Hand In Glove Part 62

Such issues might not be so intractable if he knew more about Delgado. His blood-stained past was one thing. But what of his present? What kind of man had fifty years of peace produced? Frank had insisted they return to the bar in Lerezuela after leaving the pazo in search of precisely such information, but the little they had learned from its lugubrious proprietor and the less reticent among his customers had been neither helpful nor encouraging.

Delgado, it seemed, was held more in awe than affection by the locals. El guante ferreo, he was nicknamed-the iron glove, a twisted reference to his artificial right hand that was also a metaphor for his pitiless nature. Several families had been turned off Vasconcelez land to make way for Delgado's forestry projects, linked as they were to his wood-pulp business in Vigo. He was believed, indeed, to have a metallic finger in every branch of Galician industry, acc.u.mulating thereby a considerable fortune to add to what he had acquired by marriage.

The pazo was said to be fabulously furnished, a fortress for his long retreat from the world. Since his son and grandson had been killed by ETA terrorists, he had grown ever more reclusive, to the extent that now he was seldom seen, though staff at the pazo said he was still in good health. His affections were reserved for his allegedly beautiful eighteen-year-old granddaughter, Yolanda, to whom no extravagance was denied. She was at a finis.h.i.+ng school in Switzerland, where all traces of her Galician roots were being expensively eliminated. As for Delgado's Civil War record, everybody professed an eloquent ignorance. By their reactions, one might have supposed no such war had taken place.

"What I'd expected," Frank had said during the drive back to Santiago. "Money. Power. But not much love. It's the reward his type normally reap."

"If he's so wealthy, why should he care about the gold?"

"Because he's greedy. Because he can't stand to lose what he plotted long and hard to gain."

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"But he's nearly ninety years old, for G.o.d's sake. He'll be dead before he can spend it."

"He doesn't want to spend it. He just wants to have it. I told you-I know his type."

This Derek did not doubt. It was one of the thoughts that would not leave his head. Frank knew. But he did not. Frank understood. But he would be the one who met Galazarga tomorrow morning and tried to strike a bargain. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, studying the mobile pattern the rain made against the shutters, as serpentine and s.h.i.+fting as the problems his mind could neither master nor discard. Everything was so simple and straightforward according to Frank, everything was cut and dried before it was done.

"Make it clear to Delgado's secretary that we have the means to destroy his employer's good name and won't hesitate to do so if the girl is harmed. Then offer him a straight swap under secure conditions: the statement in exchange for the girl."

"But what about the map?"

"Tell him the truth. Tell him he can have everything we have-but that doesn't include the map."

"And if he doesn't believe me?"

"Make him believe you."

"It's easy for you to say. Not so easy to do. We may be barking up the wrong tree, remember. We may be offering Delgado something he badly wants in return for something he doesn't have."

"No. Delgado has the girl. You can bank on it."

But Derek was not convinced. It might still be a colossal misunderstanding. When all was said and done, there was no proof, no clinching evidence that Delgado was their man. As he stared up at the canopy of the bed, across which some medieval hunting party frolicked in embroidered abandon, the thought a.s.sumed a comforting dimension. So long as he could believe in the possibility of Delgado's innocence, his meeting with Galazarga was not too dreadful a prospect. Any amount of embarra.s.sment was after all preferable to- The sudden bleeping of the alarm clock cut short his deliberations. It was seven o'clock and time to call Charlotte again. Sitting up, Derek snapped off the alarm, hoisted the telephone into his lap and dialled the number. Charlotte answered at the second ring.

"Derek?"

"h.e.l.lo, Charlotte."

"Is everything all right?"

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"Yes. We were turned away from the pazo but I've arranged a meeting tomorrow morning with Delgado's private secretary."

"You're getting close, then."

"Maybe. But don't forget Delgado may have nothing to do with this." He paused for Charlotte's reply, but none came. "Charlotte?"

"I'm still here."

"Is something wrong?"

"Not exactly. It's just . . . I have some news for you. What it amounts to is proof."

"Of what?"

"Of Delgado's guilt. There's no longer any doubt about it, Derek.

He's the one who's holding Sam."

CHAPTER.

EIGHTEEN.

Norberto Galazarga was a dapper little man encased in a perfectly cut three-piece suit complete with gold watch-chain and shot-silk lining. There was more hair on his upper lip, in the form of a trimmed jet-black moustache, than on the whole of the rest of his head. His broad and ready smile sent creases rippling up his brow and over his bald crown until they disappeared from view.

His eyes sparkled so noticeably Derek suspected he employed special drops to achieve the effect. And he wore enough cologne to seep through even the pungent aroma of the cigar at which he squinted and sniffed and very occasionally puffed. He embodied nearly every quality Derek felt least at ease with: subtlety and inscrutability complicated by foreign blood and a distracting bundle of affectations. He was so obviously Derek's intellectual superior, so clearly prepared for his every remark, that conversation with him began to resemble a form of self-a.n.a.lysis in which he would periodically intervene with the lofty air of a bored psychiatrist.

"Abduction is such a brutal business, Mr Fairfax. So heedless of the family ties it threatens to sunder. Yet I suppose we could also regard it as a specialized form of commerce. Trade by coercion, so to H A N D I N G L O V E.

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speak. Naturally, it is easy for me to philosophize about such matters, when I have no personal experience of them. For your friends, the . . .

the . . ."

"Abberleys."

"Quite so. For them, it must be altogether shocking. Too painful for words, I should imagine." He raised his cup of chocolate as if to drink, then replaced it in the saucer untouched and leant back in his chair, toying with his cigar. "They have my sympathy, my heartfelt sympathy."

Derek told himself, not for the first time, to relax, to view this tortuous discussion as a necessary preliminary to the desired objective.

Here they sat in the hotel's plushly furnished lounge, reclining in softly cus.h.i.+oned armchairs beneath a huge gilt-framed portrait of some Hapsburg n.o.bleman, talking their way back and forth in feath-ery undertones over the one subject neither could mention which was also the sole purpose of their meeting.

"I am surprised, I must confess," Galazarga continued, "that you could find time to visit Spain on such abstruse business when your friends' problem-their appalling dilemma-is so critically balanced. One might almost think you hoped to a.s.sist them by coming here, though how I cannot understand."

"Perhaps I've not made myself sufficiently clear."

"Perhaps not." The words were accompanied by his characteristic smile.

"Then let me try again. Your response to my letter suggests Senor Delgado is very interested in obtaining the doc.u.ment I happen to have in my possession, a doc.u.ment written by Vicente Ortiz, a native of Barcelona, during the Civil War, in which he describes in detail certain events which took place in Cartagena in October 1936."

"You have aroused Senor Delgado's antiquarian curiosity, certainly."

"Does he want it-or not?"

"Forgive me, Mr Fairfax, but it is premature to pose such a question. The issue at this stage is what you want in return."

"Samantha Abberley's release."

Galazarga frowned. "Naturally you do. So do I. So, no doubt-if acquainted with the distressing circ.u.mstances-would Senor Delgado.

But he is no magician. He cannot wave a wand to grant your every wish. n.o.body can."

"Except the people holding her."

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"Except those, yes." Another move towards the chocolate cup was aborted. "But how are you to communicate with them?"

Derek studiously erased all expression from his face as he replied.

"I think I may have found a way."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really." Their eyes met and it seemed to Derek that, quite deliberately, Galazarga allowed the veil to rise momentarily from his meaning, the screen around his intentions to slide briefly back. What lay behind was hard and cautious and cunning: Delgado's iron hand in his secretary's velvet glove.

"Congratulations are in order, then." The smile returned and with it the layers of pretence. "If you are right, you may be able to render the Abberley family an inestimable service."

"I'm right."

"Your confidence does you credit. But permit me to utter a word of warning. You are in a foreign land of which you know very little.

Of its history, I would suspect, even less. Remember your own coun-trymen's proverb: a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, whereas ignorance is bliss."

"What Ortiz knew was inescapably dangerous. I have his written record of it. And I'm willing to surrender it." Derek could feel the perspiration forming on his upper lip and forehead, but knew he could not be seen to wipe it away. It was useless to hope his anxiety had escaped Galazarga's notice. The only question was what he would conclude from it. "But my willingness is strictly conditional. You follow?"

"I believe I do." The cigar slipped into his mouth, then was with-drawn. "I think I can safely say Senor Delgado would very much like to agree on satisfactory terms for his acquisition of the Ortiz . . . of the curio you describe."

"Good." Derek swallowed hard. "There's just . . . er . . . one thing I have to explain." Galazarga's eyebrows shot up. "Originally, a hand-drawn map was enclosed with the doc.u.ment. Unfortunately, it's been destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

"By a previous . . . holder."

"The map does not form part of what you are offering?"

"It would, if it still existed. But it doesn't. Nothing's being withheld, you understand. The map is lost. Gone. Not mine to offer. Nor anybody else's either."

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Galazarga clicked his tongue. "Oh dear. Oh dear me. This is . . . a sad development."

"It needn't be. What's gone is also safe. And what isn't gone is on offer."

"Quite possibly. But the map . . ." He drew lengthily on his cigar.

"Incompleteness, however fractional, is anathema to the true collector. It reduces the value of an item dramatically. It may prove . . .

fatal . . . to the prospects of a sale. Yes, fatal is I think the word."

"If it did have such an effect, I'd have to look elsewhere for a buyer."

"Would you?"

"Yes. And I reckon I'd find one, the absence of a map notwith-standing. Don't you?"

"I?" Galazarga coughed. "I really could not say. Senor Delgado may feel able to proceed despite your proviso. Or he may not. The decision rests with him."

"When will he take it?"

"After I have apprised him of the relevant facts." Abruptly, Galazarga leant forward, took a sip of chocolate, then rose, extending his hand in farewell. "To which task I shall give my immediate attention. Such a pleasure, Mr Fairfax."

Derek stood up hurriedly, shook Galazarga's hand and found himself returning the infuriating smile. "When . . . er . . . when will I hear from you?"

"Within twenty-four hours. Without fail."

"Right. I-"

"Adis." With the faintest of bows, Galazarga turned and walked swiftly from the room.

After the door had swung shut behind him, Derek subsided back into his chair and began to retrace their conversation in his mind. He was still engaged in this process when, a few minutes later, Frank Griffith appeared in front of him.

"I saw him leave," the old man said, lowering himself into the seat Galazarga had occupied and staring intently at Derek. "How did it go?"

"It went."

"When will we have Delgado's answer?"

"Within twenty-four hours."

"And what will it be?"