Fallon had specifically asked that Halstead should not be shown the tray. To hell with that! I said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘This morning?’ she said eagerly.
I lied in my teeth. ‘I’m afraid not—I don’t have it here. But it could be here this afternoon. Would that suit you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, and smiled brilliantly. A woman has no right to be able to smile at a man like that, especially a man involved in tricking her into something. It tends to weaken his resolution. She stood up. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time this morning, Mr Wheale; I’m sure you’re a busy man. What time should we come this afternoon?’
‘Oh, about two-thirty,’ I said casually. I escorted her to the door and watched her drive away in a small car. These archeological boffins seemed to be a queer crowd; Fallon had imputed dishonesty to Halstead, and Mrs Halstead had accused Fallon of downright criminality. The in-fighting in academic circles seemed to be done with very sharp knives.
I thought of the chemistry set I had when a boy; it was a marvellous set with lots of little bottles and phials containing powders of various hue. If you mixed the powders odd things were likely to happen, but if they were kept separate they were quite inert.
I was tired of meeting with inertness from Fallon and the Halsteads—no one had been forthright enough to tell why he wanted the tray. I wondered what odd things were likely to happen when I mixed them together at two-thirty that afternoon.
IV
I went back and had another go at Jack Edgecombe. If he hadn’t actually caught fire, at least he was a bit luminous around the edges, which made arguing with him less of an uphill struggle. I chipped at him a bit more and managed to strike another spark of enthusiasm, and then packed him off to look at the farm with a new vision.
The rest of the morning was spent in the darkroom. I cut up the length of 35 mm film, which was now dry, and made a contact print just to see what I had. It didn’t seem too bad and most of the stuff was usable, so I settled down and made a series of eight by ten prints. They weren’t as professional as those that Fallon had shown me, but they were good enough for comparison with his.
I even printed out my failures including those that had happened when the electronic flash popped off unexpectedly. One of those was very interesting—to the point of being worthy of scrutiny under a magnifying glass. It was a real puzzler and I badly wanted to set up the tray and take more pictures, but there wasn’t time to do it before my visitors arrived.
The Halsteads came fifteen minutes early, thus demonstrating their eagerness. Halstead was a man of about thirty-five who seemed to be living on his nerves. I suppose he was handsome in an odd sort of way if you go for the hawklike visage; his cheekbones stood out prominently and his eyes were deep sunk in dark sockets so that he looked as though he were recovering from a week’s binge. His movements were quick and his conversation staccato, and I thought he’d be a wearing companion if one had to put up with him for any length of time. Mrs Halstead seemed to manage all right and maintained a smooth outward serenity which shed a calmness over the pair of them and compensated for Halstead’s nerviness. Maybe it was something she worked hard at.
She introduced her husband and there was the briefest of social chit-chat before a sudden silence. Halstead looked at me expectantly and twitched a bit. ‘The tray?’ he enquired in a voice which rose a bit more than was necessary.
I looked at him blandly. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I have some photographs here in which you might be interested.’ I gave them to him and noted that his hands were trembling.
He flicked through them quickly, then looked up and said sharply, ‘These are pictures of your tray?’
‘They are.’
He turned to his wife. ‘It’s the right one—look at the vine leaves. Exactly like the Mexican tray. There’s no doubt about it.’
She said doubtfully, ‘It seems to be the same.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he snapped. ‘It is the same. I studied the Mexican tray long enough, for God’s sake! Where’s our picture?’
Mrs Halstead produced it and they settled down to a comparison. ‘Not an identical replica,’ pronounced Halstead. ‘But close enough. Undoubtedly made by the same hand—look at the veining in the leaves.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘I am right,’ he said positively, and jerked his head round to me. ‘My wife said you’d let me see the tray.’
I didn’t like his manner—he was too damned driving and impolite, and perhaps I didn’t like the way he spoke to his wife. ‘I told her there wasn’t any reason why you shouldn’t see it. At the same time there doesn’t seem any reason why you should. Would you care to enlighten me?’
He didn’t like resistance or opposition. ‘It’s a purely professional and scientific matter,’ he said stiffly. ‘It forms part of my present research; I doubt if you would understand it.’
‘Try me,’ I said softly, resenting his superior and condescending attitude. ‘I can understand words of two syllables—maybe words of three syllables if you speak them very slowly.’
Mrs Halstead chipped in. ‘We would be very grateful if We could see the tray. You would be doing us a great service, Mr Wheale.’ She wouldn’t apologize for her husband’s unfortunate manner, but she was doing her best to drop some polite social oil into the works.
We were interrupted by Madge. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr Wheale.’
I grinned at Halstead. ‘Thank you, Mrs Edgecombe; show him in, will you?’
When Fallon walked in Halstead gave a convulsive jerk. He turned to me and said in a high voice, ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Professor Fallon is here on my invitation, as you are,’ I said sweetly.
Halstead bounced to his feet. ‘I’ll not stay here with that man. Come along, Katherine.’
‘Wait a minute, Paul. What about the tray?’
That brought Halstead to a dead stop. He looked uncertainly at me, then at Fallon. ‘I resent this,’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘I resent it very much.’
Fallon had been as astonished to see Halstead as Halstead had been to see him. He stood poised in the doorway and said, ‘You think I don’t resent it, too? But I’m not blowing my top about it like a spoiled child. You were always too explosive, Paul.’ He advanced into the room. ‘May I ask what you think you’re doing, Wheale?’
‘Maybe I’m holding an auction,’ I said easily.
‘Umph! You’re wasting your time; this pair hasn’t two cents to rub together.’
Katherine Halstead said cuttingly, ‘I always thought you bought your reputation, Professor Fallon. And what you can’t buy, you steal.’
Fallon whirled. ‘Goddammit! Are you calling me a thief, young lady?’
‘I am,’ she said calmly. ‘You’ve got the Vivero letter, haven’t you?’
Fallon went very still. ‘What do you know about the Vivero letter?’
‘I know it was stolen from us nearly two years ago—and I know that you have it now.’ She looked across at me. ‘What conclusions would you draw from that, Mr Wheale?’
I looked at Fallon speculatively. The chemicals were mixing nicely and maybe they’d brew a little bit of truth. I was all for stirring up the broth. I said, ‘Do you have this letter?’
Fallon nodded reluctantly. ‘I do—I bought it quite legally in New York, and I have a receipt to prove it. But, hell, these are a fine pair to talk about theft. What about the papers you stole from me in Mexico, Halstead?’
Halstead’s nostrils pinched in whitely. ‘I stole nothing from you that wasn’t mine. And what did you steal from me—just my reputation, that’s all. There are too many thieving bastards like you in the profession, Fallon; incompetents who build their reputations on the work of others.’
‘Why, you son of a bitch!’ roared Fallon. ‘You had your say in the journals and no one took any notice of you. Do you think anyone believes that poppycock?’
They were facing
each other like fighting cocks and in another minute would have been at each other’s throats had I not yelled at the top of my voice, ‘Quiet!’ They both turned, and I said in a calmer voice, ‘Sit down both of you. I’ve never seen a more disgraceful exhibition by two grown men in my life. You’ll behave yourselves in my house or I’ll turn the lot of you out—and neither of you will ever get to see this bloody tray.’
Fallon said sheepishly, ‘I’m sorry, Wheale, but this man got my goat.’ He sat down.
Halstead also seated himself; he glared at Fallon and said nothing. Katherine Halstead’s face was white and she had pink spots in her cheeks. She looked at her husband and tightened her lips and, when he maintained his silence, she said, ‘I apologize for our behaviour, Mr Wheale.’
I said bluntly, ‘You do your own apologizing, Mrs Halstead; you can’t apologize for others—not even your husband.’ I paused, waiting for Halstead to say something, but he maintained a stubborn silence, so I ignored him and turned to Fallon. ‘I’m not particularly interested in the ins-and-outs of your professional arguments, although I must say I’m surprised at the charges that have been made here this afternoon.’
Fallon smiled sourly. ‘I didn’t start the mud-throwing.’
‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ I said. ‘You people are incredible. You’re so wrapped up in your tuppenny-ha’penny professional concerns that you forget a man has been murdered because of that tray. Two men are already dead, for God’s sake!’
Katherine Halstead said, ‘I’m sorry if we appear so heartless; it must seem peculiar to you.’
‘By God, it does! Now, listen to me carefully—all of you. I seem to have been dealt a high card in this particular game—I’ve got the tray that’s so damned important. But nobody is going to get as much as a sniff at it until I’m told the name of the game. I’m not going to operate blindfolded. Fallon, what about it?’
He stirred impatiently. ‘All right, it’s a deal. I’ll tell you everything you want to know—but privately. I don’t want Halstead in on it.’
‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Anything you want to tell me, you do it here and now in this room—and that applies to you, Halstead, too.’
Halstead said in a cold rage, ‘This is monstrous. Am I to give away the results of years of research to this charlatan?’
‘You’ll put up or you’ll shut up.’ I stuck out a finger. The door’s open and you can leave any time you like. Nobody is keeping you here. But if you go, that leaves Fallon with the tray.’
Indecision chased over his face and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of the chair. Katherine Halstead took the decision from him. She said firmly, ‘We accept your conditions. We stay.’ Halstead looked at her with a sudden air of shock, and she said, ‘It’s all right, Paul; I know what I’m doing.’
‘Fallon—what about you?’
‘I guess I’m stuck with it,’ he said, and smiled slowly. ’Halstead talks about years of research. Well, I’ve put in quite a few years myself. It wouldn’t surprise me if we both know all there is to know about the problem. Heaven knows, I’ve been falling over this pair in every museum in Europe. I doubt if the pooling of information is going to bring up anything new.’
‘I might surprise you,’ said Halstead sharply. ‘You have no monopoly on brains.’
‘Cut it out,’ I said coldly. ‘This confessional is going to be run under my rules, and that means no snide comments from anyone. Do I make myself quite clear?’
Fallon said, ‘You know, Wheale, when I first met you I didn’t think much of you. You surprise me.’
I grinned. ‘I surprise myself sometimes.’ And so I did! Whatever had happened to the grey little man?
THREE
It was an astonishing, incredible and quite preposterous story, and, if I did not have a queer and inexplicable photograph up in the darkroom, I would have rejected it out of hand. And yet Fallon was no fool and he believed it—and so did Halstead, although I wouldn’t have bet on the adequacy of his mental processes.
I ruled the proceedings firmly while the story was being told. Occasionally there were outbursts of temper, mostly from Halstead but with a couple of bitter attacks from Fallon, and I had to crack down hard. It was quite apparent that, while none of them liked what I was doing, they had no alternative but to comply. My possession of the tray was a trump card in this curious and involved game, and neither Fallon nor Halstead was prepared to let the other get away with it.
Fallon seemed to be the more sensible and objective of the two men so I let him open the account, asking him to begin. He pulled his ear gently, and said, ‘It’s hard to know where to start.’
I said, ‘Begin at the beginning. Where did you come into it?’
He gave his ear a final tug, then folded one thin hand on top of the other. ‘I’m an archeologist, working in Mexico mostly. Do you know anything about the Mayas?’
I shook my head.
‘That’s a great help,’ he said acidly. ‘But I don’t suppose it matters at this stage because the preliminaries had nothing to do with the Mayas at all—superficially. I came across several references in my work to the de Vivero family of Mexico. The de Viveros were an old Spanish family—Jaime de Vivero, the founder, staked his claim in Mexico just after the time of Cortes; he grabbed a lot of land, and his descendants made it pay very well. They became big landowners, ranchers, owners of mines and, towards the end, industrialists. They were one of the big Mexican families that really ruled the roost. They weren’t what you’d call a very public-spirited crowd and most of their money came from squeezing the peasants. They supported Maximilian in that damn-fool effort of the Hapsburgs to establish a kingdom in Mexico in the eighteen-sixties.
‘That was their first mistake because Maximilian couldn’t stand the pace and he went down. Still, that wasn’t enough to break the de Viveros, but Mexico was in upheaval; dictator followed dictator, revolution followed revolution, and every time the de Viveros backed the wrong horse. It seems they lost their powers of judgement. Over a period of a hundred years the de Vivero family was smashed; if there are any of them still around they’re lying mighty low because I haven’t come across any of them.’ He cocked an eye at Halstead. ‘Have you come across a live de Vivero?’
‘No,’ said Halstead shortly.
Fallon nodded in satisfaction. ‘Now, this was a very wealthy family in its time, even for Mexico, and a wealthy Mexican family was really something. They had a lot of possessions which were dispersed during the break-up, and one of these items was a golden tray something like yours, Wheale.’ He picked up his briefcase and opened it. ‘Let me read you something about it’
He pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘The tray was something of a family heirloom and the de Viveros looked after it; they didn’t use it except at formal banquets and most of the time it was locked away. Here’s a bit of gossip from the eighteenth century; a Frenchman called Murville visited Mexico and wrote a book about it. He stayed on one of the de Vivero estates when they threw a party for the governor of the province—this is the relevant bit.’
He cleared his throat. ‘“Never have I seen such a splendid table even in our French Court. The grandees of Mexico live like princes and eat off gold plate of which there was a profusion here. As a centrepiece to the table there was a magnificent array of the fruits of the country on golden trays, the most magnificent of which was curiously wrought in a pattern of vine leaves of exquisite design. I was informed by one of the sons of the family that this tray had a legend—that it was reputed to have been made by an ancestor of the de Viveros. This is unlikely since it is well known that the de Viveros have a noble lineage extending far back into the history of Old Spain and could not possibly have indulged in work of this nature, no matter how artful. I was told also that the tray is supposed to hold a secret, the discovery of which will make the recipient wealthy beyond measure. My informant smiled as he communicated this to me and added that as the de Viveros were already rich beyon
d computation the discovery of such a secret could not possibly make them effectively wealthier.”’
Fallon dropped the papers back into the briefcase. That didn’t mean much to me at the time, but I’m always interested in any secrets concerning Mexico so I copied it out as a matter of routine and filed it away. Incidentally, that bit about the noble lineage in Old Spain is phoney, the de Viveros were social climbers, men on the make—but we’ll come to that later.
‘Pretty soon after that I seemed to run into the de Viveros no matter which way I turned. You know how it is—you come across a strange word in a book, one which you’ve never seen before, and then you come across it again twice in the same week. It was like that with the de Viveros and their tray. Coming across references to the de Viveros is no trick in Mexico—they were a powerful family—but, in the next year I came across no less than seven references to the de Vivero tray, three of which mentioned this supposed secret. It appeared that the tray was important to the de Viveros. I just filed the stuff away; it was a minor problem of marginal interest and not really in my field.’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘The pre-Columbian civilizations of Central America,’ he answered. ‘A sixteenth-century Spanish tray didn’t mean much to me at the time. I was busy working on a dig in south Campeche. Halstead was with me then, among others. When the dig was finished for the season and we’d got back to civilization he picked a quarrel with me and left. With him went my de Vivero file.’
Halstead’s voice was like a lash. ‘That’s a lie!’
Fallon shrugged. ‘That’s the way it was.’
So far we hadn’t reached any point at which the tray was important, but here was the first mention of the deep-rooted quarrel between these two men, and that might be of consequence so I decided to probe. ‘What was the quarrel about?’
The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter Page 32