I shook my head irritably. ‘How the devil can you own something like that and not know about it?’ I demanded.
‘Your family did,’ pointed out Fallon reasonably. ‘But my case was a bit different. I established a trust, and, among other things, the trust runs a museum. I’m not responsible personally for everything the museum buys, and I don’t know every item in stock. Anyway, the museum had the tray.’
‘That’s one tray. What about the other?’
‘That was a bit more difficult, wasn’t it, Paul?’ He smiled across the room at Halstead. ‘Manuel de Vivero had two sons, Jaime and Juan. Jaime stayed in Mexico and founded the Mexican branch of the de Viveros—you know about them already—but Juan had a bellyful of America and went back to Spain. He took quite a bit of loot with him and became an Alcalde like his father—that’s a sort of country squire and magistrate. He had a son, Miguel, who prospered even more and became a wealthy shipowner.
‘Came the time when trouble rubbed up between Spain and England and Philip II of Spain decided to end it once and for all and began to build the Armada. Miguel de Vivero contributed a ship, the San Juan de Huelva, and skippered her himself. She sailed with the Armada and never came back—neither did Miguel. His shipping business didn’t die with Miguel, a son took over, and it lasted quite a long time—until the end of the eighteenth century. Fortunately they had a habit of keeping records and I dug out a juicy bit of information; Miguel wrote a letter to his wife asking her to send him “the tray which my grandfather had made in Mexico”. It was with him on the ship when the Armada sailed for England. I thought then that the whole thing was finished.’
‘I got to that letter before you did,’ said Halstead with satisfaction.
‘This sounds like a cross between a jigsaw puzzle and a detective story,’ I said. ‘What did you do then?’
‘I came to England,’ said Fallon. ‘Not to look for the tray—I thought that was at the bottom of the sea—but just for a holiday. I was staying in Oxford at one of the colleges and I happened to mention my searches in Spain. One of the dons—a dry-as-dust literary character—said he vaguely remembered something about it in the correspondence of Herrick.’
I stared at Fallon. ‘The poet?’
‘That’s right. He was rector of Dean Prior—that’s not far from here. A man called Goosan had written a letter to him; Goosan was a local merchant, a nobody, his letter wouldn’t have been preserved if it hadn’t have been written to Herrick.’
Halstead was alert. ‘I didn’t know about this. Go on.’
‘It doesn’t really matter,’ said Fallon tiredly. ‘We know where the tray is now.’
‘I’m interested,’ I said.
Fallon shrugged. ‘Herrick was bored to death with country life but he was stuck at Dean Prior. There wasn’t much to do so I suppose he took more interest in his parishioners than the usual dull clod of a country priest He certainly took an interest in Goosan and asked him to put on paper what he had previously said verbally. To cut a long story short, Goosan’s family name had originally been Guzman, and his grandfather had been a seaman on the San Juan. They’d had a hell of a time of it during the attack on England and, after one thing and another, the ship had gone down in a storm off Start Point. The captain, Miguel de Vivero, had died previously of ship fever—that’s typhus—and when Guzman came ashore he carried that goddamn tray as part of his personal loot. Guzman’s grandson—that’s the Goosan who wrote to Herrick—even showed Herrick the tray. How your family got hold of it I don’t know.’
I smiled as I said. ‘That’s why you laughed when I told you to see Dave Goosan.’
‘It gave me something of a shock,’ admitted Fallon.
‘I didn’t know anything about Herrick,’ said Halstead. ‘I was just following up on the Armada and trying to discover where the San Juan had sunk. I happened to be in Plymouth when I saw a photograph of the tray in the newspaper.’
Fallon raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Sheer luck!’ he commented.
Halstead grinned. ‘But I was here before you.’
‘Yes, you were,’ I said slowly. ‘And then my brother was murdered.’
He blew up. ‘What the hell do you mean by that crack?’
‘Just making a true observation. Did you know Victor Niscemi?’
‘I’d never heard of him until the inquest. I don’t know that I like the trend of your thinking, Wheale.’
‘Neither do I,’ I said sourly. ‘Let’s skip it—for the moment. Professor Fallon: I presume you’ve given your tray a thorough examination. What did you find?’
He grunted. ‘I’m not prepared to discuss that in front of Halstead. I’ve been pushed far enough.’ He was silent for a moment, then he sighed, ‘All right; effectively, I found nothing. I assume that whatever it is will only come to light when the trays are examined as a pair.’ He stood up. ‘Now, I’ve had just about enough of this. A little while ago you told Halstead to put up or shut up—now I’m putting the same proposition to you. How much money will you take for the tray? Name your price and I’ll write you a cheque right now.’
‘You haven’t enough money to pay my price,’ I said, and he blinked in surprise. ‘I told you my price might not necessarily be in cash. Sit down and listen to what I’ve got to say.’
Slowly Fallon lowered himself into his chair, not taking his eyes from me. I looked across at Halstead and at his wife who was almost hidden in the gathering shadows of evening. I said, ‘I have three conditions for parting with the tray. All those conditions must be met before I do so. Is that clear?’
Fallon grunted and I accepted that as agreement. Halstead looked tense and then inclined his head stiffly.
‘Professor Fallon has a lot of money which will come in useful. He will therefore finance whatever expedition is to be made to find this city of Uaxuanoc. You can’t object to that, Fallon; it is something you would do in any event. But I will be a part of the expedition. Agreed?’
Fallon looked at me speculatively. ‘I don’t know if you could take it,’ he said a little scornfully. ‘It’s not like a stroll on Dartmoor.’
‘I’m not giving you a choice,’ I said. ‘I’m giving you an ultimatum.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But it’s your skin.’
‘The second condition is that you help me as much as possible to find out why my brother was killed.’
‘Won’t that interfere with your jaunt in Yucatan?’ he queried.
‘I’m not so certain it will,’ I said. ‘I think that whoever wanted the tray enough to send a man armed with a sawn-off shotgun also knew that the tray had a secret. Possibly we’ll meet him in Yucatan—who knows?’
‘I think you’re nuts,’ he said. ‘But I’ll play along with you. I agree.’
‘Good,’ I said pleasantly, and prepared to harpoon him. ‘The third condition is that Halstead comes with us.’
Fallon sat bolt upright and roared, I’ll be damned if I’ll take the son of a bitch.’
Halstead jumped from his chair. ‘That’s twice today you’ve called me that. I ought to knock your—’
‘Belt up!’ I yelled. Into the sudden silence that followed I said, ‘You two make me sick. All afternoon you’ve been sniping at each other. You’ve both done very well in your investigations so far—you’ve arrived at the same point at the same time and honours ought to be even. And you’ve both made identical accusations about each other, so you’re square there, too.’
Fallon looked stubborn, so I said, ‘Look at it this way. If we two join forces, you know what will happen: Halstead will be hanging around anyway. He’s as tenacious as you are and he’ll follow the trail wherever we lead him. But the point doesn’t arise, does it? I said that all three of my conditions must be met and, by God, if you don’t agree to this I’ll give my tray to Halstead. That way you’ll have one each and be on an even footing for the next round of this academic dog-fight. Now, do you agree or don’t you?’
His face worked and he sh
ook his head sadly. ‘I agree,’ he said in a whisper.
‘Halstead?’
‘I agree.’
Then they both said simultaneously, ‘Where’s the tray?’
FOUR
Mexico City was hot and frenetic with Olympic Gamesmanship. The hotels were stuffed to bursting, but fortunately Fallon owned a country house just outside the city which we made our headquarters. The Halsteads also had their home in Mexico City but they were more often than not at Fallon’s private palace.
I must say that when Fallon decided to move he moved fast. Like a good general, he marshalled his army close to the point of impact; he spent a small fortune on telephone calls and the end result was a concentration of forces in Mexico City. I had a fast decision to make, too; my job was a good one and I hated to give it up unceremoniously, but Fallon was pushing hard. I saw my boss and told him of Bob’s death and he was good enough to give me six months’ leave of absence. I bore down heavily on the farm management, so I suppose I deceived him in a way, yet I think that going to Yucatan could be construed as looking after Bob’s estate.
Fallon also used the resources that only money can buy. ‘Big corporations have security problems,’ he said. ‘So they run their own security outfits. They’re as good as the police any time, and better in most cases. The pay is higher. I’m having Niscemi checked out independently.’
The thought of it made me a bit dizzy. Like most people, I’d thought of millionaires as just people who have a lot of money but I hadn’t gone beyond that to the power and influence that money makes possible. That a man was able to lift a telephone and set a private police force in motion made me open my eyes and think again.
Fallon’s house, was big and cool, set in forty acres of manicured grounds. It was quiet with unobtrusive service, which clicked into action as soon as the master set foot in it. Soft-footed servants were there when you wanted them and absent when not needed and I settled into sybaritic luxury without a qualm.
Fallon’s tray had not yet come from New York, much to his annoyance, and he spent a lot of time arguing the archeological toss with Halstead. I was pleased to see that loss of temper was now confined to professional matters and did not take such a personal turn. I think much of that was due to Katherine Halstead, who kept her husband on a tight rein.
The morning after we arrived they were at it hammer and tongs. ‘I think old Vivero was a damned liar,’ said Halstead.
‘Of course he was,’ said Fallon crossly. ‘But that’s not the point at issue here. He says he was taken to Chichen Itza…’
‘And I say he couldn’t have been. The New Empire had fallen apart long before that—Chichen Itza was abandoned when Hunac Ceel drove out the Itzas. It was a dead city.’
Fallon made an impatient noise. ‘Don’t look at it from your viewpoint; see it as Vivero saw it. Here was an averagely ignorant Spanish soldier without the benefit of the hindsight we have. He says he was taken to Chichen Itza—he actually names it, and Chichen Itza is only one of two names he gives in the manuscript. He didn’t give a damn whether you think Chichen Itza was occupied—he was taken there and he said so.’ He stopped short. ‘Of course, if you are right, it means that the Vivero letter is a modern fake, and we’re all up the creek.’
‘I don’t think it’s a fake,’ said Halstead. ‘I just think that Vivero was a congenital liar.’
‘I don’t think it’s a fake, either,’ said Fallon. ‘I had it authenticated.’ He crossed the room and pulled open a drawer. ‘Here’s the report on it.’
He gave it to Halstead, who scanned through it and dropped it on the table. I picked it up and found a lot of tables and graphs, but the meat was on the last page under the heading Conclusions. ‘The document appears to be authentic as to period, being early sixteenth-century Spanish. The condition is poor—the parchment being of poor quality and, perhaps, of faulty manufacture originally. A radio-carbon dating test gives a date of 1534 A.D. with an error of plus or minus fifteen years. The ink shows certain peculiarities of composition but is undoubtedly of the same period as the parchment as demonstrated by radiocarbon testing. An exhaustive linguistic analysis displays no deviation from the norm of the sixteenth century Spanish language. While we refrain from judgement on the content of this document there is no sign from the internal evidence of the manuscript that the document is other than it purports to be.’
I thought of Vivero curing his own animal skins and making his own ink—it all fitted in. Katherine Halstead stretched out her hand and I gave her the report, then turned my attention back to the argument.
‘I think you’re wrong, Paul,’ Fallon was saying. ‘Chichen Itza was never wholly abandoned until much later. It was a religious centre even after the Spaniards arrived. What about the assassination of Ah Dzun Kiu?—that was in 1536, no less than nine years after Vivero was captured.’
‘Who the devil was he?’ I asked.
‘The chief of the Tutal Kiu. He organized a pilgrimage to Chichen Itza to appease the gods; all the pilgrims were massacred by Nachi Cocom, his archenemy. But all that is immaterial—what matters is that we know when it happened, and that it’s consistent with Vivero’s claim to have been taken to Chichen Itza—a claim which Paul disputes.’
‘All right. I grant you that one.’ said Halstead. ‘But there’s a lot more about the letter that doesn’t add up.’
I left them to their argument and walked over to the window. In the distance light reflected blindingly from the water of a swimming pool. I glanced at Katherine Halstead. ‘I’m no good at this sort of logic chopping,’ I said. ‘It’s beyond me.’
‘It’s over my head, too,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not an archeologist; I only know what I’ve picked up from Paul by a sort of osmosis.’
I looked across at the swimming pool again—it looked very inviting. ‘What about a swim?’ I suggested. ‘I have some gear I want to test, and I’d like some company.’
She brightened. ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll meet you out there in ten minutes.’
I went up to my room and changed into trunks, then unpacked my scuba gear and took it down to the pool. I had brought it with me because I thought there might be a chance of getting in some swimming in the Caribbean somewhere along the line and I wasn’t going to pass up that chance. I had only swum in clear water once before, in the Mediterranean.
Mrs Halstead was already at the pool, looking very fetching in a one-piece suit. I dumped the steel bottles and the harness by the side of the pool and walked over to where she was sitting. A flunkey in white coat appeared from nowhere and said something fast and staccato in Spanish, and I shrugged helplessly and appealed to her. ‘What’s he saying?’
She laughed. ‘He wants to know if we’d like something to drink.’
‘That’s not a bad idea. Something long and cold with alcohol in it.’
‘I’ll join you.’ She rattled away in Spanish at the servant who went away. Then she said. ‘I haven’t thanked you for what you’ve done for Paul, Mr Wheale. Everything has happened so quickly—I really haven’t had time to think.’
‘There’s nothing to thank me for,’ I said. ‘He just got his due.’ I refrained from saying that the real reason I had brought Halstead into it was to keep him close where I could watch him. I wasn’t too happy about husband Paul; he was too free with his accusations and his temper was trigger-quick. Somebody had been with Niscemi when Bob had been killed and though it couldn’t have been Halstead that didn’t mean he had nothing to do with it. I smiled pleasantly at his wife. ‘Nothing to it,’ I said.
‘I think it was very generous—considering the way he behaved.’ She looked at me steadily. ‘Don’t take any notice of him if he becomes bad-tempered again. He’s had…had disappointments. This is his big chance and it plays on his nerves.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said soothingly. Privately I was certain that if Halstead became unpleasant he would get a quick bust on the snoot. If I didn’t sock him then Fallon would, old as he wa
s. It would be better if I did it, being neutral, then this silly expedition would be in less danger of breaking up.
The drinks arrived—a whitish concoction in tall frosted glasses with ice tinkling like silver bells. I don’t know what it was but it tasted cool and soothing. Mrs Halstead looked pensive. She sipped from her glass, then said tentatively, ‘When do you think you will leave for Yucatan?’
‘Don’t ask me. It depends on the experts up there.’ I jerked my head towards the house. ‘We still don’t know where we’re going yet.’
‘Do you think the trays have a riddle—and that we can solve it?’
‘They have—and we will,’ I said economically. I didn’t tell her I thought I had the solution already. There was an awful lot I wasn’t telling Mrs Halstead—or anybody else.
She said, ‘What do you think Fallon’s attitude would be if I suggested going with you to Yucatan?’
I laughed. ‘He’d blow his top. You wouldn’t have a chance.’
She leaned forward and said seriously, ‘It might be better if I went. I’m afraid for Paul.’
‘Meaning what?’
She made a fluttery gesture with her hand. ‘I’m not the catty kind of woman who makes derogatory statements about her own husband to other men,’ she said. ‘But Paul is not an ordinary man. There is a lot of violence in him which he can’t control—alone. If I’m with him I can talk to him: make him see things in a different way. I wouldn’t be a drag on you—I’ve been on field trips before.’
She talked as though Halstead were some kind of a lunatic needing a nurse around him all the time. I began to wonder about the relationship between these two; some marriages are awfully funny arrangements.
She said. ‘Fallon would agree if you put it to him. You could make him.’
I grimaced. ‘I’ve already twisted his arm once. I don’t think I could do it again. Fallon isn’t the man who likes to be pushed around.’ I took another pull at the drink and felt the coolness at the back of my throat. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said finally.
The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter Page 35