plump stabbing forefinger: “Where— is—the—gold?”
She repeated herself firmly, but with an edge of desperation now: “I tell you I don’t know about any gold, or money. My problem is, Charles didn’t leave me any—only debts. That’s why I’ve come here—to France, to Marseille. I’ve got to sell this yacht—my yacht, the Phoenix …”
Descartes put his head on one side and studied her for a few moments. Arabella tried again.
“I don’t have any money. No money. No gold. Comprenez-vous?”
Descartes shook his head sadly.
“Then you are no use to us. Your memory is too bad.”
“Listen, lady,” Bernadotti hissed suddenly, “we know the gold or the money is here in France, where your husband once did business. All you have to do is tell us where.”
“What money? What gold? I don’t know about any money or gold!” Arabella was near snapping-point now.
Again Descartes looked at her aslant for a moment.
“Let me remind you of the facts,” he began, “since you have such a poor memory, it appears. Four of us endured eight years in prison for a robbery of gold bullion in which your ‘Charles’ also took a part— and from which he escaped with the gold, all of the gold, while we were caught. Now we want that gold, or whatever remains of it.”
“All this is news to me. If Charles had any gold he certainly didn’t tell me about it,” Arabella said firmly. “Now let me out of here.”
She stood up; and Descartes, unexpectedly, rose from his own seat and made a sweeping, bowing gesture towards the door as if inviting her to leave. She compressed her lips determinedly and marched to the door. Pancho had been watching the conversation, his piggy eyes darting from mouth to mouth; but now he became absorbed in an old penknife, its blade much worn and sharpened, which he was honing patiently with a stone.
“Do you mind?” Arabella demanded.
Pancho didn’t move or look up.
“Our friend Pancho—he only lip-reads,” Bernadotti remarked.
Arabella clicked her fingers repeatedly under his eyes; but still he didn’t respond.
“It is not always easy to catch his attention,” Descartes explained.
“I see,” said Arabella slowly, as she turned back. “Perhaps if you … well, can you perhaps tell me a bit more about this money or gold, I’m supposed to know about?”
Suddenly, having edged into the middle of the room, she made a dash for the far door. But as she reached it, so did Pancho’s knife. One second it wasn’t there; the next, that well-worn blade was buried deep in the door, inches from her face.
She stared at the quivering knife and collapsed to a sitting posture on the floor, all the fight temporarily shaken out of her.
“If I knew where this gold was, I’d tell you,” she pleaded helplessly.
Bernadotti stood up abruptly.
“Let’s stop wasting time,” he hissed. “We’re gonna have to introduce you to some of our … livestock. The horned variety that helps people remember things they pretend they forgot, or that they pretend they never knew.”
He laughed uproariously as his words sank in and Arabella turned several shades paler. He was still chuckling as, after two quick strides to reach her, he grasped her arm in a powerful and painful grip and propelled her towards the door.
“Let’s go, Mrs high-class widow-lady. Toro is waiting for us!”
She searched Descartes’ features hopefully for some sign of dissension in the camp. But his expression was stonily impassive, and she was led off with her arm in that pincer grip from the black-shirted and be-chained Bernadotti.
Thus is was that, not long after, Arabella Tatenor found herself in a bullring for the first time in her life.
It was a small bull-ring as bull-rings go, and clearly designed for training rather than public entertainment. But it did seem to possess most of the usual features—approximately circular, with a wooden perimeter, though with only a minimal two tiers of what would have been
She repeated herself firmly, but with an edge of desperation now: “I tell you I don’t know about any gold, or money. My problem is, Charles didn’t leave me any—only debts. That’s why I’ve come here—to France, to Marseille. I’ve got to sell this yacht—my yacht, the Phoenix …”
Descartes put his head on one side and studied her for a few moments. Arabella tried again.
“I don’t have any money. No money. No gold. Comprenez-vous?”
Descartes shook his head sadly.
“Then you are no use to us. Your memory is too bad.”
“Listen, lady,” Bernadotti hissed suddenly, “we know the gold or the money is here in France, where your husband once did business. All you have to do is tell us where.”
“What money? What gold? I don’t know about any money or gold!” Arabella was near snapping-point now.
Again Descartes looked at her aslant for a moment.
“Let me remind you of the facts,” he began, “since you have such a poor memory, it appears. Four of us endured eight years in prison for a robbery of gold bullion in which your ‘Charles’ also took a part— and from which he escaped with the gold, all of the gold, while we were caught. Now we want that gold, or whatever remains of it.”
“All this is news to me. If Charles had any gold he certainly didn’t tell me about it,” Arabella said firmly. “Now let me out of here.”
She stood up; and Descartes, unexpectedly, rose from his own seat and made a sweeping, bowing gesture towards the door as if inviting her to leave. She compressed her lips determinedly and marched to the door. Pancho had been watching the conversation, his piggy eyes darting from mouth to mouth; but now he became absorbed in an old penknife, its blade much worn and sharpened, which he was honing patiently with a stone.
“Do you mind?” Arabella demanded.
Pancho didn’t move or look up.
“Our friend Pancho—he only lip-reads,” Bernadotti remarked.
Arabella clicked her fingers repeatedly under his eyes; but still he didn’t respond.
“It is not always easy to catch his attention,” Descartes explained.
“I see,” said Arabella slowly, as she turned back. “Perhaps if you … well, can you perhaps tell me a bit more about this money or gold, I’m supposed to know about?”
Suddenly, having edged into the middle of the room, she made a dash for the far door. But as she reached it, so did Pancho’s knife. One second it wasn’t there; the next, that well-worn blade was buried deep in the door, inches from her face.
She stared at the quivering knife and collapsed to a sitting posture on the floor, all the fight temporarily shaken out of her.
“If I knew where this gold was, I’d tell you,” she pleaded helplessly.
Bernadotti stood up abruptly.
“Let’s stop wasting time,” he hissed. “We’re gonna have to introduce you to some of our … livestock. The horned variety that helps people remember things they pretend they forgot, or that they pretend they never knew.”
He laughed uproariously as his words sank in and Arabella turned several shades paler. He was still chuckling as, after two quick strides to reach her, he grasped her arm in a powerful and painful grip and propelled her towards the door.
“Let’s go, Mrs high-class widow-lady. Toro is waiting for us!”
She searched Descartes’ features hopefully for some sign of dissension in the camp. But his expression was stonily impassive, and she was led off with her arm in that pincer grip from the black-shirted and be-chained Bernadotti.
Thus is was that, not long after, Arabella Tatenor found herself in a bullring for the first time in her life.
It was a small bull-ring as bull-rings go, and clearly designed for training rather than public entertainment. But it did seem to possess most of the usual features—approximately circular, with a wooden perimeter, though with only a minimal two tiers of what would have been
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