The White Schooner (4 page)

Looking out from the window of his room in the late afternoon of that day, Black saw a white staysail schooner coming in to Ibiza Bay, When she was opposite Talamanca her sails were
lowered and she moved slowly up the harbour, a wisp of diesel smoke trailing astern. She passed behind the customs shed and when she emerged again she was nosing in towards the quay where the inter-island schooners lay. Black took the binoculars from the corner table. When she turned to come alongside he was able to read her name and port of
registration
. She was the
Snowgoose
of
Piraeus.

Shafts of sunlight slanted across the big office, fine particles of dust curling and turning in them like bacteria on a
microscope
slide.

Outside the windows, the noise of traffic along the Avenida Ignacio Wallis rose and fell and in the room the smell of exhaust gases mingled with the mustiness of dusty files and cigar smoke.

A sallow man with sharp features and iron grey hair sat behind the desk, a splash of medal ribbons relieving the severity of his dark uniform.

He contemplated the end of a cigar, turning it slowly,
checking
the circle of burning ash, the hard lines of his face so immobile that it seemed made of wax. The three men opposite were silent, waiting for the Comisario de Policia to speak. Two of them knew him well enough to know that he was not in a good mood.

‘This morning,’ he said, ‘the
Jefe
sent for me. He was not pleased.’ The Comisario’s deepset eyes moved from one face to the other and then back to the cigar. ‘He tells me that Palma and Madrid are impatient. The reputation of the island may suffer.’

He pointed to a number of clippings on his desk. ‘These are articles from the foreign press which Madrid has sent him. They are about Ibiza and each tells the same story. That there is trafficking in drugs here. That it flourishes. You will say they exaggerate grossly. They do. Journalists are sensation mongers and this sort of thing,’ he flicked at the clippings contemptuously, ‘is news. They blow it up.’

He drew on the cigar. ‘But we know, gentlemen, that there is some truth behind this news. There is
some
drug trafficking. Unless it is stopped there will be more press reports. The island will get a bad name. You know what that means?’

There were murmurs of assent but he went on, determined to answer his rhetorical question. ‘It means that the tourist industry will suffer. And it is vital to our economy. It means also that we shall attract here the sort of riff-raff we do not
want.’ He paused. ‘We have enough of them already.’

He stood up and moved to the window, looking down on the street. ‘The
Jefe
wants results and,’ his voice rose. ‘I want results, gentlemen. And I want them quickly.’

With slow deliberation he went back to the desk and lowered himself into the swivel chair. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘your report.’

He looked towards the thin man with dark glasses and a christ-beard who was sorting through a file.

‘We are making progress, señor Comisario,’ he said. ‘I came from Barcelona this morning. Torreta is in charge of
investigations
at that end. We had lengthy discussions, compared our results so far, and came to certain conclusions——’

‘Such as?’ interrupted the Comisario.

‘The main source of supply is Beirut. The drugs are
reaching
Barcelona by sea. From there they come here by sea.’

‘Are you sure of all this?’

‘Fairly certain. We are watching a man who came over on the steamer from Barcelona last night. He travelled tourist, but he was in touch with Kyriakou and Costa during the journey. Ahmed ben Hassan is his name. He is from Beirut. The U.S. Narcotics Bureau list him as a known dealer. Also it is easier for us to check on aircraft than ships, and we have checked the aircraft thoroughly. They are not being used.’

The telephone on the Comisario’s desk rang. He picked it up. ‘What is it?’

In the room they could hear the distant blur of the caller’s voice.

‘No. No,’ said the Comisario. ‘Not now. I am busy.’ He put the phone down and waved a hand at the thin man. ‘Go on.’

‘We believe that this traffic is organised here. Our difficulty is to collect hard evidence. Of the method of importing, of storing and distribution.’ He inclined his head towards the two uniformed men. ‘Capitan Sura and Teniente Lorenzo have identified two pushers. They are being watched and we hope they will provide leads.’

The Comisario looked up suddenly. ‘Do they deal directly with Kyriakou?’

‘No, señor Comisario. Not directly.’

‘Indirectly then?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re certain that Kyriakou is at the centre?’

‘Almost certain. I prefer at this moment not to be specific. But there are good indications. For example,’ he hesitated. ‘Banking accounts. They tell a story …’

The thin man seemed anxious to change the subject. He rustled the papers in his file. ‘There has been,’ he said, ‘a new development. It concerns Kyriakou. On Friday he visited van Biljon at Altomonte.’

There was a murmur of surprise, and the Comisario
abandoned
for a moment his official mask of impassivity. ‘Van Biljon! You suspect him?’

‘Not yet,’ the thin man said. ‘The visit by Kyriakou stands only as a fact. Something we have observed. It is too early to draw conclusions. But it is an unusual fact. Señor van Biljon does not have visitors at Altomonte. Except occasionally,’ he hesitated, ‘government officials.’

The Comisario’s smile was arid. ‘Like me. I have been to Altomonte. I trust I am not on your list of suspects.’

The thin man’s manner was deprecatory. ‘Indeed, not, señor.’

‘What are you doing about this. The possible relationship between Kyriakou and van Biljon?’

‘Nothing at the moment. But inquiries will be made.’

The older man leant back in his chair and watched a ring of grey smoke climb towards the ceiling. ‘You are circumspect in what you say.’

The thin man propped his elbows on the desk, his hands together as if he were about to pray. ‘It is necessary to be
discreet,
señor. Our work is hampered by leakages.’

The Comisario watched him speculatively. The thin man was on loan from Madrid. ‘What leakages?’

‘I would prefer not to go into details.’ He looked out of the window.

The moment of embarrassment was broken by the
Comisario’s
sigh. ‘I see. Very well. How long will it be before you have the hard evidence you spoke of?’

The thin man took off his glasses and wiped them. His eyes could be seen to be small and red rimmed. ‘Soon, I hope. We have the problem that people who could give us information will not come forward because they are afraid.’

The Comisario picked up a brass paperweight and balanced it on the back of his left hand. ‘But nevertheless you say soon.’

‘Yes. There has been an important breakthrough.’

‘Perhaps you will tell us about it?’ The Comisario watched him through a screen of smoke.

The Capitan shrugged his shoulders and fidgeted with his beard. ‘Later, if you please, señor.’

The grey-headed man turned to the two uniformed officers. They were members of his own staff. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Thank you. That will be all for the present.’

There was a scraping of chairs as they got up to go. ‘Not you, Capitan.’ He held up his hand, his eyes on the thin man. ‘There is another matter I would like to discuss with you.’

When the others had left the room the Comisario turned to him. ‘Well, Capitan. Can you tell me now?’

The Capitan placed his fingertips together gently, as if they were fragile, looking towards the door through which the others had gone. ‘I am certain Sura and Lorenzo are reliable. It is, however, a condition of the co-operation we receive from the U.S. Narcotics Bureau that I do not divulge
information
concerning their agents’ identity or activities.’

He paused and cleared his throat. ‘But I can say for your confidential information, señor, that the agent here has had much difficulty in penetrating the organisation, in becoming accepted. But progress is being made. It is for this reason we hope soon to have hard evidence.’

The Comisario stared at the thin man as if he were trying to read his mind. Then he drew on his cigar. ‘Thank you. I hope you will not be disappointed.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me? I have to report to the
Jefe
.’

‘Yes,’ said the thin man. ‘We are watching a woman, Manuela Valez, and a man, Charles Black. She is a Puerto Rican artist and has been much in Kyriakou’s company lately. The other is an Englishman. An art critic of sorts. His
movements
have … well, how shall I say … made us feel we should know more about him.’

‘Do these two know each other?’

The thin man stroked his beard. ‘They have either just met—last night on the ferry steamer to be exact—or they are good actors. It is not yet possible to say.’

It was a fine day, the air still cold, the sun shining from a clear sky. It is a pity, he thought, that the drains smell so foul. And it is probably unnecessary. Somewhere they are blocked and
it should not be impossible to clear them. The Spaniards are a fine people, a proud, intensely human race, but why do they accept foul smelling drains and rancid butter and bacon with such unnecessary stoicism. He turned into Calle Abel Matutes and went into the Spar where he bought sardines, butter, eggs, cheese and spaghetti and put them in the basket which hung from his shoulder.

The olives and tunny he would get at the market, the wine at Anselmo’s, the bread at the
pasteleria,
but first he would see Haupt. He joined the queue by the cashier. His turn came. She checked his purchases, tapping the amounts on to the cash register, gave him the slip and he paid. Outside he turned right and then left and went down the pavement past the travel agency where he turned into a narrow lane.
Halfway
along it he stopped before a door which had on it a board inscribed ‘Haupt & Diene, Architects.’ He went up the stairs to a small general office where he spoke in Spanish to a thin red-eyed girl who took his name and asked him to wait.

A few minutes later she came back and beckoned him to follow. At the end of a short passage she knocked, opened a door and said, ‘Señor Charles Black,’ before ushering him in and closing the door behind him.

A pallid man of middle age with tired friendly eyes left the drawing board where he’d been working, came across and held out his hand.

‘
Buenos
dias,
señor
,’ he said, and Black realised that the man’s Spanish was poor.

‘Mr. Haupt?’ he inquired in English.

‘Yes. Can I help you?’ Haupt spoke with a Dutch accent.

‘I hope so. It is a professional matter.’

Haupt looked at him uncertainly, then smiled and pointed to the desk. ‘Please.’ He pulled out a chair. Black sat down and Haupt took the chair on the other side of the desk.

‘Are you a visitor, Mr. Black?’

‘I’ve been here nearly two months.’

‘On holiday?’

‘No. I write.’

‘Oh. Very interesting. There are many writers here.’

‘So I believe.’

Haupt searched a drawer and found a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He held it out to Black. ‘Smoke?’

‘No, thanks. I don’t.’

Haupt laughed. ‘Me, neither.’ He put the packet back into the drawer.

‘I’ve had a letter from an old friend—a close friend,’ Black corrected himself. ‘He is in England. Likes Ibiza. Wants to retire here. He has asked me to make inquiries about a house.’

Haupt showed interest. ‘I see. What sort of house? I mean, big or small?’ With his hands he illustrated the alternatives of size.

‘Big. He’s a rich man.’

‘He wishes to build,’ Haupt suggested.

‘In a way. He’s keen on buying a
finca
and converting. A large one. He’ll want a lot put into it. Several bathrooms, central heating, guest suites, big reception rooms. That sort of thing.’

Haupt frowned. ‘Has he seen an estate agent? Is it a
particular
finca
he has in mind?’

‘No. He wants to be outside Ibiza, but within ten kilometres of the town. He’s left it to me to find out what’s available and what conversion costs are likely to be. He’s coming here in June. Wants me to do the spade work before he arrives.’

‘And you wish me to …?’ Haupt paused.

‘Give me an idea of what conversion might cost.’

Haupt held out his hands in a gesture of futility. ‘
Impossible
! I must know the
finca
and what has to be done. It could be anything. Half a million pesetas. A million. Two million, anything.’

‘I’m told you’ve already done the conversion of a big
finca
on a …’ Black sought for words. ‘A very generous scale.’

‘You mean Altomonte?’

‘I am not sure of the name. Does it belong to a man called van Biljon.’

Haupt nodded. ‘That is Altomonte.’

‘I am told it is a magnificent conversion.’

Haupt gave a little bow. ‘Thank you.’

‘I gather,’ said Black, ‘that van Biljon doesn’t permit visitors. No chance of my getting to see it, I suppose?’

‘None at all,’ said Haupt. ‘If there was I would offer to arrange it for you.’

Black came straight to the point. ‘What did that conversion cost?’

Haupt thought for a moment. ‘That was more than ten years ago. To-day it would cost—let me see,’ he pencilled
figures on a note pad. ‘About four million pesetas.’

Black did some mental arithmetic. ‘Nearly twenty-four thousand pounds. That’s a lot of money.’

‘A lot of work was done. It was exceptional.’

‘It must have been an interesting job.’

‘Marvellous.’ Haupt’s tired eyes shone momentarily.
Expense
was no object. Van Biljon was the perfect client. He knew basically what he wanted, but left the interpretation to me. Gave me a free hand. It was fabulous.’

‘This could be, too,’ said Black. ‘My friend in England is like that. He knows what he wants. Is prepared to pay for it and wouldn’t interfere. Anyway, he’s far too busy. He might fly out occasionally to see how things are going, but you’d have a free hand if you got the job.’ Black took out his notebook and pencil and wrote,
Altomonte,
conversion,
4,000,000
pesetas.
He left the notebook open and laid the pencil on it.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘it would help if we took Altomonte as an example.’

Haupt hesitated. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Well, if I could see the plans and discuss them with you. Get some idea of what the
finca
was like originally, and what you made it into. And perhaps some of the main items of cost. That will give me something definite to work on.’