CHAPTER FIVE

    

    "How did you get in here?"

    "I told the desk clerk I was a friend of yours. He said that made us friends, since you and he are friends. We all have passion, he said, and let me in. But please don't try to change the subject. Why were you going on that way in French?"

    "As a matter of fact, I was expecting someone else."

    "Yes. Tri-nitro whatever it was. Pouf. Finis! I guess you were."

    She smiled uncertainly. "Peter, what's wrong? You're different, somehow. You've changed."

    And so had she, Peter realised sadly. He had always thought of her in images and metaphors. Silver trees, golden bonfires, stately clippers.

    Now in this transparent and cruelly realistic northern air, she seemed less mysterious, less a creature of magic and enchantment; she was human, after all, lovely beyond words to be sure, but weighable and measurable now, an entity composed of readily ascertainable details.

    She wore a dress the colour of cocoa, a short coat of natural wool, and narrow black boots with tops of brown fur which fitted snugly about her fine ankles. There was a smudge of dust on her cheek. A tendril of fine hair had escaped a sleek coiffure to prance on top of her head like a tiny golden sea-horse. She must have come straight from the train, he thought with a pang of sympathy. She would probably love a bath and a nap. Somehow details he had never noticed before made her even more precious and dear in his eyes.

    "Peter, you can't go ahead with this business," she said quietly.

    "Dear, I've got to."

    "But it's insane. It's worse. It's stupid and sentimental. When you told me about it at first, it sounded sweet and splendid. Like listening to a dear old uncle reading fairy tales before a cosy fire. But it won't work, Peter. There's no place for romantic gestures outside of books. I want you to be practical. To be sensible."

    Yes, he thought, she was real enough now, no doubt of it. Sensible. Practical. But what had happened to the bonfires and cellos? Where had the enchantment gone? And yet, he thought, it probably wasn't her fault. It wasn't deliberate, at any rate. She must have been lulled to sleep, as he had been, by insidious and deceptive southern breezes.

    He remembered what Antonio, the policeman, had told him about the north and south of Spain. It made a sad kind of sense now. The south sold gypsies and romance, ogres riding the west winds. While the north sold the things of the real world good hotels and electricity, shops full of handbags and brass candlesticks. In the south, dreams of innocence and passion were understood and accepted as fancies borne on the African trades. But here in the north they were neither understood nor accepted; they were not sensible, not practical. But where, Peter wondered unhappily, did passion and innocence exist? In the needle of a compass? Or in the beat of a heart?

    "Please listen to me, Peter. Please." He saw the tremor of her lips, the fear in her lovely eyes, and the way her hands were twisting together at her breast, and he thought wistfully of tall, silver trees, of stately clipper ships. How he missed them now!

    "Yes?"

    "I've got enough money for both of us. In twenty-four hours we could be half-way around the world. In Melbourne, Tokyo, or anywhere you like. Please come away with me, Peter."

    "I can't. It just wouldn't work."

    "Do you think this business will work? You're all alone, Peter. With no one to help you. You'll be caught and sent to prison, or you'll be shot and killed. Don't you realise that?"

    "Yes, I suppose I do. But I can't help it."

    "And I can't help caring about you. That's all I do care about, Peter."

    "I wish my commitments were so simple," he said with a sigh.

    "I am selfish and mean. You are loyal and pure. Is that what you're telling me?"

    He said quietly: "You know I'm not taking a high moral stand. As you suggested, I'm trying to be practical. If I ran off with you and left my friends to hang, I'd hardly be the man you think you're in love with. I'm not sure who I'd be then. The change might even be an improvement. But you wouldn't have what you wanted, and neither would I. You'd have a nice sensible coward; and I'd have a woman who wanted a nice sensible coward. Neither of us would care for that. After a bit, we'd have difficulty looking at one another. Don't you see it wouldn't work?"

    Unexpectedly she smiled and said, "Of course. You're absolutely right, Peter. You couldn't possibly come away with me. I see that now. So I'll have to stay with you. It's that simple."

    "Don't talk like a fool!"

    "But you've got no one else to trust. Your old friends aren't at your side. And Angela and Francois will sell you out the minute the job is done. They'll have to throw you to the police to protect themselves. Don't you realise that?"

    "Of course. I'm not a complete idiot. But I'll have something to say about that when the time comes."

    "But you can't watch both of them. Please, Peter." She came closer to him and put her hands on his shoulders. There was a strange challenge in her smile, exciting lights in her splendid eyes. "Let me help you."

    "Now you're talking like an idiot. You women pride yourselves on being realists. At bottom you're all as frivolous as tinkers." He pulled her hands down from his shoulders. He was quite angry. "This isn't a game we're playing. I'm not a knight in armour. I'm a thief. What I'm going to do what I must do is dangerous and wrong. Legally and morally. Will you get that into your silly head?"

    "What's so immoral about it? What good are all those jewels doing strung about the necks of plaster statues?" There was a flash of mutinous tears in her eyes. "When families are cold and children are hungry? How can stealing them be morally wrong? You won't be depriving a single human being of comfort or solace."

    He sighed. "That's very glib. If a man looks at a beautiful statue of the Virgin and says a prayer, who are we to measure what comfort and solace that may bring to him?"

    "I can measure it. It would probably fit in a thimble, with lots of room left over."

    "I'm not that omniscient, my dear." There was a touch of lofty admonition in his tone, and, sensing it, Peter resolved not to be presumptuous, regardless of provocation. "I am a sinner," he continued more equably. "You are not. And I've never paid for my sins. That's the difference between us."

    "Oh, how smug you are! It's the ultimate vanity, Peter, to accuse everyone else in the world of innocence. Because you equate it with naivety and stupidity."

    "I'm sorry. But I do not."

    "Yes, you do. You think some special cachet attaches itself to sinners. While the mark of the booby is stamped on the innocent. Well, thank you very much, but I'm not a booby." He was confused and stirred by her emotion, her closeness to him; the hot tears in her eyes melted the steel of his resolution. The drums and bugles were sounding once more; the tiny golden sea-horse on top of her head seemed to be prancing to the challenge of the music. He prayed for strength.

    "Peter, please let me help you," she said, and as she whispered the words, the lights in the room coated her long full lips with a patina of shimmering silver.

    "No, no, no!" he said. "The only way you can help is by leaving me alone."

    She studied his face and eyes. Then she nodded and turned slowly to the door. "All right, Peter, I'll go, if that's what you want." She sighed and straightened her shoulders. "I have a confession to make. It doesn't matter in the least now, but I'm not pregnant."

    "Oh? Is that all right? I mean, you're not disappointed or anything?"

    She smiled quietly. "You're such a good man. Who else would think of such a thing now? It makes me feel rather small. Because I lied to you. I wasn't pregnant, darling."

    "But you went to Paris and saw your husband. You said'

    She interrupted him. "No, I saw my lawyer. About some odds and ends of business. My husband's been dead four years. This is all very difficult, Peter. I told you he was alive and wanted me back because I didn't want you to feel responsible for me. If you wanted to throw me over, I didn't want you having conscience pangs about it." She sighed again. "You were upset about my children, and I realised I hadn't been fair to you. I wanted to give you, well an out."

    "I'm rather surprised at your estimate of me. Had I previously behaved in a fashion that led you to anticipate shrieks of prudish revulsion at what is, after all, a fairly natural condition?"

    "You're spacing your words, Peter. You do it when you're upset."

    "Damn it, why did you tell me this now?"

    She turned quickly to him, her eyes bright with hope, "I thought it might make a difference. About helping you, I mean. I am, in fact, a perfectly proper widow with three adorably well-mannered children. I'm not a divorcee with shadowy ex-husbands and lovers. Don't you see the difference? It's such a perfect cover. I could come up here next week with my children and keep an eye on Francois and Angela. I could run errands for you, and help you with your plans. And no one would ever suspect me."

    "God Almighty!" he cried explosively. "Didn't you hear me? Do you still think I'm trying to steal the plays of the Vassar volleyball team? You must be out of your mind! You want to help me?" He caught her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "All right. Find me cracksmen dynamiters, human flies, judo experts. Get me Aristide Broualt! Christopher Page! Stuart Carmichael! Or Jimmy Fingers or even the Ace of Diamonds or the Count of Soho!"

    "The Ace of Diamonds? The Count of Soho? What are you talking about?"

    "You wouldn't understand if I spelled it out letter by letter. It doesn't matter. They are thieves. Geniuses, artists, virtuosos of crime. That's what I need. Not your proper widow's weeds and adorably well-mannered children."

    "But they're all I have to offer you! How can you be so unfeeling?"

    "It's not difficult at all, since it's my neck that's on the block." He picked up her purse and gloves and thrust them into her hands. "Now, will you do me two favours?"

    "You're going to ask me to leave," she said miserably "And you'll have the poor grace to consider that a favour. What else do you want, Peter?"

    "I'd like you to say good-bye without rancour, without tears, without hysterics. And go out that door without looking back."

    "You're so stubborn, Peter. You've made up your mind and nothing will change it. You can't think clearly any more."

    "There is nothing left to think about," he said.

    "If you weren't such a fool, you'd think about why I lied to you. And you'd wonder that I was able to. But you're not even curious. You're not only unfeeling and insensitive, you're rigid, and that's the worst possible drawback in your line of work."

    "My work is running a bar. My cross is robbing banks. Will you please say good-bye now?"

    "You're hateful."

    Peter walked to the windows and stood with his back to her, his shoulders squared, arms folded, staring out at the winking lights of the old Basque town.

    He was ready for this moment, quite ready for it. "Good-bye, Grace," he said quietly. But ready as he was, he was still surprised by the sharp edge of the words, surprised at the way they hurt his throat.

    "Oh, good-bye, you bastard," she said.

    Peter raised his eyebrows. That wasn't like her, he thought sadly. He heard the doorknob turn; the hinges creak; the tap of her heels.

    

***

    

    There was another sound then, a hiss of disturbed air that was like silk cloth being torn by angry hands. Something bright and shimmering flashed past Peter's startled eyes and impaled itself in the wall beside his head with a metallic thunk.

    He ducked and wheeled about, but the door had already swung shut with a dry and final click. The room was empty; she was gone.

    Peter stared at the slim little knife, which still quivered in the wall like a tuning fork. No, he thought, with some agitation, this wasn't like Grace at all. He worked the tip of the knife free from the plaster, and wondered what in heaven's name had got into her. Then his jaw dropped as he saw the playing card impaled to the hilt on the knife's gleaming blade The Ace of Diamonds. And on it a gryphon's head drawn in bold strokes.

    The floor shifted giddily beneath Peter's feet. His mind turned an ana grammatical somersault, and the truth reverberated in his head with a crash.

    The Ace of Diamonds with a gryphon!

    The Grace of Diamonds!

    The implications streaked through his mind like the shock waves of an earthquake. Grace! A criminal! Oh no, no. It wasn't possible. She was practical. Sensible. That was the reality; the bonfires had been an illusion, a chimera. Yes, that was it. It must be a joke. Of course. Laugh, you idiot, laugh. Ha, ha, ha!

    Dear God, he thought, and rushed across the room and pulled open the door.

    He collided with a tall man in a black raincoat.

    "Excuse me, I was just going out," Peter said.

    He stepped to one side, but the man moved quickly in front of him, blocking his way. Something hard and cold prodded Peter's stomach.

    "Inside," the man said.

    Peter glanced down and saw the shiny blue muzzle of a revolver. "Well, of course," he said, and stepped back into his room. The tall man looked down the corridor, nodding, and Peter took that opportunity to slip the knife and playing card into his pocket. Another man, with hard brown features and hair the colour of old silver, joined the man in the black raincoat.

    They came in and closed the door.

    "Let me introduce myself," the older man said to Peter.

    "That won't be necessary," Peter said. "You're Colonel Paul Brissard. He is Phillip Lemoins. I'm Peter Churchman and this is my room. So would you mind awfully telling me what this is all about?"

    The colonel glanced at Phillip, then at Peter, his expression puzzled and suspicious. "You know who we are?"

    "Yes. I spotted you a day or so ago. In a grey Citroen cruising about everywhere I went. You might as well have sent up rockets. I tagged you back to your hotel yesterday afternoon, and the clerk told me who you were." Peter smiled.

    "But not why you're interested in me. Supposing you let me in on that." The colonel shrugged lightly. "We're going to kill Francois Morel, Mr. Churchman."

    "Bully for you! I wish you the best of luck."

    "And you are going to help us, Mr. Churchman."

    "I'm afraid that's out of the Question. I've got quite enough demands on my time as it is."

    "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you, Mr. Churchman."

    "Oh? Then let me tell you to go to hell, Colonel." Phillip struck Peter at the base of the skull with the muzzle of his gun.

    "Speak in a civil manner to the colonel," he said, as he lowered Peter's sagging body into a chair.

    "We aren't murderers in the usual sense, Mr. Churchman. We are executioners."

    "Ah, yes," Peter said. His head ached. He was paying little attention to Colonel Brissard. His thoughts spun dizzily about Grace; the inside of his head was a cave of shimmering fantasies. Grace, in a picture hat and long white gloves mixing explosives! No!

    "Francois Morel isn't his name," the colonel said. "However, it will do as well as the one he dishonoured. Morel was a member of the OAS. So was I. And so was Phillip. Morel betrayed our general when things went badly. The details aren't important, but they may help you to understand us. Only one officer was allowed to know the whereabouts of the general's headquarters in Algiers. Morel and two accomplices tricked that officer into joining them at a house in the hills above the city. They overpowered him, bound him with ropes. Then they lowered the unfortunate man into a cesspool where rats fed. After twenty-four hours, with half his face eaten away, he told them what they wanted to know, Morel and his friends sold that information to the government to save their hides. Our general was captured and shot. In time we found Morel's accomplices. One was hiding in Aden, the other in Casablanca. We punished them with Biblical severity. An eye for an eye, isn't it, Mr. Churchman? We let rats feed on them until they died. It was disagreeable but so is treachery."

    "The morality of this seems cloudy to me," Peter said. "You betrayed your country. Morel betrayed you. Where's the real difference?"

    Phillip stood facing him, huge hands swinging free at his sides. The colonel now held the gun. "Speak civilly to the colonel," Phillip said gently.

    "Never mind, Phillip. He's entitled to that question. Yes, we were rebels, Mr. Churchman. But it wasn't an easy decision. I knew St. Cyr as a youth. Verdun as a young man. I served under marshals who lighted the sky like gods." He sighed faintly. "It takes considerable resolution to forget such memories. But as I watched the great forts of the empire falling one by one not to arms but to political considerations I joined a group that called such things monstrous. True, we lost faith in our leaders; but we kept faith with the glory of France. And now this is a paragraph of history, already blurred and obscured by the dust of time. But before the page is turned and the book closed forever, we will add a footnote concerning Francois Morel."

    Peter asked what he considered to be reasonable questions. "Why not just go ahead and kill him? Why involve me in all this?"

    "The woman Morel travels with is a thief. We know her reputation. We also know Morel got in touch with you several days ago. You met with Morel and his woman on at least three occasions. Then you came here to Pamplona. We assume you intend to steal something. We don't care what. You have our word, we won't touch your share of it."

    "Now that's decent of you."

    "Spare us your sarcasm, please. If you were a thief, that would be all that mattered to you. Money. But I don't think you're a thief. We made inquiries of you in the village. You've lived there six years, you own a business and so forth. So if I'm correct, you're being forced to co-operate. But not by Morel, obviously."

    "Why "obviously"?"

    "Because we are familiar with his past, and we know his family, his friends and acquaintances. You didn't meet Morel until last week. Therefore it's the woman." The colonel shrugged, certifying and dismissing this conclusion. "What we want is Morel's share of whatever you're planning to steal. Our general's family is living in poverty, and we feel it would be appropriate if Morel made a material restitution to them before he dies. If you refuse to help, we shall kill him immediately, of course." He smiled pleasantly. "Then, Mr. Churchman, what will the woman do when she learns that you allowed us to kill her lover?"

    "But you intend to kill him, in any case."

    "Ah, but she doesn't know that."

    Peter damned the sly old logicians of St. Cyr; the colonel had built a neat trap for him. "Well, I have no choice, it seems."

    "That's right."

    Peter straightened and looked thoughtfully at Phillip. "I might be able to use him, you know."

    "Mr. Churchman, you had better understand one thing. You aren't using us. We are using you."

    "Oh, it was just a matter of speaking," Peter said. "Morel was in my regiment," the colonel said. "Therefore I must keep out of this. But he doesn't know Sergeant Lemoins. Until the matter is settled, Phillip will stay with you. Get used to that: he won't let you out of his sight."

    "That could be awkward- How will it look to Morel if I return from Pamplona with a great Gallic shadow at my heels?"

    "I think you can figure out some explanation, Mr. Churchman. Considering what's at stake."

    "Oh, I intend to, believe me," Peter said.

    He sighed and slipped a foot behind Phillip's ankle. Then he slammed his other foot into Phillip's knee, and the big Frenchman sat down abruptly, a cry of anger and surprise exploding from his throat. The sergeant was a formidable animal, Peter noted with clinical interest; his body seemed made of hard rubber and steel springs. He rolled on to his shoulders, doubling his legs up swiftly, then hurled himself forward, hobnailed boots lashing out at Peter's face.

    Peter slipped from the chair barely in time to avoid a broken nose and smashed cheekbones. Crouching, he said sharply, "Colonel! For God's sake! The door!"

    When the colonel wheeled about, Peter stood, and, with a thumb and forefinger, plucked the gun from his hand.

    "Now, let's establish some realistic ground rules," he said, the gun swinging back and forth between the two Frenchmtn, as evenly as the bar of a metronome. "You want to avenge dead comrades. I want to save live ones. I don't give one damn about your old glories and betrayals and defeats. Not one damn. I could shoot you both without turning a hair. Give me an excuse, and I will. Get up, Phillip. You look like an ass lying there with your boots in my chair."

    "I'm sorry, Colonel," Phillip said, as he untangled himself and got to his feet.

    "It was my fault, Phillip." The colonel looked thoughtfully at Peter, a bitter self-reproof in his hard features, a reluctant respect in his eyes. "I misjudged you, Mr. Churchman."

    "Well, those things happen," Peter said. "Now then. I can do two things which will put an end to this nonsense. I can call the police and have you both locked up for breaking into my room; then I can call Morel and tell him you're on my trail. The next you know, he'd be in Brazil or Iceland or Timbuktu. But I'm not going to do either of those things, because I have a use for this big chap here. You can have your crack at Morel when my work is done. But not until. And not unless Phillip agrees to take orders from me as unhesitatingly as he would from you."

    The colonel looked thoughtful. "May I have your word that you won't reveal Phillip's identity to Morel?"

    "Yes, but only on the condition that you do nothing to Morel until I'm finished with him."

    "You have my word."

    "In that case, you have mine. Here. Put this away." He gave the colonel his gun and turned to study Phillip with an appraising frown.

    "Stand up straight, Sergeant. Tell me. Are you as strong as you look?"

    Phillip shrugged impassively. "I'm as strong as I need to be."

    "Good. The job I have in mind is very demanding. Morel's not up to it, I'm sure. And I'll be busy with other things." Peter pulled a table from the wall and placed it between two straight-backed chairs.

    "Sit down, Phillip. Facing me. Are you familiar with arm-wrestling?"

    The question brought a fleeting smile to Phillip's lips.

    "Good," Peter said. "Let's see if you're up to what I have in mind."

    They braced their elbows on the table and locked hands together deliberately and cautiously, adjusting and altering their grips for maximum power and leverage. "Colonel, will you give us the word?"

    "Very well. Are you both ready?"

    "Yes."

    "Yes, Colonel."

    "In that case commence!"

    The table creaked with the sudden pressure of their arms. The colonel smiled faintly. "Sergeant, put Mr. Churchman's hand down on the table."

    "Yes, Colonel."

    It was over in a matter of seconds.

    Phillip rubbed his shoulder and looked sheepishly at the colonel. "I'm sorry, sir," he said with a sigh.

    "Well, it's more a trick than anything else," Peter said, and gave Phillip a consoling pat on the back. "Don't worry about it. You'll do fine."

    As Peter started to rise, Phillip sprang to his feet, stepped around the table and held his chair. There was something in his expression which brought a faint and rather wistful smile to the colonel's face.

    "I hope I deserve your confidence, sir," Phillip said to Peter. "I hope so too. For your sake and mine. Now let's discuss our problems realistically. It's all very well to say you want Morel's share of the loot. But getting it will be another matter. Angela is no fool. I'm assuming Morel isn't either."

    "No. He has an instinct for survival," the colonel said. "Therefore we need a sound cover story for Phillip. I am planning to steal certain precious stones from the Banco de Bilbao next week. But Phillip, you can't let on you know that. We mustn't get into the business of shares. Angela will question you, shrewdly and carefully, but you must convince her you think we're only after money. You don't know the details of the job. All you can reveal to either of them is this: that I offered you a sum of money, two thousand American dollars, to do something requiring great physical strength. It's dishonest, but you don't give a damn. Got it?"

    Phillip nodded slowly. "They'll learn nothing more from me, I assure you."

    "All right. Point two. When I hand over the jewels, I receive in return an object of no material value. Its nature isn't relevant. But it compromises friends of mine. Now let me say one more thing: The jewels have a sacred and historical value, and disposing of them may be impossible. I'm being fair with you your general's wife probably won't realise a sou from them."

    The colonel smiled. "If that's true and we will make certain it is we will return them to their owners."

    "And kill Morel with pleasure," Phillip said. "Then we understand one another."

    "But I don't understand you," the colonel said. "You're risking your life for nothing?" The colonel smiled and turned to the door. With a hand on the knob he looked back at Peter. "You know, you're quite a remarkable person, Mr. Churchman. In another situation, I would like to be your friend. I think we might have interesting matters to talk about. But do you mind if I tell you something?"

    "Please do."

    "You have a disease which frequently attacked my finest officers."

    "And what's that?"

    "You want to die, Mr. Churchman."

    The door clicked and they were gone.

    

***

    

    The colonel's diagnosis jarred Peter. He didn't want to die. He wanted Grace, he wanted to live. What the devil did the old Frenchman know about it?

    Troubled and unhappy, Peter went out to look for Grace.

    He searched hotels and bars, cafes and restaurants, and looked for her shining blonde head in the streets and plazas of the old town. But he found no trace of her at all.

    At last he gave up. He stood on the old battlements and stared down at the streets and buildings below him, and his mood was as grey as the soft gloomy dusk that was spreading over the city. Everything was quiet and peaceful now, but next week this would be the arena in which he must fight for his life.

    Peter made his final preparations. He went to a crooked street where a carpenter lived and gave him money and instructions. Then he booked a hotel room with a view of the river and the bull pens. Finally he spent an hour in the reading room of the Museum of Archives, looking at blueprints of certain architecturally interesting buildings in the old quarter of the city. These precious yellowing documents, protected by sheathings of transparent plastic, gave Peter a scale view of the substructure of Pamplona. He made notes while the gently garrulous old curator explained the characteristics of the Roman sewers and canals which run under the older part of the town to drain into the River Argo. Peter drew the curator's attention to a particular building, and let him ramble on about it. He copied down a few more figures, thanked the old gentleman sincerely, and returned to his hotel room.

    There he made an entry in his journal, a quite formal and explicit one:

    Dear God. The others were for You. The passion, the innocence, the money, it was all for You. You look with favour, I'm told, on engineers who build bridges in Your Name, and on football coaches who win games for Your greater glory. Well, You know what I did. And why.

    But this one is strictly for me. Can I have one for myself? Okay?

    There was no answer in the faint street noises drifting up to his room, no friendly encouragement or permission in the gentle stir of the curtains, the efficient drip of the faucet in the adjoining bathroom.

    Well, no news is good news, Peter thought without cheer. He made himself a mild drink and began to pack.