William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

“That doesn’t sound like you, Peter. I thought you might want to look up Quince.”

“I want Grace. I want to know, once and for all, how great and blind a fool I’ve been.”

Had it all been a charade? Had she been using him from the very start? Was nothing true and real? And where in the name of God was she now? Seated in the first-class cabin of a jet thundering towards Melbourne or Lima? Warming the stewardess with a radiant smile? While one slim hand rested lightly on a valise filled with diamonds?

Peter knew that he, too, must now start thinking in terms of jet aeroplanes and distant places. For in the morning, ten hours from now, the doors of the Banco de Bilbao would be opened, and, within minutes, rockets would go screaming up from every police bureau in Europe. The chase would be on!

Angela and Phillip had long since gone their separate ways. She had accepted Francois’s death realistically. And so had Phillip, although the nature of that death had caused him to muse with grim satisfaction on the infinite complexity of God’s justice.

Peter had talked to Angela before she left Pamplona. She had been bitter but philosophical about the loss of the diamonds, and the loss of her hold on him; but Peter knew her far too well to be reassured by this seemingly stoic acceptance of defeat. Inside she was roiling. He had sensed there was only one thing Angela couldn’t abide that he might escape the destruction she and Francois had planned for him.

The sword of her vengeance hung over him by a single, silken thread, but he didn’t have the heart to care one way or the other; he longed for only two things, which now seemed hopelessly incompatible Grace and truth.

“Please tell me everything one more time,” he said to Morgan.

“Yes, but remember to stay on the track. Don’t go plunging off. Well then. She knew Angela wouldn’t play fair. I’ve mentioned that, I think. So she ordered a Cabezuda from the same chap who made yours. A twin, so to speak. Now then. Do you remember the log-chopping contests? Well, she arranged for one of those Basques to carry the Cabezuda.”

Dear God, Peter thought, more black mystery. “You didn’t tell me that before,” he said.

“Didn’t!” Morgan frowned faintly. “Odd. Well, in any case, she decided to let me help. Fair play again, you see. I’d mistaken you for a lawyer, and caused all sorts of trouble, so she gave me a chance to make it all right again.”

Peter sighed. “Did she happen to mention aeroplane schedules? Or whether she might need a parka where she was going? Or just a bikini and sun lotion?”

“No, but there is one other thing. She said this would be a bit of a shock to you. She asked me to explain it very gently. Fair play again, you’ll notice.”

Peter sighed again. “Well, the sentiment does her credit, I guess.”

A stout, uniformed figure came hurrying across the plaza. Antonio, the policeman, mounted the steps of the terrace, his short legs churning with a sense of urgency. He sank breathlessly into a chair at Peter’s table, removed his hat and fanned his flushed face.

“Antonio! Are you all right?”

“Yes. No.”

“What’s the matter?”

Antonio tried to smile, but the effort only emphasised the anxiety in his eyes. He drew a deep breath and said: “Peter, this is probably a joke. Maybe we can have a good laugh about it later.” He took an envelope from the inner breast pocket of his tunic, and Peter sighed faintly as he recognised the writing on it. Antonio removed several sheets of folded stationery from the envelope, shook them open with fluttering fingers.

“Of course, I know this is all nonsense,” he said, smiling nervously at Peter. “Sheer nonsense. Forgive me for seeming to take it so seriously, but I must have your assurance.” He stopped and drew another deep breath. “This note was left at my hotel several hours ago. I just received it. There is no signature, of course. People who make such reckless charges seldom have the courage to sign their names to them. But we must discuss it, Peter. Purely as a matter of routine. You understand, of course.”

“Of course,” Peter said, and waited for Angela’s sword to fall.

Antonio put on his glasses and studied the sheets of paper. Then he shrugged. “This is ridiculous. It says that you bought blasting equipment at the Terremoto Construction Company in Malaga last week. Which would be a simple matter to check. It also says that you acquired certain tools and equipment from Mr. Shahari in Gibraltar, and smuggled them into Spain. With the help of a tinker, whose name isn’t given. A convenient oversight. Well, here’s the last of it. Whoever wrote this irresponsible drivel claims you blasted open the vault of the Banco de Bilbao this morning.” Antonio laughed.

“Yes. That’s what it says. And that you stole the Flutes of Carlos. And the Net and Trident which adorned the Virgin of Seville. I’m embarrassed to repeat such absurdities. But I must, Peter. For only one reason: to hear your denial.”

Peter stared at the back of his hands.

Antonio’s smile became uncertain; then it faded slowly from his lips.

After a moment, he said: “Now I must ask you a question, Peter.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Is any of this true?”

“It’s all true, I regret to say Antonio looked away and blinked his eyes. “I am a policeman, but I find that I don’t care whether it’s true or not. Strange, eh?”

“We were friends.”

“We are friends.” Antonio blew his nose. “I can’t judge you. But you realise what I must do, Peter. I must ask you to come with me to the Administration of Police.”

“I understand.”

The policeman’s eyes were sad. “We can walk across the square like old friends taking a stroll after dinner. Chatting about something that happened when we were young. Something amusing, eh?”

“Yes. Do you remember the time when the burro got drunk in my bar?”

“Yes, yes. That was very funny. He butted the priest, didn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you ready then?”

Peter nodded and climbed slowly to his feet.

“It’s only a short walk,” Antonio said.

A distant drumbeat sounded on the air, and a single flute drew a lovely looping line through the clear mild night. At the opposite end of the plaza there were strange flashes of light, and faint cheers that rose towards the sky like jubilant prayers.

Antonio put a hand on Peter’s arm. “Shall we go?”

A lighter hand touched Peter’s other arm. “Oh, darling, I’m so terribly sorry,” Grace said.

Peter closed his eyes. He knew this was a hallucination, a sensory malfunction engineered by his subconscious. But it gave him the strength he needed. In his mind there was a vision of Grace at his side, her head golden against the night, her eyes luminous with tenderness and love. And in this curious trance, he believed a lie, believed that everything had worked itself out serenely; they had nothing to fear any more, nothing to do but love one another for the rest of their lives. And Peter realised that as long as he kept his eyes shut, he was safe from harm; as long as her dear face blazed radiantly in his thoughts, he was free for all time, intact and invulnerable.

The cheering was louder now, but the drum and bugle soared triumphantly above it. There was a stir in the great square.

“Darling, please look at me.”

Peter opened his eyes. Grace stood beside him, her head golden against the night, a tender, anxious smile on her lips. “Where the hell have you been?” he said sharply.

She raised her voice to make herself heard above the cheering. “Please don’t be angry.”

“Why did you run out on me? And why in God’s name did you come back? We’re finished. Angela’s blown the whistle!”