’ he said. ‘But I don’t like it, and I don’t like my daughter being involved in it.’

  ‘Your daughter has been involved in worse things,’ I said tightly.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded sharply.

  ‘I mean Estrenoli.’

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair, the spark that had been in him burned out and he was once more a weary old man. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said tiredly. ‘That was a shameful thing. I ought to have forbidden it, but Francesca…’

  I had to do it,’ she said.

  ‘Well you won’t have to worry about him any more,’ I said. ‘He’ll stay away from you now.’

  The Count perked up. ‘What happened to him?’

  There was a ghost of a smile round Francesca’s mouth as she said, ‘Hal broke his jaw.’

  ‘You did? You did?’ The Count beckoned. ‘Come here, young man; sit close to me. You really hit Estrenoli? Why?’

  I didn’t like his manners.’

  He chuckled. ‘A lot of people don’t like Estrenoli manners, but no one has hit an Estrenoli before. Did you hurt him?’

  A friend tells me that I nearly killed him.’

  ‘Ah, a pity,’ said the Count ambiguously. ‘But you will have to be careful. He is a powerful man with powerful friends in the Government. You will have to leave Italy quickly.’

  ‘I will leave Italy, but not because of Estrenoli. I imagine he is a very frightened man now. He will be no trouble.’

  The Count said, ‘Any man who can get the better of an Estrenoli must have my thanks—and my deepest respect.’

  Francesca came over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. ‘I also am going to leave Italy,’ she said. ‘I am going away with Hal.’

  The Count looked at her for a long time then dropped his head and stared at the bony hands crossed in his lap. ‘You must do what you think best, my child,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Italy has given you nothing but unhappiness; perhaps to find happiness you must go to another country and live under differ
ent laws.’

  He raised his head. ‘You will cherish her, Mr Halloran?’

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  Francesca went to him, kneeling at his side, and took his hand in hers. ‘We must do it, Papa; we’re in love. Can you give us your blessing?’

  He smiled wryly. ‘How can I give my blessing to something I think is a sin, child? But I think that God is wiser than the churchmen and He will understand. So you have my blessing and you must hope that you have God’s blessing too.’

  She bent her head and her shoulders shook. He looked up at me. ‘I was against this marriage to Estrenoli, but she did it for me. It is our law here that such a thing cannot be undone.’

  Francesca dried her eyes. She said, ‘Papa, we have little time and I must tell you something. Cariaceti—you remember little Cariaceti—will come to you from time to time and give you money. You must…’

  He broke in. ‘I do not want such money.’

  ‘Papa, listen. The money is not for you. There will be a lot of money and you must take a little for yourself if you need it, but most of it must be given away. Give some to Mario Pradelli for his youngest child who was born spastic; give some to Pietro Morelli for his son whom he cannot afford to send to university. Give it to those who fought with you in the war; those who were cheated by the Communists just like you were; those who need it.’

  I said, ‘My share of the gold is Francesca’s to do with as she likes. That can be added, too.’

  The Count thought deeply for a long time, then he said musingly, ‘So something good may come out of this after all. Very well, I will take the money and do as you say.’

  She said, ‘Piero Morese will help you—he knows where all your old comrades are. I will not be here; I leave with Hal in a few days.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You stay. I will come back for you.’

  I am coming with you,’ she declared.

  ‘You’re staying here. I won’t have you on Sanford.’

  The Count said, ‘Obey him, Francesca. He knows what he must do, and perhaps he could not do it if you were there.’

  She was rebellious, but she acquiesced reluctantly. The Count said, ‘Now you must go, Francesca. I want to talk to your Hal—alone.’

  ‘I’ll wait downstairs,’ she said.

  The Count watched her go. ‘I think you are an honourable man, Mr Halloran. So I was told by Piero Morese when he talked to me on the telephone last night. What are your exact intentions when you take my daughter from Italy?’

  ‘I’m going to marry her,’ I said. ‘Just as soon as she can get a divorce.’

  ‘You realize that she can never come back to Italy in those circumstances? You know that such a marriage would be regarded here as bigamous?’

  ‘I know—and Francesca knows. You said yourself that she has had nothing but unhappiness in Italy.’

  ‘That is true.’ He sighed. ‘Francesca’s mother died when she was young, before the war. My daughter was brought up in a partisan camp in the middle of a civil war and she has seen both the heroism and degradation of men from an early age. She is not an ordinary woman because of this; some would have been made bitter by her experiences, but she is not bitter. Her heart is big enough to have compassion for all humanity—I would not like to see it broken.’

  ‘I love Francesca,’ I said. ‘I will not break her heart, not wittingly.’

  He said, ‘I understand you are a ship designer and a shipbuilder.’

  ‘Not ships—small boats.’

  ‘I understand. After I talked to Piero I thought I would see what sort of a man you were, so a friend kindly asked some questions for me. It seems you have a rising reputation in your profession.’

  I said, ‘Perhaps in South Africa; I didn’t know I was known here.’

  ‘There has been some mention of you,’ he said. ‘The reason I bring this up is that I am pleased that it is so. This present venture in which you are engaged I discount entirely. I do not think you will succeed—but if you do, such wealth is like the gold of fairies, it will turn to leaves in your hands. It is good to know that you do fine work in the field of your choice.’

  He pulled the blanket round him. ‘Now you must go; Francesca will be waiting. I cannot give you more than my good wishes, but those you have wherever you may be.’

  I took his proffered hand and said impulsively, ‘Why don’t you leave Italy, too, and come with us?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I am old and the old do not like change. I cannot leave my country now, but thank you for the thought. Goodbye, Hal, I think you will make my daughter very happy.’

  I said goodbye and left the room. I didn’t see the Count ever again.

  II

  The time arrived when, incredibly, the keel was cast.

  We all stood round the mould and looked at it a little uncertainly. It seemed impossible that all our sweat and labour should have been reduced to this inert mass of dull yellow metal, a mere eight cubic feet shaped in a particular and cunning way.

  I said, ‘That’s it. Two more days and Sanford will be in the water.’

  Coertze looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got to do some more work today; we can’t knock off just because the keel is finished—there’s still plenty to do.’

  So we got on with it. Walker began to strip the furnaces and I directed Coertze and Piero in stripping the glass-fibre cladding from Sanford preparatory to removing the lead keel. We were happy that night. The change of work and pace had done us good and we all felt rested.

  Francesca reported that everything was quiet on the potential battle-front—Metcalfe was on the Fairmile and Torloni was in his hotel; the watch on the boatyard had not been intensified—in fact, everything was as normal as a thoroughly abnormal situation could be.

  The trouble would come, if it had to come at all, when we launched Sanford. At the first sign of us getting away the enemy would be forced to make a move. I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t jumped us before.

  The next day was pure joy. We worked as hard as ever and when we had finished Sanford was the most expensively built boat in the world. The keel bolts which Coertze had cast into the golden keel slipped smoothly into the holes in the keelson which Harry had prepared long ago in Cape Town, and as we let down the jacks Sanford settled comfortably and firmly on to the gold.

  Coertze said, ‘I can’t see why you didn’t use the exisiting holes—the ones drilled for the old keel.’

  ‘It’s the difference in weight distribution,’ I said. ‘Gold is half as heavy again as lead and so this keel had to be a different shape from the old one. As it is, I had to juggle with the centre of gravity. With the ballast being more concentrated I think Sanford will roll like a tub, but that can’t be helped.’

  I looked at Sanford. She was now worth not much short of a million and three-quarter pounds—the most expensive 15-tonner in history. I felt quite proud of her—not many yacht designers could boast of such a design.

  When we had supper that night we were all very quiet and relaxed. I said to Francesca, ‘You’d better get the jewels out tonight—it may be your last chance before the fireworks start.’

  She smiled. ‘That will be easy; Piero has cast them into concrete bricks—we are learning the art of disguise from you. They are outside near the new shed that Palmerini is building.’

  I laughed. ‘I must see this.’

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘I will show you.’

  We went into the dark night and she flashed a torch on an untidy heap of bricks near the new shed. ‘There they are; the valuable bricks are spotted with whitewash.’

  ‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Not bad at all.’

  She leaned against me and I put my arms around her. It was not often we had time for this sort of thing, we were missing a lot that normal lovers had. After a moment she said quietly, ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve sold the gold,’ I said. ‘I’ll take the first plane out of Tangier.’

 
‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said. ‘Not here—I’ll be in Milan with my father.’

  She gave me the address which I memorized. I said, ‘You won’t mind leaving Italy?’

  ‘No, not with you.’

  ‘I asked your father to come with us, but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Not after seventy years,’ she said. ‘It’s too much to ask an old man.’

  I said, ‘I knew that, but I thought I’d make the offer.’

  We talked for a long time there in the darkness, the small personal things that lovers talk about when they’re alone.

  Then Francesca said that she was tired and was going to bed.

  ‘I’ll stay and have another cigarette,’ I said. ‘It’s pleasant out here.’

  I watched her melt into the darkness and then I saw the gleam of light as she opened the door of the shed and slipped inside.

  A voice whispered from out of the darkness, ‘Halloran!’

  I started, ‘Who’s that?’ I flashed my torch about.

  ‘Put out that damned light. It’s me—Metcalfe.’

  I clicked off the torch and stooped to pick up one of the concrete bricks. I couldn’t see if it had spots of whitewash on it or not; if it had, then Metcalfe was going to be clobbered by a valuable brick.

  A dark silhouette moved closer. ‘I thought you’d never stop making love to your girlfriend,’ said Metcalfe.

  What do you want, and how did you get here?’

  He chuckled. ‘I came in from the sea—Torloni’s boys are watching the front of the yard.’

  I know,’ I said.

  There was surprise in his voice. ‘Do you, now?’ I saw the flash of his teeth. ‘That doesn’t matter, though; it won’t make any difference.’

  ‘It won’t make any difference to what?’

  ‘Hal, boy, you’re in trouble,’ said Metcalfe. ‘Torloni’s going to jump you—tonight. I tried to hold him in, but he’s got completely out of hand.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ I demanded.

  He chuckled. ‘Only my own,’ he said. He changed his tone. ‘What are you going to do?’

  I shrugged. ‘What can I do except fight?’

  ‘Be damned to that,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t have a chance against Torloni’s cut-throats. Isn’t your boat ready for launching?’