“Yeah, Vito. What is he, still on his honeymoon?”
“Alas, no. Vito has had very bad luck. He is dead.”
“Too bad. Marriage was too rough for him, hey?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. The girl he married was not the girl he thought she was.”
“A common error,” I sympathized.
“Yes. But then Vito was not the sort of man who should have married at all. He didn’t like women, you know. He had much more of an inclination toward young boys.”
“You mean he was—?”
“As a three-dollar bill, as you Americans say. But still, he had his feelings. And when he found out that his bride was cheating on him-"
“Cheating? If I know Françoise -- his Françoise, the prostitute, I mean-—-I’ll bet she was doing it for money.”
“You would lose your bet, Signor Victor. She was doing it strictly for love.”
“No kidding?”
“I would not lie to a dying man, Signor Victor.”
“Don’t talk like that. I’m really in the best of health.”
“But the prognosis, nevertheless, is negative.”
“Oh. Well, tell me about Vito‘s wife, anyway. Who did she cheat on him with?”
“A dog. A Belgian shepherd. She insisted on taking it along on their honeymoon. Vito thought it was a pet. Only later did he find out the true nature of the relationship between them.”
“And the shock killed him, hey? Sensitive fellow, that Vito. I can well understand it.”
“Wrong again, Signor Victor. A knife killed him. It was left carelessly sticking in his heart."
“ Françoise?”
“No. Pierre. Her pimp. He caught up with them, and when he found out they were married, he lost his temper. You will remember that he had a particularly ugly temper, Signor Victor.”
“All those Pierres do,” I told him. “It goes along with the name. Poor Vito.”
“I suspect that there are crocodiles swimming in your tears, Signor Victor. But I will genuinely miss him. No matter what his shortcomings, Vito was a most dependable partner. And I know the new man the brotherhood is sending to help me. He is a peasant who bought his way into the Mafia. He always smells of garlic."
“I'll keep my nose peeled,” I promised.
“The dead do not smell anything,” he reminded me. “And soon you will be as dead as Vito. Poor Vito. My only consolation is that he died before finding out that his marital sacrifice was in vain.”
“Oh. So you found out that you grabbed the wrong Françoise Laval.”
"Yes. But at least the right one need not concern us, either. She has already notified Dombey of Dover that she wants no share in the inheritance.”
“So that leaves only Barbara Thomas."
“Correct. And with you out of the way, Signor Victor, rest assured that I shall conclude my business in Pamplona with dispatch.” He leveled the gun at the sleeping bag.
Suddenly there was a commotion below us. A crowd of youths had entered and started shooing the bulls out of their stalls and toward the gate leading to the street. A fleeting indecision crossed Luigi’s face. He held the gun steady, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to shoot until after they'd gone.
If I was going to make a move, this was probably my last chance. But what sort of a move? Intruders or no intruders, I didn’t doubt for a minute that Luigi would shoot if I gave him cause. The hawklike way his eyes fastened on me told me that. The look immobilized me, and the moment of chance was passing quickly. Too quickly.
Not too quickly for Pilar, though. While Luigi watched me, while I lay frozen in the sleeping-bag, she acted. Her hand had been groping in the hay throughout our conversation. Just as the distraction occurred, she had found what she sought. A pitchfork!
And now she used it. Her arm came up suddenly, and she flung it at Luigi with the full motion of the trained matador. His reflexes were fast. I’ll say that for him. He flung himself backward just fast enough so that the murderous tines just grazed the top of his head.
The movement had two results. It spoiled his aim so that when he pulled the trigger of the gun the bullet passed over the sleeping-bag. And it sent him spinning backward off the ladder to the floor below.
I jumped after him, bent on getting that gun. But again Pilar was even faster than I had been. She grabbed up the cape that we had used to tease the bull with and tossed it down over Luigi’s face. While he was thrashing about blindly, I grabbed the gun from his hand and backed away. Pilar quickly came down the ladder and joined me near the gate to the street.
I would have had no scruples about plugging Luigi then, but a second group of youths came crowding through the door and began rounding up another bunch of bulls. I couldn’t spare the time it might take to explain killing him. I had to get to Barbara Thomas before any of Luigi’s Mafia buddies did. So, still keeping the gun on Luigi, I backed Pilar over to the gate. We paused for one final look at our murderous playmate.
He was directly in the path of the first of the charging bulls now. He swirled the cape in front of him and leaped aside just in time to avoid being gored. “Hey, Luigi,” I called out to him as a second bull stampeded toward him. “Ole!” And with that I pulled Pilar outside to the street.
It was dawn. Yet, despite the early hour, the streets were lined with people. As the first bull shot past us, a youth darted in front of it, waved a cape, and then nimbly sprang to safety behind the barricade on the other side of the street. With more bulls coming, we followed his example and sought the safety of the sidewalk.
“What’s going on?” I asked Pilar.
“It is the beginning of the Festival Day of Pamplona. This is the morning on which the bulls are turned loose in the streets so that the young men may challenge them and prove their courage.”
“Oh, yeah.” I looked toward the sky and remembered. “The sun also rises,” I murmured. “But the hell with that. Tell me, Pilar, how can we get through this crowd?"
“We can’t. Not today. This is the biggest day of the year in Pamplona. It is the day on which the young men of Pamplona face their moment of truth.”
“The hell with the moment of truth!” I yelled, exasperated. Two or three Spaniards turned around and shot me looks that said I was seditious, un-Spanish, probably a Communist, and undoubtedly a man who beat his mother with the Spanish flag. “What I mean is,” I added hastily, “that it’s imperative that I find Barbara Thomas. Luigi knows she’s Raoul Mendes’ girl now. He must have overheard us before. And I’ve got to get to her before he does.”
“You mean the red-headed American girl who sleeps with Mendes?"
“Yes.”
“She stays with him in his suite at the hotel on the other side of the city. But the only way you can get there is by risking running in the gutter with the bulls. You can see for yourself that the sidewalks are too crowded to move.”
“Okay.” I sucked in a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
Pilar timed it so that we started out on the heels of the herd of bulls just passing. That wasn’t so bad, and we got halfway to our destination without incident. But then the next pack caught up with us, and I found myself mixing it up with the adolescent boys and young men jumping out into the street to taunt them. Luckily, Pilar was both experienced and nimble. She not only managed to duck the horns herself, but she also pulled me out of their way.
“Does this go on every year?” I asked her when we were forced to the sidewalk again.
“Si. Every year.”
“Well, it may be sport to a Pamplonan, but it looks pretty damned dangerous to me.”
“It is dangerous. Each year three or four are killed by the bulls.”
“Really? Then why does the government allow it? Why don’t they put a stop to it?”
“It attracts the tourists. And that is a major industry in Pamplona. Without the Festival. the tourists would not come, and the merchants would suffer.“