The Contessa put her hand on Morese’s shoulder and he subsided. Coertze barked a short laugh.
‘Magtig,
but you have taken her measure.’ He nodded. ‘You’ll have to watch her, she a
slim meisie.’
I turned to him. ‘Now it’s up to you. What will you need to get the gold?’
Coertze leaned forward. ‘When I was here last year nothing had changed or been disturbed. The place is in the hills where no one goes. There is a rough road so we can take a lorry right up to the place. The nearest village is four miles away.’
‘Can we work at night?’ I asked.
Coertze thought about that. ‘The fall of rocks looks worse than it is,’ he said. ‘I know how to blast and I made sure of that. Two men with picks and shovels will be able to get through in four hours—longer at night, perhaps—I would say six hours at night.’
‘So we will be there at least one whole night and probably longer.’
‘Ja,’
he said. ‘If we work at night only, it will take two nights.’
The Contessa said, ‘Italians do not walk the hills at night. It will be safe to have lights if they cannot be seen from the village.’
Coertze said, ‘No lights can be seen from the village.’
‘All the same, we must have a cover,’ I said. ‘If we have to hang around in the vicinity for at least one day then we must have a sound reason. Has anyone got any ideas?’
There was a silence and suddenly Walker spoke for the first time. ‘What about a car and a caravan? The English are noted for that kind of thing—camping and so on. The Italians don’t even have a word for it, they use the English word. If we camp out for a couple of nights we’ll be only another English crowd as far as the peasants are concerned.’
We all thought about that and it seemed a good idea. The Contessa said, ‘I can arrange for the car and the caravan and a tent.’
I started to tick off all the things we would need. ‘We want lights.’
‘We use the headlights of the car,’ said Coertze.
‘That’s for outside,’ I said. ‘We’ll need lights for inside. We’ll need torches—say a dozen—and lots of torch cells.’ I nodded to Morese. ‘You get those. We need picks and shovels, say four of each. We’ll need lorries. How many to do the job in one haul?’
‘Two three-tonners,’ said Coertze with certainty. ‘The Germans had four, but they were carrying a lot of stuff we won’t want.’
‘We’ll have to have those standing by with the drivers,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll need a lot of timber to make crates. The gold will need re-boxing.’
‘Why do that when it’s already in boxes?’ objected Coertze. ‘It’s just a lot of extra work.’
‘Think back,’ I said patiently. ‘Think back to the first time you saw those boxes in the German truck. You
recognized
them as bullion boxes. We don’t want any snooper doing the same on the way back.’
Walker said, ‘You don’t have to take the gold out, and it wouldn’t need much timber. Just nail thin pieces of wood on the outside of the bullion boxes to change their shape and make them look different.’
Walker was a real idea machine when he wasn’t on the drink. He said, ‘There must be plenty of timber down there we can use.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We use new wood. I don’t want anything that looks or even smells as though it’s come from a hole in the ground. Besides, there might be a mark on the wood we could miss which would give the game away.’
‘You don’t take any chances, do you?’ observed the Contessa.
‘I’m not a gambler,’ I said shortly. ‘The timber can go up in the trucks,’ I looked at Morese.
‘I will get it,’ he said.
‘Don’t forget hammers and nails,’ I said. I was trying to think of everything. If we slipped up on this job it would be because of some insignificant item which nobody had thought important.
There was a low, repeated whistle from the dockside. Morese looked at the Contessa and she nodded almost imperceptibly. He got up and went on deck.
I said to Coertze, ‘Is there anything else we ought to know—anything you’ve forgotten or left out?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
Morese came back and said to the Contessa, ‘He wants to talk to you.’
She rose and left the cabin and Morese followed her on deck. Through the open port I could hear a low-voiced conversation.
‘I don’t trust them,’ said Coertze violently. ‘I don’t trust that bitch and I don’t trust Morese. He’s a bad bastard;
he was a bad bastard in the war. He didn’t take any prisoners—according to him they were all shot while escaping.’
‘So were yours,’ I said, ‘when you took the gold.’
He bridled. ‘That was different; they
were
escaping.’
‘Very conveniently,’ I said acidly. It galled me that this man, whom I had good reason to suspect of murdering at least four others, should be so mealy-mouthed.
He brooded a little, then said, ‘What’s to stop them taking it all from us when we’ve got it out? What’s to stop them shooting us and leaving us in the tunnel when they seal it up again?’
‘Nothing that you’d understand,’ I said. ‘Just the feeling of a girl for her father and her family.’ I didn’t elaborate on that; I wasn’t certain myself that it was a valid argument.
The Contessa and Morese came back. She said, ‘Two of Torloni’s men are in Rapallo. They were asking the Port Captain about you not ten minutes ago.’
I said, ‘Don’t tell me that the Port Captain is one of your friends.’
‘No, but the Chief Customs Officer is. He recognized them immediately. One of them he had put in jail three years ago for smuggling heroin; the other he has been trying to catch for a long time. Both of them work for Torloni, he says.’
‘Well, we couldn’t hope to hide from them indefinitely,’ I said. ‘But they mustn’t connect you with us—not yet, anyway—so you’ll have to wait until it’s dark before you leave.’
She said, ‘I am having them watched.’
‘That’s fine, but it’s not enough,’ I said. ‘I want to do to Metcalfe what he’s been doing to us. I want Torloni watched in Genoa; I want the docks watched all along this coast for Metcalfe’s boat. I want to know when he comes to Italy.’
I gave her a detailed description of Metcalfe, of Krupke and the Fairmile. ‘Can you do all that?’
‘Of course. You will know all about this Metcalfe as soon as he sets foot in Italy.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then what about a drink?’ I looked at Coertze. ‘It seems you didn’t scare Metcalfe off, after all.’ He looked back at me with an expressionless face, and I laughed. ‘Don’t look so glum. Get out the bottle and cheer up.’
We didn’t see the Contessa or Morese after that. They stayed out of sight, but next morning I found a note in the cockpit telling me to go to the Three Fishes and say that I wanted a watchman for
Sanford.
I went, of course, and Giuseppi was more friendly than when I had last seen him. He served me personally and, as he put down the plate, I said, ‘You ought to know what goes on on the waterfront. Can you recommend a watchman for my boat? He must be honest.’
‘Ah, yes, signor,’ he said. ‘I have the very man—old Luigi there. It’s a pity; he was wounded during the war and since then he has been able to undertake only light work. At present he is unemployed.’
‘Send him over when I have finished breakfast,’ I said.
Thus it was that we got an honest watchman and old Luigi became the go-between between the Contessa and
Sanford.
Every morning he would bring a letter in which the Contessa detailed her progress.
Torloni was being watched, but nothing seemed to be happening; his men were still in Rapallo watching
Sanford
and being watched themselves; the trucks had been arranged for and the drivers were ready; the timber was
prepared and the tools had been bought; she had been offered a German caravan but she had heard of an English caravan for sale in Milan and thought it would be better—would I give her some money to buy it as she had none.
It all seemed to be working out satisfactorily.
The three of us from
Sanford
spent our time sightseeing, much to the disgust of Torloni’s spies. I spent a lot of time in the Yacht Club and it was soon noised about that I intended to settle in the Mediterranean and was looking for a suitable boatyard to buy.
On our fifth day in Rapallo the morning letter instructed me to go to the boatyard of Silvio Palmerini and to ask for a quotation for the slipping and painting of
Sanford.
‘The price will be right,’ wrote the Contessa. ‘Silvio is one of my—our—friends.’
Palmerini’s yard was some way out of Rapallo. Palmerini was a gnarled man of about sixty who ruled his yard and his three sons with soft words and a will of iron. I said, ‘You understand, Signor Palmerini, that I am a boat-builder, too. I would like to do the job myself in your yard.’
He nodded. It was only natural that a man must look after his own boat if he could; besides, it would be cheaper.
‘And I would want it under cover,’ I said. ‘I fastened the keel in an experimental way and I may want to take it off to see if it is satisfactory.’
He nodded again. Experimental ways were risky and a man should stick to the old traditional ways of doing things. It would be foolish, indeed, if milord’s keel dropped off in the middle of the Mediterranean.
I agreed that I should look a fool, and said, ‘My friends and I are capable of doing the work and we shall not need extra labour. All that is required is a place where we can work undisturbed.’
He nodded a third time. He had a large shed we could use and which could be locked. No one
would disturb us, not even himself—certainly no one outside his family—he would see to that. And was milord the rich Englishman who wanted to buy a boatyard? If so, then perhaps the milord would consider the boatyard Palmerini, the paragon of the Western Mediterranean.
That brought me up with a jerk. Another piece of polite blackmail was under way and I could see that I would have to buy the yard, probably at an exorbitant price—the price of silence.
I said diplomatically, ‘Yes, I am thinking of buying a yard, but the wise man explores every avenue.’ Dammit, I was falling into his way of speech. ‘I have been to Spain and France; now I am in Italy and after Italy I am going to Greece. I must look at everything.’
He nodded vigorously, his crab-apple head bobbing up and down. Yes, the milord was indeed wise to look at everything, but in spite of that he was sure that the milord would unfailingly return to the boatyard Palmerini because it was certainly the best in the whole Mediterranean.
Pah, what did the Greeks know of fine building? All they knew were their clumsy caiques. The price would be reasonable for milord since it appeared that they had mutual friends, and such a price could be spread over a period provided the proper guarantees could be given.
From this I understood the old rascal to say that he would wait until the whole job was completed and I had fluid capital, if I could prove that I would keep my word.
I went back to
Sanford
feeling satisfied that this part of the programme was going well. Even if I had to buy Palmerini’s yard, it would not be a bad thing and any lengthening of the price could be written off as expedition expenses.
On the ninth day of our stay in Rapallo the usual morning letter announced that all was now ready and we could start at any time. However, it was felt that, since the next day was Sunday, it would be more fitting to begin the
expedition inland on Monday. That gave an elevating tone to the whole thing, I thought; another crazy aspect of a crazy adventure.
The Contessa wrote: ‘Torloni’s men will be discreetly taken care of, and will not connect their inability to find you with any trickery on your part. They will have no suspicions. Leave your boat in the care of Luigi and meet me at nine in the morning at the Three Fishes.’
I put a match to the letter and called Luigi below. ‘They say you are an honest man, Luigi; would you take a bribe?’
He was properly horrified. ‘Oh no, signor.’
‘You know this boat is being watched?’
‘Yes, signor. They are enemies of you and Madame.’
‘Do you know what Madame and I are doing?’
He shook his head. ‘No, signor. I came because Madame said you needed my help. I did not ask any questions,’ he said with dignity.
I tapped on the table. ‘My friends and I are going away for a few days soon, leaving the boat in your charge. What will you do if the men who are watching want to bribe you to let them search the boat?’
He drew himself up. ‘I would slap the money out of their hands, signor.’
‘No, you won’t,’ I said. ‘You will say it is not enough and you will ask them for more money. When you get it, you will let them search the boat.’
He looked at me uncomprehendingly. I said slowly, ‘I don’t mind if they search—there is nothing to be found. There is no reason why you should not make some money out of Madame’s enemies.’
He laughed suddenly and slapped his thigh. ‘That is good, signor; that is very good. You
want
them to search.’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But don’t make it too easy for them or they will be suspicious.’
I wanted, as a last resort, to try to fool Metcalfe as I had fooled him in Barcelona, or rather, as I had hoped to fool him before Coertze put his foot in it. I wrote a letter to the Contessa telling her what I was doing, and gave it to Luigi to pass on.
‘How long have you known Madame?’ I asked curiously.
‘Since the war, signor, when she was a little girl.’
‘You would do anything for her, wouldn’t you?’
‘Why not?’ he asked in surprise. ‘She has done more for me that I can ever repay. She paid for the doctors after the war when they straightened my leg. It is not her fault they could not get it properly straight—but I would have been a cripple, otherwise.’
This was a new light on Francesca. ‘Thank you, Luigi,’ I said. ‘Give the letter to Madame when you see her.’
I told Coertze and Walker what was happening. There was nothing else to do now but wait for Monday morning.
On Monday morning I again set the stage, leaving papers where they could easily be found. On the principle of the Purloined Letter I had even worked out a costing for a refit of
Sanford
at Palmerini’s boatyard, together with some estimates of the probable cost of buying the yard. If we were seen there later we would have good reason.
We left just before nine, saying goodbye to Luigi, who gave me a broad wink, and arrived at the Three Fishes on time. The Contessa and Morese were waiting and we joined them for breakfast. The Contessa wore clothing of an indefinably English cut of which I approved; she was using her brain.
I said, ‘How did you get rid of Torloni’s boys?’
Morese grinned. ‘One of them had an accident with his car. The other, who was waiting for him at the dock, got tired of waiting and unaccountably fell into the water. He had to get a taxi to his hotel so that he could change his clothes.’
‘Your friend Metcalfe arrived in Genoa last night,’ said the Contessa.
‘You’re sure.’
‘I’m certain. He went straight to Torloni and stayed with him for a long time. Then he went to a hotel.’
That settled that. I had wondered for a long time if my suspicions of Metcalfe hadn’t been just a fevered bit of
imagination. After all, my whole case against Metcalfe had been built up of supposition and what I knew of his character.
‘You’re having him watched?’
‘Of course.’
Breakfast arrived and all conversation stopped until Giuseppi went back to his counter. Then I said, ‘All right, friend Kobus, this is where you tell us where the gold is.’
Coertze’s head came up with a jerk. ‘Not on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you there, but I’m not telling first.’
I sighed. ‘Look, these good people have laid on transport. How can they tell the trucks to rendezvous unless we know where we’re going?’
‘They can telephone back here.’
‘From where?’
‘There’ll be a phone in the village.’
‘None of us is going anywhere near that village,’ I said. ‘Least of all one of us foreigners. And if you think I’ll let one of these two go in alone, you’re crazy. From now on we don’t let either of them out of our sight.’
‘Not very trusting, are you?’ observed the Contessa.
I looked at her. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Not much.’
‘Then we’re even.’ I turned back to Coertze. ‘Any telephoning the Contessa is going to do is from that telephone in the corner there—with me at her elbow.’
‘Don’t call me the Contessa,’ she snapped.
I ignored her and concentrated on Coertze. ‘So, you see, we have to know the spot. If you won’t tell us, I’m sure that Walker will—but I’d rather it was you.’
He thought about it for quite a while, then he said, ‘
Magtig
, but you’ll argue your way into heaven one day. All right, it’s about forty miles north of here, between Varsi and Tassaro.’ He went into detailed explanations and Morese said, ‘It’s right in the hills.’
I said, ‘Do you think you can direct the trucks to this place?’
Francesca said, ‘I will tell them to wait in Varsi. We will not need them until the second night; we can go to Varsi and direct them from there tomorrow.’
‘O.K.,’ I said. ‘Let’s make that phone call.’
I escorted her to the corner and stood by while she gave the instructions, making sure she slipped nothing over. A trustful lot, we were. When we got back to the table, I said, ‘That does it; we can start at any time.’
We finished breakfast and got up to go. Francesca said, ‘Not by the front; Torloni’s men will be back now and they can see this café. We go this way.’
She led us out by the back door into a yard where a car was standing with an Eccles touring caravan already coupled. She said, ‘I stocked up with enough food for a week—it might be necessary.’
‘It won’t,’ I said grimly. ‘If we don’t have the stuff out by tomorrow night we’ll never get it—not with Metcalfe sniffing on our trail.’
I looked at our party and make a quick decision. ‘We look English enough, all except you, Morese; you just don’t fit. You travel in the caravan and keep out of sight.’
He frowned and looked at Francesca. She said, ‘Get into the caravan, Piero; do as Mr Halloran says,’ and then turned to me. ‘Piero takes his instructions from no one but me, Mr Halloran. I hope you remember that in future.’
I shrugged and said, ‘Let’s go.’
Coertze was driving because he knew the way. Walker was also in front and Francesca and I shared the back seat. No one did much talking and Coertze drove very slowly because he was unaccustomed to towing a caravan and driving on the right simultaneously.
We left Rapallo and were soon ascending into the hills—the Ligurian Apennines. It looked poor country with stony
soil and not much cultivation. What agriculture there was was scattered and devoted to vines and olives, the two trees which look as though they’ve been tortured to death. Within the hour we were in Varsi, and soon after that, we left the main road and bounced along a secondary country road, unmetalled and with a poor surface. It had not rained for some days and the dust rose in clouds.
After a while Coertze slowed down almost to a stop as he came to a corner. ‘This is where we shot up the trucks,’ he said.
We turned the corner and saw a long stretch of empty road. Coertze stopped the car and Walker got out. This was the first time he had seen the place in fifteen years. He walked a little way up the road to a large rock on the right, then turned and looked back. I guessed it was by that rock that he had stood while he poured bullets into the driver of the staff car.
I thought about the sudden and dreadful slaughter that had happened on that spot and, looking up the shaggy hillside, I visualized the running prisoners being hunted and shot down. I said abruptly, ‘No point in waiting here, let’s get on with it.’
Coertze put the car into gear and drove forward slowly until Walker had jumped in, then he picked up speed and we were on our way again. ‘Not far now,’ said Walker. His voice was husky with excitement.
Less than fifteen minutes later Coertze pulled up again at the junction of another road so unused that it was almost invisible. ‘The old mine is about a mile and a half up there,’ he said. ‘What do we do now?’
Francesca and I got out of the car and stretched our stiffened legs. I looked about and saw a stream about a hundred yards away. ‘That’s convenient,’ I said. ‘The perfect camp site. One thing is certain—none of us so much as looks sideways at that side road during the hours of daylight.’
We pulled the caravan off the road and extended the balance legs, then we put up the tent. Francesca went into the caravan and talked to Morese. I said, ‘Now, for God’s sake, let’s act like innocent tourists. We’re mad Englishmen who prefer to live uncomfortably rather than stay at a hotel.’
It was a long day. After lunch, which Francesca made in the little galley of the caravan, we sat about and talked desultorily and waited for the sun to go down. Francesca stayed in the caravan most of the time keeping Morese company; Walker fidgeted; Coertze was apparently lost in contemplating his navel; I tried to sleep, but couldn’t.
The only excitement during the afternoon was the slow approach of a farm cart. It hove into sight as a puff of dust at the end of the road and gradually, with snail-like pace, came near enough to be identified. Coertze roused himself enough to make a number of small wagers as to the time it would draw level with the camp. At last it creaked past, drawn by two oxen and looking like a refugee from a Breughel painting. A peasant trudged alongside and I mustered my worst Italian, waved and said, ‘
Buon giorno.’
He gave me a sideways look, muttered something I did not catch, and went on his way. That was the only traffic on the road the whole time we were there.
At half past four I roused myself and went to the caravan to see Francesca. ‘We’d better eat early,’ I said. ‘As soon as it’s dark we’ll be taking the car to the mine.’
‘Everything is in cans,’ she said. ‘It will be easy to prepare. We will want something to eat during the night, so I got two of these big vacuum containers—I will cook the food before we go and it will keep hot all night. There are also some vacuum flasks for coffee.’
‘You’ve been spending my money well,’ I said.
She ignored that. ‘I will need some water. Will you get me some from the stream?’
‘If you will come with me,’ I said. ‘You need to stretch a bit.’ I had a sudden urge to talk to her, to find out what made her tick.
‘All right,’ she said, and opening a cupboard, produced three canvas buckets. As we walked towards the stream, I said, ‘You must have been very young during the war.’
‘I was. We took to the hills, my father and I, when I was ten years old.’ She waved at the surrounding mountains. ‘These hills.’
‘Not a very pleasant life for a little girl.’
She considered that. ‘It was fun at first. Everyone likes a camping holiday and this was one long holiday for me. Yes, it was fun.’
‘When did it stop being fun?’
Her face was quietly sad. ‘When the men started to die; when the fighting began. Then it was not fun, it became a serious thing we were doing. It was a good thing—but it was terrible.’
‘And you worked in the hospital?’
‘Yes. I tended Walker when he came from the prison camp. Did you know that?’
I remembered Walker’s description of the grave little girl who wanted him to get better so he could kill Germans. ‘He told me,’ I said.
We reached the stream and I looked at it doubtfully. It looked clear enough, but I said, ‘Is it all right for drinking?’
‘I will boil the water; it will be all right,’ she said, and knelt to dig a hole in the shallows. ‘We must have a hole deep enough to take a bucket; it is easier then.’
I helped her make a hole, reflecting that this was a product of her guerilla training. I would have tried to fill the buckets in drips and drabs. When the hole was big enough we sat on the bank waiting for the sediment to settle, and I said, ‘Was Coertze ever wounded?’
‘No, he was very lucky. He was never wounded beyond a scratch, although there were many times he could have been.’
I offered her a cigarette and lit it. ‘So he did a lot of fighting?’
‘All the men fought,’ she said, and drew on the cigarette reflectively. ‘But Coertze seemed to
like
fighting. He killed a lot of Germans—and Italians.’
‘What Italians?’ I said quickly. I was thinking of Walker’s story.
‘The Fascists,’ she said. ‘Those who stuck by Mussolini during the time of the Salo Republic. There was a civil war going on in these mountains. Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘There’s a lot about Italy that I don’t know.’
We sat quietly for a while, then I said, ‘So Coertze was a killer?’
‘He was a good soldier—the kind of man we needed. He was a leader.’
I switched. ‘How was Alberto killed?’
‘He fell off a cliff when the Germans were chasing Umberto’s section. I heard that Coertze nearly rescued him, but didn’t get there in time.’
‘Um,’ I said. ‘I heard it was something like that. How did Harrison and Parker die?’
She wrinkled her brow. ‘Harrison and Parker? Oh yes, they were in what we called the Foreign Legion. They were killed in action. Not at the same time, at different times.’
‘And Donato Rinaldi; how was he killed?’
‘That was a funny thing. He was found dead near the camp with his head crushed. He was lying under a cliff and it was thought he had been climbing and had fallen off.’
‘Why should he climb? Was he a mountaineer or something like that?’
‘I don’t think so, but he was a young man and young men do foolish things like that.’
I smiled, thinking to myself; not only the very young are foolish; and tossed a pebble into the stream. ‘It sounds very like the song about the “Ten Little Niggers”. “And then there were Two.” Why did Walker leave?’
She looked up sharply. ‘Are you saying that these men should not have died? That someone from the camp killed them?’
I shrugged. ‘I’m not saying anything—but it was very convenient for someone. You see, six men hid this gold and four of them came to a sudden end shortly afterwards.’ I tossed another pebble into the water. ‘Who profits? There are only two—Walker and Coertze. Why did Walker leave?’
‘I don’t know. He left suddenly. I remember he told my father that he was going to try to join the Allied armies. They were quite close at that time.’
‘Was Coertze in the camp when Walker left?’
She thought for a long time, then said, ‘I don’t know; I can’t remember.’
‘Walker says he left because he was frightened of Coertze. He still is, for that matter. Our Kobus is a very frightening man, sometimes.’
Francesca said slowly, ‘There was Alberto on the cliff. Coertze could have…’
‘…pushed him off? Yes, he could. And Walker said that Parker was shot in the
back
of the head. By all accounts, including yours, Coertze is a natural-born killer. It all adds up.’
She said, ‘I always knew that Coertze was a violent man, but…’
‘But? Why don’t you like him, Francesca?’
She threw the stub of her cigarette into the water and watched it float downstream. ‘It was just one of those things
that happen between a man and a woman. He was…too pressing.’
‘When was this?’
‘Three years ago. Just after I was married.’
I hesitated. I wanted to ask her about that marriage, but she suddenly stood up and said, ‘We must get the water.’
As we were going back to the caravan I said, ‘It looks as though I’ll have to be ready to jump Coertze—he could be dangerous. You’d better tell Piero the story so that he can be prepared if anything happens.’
She stopped. ‘I thought Coertze was your friend. I thought you were on his side.’
‘I’m on nobody’s side,’ I said shortly. ‘And I don’t condone murder.’
We walked the rest of the way in silence.
For the rest of the afternoon until it became dark Francesca was busy cooking in the caravan. As the light faded the rest of us began to make our preparations. We put the picks and shovels in the boot of the car, together with some torches. Piero had provided a Tilley pressure lamp together with half a gallon of paraffin—that would be a lot better than torches once we got into the tunnel. He also hauled a wheelbarrow out of the caravan, and said, ‘I thought we could use this for taking the rock away; we must not leave loose rock at the entrance of the tunnel.’