Soma Blues (13 page)

It was early afternoon when the jet banked for its approach to San Isidro. Looking down, Nigel saw a low, skinny, tree-clad island, with the coast of Venezuela looming beyond it. Little puffy clouds dotted the horizon, and the sun was shining with that easy brilliance we have come to expect of it in the tropics. Nigel had quite recovered from his attack of conscience and was now looking forward to meeting Esther, and, after her, Santos.

3

Next morning Nigel was up bright and early. The airline stewardess, was just leaving, trim in her uniform, ready for her flight back to London. She blew him a kiss at the hotel-room door.

The primitive painting hadn’t been quite the thing. But he and Esther had had a good time strolling around, and after that there’d been dinner at San Isidro’s best restaurant, The Bluebeard, and then drinks and dancing at the Congreso’s Twilight Grotto. And then fun and games in the room afterward, and now Nigel had coffee and croissants sent up and busied himself in the shower, getting ready to let Santos know he was indeed here. Too bad Esther had to fly back on the morning flight. But he expected to see her again in London.

Refreshed and breakfasted, Nigel stepped out of the Congreso into Puerto San Isidro’s main street. Tall palms lined the macadam road. At roadside stalls people were selling vegetables and tinned goods. There was the usual clutter of two-, three-, and four-wheeled transportation. The usual Caribbean mixture of squalor, color, and good spirits.

Basically, local color aside, San Isidro was a depressing sight. The only thing it could be was a tropical paradise. It was obviously unsuited for any other role. Since there is little need for a tropical paradise in the modern world, San Isidro was a place looking for a product.

In the tin-roofed little town there were only a few good buildings. One with a gambrel roof, Dutch, to judge by its proportions. “Dat is de bank, Sor,” the bald taxi driver told him, in the chichi accent that is expected of taxi drivers in the Caribbean. “And over there, the Ramerie, where Morgan the pirate lived when he was made governor.”

“Nice,” Nigel said. “And what’s this?” he asked, noticing a rather good example just up the street of Caribbean Georgian, a double-winged place with central entranceway, pillared at the base and with a veranda running the length of the upstairs. Fine old trees dotted the well-kept lawn.

“Dis de Government House, sor.”

“Ah,” said Nigel, brightening. “Take me up to the main entrance.”

A smiling majordomo seemed to know who Nigel was as soon as he gave his name. He was led inside and up an impressive double staircase to an upstairs audience room all purple drapes and overstuffed furniture. Tall French windows were a nice feature. But several of them were boarded up. The room was impressive, but it hadn’t been swept recently.

If Santos had been expecting Hob, he showed no signs of disappointment when Nigel Wheaton presented himself instead. Santos came bustling out of a side office, a small brown-skinned man with a little pointed beard and clear resemblance to Robert de Niro in his role of Mr. Cyphre in
Angelheart.
Santos was wearing a nicely tailored tropical-weight white suit and pointed tan shoes. He wore several decorations, and he greeted Nigel with a strong, two-handed handshake.

“I am delighted to meet you, Major Wheaton. I only wish Mr. Draconian had been able to come as well.”

“Hob sends his regrets. An unavoidable press of work prevented his accepting your kind invitation. He sends his best wishes.”

“I am so glad he was able to spare you, Major.”

“For a day or two only, alas. The agency is flooded with work.”

“As well it should be,” Santos said. “Well, since our time is limited, why don’t we get right down to it? But first, please accept this.” He pressed a folded check into Nigel’s hand. “And of course the hotel has been instructed to send your bill directly to me.

“You are too kind,” Nigel said, just remembering that he had seen a very nice looking silver service in the gift shop within the hotel arcade. It might be just the thing for an old lady’s eighty-third birthday.

Santos took him on a tour of Government House, pointing out the many objets d’art the place boasted. There were rows of expensive period furniture, drapes, and wall hangings from great eras in European history and endless glass cases filled with what Santos referred to as “art treasures.”

“This is a nice piece,” Nigel said, indicating a small graceful bronze figure of a boy mounted on a dolphin.

“Sarzano,” Santos said. “Let me show you some more.”

He led Nigel down a long gloomy hallway. Portraits occupied the upper portions, each dimly lit by its own individual lamp that cast a yellowish glow over the faded oils. The corridor was a long one, a hundred feet at least. Lined up below the paintings were glass-topped cabinets, and within them were a variety of objects, all neatly tagged. There was a collection of Fabergé eggs whose value Nigel estimated at perhaps fifty thousand pounds. There was quite a lot of jewelry, its value difficult for Nigel to judge but of historic interest at least, bound to be valuable. One case was entirely given over to a display of Carthaginian coins. They appeared to be gold. It was difficult to estimate their value, but it had to be better than a hundred thousand pounds.

As he walked, Nigel kept a tab in his head. When he had reached a million pounds at lowest estimates, he stopped.

“Señor Santos, this is indeed a remarkable collection. I suppose you know it is quite valuable.”

“I am not an expert on these matters,” Santos said. “But I have always believed so, yes.”

“How on earth did you get so many interesting objects together under one roof?”

“Oh, it is not
my
collection,” Santos said. “Not my own personal collection, that is. What you are looking at is the official San Isidran national heritage, which is in my care for the nation. What you see on these walls, in these cases. And there is more in the cellars, a lot of it still unpacked.”

“Who put all this together?” Nigel asked.

“It has grown over the last two hundred years,” Santos said. “San Isidro has had various rulers, and most of them contributed their bit. Then there were the pirates. Some of them became governors of our island. They, too, contributed many of these items, which at the time were of no great value, but have grown so over the years.”

“It is a brilliant collection,” Nigel said. “Am I correct in assuming that you are interested in selling some pieces?”

“Perfectly correct.”

“And that, in fact, is what you wanted to see the Alternative Detective Agency about?”

“That is right,” Santos said. “I might add, lest there be any misunderstanding, that I do not sell these objects for the purpose of personal enrichment. I am modestly wealthy, and what I have suits me very well. It is my poor country I am thinking of.”

“Of course,” Nigel said, trying to keep an ironic tone out of his voice.

But Santos appeared to be in earnest. He went on, “We have no product to sell to the outside world, no natural resources like oil or minerals, not even a strong tourist industry, since the beauties of our island, though considerable, are not the equal of Jamaica or the Bahamas. With the money I hope to realize from these treasures, I want to set up training schools and colleges for our local population.”

“Which ones are you interested in selling, if I may ask?”

“Why, as for that,” Santos said, with a negligent wave of the hand, “I would like to dispose of all or most of them, or at least the ones of greatest value.”

Nigel made a flying guess as to the value of the entire collection. If what was in the other rooms was up to the standard of what he had seen, and if there was, say, twice as much stored away below as appeared here on the surface, the collection might be worth ten million pounds? Twenty million?

Nigel had the sudden feeling of a child who has stumbled into the house made of candy. “Take what you wish!” the old witch tells him. “They’re all for you, my dearie.” And he stuffs himself full. But when it comes time to leave … It was all simply too good.

“You have been a kind host,” Nigel said. “I think it is only proper that I advise you as to proper procedure. You should contact one of the big galleries, Christie’s in London, say, or Parke-Bernet in New York. Send them a catalog of what is here, with brief descriptions—and photographs, if possible. Ask them to send an appraiser. This is how these matters are commonly conducted.”

“Could you not appraise the items for me?” Santos asked.

“I could have a go at it, but I am not an expert on these matters,” Nigel said.

“But you work for a group of art dealers?”

“I do a little work in the field from time to time. But I repeat, I’m not an expert.”

“These experts from Christie’s,” Santos said, “I suppose there would be a lot of publicity attendant upon their coming here?”

“It could be handled discreetly,” Nigel said. “But Christie’s would want an established provenance for all the objects. So they could announce them properly in their catalog, you see.”

“Yes, it is as I thought,” Santos said. “But you see, any sale of these objects must be handled with discretion.”

“The big houses are the soul of discretion.”

“But it might try their patience if I pointed out the procedure we had to go through to get these objects to market. You see, Mr. Wheaton, I must not appear to be selling these items. They are not mine. They belong to the nation. I am their caretaker, but not their owner.”

“You have the right to sell them, however,” Nigel pointed out.

“Let’s not say the right. That’s a matter for the law to decide. Let’s say that I have the opportunity to sell them to provide something better for my people. They need new fishing boats more than they need old European masters. They need education into modern farming techniques more than they need a case of Venetian glass. They need a casino that will bring in tourists more than they need Fabergé eggs behind a glass case.”

“I take your point,” Nigel said.

“If I were to ask you to sell one of these objects for me,” Santos said, “how would you proceed?”

“With or without papers?”

“Without, let us say. Is that uncommon?”

“Not at all. People walk into art dealers every day with items. No one knows where they came from. Some art dealers aren’t too scrupulous about provenance. Not a major house like Christie’s, of course.”

“Do you know such houses?”

“In fact,” Nigel said, “I do. But I assure you, Mr. Santos, if you can properly document what you sell, you would stand to realize a much greater profit on it.”

“There is a difficulty about that,” Santos said.

“I rather thought there might be,” Nigel said.

“These pieces are part of the San Isidran national treasure. They have been amassed over the centuries for the enjoyment of the San Isidran people, of whom not more than five or ten a year come to look at their heritage. Much greater good could be done for the people if it were possible to sell these objects, and apply the income to public projects and the creation of new jobs.”

“No doubt,” Nigel said. “It is a lofty ambition. Might I ask, Señor Santos, if you are suggesting the theft of these objects? I don’t mean to be insulting, but the transaction you are suggesting seems hardly straightforward.”

“It is not exactly theft,” Santos said. “But it is not exactly straightforward, either.”

“And you thought the Alternative Detective Agency would be interested in a situation like this?”

“Yes, that is what I thought,” Santos said. “I got the impression while dealing with Mr. Draconian that you were people to be trusted, that you were ethical, but that you were not interested in the exact letter of the law.”

“Isn’t that a contradiction?” Nigel asked.

“A true morality must exist in contradiction,” Santos said.

“Interesting,” Nigel said. “Let me pursue my question. Here we are in Government House, and here are these treasures. There are guards at the door. The treasure is not yours, by your own admission.”

“Not mine,” Santos agreed. “But I can take what I please.”

“By thievery,” Nigel said.

Santos smiled painfully. “The art treasures here are the heritage of the San Isidran people. I, however, am the President of San Isidro.”

Nigel looked at him sharply to see if he was serious. He seemed to be.

“Are you indeed?” Nigel said.

“I assure you,” Santos said, “I am.”

“Why, one might ask, did you not mention this situation in your letter?”

“I wanted you to see what we had first. I wanted to appraise you while you appraised the goods. I am satisfied, and I hope you are. Perhaps we could take a glass of sherry in the Audience Room and continue our discussion?”

Nigel agreed. His mind was racing furiously. It was possible that Santos was selling him a line of goods, and that his real intention was to simply take the San Isidran people for whatever they were worth. On the other hand, Nigel’s reading of the man was that he was sincere. The idea of a national patrimony was a sick sort of joke, anyhow—like giving people a mansion in which to starve or a great view in which to perish of thirst. Or a glorious death in terms of an abstraction.