Лесли Чартерис - Salvage for the Saint

Arabella was furious, almost murderous, but temporarily numbed into silence by the ferocity and suddenness of the blow from Bernadotti.

“Where is the money?” Descartes demanded.

“What money? What gold? Please... I don’t know. I don’t know about any money.”

“Our other associate, Monsieur Fournier as he was known, did finally locate our old partner Karl... your husband, Mrs Tatenor. But he died before he was able to tell us where to find the money, or the gold, if it remains as gold. If indeed he ever did extract the secret from your husband before he died... before they both died. We cannot now discover from Karl, from your Charles, where he secreted our mutual ill-gotten gains. Therefore, we must discover it from you.” Descartes paused and waggled a solemn forefinger at Arabella. “Be assured, you will tell us before a long time has passed. You might save yourself pain by telling us now.” He emphasised his final words with that plump stabbing forefinger: “Where — is — the — gold?”

She repeated herself firmly, but with an edge of desperation now: “I tell you I don’t know about any gold, or money. My problem is, Charles didn’t leave me any — only debts. That’s why I’ve come here — to France, to Marseille. I’ve got to sell this yacht — my yacht, the Phoenix...”

Descartes put his head on one side and studied her for a few moments. Arabella tried again.

“I don’t have any money. No money. No gold. Comprenez-vous?”

Descartes shook his head sadly.

“Then you are no use to us. Your memory is too bad.”

“Listen, lady,” Bernadotti hissed suddenly, “we know the gold or the money is here in France, where your husband once did business. All you have to do is tell us where.”

“What money? What gold? I don’t know about any money or gold!” Arabella was near snapping-point now.

Again Descartes looked at her aslant for a moment.

“Let me remind you of the facts,” he began, “since you have such a poor memory, it appears. Four of us endured eight years in prison for a robbery of gold bullion in which your ‘Charles’ also took a part — and from which he escaped with the gold, all of the gold, while we were caught. Now we want that gold, or whatever remains of it.”

“All this is news to me. If Charles had any gold he certainly didn’t tell me about it,” Arabella said firmly. “Now let me out of here.”

She stood up; and Descartes, unexpectedly, rose from his own seat and made a sweeping, bowing gesture towards the door as if inviting her to leave. She compressed her lips determinedly and marched to the door. Pancho had been watching the conversation, his piggy eyes darting from mouth to mouth; but now he became absorbed in an old penknife, its blade much worn and sharpened, which he was honing patiently with a stone.

“Do you mind?” Arabella demanded.

Pancho didn’t move or look up.

“Our friend Pancho — he only lip-reads,” Bernadotti remarked.

Arabella clicked her fingers repeatedly under his eyes; but still he didn’t respond.

“It is not always easy to catch his attention,” Descartes explained.

“I see,” said Arabella slowly, as she turned back. “Perhaps if you... well, can you perhaps tell me a bit more about this money or gold, I’m supposed to know about?”

Suddenly, having edged into the middle of the room, she made a dash for the far door. But as she reached it, so did Pancho’s knife. One second it wasn’t there; the next, that well-worn blade was buried deep in the door, inches from her face.

She stared at the quivering knife and collapsed to a sitting posture on the floor, all the fight temporarily shaken out of her.

“If I knew where this gold was, I’d tell you,” she pleaded helplessly.

Bernadotti stood up abruptly.

“Let’s stop wasting time,” he hissed. “We’re gonna have to introduce you to some of our... livestock. The horned variety that helps people remember things they pretend they forgot, or that they pretend they never knew.”

He laughed uproariously as his words sank in and Arabella turned several shades paler. He was still chuckling as, after two quick strides to reach her, he grasped her arm in a powerful and painful grip and propelled her towards the door.

“Let’s go, Mrs high-class widow-lady. Toro is waiting for us!”

She searched Descartes’ features hopefully for some sign of dissension in the camp. But his expression was stonily impassive, and she was led off with her arm in that pincer grip from the black-shirted and be-chained Bernadotti.

Thus is was that, not long after, Arabella Tatenor found herself in a bullring for the first time in her life.

It was a small bull-ring as bull-rings go, and clearly designed for training rather than public entertainment. But it did seem to possess most of the usual features — approximately circular, with a wooden perimeter, though with only a minimal two tiers of what would have been seating if actual seats had been present, and a few breaks around the circumference of the perimeter fence. There was the door she had been pushed through into the ring, a heavy iron latticework gate on the opposite side, and a similar gate at right angles to both. Only one conventional feature was lacking — and that deficiency, her hearing told her, was about to be remedied.

There was a bull, now revealed as big, black, and ugly, pawing the ground impatiently on the other side of the heavy iron gate facing her.

Descartes’ voice floated fatly across to her.

“Have you decided to confide in us, Madame?”

Her eyes turned from side to side in despair and mute appeal.

“Please. Be reasonable. How can I tell you what I don’t know?”

“I think you do know,” came the fat voice. “And you will tell us — or else you are no further use to us. But you have very little time remaining.”

There was a short pause followed by a sharp mechanical click. The bull-gate swung slowly open.

Arabella pressed back against the fence behind in horror as the powerful snorting animal pushed its way through the gate. It trotted a few paces into the ring, and stopped. The morning sun reflected glossily off the perfect black muscularity of its back, and for a moment she was oddly, dispassionately aware of the beauty in that sheer animal power, before the parlousness of her own situation crowded in upon her again. She made a sudden panic-stricken dash for the door through which she had been propelled a minute before.

The bull lumbered into the middle of the ring, stopped, and seemed to see Arabella for the first time. He put his head down to charge. She rattled frantically at the door, tried to wrench it open by the heavy iron ring. It was locked. She hammered on it frenziedly with both fists.

“Let me out! Let me out!”

Descartes’ voice carried across the ring again.

“The gold, Madame. For the last time, where is the gold?”

“For the last time,” she gasped, “I don’t know.”

The bull began his charge towards her, and with a shriek she started to run along the perimeter fence. The bull turned to follow, began to bear down. She reversed direction and managed to increase her distance from the snorting animal, but then he skidded, turned, and came after her with renewed interest. She just succeeded in reaching a solitary board partition — a burladero shelter set close against the perimeter fence and threw herself behind its meagre protection.

The bull thundered headlong into the partition, hitting it from an oblique angle. It shuddered and shook, but held. And the bull drew back, cantering around in a tight circle for another assault as Arabella crouched terrified behind the board, which she could now see was rotten in parts.