William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

He sighed. “That’s very glib. If a man looks at a beautiful statue of the Virgin and says a prayer, who are we to measure what comfort and solace that may bring to him?”

“I can measure it. It would probably fit in a thimble, with lots of room left over.”

“I’m not that omniscient, my dear.” There was a touch of lofty admonition in his tone, and, sensing it, Peter resolved not to be presumptuous, regardless of provocation. “I am a sinner,” he continued more equably. “You are not. And I’ve never paid for my sins. That’s the difference between us.”

“Oh, how smug you are! It’s the ultimate vanity, Peter, to accuse everyone else in the world of innocence. Because you equate it with naivety and stupidity.”

“I’m sorry. But I do not.”

“Yes, you do. You think some special cachet attachés itself to sinners. While the mark of the booby is stamped on the innocent. Well, thank you very much, but I’m not a booby.” He was confused and stirred by her emotion, her closeness to him; the hot tears in her eyes melted the steel of his resolution. The drums and bugles were sounding once more; the tiny golden sea-horse on top of her head seemed to be prancing to the challenge of the music. He prayed for strength.

“Peter, please let me help you,” she said, and as she whispered the words, the lights in the room coated her long full lips with a patina of shimmering silver.

“No, no, no!” he said. “The only way you can help is by leaving me alone.”

She studied his face and eyes. Then she nodded and turned slowly to the door. “All right, Peter, I’ll go, if that’s what you want.” She sighed and straightened her shoulders. “I have a confession to make. It doesn’t matter in the least now, but I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh? Is that all right? I mean, you’re not disappointed or anything?”

She smiled quietly. “You’re such a good man. Who else would think of such a thing now? It makes me feel rather small. Because I lied to you. I wasn’t pregnant, darling.”

“But you went to Paris and saw your husband. You said—”

She interrupted him. “No, I saw my lawyer. About some odds and ends of business. My husband’s been dead four years. This is all very difficult, Peter. I told you he was alive and wanted me back because I didn’t want you to feel responsible for me. If you wanted to throw me over, I didn’t want you having conscience pangs about it.” She sighed again. “You were upset about my children, and I realised I hadn’t been fair to you. I wanted to give you, well an out.”

“I’m rather surprised at your estimate of me. Had I previously behaved in a fashion that led you to anticipate shrieks of prudish revulsion at what is, after all, a fairly natural condition?”

“You’re spacing your words, Peter. You do it when you’re upset.”

“Damn it, why did you tell me this now?”

She turned quickly to him, her eyes bright with hope, “I thought it might make a difference. About helping you, I mean. I am, in fact, a perfectly proper widow with three adorably well-mannered children. I’m not a divorcee with shadowy ex-husbands and lovers. Don’t you see the difference? It’s such a perfect cover. I could come up here next week with my children and keep an eye on Francois and Angela. I could run errands for you, and help you with your plans. And no one would ever suspect me.”

“God Almighty!” he cried explosively. “Didn’t you hear me? Do you still think I’m trying to steal the plays of the Vassar volleyball team? You must be out of your mind! You want to help me?” He caught her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “All right. Find me cracksmen dynamiters, human flies, judo experts. Get me Aristide Broualt! Christopher Page! Stuart Carmichael! Or Jimmy Fingers or even the Ace of Diamonds or the Count of Soho!”

“The Ace of Diamonds? The Count of Soho? What are you talking about?”

“You wouldn’t understand if I spelled it out letter by letter. It doesn’t matter. They are thieves. Geniuses, artists, virtuosos of crime. That’s what I need. Not your proper widow’s weeds and adorably well-mannered children.”

“But they’re all I have to offer you! How can you be so unfeeling?”

“It’s not difficult at all, since it’s my neck that’s on the block.” He picked up her purse and gloves and thrust them into her hands. “Now, will you do me two favours?”

“You’re going to ask me to leave,” she said miserably “And you’ll have the poor grace to consider that a favour. What else do you want, Peter?”

“I’d like you to say good-bye without rancour, without tears, without hysterics. And go out that door without looking back.”

“You’re so stubborn, Peter. You’ve made up your mind and nothing will change it. You can’t think clearly any more.”

“There is nothing left to think about,” he said.

“If you weren’t such a fool, you’d think about why I lied to you. And you’d wonder that I was able to. But you’re not even curious. You’re not only unfeeling and insensitive, you’re rigid, and that’s the worst possible drawback in your line of work.”

“My work is running a bar. My cross is robbing banks. Will you please say good-bye now?”

“You’re hateful.”

Peter walked to the windows and stood with his back to her, his shoulders squared, arms folded, staring out at the winking lights of the old Basque town.

He was ready for this moment, quite ready for it. “Good-bye, Grace,” he said quietly. But ready as he was, he was still surprised by the sharp edge of the words, surprised at the way they hurt his throat.

“Oh, good-bye, you bastard,” she said.

Peter raised his eyebrows. That wasn’t like her, he thought sadly. He heard the doorknob turn; the hinges creak; the tap of her heels.

There was another sound then, a hiss of disturbed air that was like silk cloth being torn by angry hands. Something bright and shimmering flashed past Peter’s startled eyes and impaled itself in the wall beside his head with a metallic thunk.

He ducked and wheeled about, but the door had already swung shut with a dry and final click. The room was empty; she was gone.

Peter stared at the slim little knife, which still quivered in the wall like a tuning fork. No, he thought, with some agitation, this wasn’t like Grace at all. He worked the tip of the knife free from the plaster, and wondered what in heaven’s name had got into her. Then his jaw dropped as he saw the playing card impaled to the hilt on the knife’s gleaming blade The Ace of Diamonds. And on it a gryphon’s head drawn in bold strokes.

The floor shifted giddily beneath Peter’s feet. His mind turned an ana grammatical somersault, and the truth reverberated in his head with a crash.

The Ace of Diamonds with a gryphon!

The Grace of Diamonds!

The implications streaked through his mind like the shock waves of an earthquake. Grace! A criminal! Oh no, no. It wasn’t possible. She was practical. Sensible. That was the reality; the bonfires had been an illusion, a chimera. Yes, that was it. It must be a joke. Of course. Laugh, you idiot, laugh. Ha, ha, ha!

Dear God, he thought, and rushed across the room and pulled open the door.

He collided with a tall man in a black raincoat.

“Excuse me, I was just going out,” Peter said.

He stepped to one side, but the man moved quickly in front of him, blocking his way. Something hard and cold prodded Peter’s stomach.

“Inside,” the man said.

Peter glanced down and saw the shiny blue muzzle of a revolver. “Well, of course,” he said, and stepped back into his room. The tall man looked down the corridor, nodding, and Peter took that opportunity to slip the knife and playing card into his pocket. Another man, with hard brown features and hair the colour of old silver, joined the man in the black raincoat.