Lady From Argentina Page 5

  He was a thief: that soon became evident. He stole from shops; if he saw anything he wanted he took it. But he was clever; he was clever enough never to have been caught.

  ‘Have you never worked for a living?’ she once asked.

  ‘Work!’ he said, as if she had suggested something utterly ridiculous. ‘Can you imagine me sitting at a desk or clocking on at a factory? Can you?’

  She had to admit that she could not. It was not in his character to face the discipline of regular hours, the soul-destroying monotony of a production line. He needed to be free, to be his own man.

  ‘Why should I work to make other men rich?’

  ‘But supposing you were working to make yourself rich? That would be different, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I have no desire for riches. Just to live is enough. To enjoy life. Look, Addie, how many years do we have? Seventy, eighty, ninety perhaps if we are careful. But who wants to be careful merely to survive into old age? And ask yourself this: how many of those years would be good years; years when you are young enough to taste the sweetness? Twenty-five? Thirty perhaps? Thirty-five at the most. Beyond that the world is a grey wretched place. And if you have wasted those early years in the slavery of employment and the piling up of money, what a time of regret you would have to face when all that was left was the tasteless dregs! Live now, live for the present; there will never be anything so good again.’

  She thought there was much to be said in favour of this philosophy. What did you get from age? Wrinkling of the skin, stiffening of the limbs, loss of natural vigour. No amount of money, of personal possessions, could compensate for what was lost. So maybe Guido was right: you had to make the most of youth while you had it, because it was a dead certainty that it would not last; and no expensive beauty treatment or rejuvenating wonder drugs could keep the ravages of time at bay. The old man with the scythe would always have the final word.

  ‘I’m never going to grow old,’ Guido said. ‘Never.’

  *

  One day he said: ‘How would you like to go for a car ride?’

  ‘It would be very nice,’ she said, ‘but you haven’t got a car, have you?’

  They were sitting at a table outside a café in one of the smaller resorts on the Costa Blanca. From there they had a view of the crowded beach and the sea dotted with sails, white on blue.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll get one.’

  He went away, leaving her there. She thought it was some kind of a joke. Maybe he would come back with a toy car in his hand and make a laugh of it. He was unpredictable; she never knew what he would do next. It was what made things so exciting.

  She saw the car come to a stop by the kerb. It was a blue BMW. She did not realise immediately that it was Guido in the driving seat. Then he had the door open on the passenger side and was calling to her.

  ‘Come along! Get in! Quick!’

  She hesitated for a moment, but there was a note of urgency in his voice; so she got up and ran to the car and got in.

  ‘Well, here we go,’ he said.

  She had not known he could drive; he had never spoken of it. But soon she could tell that he was no novice behind the wheel. She guessed that the car was stolen. How else could he have obtained it?

  ‘Nervous?’ he asked.

  She was. ‘A little.’

  ‘No need to be. The owner won’t know it’s gone yet. We’ve got time for a ride before it’s reported to the cops.’

  He drove as far as Elche and left the car in a side-street. She had a feeling of relief to be rid of it, but the journey had been exhilarating because there had been no telling when a police car might get on their tail and give chase. If that had happened she felt sure Guido would have given the pursuers a run for their money. And that would have been even more exhilarating. But frightening too.

  Elche had an oriental look about it. There were white flat-roofed houses and date-palms everywhere. The Moors had had it once and had left their imprint on it. She and Guido wandered around for a time, and then caught a bus to take them back to the coast.

  ‘Enjoy it?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Everything she did with him was an enjoyment. She was living in a dream of delight and she never wanted to wake up.

  He told her he did not often steal cars. Not any more. He had done quite a bit of it at one time, but he had never been hooked on it like some kids were.

  ‘Did you ever sell them?’

  ‘No. I was never in that trade. You have to find a buyer and the buyer has to be a crook, so you’re in his hands. He could give you away if he had a mind to. There’s money in it, but most of the profit goes to the middlemen, not the suppliers.’

  He had taken things from cars – radios, cameras, anything easily portable that people left lying around in them. He would sell the goods to foreigners on the beach or in the bars.

  ‘Didn’t they guess they were stolen?’ she asked.

  He grinned. ‘Of course. They know the score when you offer them something. But it makes no difference. Nobody is honest. Offer them a bargain and they grab it fast; no questions asked.’

  It was the way he disposed of the articles he stole from shops. Some thieves went to fences, receivers of stolen property; but he would have none of that. He said that fences did you down, and as with car dealers, you were in their hands once you started trading with them.

  *

  One evening Guido stole a Citroen, and as they were driving away in it he asked her whether she had ever done any housebreaking. She said of course she had not. What an idea!

  ‘So it’ll be a new experience for you.’

  She knew then what he planned to do, and she could have pulled out before things went any further; she could have told him she wanted nothing to do with it. The thought had scarcely entered her head when it was dismissed. Whatever he chose to do, she was in it with him. For good or bad she was a part of him now.

  It was an old house, standing back from the road and surrounded by trees and shrubs. It was in complete darkness and there was no sign of anyone’s being at home. There was a bit of moon shining and Guido found his way round to the back with Adelaide following close behind. He had brought a torch but he was not using it yet. He came to the back door and tried it but without success. He had to smash a pane of glass with the torch so that he could reach inside and release the catch. He opened the window and climbed in over the sill.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

  With her pulse racing she climbed in after him. He switched on the torch and revealed that they were in a kitchen. There was nothing in there to be worth stealing, and he moved to the door giving access to other parts of the house. They found themselves now in a passageway which led to the entrance hall where there were some oil paintings in tarnished gilt frames and an old oak chest and a suit of armour.

  Guido moved the beam of the torch round the hall to reveal its contents and uttered an exclamation of disgust.

  ‘Nothing here. Let’s take a look in the rooms.’

  He took a couple of steps towards a door on the left, and at that moment there was a click of a switch, a light came on and a man said sharply:

  ‘Stop right there! Don’t move!’

  The man was standing at the top of the stairway which led up from the hall. He was bald-headed and he was wearing pyjamas and a dressing-gown, with slippers on his feet; so it looked as if their entrance into the house had wakened him from sleep. Perhaps he had heard the breaking of the window. Perhaps he had not even been asleep. Not that this was of any importance. The important fact was that he was awake, he was there and he was holding a revolver in his right hand.

  Adelaide was scared. It was the sight of the gun that really terrified her. She had never had one pointed at her before and she simply froze.

  But Guido was cool. He said: ‘You shouldn’t point guns at people. Don’t you know it’s rude? Dangerous too. An old bastard like you could get himself hurt.’

  Adelaide
thought Guido was mad to talk in that way. It would only anger the man and might goad him into shooting. Surely the sensible course would have been to humour him. And he was not really so old at that; between fifty and sixty maybe; hard-faced, tough-looking, harsh-voiced.

  ‘You’re the one who could get hurt,’ he said. ‘What in hell are you doing in my house?’

  Guido laughed. ‘What do you think we’re doing, dad? We’re taking a look round, that’s what. No harm in it, is there?’

  The man spluttered. If Guido’s intention was to put him in a rage he was succeeding splendidly. But Adelaide did not think much of the idea. Taunting the man was just plain crazy.

  ‘Thieves!’ the man said. ‘Damned thieves! Scum! Filth from the gutters! Your sort ought to be put away for good.’

  Guido laughed again. ‘Well, maybe. But who’s going to do it? Not you, old man. We’re going now. I can see we’re not welcome here. No hospitality.’

  He took half a step.

  ‘Stop!’ the man shouted. ‘Stay where you are or I shoot you down like a dog.’

  He was waving the revolver about as if the passion that was in him would not allow him to hold it steady. Guido seized Adelaide’s arm.

  ‘Let’s go. Let’s get to hell out of here.’

  He had to drag her away; there seemed to be no strength in her legs. Then she heard the crack of a revolver and something sped past her left ear and smashed into the wall close by.

  It galvanised her. She needed no more urging as they ran down the passage and into the kitchen. The window was still open and they climbed out just as the man with the gun blasted two more shots at them which missed. They dashed round to the front of the house, and she stumbled over some obstruction and fell headlong. But Guido hauled her to her feet, and they reached the car and got in.

  The engine started at a touch, and they were moving when the man in the dressing-gown appeared and started shooting again. A bullet shattered one of the side windows, but Guido had the car moving now and was accelerating hard. The revolver cracked twice more but without effect; and after that there was no more shooting, perhaps because the revolver was empty.

  Guido began to laugh.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ she demanded.

  ‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Every damned thing. It’s so funny. Don’t you think it’s funny?’

  She considered that, turning the question over in her mind. And when she came to think about it she supposed it really was funny; breaking into a house and then running away empty-handed with a bald-headed man in a dressing-gown shooting at them with a revolver. Yes, it was funny. Like one of those old Buster Keaton or Charlie Chaplin films.

  She began to laugh too.

  *

  They abandoned the car after a few miles and walked. They walked for quite a distance. It was a warm night, and after a time they made their way down to the beach and made love on the sand.

  And it was better than it had ever been, with that peach slice of a moon and the stars overhead and the sea whispering in the background.

  Life was good; life was fun; life was marvellous.

  If only it would go on like this for ever!

  Chapter Six – Not Bad Company

  ‘I do hope,’ Lacoste said, ‘you are not finding it too dull and boring here.’

  Adelaide smiled. ‘No, father, I am not finding it at all dull or boring. Far from it.’

  ‘If you were,’ Violette remarked, ‘you could always go back to the château, I suppose.’

  The three of them were in Lacoste’s caravan, which was a pretty luxurious home on wheels. Adelaide was quite sure Violette would have been only too pleased if she had acted on the suggestion and returned to France; but she had no intention of leaving merely to satisfy that jealous woman’s desires. There was too much holding her here, too much that it would have been a painful wrench to leave. There was Guido.

  ‘Well,’ Lacoste said, ‘I must say you are looking very well on it. Positively blooming in fact. Wouldn’t you agree, Violette?’

  ‘Oh, certainly.’ The young actress spoke sourly. ‘But of course she is a lady of leisure. Some of us have to work for a living, and that makes a difference.’

  ‘But I thought you enjoyed it,’ Adelaide replied sweetly. ‘I thought it was a labour of love, as one might say. Don’t tell me it’s nothing but a penance after all. I should be so disillusioned.’

  Violette said nothing; she just gave a sniff and turned away.

  Adelaide thought her father himself was not looking at all well. She believed he was worried about the film, which was dropping behind schedule and in danger of going over its budget. It was a common occurrence, but it always spelt trouble. Besides which, there were the usual temperamental problems with the leading players: petty jealousies, outbursts of anger, sulks, hurt pride; all of which had to be dealt with by the director and required tact and patience, qualities with which Charles Lacoste was not particularly well endowed.

  Adelaide’s personal opinion was that most people in the acting profession were immature. Mentally they were still children; that was why they loved dressing up and playing characters: romantic, tragic, heroic, humorous or whatever. They were exhibitionists who loved to be in the public eye and hated to have others getting more of the limelight than themselves. Everyone else in the game was a potential rival and a back was the natural target for biting or stabbing. Of one thing she was quite certain: she herself had no desire ever to become an actress.

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ Lacoste inquired.

  ‘Oh, this and that. Wandering around. Seeing the sights.’

  ‘You don’t feel lonely?’

  ‘Not a bit. It’s all so interesting. I mingle with the crowd. They’re very cosmopolitan, you know. I regard myself as a student of the human race, an observer of the passing show.’

  He gave her a keen glance. She wondered whether she was rather overdoing things and making him suspicious. Perhaps her words had only led him to guess that she was hiding something from him.

  ‘You haven’t made any friends?’

  ‘Not really.’

  She would not tell him about Guido. And besides, Guido was more than a friend; oh, so very much more. She wondered what her father would have said if she had told him all of it. Would he have been angry? Would he have been distressed? Most certainly he would not have approved; but what action would he have taken – if any? Perhaps his main response would have taken the form of annoyance; it would have been an unwelcome distraction when he had quite enough to worry him with the filming problems.

  So maybe it would be just as well not to tell him; maybe he would prefer not to know; for as long as he knew nothing he would feel no compulsion to do anything about it. Yes, taking everything into account, it was by far the best that he should remain unaware of the existence of a young man named Guido; unaware that this Guido had become so much a part of his daughter’s life that she could scarcely think of anything else.

  ‘You have not been getting into mischief, I hope?’ Lacoste said; again looking keenly at her.

  She laughed off the suggestion. He gave her some money before they parted.

  ‘I imagine you can make use of this.’

  She thanked him. She felt rather ashamed to be deceiving him. But it was for his good as much as her own. She had no wish to bother him more than he was bothered already.

  *

  They went to another house a few nights later. Guido said it was a question of honour: he had to wipe out from the record that earlier failure. In a way it was like a circus performer after falling from a high wire or a trapeze needing to go back up again as soon as possible to restore his nerve.

  ‘This time we will not come away empty-handed, I promise you.’

  They went in a stolen Ford Mondeo. They went later; it was coming up to one o’clock in the morning when Guido stopped the car.

  ‘Is this the place?’ she asked. Already she could feel the fluttering in her stom
ach, the mixture of pleasurable excitement and nervous apprehension building up. What would happen this time?

  ‘This is the place,’ Guido said.

  There was a high stone wall, a pair of wrought-iron gates in the middle. The gates were secured with a chain and padlock. There was enough moonlight to reveal the dim outline of the bars.

  Guido looked at the padlock. ‘We can’t break that. We shall have to climb.’

  It was not difficult. The gates were about ten feet high, but there were no spikes at the top. Guido went first, and when he had dropped to the ground on the inside the girl followed. They were both wearing trainers on their feet, blue jeans and cotton shirts and short denim jackets. They stood for a moment on the drive and looked towards the house.

  It was about fifty yards away, a shadowy mass, sprawled like a sleeping monster over a wide area of ground. Between them and the house were trees, lawns, beds of flowers, all dimly glimpsed in the glimmering moonlight.

  ‘Come!’ Guido said.

  They walked towards the house, their trainers making little sound and the night air still and warm. They came to a terrace stretching along the front of the building. They went up the steps and Guido led the way off to the right until they reached the corner of the wall. On that side was a swimming-pool and the furniture that went with it. But Guido was more interested in the French windows that opened on to a patio, for it was by way of them that he hoped to force an entrance.

  In the event, however, he had no chance to try it, because at that moment a man came out of the shadows further back and he had a Rottweiler on a leash. The dog was snarling and trying to break free, and suddenly the man slipped the leash and allowed it to go.

  It came at Guido like a shot and made a spring at him, apparently intending to seize him by the throat. He swayed to the right, and it went past and landed on all four feet. It turned and came at him again with another spring.

  Adelaide screamed. She believed this big black dog would kill Guido. But it was not so easily done. Guido had slipped a hand into a pocket of his jacket and pulled out something which she could hardly see. She heard a clicking sound and a steel blade seemed to shoot out of his hand. She knew then what it was, for he had shown it to her before: it was what the Americans called a switchblade and was known in England as a flick-knife.