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CHAPTER 9
JUST SOUTH OF OLD BROMPTON ROAD LIE THE Boltons. The name is plural: the place is singular. Two elegant Victorian crescents face each other across an oval garden with St Mary’s Church in the middle.
The tall, ornamented stuccoed houses on both sides are very grand and mostly in pairs: only a wag would call them semi-detached. St Mary’s, in grey Kentish ragstone, demurely falls short of the immaculate in the midst of so much Walpamur whiteness.
Mark Treasure parked the Rolls and strode briskly across the lower end of the oval to a walled house standing by itself—one of a very few especially superior villas near the junction with Tregunter Road.
It was one-forty when he rang the bell. Less than an hour earlier he had been summoned to the telephone while leaving the eighteenth green at Swinley Forest Golf Club, twenty-five miles away.
He had been ruffled at missing lunch but not nearly so much as if he had been called before holing the twenty-foot putt that won the match.
François Cruba had said, in confidence, it was a matter of life or death. The man was not given to dramatics.
The fast drive had been unremarkable except for the comic turn in the taxi. Even that he would not remember without prompting, but it had been funny at the time.
It happened that the banker, driving in the outside lane, had drawn up beside a London cab at the First set of traffic lights after leaving the M4 Motorway. The single passenger in the cab—a man in very dark glasses—was occupying the tip-up seat immediately behind the driver, a choice singular enough to have attracted Treasure’s idle notice. The two occupants of the cab had appeared to be arguing.
Suddenly the cabbie, who had been sporting a loud tartan cap and a red beard, shrugged his shoulders and removed both cap and beard to the evident consternation of his passenger. After hurried words, both heads had turned shamefacedly to meet Treasure’s by now frankly intrigued gaze before reverting more quickly to facing front.
The cabbie had then sheepishly replaced the cap but not the beard. The passenger, who had slipped the glasses down his nose to look at Treasure, had slipped them up again, and while staring resolutely and stonily forward had removed his whole person very slowly and along a level plane past the window to the rear of the cab.
Curiously, it was not the imbecilic piece of mime nor even the red beard that had lodged in the observer’s mind; rather it had been the seraphic and engagingly apologetic glance the cabbie had darted in his direction just as the lights were changing.
‘Mark, mon ami, we’re deeply in your debt.’ It was Gérard Opac who had opened the door. ‘François’s in the library. Yvonne’s with him.’ He hurried Treasure up the eight wide and carpeted steps into the even wider hall, all marble and oak panelling. ‘You want to clean up?’
The banker shook his head. ‘I could use a cold lager.'
‘Get it myself. Why don’t you go in? The old boy’s pretty cut up. Can’t wait to see you.’ The handsome African swallowed. ‘Pierre’s been kidnapped.’
Treasure’s surprise at hearing Cruba referred to as ‘the old boy’ was quickly eclipsed by the frightening announcement that had come next. Even so, it was something that returned to colour his thinking in the days ahead. Opac spoke English as surely as he did French with little trace of accent and entirely without idiomatic stumbles.
‘The police must not be involved. Not in any circumstances.’
Cruba had spoken with heavy deliberation. He was standing before the empty Adam fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. His characteristically shifting gaze darted perpetually between the three others present. He did look older than his years—old, worn and tense but more alert than many a younger man might have been who had stepped off a night flight from America to learn his only child had been abducted. Treasure gave marks for this.
It was fifteen minutes since the banker had arrived. He was seated in a deepbuttoned leather chair beside the hearth. Yvonne was opposite—statuesque and distractingly attractive in a slit-skirted, white silk dress that had fallen open over her crossed and very shapely legs, something Treasure had been trying unsuccessfully to ignore. Opac had chosen the window-seat in a rounded bay on the other side of the book-lined room.
‘No police? Not even after . . . ?’
'Jamais. Not ever, Mark. No police. No publicity. If we come from this with my son safe, from then we make better precautions. If these people are political they may be after publicity but they won’t get it from me. If necessary, we deny everything. Le tout. No kidnap. No ransom. No pay-off.’
‘And if they’re not political?’ asked Treasure.
‘Then still we don’t tell every criminal syndicate from Los Angeles to Rome that François Cruba pays on request . . .’
‘Which is what you’re doing, chéri.'
Cruba hesitated only briefly at his wife’s interruption. ‘This time we’re paying because there won’t be a next time.’
‘You mean you’ll have Pierre protected?’
‘Yvonne also. Round the clock if necessary.’
‘It’ll be difficult, François.’ Treasure still found it hard to affect a warm personal relationship with this man. He’d have felt easier addressing him as ‘Mr President’ rather than by his first name. Cruba looked and behaved like a political head of state. He was dynamic, and despite a lack of height, a dominating personality: he was also invariably decisive—sometimes impetuously so.
‘Difficult,’ the banker repeated. ‘Irritating for the person—or persons—being protected, and in this country usually unnecessarily, and at worst counter-productive.’
‘You mean it calls attention to those worth protecting. It . . . it sets them up?’ This was Yvonne.
Cruba ignored his wife. ‘It wouldn’t have been unnecessary this morning,’ he uttered flatly, then put out a hand to stop Treasure’s reply. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Mark. This case is special. You don’t have the kidnapping in Britain. I know that too. It’s partly why we live here. All the more reason not to encourage this Corsican type of lawlessness. Tell the police now and the press will hear sooner or later—probably sooner. We could easily get drafted into a police operation that goes wrong—wrong for Pierre . . .’
‘I don’t think the police would stop you making the payments, if that’s what you wanted,’ Treasure pressed. ‘They’d be looking for a sporting chance of collaring the villains afterwards.’
‘Which means the story comes out. And there’s no assurance it wouldn’t come out too soon, even if it’s desirable it comes out at all. I would need persuading on that point.’
‘Of course it’s political. Unofficial but political.’ This was the first comment Opac had made. ‘It’s to show up François’s wealth. That he’s filthy rich. That’s all—this time.’
‘Vous savez . . . pardon, Mark . . . you know very well, Gérard, I don’t follow that theory.' Cruba’s tone was impatient.
‘They’re Ngongan. They’re Communist. They’re approved by the Patriotic Front, our so-called Government, but not openly backed by them.’ Opac too sounded impatient. ‘That’s why they need the fifty thousand cash—to cover expenses. So they can prove their independence if they’re caught. It’s part of a much bigger plan. Something I’ve been expecting, but not that it would start in this way.’
‘A plan to demean and impoverish me before liquidating me. Nonsense.’ Cruba lifted both arms in the air and brought them down sharply in a gesture that emphasized his abject disagreement. He turned to Treasure who at the same moment saw Yvonne glance poker-faced at Opac. ‘Gérard’s wild theories we can discuss later. Perhaps these people are political.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Or they’re Robin Hoods—or something else we haven’t guessed. For the moment there are more important considerations. Mark, you can arrange things financially? The c
ash, the transfer to the charity, the sworn declaration . . . that’s from a notary, uh?’
Treasure nodded. ‘And which we can arrange to have revoked later and the money returned. In a case of obvious duress . . .’
The ex-President shook his head violently. ‘Mark, we must understand each other on this. We are playing it their way—this time. We’re paying. No tricks. These people are not fools. On Monday or Tuesday they leak to the newspapers I make a gift to charity of half a million . . .’
‘They’ve said they’ll do this?’
‘No, but I believe they will. We are asked to confirm. What can we do? Say yes, then next day demand the money back because it was a kidnap ransom?’
‘We wouldn’t need to say that.’
‘But they would, my friend, to be sure. Then follows the great media and police investigation. No. No. No. That part is settled. Now, you say Grenwood, Phipps are Trustees for the . . .’
‘Rudyard Trust for Retired Officers and Gentlemen.’
‘Sans doute a coincidence, but a convenient one. We can assume with safety it’s not a front for kidnappers, though why . . . ?’ He left the sentence uncompleted.
The last thing Treasure wanted to do at this moment was to confirm unwarranted assumptions. Inwardly he was embarrassed that knowledge of the connection between the bank and the charity was all the information he had to work on. Under oath he could not have sworn the Officers and Gentlemen hadn’t become kidnappers, blackmailers or even white slavers. Simply, it seemed wildly unlikely that the Rudyard Trust could be knowingly involved in anything crooked.
Even so, there could be an angle—a twist that meant the blackmail money was to be openly ‘laundered’ through a respectable charity to suit some wholly uncharitable purpose. Treasure didn’t believe in latter-day Robin Hoods: he didn’t even believe in the first one. Nor did he much care for private charitable trusts—often more trouble than they were worth.
The Grenwood, Phipps Trustee Department was well enough managed, but in the nature of things it was small and only marginally profitable. Treasure had as little to do with it as possible. Now, with a sinking heart he remembered Edwards was away in Australia: it was Jonkins who would be responsible for the Rudyard. Jonkins, that deeply boring man who looked like Crippen, he was the one Treasure would need to see as soon as the present interview was over. He would also have to reach Freddy, of course, but the need to establish the enduring bona fides of the Rudyard Trust would be the first concern.
‘I’ll have the legal declaration brought here for witness and signature late Monday morning,’ he said. ‘The cash for Monday night they want in used five- and ten-pound notes?’ In the banker’s view it was the £50,000 that gave the lie to the ‘rob the rich to give to the poor’ theory: a ten per cent collector’s surcharge seemed greedy. There was a half-formed speculation of his own that fitted the case better, but it was one he was not ready to share with anyone else.
Cruba had nodded. ‘In a document case which I pass to someone . . .’
‘Man or woman unspecified?’
‘Correct. Someone who approaches me and says the password “Wellington” . . .’
‘As you go on up the Duke of York steps from the Mall to Waterloo Place. You’re not intending to do that yourself of course.’ Treasure’s tone was purposely matter-of-fact.
‘Why not? That’s what they tell me to do. Also it’s the one part of their instructions I’m happy to carry out. It will give some satisfaction to see one of the cowards who have stolen an innocent child.’
‘Mats, mon amour, le danger!’
‘There will be no danger, Yvonne. To deliver half a million pounds the next day they must keep me in good shape. No. I will do it. They say a taxi will arrive here at 10.15. The driver will have been told to take me to the Mall . . .’
‘An accomplice. One of the gang.’ Mrs Cruba broke in and looked to Treasure for support.
‘In the circumstances probably not,’ the banker admitted. ‘It’ll be easy enough for them to ring for a cab as though they were calling from here. It’s normal to give the destination. Don’t think I’m advocating François goes, but I don’t think arresting the cab-driver would do much good.’
Cruba smiled grimly. ‘Mark is right, my dear. They’ve thought it all through. You notice they’ve made provision for counting the money. It’s a large sum in that form but they have until the next afternoon to make sure it’s right. They’ll still have Pierre. You’ll make sure they’re not short-changed, Mark?’
‘If you won’t have the police involved, you have to let me go with you.’ This was Opac.
‘No one goes with me, Gérard. You will attend the dinner at the Reform Club in my place. I will phone myself and plead indisposition.’ The ex-President turned to Treasure. ‘A private Anglo-French event. The retirement of an old diplomatic friend who is persona non grata with the rabble now ruining my country. It would be doubly discourteous to drop out at the last minute without providing an admirable substitute, and escort for Yvonne.’ He treated the last phrase to an extra emphasis.
‘I shan’t go,’ said his wife.
‘We shall see.’
‘The Reform is barely two hundred yards from the Duke of York steps . . .’ Treasure began.
‘So if I get into trouble I know where to run for succour.’ Cruba spoke briskly. ‘I think all is agreed.’
‘About your . . . about Pierre’s mother?’
It was Opac who answered Treasure’s question. ‘We’ve been trying to contact her. She may be away. We’ll keep trying, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Cruba echoed, frowning.
CHAPTER 10
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER 2.30 WHEN BENNY GOLD decided he wasn’t hungry after all. He considered the hardly touched beefburger and the serving of chips on the plate before him: then he thought of the starving children in Bangladesh. Benny was always making life hard for himself.
On the other side of the plastic table for two the Major was making better progress with his order. As Benny had noticed before, his friend consumed everything put before him whatever the time of day: also he never refused anything free.
‘More coffee, Roderick?’ There was no charge: you just had to signal the waitress to refill your cup. The Major nodded. He had his mouth full. In any case they hadn’t spoken much. The tables were very close together and people could overhear. It was only now that the place had emptied of lunchtime traffic. It was a chain restaurant in the Earls Court Road not far from Copper’s hotel.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have had the onion garnish. Onions don’t agree with me.’ Benny hesitated. ‘I still wish the mother hadn’t come into it.’ He looked about him, then dropped his voice to a piercing whisper. ‘I mean getting the money for her.’
The Major swallowed, then nodded again. ‘Shouldn’t have agreed, of course. Very awkward at the time, though. Anyway, it’s done now. Can’t go back.’
‘We could, Roderick.’
‘Not on our word. Not at this stage with the whole thing in motion,’ he said with gloomy resignation.
‘The first plan was so simple.’ Benny leant forward. ‘What if they tell the police . . . nab us Monday night?’
‘Both wanted?’ broke in the waitress from behind Benny’s back, making him jump. ‘Coffee for both?’
‘Only for my friend.’ He had had too much coffee already. Coffee was bad for him. He should have had tea: they didn’t serve tea.
The Major smiled at the girl, waiting till she had refilled his cup and left before he spoke. ‘You heard Pierre. Nothing will make his father call in the police. In any case, anybody out to catch us would go to the Duke of York steps—where we won’t be going.’
This time it was Copper who checked there was no one within earshot before continuing. ‘You collect Cr . . . the subject, drive up the west side of The Boltons, which is one way going north, brake at the top as though you’re deciding whether to go down the other side or up to Old Brompton Road. I jump i
n from the right . . .’
‘When you know there’s no one following me.’
‘Right. I sit with my back to you facing the subject. I tell him there’s a change of plan, give him the password and take the briefcase.’
‘It’ll still look odd. People don’t get into occupied cabs. Not without the driver objecting.’
‘Which is why you look round surprised, slide open your partition . . .’
‘And you say without turning round, “OK, driver, I’m making the trip instead of my friend. Let him off at the church.’’ I close the partition . . .’
‘Drive the fifty yards down the other side of The Boltons while I tell the subject to take off his glasses, if he’s wearing them, to get out when you stop, and walk back up The Boltons without looking round if he cares about Pierre’s safety.’
‘Anyway, he can’t read numbers without his glasses.'
‘So we’re doubly protected. Three times really. You said people never take cab numbers.’
‘He might want to take this one,’ Benny answered dismally.
‘Except we’ll be round the bend and into Tregunter Road . . .’
‘And if someone comes looking for the cab next day I answered a call from the cab rank phone at South Kensington. Orders to take a party from The Boltons to the Duke of York steps.’
‘But after you started the original passenger got out after being joined by a friend who took the cab on . . .’
‘Changing destinations to Paddington Station.’
‘Brilliant, really. Gets you off the hook completely.’ The Major beamed as though it had been his own idea. ‘Still not sure about wearing the lady’s stocking over my face.’ His tone suggested he considered this nearly obscene.
Now it was Benny’s turn to promote confidence. ‘It works in the movies. It’ll be dark outside, and in the cab. No one’s going to see you except Cruba—I mean the subject. If you wear the stocking, your old deer-stalker and the dark glasses he’ll never recognize you again.’
‘If I wear that lot I’ll need a strong torch as well.’
Copper, Gold and Treasure Page 9
