Dear God, Peter thought; the splendour of the images evoked by the policeman made him dizzy. His soul swooned as he heard in fancy the lids of all the treasure chests in Spain slowly creaking open; as he saw through the cobwebs of time the shimmering glories of a nation’s art and faith and history. The bullion of the conquistadors; the jewels of mighty monarchs; the masterworks of artisans down the centuries all of it collected in one place at one time, all of it glowing and blazing from the statues of the Virgins at Pamplona.
The policeman was chanting on like a herald at a ball. “Isabella’s coronet of diamonds; Ferdinand’s Sighs of Barbara; the Marques de Santander’s ruby and emerald Crown of Thorns; the platinum spark plugs from Hispano-Suiza; the—”
“What!”
“The platinum spark plugs? Oh yes. Industry is participating, too. But they lack the baubles the old families collected over the years. So they’re contributing in kind, you might say. Platinum spark plugs from Hispano-Suiza. Gold wine goblets with precious gems from the Fundador brandy people.”
This seemed to remind him of something; he looked in mild wonder at his empty glass. Peter filled it.
“Oh, thank you.” The policeman sighed and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “I find it all very confusing, Peter.” He sipped his drink. “Once there was a nice division of activity between the north and south of Spain. We sold the tourists — as it were gypsies, bandits, romance, tall tales.” He laughed softly. “Ah, yes... maidens fleeing from storm devils. Their little nipples pinched by the hot figures of ogres riding the west wind. It went over nicely with tourists. The north, on the other hand, sold good plumbing, comfortable hotels, and shops full of handbags and brass candlesticks. And that went over nicely too. But now the north wants to borrow our poverty and mix it up with their coal mines and real estate.”
Peter’s head was beginning to ache.
“Peter, let me give you a recipe for a tourist boom. Only one thing is necessary. Comfortable seats from which visitors may examine the edifying old virtues of hunger and poverty. That is the only reason the administration of Pamplona has invited our little peasant Virgin to the Fiesta. Amidst the splendour of the grand Virgins, poor little Santa Maria with her cracked eyeball and broken fingers will provide the touch of poverty which is essential to the contentment of tourists. They must have someone to pity; someone to patronise. That is all we are providing. I ache with the shame of it, Peter.”
The maids had been sniffling about the same thing this morning, Peter recalled; Santa Maria had nothing to wear to the ball. Only seed pearls and tarnished bracelets.
Peter’s phone rang. It was Grace.
“You didn’t come by last night, Peter. Are you sulking?”
“No, of course not.”
“Not about my children? Or the other thing?”
“No.”
“Then why did you stand me up?”
“I had a cold. I went to bed.”
“How very prudent of you!”
The phone clicked in his ear.
The policeman had not stopped talking. “Of course they won’t admit it. They discussed the security regulations with me quite gravely. Just as if our poor Virgin owned anything worth stealing.” He laughed and poured himself Scotch. “This might interest you, Peter. All the treasures will be kept in one bank. And that bank was chosen by lot. Interesting? Guess what bank they chose?”
“Antonio, I don’t think you should tell me.”
The policeman looked blank. “Why not?”
“Obviously it’s a matter of security.”
“Ha, ha. You don’t want to be tempted, eh?” The policeman laughed heartily; Peter’s headache grew worse. “No, I trust you, Peter. The treasures will be kept in the vaults of the Banco de Bilbao. In all seriousness, that is a secret. But it doesn’t matter. There is no point to robbing banks in Spain.”
“You’re quite sure of that?”
“Oh, yes. Remember when those Greeks stole the money from the Banco de Navarre? The Guardia Civil apprehended them on the road to Algeciras. They formed a semi-circle about the car, machine-gunned the occupants to death. Fortunately, they were indeed the culprits. Examples of that sort, plus the fact that the garrotte is used in capital crimes, encourages criminals to take a prudent view of things. They can rob and steal with great confidence in other countries. But they stay out of Spain. Look at Aristide Broualt, for example. One of the most formidable thieves to ever operate in Europe. Correct?”
“Well, I suppose so. But there was something vulgar about him, I felt.”
“Notifying the police in advance, that sort of thing? Well, perhaps you’re right. But he was enormously clever. And yet, he never tried his tricks in Spain. Nor did the one the papers dubbed the Ace of Diamonds.”
“Frankly, Antonio, as a policeman, didn’t you find him rather tiresome? Take that playing card and stiletto he always left at the scene of the crime. With gryphons drawn on it! Trademarks are childish, to start with. But theatrical ones are downright embarrassing.”
“Yes, I agree. But the custom is an ancient one. Perhaps he was an old man. But young or old, he kept out of Spain. And so did Christopher Page, the Englishman. They were wise, Peter. Jimmy Fingers, Karl Maganer, and the one they called the Count of Soho they were supreme in their line of work, but they all stayed out of Spain.”
“Supreme? That’s an interesting point. Would you say, for instance, they were more accomplished than the American, Stuart Carmichael?”
“Oh, definitely, Peter. Definitely.”
“Then how about the Black Dove?”
“The Black Dove?” The policeman frowned and shook his head slowly.
“The Black Dove? I don’t recall that one. Was he a man or a woman?”
“You must remember, Antonio. Think, for heaven’s sake.”
“I have just a vague memory.”
“The Banco Commerciale in Lisbon. The Credit Lyonnais in Paris. The Nationale in Rome. To name only a few.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Antonio said. “I remember now.”
“I should rather think you would.”
“Yes, the Black Dove. A clever one. But again, Peter, he never set foot in Spain. But this is idle talk. No intelligent person would bother stealing the jewels from the Virgins.”
“Why do you say ‘bother’?”
“Because they are priceless; therefore worthless.”
That was neatly put, Peter thought with a touch of envy. He might have used it in his journal. Things beyond value have no value. Or something like that. But the policeman’s was better. The jewels were priceless; therefore worthless. He wondered if Angela had considered that.
Antonio stood with care. “I must be going.” He looked through his pockets. “By the way, I found your parking summons. Lucky thing, eh?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Peter, you’re pale. You don’t look well. I’d have a drink, if I were you.”
He went fluidly through the door. Peter sighed and put his fingertips to his temples. Then he frowned faintly, and considered the policeman’s last words. At last he began to smile. Relief flooded through him, sluicing away his headache. Scooping up the phone he dialled the Pez Espada. “Angela? I’ve got to see you and Francois. Immediately.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“I’ve got ghastly news.”
He hung up on a hiss of angry questions. Smiling thoughtfully, Peter strolled to the bar and told Mario he wanted a whisky. Reconsidering, he said, “Better make it a double.”