Each float was surrounded by a cordon of police and soldiers. When the platforms dipped and swayed with the rhythmically lurching strides of the men supporting them, the motion caused sparkling eruptions from the gems and jewels hung about the statues of the Virgins.
Everyone was cheering. In stately sequence, and to mounting applause, the serenely expressionless statues were carried about the square, bathed in brilliance from the spotlights. The Blue Tears of Santa Eulalia, gleaming at the throat of the Virgin of Granada, earned an ovation. They were followed by the Golden Oars of Navarre, the Silver Slippers of Saint Peter, and the Tears of Christ incredible rubies supported on golden pilasters. Then a gasp of admiration swept the plaza like a sudden gale, as the Diamond Flutes of Carlos and the Countess of Altamira’s Net and Trident of diamonds were borne into the square.
Peter studied them thoughtfully. Angela’s eyes were on fire.
The Flutes of Carlos were not musical instruments, but exquisite silver columns whose miniature Doric capitals were studded with square-cut diamonds. There were three of these, each eleven inches long, and each worth, Peter estimated, about a million dollars on the fence market, and perhaps three times that if it were possible to sell them honourably over the counters of Cartier’s or Tiffany’s.
The pliable gold mesh which secured the Net of Diamonds was hung like a wedding veil on the smooth plaster brow of the Virgin of Seville. In her arms was the Trident of Diamonds. The Trident symbolised the Holy Trinity of the Catholic faith, and each of its tines was capped by a diamond, of a size and perfection, chosen, it was understood, to represent the relative status of the personages of the Divine Triumvirate. The Father’s was the largest; the Son’s was next in size, while the Holy Ghost’s was the smallest of the three, but any one of them, Peter thought, was big enough to use as a doorstop.
Theologians had explained these disparities in size variously; some held that the Divine Spirit, being pure essence, was best served and symbolised by the smallest stone; others insisted that the difference was seeming, not real, since all material riches were the same, i.e. nothing, in the eyes of the Lord; a modern view had it that the overshadowing of the Son by the Father was apostate and Oedipal; but another camp (the syndicalists) argued that the Son and Spirit (Worker, Union) were conclusively greater than the Father (the State), and while this was interesting in theory, its application in the area of practical politics had landed quite a few people in jail. A waiter touched Peter’s arm. “A note for you, senor.”
Peter read it and frowned. Francois was watching him. “Who gave you this?” Peter asked the waiter.
“A man. Over there.” He waved with a suggestion of total frustration and impotence towards masses of people on the opposite side of the terrace. “Over there. A man.”
Peter saw no one he recognised. He put the note in his pocket.
“Excuse me,” he said to Angela. To Francois, he said, “Same time tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”
Then he hurried off. But as he fought his way through the crowds in the plaza, someone hailed him by name. “Peter. I knew I’d come across you. What wonderful luck!” Antonio Gonzalez y’Najera, the policeman of their village, smiled broadly and pounded Peter’s shoulders with rough affection.
“I asked for you at the Administration of Police. I thought you would call on them.”
“I’ve been busy, Antonio. What the devil are you doing in Pamplona?”
“I am guarding, if you will forgive my using an important word for an unnecessary task, I am guarding our Virgin’s trinkets. Here she comes now. Bringing up the rear, with hardly a thousand pesetas’ worth of finery on her poor head.” The small float which supported the Virgin of Santa Maria was brilliant with flowers. There were wild poppies, marguerite daisies, tiny blue iris, mimosa, carnations, and roses.
Sprays of jasmine, the tiny trumpet blossoms waxen and fragrant, formed a double border around the float.
In the arms of the Virgin was a bouquet of white roses. In her simplicity and dignity, it seemed to Peter that she represented something of Spain that was not quite reflected in the opulence of her grand sisters. The applause for her was warm and affectionate. “She’s getting quite a hand, Antonio.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Listen to the applause.”
The policeman dismissed it with a shrug. “It’s a sentimental response. Patronising and contented. It’s like the millionaire on the terrace of his villa smiling wistfully at the fishermen toiling below him on the beach. Ah, how he envies them! Such purity and innocence! But in his heart he is very glad not to be burdened with such innocence. Let’s have some wine, Peter.”
“I’ve got to meet someone. How about tomorrow?”
“I’ll look for you.”
The hotel, the Aguilar, was in the new quarter of the city. Peter rode to the third floor in an elevator, hurried along a clean, carpeted corridor, rapped on a door. It was opened by Morgan.
“Oh, Peter, I knew you’d come. I knew you wouldn’t desert me.”
“What kind of trouble have you got yourself into?”
“The very worst kind, Peter.” Morgan’s sigh caused his stomach to swell out like a sail in a great wind. “The very worst!”
“Your note said someone was trying to kill you. Is that on the level?”
He walked into the room. Morgan stepped aside and closed the door.
Something hard prodded Peter’s spine.
From behind him Blake said: “Take it nice and easy now. If you think this is a gun, go to the head of the class.”
Tonelli appeared in the doorway of the adjoining bedroom.
“Hello, Mr. Churchman,” he said with a faint smile. He held a forty-five automatic in his right hand with a suggestion of familiarity and competence. “As my pal suggested, take it nice and easy. You’re going to be our guest for a couple of days.”
Chapter eleven
In Grace’s room, Francois looked bitterly at Angela. “It’s not puzzling to me, not in the least. He’s run out on us. I think that should be clear enough by now.”
“You may be right. But it isn’t like him.”
“You’re both talking like fools,” Grace said. “You know Peter wouldn’t quit. Something’s happened to him.”
“Yes, of course,” Francois said, in a voice suddenly high and rigid with emotion. “And I’ll tell you what it was. He knew I was on to him.”
Grace looked helplessly at the walkie-talkie she still held in her hand. It was a mute link to Peter, an earnest token of her faith in him, and she hadn’t been able to put it aside. But hours had gone by and there was no word from him. Not a whisper.
“Oh, damn him,” Angela said, more in weariness than anger. “Even if he came back, it wouldn’t matter. We missed our chance today.”
Francois had been looking intently at Grace.
“Now listen: He received a note in the Castillo last night. It disturbed him. Or he meant me to think it disturbed him. I don’t know which. What do you know about it?”
“Why, nothing at all,” Grace said.
“You’re quite sure?”
“Of course.”
Francois smiled faintly. “You’re getting nothing from this? And neither is Peter? The risk, the danger, are all debts owed to honour, eh? Well, I doubt it very much.”
“What do you think?” Angela asked him.
“Perhaps they want the diamonds for themselves.”
“Oh, you’re an idiot,” Grace said. “We’re wasting time. We’ve got to go out and look for him. He may be lying unconscious in a hospital, or in jail.”
“Yes,” Francois said drily. “And while we run about the town searching for him, what will he be up to?” He smiled. “No, I don’t like that idea. So unless you tell me the truth, I am going to do something very unpleasant to you.” Still smiling, he explained the details of techniques he had seen employed on stubborn natives in Algeria, and when he had finished, Grace, who was rather pale by then, said, “Well, I shouldn’t like that at all. It sounds most disagreeable.”