Larry had slightly embroidered this interaction in the canteen to almost having a conversation with the Super Grass, and as the escape happened shortly afterward, Larry was only too ready to tell anyone who cared to listen that he had actually confronted Myers. Now, in the stifling hotel bedroom, his imagination ran riot. Imagine what it would mean to be the officer that brought him back! Be the man to trace him, discovering he wasn’t dead, but alive. As he fell at last into a deep, sweating sleep, he was seeing himself being congratulated, his back patted, his hand shaken by his Guv’nor, as he was made Detective Inspector Lawrence Jackson...
Larry went to Marbella Police Headquarters early the next morning, and after identifying himself he was granted the information he asked for, though rather coolly. The registered owner of the Rolls Corniche was Philip Von Joel, a dealer in art and antiques. He had a couple of galleries in the area. His home was in the mountainous country to the north of Marbella; it cost Larry a little more persuasion to get the address. He had the feeling — more than a feeling, an annoying near-certainty — that Mr. Von Joel was being discreetly shielded by the local policia.
When he left police HQ he took a taxi out along the narrow mountain road indicated on his photocopied map. It was a bumpy ride on a steady gradient that took half an hour and brought them, after the dust and dirt of the journey, to a magnificent place, a villa larger and more opulent than any of the beauties they passed on the way up.
The entrance was fronted by tall iron gates, flanked by railings set into a surrounding wall that maintained security without obscuring the view. The house itself was mainly Moorish in design, but with deep-sloping tiled rooftops that echoed some of the finer architecture in Barcelona. It filled its setting generously, branching off in double-storied wings from a shadowy, cool-looking central logia. Gazing at the arched entrance and the splendid balconies, Larry was reminded of pictures he had seen of tycoons’ so-called Spanish homes in Bel Air. This looked better than any of them. It was also, he reminded himself, the real thing.
He wandered around the side, getting a closer look, pushing his face to the railings to see the swimming pool, the lush stretches of lawn, the opulence of the sculpted shrubbery that formed shadowy enclosures around the gardens. He tried to catch the attention of a gardener working near the wall, but the man could have been blind and deaf for all the notice he took.
Larry went back to the front gates and stood for a minute gazing up at the blank windows. He could sense somebody watching, but no one challenged him or came to ask if they could help. Somewhere in the grounds he heard dogs bark. Along the lane from the villa he noticed a large double-doored building set back from the road. He strolled up to it, trying to look like just another nosy tourist. There was a discreet plaque outside:
He stood sweating at the open doors, peering into the cool interior. It was a warehouse of Aladdin’s cave proportions, crammed with objects he couldn’t begin to name. Antique furniture stood in tight rows, every item numbered and labeled with a handwritten description. There were dressing chests, tallboys, mahogany fauteuils and Dutch, German, and English side tables from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Beyond them were Victorian davenports, tambour and rolltop writing tables, and gate-leg tables in yew, rosewood, and mahogany. There were cases packed to their glass fronts with jasperware, Staffordshire and Royal Worcester figurines, rare Castilian dolls, jugs and ewers, decanters and snuff boxes in a variety of semiprecious metals. Hanging from the walls and beams were paintings, mirrors, and decorative tabletops; Indian and Persian rugs were folded in thick piles across banisters and low beams.
Amongst it all Larry suddenly spotted a solitary living soul, an elegant Spanish woman sitting at a desk. He approached her.
“You speak English?”
She nodded.
“Is Philip Von Joel around, at all?”
“Today he will probably be at his gallery in Benabana,” she said carefully, as if the words might be damaged if she jostled them. She handed Larry a card with the address of the gallery. “May I ask if you have business with Mr. Von Joel?”
“Maybe,” Larry said. “Thanks for your help.”
Benabana was another dusty ride away, a shorter one this time, bringing them through winding outskirts to a tidy, narrow main street of traditional Andalusian shops and houses, freshly painted and handsomely maintained.
Business around here was obviously good. Larry saw the gallery straightaway, halfway along the street, the name on a sign projecting from the wall. The driver pulled up near the entrance and Larry got out.
The gallery was closed. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered inside. The place could have been transplanted from Bond Street. It was large and airy with dark, shiny furnishings, the walls hung with expensive-looking pictures.
The sign on the door definitely said cerrado, but Larry tried it again just in case. It didn’t budge. He stood there, waiting for someone to come past, conscious of how damp and parboiled he must look. A young woman eyed him cautiously as he stepped forward and asked her, in English, if she knew where he might find Mr. Von Joel.
“Puerto Banus,” she suggested, pointing back down the mountainside.
The driver had heard and was revving the engine as Larry got back in the car. He groaned with the exertion, feeling the need of a soothing beer. As he leaned back against the warm vinyl he told himself his time hadn’t been wasted. He was learning in advance about Von Joel — or the possibly counterfeit character using that name — and he was getting the feel of the man’s local stature. On the other hand, he could just be kidding himself. Local stature was one thing; proving Von Joel was a fake and doing something about it was something else again. The morning could have been a complete waste of time.
Puerto Banus was an eye-opener, smart and modern, and the harbor was a noticeable step up from its counterpart along the coast at Marbella. The craft tied up here — everything from speedboats and launches to the biggest seagoing yachts — were the toys of an international coterie who came and went throughout the year, a tight society of seriously rich sybarites with the ultimate blessing: they could not suffer material loss, since everything they possessed, however costly, could be replaced.
A barman directed Larry to a shopping lane behind the harbor, a stretch of exclusive boutiques and shops, one of them with the name Philip Von Joel above the high main window. The gallery was as well-appointed as the place at Benabana, and it was larger.
He wandered in through the open door. There was activity, for a change. People were moving through the rooms carrying easels, trestles, and chunky wooden and metal sculptures. Other people were hanging pictures, chattering and singing as they worked. The air was thick with the aromas of varnish and beeswax.
Larry watched a tall, expensively tanned young woman in Yves St. Laurent shorts and a diaphanous top move through the gallery issuing clipped little commands to right and left. She came through from the back and paused at the reception desk.
Larry stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“Excuse me...” It came out a lot quieter than he had intended. The girl took no notice. He tried again. “Ah, excuse me...” She looked at him. “Is this the main art gallery on the harbor?”
“Yes...” Her eyes slid back to the diary in front of her. “But we’re not open.”
“Philip Von Joel’s gallery, is it?”
She looked up again, absently stroking her blond hair.
“Yes, but he’s not here. I’m his assistant.” She glanced at the tiny Rolex on her wrist, then narrowed her eyes at Larry. “Are you from Angelo’s? The crates need to be taken to the back entrance. Did you bring the glasses?”