The Night Visitor (34 page)

It was an extraordinarily fine day. The musky aroma of sage was given a keen edge by the sharpness of morning frost. At the foot of the boulder-strewn ridge, Briggs' powder-blue Mercedes sat like a fat, luminescent beetle. Waiting to convey him back to Granite Creek, some eight miles to the southeast. The automobile was parked at the edge of an unpaved road which meandered here and there in aimless fashion, wriggling like a nervous yellow snake anxious to find its way out of the dark cleft between Salt Mountain and Six Mile Mesa. The antiquarian sat comfortably in a folding canvas chair. His eyes were shaded from the sun by the branch of a withered juniper that grew out of the crack in a basalt shelf. Between puffs on a fine Costa Rican cigar, he sipped gratefully from a thermos bottle of steaming hot chocolate. The antiquarian—though by the chemistry of his genes a pessimist—was in excellent spirits on this lovely morning. He congratulated himself on his ability to sense a rare opportunity. And seize it. Moreover, he had selected a quite suitable site for a meeting. Today, Ralph Briggs felt young for his sixty-two years. Gay at heart. Definitely a man on the way up.

But genes are constructed of extremely tough old stuff, and are very determined. They will have their way.

Of course… if for some reason this Soames fellow did not show… if the Brit thought he could buy the blade for a song… if Soames' client lost interest… if if if.

He glanced at his pocket watch. Eleven minutes before noon.
High Noon.
In his mind's eye, he saw the gaunt, haunted visage of Gary Cooper—the newly married town marshal with his back to the wall. He saw the outlaws at the depot, loading their six-shooters… waiting for the noon train that would bring the killer with the pockmarked face to town. And he saw the sweet, innocent face of a willowy Grace Kelly. The pacifist Quaker bride who—when the chips were down—would shoot a hard case in the back.

She would do it for her man.

The remembrance of this romance brought a tear to his eye, tied a tight knot in his throat.

Now it was ten minutes before noon. Briggs pictured himself riding away in a little buckboard wagon with Grace Kelly,
to live happily ever after. He wiped at his eyes. Forgot all about what he was doing here.

But wait.

There was a small trail of dust on the road. Might be only a Forest Service pickup. He lifted a small pair of binoculars to his eyes and followed the dirt road to the approaching smudge. The optical instrument jittered in his trembling hands. One could not expect to recognize a face at this distance, but it was a black Lincoln Town Car. So this would be the British broker.

At precisely one minute before noon, the black barge pulled to a lurching halt behind Ralph Briggs' Mercedes. The driver got out. A square-headed man in a rumpled blue suit, who moved as if he was muscle-bound. Square Head paused to glance at Briggs' German automobile, then toward the summit of the Iron Kettle. This brief inspection completed, he said something to the passenger, nodded, and opened the rear door. A tall, very thin man dressed in an immaculate gray suit emerged.

“It's him,” Briggs said aloud.

Loud enough to frighten a horned lark perched on a juniper branch above his head. The creature fluttered away in a startled flapping of wings, landing on a stiff sprig of fringed sagebrush. She blinked beady, accusing eyes at the human who had disturbed her peace.

The antiquarian flashed a smile at the lark. “Hello, cutie.” He whistled his best imitation of a warbled birdsong.

The horned lark did not reply.

The dapper little man returned his attention to the visitor from Britain, who—as he had anticipated—had not come alone.

“Okay boys,” Briggs said in a remarkably good imitation of Coop's easy drawl, “Come and get it.”

He watched with keen anticipation as the pair of men slowly made their way up the winding path among the scattering of black boulders.

Anne Foster had mounted her camera on a lightweight tripod. She focused the telephoto lens on Ralph Briggs' pixie face. “Smile,” she said.

He smiled.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

Briggs pushed himself up from the canvas chair; he shook the outstretched hand of his British visitor.

“Mr. Soames, I presume?”

“Mr. Briggs?”

Neither man paid the least attention to the square-headed fellow who lugged the oversized briefcase.

“So good of you to come all this way, Mr. Soames.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Briggs.” Dealing with strangers was risky. Only last summer, a weasel-faced fellow in Lima had showed him a dozen gold figurines unearthed by grave-robbers. The figurines were authentic. The “seller” was not. Weasel-face was an agent of the Federal Police. Armed with a 9-mm semiautomatic pistol, a voice-activated tape recorder in his coat pocket. It had been a damn near thing. A slight tic jerked at Soames' lower lip. “You must understand, of course… that I deal only in objects which may be legally purchased and transferred across international borders.”

Briggs' eyes narrowed. “Relax, Mr. Soames. This is an up-and-up deal. I represent the… ahhh… owner of the artifact. And you don't have to make any speeches for the record. I am not wired.”

“Then,” Soames said, “you will not mind if my associate searches …”

Briggs held a pale hand up. “Certainly not. But fair is fair… you and your associate must also agree to be searched.”

Soames glanced at Square Head, who had a bulge under his left armpit. “Well, I suppose there is something to be said for mutual trust.”

Square Head retreated several paces behind his master, folded his muscular arms, and played the dummy. See nothing, hear nothing, know nothing. He was, Briggs thought, typecast for the role. The American host gestured toward the
picnic basket. “Perhaps you'd care for some refreshments. I have strawberries… and champagne.”

The European looked suspiciously down his nose at the basket. “From California, I presume?”

Briggs pretended to miss the bard. “The champagne is, of course. Strawberries are from Mexico.”

“Thank you kindly, but I'll pass. I'm on rather a tight schedule, Mr. Briggs. Other business presses.” It was true. On the morrow, Soames had a clandestine meeting in Many Farms. Chap with a selection of stunning Anasazi pottery that had been—not so long ago—the pride of a museum in Salt Lake. And then it was off to the Yucatan where an enterprising young lady in Kantunilkin had unearthed a fabulous jade statue of Kuklucan, the plumed Serpent-God of the ancient Maya. “Let us get right down to brass tacks, as you Yanks like to say.”

“Suits me,” Briggs said easily. He removed a pint of perfect strawberries from the picnic basket, and popped a plump specimen into his mouth. He chewed, watching his guest thoughtfully. “I expect you'll want to see the merchandise.”

Soames' smile had no hint of mirth. “Indeed.”

Again, the antiquarian slipped his hand into the wicker picnic basket; he removed a beautiful box of carved rosewood. He placed the container gingerly on a flat shelf of basalt, flipped a brass latch, and opened the hinged lid to reveal a lining of purple satin. Resting upon the sumptuous bed was a long, slender object. Wrapped in faultless white Taiwanese silk. Proper presentation was an essential part of any sale.

Soames stretched out his hand toward the box. “May I?”

“Certainly. But do be careful, Mr. Soames. Wouldn't want you to drop it.”

The Brit sniffed to show his displeasure at the unnecessary caution from this two-bit American merchant. But without moving the object from the box, he carefully unwrapped the silk.

And there it was.

A seven-inch sliver of translucent pink flint, chipped by some ancient artisan into the form of a slightly curved blade.
Tony Soames found himself holding his breath. Aside from its scientific value, this was quite a lovely thing. And—being the sole link to an unexpected epoch in American prehistory—one of extraordinary value to a museum. Or a wealthy collector. He turned to his host. “You do understand that I must be certain of its authenticity.”

“I personally guarantee it.” Briggs jabbed the smoking cigar stub at his guest. “This is the very same artifact removed from the mammoth bones at the McFain mammoth site. I was present when it was discovered.”

“How convenient for both of us. Nevertheless, I must assure myself …”

Briggs grinned like a coyote dining on freshly killed rabbit. “What—you don't trust me… after all we've meant to each other?”

Soames smiled sadly. A pity that one sometimes had to deal with such vulgar folk. He produced a device from his shirt pocket that had the appearance of an expensive pen. He removed the cap. The device was tipped with a small diamond stylus.

Briggs felt his shoulder muscles stiffen as the Brit scratched at the surface of the flint artifact. But he'd expected as much.

Soames was not surprised to learn that the object was stone. It was much too heavy to be an ordinary epoxy replica. But epoxy could be loaded with heavy minerals to simulate the density of stone. Contented that the material was indeed flint, he snapped his fingers.

Square Head opened the briefcase, and produced a copy of
Time.
The Brit sat on the basalt outcropping for some minutes, using a large magnifying glass to compare the details on the flint blade with the artifact pictured on the magazine cover. There could be no doubt about it; they were one and the same. He turned to the American. “Shall we discuss terms?”

“I trust,” Briggs said, “your client is well-heeled.”

“I hope,” Soames shot back testily, “that
your
client does not intend to be greedy.” The lower the purchase price, the higher his fee. But he would not receive less than expenses plus twenty thousand dollars. “Upon my recommendation, of
course, my client is prepared to pay… I should expect… twenty-five thousand American dollars.”

Briggs' eyes widened in a shocked expression. “I do hope you're joking. Such a small sum is out of the question. My client would be insulted. In fact, now that I have time to think about it,
I
am insulted.”

Soames ignored the diatribe; the little man might be selling cod in a Liverpool fish market. This was only an opening offer. One expected to bargain a bit and all that. But he intended to have the artifact for no more than a hundred thousand. “Twenty-five thousand dollars for a simple flint blade is a rather generous sum.”

“I suggest you consider raising your opening bid to at least one hundred thousand,” Briggs said, “… something to get the auction going.”

Tony Soames paled; his voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “Auction? You told me nothing of any auction …”

“Since we had our telephone conversation, another potential buyer has turned up. Of course—if your client doesn't participate, there won't be any auction. I'll only have the other collector to deal with.” Ralph Briggs glanced anxiously at his wristwatch. “Look, Mr. Soames, it's almost twelve-twenty. I'm scheduled to make an overseas call at half-past the hour. I prefer to conduct my business in private. You'll surely forgive me if I seem inhospitable… but it's time we said our good-byes.”

Soames ground his teeth. “I have not crossed an ocean to return to my client empty-handed. And I daresay I've made you a fair offer.”

Briggs' dark eyes narrowed to thin, lizard slits. His false teeth chomped down on the cigar. Gary Cooper did not backwater. Neither did he. “What's on your mind?”

Square Head, who had been smoking an unfiltered Mexican cigarette, dropped the butt and ground it under his heel.

Soames took a step forward; he pointed a perfectly manicured finger menacingly at Briggs' stubby nose. “I would not have you mistake my meaning. It is this: when I leave this godforsaken place, I
will
have the artifact in my possession.”

Briggs glared back. “Don't piss around with me, you
Limey gopher.” Not exactly how Coop would've responded, but it'd have to do.

The Brit nodded at his silent companion.

Square Head casually pulled his suit coat apart, to reveal a polished-leather shoulder holster. It was filled with a wicked-looking automatic. He grinned meaningfully at Briggs, displaying an odd assortment of nicotine-stained teeth.

“This hardy fellow,” Soames said evenly, “is my assistant. He handles irksome tasks… such matters that I would not wish to soil my hands with.” He noticed, with some surprise, that Briggs did not appear to be impressed.

The antiquarian responded with a calmness bordering on boredom. “I am going to do you an enormous favor—in the way of sage advice. Stand very still, Mr. Soames… smile if you can manage it.”

Soames did not smile. He glanced to his right, then his left. Over his shoulder. And saw nothing.

To Square Head, Briggs said: “Now listen very carefully, chimp-face… do
not
move your grubby hand toward that automatic pistol. To do so would invite the most unfortunate consequences. Which—in case you do not get my meaning—means that you will likely get your noodle blown off.”

Square Head spoke for the first time; his growling accent hinted of South Philly and other points east and equally urban. “It's justa bluff, Mr. Soames. Mr. Fancy Pants is here all by hisself.”

Soames smiled uneasily. “I am inclined to agree with you.” Actually, he was inclined to think the little man had something up his sleeve. But a gentleman cannot appear uncertain in front of the hired help.

Square Head rolled his hairy hands into knobby fists. “Just gimme the word, Chief, and I'll kick his scrawny little ass up between his shoulders.”

Briggs raised his voice. “Dude, please show yourself.”

Twenty paces to Briggs' left, from behind a large basalt boulder, a man appeared. He was mounted on a fine chestnut, which tossed its head and whinnied. The newcomers stared in wonder at this most unlikely apparition.