William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

“So you all lived in luxury once again?”

“Well, we were comfortable at least.”

“Grace, this is terrible. This flip, casual tone, this total lack of remorse, is ghastly.”

She sighed. “I told you I couldn’t do anything about my soul.”

“All right then, why did you give it up?”

“It was because of Debby. When she was two-and-a-half or three, she told me she wanted to be a fireman. No, I’m quite serious. It made me think. You see, I had decided that there was something hereditary about what I did. Some compulsion that I wasn’t responsible for. Naturally, I thought Debby and the other children would grow up with the same well, proclivities. But here was Debby, a mere babe, striking out in a totally different direction.” Peter sighed with relief. “So you realised that what you were doing was wrong.”

“No. I realised that stealing wasn’t inevitable. I had enough money, so I gave it up.”

“And you made no attempt to make amends? You have no remorse for what you did?”

“No. I guess not. Actually, I never thought about it very much.” She put her hands on his cheeks, and turned his head to make him meet her eyes. “It’s not important now, Peter,” she said softly and urgently.

“All that matters is that you stay alive and stay free. Please take me in your arms, and love me as I love you. And say you’ll let me help you in Pamplona.”

“No. Absolutely no.”

“You think I’m not good enough. Is that it?”

“In a way you won’t understand, yes.”

“Oh, you brute!” She leaped to her feet, hands clenching spasmodically, lambent sparks of anger flashing from her splendid eyes.

It was marvelous to see; Peter was as entranced as if he were witnessing an electrical storm exploding over black, heaving seas.

“I’m sick of your lofty moralising,” she said furiously. “You patronise me because I was a common, ordinary thief. Because I didn’t excuse my crimes by pretending I had some mystical partnership with God. Well, I’ll show you, Peter Churchman. I may not have a lily-white soul; but I’ve got ten lily-white fingers that are just as clever as yours. If you won’t let me help, I’ll do the job on my own. And here’s what you’ll find when you open that vault in the Banco de Bilbao.”

She plucked the Ace of Diamonds from his hand and waved it defiantly in his face. “Something to press in your souvenir book. My calling card.”

Peter was shaken, not by her threats, but by her passion. With her slim strong legs spread wide, and the anger blazing purely in her eyes, she was like a creature struck from the ice and rock of mythology, proud, indomitable, fantastic.

“You are wonderful,” he said simply. “Absolutely wonderful.”

“Then why won’t you let me help you?”

“I love you too much. And secondly, I don’t need you.”

“Oh, you are cruel. You melt my heart with one word and break it with the next.”

And suddenly, for the first time since he had known her, there was weariness and defeat in the proud line of her shoulders. She turned quickly away, but not before he saw the bright flash of tears in her eyes. Peter wished desperately that he could find words that might give her some measure of hope or comfort, but he realised that anything he said would only ring with a hollow and hurtful banality. He turned to the door.

“Peter?”

Yes?”

She looked steadily at him. “Will you promise me one thing?”

“Yes?”

“If you need me, if you really need me, will you promise to let me help you?”

The adverb she had used made it less difficult for him to lie; for he knew he could coat the word ‘really’ with many slippery philosophical meanings. “Yes, you have my promise, dear.”

Perhaps she believed him, perhaps she didn’t; her eyes and face, calm with hurt, told him nothing. He sighed and went away.

That night he wrote dejectedly in his journal: To be indifferent to Divine Law is to put your faith in the practical; and see what a botch practical people always make of things. Grace must not be indifferent; she can’t be. After a moment of reflection, he addressed an irrelevant inquiry to the page: Is Atheism really the best defence against Agnosticism? Then his mood changed, and he wrote: She is more philosophical about this mess than I am. I am censorious. (Moral snob?) While she is realistic. (Moral spastic?) Everything is suddenly turned around. Stay awake, dreamer, for things are not as they seem. Not ever.

He re-read what he had written and tried to make sense of it. There was a kernel of truth hidden away somewhere, but he couldn’t find it.

All in all, he decided morosely, it wasn’t one of his better efforts.

Peter wished he were someone else, or someone different.

Thinking of it, he wrote: In time of crisis the truly wise man panics; for the cool of head and stout of heart are always invited to repel attackers.

Peter had a talk with Angela before he left for Gibraltar the following morning. Francois was not present.

“He’s running on the beach,” she explained with a slow, sweet smile.

“Every morning and every afternoon, he runs on the beach. He’s quit smoking, too. Do you imagine he’s worried about the bulls?”

“I see how that possibility distresses you.”

Angela’s smile became silky. “Poor man. He’s extremely sensitive to physical pain. Perhaps it’s because of things he saw and did in the war.” She lay spread-eagled on a double lounge, immolating her slim body to the rising sun. White patches of gauze covered her eyes, but the soft, dreaming curve of her lips betrayed a sensual stir behind the delicate shell of her forehead. When she stretched her arms above her head, the rise of her ribs gracefully rounded the gleaming hollows between her small breasts and hips.

“Are you worried about the bulls, Peter?”

“I can handle my end of the job, I think.”

“You were always so brave.”

“But you’re going to make a mess of yours.”

“Oh?” she rolled on to her stomach and arranged herself comfortably.

“Would you like to rub some cream on my back?”

“I didn’t come here to do Francois’s chores. Tell me this: do you have any intelligent plans for getting the jewels out of Spain?”

She smiled. “Francois has no zest for his chores since he began training. He eats yoghourt and salt pills and vitamins, and sleeps at night on the sofa. But it isn’t jewels, Peter, it’s diamonds. You will take only diamonds. The Contessa of Altamira’s Net and Trident of diamonds. The Diamond Flutes of Carlos. Nothing else.”

“And have you thought of what will happen when they’re found to be missing? Every customs point will close with a crash. A ring of guns and troops will circle the whole country.”

“Yes, but with luck they’ll be too late. You and Francois will have the diamonds on Sunday. The bank remains closed till Monday. By then by Sunday night actually the Flutes of Carlos and the Countess of Altamira’s Net and Trident will have been flown from Spain under a diplomatic seal.” She smiled and moved her feet slowly up and down like a swimmer. “We have another partner, Peter, a South African with the embassy in Madrid. He and Francois and I will be thousands of miles from Spain when the theft is discovered. The real trick is that the international diamond cartels will do anything to prevent these stones from reaching the market. There are collectors, of course, who wouldn’t give a damn that they were stolen; in fact that might even add to their value in certain areas. And so everything’s been arranged. You may set your mind at ease, Peter. Angela has her specialities, as you have yours.”

She removed the white gauze patches from her eyes and looked at him without noticeable friendliness. “But my future plans don’t concern you. I just want you to realise I’ll be comfortable. Thinking of that should amuse you. Now let’s talk about that great ox, Phillip. I don’t like him, I don’t trust him.”