I said, ‘You broke two things last night. My heart and a dinner engagement.’
‘Crap.’ All of old Scunthorpe was in the word. But she said it with a smile.
‘What happened?’
‘At half past six a car called for me. It was from the office of the Lord High Treasurer.’
‘Sounds like something out of Gilbert and Sullivan.’
‘In the car was a man I know.’
‘Young?’
‘Forty-odd. His name is Apsley and he’s a senior legal assistant in the Treasury Solicitor’s office.’
‘What did he want? To marry you or raise a loan to help pay back the war debt?’ As she spoke I went over to the bookcase and fished out Whitaker’s Almanac for 1965. Apsley was listed all right, commencing salary £2,391 rising to £3,135.
‘I’ve known him for a long time and I think he would like to marry me—but he’s not my type. He took me back to his office where there were two other Treasury officials. They wanted to know all about Martin. Did I know where he was and so on. Apparently they’ve an idea that he may be mixed up in some currency deal which isn’t exactly honest.’
‘Did they give you details?’
‘No. They’ve no positive evidence yet. They just wanted to know where he was. Since Dick Apsley knows me they thought an informal approach to me was the best thing. I told them I’d employed you to find him.’
‘You told them everything?’
‘Practically.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I didn’t mention about his marriage to that woman . . . what was her name?’
‘Jane Judd. Why not?’
‘Well, I didn’t see that involving her was going to help them.’
‘But you told them about the dead man at the cottage?’
‘Yes. I thought they took that very calmly.’
‘And what did they say about me?’
‘That I could tell you of their interest—though they have their own investigators—and if I wished I could go on employing you, but they’d be glad if I passed on to them anything you found out. What the hell is that brother of mine up to?’
‘I’d like to know. How long were you there?’
‘Two hours.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Dick took me out to dinner. But we didn’t discuss Martin any more. Except that I made it clear that I wanted to go on employing you. Do you mind if I pass them any information you find?’
‘No.’
‘You look cross.’
‘I don’t like official departments on my tail. But I’ll learn to live with this one. Also, since they know about the dead man, I’m going to have the police around my neck at any minute.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I hope I’m going to be in Paris before they get to me. But I’ll be back.’
‘And you’ll keep me informed?’
‘Sure.’ But not, I thought, necessarily about everything. I didn’t like this Treasury approach, largely I suppose because it wasn’t typical form. And I’m a great one for form.
*
I was in Paris by five o’clock. I looked up Monsieur Robert Duchêne in the directory at the airport, but he was not listed with a telephone number. François Paulet was listed at the business address he had given me. I don’t know why, but in the taxi going to 2 bis Rue du Bac to see Monsieur Robert Duchêne I suddenly had a comfortable feeling because in talking to Gloriana, although I had mentioned Duchêne and Leon Pelegrina of Florence, I hadn’t given their addresses to her. Frankly, there seemed something a little fishy to me in the Gloriana-Treasury tie-up. More frankly, I recognized stage two of my usual client relationship—a nagging feeling that I wasn’t being told the truth and nothing but the truth, that somewhere somebody was preparing to take advantage of me.
Two bis Rue du Bac was an open doorway next to a stationer’s shop. Beyond the doorway was a narrow hall with a wooden board on the wall announcing who lived in each of the six flats that made up the building. Duchêne was listed in Number 4. I went up the bare board stairs through an atmosphere thick with the smell of ancient meals and tobacco smoke.
Duchêne had handwritten his name on a piece of paper and slipped it into the card holder on the door. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. I rang again, and while my finger was still on the bell push I noticed that the door was off its catch. I stopped ringing and gave it a gentle push with my toe, It swung back and I went in. There was a little hallway, two doors either side and a door at the far end. A man’s bicycle stood against one wall, a raincoat hung on a peg on the other and there was a small side-table piled with old copies of Elle and Paris-Match. The coloured cover page of the top one was given up to a head and shoulders photograph of Brigitte Bardot, marred somewhat by the fact that someone had added in biro a pair of spectacles, a drooping meerschaum pipe and a fancy-looking medal above her left breast. I didn’t stop to work out whether it was the Croix de Guerre or the Victoria Cross. I was just thinking that this place didn’t seem the kind of pad that went with a wealthy, if unscrupulous, collector of antique coins.
The big door at the end of the hall was also slightly ajar. I pushed it open with my toe and stood waiting. Nothing happened. Inside the room I could see part of a settee and beyond it a bureau. There was a knife-slit along the cover of the settee, the material was pulled loose, and three cushions lay on the floor, with covers ripped off and some loose stuffing material which had come from inside them on the carpet. The bureau drawers were on the floor in front of the piece, and papers and odds and ends were scattered about as though a small whirlwind had hit the place.
I left a nice big interval, listening hard as a safety precaution, heard nothing, and then went in.
Someone politely shut the door behind me and something cold was pressed against the back of my neck. I didn’t try to move or turn round. Facing me from the window was a number who reminded me of a full-size model I’d once seen of a Neanderthal man, only this one wore a leather jacket and blue jeans, openwork sandals, a dirty white shirt, and had in his hand a flower pot which held a red azalea.
In the politest of voices he said, ‘Bon soir, Monsieur Duchêne. Nous sommes tres content de vous voir.’
He got hold of the base stem of the azalea and pulled it out of the pot, bringing the roots and soil with it. He then examined the inside of the flower pot, shrugged his shoulders with disappointment, and let the whole shebang drop to the floor. The pot shattered and the azalea scattered its petals.
In English I said, ‘You’ve got it wrong. My name is Apsley—Richard Apsley—and I’m from Her Majesty’s Treasury Solicitor’s office in London.’ The esses whistled a bit but I managed to sound casual. I added, ‘Also, this thing at the back of my neck is making me feel very cold.’
Neanderthal smiled and from such a grotesque face it came with surprising sympathy. In good English he said, ‘Then in that case, or any case, we won’t concern ourselves with you any longer.’ He reached out an arm about four feet long, plucked a picture from the wall and began to tear off the backing paper.
I said, ‘That’s no way to treat a Picasso, even if it is only a reproduction.’
I never got his reaction to this. The cold steel was suddenly gone from the back of my neck. I was hit hard and expertly above and just to the back of my right ear, and went down and out to join the azalea on the floor.
CHAPTER 4
Girl with a Python on her Arm
Naturally, when I came to they were gone. But they’d left their mark, not only on me, but the whole flat. I knew something about turning a place over, but they knew more. It had been gutted. In the bathroom, where I staggered to get my head under the cold tap, the soap had been cut into small segments in case anything had been hidden in it. In the hall the magazines were all over the place and the tyres of the bicycle had been ripped open.
They only conceded one touch of neatness. Going back into the sitting room, I found that they had t
aken all the contents of my pockets—nothing was missing—and laid them out neatly on a low table. From my passport they knew that I was not Richard Apsley.
Shaky still, I went over to the telephone. Clearly this was a furnished flat which Duchêne had rented. That’s why no name or phone number was listed for him. I rang Paulet’s office and was lucky enough to find him in.
I said, ‘I’m at 2 bis Rue du Bac. In a few moments I’m going to be strong enough to totter down the street as far as the Seine. You’ll find me propped against the parapet of the Pont Royal.’
He asked no questions. Just said that he would be there. I tried out my legs by moving round the flat. I could find nothing that interested me, except a bottle of Armagnac in a kitchen cupboard. I pumped a couple of quick glasses into myself, and then went out into the world.
Francois Paulet, driving a small Fiat van—he apologized for it, saying that in his work it was less conspicuous than a private car (though it rattled enough to draw anyone’s attention to it)—picked me up and took me down along the river to a small restaurant just off the Avenue Rapp. We ate overcooked veal and a limp salad, but the vin blanc was good. I told him what had happened, explaining that I had flown over thinking that a chat with Monsieur Duchêne might help me in my search for Freeman.
‘You take it from there,’ I said. ‘What the hell were those men doing, who were they, and where the hell is Monsieur Duchêne?’ He called for the cheese board and then said, ‘Monsieur Duchêne, I know, has gone to Rome. He travels much. The apartment is rented furnished and he is not often there. May I say that some of his activities—as I explained about the coins—are a little—well, irregular. But as far as I am concerned he has given me a straightforward job, to find Freeman.’
‘It’s not turning out like that.’
‘I told him about you. Before he went yesterday. He said he would pay for any information you could give about Freeman and also that I should help you as much as possible —even to travelling, if necessary, though he warned me to keep the expenses down. What do you think? I mean about helping you?’
‘I’m not doing much thinking at the moment.’
It was a lie, of course. I was. I was wondering whether I should drop into Paulet’s lap the knowledge that the list of antique coins was a phoney. He might know it and he might not. I decided not to tell him. It would have been giving away an advantage which eventually I might use to my own good.
Paulet sat there, pulling at his big nose, his narrow eyes anxious to please. ‘I would not get in your way. And it would be a privilege for me to observe your methods. Yes?’
‘I’ll think about it when my head returns to normal. What do you think these men wanted?’
He did the old Gallic handspread, palms up, and rolled his eyes. ‘Who knows?’
‘Have you any way of getting in touch with Duchêne?’
‘No. He phones my office, or writes when he is out of Paris.’
‘You’ve done other jobs for him?’
‘A few.’
‘Like what?’
‘Monsieur Carvay—would it be ethical—?’
‘All right.’
‘If you wish, I could give you a bed for tonight. My wife and I—’
‘You’re married?’
He smiled. ‘Well, not strictly. It is an arrangement . . . well, what I mean is that I am married, to another woman, but I live with this one. She is more my type and understands me. It is expensive, though, to keep two establishments going. Soon—if things do not improve—I may have to go back to the hotel business. You wish to spend the night with us?’
‘No. I’m going to get a night plane back.’
‘But you will keep in touch with me? About helping you?’
‘Probably.’ That was the best I could do for him.
He cut himself a large slice of Camembert and shook his head sadly. ‘I do hope you will. In an emergency, you know, I can be very useful.’ He grinned suddenly and tapped his head. ‘Not much up here, maybe—but I have a strong body.’
‘We’ll see.’
*
I got back to my flat at four in the morning and slept through until nine. Mrs Meld woke me, standing in the bedroom door holding the kitchen alarm clock which was ringing its head off.
‘Shut that thing off’
She did, but the ringing still went on. It was the telephone beside my bed. As I reached out for it she said, ‘It’s rung about twice in the last half hour. There was a police car round here last night, about nine. How many eggs do you want?’
‘Two boiled. Three minutes.’
She went and a voice over the phone said, ‘Don’t take too long over breakfast. You’re wanted round here.’
I knew the voice. It was coming all the way from some grim little room in New Scotland Yard.
I said, ‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘We know that. But the Ashford police would like a statement from you. I’m interested too. It’s been a long time since I listened to one of your fairy stories.’
I was round there by ten. With my friend was an Inspector from Ashford. I gave them a straightforward account of my visit to the cottage and my reason for going. I didn’t say anything about the stuff I had taken from it. It took some time because the Inspector wrote it all down and then I had to read it and sign it. This done, he pocketed the statement and left. I sat and looked at my friend. He smiled at me and said, ‘Like to add anything off the record?’ It’s good to have friends in high places who trust you. He was a Chief Superintendent, ‘C’ Department, and wouldn’t be bothering himself with a tatty little murder in Kent unless there was a great deal behind it.
I said, ‘You whistled your country buddy off pretty smartly.’
‘I wanted to make him happy. He’s got your statement for his file. He can ask the Paris boys to get one from this Paulet man. Just keep the file growing fatter day by day and it feels like progress.’
‘Who was the murdered man?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest.’
‘When was he done in?’
‘Late evening. Day before you got there. What did you or Paulet take from the cottage?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Honest?’
I just winked, and went on quickly, ‘You know the Treasury have an interest in Martin Freeman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘Where did you get that bump above the right ear?’
‘Paris, last night. On the métro. An angry commuter hit me with an umbrella because I wouldn’t give up my seat to a pregnant woman.’
‘That figures. You’re only on your best behaviour with women before they’re pregnant. Thinking of doing more travelling?’
‘I had it in mind—unless you’re going to confiscate my passport. Then I should make a stink. Taking away the tools of my trade. Probably sue for loss of earnings.’
He shook his head indulgently. ‘You can go anywhere you want. Mrs Stankowski wants Freeman, the Treasury wants Freeman, the Ashford police want him and I’d quite like to know where he is. So carry on. Every little helps. You might turn up something, and, if you’re in the right mood, you might be honest enough to let me know about it.’
He was being as bland and easy-going as butter that spreads straight from the fridge. That meant that there was a hell of a lot that he was not going to tell me.
I stood up. ‘It seems to me that a lot of people want Freeman.’
‘You’d be surprised. And because that’s so, and because this morning I quite like you, let me give you a little advice. Just watch yourself on the métro in future.’
At the door I said, ‘What did you get when you ran a check on Monsieur Robert Duchêne—remember, he’s another who wants Freeman.’
He said, ‘The Paris people have nothing on him. No record. Neither have Interpol.’ He grinned. ‘I checked Francois Paulet, too. He’s about to be sued by his wife for arrears of mai
ntenance under a legal separation order. Otherwise, nothing. Help?’
‘Was it intended to?’
‘No.’
I went. Back at the office Wilkins told me that Dimble had called to say there was nothing on the python bracelet and she had paid him five pounds. She then said she was flying to Tripoli the next day and that Olaf was going to meet her there.
I said, ‘Look pleased about it. It’ll make a change from Cairo—and your expenses are being paid. All I want to know is whether Freeman is there, or has been there recently. And anything you can get on this Bill Dawson. Why does that name seem familiar?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
If we had done at that moment it might have saved us both a lot of trouble.
From my room I phoned Hawkins of the London Fraternal Insurance Society and fed him an edited account of the Freeman affair. He said not to worry because Mrs Stankowski had withdrawn her claim against them and he would send me a cheque for my services.
I then phoned Gloriana and told her to tell her Treasury friend that I had visited Monsieur Duchêne’s flat and had been banged over the head for my trouble, and that I was going to Florence on Monday. I asked her if she would have dinner with me that evening and she said she was sorry but she was going away for the weekend and, no matter where I went, would I please keep in touch with her. I promised that I would.
Then I sat and chain-smoked for a while, wondering why I was getting the feeling that somehow I was being manipulated. It was a strong feeling and—although it was a challenge and fast bringing back that old zest for living which I needed—I didn’t altogether like it. It would have been a compensation if somewhere I could have glimpsed a chance to make some side money for myself. For a time I considered sending Paulet a telegram to say that I would be in Florence, Hotel Excelsior, on Monday evening, but although it was flattering to see myself in the role of a top professional making a tyro’s eyes pop with my expertise, I decided against it. He’d be better off in Paris dealing with his wife’s lawsuit. And, anyway, there are different kinds of expertise and some that pay off in a sounder currency than flattery.
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