The Caper of the Golden Bulls

Chapter ten

Peter had anticipated everything but the intensity of the noise. He had imagined the look of barricaded streets, the press of the crowd, and, with ghastly clarity, the thrusting, seeking horns of the bulls.

But he hadn’t imagined a clamour like the howling of a storm, limitless and infinite. Steadily and powerfully, the roaring of the crowd grew in volume, while beneath it, like the bass of a great orchestra, the pounding hooves of the bulls shook the earth.

The sound beat on him like flails, numbing and splintering his thoughts. There was a scream in his ears.

“I can’t do it.”

Francois crouched against the wall of the passageway and shook his head at Peter. The words seemed to have torn his mouth; it looked like a ragged hole punched into his straining features.

“You’ve got to!”

“No, no, no.”

Peter struck him across the face.

“There are no free rides,” he said. Then he hit him again, using the back of his hand this time, and the impact of the blow bloodied the Frenchman’s lips and drove him to his knees. Peter hauled Francois up, unlatched the barricade, opened it and booted him into the street.

Francois screamed and ran. Peter leaped after him, the door of the barricade swinging shut with a crash that was lost in the crescendoing roar of the crowd.

The small plaza was like the eye of a storm, an uneasy vacuum surrounded by turbulence and noise. Every window overlooking it was packed with screaming faces. Every eye was turned to the street leading up from the river.

The suicideros were running now. Only a half-dozen still danced nervously about the plaza, eyes rolling back and sideways in their heads to watch for the bulls. Above the rhythmic chanting and bellowing the sound of hooves came on the air like a rumble of artillery fire.

The last of the runners were beautiful in their fear; there seemed a holiness in their terror, some sanctification of the spirit in this willing and ritualistic acceptance of dangers that no sane or prudent man would expose himself to; their smiles were straining and ghastly, but their eyes seemed brightened by the prospects of grace and honour.

Everyone was shouting. The first oxen came into sight, their splayed hooves slapping and banging and slipping on the cobblestones. Then the bulls appeared and all the runners fled from the plaza.

Peter ran as he might in a nightmare. The harder he tried, the less progress he seemed to make; the air was like a physical barrier against his heaving chest, so dense and heavy that it seemed to take all his strength to force his way through it. His feet thudded ponderously, as if they were encased in lead. The street narrowed as it angled into the Estefeta, and the screams of the crowd hammered at the walls of the buildings like a cyclone trapped in a wind tunnel. From balconies and windows, thousands of white, disembodied faces floated above Peter like dangerously inflated balloons. There were thin faces, fat faces, wide faces, and long faces, all with black holes in the middle of them that seemed to be twisting and writhing in agony. Peter’s ribs were like red-hot bars caging his straining lungs. He had a horrid image of an ankle giving way, a pounding heel coming down solidly on an over-ripe banana peel.

A young man in a white shirt and a red handkerchief about his neck shot past Peter. He looked frantically over his shoulder, his dark eyes full of wild lights. Then he screamed in transports of exquisite terror, and bolted on up the street.

But Peter was not alone. To his left, coming on steadily and imperturbably, were the massive horns of the lead oxen. And behind them the bulls.

A hand gripped his shoulder.

“Are you trying to be killed?”

Don Miguel, the Sword of Malaga, ran evenly alongside Peter, keeping abreast of him with the light, skipping strides of a torero. The people on the balconies recognised the old man and screamed at him.

“Slow down,” he said to Peter.

The bulls were going past them like a freight train. There was a reek of dung and sweat, spurts of dust, and the rattle and ring of their hooves on the paving stones. Peter saw the hairy nostrils and small dull eyes, lashing tails and a froth of sweat on thick pads of shoulder muscle.

“Let them go by. Slow down.”

They stopped running. Peter put both hands to his heaving sides and watched the bulls pounding up the street with the oxen.

“Amigo, where did you come from?” Peter gulped down air and shook his head; he couldn’t speak.

“I was watching for you. I waited until the last second. Where were you standing?”

“Across the plaza, near the barricades.”

“It’s funny I didn’t see you. Listen, if you wait until the last, try to get behind the bulls. You can’t trot along with them as if they were cows. It’s very dangerous.”

Men on the balcony began to shout at them.

Don Miguel looked away quickly. The lines in his tough old face seemed to sharpen; his eyes grew brighter. He said: “Stand very still, Peter.”

A towering black and white bull was trotting back along the street. A newspaper blew under its nose. The bull chopped at it viciously. It sniffed the gutters and looked up at the shouting people in the balconies.

“Stand very quietly.”

Peter didn’t need the old torero’s injunction; every joint in his body suddenly seemed to have acquired a thick, immobilising sheath of ice.

He prayed for the crowd to be silent; that was almost the worst of it, the hysterical sense-numbing noise.

The bull was twenty feet away when it noticed the two human targets standing motionless in the street. It raised its head to stare at them, and the movement caused a crest of muscle to rise steeply in its shoulders. Then it came forward in quick stops and starts, pawing delicately at the paving stones, feinting right and left with big, murderous horns, as if trying to determine whether these tall, post like objects could be frightened or startled into action.

“Very still now,” Don Miguel said, without moving his lips.

The bull stopped five feet away, and sniffed the ground. They formed a tableau under the screaming crowds, the men, the animal, the noise itself, all linked together in a pattern so volatile that it seemed ready to explode at any instant of its own interior tensions. It was a foretaste of what must be the temporal texture of eternity, Peter thought with therapeutic irrelevance; seconds that were like years, minutes that were like centuries.

Someone raised a first-floor window and flapped a bed sheet into the street.

The bull wheeled away from them and charged it.

Don Miguel pulled Peter along the street, then froze him with the pressure of his hand. The bull turned from the limp, unresisting, unsatisfactory sheet, and looked back at them.

“Stand very still.”

Another sheet flapped temptingly from a window farther up the street.

The bull went for it at a hard gallop, ripped it free with one savage chop, and continued up the street with the big white sheet flapping and trailing beneath its churning hooves.

Don Miguel smiled at the cheering people in the balconies.

“It’s like old times,” he said and wiped his forehead. “Peter, you have a story to bore children with in years to come.”

“What the devil are you doing here in Pamplona?”

“Let’s go and drink some wine. It’s not too early to start lying about the size of those horns.”

“Answer my question.”

Don Miguel shrugged apologetically. “Well, there’s an old Spanish proverb that goes this way: It is better to eat dry bread in the sunlight, than to join a feast in darkness.”

“That isn’t old, it isn’t Spanish, and it isn’t proverbial,” Peter said.

“Very few foreigners would understand that. Come along, Peter, it’s time for some wine.”

“Why won’t you answer my question?”

The old man scratched his ear. “All right. I came here to help you.”

“You’re a fool.”

“You see? That’s why I didn’t give you an answer. A man who can’t afford friends is too poor to have enemies. And a Spaniard without foes is like a bull without horns. That isn’t old or Spanish or proverbial either. But think about it, anyway. Now. Will you take some wine with me?”

Peter sighed helplessly.

They went off down the street with their arms about one another’s shoulders... One night later in the week, Peter met with a carpenter in a draughty shed near the river.

“I did my best, senior but the time was short.”

“I think you’ve done a fine job.”

“Thank you. But if there were more time I would put a sharper light in his eyes. And more of the devil in his smile. But the nose and cheeks are good. And the uniform is correct. Black, with the silver trimming on the coat and hat. It’s the style of Phillip the Second, you know. Now. You see those curls on his wig? Where they come down over his left temple? Well, just behind the lowest curl is a little lever that makes the other thing work. You can hardly see it, eh, senior The Cabezuda was propped against a wall of the shed, its fresh paint sparkling in the light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Under comically arched brows, its great black eyes were fixed fiercely at a point about six feet above Peter’s head. The pink cheeks were bigger than pumpkins. A splayed nose hung suspended over ruby-red lips which were stretched wide in a gleefully ferocious smile. The tricorn hat, austerely formal in its trimmings of black and silver, was pulled down raffishly over one eye. A drum hung from a strap around the neck, the sticks secured to the rim by loops of tasselled green cord. From the shoulders, folds of dark cloth dropped to the ground. The hems were bound with red flannel, on which sequins glittered in cabalistic patterns.

“Look!” The carpenter raised the folds of cloth and showed Peter the single four-by-four which supported the frame of the Cabezuda. Attached to this post, at right angles to the ground, was a yoke padded with leather.

“Watch!” The carpenter crouched and fitted his head through the yoke.

When he stood erect the Cabezuda rose another two feet in the air.

Peter stared appraisingly at its eyes. They were now at least eight feet above his own.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Perfect.”

He gave the happy artisan a bonus for his industry, and sent him off smiling.

From every quarter of the town came the sounds of the fiesta. Music and singing and the noise of fire-crackers, faint and joyous on the air. But it was a joy of other hearts, and it did nothing to gladden Peter’s. The shed was a comfortable haven, it seemed to him, against a mindless sort of gaiety he wasn’t able to join in.

He sat and smoked a cigarette. It was good to rest and think of nothing. He was not tired, but he was curiously discouraged.

The night before he had quarrelled with Grace. She had been dressed for dinner in a gown the colour of ivory, a saucy little diamond tiara crowning her smooth blonde head.

“It’s charming,” he had said. “Where did you ever pick up a thing like that?”

“Oh? It didn’t occur to you that I might have bought it?”

“Grace, you know what I mean.”

“I most certainly do.”

That had been the start of it. He had tried to make amends, to conciliate her, by explaining in generous terms that he didn’t give a damn about her soul any more. That he couldn’t care less about it.

This had caused her indignation to balloon into anger. Then she had begun to weep, which had infuriated him, and from that point on their evening had deteriorated swiftly and disastrously.

There was a tap on the door of the shed.

He rose and let Angela and Phillip in.

“Is it all right?” she asked, glancing at the Cabezuda.

“I won’t know till we try it.”

Her small face was pale and irritable. “Let’s get on with it then.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I feel quite ill, thank you. A goat wouldn’t touch the slops you’re making me eat. The milk tastes like gruel that’s gone bad. The crackers choke me.”

“Okay, Phillip,” Peter said, without quite smiling.

“Yes,” Phillip said, in the tone he would have used in replying to a question.

Angela looked at him sharply, but obviously read nothing in his broad impassive face. She shrugged and swung herself on to his shoulders.

She wore black leotards, a tight black jersey sweater, and patent leather slippers, a costume which so completely stripped her of sex that she looked like a slim and agile boy attempting a balancing trick with an indulgent adult.

Phillip carried her to the Cabezuda.

“All right, Angela,” Peter said. “Behind the lowest curl of the wig there’s a lever. Push it to the right as far as you can.”

“This knob?”

“Yes.”

Angela pushed the knob hard, and one side of the Cabezuda slid open, like the door of a cupboard.

“Get in,” Peter said.

Phillip hoisted her into the air. She crawled into the Cabezuda, squeezed herself into a ball, and pushed the side of the Cabezuda back into place.

“Angela, can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Her voice was muffled but clear.

“There’s another opening in back. See if it works.”

Angela’s face appeared high above them in an aperture in the rear of the Cabezuda. The second opening was only six inches square.

“Okay, Phillip,” Peter said.

Phillip stooped and fitted his head and neck into the yoke under the Cabezuda. The folds of cloth fell about his legs to the ground, concealing all of him but the tips of his boots.

He stood erect and lost his balance. The Cabezuda swayed sideways.

From inside it came a sound like the hissing of a terrified cat.

Peter braced the head with his hands.

“All right, Phillip, try again.”

They practised for an hour. It was an hour in which the big Frenchman attempted stops, starts, and turns; walked backwards and sideways; and managed at last to trot heavily about the little shed, as rhythmically as a draught horse in a circus. It was an hour in which Peter’s spirits rose slightly, When they were ready to leave, Angela touched his hand, unexpectedly, and said, “May I talk to you a minute?”

“Phillip, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Good night.”

“What is it, Angela?”

“I’m sorry I was rude. It’s just nerves. Would you like to come over to the hotel? I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I have several things to attend to.”

“Well, can we sit down then? I’m exhausted.”

There was a wooden bench against the wall. Angela stretched her legs and arched her back gratefully. The tight black jersey yielded to the thrust of her small, hard breasts. “Oh, that’s a good feeling. It’s strange inside that thing. You lose all sense of direction. I mean, you don’t know whether you’re going forward or backward or sideways. Added to that is a strange feeling I have about Phillip. I think, Peter, that he’d enjoy throwing that big head into the river with me inside it.” She relaxed and put her feet up on a packing case. The white skin of her fragile ankles gleamed between black slacks and slippers; the illusion was a curious one, for in the strong but uncertain light, it seemed as if she were delicately fettered by her own flesh. “Do you have a cigarette?”

Peter gave her a cigarette and lighted it.

“Peter, do you think it’s going to work?”

“I think there’s a good chance.”

She smiled at him. “This is like old times, isn’t it?”

“In a way, I suppose it is.”

“But you know, I’m worried about Francois.”

“Why?”

“Well.” She hesitated and shrugged lightly. “He doesn’t trust you, Peter.”

“We have only two more shots to make,” he said quietly. “On Sunday morning we reach the vault. If he doesn’t have the film with him, I won’t blow it. So he had better trust me; he doesn’t have any choice.”

“I know, I know,” she said irritably. “I’d give you the films tonight, this minute, if it were up to me. But he wouldn’t hear of it.” She turned and stared into his eyes, and for an instant there was such a rosy innocence in her face, such a childish and wistful look about her slightly parted lips, that Peter felt a reluctant twinge of nostalgia for those long-ago days when he had believed there might be something precious, something salvageable, beyond the delicate and exquisite camouflage of her beauty.

“Tell me one thing, Peter,” she said. “Just one thing. Do you think I’m a rotten bitch for getting you into this? Or can you understand that I had to?”

“Let’s not go into that, okay?”

“Do you still feel anything at all for me?” She blew delicately on the tip of her cigarette, a gentle smile radiating from her lips to her eyes. The cigarette flared rosily, and she said, “Anything like that, Peter? Any little spark a chance wind could make warm and beautiful again?”

“Let’s not go into that either,” he said drily. “I see. It’s all for Grace now. Do you love her so much that you can’t spare even a kind thought for me?”

Peter listened to the sounds of the fiesta drifting on the night winds over the river. A rocket went off with a crash. There was a machine-gun rattle of fireworks. Angela was smiling at him, the soft curve of her lips benign and voluptuous. “All right, cut out the act,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Stop waving your breasts at me. Stop the auld langsyne bit. What’s wrong?”

She sighed. “If I didn’t have that film, I’d be frightened of you. I wish I knew how you did it. It’s Francois. He’s losing his nerve.”

“He was all right this morning. What happened?”

“I’m not quite sure. It was at lunch. A car drove by on the other side of the square from the café we were sitting at. It was a grey Citroen. When Francois saw it, he spilled his wine down his shirt. He told me the driver looked like someone he had trouble with in Algeria. I don’t know about what. It was cards or women, I suppose. But he’s been drinking ever since. I told you he didn’t trust you. Now he doesn’t trust me either.”

“So you thought we might join forces, and kick him out into the cold. Is that it?”

“I’d sleep with the devil for those diamonds,” she said quietly. “Do I have to tell you that?” She looked at him with hard, bitter eyes.

“You don’t want me, that’s obvious. Francois won’t for much longer. Can you imagine how it will be when I’m older? Without money? Saying pleose to drunken students? Saying please to old men who beg you to be naughty so they can beat you?” Her voice was suddenly ragged; an ugly fear glittered deep in her eyes. “Saying please to the whole rotten world? Crying to it for mercy?”

“Where is Francois?”

“In the Castillo, drinking. He wouldn’t stay alone at the hotel.”

“Let’s go.”

She smiled ironically. “I see how touched you are by my problems.”

“You’re worrying about the future. That’s a luxury I can’t afford.”

“You may wish you had, dear.”

Peter filed the remark away in a compartment of his mind, which he thought of as a repository for ticking bombs. Then he turned off the lights in the shed and they walked up the bank of the river towards the Plaza del Castillo.

Francois said: “So what have you two been cooking up?” He was drinking brandy. “Or were you strolling about the town like sweethearts?” He smiled coldly at Angela. “Did he tell you your body was made by glassblowers and magicians?”

“Shut up,” she said.

“I will not shut up!”

They had found him at a table on the terrace of the Café Kutz, seated with his back to a wall, a half-dozen saucers stacked before him. Peter glanced at the drink Francois was holding.

“I’d advise you to make that a nightcap.”

“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

The plaza was boiling with noise and excitement. Fireworks erupted from the small park in the middle of the square. Red and white Roman candles raced towards the sky with huge whooshing explosions, and disintegrated into a billion gaudy patterns high in the darkness. The streets and sidewalks were thick with reeling tourists and Spaniards, all slung with goatskins of wine. Weaving snake lines of dancers clogged traffic. Dozens of Cabezudas swayed high above the heads of the crowd. Some were made up as devils and witches, others as clowns and bishops and gypsies. Fire-bulls, toros built of papier-mâché, belched flame from their nostrils, shot sparkling puffballs of smoke from their hollow horns. The incessant pound of explosives mingled with the brassy thud of marching bands.

This was the sound of San Fermin, rhythmic, huge, incessant. It was as if rubber truncheons were beating against the underside of the earth; the sounds seemed to explode underneath the feet, and go rocking and blasting up the legs and spine, to burst inside the head.

The terraces of all the cafés ringing the plaza were jammed with tourists. Tables were thick with bottles and glasses and saucers.

Everyone was calling for drinks. The waiters squeezed themselves tortuously through the crowds, flushed and sweating, trays balanced precariously over their heads.

Snippets of talk rustled about Peter’s ears like scraps of paper in a gale.

“If you drink that I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Hemingway said Cagnacho was yellow. Look it up, Old buddy, look it up.”

“It’s a goddam shame the way they spoil these places—”

“...didn’t come here to sit in a hotel and watch you write postcards—”

“...I didn’t say he was yellow, Hemingway did.”

“Left Bank, the Dome and Select, even the Village, they’ve spoiled all of it.”

“...lot he knew.”

“...sure, Chicago used to be a good town.”

“...you shouldn’t have done that, dear. Waiter? You really shouldn’t.

Just remember to tell Dr. Abrams about this little indulgence. Don’t conveniently forget it, dear. Waiter!”

“...then why did he shoot himself, buster?”

Francois ordered another brandy. He wore sunglasses and a cap pulled down low on his forehead, but Peter sensed that his eyes were flicking intently and nervously about the terrace of the café.

“I have been very trusting, very co-operative,” Francois said in a thick, angry voice. “Good Francois. He lies in the sun, not a worry in his head. Tell him this, tell him that, he nods and smiles and does what he’s told. But I’m not a fool.”

“Who said you were?”

“How do we leave the bank Sunday morning?”

“I told you twice. The old storm drains run under the bank. They’re dry this time of year. We will follow them to the river.”

“Then why do we give the things to her?”

“Because there’s an elbow of the drain that’s only fourteen inches wide.”

“I’m tired of your clever plans. I’m sick of hearing how smart and formidable you are. You’re doing this for nothing but honour? And Phillip? He takes a little money, but very little. And he’s not the least curious about what we’re after. And your woman, that great iceberg, she is working for nothing too. Just like that crazy old bullfighter. I’m smothered by this philanthropy. I ask myself why you’re so good to me, so charitable.”

“Francois, this is no time for trouble,” Angela said quietly.

“No, good faithful Francois mustn’t make trouble! I must do what I’m told, like a well-trained dog. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being ordered about by this clever, dangerous thief, the famous Black Dove.”

Peter gripped the neck of the brandy bottle. “Listen, Francois,” he said very quietly. “If you don’t shut up now, I’m going to knock all your front teeth down your throat.”

“But—”

“I said shut up.”

A roar like a mighty wave washed over the plaza. From the balconies, floodlights swept across the crowds in the streets, cutting so swiftly and blindingly through the darkness, and in such intricate and dazzling patterns, that the effect was as fantastic and impressive as great swords swinging in the hands of giants.

Everyone was standing, climbing on to chairs and tables.

To a roaring drumbeat, the Virgins of Spain were entering the Plaza del Castillo, borne on massive and dazzlingly decorated floats by hundreds of proud attendants.

Angela stood on tiptoe, straining to see, and the glitter in her eyes was no less vivid than the blaze of the jewels on the arms and throats of the Virgins.

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.”