Ibiza Surprise (18 page)

Mr Lloyd handed over the necklace. He said: ’I suppose there’s no doubt it is a replica? No, I see that it is.’

And indeed, even to me, the clumsy metalwork and the sharpish red of the stones were quite clearly false. I do know the look of a ruby, in the same way that I know sable and ermine and mink. One always knows where one is going, even if one doesn’t quite know how to get there.

Johnson said: ‘You had no idea this safe was here?’ and Austin shook his head, dropping the stones on the bench.

I said: ‘If you could stop talking for two minutes, he needs to get into bed and have that thing bandaged.’

They ignored me.

‘So you were right,’ said Mr Lloyd to Johnson. And to Austin he said: ‘Well, it’s up to you, Mr Mandleberg. Do you want the police told?’

Austin shook his head.

‘There’s nothing worse than a scandal in my kind of business. I’d be happy, Mr Lloyd, if you’d take that collar and throw it away, or break it up and dispose of it in some way, so that we know it won’t be misused. I’ll look after Jorge and Senor Gregorio myself, and I promise this won’t happen again. My God, I couldn’t afford to let it happen. Honesty is the strongest card we have in our trade. Mr Johnson, I can’t say I’m happy that you felt you couldn’t bring your problems to me, and I sure wish your aim had been better, but I won’t say I’m sorry now that it’s turned out the way it has. Mr Lloyd, I have to thank you for tackling what you thought was an intruder on my behalf.’

‘What made you come back?’ I said.

‘You didn’t expect us, did you?’ said Mr Lloyd. He didn’t sound very pleased. ‘Gilmore drove the Cooper through Ibiza just as I was getting into my own car in the Bartolome de Rosello. He stopped when I waved to him, and Mr Mandleberg offered to get out and take me back here for the two ikons he promised me, while Gilmore drove Janey on home.’ He paused, and then said to Austin: ‘I think you had better do what we originally planned and come back to the Casa Venets with me. If you insist on having no treatment, my daughter is fairly knowledgeable about nursing and could make you comfortable, at least. If any complications develop, naturally we shall have to call in qualified aid.’

He slipped the necklace into his pocket and shut the double safe door.

I did three months more of that first-aid course than Janey. Janey left after four weeks. I opened my mouth and then shut it again at the expression on Mr Lloyd’s face. We all crawled upstairs, switching off lights and locking doors as we went.

Mr Lloyd had a not-quite-new Buick, parked in the Plaza Espana, just down the road, by courtesy of his friends in the police, or Austin’s status as resident. We lifted Austin into the back, and Johnson stood waiting to walk down to where the Seat was standing. Mr Lloyd stopped at his side.

‘What you did was, to say the least, both foolish and criminal,’ he said. ‘You or the girl might quite easily have been shot as a result. I cannot say that I am sorry about anything that has happened, except that it should have been Austin and not yourself who eventually suffered.’

Johnson stroked some sawdust off Mr Lloyd’s jacket.

‘Never trust an artist,’ he said. ‘It’s a corrupting profession. I shall take up something healthy, like tennis, instead.’

He waved cheerfully, as I got in, but Mr Lloyd didn’t wave back. In fact, as he got into the driver’s seat, I could see by the dim light from the lamp-post that he had gone rather red. I also saw, sticking out of his pocket, a corner of tracing paper. At least he hadn’t had the nerve to get Johnson to sign it.

Helmuth put Austin to bed, and Janey and I fought a ladylike battle over the nursing which Janey won quite unfairly by dint of her father coming in and sending me sharply to bed. I kissed Austin good night, and he opened his eyes and said weakly: ‘I guess this puts paid to that trip to Seville, meantime at least. You’re a crazy girl, Sarah.’

‘I’m not so crazy,’ I said, sweetly, for the benefit of Janey. ‘Johnson’s going to paint my portrait.’

For the first time, the annoyance in Mr Lloyd’s face gave way to a kind of unwilling respect. He put his hands on my shoulders.

‘Sarah Cassells, I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘I always know what I’m doing,’ I said, and squeezed Austin’s hand, and let myself be steered out of the room.

Capricorns had had a big day, all right.

Anne-Marie did the shopping next morning: I wasn’t up to it. Over a late breakfast which nobody ate, I affirmed my decision to go home on Monday; nobody rushed to persuade me to stay either, except Janey, and she was in two minds because of Austin. Austin, it seemed, had had a reasonable night, and no doctor had been called. Gilmore, perhaps because of the after-effects of the vodka, spoke to practically nobody and went to knock some tennis balls moodily against a wall. Mr Lloyd, who had taken one or two telephone calls, informed us that the Russians had left for Madrid and that it appeared that Coco Fairley had died through drowning following a severe overdose of drugs. He told us after Gilmore had gone. He also took occasion to take from his pocket, before witnesses, the fake rubies, and smash them with a coal hammer on the terrace, breaking one or two of the paving stones in the process. So that was that.

I got in once, to see Austin, but Janey stayed there with her manicured hand on his brow the whole time, and I felt a bit spare. I had brought him another pillow, a jug of fruit drink with ice cubes that I had concocted myself, and some paperbacks I’d had on the plane, but he was practically sleeping and didn’t pay much attention. I got both him and Janey to promise they wouldn’t mention who Mummy was. Austin gave me a queer look before he closed his eyes, and I suddenly realised that this had made me a bit eccentric, to say the least of it, in his eyes. But if he could tolerate any scab who could write poetry or paint letters on boxes, I couldn’t see why he couldn’t be broad-minded about Mummy and me.

I could see Janey taking his temperature with her thumb, and hoped he wouldn’t go into a high fever while I was out of the house. Then I prepared an elaborate luncheon, beginning with iced melon balls and going all the way down to petits fours with the coffee, and lit out to the Hotel Mediterranea to see my brother Derek.

He wasn’t there, so I scouted off (in the Maserati) to find him. I hadn’t expected Janey to be very forthcoming about the exchanges between Derek and herself last night, and she wasn’t. No one said anything about spying, and I thought it very unlikely Derek had unburdened himself to that extent. He had told her that he had come back briefly, for a personal talk with his father, and that was all, she said, that he had mentioned. Then when he caught sight of Mummy last night, he went off like a rocket, because, Janey assumed, Daddy had said nothing about the primary purpose of the Ibiza exercise being to allow the stagey bitch and the old drunken cadger to get together again. Although she didn’t put it quite like that at the time.

With all that had happened, the spying story seemed to me to become less and less likely. It was much more possible that somehow, Daddy had stumbled on the funny business with the rubies, and someone had made sure he wouldn’t give them away. In which case, Derek was surely quite innocent, and might even, in his ignorance, know something involving Jorge and Gregorio. The nuisance was that I couldn’t imagine Gregorio manhandling another man on to the back of that horse. And for Jorge, it would have been quite impossible.

Coco could have, of course. I played with the idea that Coco might have been in league with Jorge and Gregorio and might have killed Daddy because he found out about the collar, summoning me out of sheer ill-will in order to confront me with Mummy and confuse the issue still more by making her presence public.

If that were so, it was quite on the cards that Jorge or Gregorio had something to do with his death. On an impulse, I passed Derek’s hotel, and parking the car in the Avenida General Franco, walked up through the Dalt Vila to Austin Mandleberg’s gallery.

An old, sallow-faced woman in black was whitewashing the walls with a long-handled brush dipped in a bucket. When she saw I meant to say more than good morning, she set the brush down, wiping her hands on her apron, and gave me a long story. It was in the local thick accent, and I couldn’t make out a word.

After a bit, I said: ‘Momentito,’ and embarked on my own tale: Senor Mandleberg had been taken ill – not seriously, Senora – and was safely in the Casa Venets with Senor Lloyd, where he was being nursed back to health. Any urgent messages to go to Senor Lloyd. This was the address, this the telephone number, could I see Senor Gregorio?

Only then, making a great effort to speak clearly with all ten fingers, did she manage to convey a few shattering facts. Senor Gregorio was not at home last night. His bed had not been slept in, and no clothes were missing. Also, although the three young men had arrived, Jorge was missing also, and the chica of the house where he boarded said he also had been out all last night. Meanwhile, who was to open the gallery? Receive the visitors? Conduct the shop?

I told her to close everything and tell the three men to go home. Senor Austin would come later and make his arrangements. It was possible, I said, that he knew all about Jorge and Senor Gregorio; we hadn’t wished to disturb him this morning to ask him. I left her standing, her gnarled hands clasped and her deep-set eyes smiling gratefully under the grey, scraped-back hair. She was probably aged about thirty.

I got to the big silver
telefonos
kiosk on the Vara de Rey and rang Janey. After a bit, Mr Lloyd came to the phone. I told him again what had happened and waited. I wasn’t going to inform the police and get everyone excited if there was nothing to get excited about. On the other hand, there had been two deaths already, and if there were going to be any more, I didn’t want them on my conscience. After a bit Janey’s father said hang on and he’d try and see Austin.

I hung on, feeding the phone rows of pesetas, until finally he came back and said better do nothing.

‘Gregorio might have come back,” I said. ‘He might have found the rubies gone and guessed he’d been found out and got off the island?’

‘It had occurred to me,’ said Janey’s father, who had, I was discovering, several irritating habits of a tycoon. ‘And since there are only two ways of leaving the island, you may leave that side of the inquiry to me. If they have gone, it is perhaps the best thing that could happen.’

‘Poor Austin,’ I said. ‘No director.’

‘If the man was a criminal, I hardly think Austin will be any worse off,’ Mr Lloyd said. ‘I am obliged to you for calling, Sarah. I trust we shall soon see the end of the matter.’

I don’t know how tycoons get to be tycoons. I came out of the phone box, shovelling pesetas thoughtfully into my handbag, and found my way blocked by Mummy.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘I saw you in the phone box, you could hold a dance in it, couldn’t you? Do you know where Derek is?’

She wore a pale blue tunic with trousers and a silver chain, and her urchin cut was brushed down and her eyelashes cropped. At the kerb was a Humber Imperial. It must have been at least thirty years old. I guessed the soap-opera star had either locked up the sports car or she had crashed it, and this was the best the island hire service could afford in the style she demanded. No Seats for Mummy.

I said: ‘At his hotel, I should think. Have you been there?’

She shook her head.

‘He isn’t. And he hasn’t left for the airport. He ordered a packed lunch and went off after breakfast, he said to queue for a bus. What are you doing?’

‘Looking for Derek,’ I said. ‘We may as well join forces. Would you rather be cool in the Maserati?’

‘It is rather dashing,’ said Mummy, looking it over with approval. ‘I don’t know if Dilling can drive a Maserati. But Clem, I’m sure, does.’

‘Clem?’ I said.

‘My bodyguard,’ explained Mummy. ‘When Mr Johnson phoned, he insisted. Never less than two able-bodied males, in full time attendance. If someone had just said that to me,’ said Mummy, ‘around thirty years earlier.’

I looked through the front picture window of the Imperial and waved. Clem’s face, shiny with sweat, grinned modestly back. Mummy made beckoning gestures.

‘Come and join us,’ she said and we all piled into the Maserati. I put my dark glasses on again and gave Dilling the wheel.

It was a nice tour. We did the bus queues first, and then went out at random on the San Antonio road, clutching a badly-printed timetable which Mummy insisted on reading, changing from her dark glasses to her long-distance glasses to her reading glasses with extreme rapidity and with a non-stop flow of comment.

It turned out, to my surprise, to be quite a sensible choice. There were about eight different services out of Ibiza, but they nearly all left before breakfast, or not until lunch. There was one for Santa Eulalia at 9.30 am, but I’d passed it myself, by the grace of God, and Derek wasn’t on it. But the buses for San Antonio left every hour. I looked, with a certain respect, at my mother. Considering she had been up all the night with doctors and police and undertakers, she looked remarkably fresh. Coco’s nearest relative, she said, was a sugar planter in Trinidad who was a member of the Plymouth Brethren, and how nice to think of all that money going to a good cause.

‘What money?’ I said.

‘The money from his posthumous works, dear,’ said Mummy. ‘You know how values rocket on death. And he was a good poet.’

‘You’d better watch no one pinches the bulrushes,’ said Clem, and chortled but briefly, out of respect for the dead. Mummy took him up and we went right on talking. It turned out she thought the Plymouth Brethren was the name of a hot trumpet combo on Radio Luxembourg. Dilling put her right. In the middle, we saw a bus in the distance, and chased it, but it turned out to be full of Spaniards staring at Mummy. Derek wasn’t in San Antonio either. We crawled up and down streets and then sat under the trees on the seafront, and I had a fizzy stone ginger, without seeing a whisker. Then we piled in the Maserati and set off back, on the round trip through San Jose.