Canalli enjoyed at last a young and loving wife, a villa ascreech with babies, and fishing boats with purple sails and holds full of sardines.
God bless them, he thought; they had all come through. There was a welling in his eyes and breast; he decided indulgently, and with some satisfaction, that he was just a sentimental ass, breaking goblets at the hearth to the memory of absent friends.
“Peter, I would hate to send that film to the police. I would hate to have to, I mean.”
A wave of shock went through him. “Don’t say things like that. Do you realise what would happen? In twenty-four hours Interpol would have its hand on the Irishman. On Bendell and Canalli.”
“And on you, Peter.”
“Well, yes. There’s that, too, I suppose Francois came out of the bedroom, locked the door and dropped the key in his pocket. “I wouldn’t get any ideas about taking it away from me,” he said. “I am armed.”
“Now let’s get down to business,” Angela said. “Unless you agree to help us, Peter, that film goes to the Interpol offices in Madrid. Tonight.”
Peter studied the situation and its ramifications with care. Then he said thoughtfully, “My answer is still no. You’re both frightened of something. I can smell it. I imagine the danger is quite real, and quite immediate, since you’re planning something quite desperate to escape from it. But sending me to prison won’t solve your problems, will it?”
“No, it won’t.”
“It would probably give you a certain vindictive satisfaction, but you’d still be in danger, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Well then. I think I’ll be on my way, Angela. If you point the finger at me, I shall point the finger at you. Then whoever you fear, or whatever you fear, will know pretty well where to find you.”
“You see, Francois? I told you he was clever “And dangerous,” Francois said, nodding gravely.
“There’s one other thing,” Angela said.
Peter noted with resignation the glitter of excitement in her eyes, the herringbone pattern of ski-tracks her fingernails were making on her creamy knee-caps. More aces, he thought wearily.
“Yes?”
“You’d have a hard job proving I was involved in the job at the Banco Commerciale. I was using a forged passport. Technically I never left Paris. But that’s beside the point.
Listen carefully: If you refuse to help us, we can’t make you. But if you refuse, we will have to go to the Irishman. Or to Canalli or Bendell.”
“I wish you all the luck in the world,” he said dryly. “They are competent mechanics. But without enough imagination among them to open a box of cracker-jacks.”
“But they will try.”
“No. They’re not fools, Angela.”
She smiled at him. “But they loved you, Peter, and were grateful to you. When I tell them what I intend to do with the film, they won’t think of themselves, but only of you. They will do anything I ask, regardless of the risk, to keep you safe and free.”
The case ace, he thought bitterly; for what she said was literally true. They were staunch, loyal friends; and to such stout-hearted atavisms, loyalty and friendship were not mere words, but joyous frenzies which charged their lives with meaning and excitement.
“They love you, Peter. They would die to save you.”
“And you’d even use that?”
“Make no mistake about it, Peter. I most certainly will.”
Francois said: “Your refusal may well sign death warrants for your old comrades.”
“And you’ll go to prison, in any case,” Angela said. “For I won’t let you off, Peter. I’ll still send the film to the police.”
Well, I didn’t come through after all, Peter thought, with mild wonder.
There had been an interlude, a moment of grace, which he had confused with a terminal dispensation. Now he was trapped again, jailed by fears and loyalties. I’ve even lost the philosophic view, he thought gloomily, and somehow this was the unkindest cut of all. The most unkindest cut... “Isn’t there any other alternative?” he asked Angela. “I could try to raise money for you. Or maybe we could straighten out your difficulties peacefully. Robbing banks is a damned drastic business, you know.”
Angela and Francois smiled and shook their heads.
“Very well,” Peter said, accepting the inevitable. “I’ll do what you wish. However, let’s get a few things straight. If the job is theoretically possible, I’D give it a try. If not, I won’t. Is that clear?”
“You’ll find a way,” Angela said.
“All right. One other thing. I’m to be in complete charge. One doesn’t rob banks by the democratic process. I will choose the means; the time; whatever outside assistance I feel is necessary. Agreed?”
“Yes, of course,” Angela said. “That’s precisely what we want you to do.”
“One other thing,” Peter said. “Now, in my presence, I want you to cover the latches on that reel of film with candle wax.” He slipped off a signet ring and gave it to Angela. “Then seal it with this.”
Angela smiled. “How trusting you are. But I understand.”
When this was done, he said: “Now what is it you want me to steal?”
Angela told him and Peter turned quite pale.
Chapter three
Antonio Gonzalez y’Najera, the policeman, accepted Peter’s cheque with a gratified smile.
“You’re most generous, Peter. Are you ill?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Oh. Forgive me.” Antonio laughed apologetically. “It was an unfortunate implication. Totally accidental. No. The glass of whisky at your elbow prompted my question. Are you coming down with a cold?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I was sure of it. I couldn’t imagine you drinking whisky this early in the day. You’re pale, too.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
The policeman chuckled sympathetically and adjusted his plump frame to a more comfortable position in the chair beside Peter’s desk. “It’s going around the village. I had an ache in my back this morning. And a heaviness behind my forehead. You find that a whisky helps?”
“Oh, yes.” Peter called for Mario. Whisky was provided for the policeman.
“Ah, it seems better already.”
“Mario, leave the bottle.”
The policeman’s mood became expansive. “The procession of the Virgins at San Fermin will be a glorious sight. Think of it. Centuries of precious stones and metals to blind the eyes of tourists. Are you going up to Pamplona for the fiesta?”
“Well, I’m not sure. Another touch?”
“If you’ll join me. I think it’s helping.” He looked judicious. “Yes, definitely. Thank you. But you must go to Pamplona.”
“If I must, I must,” Peter said sighing.
“You’d better have another drink. You sound hollow. You need a holiday. I promise you this: the treasures that will adorn the Virgins of Spain at Pamplona have no equals anywhere in the world. Think of it! Precious stones and metals which haven’t been displayed in public for centuries. The Contessa of Altamira’s Net and Trident of diamonds, for instance. Locked away in Seville since the time of Phillip the Second. And just think! The Silver Slippers of Saint Peter will grace the feet of the Virgin of Cordoba. The Duke of Bourbon-Parma is lending the Ropes of Pearls to the Virgin from Granada. And the Blue Tears of Santa Eulalia. The Lacrimi Christi will sparkle at the breast of Madrid’s Virgin. The Golden Oars have been promised by the House of Navarre. Barcelona is sending the Evening Stars and the Golden Bulls of the Popes of Avignon. Just a bit more, Peter. No. seriously. Only a drop. Then there will be the Diamond Flutes of Carlos...”