A Rather Curious Engagement (34 page)

As calmly as I could, I said, “No, who?”

“Why,” Diamanta said, “Napoleon Bonaparte, of course.”

I resumed sketching, following her instructions so that we ended up with the monkey sticking out of the Lion’s mouth like a mouse in the mouth of a great cat. Diamanta said in amusement, “I was always told that the Lion was the Pride that had swallowed Napoleon, so that he lost his empire and was banished.”

“And, the Lion itself?” I asked. “Did he look like anyone in particular? ”

“I never knew who he was supposed to be until all that publicity from the photograph,” she said. “It’s Beethoven, isn’t it? But I didn’t have a chance to look at it again and see, because by then, it was gone.”

Diamanta’s brother was nowhere to be found when we were ready to leave. He had taken the car and disappeared. After conferring with her relatives, Diamanta told us that an elderly uncle would take us most of the way back to town; he lived halfway there and had a donkey cart that he used when touring his farm.

He was a very, very old man with a face like a wizened prune. He wore a straw hat and a rumpled suit. But he was cheerful enough as we climbed onto the buckboard, and soon we were bumping along the road.

“This,” Jeremy said, “is what comes of not hiring a rental car wherever you go.”

We had arrived in Calvi in the afternoon, so now, as we descended toward town, I could see that the sun was already beginning to slip into the sea. Diamanta’s uncle hummed to himself until the road forked and he stopped the cart. After we dismounted, he tipped his hat to me and turned the donkey cart away toward his farm.

“Do you suppose that the Count knew he had a family connection here in Corsica?” I asked Jeremy.

“Who knows?” he said. “He apparently never contacted Diamanta’s family. And why would he have bothered with Mortimer if he knew?”

“You know,” I said, “the whole thing is finally starting to make sense to me. This Paolo, being a Corsican, might also have been disillusioned with Napoleon . . .”

“Well, judging from the fact that he made a monkey out of him,” Jeremy said, “I vote that yes, this Paolo bloke was for Corsican independence.”

We were passing by thick clusters of trees—lemon, juniper, myrtle, chestnut, and the prized strawberry tree that supposedly promotes longevity; and the air was filled with the scent of herbs like bay and rosemary. At times the shrubbery beside the road was so dense that I could hear crickets, even though it was still daylight. At other times there were wide open stretches of sand and desert scrub.

Jeremy was fiddling with his phone. “Can’t get a signal at all,” he said disgustedly. “I was going to tell Claude we’re on our way—”

He was interrupted by a loud, popping sound that echoed across the open fields.

Now, look. I can’t actually say I’ve ever been shot at before. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ve ever really heard a gun go off, except on a movie set. And those are blanks. Even so, I can say that I knew right now, for certain, that someone not very far away had just fired a gun. And, I think it’s a pretty good guess who the target was. Us.

Jeremy had the same idea, of course, because he’d dragged me off to the side of the road and into the shrubbery, then flung himself on top of me on the ground. I heard another shot, and another.

Then there was silence. We waited. A long time. During which I tried very hard not to think about scorpions, and about how if they sting you, you can die a very unpleasant death because there is no real antidote. I’ve never seen an actual scorpion, only on TV. But crouched there in the sandy soil in a dense thicket of prickly brush, I reckoned there was a distinct possibility of meeting up with one. Provided, of course, that a snake didn’t get there first. Not to mention, of course, the gunman.

All of this crossed my mind while we lay there waiting. Jeremy was still on top of me. A grown man, even one you love, is a very heavy item.

“Penny,” Jeremy whispered finally, “are you all right?”

And, idiotically, what I said was, “Yes. Hey, was that a gun?”

“Yes,” Jeremy said. He waited, then decided it was okay to climb off me. He raised himself up and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

But when we returned to the road, another shot was fired. This one landed in the road ahead of us, judging by the dirt and dust spewing into the air. Jeremy grabbed me by the shoulders and this time we went plunging into the brush, away from the road.

“Run like hell,” he said, pushing me ahead of him so he could keep me in his sights. “Head for the sea.”

It didn’t look that far away. And actually, it wasn’t. However. Running on a dirt road is simple enough. Running through all manner of prickly scrub, shrubs and trees is quite another story. All along the way it seemed as if branches were grabbing at me and deliberately trying to slow me down so I’d be sure to get caught. My breath was coming out in wild gasps and my heart was pounding so hard that I thought my chest might explode. It was getting dark now, very quickly as it does on islands. I could hear the sound of cicadas filling the air.

I gasped with relief when we reached a paved road. And suddenly, there we were in the heart of the village, walking down a steep hill. With lots of people around us. But we must have looked like two maniacs.

For awhile, neither one of us spoke. It was enough of a heroic task just to recapture our breath. Panting, we studied each other. Clothes torn, faces smudged, hair insanely askew. Scratches bleeding on our arms and legs.

“You all right, Penny?” Jeremy asked, looking worried.

“Sure,” I panted, trying not to think about how terrified I still was. Jeremy took out his handkerchief, and gently wiped my cheek and then my arm and leg, where I had scratches and cuts that were bleeding. I felt dazed and lightheaded from running pell-mell in the sultry heat.

“Who was shooting at us?” I demanded indignantly, as if I was talking about somebody stealing a parking space instead of merely trying to blow our heads off.

“Someone who wanted to scare us into never coming back,” Jeremy said.

“Well, he succeeded,” I said. “You think it was that neighbor that Diamanta told us about, the one she suspects stole the Lion?”

“I think it’s whoever is in cahoots with Mortimer, and probably the same crowd that stole our yacht,” Jeremy said darkly. “However, I am beginning to wonder if there wasn’t also a more immediate member of Diamanta’s family involved as well.”

“Her brother?” I asked.

Jeremy said, “I guess we have to consider all possibilities.”

We were trotting along a very narrow street now, built on a steep hill, just a short walk from the harbor. We slowed down as we approached a peach-colored stucco building that was so pretty, it was hard to believe that this was the sailors’ bar. Several motorcycles were parked in front of it. Some tough-looking men were sitting on chairs at a table in front of it, playing cards and drinking. The bar was the kind which has several doors that function like big windows and can be left open in the hot weather, so that the whole indoor area becomes visible from outside, and you can peer in and see people sitting at their tables or barstools. We hovered outside.

I whispered, “I can’t believe our nice little Count came here to do business.”

“Hang on,” Jeremy said. “Do you see what I see?”

I peered in. A little boy was doing grown-up work, sweeping the floor with a broom that was taller than him. A worn-out looking woman was carrying a tray of glasses to the bar. A fat man was emptying a bag of ice into a bin at the bar. The chairs and tables were very simple, filled only with male patrons, some who appeared to be respectable locals, possibly the shepherds who came down from the interior; but there were also plenty of tough-looking sailors and military types.

“Over there,” Jeremy said, “at that table by the street.”

And there was Rollo, in his Panama hat, drinking beer with a brown-haired Englishman in a white shirt and hemp-colored linen trousers. I could not hear what they were saying; only the rise and fall of their accented English voices. It had to be Mortimer. The expression on his face was hard and unpleasant, even though he was smiling.

“You go back to the yacht,” Jeremy said. “And tell Brice to fetch the first-aid kit. I’m going to sit at the other table and see if I can hear what they’re saying. I just want to make sure that Rollo isn’t double-crossing us.”

“I’m not leaving now!” I said. The woman who was working at the bar glanced up, saw me and gave me a suspicious, disapproving look before she turned to serve another customer. “Splitting up is always a terrible idea,” I objected in a lower voice.

“There are no women in there. You will draw the attention of everybody in sight,” Jeremy insisted.

While we lingered there arguing, Rollo and Mortimer stood up and went into a back room together, behind the bar, disappearing from sight.

“Great. Thanks a lot,” Jeremy said.

At that moment, one tough guy playing cards drove his fist on the table, then stood up and tore his cards in half, as if he’d been dealt a dirty hand.

Jeremy, sensing more trouble, said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

François looked utterly horrified when he saw the condition we were in—disheveled, scratched, clothes torn. “My God, what’s happened to you?” he cried. Jeremy explained, telling as little as possible. Brice got the first-aid kit, so we could clean and patch ourselves up. Claude listened gravely in silence.

“We must get under way now,” he said warningly.

There was a shout from the pier. I looked up just in time to see Rollo running toward us. Two thuggy-looking guys were chasing after him. But when he hollered, they glanced apprehensively at the harbormaster’s office, then veered off rapidly in another direction, expertly blending in with the milling crowd from the tourist ferry that was congregating at the harbor.

As Rollo came barrelling down the quay, a woman with dyed blonde hair, wearing a beige T-shirt and black skirt, carrying a large wicker basket of flowers for sale, reached out for Rollo, and plucked at his sleeve. Hastily, Rollo shook himself loose, and she called out something to him. She followed him, moving nearer to our yacht, close enough so that I could see that she had large, bulging eyes which were pretty but strange and compelling.

“Jeremy,” I whispered. “The
mazzera
! Diamanta said so. She was trying to tell Rollo something. I wonder what it was?”

“Probably on the order of
Mind your own business, you bloody fool
,” Jeremy said.

Rollo was charging up the gangway toward us like a snorting bull.

“Shove off! Let’s go!” Rollo cried, unaware that the men had stopped chasing him, as he catapulted himself onto the deck and collapsed, gasping, leaning against the handrail. The yacht engine rumbled and a moment later we were pulling out of the harbor. But I looked back once more at the flower-lady, who had come right to the edge of the dock, staring with a hypnotic gaze, and, seeing my face, she raised the palm of her hand in what appeared to be a farewell gesture.

"Mortimer hasn’t got your Lion,” Rollo announced as we cast off from Calvi.

The moon had already risen in the cobalt-blue sky as we began our return voyage to the Riviera. Rollo, Jeremy and I assembled around the teak table on the aft deck, and François brought us cocktails. Not that Rollo needed any. But by now I sure did, to soothe my ruffled feathers.

“Say, did you hear me?” Rollo demanded. Jeremy nodded wearily.

“What happened to you two?” Rollo asked. “You look like the wreck of the
Hesperus
.”

Jeremy closed his eyes. “Someone shot at us, thank you very much,” he said. “Why do I imagine that your Mortimer fellow had something to do with it?”

“Well,” Rollo admitted, “that’s entirely possible, I’m afraid . . .”

“Rollo,” I said, “the flower-woman. What did she say to you?”

Rollo said, “Who? Oh, Lord. What a strange creature! Couldn’t say, she was talking something that sounded like tortured French to me.”

Rollo took a swig of his gin. “As soon as I walked into the bar, I knew Mortimer was somewhere about, I could just smell it,” he said. “So I sat there and played cards with the locals, losing just enough money to get them talking. That bar is the kind of place where information is exchanged on a regular basis and gossip spreads out to the village like wildfire.”

“So?” I prodded. “How did you find Mortimer?”

“I didn’t find him, I made
him
find me,” Rollo said. “The old devil was in a back room with some of the other locals. So I flushed him out of his rabbit-hole,” Rollo reported triumphantly. “I acted quite sozzled—but I had to actually stay somewhat sober to keep my wits about me—and soon enough, he came and sat down with me, and we got to talking. He said he buys and sells antiques, and I said, ‘Well, well, it just so happens I am looking for a very rare item that I’d heard was found and lost in Corsica.’ It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked for it, let me tell you. He sized me up, then he said he didn’t have it, but he thought he knew who did.”

“So where the hell is it?” Jeremy asked.

Rollo waved his arm. “The best is yet to come, dear boy. After he drank a few more beers—” Rollo leaned forward keenly, “guess what the old devil admitted?”

“That he stole it off the boat!” I cried. Rollo grinned.

“Well? Is he the boat-jacker?” Jeremy demanded, looking ready to go back and find the guy and beat him up.

“Indirectly, but it was a botched job,” Rollo explained. “He was hanging about the pier the night of your cocktail party, and he saw Kurt go aboard, so Mortimer realized what he must be looking for. Old Mortimer knew he’d have to work fast, so he hired a few bad fellows to go search for the Lion aboard your boat that very night. But when those idiots who ransacked the boat couldn’t find the Lion aboard, they got frustrated, knowing they would not be paid for the night’s work if they showed up without it.