The White Schooner (18 page)

As the Land-Rover approached, its occupants were dazzled by a beam of light. Tomaso slowed down and switched off the headlights. There was the staccato barking of dogs, and a man came forward from the gate.

It was Pedro. He and Tomaso exchanged greetings and he went back, opened the gates, and they drove into the grounds of Altomonte, drawing up at the flight of steps which led to the front door.

There the housekeeper greeted them, unsmiling and formal, but at least she inquired after Black’s ankle before taking them into the hall where a fire was burning.

‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘I will inform Señor van Biljon that you have arrived.’

After she’d gone Black said, ‘I should have thought the dogs had done that.’

‘I guess so,’ said Manuela.

He looked at his watch. It was ten to nine. Moments later van Biljon came into the hall, tall and straight in a black velvet smoking jacket, scarred features immobile, eyes shielded by dark glasses. Black stood up. The old man went over to Manuela, bent to take her hand and kissed it. Afterwards he turned to Black, bowing faintly and clicking his heels.

‘It is kind of you to come. I am delighted,’ he said. ‘Did Tomaso pick you up in good time?’

Black said, ‘Yes,’ and added, ‘We were pleased to see him. Didn’t have to identify ourselves.’

For a moment van Biljon seemed puzzled, then he said, ‘Ah you mean my letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘I had intended to order a car to pick you up. Then Techa, my housekeeper, informed me her husband would be shopping in Ibiza this afternoon. So I told him to do so. He will drive you back to town after dinner.’

‘That is very kind of you,’ said Manuela.

‘Not at all.’

A servant with a tray came from the archway on the far side of the hall. It was Juan.

‘Now,’ said van Biljon. ‘You will join me, I hope, in an apèritif.’

It pleased Manuela that van Biljon proved over dinner to be a charming host, for it confirmed the judgment she had made when they’d met at the airport. He was a good though
restrained
conversationalist, always producing openings for his guests, ever solicitous of their needs. He listened with interest to Manuela’s description of life in Puerto Rico, and to Black on the subject of contemporary art, to whom he explained courteously why he preferred the older school of painters. To Manuela his wide knowledge of the subject was impressive, yet he never sought to imply that it was in any way superior to theirs.

The French dishes, elegantly served and delicious, had been cooked by Techa, van Biljon told them. Manuela barely tasted the wines but she gathered Black was impressed. It was after he had remarked upon the excellence of the white
Montrachet
that van Biljon said, ‘The things that have given me most pleasure have come from France. Her wines, her cooking, above all her art.’ That led him on to the general statement that he had devoted much of his life to collecting the French Impressionists and post-Impressionists.

But Manuela noticed that he made no further reference to his pictures other than to say that they would see them after dinner when they could judge for themselves.

‘Are you pleased with your latest acquisition?’ she asked.

He hesitated for a moment. ‘Ah. You mean the picture I collected on Thursday. When we met in the harbour. Yes. I am delighted with it.’

‘What is it, Mr. van Biljon?’ said Black.

The old man held up a hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You shall see.’ He turned to Manuela, changing the subject. ‘Have you seen my motor-cruiser, the
Nordwind
?’

‘Oh, yes. A fabulous boat.’ She leant forward, clasping her hands together. ‘Once I watched her go to sea on a rough day. It was beautiful. She cut through the waves. Such clouds of spray.’

‘She is a fine boat,’ said van Biljon. ‘Built in England.’

‘But you give her a Dutch name.’

‘Yes. I
am
Dutch.’

She smiled apologetically. ‘Of course.’

‘There is another fine boat in the harbour. A recent arrival.’ Van Biljon looked down at his side plate as he broke a roll with his fingers. ‘The
Snowgoose
. A staysail schooner from the Piraeus. She has magnificent lines. I am too old for sail, but I must concede that it has something, a
je
ne
sais
quoi
, that power-driven craft lack.’

They agreed with him and he went on: ‘The
Snowgoose
has a most interesting mission, I am told. Two young men have chartered her for six months. They are cruising round the Mediterranean gathering material for a yachtsman’s guide to the islands.’

‘Yes,’ said Manuela. ‘I have met them. Helmut and
Francois
.’

‘Really,’ said van Biljon. He turned to Black. ‘You know them?’ he asked casually.

‘Not really. I’ve bumped into them once or twice in bars. Haven’t really sorted them out. I gather Manuela likes them.’

‘Perhaps they are more attractive to young ladies.’

To Manuela it seemed that the Dutchman’s voice reflected an amusement which contradicted the impassivity of the scarred face.

‘And the
Snowgoose
?’ Again van Biljon addressed Black. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘Looks all right. I’m no judge really.’

The old man worked the pepper-grinder vigorously over the cheese soufflé. ‘I hear she has unusually powerful auxiliary engines.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Black. ‘Never been on board.’

Van Biljon turned to Manuela. ‘Do you approve of the soufflé, señorita?’

‘It’s fabulous,’ she said. ‘Delicious. Your housekeeper’s a super cook.’

‘She’s a remarkable woman,’ said van Biljon.

It seemed to Manuela that Black was unusually hesitant in replying to remarks addressed to him, and she had the feeling that his mind was not on what he was saying so much as on what he was thinking.

For the rest of the meal their host had to do most of the
talking, telling them of life in South America and of the manner in which his family had left the Transvaal and settled in the Argentine as refugees after the Boer War.

‘To my parents it must have seemed a disaster of the first magnitude. To me it really meant nothing. I was born and brought up in South America.’ He looked up at them quickly. ‘You know it is my belief that all that happens in our lives is in the end for the best. It was in the Argentine that I made my fortune, and it was that which enabled me to collect my pictures and they …’ he paused, to finish the sentence in a low voice … ‘are my life.’

After dinner he took them to the drawing-room where Juan stood by a table with coffee and liqueurs.

While these were being handed round, van Biljon said, ‘Normally I have coffee and liqueurs in the gallery. But to-night Techa insisted they be served here.’ He chuckled. ‘She is a great believer in the conventions. It is very much to her sorrow that I do not entertain. When I told her I was going to have a dinner party to-night, she looked at me as if I had gone out of my mind. But she was happy. Ah, yes, I could see that.’

When Juan had gone, van Biljon brought up the subject of Ibiza and its growing flood of tourists. While he spoke his eyes travelled round the room as if he were searching for something. Presently, he said, ‘Please excuse me. I must have left the cigars in my study. I shall not be a moment.’

When the old man had gone, Black went over to Manuela. She looked up inquiringly and he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘You’re worried about something, aren’t you?’

‘And you?’ she challenged. ‘Why are you so silent? You should be excited. You are to see the pictures.’

‘I know I am. Feel all dithery. But what’s on
your
mind?’

She shook her head.

‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Tell me.’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said and then, as they heard the sound of footsteps on the landing, she whispered, ‘I’m afraid.’

Black went back to the other side of the room as their host came down the stairs.

‘Please follow me,’ said van Biljon, gesturing with the hand
that held a cigar. He was standing before them, tall and elegant, the black velvet smoking-jacket emphasising the white hair which lent a curious distinction to the scarred face.

They followed him into the hall, through french windows and up stone steps to the patio where the long pool reflected the lights of the house and the bright scatter of stars. The tall figure moved ahead, skirting the pool, leading them along the white walls of the west wing on which the patio lights, shining through vine-covered pergolas, cast intricate shadows. The heady perfume of wistaria reminded Manuela of her childhood in Puerto Rico.

The line of windows on their left rose suddenly from eye level to high in the wall above them, and van Biljon stopped before a doorway. He unlocked the wrought-iron gate and swung it open. Beyond was a wooden door, massive and iron bound, and this, too, he unlocked. Touching a light switch, he went into the gallery, beckoning them to follow.

He shut the inner door, and led them across to the furnished recess at that end of the gallery which adjoined the house. Manuela saw many pictures on the walls and screens but since the lights which were on served only the entrance and recess, the greater part of the gallery was dimly lit.

She had a quick impression of leather armchairs and settees, of Persian carpets, walnut bookcases and cabinets, of glossy art journals, a mahogany desk, and a long, low hi-fi with a matching cabinet next to it. ‘How lovely,’ she said. ‘You
have
done this attractively.’

Van Biljon stood facing them, his eyes invisible behind the dark glasses, but when with quiet modesty he said, ‘I am glad you like it. I spend the happiest hours of my life here,’ she knew he was pleased with her remark.

He lifted the lid of the cabinet. ‘In a moment I shall show you my pictures, but first,’ he paused, the cigar clenched between his teeth as he ran his fingers down the index sheet, ‘but first music. Good music and good pictures. They go together. And now,’ he went on. ‘I look for something which is both Spain and France. Ah! Here it is.’

He straightened up and drew the record from its sleeve, slowly, almost reverently, while they wondered what he had chosen. He put it on the turntable and set the pick-up arm. With his back to them, he said, ‘Ravel. You will know it.’

As the opening chords of
Rhapsodie
Espagnole
broke the
silence in the great room, van Biljon went over to the screens, reached for a switch and the pictures in the gallery came to life with dramatic suddenness. He beckoned to them. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’

Wall by wall, screen by screen, he showed them the pictures, keeping to the order in which he always viewed them. At each picture he would explain the period in which it had been painted, the history and character of the artist, his changing techniques and the influences to which he had been subject at the time. Van Biljon’s excitement, his emotional
involvement,
communicated themselves to Manuela, and she felt a curious disquiet, a disturbing surfeit of emotion. It seemed to her that Black, too, might be experiencing the same thing, for she was aware of symptoms of stress: his constant throat clearing, the hands behind his back clenching and unclenching, the skin on his knuckles white where pressure forced the blood away. But he said little and she presumed he was dazzled by the scale and importance of what he was seeing.

Not once, she noticed, did the old man boast in any way about the collection; never did he say what he had paid for a picture, or what it might be worth, and Manuela found this modesty attractive, for she realised the collection was beyond any price she could imagine.

At the recess end of the third screen, van Biljon stopped before the picture of a water-mill at Argenton-sur-Creuse. ‘That Cézanne is the picture I most prize,’ he said. ‘And of the French Impressionists, he is the painter I most admire.’

Manuela was puzzling at his subdued hesitant tone, when things happened of which afterwards she had only a confused recollection: at one moment Black was standing in front of her, chin in hand, silent, considering the picture—the next, she heard the door of the gallery open, then shut, as she turned to see Pedro and Juan come in: at first she thought they were holding out their hands in some sort of greeting, but then she realised that the hands held automatic pistols, aimed at her, and she let out a stifled scream. At much the same time she saw Black lunge towards the end of the screen, and the lights in the gallery went out as he fell to the floor. But the lights in the nearby recess remained on and she saw Pedro jump forward and stand over Black, and van Biljon was shouting, ‘Hands up! Do not resist.’

When he heard the gallery door open, Black swung round and saw the Spaniards. Instantly he lunged for the light switch, the position of which he’d so carefully marked. As he turned it he threw himself to the floor in anticipation of shots that never came, and at much the same time he heard van Biljon shout, ‘Hands up! Do not resist.’

It was not possible to comply with this request lying on the floor, so he sat up, feeling that it was all rather theatrical and unnecessary, and lifted his hands above his head He got to his feet as the main gallery lights went on again, to see that the Spaniards had ranged themselves on either side of him. Bad drill, he thought—if you have to shoot there’s a chance you’ll hit each other. Two or three feet ahead of him Manuela had her hands above her head, and in the sudden silence he could hear her breath coming in gasps.

Van Biljon moved towards him, stopping a few feet away, tall, sinister, the dark glasses concealing any emotion the eyes might have revealed. But he was breathing heavily and trembling, and Black, tense though he was, realised that he had the psychological advantage: he was calm, alert, and his mind was clear.

The tense silence was broken when van Biljon pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘You told me at dinner that you scarcely knew the men in the
Snowgoose.
That you had never been on board.’ The voice was hoarse, strangely subdued, and the pointing finger shook. ‘In that case perhaps you can explain what you were doing in the schooner in the early hours of Thursday.’

Black said nothing, simply because there was nothing to say. And because it was difficult to outstare the anonymous black lenses, he concentrated on van Biljon’s left ear,
wondering
how on earth the man knew that he’d been on board
Snowgoose
on Thursday. If that part of their security had blown, how much else?

The old man was off again.

‘So you’ve no answer?’ He took a step forward, thrusting
his face close to Black’s. ‘You and your friends are playing with fire. You must not be surprised if you get burnt.’ The voice was rising, charged with emotion. Waiting for what might come next, Black thought of Manuela: what would she be making of all this? It was something he had half expected—if not quite in the form it had taken—but for her the shock must be immense.

As if she had read his thoughts, she swung round on him, frightened and confused. ‘What are you trying to do? You …’ Her indignation was too much for her. She turned to van Biljon in her distress, pointing at Black. ‘He lied to me, too. About Helmut and Francois. Pretended they were strangers. He
never
’, her voice faltered, and she began again. ‘He’s
never
said a word about going on board
Snow
goose.
’

She switched to Black again. ‘Why did you tell me those lies? Why have you got me into this?’ Her face was ugly with frightened anger.

Black shrugged his shoulders. He knew what she was
thinking
: that he’d traded on her emotions, won her affection, used her. How right she is, he thought. And yet … but it was hardly the moment to explain that if he had used her, if he had landed her in this, at least it hadn’t all been an act: his affection for her couldn’t have been more genuine.

Van Biljon’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘That story does not impress anyone,’ he was saying to Manuela. ‘Keep your hands up.’

With relief, Black saw that she was doing what she was told. He expected tears, but they didn’t come. She was tougher than he’d thought.

Quietly, with resignation, he spoke to van Biljon. ‘Manuela is telling the truth. She has had nothing to do with …’ He hesitated, turning his head from side to side as if to indicate the gallery. ‘I told her I didn’t know them. I never let her know that I’d been on board
Snowgoose.
She’s absolutely blameless.’

Van Biljon trembled with disbelief, his voice hoarse and menacing. ‘You’re lying, Black. You and the girl are always together.’

‘I’m not lying,’ said Black.

‘Then if you’re not lying to
me
, why did you lie to
her
?’

‘Because I didn’t want her to get mixed up in my business.’

‘What
business
?’

‘Drugs.’ Black saw Manuela’s head flick towards him.

‘You’re lying again, Black. Like you lied about bird
watching
when you came to the house last time. You weren’t watching birds. You were watching Altomonte. It’s what’s in this gallery that interests you.’

Black shook his head. ‘That’s quite untrue in the sense you mean it. I
was
bird-watching. Manuela will confirm that. My interest in the gallery is professional. I am an art critic. It means good money and a scoop for me if I can do an article on your collection.’

‘So you’re an art critic
and
a drug smuggler.’ Again van Biljon thrust his face forward, so close this time that Black smelt the cigar-laden breath, saw the white bristles on the bony chin, the spasmodic working of the sinews in the thin neck, and the uneven palpitations of the blood vessels at the temples. The Englishman took sardonic pleasure in these signs of agitation.

‘I’ll tell you what you are, Black. You’re a liar. And a
dangerous
one.’ For some moments he stared at the Englishman, then nodded briefly to Pedro and Juan. ‘
Un
momento
,’
he said and went to the recess.

Behind his back, Black heard the opening of a cupboard and the clink of metal. Soon the old man returned carrying handcuffs and a coil of nylon rope. Black felt the barrel of a pistol press into his neck as his arms were seized and pulled down behind him, then the cold touch of metal as handcuffs were snapped around his wrists.

Pedro kept them covered while Juan handcuffed Manuela’s wrists behind her back to an accompaniment of noisy
protestation
and finally tears. Black was too concerned with other things to worry much about this, but it occurred to him that the more noise the better so he, too, raised his voice in protest until Pedro hit him across the face with a flat hand. ‘
Callarse
! —shut up,’ the Spaniard growled.

Black was searched by Pedro, who returned everything to the Englishman’s pockets except van Biljon’s letter of
invitation
which he handed to the old man. Then they were made to lie on the floor and the rope was used to truss them. While this was being done the Spaniards’ low mumbling was
interrupted
at times by interjections from van Biljon. With his scarred face, hoarse voice and agitated manner, their host looked so much the stage villain that Black had the curious feeling that it was all an act, that at any moment the curtain
would drop to a round of applause, perhaps of booing. There had been other occasions in his life when he’d been in danger and then, too, he’d experienced this feeling of unreality, that what his eyes saw, his senses registered, could not in fact be happening.

When they were trussed—so tightly that Black feared for their circulation—and Manuela had stopped sobbing and instead was sniffing at intervals like a child after a long cry, gags of mutton cloth were produced and tied round their mouths. The moment this happened, Black knew with chilling certainty that van Biljon was not going to hand them over to the police. His worst fear was confirmed: van Biljon knew what it was that had brought him to Altomonte. That was why they’d been invited to dinner, why Tomaso had been sent to fetch them, why they’d been asked to treat the
invitation
as confidential, why van Biljon had asked them to use his letter to identify themselves … he had ensured that the essential evidence would be returned to him.

While Pedro and Juan picked up their automatics and
returned
them to their shoulder-holsters, the dominant thought in Black’s mind was time. He could not see his watch, but he estimated that at least fifteen minutes had passed since he’d jumped for the light switch. He’d last looked at the time a few minutes before they’d reached the water-mill picture: it had then been ten twenty-seven … another fifteen minutes made it ten forty-two.

In the recess van Biljon was speaking to his servants in a low voice, almost a whisper. Black, concentrating, caught the words,
ahora
—
en
seguida
—
Nordwind.

What, he thought, is to happen
now,
without
delay,
which concerns the
Nordwind.
Before he could answer the rhetorical question, the Spaniards had seized him and Manuela by the ankles and were walking backwards, dragging them over the polished floor towards the gallery doors. Van Biljon, walking stiffly, went ahead.

As he was dragged along, Black raised his head and saw van Biljon go to the gallery door and swing it open, then turn back to them and step aside for Pedro and Juan to haul their loads.

What happened next appeared to him to take place in slow motion and, desperate and undignified though their situation was, Black felt it was not without humour: for into the
doorway
, directly in his line of vision—but unseen to van Biljon
and the Spaniards who had their backs to them—came two bearded, silent figures with Lugers in their left hands and coshes in their right. Black saw their surprise in the fraction of time they needed to take in the scene then, with traumatic effect, the silence was broken by Helmut’s hoarse, ‘Up with your hands—
pronto
!’

The new arrivals got quickly to work: van Biljon and the Spaniards were ordered to face the gallery wall and press their raised hands against it; then they were frisked, their firearms and handcuff keys removed, and their pockets emptied, the contents scattered over the floor.

Van Biljon began an agitated protest. Helmut at once
interrupted
, and in a voice and manner which left no room for doubt he told them that if there was any refusal to obey orders, any unauthorised movement, any talking or other noise, he would shoot or—and to make his point he went briskly along the line tapping the backs of their heads with his cosh.

Francois took off Black’s gag, unlocked the handcuffs, and with his sheath-knife cut away the rope lashings. Black got to his feet, stiff and numb.

‘You okay?’ Francois’ dark eyes were fiercely interrogative.

‘For Chrissake. I thought you’d never come!’

‘Are you okay?’ repeated Francois urgently, ‘We need you.’

‘I’ll be fine in a jiffy.’ Black rubbed his arm and thigh muscles.

‘Take this.’ Francois kicked one of the Spaniards’ automatics towards the Englishman, then set about freeing Manuela. Black looked at the wall where van Biljon’s shoulders twitched curiously beneath raised arms, as if he were laughing. But Black knew that the emotion had nothing to do with humour. Then, with circulation returning and with it a good deal of pain and discomfort, he cleared his mind of irrelevances and concentrated on the task in hand.

Manuela, ashen and silent, was now free. Black helped her to her feet, but she had difficulty in standing. ‘Sit down if you want to,’ he said. ‘Massage your leg and arm muscles.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘You’re not in any danger now. Don’t worry.’ It wasn’t quite true but it might help.

Helmut and Francois quickly handcuffed, gagged and bound van Biljon and the Spaniards while Black held them covered. Manuela, watching, wondered why they left the old
man’s left arm free. She was soon to know.

Francois produced a small box from a beach bag. Taking a syringe from it, he held it vertically and with the needle pointing to the ceiling depressed the plunger until he was satisfied that the free air had been expelled. While the
Frenchman
did this, Helmut grasped van Biljon’s left arm and ripped the coat sleeve with a sheath-knife, pulling back the shirt sleeve and baring the arm to above the elbow.

With the quiet competence of a man who had done it many times before, Francois inserted the needle into the old man’s forearm and injected the Pentothal. Ten seconds later he lifted van Biljon’s eyelids.

‘Bon’
he said, taking first the gag and then a set of dentures from the old man’s mouth. ‘He’s out for about twenty minutes.’

Manuela watched, puzzled and frightened, as Helmut
removed
van Biljon’s shoes and socks. When the right sock had been taken off Black said, ‘yes,’ in a taut way. After that Helmut took off the left sock and again Black said, ‘yes,’ in what seemed to her a strange voice.

Black was putting on Pedro’s shoulder-holster. ‘Now,’ he said as he adjusted the straps. ‘Let’s have the gen, and make it …’ He was interrupted by Helmut’s hissed, ‘No you don’t,’ and turned to see the German dart forward, grab Manuela and clap a hand over her mouth.

‘She was going to make a run for it,’ said Helmut, holding the struggling girl in a lockforwards embrace.

Black went over to her, his eyes seeking desperately to convey the concern and affection he felt. ‘Manuela. Don’t try that sort of thing,’ he pleaded. ‘We don’t want to get tough. You’re safe as long as you keep quiet and do as you’re told. If you don’t you’ll be soup before you know it. Take it easy. You’ve seen enough to-night to know that this isn’t a vicar’s tea party. There’s a hell of a lot at stake and if you get in the way …’ he paused, dropping his voice, ‘you’ll be put
out
of the way. I can’t say it more plainly than that.’

‘I don’t know
who
you are,’ she gasped, her eyes accusing them all. ‘Art thieves, kidnappers, whatever. But you’re a bunch of thugs, and I don’t want anything to do with you. Just let me go.’ She turned imploring eyes on Black. ‘
Please
let me go.’

He shook his head. ‘We can’t, yet. But we will before long. There isn’t time to argue or explain. We’re not art thieves and we’re not thugs. Now calm down, or we’ll have to use the hypodermic on you.’

She knew from the way he looked at her and his voice that he meant it. She stopped struggling and said a sullen, ‘All right.’

‘Now,’ Black looked at his watch and turned to Helmut. ‘Quick! What’s the gen?’