Soon after ten o’clock he went down to the post office and dropped the letter into the box.
When he got back to his room, tired as he was, he studied the plan of Altomonte which he’d made from the notes taken in Haupt’s office.
Chapter Six
The light from the shaded lamp spilled across the desk, throwing into relief the bony white hands holding the letter. They were ghostlike, their roots lost in the cuffs of the black velvet smoking jacket.
The hands folded the letter slowly, began replacing it in the envelope, hesitated, and then carefully, methodically, tore it into small pieces, dropping them into the wastepaper basket.
In one movement the hands clicked off the desk light and switched on wall lights which brought their owner to life, as when a dark scene on a stage is suddenly illuminated. The man stood up, tall and straight, his hair silken white, the weathered face sun-tanned, the folds of the scars exaggerated by the shadows, the dark glasses reflecting the lights on the walls. He walked stiffly, age inhibiting movement, making for the chair in the corner. Before he reached it there was a knock on the door. He stopped, turned, and called, ‘ Adelante !’ The door opened and a man came in carrying a tray, the silver coffee set and crystal glass and decanters throwing back the lights of the room in kaleidoscopic patterns.
‘ Son las diez, señor ‚’said the servant. ‘It is ten o’clock.’
The old man looked at his watch and a moment later the clock on the desk chimed ten. ‘ Bueno, Juan ‚’he said.
The ritual never changed. He dined at nine, alone, after which he came to the study. At ten o’clock, Juan would knock on the door and enter with the coffee and liqueurs. Always he would announce, ‘Son las diez, señor ‚’always van Biljon would look at his watch and say, ‘ Bueno ‚’always the desk clock would chime the hour. But the ritual never palled. It was the moment of the day to which he looked forward most, the one he enjoyed above all others.
Juan stood inside the door, immobile, impassive, holding the tray. The old man paused, looked round the study and then, lifting his head and jerking his chin forward, he walked stiffly from the room, along the passage, down through the sitting-room to the hall and up stone steps to the patio. At itscentre a swimming pool shimmered with reflected light and along three sides vines climbed and twisted on pergolas.
Followed by his servant, he started across the patio keeping to the left of the pool which was flanked by the two wings of the house, their white sides studded with windows.
The old man stopped before a wrought-iron door, drew keys from his pocket, unlocked first the iron door, then the heavy wooden one behind it, and stepped inside. As he turned on the switches the dark abyss of the gallery glowed into life. For a moment he stood still, accustoming his eyes to the light, then went in, closing the doors behind him. Juan followed, carrying the tray.
At the far end of the long room a leather settee and armchairs stood in a recess furnished with low tables, a tall glass-fronted bookcase, a writing-desk, and two cabinets on elegant brass-shod legs.
The tall man stood watching while the servant placed the tray on a table before the settee, lit the lamp under the coffee percolator, and transferred the decanter and liqueur glass to the table. With an almost imperceptible bow, he withdrew from the recess and went up the gallery, closing the double doors as he left.
The old man walked over to the bookcase, opened a drawer and took from it a cedarwood cabinet. He spent some time choosing a cigar, preparing and lighting it. After drawing on it he examined the line of burning ash and, satisfied, stood for some time, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, head sunk, deep in thought until the cough and splutter of the percolator alerted him.
He sighed, shook his head as if in disagreement with his thoughts, and moved to one of the cabinets.
When he got back to his room, tired as he was, he studied the plan of Altomonte which he’d made from the notes taken in Haupt’s office.
Chapter Six
The light from the shaded lamp spilled across the desk, throwing into relief the bony white hands holding the letter. They were ghostlike, their roots lost in the cuffs of the black velvet smoking jacket.
The hands folded the letter slowly, began replacing it in the envelope, hesitated, and then carefully, methodically, tore it into small pieces, dropping them into the wastepaper basket.
In one movement the hands clicked off the desk light and switched on wall lights which brought their owner to life, as when a dark scene on a stage is suddenly illuminated. The man stood up, tall and straight, his hair silken white, the weathered face sun-tanned, the folds of the scars exaggerated by the shadows, the dark glasses reflecting the lights on the walls. He walked stiffly, age inhibiting movement, making for the chair in the corner. Before he reached it there was a knock on the door. He stopped, turned, and called, ‘ Adelante !’ The door opened and a man came in carrying a tray, the silver coffee set and crystal glass and decanters throwing back the lights of the room in kaleidoscopic patterns.
‘ Son las diez, señor ‚’said the servant. ‘It is ten o’clock.’
The old man looked at his watch and a moment later the clock on the desk chimed ten. ‘ Bueno, Juan ‚’he said.
The ritual never changed. He dined at nine, alone, after which he came to the study. At ten o’clock, Juan would knock on the door and enter with the coffee and liqueurs. Always he would announce, ‘Son las diez, señor ‚’always van Biljon would look at his watch and say, ‘ Bueno ‚’always the desk clock would chime the hour. But the ritual never palled. It was the moment of the day to which he looked forward most, the one he enjoyed above all others.
Juan stood inside the door, immobile, impassive, holding the tray. The old man paused, looked round the study and then, lifting his head and jerking his chin forward, he walked stiffly from the room, along the passage, down through the sitting-room to the hall and up stone steps to the patio. At itscentre a swimming pool shimmered with reflected light and along three sides vines climbed and twisted on pergolas.
Followed by his servant, he started across the patio keeping to the left of the pool which was flanked by the two wings of the house, their white sides studded with windows.
The old man stopped before a wrought-iron door, drew keys from his pocket, unlocked first the iron door, then the heavy wooden one behind it, and stepped inside. As he turned on the switches the dark abyss of the gallery glowed into life. For a moment he stood still, accustoming his eyes to the light, then went in, closing the doors behind him. Juan followed, carrying the tray.
At the far end of the long room a leather settee and armchairs stood in a recess furnished with low tables, a tall glass-fronted bookcase, a writing-desk, and two cabinets on elegant brass-shod legs.
The tall man stood watching while the servant placed the tray on a table before the settee, lit the lamp under the coffee percolator, and transferred the decanter and liqueur glass to the table. With an almost imperceptible bow, he withdrew from the recess and went up the gallery, closing the double doors as he left.
The old man walked over to the bookcase, opened a drawer and took from it a cedarwood cabinet. He spent some time choosing a cigar, preparing and lighting it. After drawing on it he examined the line of burning ash and, satisfied, stood for some time, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, head sunk, deep in thought until the cough and splutter of the percolator alerted him.
He sighed, shook his head as if in disagreement with his thoughts, and moved to one of the cabinets.
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