Brass Go-Between (7 page)

My trade had one compensation, however, and I took it out of my wallet and admired it briefly. Then, tired of playing at Silas Marner, I put the check back, walked over to the phone, and dialed a number. When it stopped ringing I asked for Lieutenant Demeter. He came on briskly, barking “Robbery Squad, Lieutenant Demeter,” loudly enough for the phone to crackle.

“This is St. Ives. They just called. It was a woman.”

“Go on,” he said.

“They want me to go back to New York and wait for them to call. If they don’t call me at my place tomorrow, they’ll call me at a booth in a hotel on Wednesday.”

“How did she sound?”

“Like she was reading it.”

“She say anything about money?”

“No.”

Demeter sighed. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll get you some company tomorrow.”

“Who?”

“They’ll be wearing badges with New York Police Department on them. Or the FBI if you want. It looks like it’s interstate now.”

“No,” I said.

“What do you mean no?”

“Just what it usually means. I’ve been hired to buy back the shield. If I start moving around with cops or FBI agents in tow, there won’t be any buy. When I get the shield back you can have everything I’ve learned and everything I’ve guessed and between now and then I’ll keep you filled in, but until I get the shield back I work alone. If that doesn’t fit in with your plans, the museum will have to find another go-between.”

“That’s probably a damned good idea,” Demeter said. “I’d be all for it if the other side would, although I hear that they won’t so it looks like we’re stuck with you.”

“Get unstuck,” I said.

“What’d you say?”

“I said make up your mind.”

He was silent for a moment. “All right, St. Ives, we’ll go along. But if you’re interested in what I think, which you’re probably not, I think you’re making a mistake. The reason I think you’re making a mistake is because whoever you’re dealing with have already killed one guy. They could round it out to a couple and they’d still be way ahead after they got the money.”

“But not until after they got it,” I said.

“I hope you’re as bright as you think you are. I hope you’re even half as bright.”

“Not bright, careful.”

“Careful,” he said. “I almost forgot about that.”

“Anything else?”

“Just one item.”

“What?”

“The spade’s wife.”

“What about her?”

“She won’t be giving us any more information about Sackett.”

“Why?”

“She hung herself about an hour ago,” Demeter said, and banged his phone down in my ear.

I had just finished a steak that wasn’t quite as good as the menu had promised it would be and was waiting for the elevator when he appeared at my elbow wearing a mauve coat of Edwardian cut with eight brass buttons down its front, a cream-colored shirt whose six-inch-long points were filled by a scarlet neckpiece with a knot the size of a small piece of pie, and a smile so dazzling that it could have lighted up a fairly dim room.

“Mr. St. Ives, I believe,” he said, bowing formally from the waist. There was a lot to bow: he was about two inches shorter than the elevator doors and not quite as wide. As he bowed I had the chance to admire his fawn trousers with their burnt orange windowpanes and the brushed green suede shoes that were topped by a pair of large silver buckles.

“I’m St. Ives,” I said.

“Permit me,” he said, and whisked out a small leather case from which he extracted an ivory card and handed it to me. It was engraved in a swirly italics script which read: Conception Mbwato.

Not only was Mr. Mbwato a very big man, he was also a very black man with skin the color and sheen of ripe eggplant. His accent was good BBC British and he didn’t offer to shake hands.

“How can I help you, Mr. Mbwato?” I said, looking up into his unlined face with its broad flat nose, wide, thick mouth, and curiously gentle eyes. Or perhaps they were just sad.

“I thought we might have a little chat,” he said.

“About what?”

“The shield of Komporeen.”

I nodded. “All right. Where would you like to talk? Here, my room, or in the bar?”

“I think your room would be by far the more preferable.”

“All right,” I said, “my room.”

When we got there, I made a motion toward the largest chair, which Mbwato lowered himself into with a sigh. “It was frightfully hot today,” he said. “Even for me.”

“You’re used to it?” I said.

Mbwato lit up the room again with his smile. “Indeed, Mr. St. Ives, I am used to it.”

I was sitting on the chair which went with the writing desk that held the phone. Mbwato crossed his legs and looked around the room as if he thought he might buy it. I lit a cigarette and watched him look. The silence was complete, almost final, as if neither of us would ever speak again, but somehow it was not uncomfortable.

“I am from Brefu,” Mbwato said as if that cleared up everything.

“In Jandola,” I said.

Mbwato shook his head. “Not in Jandola, Mr. St. Ives,” he said gently. “In Komporeen.”

“You’ve been having some trouble there.”

“A great deal of trouble, and I am afraid that it will grow much worse before it grows better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Are you really? Why?”

“There’s nothing to be said in defense of human suffering,” I said. “From what I’ve read, there’s a great deal of it going on in your country.”

“More than most persons realize, far more. But I’m not here to talk about my country except in a rather tangential manner. I’m here to talk about the shield of Komporeen which you have been engaged to buy back from the thieves who stole it from the Coulter Museum.”

“You seem sure about that.”

“Quite. And you can rest assured, Mr. St. Ives, that none of the persons with whom you have been dealing has betrayed the confidential nature of either your proposed negotiations or the theft itself. It is simply that we have our source within the Jandolaean Embassy which, of course, has been kept apprised of the entire affair.”

“I see.”

Mbwato leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. Even seated he seemed to loom over me. “Do you know much about the shield of Komporeen, Mr. St. Ives, other than that you have been authorized to offer $250,000 for its return?”

“Not really,” I said. “I know it’s about a yard in diameter, that it weighs sixty-eight pounds, that it is regarded as something of a symbol, a vital one, I suppose, by both your people and those whom you’re fighting, and that one man has been killed because of it.”

“One man in the United States,” Mbwato said, “and more than a million in my country. I’m afraid that it has a most bloody history. If we were able to trace that history back for centuries to its origin, the death toll might even reach high into the millions. You seem to understand that the shield of Komporeen is the symbol of authority in my country. It can be compared, but not very closely, with the Crown of England. Or nearer to home and perhaps from a more sentimental viewpoint, at least, it occupies much the same place in the hearts of my countrymen as your original Declaration of Independence does in yours. But even that is not a proper comparison because the shield is more than an historical document. It is the physical embodiment of a legend that exists amongst a people who give very high credence to their legends. But not only do the Komporeeneans value it, so also do the Jandolaeans, and many, many terrible wars have been fought for its possession. In sum, if one were to combine the sentimental, symbolic, and emotional values of the Crown of England, the Cross of Christianity, and your own Declaration of Independence, then one would have some inkling of how the shield is regarded by my people. And, I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “by the Jandolaeans.”

Mbwato stopped talking and the silence crept back into the room. He sat there, dwarfing his chair, staring at the carpet. Then he began to talk or rumble again. His voice went with his size, a deep bass that seemed to escape from far down in his chest.

“The war for us has been going badly,” he said, still gazing at the carpet. “We are short of everything, of ammunition, of weapons, of petrol, and of food. Especially food. The government of Komporeen (and I assure you, Mr. St. Ives, we
do
have a government) has been recognized by only a handful of countries, mostly African, and almost as poor as we. But there is a good chance, an excellent chance, I should say, that two major European powers will soon grant us recognition and along with it, much-needed aid in the form of food and weaponry.”

“What countries?” I said.

“Strangely enough, France and Germany.”

“That is strange.”

“Yes, I agree. Britain, of course, is siding with Jandola and your own country has adopted what some have referred to as a ‘hands-off’ policy. In effect, this means that they’re following Britain’s lead. As for Russia—well, Russia is supplying both sides, clandestinely to us, openly to Jandola.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You do not believe it?” he said, and stared at me in a reproachful manner.

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe it; I said I didn’t know it.”

“I’m sorry,” Mbwato said. “I believe I’m becoming hypersensitive. It’s something I’ll have to watch. But to continue, Mr. St. Ives, the support from and recognition by France and Germany seems to hinge on our ability to continue our battle for independence. If we can hold out another month, two at the most, then we are confident that the recognition—and the aid—will be granted forthwith.
If
we can hold out.”

“Don’t you think you can?”

Mbwato shook his head. “There is food enough for another month, perhaps even two. Some will starve, of course, but starvation is no stranger to most Africans. There is enough ammunition to continue our fight for perhaps five weeks. With care we can make it last for six. We have the wherewithal to last, Mr. St. Ives. The question is: do we have the will?”

“Do you?”

“Our morale is not what it should be. The war has been going on for nine months now and there have been many casualties. Unlike the Jandolaeans, we Komporeeneans are a cheerful people, a gentle people, more concerned with the art of living than with the art of war. The Jandolaeans are, in fact, envious of us because we are what you call in this country ‘quick studies.’ We have taken to technology like a crocodile to the river.”

“Or a duck to water,” I said.

“I was going to say that, but I thought I should employ a cliché that smacked of my own country.” He turned on his five-hundred-watt smile again.

“To continue,” Mbwato said, “we have the highest literacy rate in West Africa. We repair our own lorries; do our own engineering; manufacture our own bicycles; build our own radio stations and keep them operating along with our power plants. We have been able to do all this and more, much more, because we place an extremely high value on learning and we are, I suppose, the most inquisitive people in all of Africa. We seem always to be asking why.”

“It sounds as though you have a good thing going,” I said.

“We do—or did,” Mbwato said, “but the demands of the Jandolaeans became impossible. We had no choice but to secede and go our own way. I think we shall succeed providing, of course, that the morale of the people does not disintegrate. And that’s why I’m in the United States and that’s why I’m having this chat with you.”

“It’s something to do with the shield, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. St. Ives, it is.”

“What?”

“To be perfectly and, I suppose, brutally frank with you, we had planned to steal the shield from the museum ourselves. One of our chaps here is a quite brilliant electrical engineer and he had even figured out a way to circumvent that formidable warning system which the museum employs. It was an absolutely brilliant scheme. You see, the shield’s return to Komporeen would serve as a tremendous boost to morale. It would give our people the will to continue our fight, not just for two or three months, but for as long as is needed. This must be difficult for a European, or rather an American, to understand, but I can assure you it’s quite true.”

“I believe you,” I said. “When were you planning to steal the shield?”

“Yesterday,” Mbwato said. “Sunday.”

“But it already had been stolen.”

“Yes. We found out about it as soon as our source at the Jandolaean Embassy could get to a safe telephone.”

“Well, if somebody had to steal it, I’m sorry it wasn’t you. It sounds as though you could use it.”

“Thank you, Mr. St. Ives. That’s most kind.”

“Not at all.”

“Now then,” he said, “we come to the crux of the matter. We are, as I’ve told you, most anxious to recover the shield, not only because it would tremendously raise the morale in our country, but because it rightfully belongs to us and not to the Jandolaeans. Our source in the Jandolaean Embassy informs me that you will receive $25,000 to negotiate the return of the shield to the museum. I am authorized and prepared to offer you $50,000 to return it to us. I’m sorry and must apologize that it cannot be more. I assure you that it would be if we could possibly afford it.”

When he was through with his proposition he leaned back in his chair and once more turned on his light-of-the-world smile, as if we had just concluded a multimillion-dollar deal that was going to enable both of us to retire to Majorca next week for the rest of our lives.

I smiled back at him and then shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mbwato, but it’s impossible. I can’t go back on my commitment to the museum.”

He shrugged as if he had expected the answer, gave me another smile, and rose. “I was afraid that you would say that, Mr. St. Ives, but I had to try. I think you understand.”

“I think so.”

He moved toward the door, a brilliantly dressed black giant, with a winning smile and a losing country. He turned at the door and gave me the warm benefit of that smile again, but his eyes seemed sad and troubled. “You have been most gracious, Mr. St. Ives, and I want to thank you for your courtesy. And perhaps I can thank you best by warning you.”

“About what?” I said.

“When I was reciting the many virtues of us Komporeeneans, I neglected to mention one that is well known throughout West Africa, especially by the Jandolaeans.”