The White Schooner (16 page)

The Comisario put down the telephone and sighed. He waved a hand at Calvi. ‘Please proceed, Capitan.’

‘We believe it will be stored overnight in a warehouse in the dock area and transferred soon afterwards to …’ He
hesitated
. ‘Another place.’

‘And when will this consignment arrive?’

Calvi balanced his cheroot on the rim of the heavy glass ashtray. ‘On May the thirteenth. The steamer from Barcelona that day will be the
Sevilla.
I think we …’

‘Have you checked the manifests and passenger lists?’
interrupted
the Comisario.

A twitch of irritation showed on the thin man’s face. ‘I was about to mention them.’

‘Find anything? Any features common to the occasion on which you
last
expected a consignment?’ His superior officer’s emphasis did not escape Calvi.

‘A number, señor Comisario. Kyriakou and Costa are again passengers. The blue Buick will again be on board. Other items of cargo which interest us are again being carried. The same consigners, but different consignees.’

‘And what are these items, Capitan?’

Calvi stiffened in his chair, lifting his shoulders and
spreading
his hands in a gesture of helplessness. The Comisario nodded, sensing what lay behind it. ‘Ah, I see.’ He stared at Calvi, speculating, trying to read the thin man’s mind. ‘You are sure these consignments come as cargo? That they are not in the hand-luggage of passengers. Or possibly brought ashore by crew members?’

‘My information suggests that they come as cargo. That is our difficulty. No customs procedures operate in respect of cargoes shipped from one Spanish port to another. However, we shall on this occasion use certain checks. Here, and at the Barcelona end.’

‘Can you develop this theme?’

Calvi sighed. It was not that he lacked confidence in the Comisario and his deputy, but his undertaking to the U.S. Narcotics Bureau was one on which he could not go back. The real information, the key to it all, he could not divulge. An agent in an exposed position had to be protected. If not, both the operation and the agent’s life might be endangered.

‘We believe,’ said Calvi, ‘that the drugs are placed in the——.’ He corrected himself. ‘In cargo awaiting shipment in a dock warehouse at Barcelona—or on the voyage itself—
probably
by a workman or sailor who has access to it. Once
unloaded
here, it lies at the quay or in another warehouse. It is at this time, we think, that the drugs are removed. Again by someone who has official access. Then they are transferred to another place.’

‘Have you confidence in this?’

‘It is only a theory. We shall have to test it.’

‘Other possibilities?’ The Comisario leant back, drawing on his cigar, eyes half closed.

‘We are watching the
Snowgoose
and
Nordwind
. Their movements shortly before and after the steamer arrives may be of importance.’

The Comisario leant forward, frowning with sudden
concentration
. ‘You think, then, that van Biljon
may
be involved?’

‘No,’ said Calvi. ‘I do not think so. But I am not so sure of his servants.’

The older man sighed with relief. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It would have been a shock to me.’ He turned to his deputy. ‘But not a surprise eh, Bonafasa? After thirty years of police work one is never surprised.’ He turned back to the thin man. ‘And so, Capitan, what are your plans?’

‘At midnight on the thirteenth we’ll pull in Kyriakou, Costa. Señorita Valez and Black, George Madden the American, and two or three others who we suspect are “pushers.”
Simultaneously
we’ll search the premises where they live and work, the cargo warehouse, and the
Snowgoose
and
Nordwind
.’

‘Well, I wish you success. I want this finished.’

Calvi gave a wry smile. ‘I, too, señor Comisario. I am anxious to get back to Madrid. I have a family there.’

The Comisario was silent, his eyes on the brass paper-weight balancing on the back of his left hand. ‘Any trace of Hassan’s body yet?’ he asked.

‘None,’ said Calvi.

‘I’m sorry he escaped our net,’ said the Comisario. ‘I think he was the big fish.’

Calvi nodded. ‘I think so.’

The ferry steamer from Barcelona lay at the cross berth
discharging
cargo, her passengers long since landed and dispersed.

There was a hum of activity about the ship, the purr and rattle of winches, the noise of auxiliary engines, the shouts of men working cargo, and the cries of quarrelling seabirds. About the ship hung the smell of oil fuel, of wet decks, of food cooking in the galley, and the musty odours of cabins recently occupied.

In the yellow Land-Rover parked between the customs shed and the sea, sat a man in dark glasses, his silver hair showing beneath a beret, a tall upright figure, the scarred skin of his face drawn taut across the bone structure. But the immobile features gave no indication of the emotional forces at work, the reined-in excitement, the rising euphoria, as the thin packing case came clear of the ship’s hold and the derrick swung out to lower it to the men waiting on the quay.

Among them were Juan and Pedro. Van Biljon knew they would ensure that the packing case was handled carefully. Even now he could hear Pedro shouting at the stevedores in Spanish to watch what they were doing, and-their sharp
rejoinders
that he should mind his own business.

The cargo slings were removed from the wooden case and his servants lifted it, one at each end, and came towards him. As they approached van Biljon’s elation grew, his hands and body trembled, and his mind was a jumble of recollection: the letter from his dealer in Paris suggesting the Utrillo might come on the market; his own urgent reply that he was
interested
; the delays after that, followed by Billiat’s coded telegram confirming he would negotiate. Van Biljon had then made one of his rare visits to Paris, to see it and discuss price. He’d gone back to Ibiza two days later, and a long agonising wait had followed while Billiat haggled with the sellers in Zurich. Then had come Billiat’s letter confirming that the picture was his, and van Biljon had arranged the finance.

Soon afterwards the papers and art journals had mentioned
the sale. As usual, Billiat had told them that he’d been acting for a U.S. collector whose name he was not permitted to disclose. And now here was the Utrillo in Ibiza, Juan and Pedro perspiring as they carried it, opening the rear doors of the Land-Rover, loading it carefully into the vehicle. When they’d finished they climbed back into the driving seat, the engine started and they moved off across the quay. On reaching the road they stopped to let traffic pass before turning to the right. When they’d made the turn, van Biljon, suddenly and with some agitation, told Pedro to stop outside the Bar Pechet.

Charles Black and Manuela were sitting at a table on the pavement outside the Bar Pechet when Black saw the yellow Land-Rover coming over from the cross berth. ‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘here’s our old friend.’

Manuela looked up. ‘So it is.’

The Land-Rover stopped to let the traffic pass, then turned to the right and came down the road towards them. As it approached they saw van Biljon turn and say something to the driver who braked suddenly, the Land-Rover stopping almost opposite them.

Van Biljon, sitting stiff and upright, beckoned.

‘He wants you, I think,’ said Black.

Manuela got up and went across. Van Biljon greeted her and after they had spoken to each other she turned and waved to Black. ‘Come here,’ she called.

He went over, remembering the limp.

Van Biljon held out his hand. ‘Good morning, Mr. Black,’ he said. ‘How is the ankle?’ The scarred face and dark glasses gave no indication of his mood, but the tone was unmistakably friendly.

‘Much better,’ said Black, shaking hands. ‘Practically back to normal. I don’t even need a stick now.’

‘I am glad,’ said van Biljon.

‘It was good of you to help me.’

‘I could not have done less. I fear I was not a courteous host.’ Van Biljon shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I am old. I live alone and, well …’ he waved his hands expressively. ‘You were strangers.’

‘Of course,’ said Manuela. ‘You did more than enough.’

There was a disconcerting pause before she said, ‘It’s a fabulous day isn’t it?’

Van Biljon looked at the sky. ‘Yes.’ He leant towards her. ‘And for
me
,
even more so.’ He paused and the emphasis made them wonder what was coming next.

‘This morning,’ his voice dropped to a stage whisper. ‘I have just picked up a
new
picture. For my collection. Something I very much wanted.’

‘Oh, how lovely for you,’ she said.

Black was about to ask him what it was, but the old man suddenly waved his hand. ‘Good-bye. Good-bye,’ he called and the Land-Rover moved off.

They stood watching it go down the road until it had turned the corner and gone up towards the Paseo Vara de Rey.

Black took her arm. ‘Well, well. What was all that about?’

‘Amazing.’ She laughed in a puzzled way. ‘Why, he couldn’t have been sweeter. You know, I think he’s terribly shy.’

Black was thinking, wondering what it was that had caused van Biljon to do something so out of character. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘it was excitement about the new picture. He just had to tell someone about it. You know.’

‘Could be,’ she said. ‘He must be terribly lonely, poor old man.’

Juan and Pedro were working in the gallery. The packing case had been opened on the patio outside, and they had brought in the picture and carried it down to the far end of the second screen. Now they stood beside a folding steel ladder, holding the Utrillo.

Van Biljon spoke to them in Spanish. ‘Good,’ he said moving away from the screen. ‘Raise it about the same height as the picture on the left.’

They lifted the picture and held it against the screen and he signalled with his hands the need to raise or lower it, to move it right or left.

‘That’s it. Hold it!’ He stepped forward and with a pencil marked the screen at the lower corners of the frame. ‘Right. Take it away.’

The men lowered the picture, turning its face to the screen. Pedro took brass hanging wire from a bobbin and attached an end to an eye in the back of the frame, adjusting the wire for length before cutting it. Then he and Juan lifted the picture again.

When it had been hung van Biljon stood back and viewed it
from various angles, his nervous enthusiasm communicating itself to his servants who, though they had no feeling for Utrillo, sensed its importance to him.

‘
Bueno
Juan,
bueno
Pedro
,’ he said, and they knew it was the signal to go. They picked up the wire bobbin and the pliers, folded the steel ladder, and left the gallery.

When he heard the outer door close behind them, van Biljon relaxed. With a magnifying glass he examined the Utrillo, the brushwork, the state of the canvas, looking for flaws and cracks in the paint. But it was in good condition, confirming Billiat’s report and his own impression in Paris. Then he stood back and spent some time viewing the picture, walking away, turning suddenly, seeking the best angle for light, analysing the composition, considering the subject, recalling the history. It was, he decided, Utrillo at his best,
conveying
exquisitely the fresh vision of the man, his finely planned design of the street scene, his warm affection for Paris. Van Biljon was well pleased with this addition to his collection and the pleasure he derived from it overlay,
temporarily
at any rate, his growing anxiety about other things.

When he left the Utrillo he walked slowly down the gallery, passing between the screens until he stopped before a Cézanne at the far end. Of all the French Impressionists none appealed to him more than this artist, and of the four Cézannes at
Altomonte
this picture of a water-mill at Argenton-sur-Creuse was the one he prized most.

Artistic merit apart, it had special significance because it had belonged to Johan Stiegel and it was in a sense Stiegel who had saved him. But for him he might have gone on until the end of the war and by then it could have been too late.

He thought of Stiegel and of the last and only time he had seen him. That had been a bad night. The launch delayed almost an hour because of the weather. Stiegel excited and argumentative, presuming to tell him how things should be done. As if he needed advice after so many had passed through his hands.

When the van broke down and he was doing his best to get the engine started, Stiegel had banged on the doors and shouted, and there were cars passing so that van Biljon had had to go back into the van to calm him down and explain why they were not heading directly for Zurich. Stiegel had waved a pocket compass in high excitement, said they were
going in the wrong direction, that he could not understand the need for secrecy on Swiss soil. Van Biljon had said, ‘
Switzerland
is full of German agents. How long do you think this would continue if it were known?’ That had brought Stiegel to his senses, and he’d stopped gibbering like an idiot.

Mrs. Stiegel had given no trouble, smiling benignly; heavily sedated, van Biljon had judged. But the nephew, a boy of ten, had said nothing, watching him all the time with
frightened
suspicious eyes. This had hurt van Biljon, for children usually took to him at once.

In the woods he had given them a torch, shown them the path, and explained that when they heard the noise of traffic ahead they would know they were approaching the main road into Zurich. On reaching it they were to turn right. After walking a few hundred metres they would find a blue Peugeot van waiting by the roadside. He had given Stiegel the
registration
number. ‘The van will take you into Zurich,’ he had said. ‘But hurry, you’re late.’ Stiegel had said, ‘What if they are gone?’

Van Biljon had shaken his head. ‘They will not have gone. But,’ and he had held out his hand in a flurry of impatience. ‘If they have, come back here. I will wait.’

He had not waited, it had been a violent storm-ridden night and it was not necessary, but the Stiegels had been the last. None came after them. Word came from Halsbach a few weeks later that the system had been penetrated, no more would come. Rosenthal had disappeared and van Biljon had left Zurich within twenty-four hours. That was late in 1943.

A cold wind blew in from the sea, sweeping across the harbour in gusts and eddies, buffeting the rows of houses piled upon each other in the old town, powdering them with fine dust from the reclamations at Talamanca.

The sun was setting behind the range of hills to the
south-west
and the temperature had fallen. Black pulled up the collar of his coat as he made his way up Calle Pedro Tur, then left into Calle Juan Roman and San Ciriaco, following their winding course to the higher reaches of D’Alt Vila.

At the top he paused to enjoy briefly the diorama spread beneath him; town, harbour and sea bathed in the glow of the dying sun.

He turned away and started up the old cobbled alley of
Obispo Torres, steep and twisting through the quarter where in earlier times the grandees and others of privilege had had their houses. It was for one of these, now the Galleria Rico Alma, that he was making.

The occasion was a
vernissage
for Klemens Prbnski, a young Polish artist whose work was beginning to attract attention. Black had met him and thought he showed more promise than most painters on the island. His imagination and sensitivity, his colour discipline, restraint and artistic integrity gave his work unusual distinction. Black knew the pictures, but he was going to the party because it was important he should be seen there. At a turn in the lane he went through an archway to a vaulted hall from which stone stairs led to the gallery.

As he went up he heard the buzz and clamour of many voices. Inside the door Prbnski and Paula Schönland, a
hard-headed
deep-voiced Swiss who owned the gallery, greeted him. He’d met her several times before and liked her.

She squeezed his hand, whispering hoarsely. ‘Write nice things about Klemens or I’ll slit your throat!’

He grinned, wished Prbnski well, went through the gallery to where people stood about in groups, found the drink table, took a glass of wine and moved off.

The gallery consisted of a long hall with two wings, and though Prbnski’s pictures were hung in all three rooms most of the guests were in the hall within easy reach of the drinks. This in Black’s experience was sound, and since there were few serious buyers at these functions it did not detract from the purpose of the occasion.

When he’d filled his glass for the second time, he stood back against a wall watching, sorting out the guests, the invited and the uninvited, listening to the brittle chatter, often about art, some of it informed, much of it phoney. Local gossip was having a good run, and with it the usual inanities from the usual assortment of people. A few serious painters and writers, others not so serious, those who were invited because they were interested in art, and those who were invited
because
they always were invited and they were many. Like a first night, thought Black: almost everybody who isn’t really interested in the theatre.

There were young men with unkempt hair in high-necked jerseys and tight jeans whose beards and narrow thighs
distinguished
them from young women with unkempt hair,
high-necked
 
jerseys and tight jeans. There was Ilse Berch, the Norwegian, who looked to Black more handsome than ever in a black jersey with black jeans tucked into silver-studded riding boots, a Robin Hood hat with an insouciant feather, and a silver-bound pistol belt slung from her fine hips.

‘You look terrific,’ he said.

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. Can’t think why we don’t see more of each other.’

‘Not my fault,’ said Ilse. She held her head on one side,
looking
at him quizzically. ‘Anyway your interests are strictly limited. There wouldn’t be room for me.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘French Impressionists and Manuela.’

‘I’m glad you include her. At least you grant I’m
heterosexual
.’