The Silken Baroness Contract

By Philip Atlee

From the Edgar Award–nominated author:An agent for hire plays bodyguard to a titled beauty in Tenerife—and mixes partying with peril . . .
 
Joe Gall, freelance operative, is assigned to protect a beautiful baroness under threat—and solve the mystery of who is after her. That means heading to the Canary Islands—and playing the part of a rich, hard-drinking American in Santa Cruz de Tenerife. It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it . . .
 
“[Philip Atlee is] the John D. MacDonald of espionage fiction.” —Larry McMurtry, The New York Times
 
“I admire Philip Atlee’s writing tremendously.” —Raymond Chandler

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504065764

Philip Atlee

Philip Atlee (1915–1991) was the creator of the long-running Joe Gall Mysteries, which is comprised of twenty-two novels published in the 1960s and 70s. Born in Fort Worth, Texas, Atlee wrote several novels and screenplays—including Thunder Road starring Robert Mitchum, and Big Jim McLain starring John Wayne—before producing the series for which he is known. An avid flyer, he was a member of the Flying Tigers before World War II and joined the Marines after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The island was filled with noises. Elemental, midnight noises. I stood motionless on the terrace of the villa, sorting out the wild symphony. Far below my high eyrie, the waves of the Western Ocean were pounding the black sand beach, smashing themselves to foam on the moonlight littoral. And all around me the wind freshening off the sea was slatting banana fronds, fraying their edges, but I didn’t care. They weren’t my bananas.

Behind me in the glass-walled sala, only the dials of the big high fidelity cabinet were visible. From its three-throated speakers, the Beethoven Fifth was thundering out defiance of nature’s contrapuntal themes.

I was hoping she would come, but I had been hoping that for some time. Nearly a month. Going to the corner of the windswept terrace, I looked up at the snow-capped peak dominating the island. The Pico de Teide. Once, on Ptolemy’s maps, it had marked the western-most edge of the known world; the Greeks of his time had thought these Canary Islands the Elysian Fields, where dead heroes came to dwell.

Puerto Cruz was a warren of crooked streets and dim lights below. A half-African, half-Spanish fishing village where no one fished anymore, a haven for sullen, chill-eyed natives and unwashed priests in rusty black. A cheap holiday resort for scrubbed Swedes quacking like ducks and a parade ground for bullnecked, bad-mannered Germans. Shoving their way arrogantly past wan English residents, kept permanently listless by island fever.

Sliding one of the glass panels back, I stepped inside the sala and went to pour a drink of Carlos Primera brandy. It rekindled the glow in my stomach, and I stood wondering whether to mark the night off and go to bed. But I wasn’t sleepy so I dropped into a chair and listened to the Fifth surge against the angry sea.

I was sprawled there, angry at something unplaceable, when the front doorbell jangled suddenly. Racketing down the dark hallway. I got up and went to answer the summons, switching on lights.

She was standing there, tall and unsmiling, a short cape billowing behind her shoulders and a karakul shako rakish across burnished red hair.

Baroness, an honor, this is your house…

She nodded. I was passing and heard the music. Beethoven, at this hour! It is permitted to enter?

"… chanté, madame." I stepped aside, bowing, and when she entered took the cape from her shoulders. She was wearing an ebony rajah coat of raw silk under it. When I gestured toward the sala, she moved ahead of me imperiously, sweeping off the shako and shaking out her hair. This lithe grace was natural; her dossier recorded that she had once been an exceptional ballet dancer, of possible prima assoluta class, but an ankle fracture had ended that. There was no trace of the injury as she moved.

When she was seated, with a cigarette lighted, I touched the change button on the record console. Eartha Kitt clicked on, singing Lilac Wine, and Baroness Tamvelius clapped her hands in delight. I stood beside the cabinet watching her, tightening the cord of my dressing gown. Her green eyes flickered, from me to the overstuffed German furniture to the glass walls to the study beyond, and came back.

An … unusual place, she said, and I laughed.

If you mean by that, a Teutonic horror, yes. Will you have brandy, champagne, or Scotch?

The green eyes flicked again, at me, off me. Brandy, please.

I poured her a triple, in a flaring emerald goblet, and her thin face twitched with amusement. It is a big drinking night for you, then? I am told there are many big drinking nights in this house.

Your information is correct. I am an American barbarian, and like to drink.

Why?

Oh… it burns people’s defenses down. Sometimes they even tell each other the truth.

So? She nodded, but doubtfully. The stiff collar framed her throat; a single jet button between her breasts held the rajah coat together. And you write, when?

"As I make love, Baronesa. When I feel like it."

She laughed. And it comes out well?

Well enough. I’m told it comforts shopgirls with tired feet.

She nodded. Yes, I understand you do very well with shopgirls. There was something predatory in her patrician face and full mouth. And I may ask a question, isn’t it? Why, after meeting me weeks ago, have you not invited me to one of your big drinking evenings? When every slut on the island has been, to listen to your fabulous record collection…. Am I so ill-favored?

When I bowed, irony was in my tone. Baroness, pardon. It was simply that I took you for a more classical type.

She really laughed at that, and the way she did it bothered me. It was no simpering social merriment; she fell back in the big chair and laughed heartily and honestly. You have to watch people who do that. As I refilled her glass, she stretched and spread her shapely legs.

"The excusada, where?" she asked, and I escorted her across the hall and through my bedroom, into the huge marbled bathroom which looked like a Lucullan design modified by Bismarck.

When she returned to the sala, pale lipstick renewed and flaming coiffure in place, she was shaking her head in wonder. Grüss Gott, she murmured, two bidets! I call that handsome. Her accent was Scandinavian-cum-Oxford. Nestling back into the big chair, she curled up, exposing considerable thigh. And so, more truly, why could I not qualify for one of your musicales?

I was across the shadowed room, hands in the pockets of the white robe. Turning away from her, I stared through the glass wall at the raging sea. Madame, I said curtly, I have been married twice, and am no nearer a state of grace. These others are frivolities, and different rules apply. Women like you are something else again. You cannot get along with them, but you try, and before long you cannot get along without them. I’ve had my share of that, the burns that will not heal.

Burns? The Baroness was frowning; I could see her reflection in the glass wall. You’re a curious man, she added, and I shrugged. The cabinet clicked again and massed violins began to wail through the song from Moulin Rouge; the stringed lament poured across the dimly-lit sala. I worry … and wonder …

Come dance with me! she commanded, and I turned and took four steps. She met me; we poised, and then our feet went whispering over the parquet floor. Nothing more was said; we only turned to the wailing violins, but I realized that she could have impelled rhythm into a stone. Outside, the swaying mimosa tree tapped its golden balls against the glass wall, in soft applause.

The next number was a blue tango. This tango does not depend on gyrations, clutchings, or simulated copulation, and yet there is more sexuality in it than any other dance. The movements are all grace and pointed pause, in slow time, and in them the man defers to the object of his chase. So I led her lightly, fingertips and hip, and we moved to the controlled tempo.

When that dance was ended, I did not step away. Instead, I thrust my hands under the rajah coat and cradled her firm breasts.

There are two ways out of this room, I said. One leads out the hall, and the other goes to my bed.

She shivered but did not flinch from the urgency of my hands; she was quite naked under the coat. Not even a friendly kiss, to begin with? she asked in mock-seriousness.

The kisses are in the bedroom.

So? She was watching my face, tracing over my lips with a cool forefinger. I thought you didn’t want any more trouble like me?

"Baronesa, I said, get your beautiful ass in my bed, or get it out of my house."

She crowed with delight, and the silken coat flared as she pirouetted across the hall and into the master bedroom. I lighted a cigarette and took a few drags from it, in case she had any incantations to make, or incense to light. Then I followed her. She was stretched out in the canopied bed like a latter-day Maja, watching me approach.

I cannot say, truthfully, that I made love to her, or the other way around. But whatever happened was quite an erotic explosion. We enjoyed each other with controlled intensity, and once when I would have set her for a real Louisiana hayride, she twisted free.

No! she cried, "this is my position!"

It was, too. The shredded banana fronds went on thrashing around and the implacable waves went on smashing against the tropic shore….

Some minutes, hours, or centuries later, we were clinging together, motionless, our heads cradled on the huge down bolster. Pressing closer, she murmured Min alskadé into my ear.

Which means? I asked, stretching in the wonderful animal ease of surfeit

My darling.

Nuts. I lighted two cigarettes, gave her one, and slapped her flank lightly. How can I be your darling, I continued reasonably, when I don’t even know your first name? I’m just a drunken American writer who has watched your elegant derriere swing by, escorted by a dozen haughty dons, and tried to avoid it. So how could I be your darling?

Merde! She gave me a sudden hard squeeze which affected all my risibilities, and I ripped off the satin coverlet and leaped out of bed.

Lady, I asked, how would you like some champagne, before the real trouble begins? She sat up in bed, and gave me a solemn, flat-out British salute.

Onward! she cried. I returned her salute jerkily, clapping my bare heels together. Then, leaning forward, I went walking out of the bedroom on my hands. Behind me, the Baroness was clapping with delight and shouting Toro!

When I was in the hall, I let my feet down and began walking on them, as every proper primate should do. In the sala, I had another big drink of brandy and listened to Eartha’s phrasing on Under The Bridges of Paris. When that was over, I put a Ray Charles drive on and could almost see the black guru himself, rocking and pumping behind his midnight shades. When he said it was all right, I walked into the study, closing the door behind me.

I had to crank at the ancient French handset several times before the Santa Cruz operator answered. My number burred on and on, until finally a sleepy male voice said, Bueno?

Don Luis, I said crisply, put the affirmative signal through. I’m in, in Puerto Cruz.

The voice at the other end of the line brightened. "Amigo, I’m so glad for you, and Washington will be pleased. Besides, I understand it’s great for the complexion."

Old friend, spare me your stale Iberian jokes. Just report the connection established.

"Servidor. And your next move? I’m supposed to report that, too."

"My next move, compañero?" I crushed out my cigarette. Inform them that I have followed orders faithfully; all systems are go. Now, being neither coward nor vegetarian, I am returning to bed.

Then I hung up on Luis’ chortle of pure delight. All those Latins are oversexed.

Chapter 2

She was gone when I awakened. As I yawned and stretched my left hand touched something on the bolster. It was a Talisman rosebud, deep yellow with a coppery heart, which the Baroness must have plucked from the terrace. Since my hangover was estupendo, I did not appreciate this sweet token as I should have done.

Tossing the rose up at the crystal chandelier, I was pleased to see it catch there. Then I lay still and had myself pass in review, to see if I could make an identification. It seemed, after some minor concentration, that my name was Joseph Gall and that I had been born thirty-eight years ago near Dallas. (That was while the word was still a place-name, however, and not, as now, an epithet.)

My parents were rich but honest, and I have always tried to live up to them. In the attempt, I went to five universities and learned you must never rekick three-of-a-kind after the draw. Just when I had this point mastered, I lost my head completely and volunteered for the Marine Corps. A Japanese machine gun did some lacework on my left ankle, on Iwo Shima, and while I was recuperating in a West Coast hospital a man named Howard Shale tried to recruit me into the action division of an intelligence agency.

When I was satisfied that he meant a U.S. agency, I signed on and spent the next fifteen years working all over the world. I was not a master spy, like Colonel Abel who operated nine years in New York without being detected, nor did I attempt to analyze anything. I was a nullifier, a minor strong-arm on the outermost periphery of U.S. policy. And just before the ill-fated Bay of Pigs invasion, I popped off before a high-level conclave of policy-makers, saying that Fidel knew exactly when and where we were coming. Naturally, I got ruled off the course.

I bought a clapboard castle high on an Ozark hill and took up the pursuits of a squire who is landed with all of five acres of tall pines. Howard Shale got killed in a helicopter in South Viet Nam, and I thought that snapped my last link with the agency. But several months later, Carl Wiley, his successor, actually flew and drove out to see me, and I went to bat on an outside contract against a weird-o named Asmodeus. I did well on the assignment, and because of it was again contracted, for this Canary Island job. So I guess if you had to classify me, I could be called a catalytic agent. One who precipitated change, for a fee.

Having placed myself, I pressed the service button for tea, staggered into the bathroom, and was demossing my teeth when Bernarda came into the bedroom humming.

Bernarda was a leathery little grig who kept the villa immaculate and hectored the fat cook, Carmela, unmercifully. When I came out of the bathroom, the little maid had put the tea tray down and was sniffing the rosebud. She said, simpering, that it was nice the patron had a novia, or bride. I laughed, tossed her the garage keys, and told her to novia on down and dust the coche.

Sí, señor… She tucked the rosebud over her left ear and went switching and stamping out like a gitana from Seville. This impersonation had to come from the cinema, because she had never been off Tenerife Island in her life. I rolled the slatted blind up into the ceiling and let sunlight flood the bedroom; as I sat sipping cautiously at the scalding tea, I could see the noon crowds on the beach below and around the swimming pool. The fury of the waves had abated, but they were still combing green foam across the black sand.

As I finished dressing, Bernarda came pattering back in and said I had a visitor, a giant americano. I tossed my beach gear back on the bed and told her to show him into the sala. There were only a few Americans in Puerto Cruz, mostly aging femme soles and retired officers, but quite a colony in Santa Cruz, across the island. Going through the bathroom to the gloom of the adjoining bedroom, I lifted one slat of the drawn blind.

A Volkswagen bus was parked on the cinder drive under the plane trees. It was new, and had TT plates.

The man lounging in one of my big chairs was rail-thin and must have been six-five. He uncoiled, arose, and smiled boyishly as I walked into the sala. But he was no boy; I made him at thirty-eight.

Harry Malloy, the writer? he asked, beaming, as we shook hands.

Harry Malloy, a writer, I admitted, thinking something must have come unglued. Because this cheery cat had Midwest Ivy written all over him. The lanky frame and easy, low-sell charm, just like the huckleberry jam grandma used to make. And peddle door to door. Only grandma worked her way up to a fleet of trucks, hired strike-breakers, and turned out to be the god-damndest fascist in Iowa.

I’m Tyson Preston, said the willowy intruder. Live over beyond Laguna and you’d never think it, but I’m a farmer.

No, I admitted without heat, I’d never have guessed. Because I didn’t know any Culver graduates who had taken up farming in the Canary Islands. Bernarda came to the doorway and I told her to bring coffee and the fruit salts. She nodded and went scuttling down the stairway to the kitchen.

Unless you’d rather have a drink?

No. Preston was sprawled out again. Or rather, yes, but I’m not allowed. He sighed and steepled his long fingers. I sell garden produce to a lot of the cruise ships hitting Santa Cruz, and two weeks ago a generous Danish stewardess left me a case of bullheaded claps.

Is that a fact? I had a bad hangover, but I was the epitome of casual interest, reflecting that I had known this winsome oddity at least four minutes. And a man his age who could pick up the galloping applause had to be impetuous or weak-minded. Preston mistook my revery for sympathy, and said only a few more days and he would be back on the firing line. I nodded, thinking that then he could probably manage syphilis with one of the island’s camels. They were promiscuous too.

The coffee came and we had some, chatting like all expatriates. The splendid situation of my villa, how many pesetas I was getting to the dollar, the poontang possibilities on the island, and the incredible engineering involved in terracing and irrigating the fanegadas of bananas…. Excusing myself after several minutes of this nonsense, I went down to the kitchen and told Carmela and Bernarda to get a bottle of rubbing alcohol from my bathroom and disinfect everything my guest had touched.

When I walked back into the sala, Preston was standing out on the terrace. He joined me and started an anecdote about how Humboldt, the great German traveler and naturalist, had fallen on his knees and wept after he rounded the first turn into the Vale of Orotava, spread out above us on the slope toward Teide’s snowy crest. I was beginning to be irritated, and announced that I had been on my way to the beach.

Look! he blurted, I realize I’m a nuisance, busting in like this, but I’ve heard about your record collection. Do you have Judy’s ‘Mr. Gable’?

I went to the record cabinet, got the Garland single, and put it on the turntable. While the impish voice caroled in the sunflooded room, my visitor sat hunched forward in his chair. Bernarda started in, after the tray, but I waved her out again and Preston never even noticed. When the record was over, I asked if he wanted to hear it again.

No, be sighed, I know you want to go swimming. But goddam, it’s great, isn’t it?

I agreed that Miss Garland was a nonpareil and said I had seen her in Vegas a couple of times, once fat and once thin. That the pipes were unimpaired. Preston shook his head with regret and said he had never caught her in person, but that he would give almost anything to do it.

He was still sitting slumped and looked dejected, as if he might be about to cry. Then, without any warning, he jackknifed up, went stiltwalking down the hall and out of the house, and came back