Riviera Gold

by Laurie R. King

  The furnace itself was in the middle of the left-hand wall. Mounted from a roof-beam was a sliding crane, to simplify the lifting of the crucibles from the furnace. Nearby stood an impressive stack of ingots and a tangle of what I now recognised as cut-away sprues, scrap for the next pour. The back corner was taken up by a masonry structure some six feet high, set with a steel door and a gas line leading to its base—the warming oven, I imagined, where the wax would be drained from Rafe’s moulds. At the other end of the back wall was an opening to what looked like a hallway, narrow and unlit and doorless—unlike the next opening, which not only had a door, but a sturdy one, held shut by a big, shiny padlock.

  I helped Rafe carry in the moulds. Some he arranged in the oven at the back—cold at the moment, fortunately, but his careful positioning of the forms on their heads showed that on the morrow, they would be ready for heating. The rest of the forms we lined up near the warming oven, mouths up, waiting.

  “You don’t melt out the wax beforehand?” I asked.

  “Not usually, and I’d still need to heat the pieces. Molten bronze has a temperature around 950 degrees. If there’s any moisture at all, a piece can explode.”

  “Ooh. Not a lot of carefree souls among metalworkers, I take it?”

  “Not many with all their limbs.”

  I laughed, and to my surprise he grinned, his first sign of actual acceptance.

  “Anything else I should be doing?” I asked.

  “Do you know, I think I’m about ready.” He then added, only somewhat grudgingly, “Thanks to you.”

  “It was interesting. I don’t suppose you’ll want my help tomorrow, for the actual pour?”

  “No, Monsieur Ferrant insists on being there. We keep amateurs well out of range.”

  I hid my relief: donning thick wool and leather while the sun beat down and a blast furnace roared did not sound like pleasant entertainment. Rafe went to the forms on the floor and squatted down to check that none would tumble over during the night. While he was occupied, I wandered over to examine the boggling array of equipment hanging from the wall. It was all made of iron or steel, and resembled Medieval torture implements or modern dental tools (much the same, come to think of it, but for their size). Most were old, showed decades of hard use, and might well have been forged right here, but one shelf held a collection of smaller, newer, commercially-made pieces, including three chisels, a hammer, two pairs of dark-lensed driving goggles already pitted from sparks, and a diminutive little melting pot. This last looked ridiculously toy-like compared to the massive stone crucibles lined up near the furnace. Curious, I reached out—

  “Don’t. Please.” Rafe stood and walked rapidly across the room, even though I’d pulled back at his first word.

  “Sorry, I just wondered…I was wondering how difficult it was to see through those goggles. They look a lot darker than sun-glasses.” The goggles lay close enough to the forbidden crucible that he might have been mistaken. He gave me a suspicious glare, then seemed to realise that overreaction might be an error, and reached up to hand me a pair of the eye protectors.

  I pulled off my spectacles and held the goggles in place, peering through them at the bright doorway. “It must be hard to see details, with these on.”

  “We only use them for the actual pour. Even with bronze, the brightness can sear a line in your vision for hours.”

  I gave him back the goggles and turned away from the shelf to admire the hefty spouted crucibles, ceramic and stone. They were tapered, to rest in metal tripods. Most of the torture instruments on the wall were tongs and shanks, used to lift, aim, and pour the molten metal from the crucibles into the moulds.

  No, metal casting was not a task for the careless or easily distracted.

  He stood, hands on hips, to survey his domain, then nodded. “Thank you,” he said. It didn’t even seem to hurt him much to say it.

  “You are quite welcome.”

  “I need to have a word with Monsieur Ferrant. You can wait in the car, if you like.”

  Waiting in the foundry itself was clearly not an option. I did not glance at the locked door, merely let my eyes run across the dusty, intriguing space, and strolled towards the double doors.

  When I was safely outside, the sculptor’s feet crossed the grit-covered floor. I heard the padlock rattle as he made sure it was locked.

  When he emerged, he dragged the doors shut and worked an even larger, but far older padlock through two metal loops that I suspected had been made here. He crossed the yard, heading to the smaller wooden buildings that lay a distance away from the foundry, the padlock’s key dangling from his hand. I strolled around the stone walls, idly kicking the weeds while taking in the details of windows and doors, and got back to the motor just before Rafe did. He climbed behind the wheel, barely waiting for my own door to shut, and manfully ground the gears and over-used the brakes all the way to Villa America.

  * * *

  —

  Neither of us was dressed for dinner, or even drinks, on the Murphy terrace. And though looking like a stevedore did not trouble Rafe, I didn’t much care to insert my sweaty, dirt-stained person among the stylishly clothed. I also thought that spending the evening at talk, drink, and dance might leave me a little the worse for wear, come morning, since I did not plan to sleep much that night.

  Yes, I was looking at another evening of breaking and entering—a foundry this time, instead of a smuggler’s cave.

  Fonderie Ferrant was only four miles away by road. However, the tram to Antibes did not run after dark, taxis generally came equipped with nosey drivers, and going by foot would add nearly three hours to the trip. So, as I passed through the hotel grounds, I took a detour to where I had noticed a collection of bicycles—the gaudy ones intended for guests, not those used as actual transportation. Some were so shoddy, I doubted they would reach the main road, but there were a few with faded paint, solid gears, and working head-lamps. This time of year, none of them would be missed before morning.

  I bathed yet again and put on some suitable clothing—dark enough to fade into the night, good enough not to instantly shout “Burglar!” to a passing gendarme. I had a meal brought up, slept for two hours, and woke at midnight.

  No sign of Holmes. What a surprise. He’d no doubt found something far more exotic than a bicycle ride followed by a foundry break-in.

  Sherlock Holmes—inhabiting his persona of Sheldon Russell, wealthy amateur musician—studied Inspector Jourdain over the half-empty glasses of wine on the brasserie table. It was early evening, and other tables had people dining, but the policeman had dismissed the idea of sharing a meal.

  “So to be clear,” Holmes said in French, “you are telling me that no matter what evidence comes to light, there is no possible chance that you will investigate Basil Zaha—”

  “Stop! If you will insist on speaking the name, we must leave.”

  “Conversations are less apt to be overheard in a noisy establishment than on a quiet street, Inspector Jourdain.” But the angry detective had already drained his glass and got to his feet. Holmes placed some coins on the table and followed him through a series of hot streets to the same dull little park they had met in before: a little-used space with clear lines of approach. Jourdain chose a bench shaded from the late sun and took out his cigarettes. Holmes thought about making an elaborate search for spies in the branches overhead, but relented, merely settling down with tobacco of his own.

  “I would prefer you not speak that name aloud, not during the discussion of a crime such as murder,” Jourdain said, his eyes watching all around, voice low.

  “Inspecteur, there are some crimes for which even the powerful must be held responsible.”

  “Certainly. But taking into account my authority compared with his, I must proceed with care. Which is not helped when that wife of yours decides to step in to the midst of thi
ngs and question the man!”

  “She did wh—” Holmes caught back the exclamation, and hid his dismay: better to have the man assume he knew whatever it was Russell had done. He cleared his throat. “If you do not have the authority to question Zaharoff, who does?”

  “In truth, it would be someone so high up I could not begin to know.”

  “My good man, this is all but an admission that an arms dealer has bought your country and all its laws.”

  He thought Jourdain was going to hit him, but the policeman clawed back his self-control, and put his anger into lighting a cigarette. After a time, the nicotine allowed him to put his thoughts together, and his words.

  “Monsieur, I am Monégasque, born and bred. I have lived here all my life except for the War years, so I have no personal experience of the workings of large countries such as yours. I do know that the bigger the government, the greater the inertia. Only a large push can effect change.

  “But in a place as small as Monaco, every act has a consequence. And in a country such as mine, whose economic survival requires an easy flow of people—people who vastly outnumber the permanent residents—the only way to keep from being overcome is to establish certain rock-like features, and never permit them to shift.

  “When…an individual comes here for something other than pleasure, attention is paid. If that individual wishes to settle here, and to make investments here, then—as I understand it—certain conversations are had and certain requirements established. If, for example, an individual with a past that some consider criminal wishes to settle in Monaco, it is made clear to him that none of his former activities may be actively pursued within the borders of the Principality. He may meet with associates, even negotiate and sign contracts, but any actual goods or services would require specific approval before they would be permitted here.”

  “Meaning that a man could make a deal here for leaky submarines or shipments of cocaine, so long as the drugs or armaments stay out. And you, a policeman, are happy to have your hands tied that way, so long as—”

  “I should consider my words, sir, before you accuse me. I have the authority to escort you out of Monaco.”

  “And yet your face admits that I am making no accusations that you have not made against yourself.”

  Jourdain glared at the burning stub between his fingers. “I am telling you that the state of equilibrium is to be considered, and that my authority is limited. Also, that I am not the world’s policeman, merely that of Monaco. If you were to bring me unarguable proof of wrongdoing, I would take it to my superiors and fight to have it recognised and dealt with. But if all you have is suspicion, I am forced to consider the larger picture. The balance here is delicate. The person you are talking about is immensely powerful and immensely proud, and while he and his wife enjoy living here, he has no overpowering reason to stay. If I, or even someone who appears to have my approval, were to confront this person openly, to hound him and question him as to his whereabouts and intents, would he not take offense? What would the result be of that insult? Would he quietly remove himself to Paris—or would he wreak untold havoc along the way? Monsieur, you and I both know that this man could ruin Monaco if he wished. He could strip it and leave it a shell, to be taken over by one or the other of its neighbours. The death of Niko Cassavetes is not to be ignored, but neither is the potential ruination of my country.”

  “And yet you believe that your country has not sold itself to Basil Zaharoff?”

  The policeman crushed his cigarette beneath his heel. “Unless you are in the possession of something more than inuendo and suspicion, you will stay away from the man. Or I shall have you arrested. Along with your lady wife.” He got up and stalked away.

  Holmes watched him go.

  What the deuces had Russell got up to? The idea of her prodding a bear like Zaharoff in his den made him want to run for the train and drag her back to Sussex—if not Antarctica. Instead, he made himself finish his cigarette. When he’d done that, he took out a scrap of paper and pencil stub, to set about the irritating business of composing a coded telegram that would be sufficiently detailed to be useful, yet simple enough to survive the idiosyncrasies of French telegraphists.

  Dear Brother Mycroft, he began.

  When night had fallen, I pocketed my tiny but powerful electric torch and a remarkably stretchy black stocking with two convenient holes—items not generally found in the luggage of travelling bluestockings—and made my way down the servants’ stairs and outside without being seen. The warm fragrant night welcomed me, the paths were dim enough that I did not have to take to the shrubbery, and I even managed to extricate a decent bicycle without causing the rest of the row to crash to the ground.

  I waited until I’d left the hotel before lighting my head-lamp, then pedalled away, past the lane to Villa America and along the road that went by Antibes, narrowly escaping death only six or eight times along the way.

  After the lights of Antibes were behind me, I shut off my head-lamp. However, since the moon was not even halfway full, I soon abandoned the attempt to ride and wheeled the cycle until I came to a small stone building so old it had no roof, yet so sturdy, a series of side-swipes from passing cars had resulted in tiny stone chips and large chunks of metal and glass.

  I tucked the bicycle behind this relic and continued on foot until I recognised the shape of the foundry against the sky and smelled the vague miasma of heated metal. A neighbouring dog barked, then stopped. No lights shone from any of the nearby buildings.

  As so often happens, the owner of Fonderie Ferrant had put an impressive lock on the front door, then rendered it void by leaving an open window at the back. The dog started barking again as I moved a solid-looking crate under the window, but shut up again following a man’s angry shout.

  Amused at the idea of the watchdog’s inner grumbles, I stepped up onto the crate, pushed the window all the way open, and slithered through to the floor.

  I waited, muscles braced to leap upwards again should the dog’s brother come raging out of the darkness, but all was still. I turned on the torch, and saw I was in the hallway behind the warming oven. There were two rooms back here, once living quarters for the foundry’s workers, but the rough mattresses now housed only mice, the clothing hooks only spider-webs. I padded through the rest of the foundry, finding neither sleeping labourers nor insomniac sculptors. Just the pale ghosts of the statues that would take shape on the morrow.

  And whatever was behind that shiny padlock.

  Before tackling it, however, I walked over to the shelf that had roused the protective instincts of Rafe Ainsley, to study the diminutive porcelain cup. As far as I could see, it was nothing but a small, porcelain crucible. More suitable for a clockmaker creating tiny gears, perhaps, than for a sculptor working in foot-high pieces, but since it had not even been used, it had little to tell me.

  I shrugged, and stretched to put it back on the shelf—then froze, at a quick flare of light across the wall, instantly extinguished. Moments later, I heard the slow crackle of tyres on the forecourt stones just outside.

  “Lillie, your welcome has saved my life yet again, but I think I shall go home in the morning. Things are about to become very awkward.”

  “Clarissa, everything will be fine! This is all nonsense—a sad accident, but nothing to do with you. We’ll sort it out in a few days.”

  “I do not believe there was anything accidental about Niko’s death, or where he was found.”

  “You think it has to do with those…papers of yours?”

  “Oh, Lillie. If those accursed things killed the boy, I’ll never forgive myself. Which is why I can’t ask any more of you, my dear friend. You’re already involved more than is good for you.”

  “Clara, don’t. We’ve been partners of one sort or another for half a century. You’re not throwing me out now.”

  “I am merely puttin
g some distance between us. If things blow up on me, there’s no reason for it to touch you as well.”

  “But the Count said—”

  “I know, and everything should be fine. But you and I have had far too many reassurances from men to believe in them. Everything is fine—until it suddenly is not. And I’ve always known that it’s a chance in a million.”

  “Well, you do have three others.”

  “Though if this one proves worthless, the others will as well. After all, they were my father’s. What else could they be but useless?”

  “If so, you’re no worse off than when you started. As for Niko, you can’t have it both ways. Either they’re worthless, or they’re worth killing over.”

  “Lillie, I know you’re trying to be reassuring, but we both know that people will kill over nothing at all.”

  “Look, Niko Cassavetes was involved in shady dealings long before you showed up in Monaco. And probably before he came, if the truth be known. I’m sure he was working with loads of other shady types—so why assume his death had anything to do with you?”

  “The boy died in my sitting room.”

  “While you were here. And what was he doing there, anyway? How did he get in? He could have taken advantage of your absence to break in and have a look around, with a colleague who—wait. They couldn’t have found…them, could they?”

  “Not in my sitting room, they wouldn’t.”

  “They’re still where you put them?”

  “They were on Friday.”