First, the masonry oven at the back was opened and the hot moulds, empty now of their wax, were transferred to the battered trough in the centre of the room. While Rafe loaded the oven with a new set of moulds, the other two worked at the trough, covering the waiting mouths with small squares of tin and pouring sand from the buckets around their bases. The gawky lad whisked off the covers, then kicked at the trough with his enormous boot, settling the sand in closer to the sides, just as Rafe shut the oven door on his next set.
What followed was a dance between three men and a lot of deadly machinery. First, clamps from the device overhead, lifting the rough, white-hot crucible free of the flames. The young man skimmed the slag off the top using a long-handled iron rod with a half-circle at its end. Casual blobs of thousand-degree metal were knocked to the floor, inches from ill-protected legs, as the chain lowered the glowing stone bucket into the embrace of one of those Medieval torture instruments. Monsieur Ferrant locked it into place. His side of this pouring contraption had two arms, allowing him to steer the crucible and control its stream.
“Hoop,” he called, and the clamped pot rose, moved, and hovered over the row of plaster mouths. “Là,” he said, and a miniature river of white-hot lava disappeared into an upraised mouth. The young man stepped forward with the skimming tool, modifying the direction of the flow to reduce splashes.
Moving down the row of forms, bronze filled one cup, then the next. The angle increased with the emptying of the crucible, until again came “Hoop” and the pair emptied the crucible’s dregs into a shallow metal tray, then reversed the process with carrying frame and the tongs. The crucible disappeared back inside the furnace. The slabs of bronze that had been pre-heating along the top were laid gently in.
Meanwhile, the forms were cooling with amazing rapidity, going from white-yellow to dull red to barely rose. While the crucible sat in its nest of flames, slowly melting its new ingots, Rafe began to work the plaster shapes out of the trough and lay them to one side, while the young man shovelled the sand back into the buckets.
Soon, the process repeated: fresh hot moulds set amidst the sand. Open the furnace, raise the crucible, set it glowing like a miniature sun into the three-handled pouring shank, then lift. While the gaping mouths fill, the oven receives its third and final allotment. Metal cools, molten scraps are dribbled into the tray to be re-used. Hoop. Là. Hoop. Hoop.
The men drank long draughts of liquid—it turned out to be small beer—and resumed their gauntlets. The oven was unloaded, the sand nestled in, around these, the tallest of the pieces—but when Rafe moved to assume his handle of the pouring shanks, the older man shook his head and gestured at his assistant. The sculptor protested, but the foundry owner was adamant—and when time came to pour these, the tallest of the day’s works, I could see why. Not only were the young man’s arms nearly ten inches further from the ground than Rafe’s, but his muscles were like iron, boosting the full crucible to chest level with an ease that made my arms ache just to watch.
Rafe didn’t even need to work the long-handled skimmer, but instead stood back and watched. His attitude—frowning critically, as if to make sure they did it correctly—made me think that he’d become aware of his audience again. When the other two returned to the furnace, he absent-mindedly pulled off his right gauntlet to retrieve a handkerchief and pass it over his face. The cloth went away, the crucible was ready—but before he pulled the gauntlet back on, Ainsley made a gesture that froze me in my tracks.
He rubbed the skin high on his bare forearm, just above the edge of the leather gauntlet.
Unconscious, momentary, and without meaning—except to a person who had seen the photograph of a dead man’s arm, with its lack of hair, and residual irritation on precisely that spot.
It was not a razor, preparing for a tattoo, that removed the hair from the arm of Niko Cassavetes. It had been the scorching effect of intense heat.
Not long before he died, Niko Cassavetes had donned gauntlets to help Rafe Ainsley pour bronze.
The pour ended, the furnace shut down, the crucible was scraped out. I was surprised to find how quickly the liquid metal set: already, Rafe was trading his leather apron and goggles for a chisel and mallet, chipping experimentally at one of the earliest moulds filled. He took care not to rest his hand on the surface, and used the chisel handle to shift the piece around. A rough shape emerged, choked with white plaster and wrapped in the octopus-sprues, but one could see the outlines of the sculpture beneath. He then propped it up to bash enthusiastically into its centre, pausing a few times to shake out hunks of broken-up core.
When he had finished, he carried his proto-sculpture in one gauntleted hand along the rope line for the admiration of all—taking care to pull it back from any outstretching fingers. Luisa sketched furiously, with considerable attention to Rafe’s tousled hair and the lines of his arms and upper torso (which left nothing to the imagination inside its wringing-wet singlet—the other two men must have been melting inside their long sleeves). Another visiting sculptor—I never did learn his name—asked a couple of technical questions about bronze alloys and the thickness of the moulds; the American art dealer squinted at the brazen face dusted with plaster; the mayor’s wife giggled as the half-naked man came near; the Count nodded in appreciation, the linen of his suit as crisp as if he had just stepped out of his dressing-room. But when Rafe came to Picasso, he held the piece out as a man might display a new-born son. The Spaniard bent over it, his finger sketching a line some inches above its surface, then reached out to deliver a hearty slap on Rafe’s biceps.
The younger sculptor’s face opened up in happiness at the older man’s gesture of approval. Grinning widely, he turned back to the scattered collection of moulds and settled his figure among them, then exchanged hearty hand-shakes with his two partners. Around me, people seized the opportunity to make for the cooler air, fanning themselves with anything to hand.
In the forecourt, under the shade of the foundry roof, two French women oversaw a celebratory meal whose parts I had transported, the tables laden with bottles of lemonade, beer, champagne, and mineral water. None of the drinks were cold, but all were cooler than we were. We drank greedily, talking about art (three of us), the weather (the British in the crowd), and speed-boats (which made me wonder, why wasn’t Terry here?). After several glasses of liquid, I felt considerably less light-headed, the Count looked even more phlegmatic, and the art dealer looked ready to write a cheque.
An ideal time for a spot of surreptitious interrogation, I thought—until Rafe came out and his admirers closed in.
Most of them. Looking across the gathered heads, I realised that Picasso was missing. I carried my filled glass into the foundry and saw him with the two workmen, intent on a discussion of temperatures and tools. I understood about one word in three, but if I had been Luisa, all that manliness would have sent me into a fury of sketching.
A few minutes later, the three shook hands, and Picasso came towards me, swinging his leg easily over the divider rope.
“Madame,” he said in greeting.
“That was very interesting,” I said.
He took the glass out of my hand and drained it in a series of swallows, then handed it back. “You are looking at the man Ainsley?” he asked, his voice low. “You and your husband?”
So yes, he had recognised me. “Only peripherally. A friend has a problem; it touches on the Murphys and their group.”
“It troubles me to hear you say that. They are good people.”
“I agree.”
“Can I help?”
“Tell me about Rafe Ainsley. What kind of an artist is he?”
The black eyes flicked out the doorway to the refreshment table. “I have an appointment. Walk with me into Antibes? Unless you are staying for the luncheon.”
I assured him I had no need for Madame Ferrant’s hearty cooking, now beginn
ing to appear.
While Picasso was saying his good-byes to Rafe and the others, I quietly left the foundry yard, waiting on the road lest our leaving together cause comment. His muscular form came striding along a few minutes later, and we walked.
“I met your wife,” I told him. “I didn’t realise she used to dance with the Ballets Russes.”
“Some years ago, yes. Now Olga takes care of me and the boy.”
“He’s a bright lad,” I said, unwilling to pursue the question of whether husband and child were a valid substitute for the floodlights.
“You want to know what kind of an artist is our Rafe,” he said.
“His work seems skilled. A clear eye and good hands. Perhaps a little…”
“Derivative?”
“Not as mature as he imagines,” I said in agreement. “I suppose he is young.”
“It’s not his years that makes the problem, it is his awareness of the eyes upon him.”
“Self-conscious?”
“Mannered.” His word in French was “affecté.” “Too aware of the outside of a piece, and not of its internal truth. What it looks like, not what it is.”
Second-rate, I interpreted. Then I thought of the Caliban sculptures I’d seen the previous day. “He had some pieces in his workshop that were much less…thought-out, perhaps. Coarser, brutal almost, and though they were ugly on the surface—I don’t mean ugly, merely rough—unfinished. Sorry, I don’t know the proper terms. The point is, they looked as if he’d just slapped them together, but they were honest, somehow. Solid.”
“I saw none of those.”
“No, I think those were earlier pieces.”
“Made with the hands and not the eye. That would be better. I will ask to see those.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said hastily. The dark eyes looked at me sideways. “It’s complicated.”
“Having to do with the work of your husband?”
“Which often seems to be mine, as well. I take it Damian has talked about his father?”
“Once or twice. Is Ainsley committing a crime?”
“I don’t know yet. Would it surprise you if he was?”
“Any man can be a criminal. Ainsley…hmm. I think Ainsley would not commit a clear and blatant wrongdoing. But if it was at a distance? If he could view the act as less a crime than a matter of convenience? Yes.”
“You mean that if he felt he deserved a thing, he would take it?”
“It would be his.”
Just as the Murphys’ guest house, their terrace, their food, and the contents of their drinks cabinet were his. “Still, I’m not sure that doesn’t apply to most people.”
“A matter of degree, perhaps.”
“So where would Rafe Ainsley draw the line?” Theft, I wondered? Murder? Did I even know where he had been the night Niko died?
But Picasso merely shook his head. “That I could not tell you. But I would ask you to do all you can to keep it away from Sara and Gerald Murphy. Gerald is an innocent, and Sara—Sara is a calm centre around which the artistic minds whirl. She brings out the best in us all.”
“A remarkable person. Oh, but that’s one of Rafe’s pieces that you should see, his head of Sara. He’s captured her essence.”
“I will ask.”
“And I will try to keep them out of it. Holmes and I will both try.”
He thanked me, and for the rest of the way into the town, we talked about the Murphy family, and about Holmes’ son in Paris.
To my relief, my hotel room was no longer mine alone.
“Ah, Holmes, I was beginning to wonder if I’d need to come and bail you out, too. For assaulting an officer of the law, or at least offending him. You missed an interesting demonstration—and I saw Damian’s friend Picasso. I hadn’t realised that his wife was one of those who spend time on the Murphys’ beach. Have you had a good day?” I tried to remember what he had been setting off to do, then noticed the ash-tray near his chair. The number of stubs suggested hours of leisurely contemplation out of the window…but the vehemence with which the cigarettes had been smashed into it said something else entirely.
I looked at him, seeing the storm clouds on his brow, and tried for a light touch. “I take it you had another grim conversation with our friend the Inspector. Will we be turned back at the Monaco border, next time we try to get in?”
“Inspector Jourdain chose to bury his shame at being forbidden to do his job beneath a show of aggression.”
“Well, I don’t see any blood on your clothing, so the argument stopped short of an open brawl.”
“Merely a verbal one. Which ended with a threat of arrest.”
“I suppose that’s to be—”
“For both of us.”
“Me? Why, what have I done to offend the man?”
“Basil Zaharoff.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
“Holmes, I—”
“Russell, what the blazes were you thinking? Basil Zaharoff? The man could swat you—”
This explained the ash-tray: not four hours of casual thought, but one hour of fury. “Holmes,” I began, but he was on his feet now, in full spate.
“—like an insect and have you wiped up without anyone seeing. If you imagine—”
“Holmes, it was—”
“—that I would have an easy time finding you, or even—”
“Holmes, I—”
“—Mycroft, with all the power at his call, could bring the man—”
“Holmes, for God’s sake! You think I don’t know the man is hugely dangerous? You think I expected him to be there? Give me some credit for intelligence, please.”
Say what you will about Sherlock Holmes: imperious, impatient, and patronising he could be, but when an accusation was put to him, he was also honest to his bones.
Sooner or later.
Right now, he was stung, and snatched up his tobacco to go stand at the window, back turned.
I took myself off to the bath, which also helped cool things.
Twenty minutes later, we met up and began anew.
He’d rung down for tea, which was a good sign. I walked to the tray, and poured. “What have you been doing, other than being both insulted and blamed for your wife’s actions by Inspector Jourdain?”
He accepted my change of topic. “I put my head into every tattoo parlour between here and the Italian border, and found no one who would admit to a customer resembling Niko Cassavetes.”
“Oh, Holmes—I’m so sorry! I just discovered this morning that it wasn’t a tattoo.” I explained how I’d seen Rafe Ainsley rub at his irritated arm, in precisely the same spot as the missing hair on Niko Cassavetes. “I should have remembered those gauntlets, Holmes, before sending you off on a wild-goose chase. Really sorry.”
“The time was not entirely wasted. It has given me considerable insight into the mores and manners of the contemporary female. Although, Russell, if you decide to have a tattoo engraved on your skin, I beg you to give your husband prior warning.”
“I promise. So, would you like me to tell you what actually happened between me and Zaharoff?”
“That would be an excellent idea.”
“Well, I did telephone to Mrs Hudson, but she said she’d be too busy to see me. I couldn’t see much reason to insist, so I told her I’d phone back.”
“She’s still with Mrs Langtry?”
“She was, although I’m not sure for how long. Then, as I was leaving the hotel room, the cleaner arrived, and I thought that perhaps local knowledge might include the whereabouts of Mr Zaharoff. I asked, and to my surprise she said that he used some rooms on the top floor of the Hermitage for meetings. I thought it might be helpful to know if the offices looked difficult to break into. I definitely was not expecting to find him there, sinc
e you said he has a house in Monaco, but the door was standing open and when I looked inside, expecting a cleaner or a secretary, it was him.”
I watched Holmes closely, seeing the effort it took to keep his wrath under control. “Why did you not immediately leave?”
“Wouldn’t that have appeared just a touch, I don’t know. Suspicious?”
“Perhaps. But less…suicidal than stepping inside the man’s rooms.”
“It took him two seconds to pull a gun on me. God knows how he’d have reacted if I’d turned and run. I know we’d like a sample bullet from his gun, but I didn’t care to have it fished out of my own flesh.”
I had succeeded in rendering Sherlock Holmes speechless. I grinned and dropped into a chair. “It was actually quite interesting, if you can keep yourself from exploding.”
He lowered himself onto the settee, not even reaching for the distraction of tobacco.
I told him about the munitions dealer, his quick transformations from threat to joviality, then the further change to what appeared to be actual humour.
“The man’s charm I should have expected—anyone who can manipulate the very highest rank of politicians and industrialists has to be able to use charm as a weapon. But I suspect that, given his reputation, it’s been a very long time since anyone dared to stand up and speak honestly to Basil Zaharoff. If I’d been a man, if I’d been older, or more beautiful—if I’d even been wearing something other than that ridiculous dress—he might have felt more threatened. But there I was, in flowers and spectacles, asking him first to give Mrs Hudson an alibi and then to tell me about his ties to Niko Cassavetes. I think he found it hard to take me seriously.”
He slowly shook his head. “Viyella as a means of disarmament. A weapon I can honestly say would not have occurred to me.”
I didn’t think the dress was made of Viyella. I also didn’t think this was the time for a detour into fabrics. Instead, I gave him a detailed report on everything Zaharoff had said, and moreover, how he’d said it.
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