Moon over Tangier (The Francis Bacon Mysteries Book 3) Page 12

  I can’t stand a man who mixes metaphors. “To the point, Tony.”

  “Well,” he said, with a sly look, “I’m thinking you might be more profitable long-term than Medea.”

  Tony was a bit slow on the uptake, but that didn’t mean he was not dangerous. “How so?”

  “You’re a painter. You were working with Goldfarber. I’ve put two and two together.”

  “I’m a painter; he ran a gallery. There’s not much you can make out of that.”

  “I’ve been checking up,” Tony said. “He didn’t carry any Bacons. He carried Picassos and Manets and other expensive Frenchies.” He leaned closer across the cafe table. “I need a painting—a good, expensive one.”

  “And what do I get out of it?”

  “I keep Medea off your tail. And you get someone who can fence forgeries. Forget Goldfarber. I can get paintings into Spain, France, and England, because The Aurora’s fit for sea voyages. I take the work off your hands, and I pay you a steady income. No more dealing with queer foreign homicides, eh?”

  “I don’t have any paintings,” I said.

  “That’s a lie and that’s stupid. If we’re going to be partners …”

  “And if we’re not?”

  “I stand up now and call for the police. I’ll do it, old chap.”

  I downed the dregs of my wine and thought it over. He would do it, I decided. He was just stupid enough. Then, besides having Edith Angleford after my blood, I’d be in trouble with both the Spanish police and Her Majesty’s representatives. I stood up. “All right,” I said. “One painting. Where should I send it?”

  He gave me the sly glance again. “I’ll come collect it now,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  The quick Mediterranean night descended as we walked up from the beach. The sky had clouded over; the rising moon was only a fitful presence, and in the darkness various ideas about eliminating my companion drifted through my mind. I should have acquired unarmed­ combat skills or a handy stiletto; without these, I resorted to playing on Tony’s nerves. I mentioned the rough, deserted ground where sheep and goats grazed by day and the many shadowed gardens­, byways, and side streets. “I’m not usually out this late,” I said. “Not since I was followed by a pair of toughs my first night.”

  Tony grunted noncommittally.

  “You may not want to walk so far carrying anything valuable. We can wait until tomorrow if you’re at all nervous …”

  “I’ve got the cure for nerves,” Tony said and patted his jacket.

  “Entirely up to you,” I said. “There’s a bit of everything in this neighborhood.” As if on cue, a donkey started braying nearby. Tony jumped and put his hand under his jacket. I had hoped he was packing some liquid courage, but he was yet another devotee of firearms.

  “Tomorrow, you could be back in the Zone,” Tony said.

  “If only I could. I’ve told you, I’m flat broke.”

  “Yet you are living very nicely. Maybe I should look into that.”

  I thought to myself that he would not like what he’d find, but I said nothing, and we made our way to the road and then to the house. Still all dark. I fumbled for the key to the gate and felt Tony’s pistol against my right kidney. “Nice and easy,” he said.

  “My thought exactly.”

  I opened the gate, locked it again behind us, then unlocked the house. I felt for the candle that stood on the table nearby and struck a match. “Wait here,” I said. “I’ll get you a painting.”

  “No chance of that, old chap. You might have anything upstairs.”

  I hesitated, then shrugged. Whether or not he saw that I had other paintings scarcely mattered. If he could sell one, he’d be back for more.

  We went up the narrow stairs. The candle cast a pale circle of light across the floor, across the ceiling, across the easel with Dora Maar in cubist hysterics, and over the finished canvases facing the wall. I went to pick one up, and it was only when I turned around, painting in hand, that I saw a movement in the shadows, a figure with one arm raised. The candle jumped with the shock, but before I could speak, a nasty thunk jounced my heart, my liver, and most of my other internal organs, as Tony dropped to the floor like a poleaxed steer. Casually professional, his assailant stepped into the light and picked up the pistol that had rattled onto the tiles. Herr Goldfarber looked no more congenial than when I’d seen him last.

  I thought it prudent to set down the painting and raise my hands. He patted my jacket and pants pockets. Then, satisfied that I was unarmed, he put away the pistol and lit a cigarette.

  “Let’s see the work,” he said, as if we were back in the fancy gallery and I was a hopeful painter with pictures to sell.

  I turned the canvases.

  “Portraits of Dora Maar. I don’t know if they’ll do quite as well. There’s maybe a bit too much angst in them for the Mediterranean world.” I heard disgust in his voice, as if there was something reprehensible about a taste for light and happiness.

  “The originals are presumed destroyed,” I said. “Safer by far. Make up provenances and you can sell them anywhere.”

  “I see you have been thinking ahead.”

  “I’ve been forced to, thanks to you. Why did you kill poor Angleford?”

  The dealer laid his heavy hand on my neck, a gesture that definitely did not connote affection. “That needn’t concern you.”

  “Of course it concerns me. I’ve been blamed for it.”

  “A piece of luck for me,” Goldfarber admitted. “But what happened to my painting?”

  “A long story. Too long for now, but there are four ‘Picassos’ here. Well, three available. I’ve agreed to trade one to Tony there for his silence.”

  “Tony will be silent in any case,” Goldfarber said in a heavy tone. “Pick up the paintings and let’s go.”

  When I hesitated, he gestured with Tony’s pistol.

  “They are all damp,” I said. “That’s genuine oil paint. Nothing but the best for you this time. We’ll have to put them in the racks, and you’ll have to carry at least one if you don’t want them damaged.”

  He really had an inventive German vocabulary, but he waited until I put the three finished paintings into carrying racks, leaving the final Dora Maar on the easel. I took one painting in each hand. Goldfarber took the third and followed me out to the street. “Take a right,” he said.

  I saw a large dark car parked in the shadows. Goldfarber opened the boot, and I loaded the pictures. I had faint hopes of the gardener, my perhaps mythical protection, or of a miraculous recovery by Tony, or of some other providential alteration in the universe.

  “Hurry it up,” said Goldfarber.

  “You want them damaged?”

  “I’ll see to them myself,” he said and shoved me aside.

  I should have taken off immediately, but I was still weighing my chances and getting up my courage when I heard the distant squeak and rattle of a bicycle: Elena coming to make dinner? Very probably.

  “You really need some proper packing,” I said in a loud voice. “Something to separate the canvases. With all the bumps on these roads, you’ll have a problem for sure.”

  Goldfarber was not keen on advice. He slammed down the lid of the boot and gestured for me to get into the car.

  A beat in which I felt my heart and heard my breath but not the bicycle. Either I’d been mistaken or Elena had heeded the warning.

  “I’ll only be a problem. You know I’m wanted for murder,” I said and edged away from the car. Goldfarber was remarkably quick for a large and bulky man, and he caught my shoulder. I hacked him in the ribs as hard as I could, but though he was surprised and staggered, he did not let go.

  I believe that Jerome Hume would have been in for some serious damage if a female voice had not cried, “Stop right there!” in perfect English. I’d b
een right about Elena.

  “He’s armed!” I shouted, and things fell apart in that moment, for a shot pinged off the open car door.

  “It’s Jerome,” I called, “don’t shoot!”

  She didn’t, but Goldfarber fired blindly into the darkness, and in response, several more shots landed in our neighborhood. Clearly Jerome Hume was expendable. I dropped into a crouch, aiming to make a run for it, but Goldfarber grabbed me from behind and shoved me into the car. I tumbled into the passenger seat, where I struggled to get the side door open. But before I could find the handle, Goldfarber’s shots were answered with two that shattered the windshield, covering me with shards of glass and sending me into the well of the dashboard. He fired once more before he slammed the car into gear, and we careened forward.

  More shots against the doors, against the hood, a final rattling against the back fender, then we were lurching and bouncing up the road, weaving from side to side in the darkness and threatening every wall and tree until Goldfarber finally switched on the remaining headlight.

  I’d figured that he’d make for the port, the smuggler’s base, and our potential exit from the protectorate, but we turned inland, with the windshield a spiderweb of broken glass, the engine roaring, something a bit dodgy with the back end, and only a single wobbly light to show us the way.

  While Goldfarber was occupied with steering the powerful car up the dark, narrow road, I found the door handle and prepared to dive onto the tarmac. I told myself that we couldn’t be going so very fast, although with the breeze coming straight in over the dashboard and the rear of the car listing alarmingly, I had more than the usual sense of forward motion. There was also Goldfarber to consider. If he’d killed Tony—and he might have—he’d want to leave no witnesses.

  So have you an exit strategy, Francis? Not really. I’d blown the money I had on my afternoon with Diego, who ran cigarettes into the Zone, and my painting equipment was back in the laughably unsafe safe house where Harry had stashed me. Would Her Majesty’s minions trust me if I went back? Could I get back? I was still mulling my options when Goldfarber screamed, “Hang on,” hit the brakes and nearly overturned the big car with a high-speed U-turn.

  He had seen something ahead, and now I did too: car lights and an impromptu barrier. Our single headlight bounced over the dark faces and handsome uniforms of the local gendarmerie. Goldfarber could not quite manage the turn, forcing him to back up, change the gears, wrench the wheel. I kept my head down as shouts were followed by a rattle of fire from the barrier. A jolt as Goldfarber hit the brake, then a lurch as he floored the accelerator. The big car shot away, back toward the port. When I thought we were out of range, I looked out the rear window. Through a mesh of cracks and splinters, I saw twin headlights down the road.

  “They’re following us.”

  “They won’t catch us. German engineering is still the best in the world.” He did something fancy with the steering wheel that enabled us to miss a palm tree close to the winding road.

  “Speed won’t do us much good if you put the car into a wall or hit a stray donkey.”

  “You want to take your chances with the Spanish police? They’d like a murder suspect better than a traffic offender any day.”

  He’d no sooner spoken than he hit the brakes, sending me into the dashboard with a thump. I grabbed the door handle just the same, and I would have risked the tender mercies of the protectorate police if Goldfarber hadn’t precipitously turned the big car into a narrow lane, where he switched off the light and gunned the motor. Vines slapped along the sides of the car and branches rattled off the roof. We dropped down a steep and bumpy hill before he risked putting on the light, which bounced off bushes and fences and the occasional farmhouse wall.

  When he turned again onto a slightly better road, I saw the flat silver of the Mediterranean; we were headed for the water. I had a brief hope of finding friends at the port before we entered such a maze of little streets that I soon lost all sense of direction. Goldfarber clearly knew the area well, and except for the bullet holes and some damage to one fender, the big car was intact when we finally pulled up to a tall gate. He stopped the car, drew the pistol, and gestured for me to get out.

  “Open the gate,” he said, and handed me a key, large and heavy enough to have opened a dungeon. “If you run, I’ll kill you.”

  He was certainly a man who made his intentions clear. I opened the gate and stood to one side, but he waved me back into the car so that I had no chance to slip away. He had me get out and open a garage door next. It was only after the car had been safely stowed and the gate relocked that I got a look at the remarkable house. It was made of stone, the local boulders I guessed, and it had a lumpy, handmade look at odds with its enormous size. It was on three levels, and on two of those were terraces with built-in planters, all filled with cacti and other spiny plants. The overall effect was of some huge fetish, but whether it was designed to produce good or bad luck I could not tell.

  Goldfarber motioned me forward, unlocked a carved wooden door, and shoved me into a two-story entrance hall that smelled strongly of paint. Oh ho, Francis. Could this be the “private house” where the late “Spanish boy” had labored? Goldfarber found a lantern with a candle and lit it. Someone was planning a Moorish design on the white plaster walls, because an enlarged arabesque had been traced in a band perhaps eight feet off the floor.

  “Very nice,” I said. “And when did you promise to have this finished?”

  He gave me a sour look. “The Spanish police will comb the area, but they will take no notice of a workman. I have a smock for you and a cap. Trust me, you’ll be invisible.”

  “I doubt a smock and a cap will hide that car.”

  Dexterous as a lizard, he slid his arm around my throat. “Do not concern yourself with anything but the project at hand,” he said.

  I was strongly tempted to bring up my predecessor, whose labors had been so violently interrupted, but it did not seem to be the moment. Goldfarber gestured toward the stairs, and I soon found myself in a small room, with toilet en suite and ornamental ironwork on the small windows.

  “Breakfast at seven,” he announced before he went out, locking the door behind him and leaving me with only the cloudy night sky for light. When my eyes adjusted, I tested the window grills, but they were all strong and well fastened, and this time Goldfarber had not made the mistake of leaving a key in the lock. I appeared to have traded down from HRH’s custody to that of a homicidal crook, forger, and spy.

  “Sleep on it, Francis,” my old Nan used to say. That seemed like not just the best, but the only plan at the moment. I lay down on the narrow bed, pursued by fractured images of dark roads and blinding lights and by painful, if half-formed, anxieties about David and about yours truly’s chances of returning to the Zone. The next morning, the key rattled in the lock just at seven, before a good-looking young Moroccan came in wearing a spotless white djellaba and a crimson fez, a pleasing start to any morning. He gestured for me to accompany him downstairs, but disappointingly, my breakfast was to be solitary. The Moroccan appeared again to clear the dishes and a third time with a blue workman’s smock and a soft cap. I put them on and followed him into the hallway.

  In daylight, I could see that while the design was attractive, the execution was sloppy at best, with the colors inconsistently mixed and crudely applied. Either Goldfarber had gotten a bad run of help or the project was simply an excuse to hide “workmen” of one sort or another. For what little good it did me, I strongly suspected the latter.

  I examined the paints—mediocre oils in rather unpromising shades—while sizing up the Moroccan servant. Could I cast my charms in that direction? Could my pitiful few pesetas buy me an exit? Should I part with my watch, my last negotiable item? I smiled at him and gave him a wink, but his dark face remained immobile and severe. Perhaps he was pious. Perhaps he was political­. Perhaps he believed in
whatever scheme Goldfarber and his masters were running.

  The possibilities made my head ache, and I turned with a certain amount of relief to the work at hand, mixing up a particular shade of turquoise and filling in a sharp-pointed repeated motif. It was mindless, meditative painting once I had the right color, and I worked my way across the room on the scaffolding. Goldfarber was nowhere in sight.

  But the local police were. They arrived midmorning, after I had finished the turquoise and moved on to a deep cobalt that gave poor coverage and was going to require numerous coats to cover the elongated diamonds of the design. The Moroccan opened the door and greeted the cops in an animated mixture of Spanish and Berber. From what little I could understand, the patrón was away, the repair and decoration work was behind time, and there was no one in residence but himself and the pintor—a gesture toward me.

  They wanted my papers, nonetheless. I climbed down and handed over my documents, half-hoping they’d arrest me and half-anxious that they might. As it turned out, two of the three were illiterate, and their superior clearly read with difficulty. He matched my face to my photo, and after satisfying himself that I spoke almost no Spanish, handed back the passport. “Bueno,” he said, but I thought he gave a significant look to my Moroccan keeper.

  A moment later, they adjourned to the back for what I expected was some convivial food and drink. The local force seemed familiar with the house, and I suspected that they were paid off not to look into its affairs too closely. I returned to the scaffold in a thoughtful mood. I now doubted that the police would be any use at all. Getting out of the house would probably be doable, as the Moroccan had to sleep at some point, but I needed cash to get clear of the protectorate.

  Then, I had an interesting idea—the Muse does sometimes whisper the completely unexpected. I’d been assessing my prospects all wrong. I didn’t need cash if I could only get to the port. Edith Angleford wanted Goldfarber, and I had found his base. I hoped that fact and my well-known charm would be enough to secure Mrs. Angleford’s approval and my ticket out.