by Heron Carvic
Then, with everything going smoothly, Scotland Yard had acted; sending of all improbabilities this old woman to follow Tolla’s man, Mantoni. And now, solely because of her, the forgery deal possibly and one picture transaction certainly were both in danger. Even this present meeting in Tolla’s flat was dangerous. He turned on his part-time partner savagely.
“And you admit you don’t even know where this wretched little artist is?”
Tolla shook his head, poured himself another whiskey and took a cigarette from a gold box on the occasional table beside the armchair in which he sprawled. “No, not yet. Mantoni was in a panic when he phoned, after seeing a police car outside his hotel. I told him to forget his luggage and the rest of his stuff—we’ll get them back later if it turns out to be safe—and to find lodgings the other side of town. He’ll be phoning.”
“But you let the fool keep the other pictures in his room there?”
“Yup.”
“Have the police got them?”
“Too soon to say. Anyway we don’t know yet for certain the police were after Mantoni—or, if they were, it could still be for something else. And you can’t even be sure the Seeton woman was on to the picture game.”
Librecksin was definite. “I’m sure. And if you’d been in the gallery and seen her sniffing around that picture and taking notes on it you’d be sure too. She did everything except take out a tape and measure the canvas. She follows Mantoni half round Italy, then Geneva, then the gallery—don’t try telling me she’s not on to it, and the forgeries too, or why have late-night meetings with bankers? She’s hardly the age or type for a cuddle in the dark.”
Tolla sipped his whiskey reflectively. “As to age, I’m not so sure, and the looks could be phony as well. I’ve seen her on the move, you haven’t. No woman the age she pretends to be skitters about as she does.” Tolla flicked a lighter to his cigarette and inhaled deliberately. Not sharing the extent of Librecksin’s anxiety, he was opting for calm, gaining satisfaction from the other’s nervous temper which gave him a brief if spurious authority. “I can find out later what the police know, through a contact.”
Librecksin paced. “Does it occur to you you’re not doing too well? Looks as though we’ve lost the Belton pictures; and apropos the notes, England hasn’t devalued yet and the Bank seems to be paying up indefinitely; they shouldn’t be with the amount in circulation, or”—he stopped and stood over Tolla accusingly—“isn’t your distribution quite as good as you make out?”
“My side of it’s okay. At a guess”—the black man tapped ash, then cocked his eye and sneered—“I’d say it’s you and your doxy who’ve been milking too much too quickly in lumps from the Banque du Lac.” He laughed at the other’s consternation. “You and the Stemkos frail got greedy: she—sometimes you with her—kept running round to the Banque du Lac making deposits of snide, and then in the end she takes out a whacking sum in French currency saying she’s off to Paris to pick up some trinkets. Does it occur to you”—he mimicked Librecksin’s words—“that you’re not doing too well? If I can find out all this, likely the Banque du Lac and the clearing banks are way ahead. In which case I’d say the Bank of England’s keeping quiet in the hopes of getting who’s behind it instead of arsing about picking up small fry.”
So. Librecksin swung away and resumed his pacing. It would not be politic at the moment to quarrel with Tolla. And at that the black fool could be right. Maybe the satisfaction of using Natalie’s trust in him and Stemkos’ trust of him had led him into snatching too much too quickly. He must get Natalie to retrieve from the bank tomorrow morning the package of diamonds, which she believed to be jewelry of his own, and find some safe hiding place which couldn’t be connected with him but would leave them available should things go sour. And yet—he stopped at the window, looking down on the roofs of the Old Town—and yet they should not. Even though he had taken risks to grab money while there was time, it should’ve been all right, would’ve been all right, could be all right if it wasn’t for this woman. He turned back into the room.
“Why the devil didn’t you get rid of her at the start?” Tolla shrugged. “I tried.”
“Tried?” he scoffed. “All your gunman did was to knock out a window and you, when you actually had her in your taxi, you go and hand her over to another woman.”
“I told you”—Tolla was exasperated at the reminder—“wherever she goes half a dozen people spring out of nowhere. You can’t go blasting off in front of witnesses.”
“The next thing”—Librecksin continued to needle him—“will be we’ll have her taking a trip to Paris and telling the insurance to hold payment on the jewelry.”
“Don’t worry,” Tolla said. “They can’t watch her round the clock. We will. I’ll set it up, with extra men for safe measure, and the first time she’s alone she’s had it.”
“Better,” Librecksin advised, “bring her in and question her first. Once we know what she’s told the police we’ll know what we have to face.”
1. May 13.
Mme Stemkos paid £2,000 into her & husband’s joint a/c . . . said she and husband had been helping people who had taken money from sterling areas during currency restrictions but now wished to bring it back owing to relaxation of same . . . would be making further such deposits . . . Wanted cash left in a/c . . . considering investing in jewelry . . . large sums to be immediately available.
2. May 15.
Mme Stemkos deposited £3,000 in £5 notes . . .
3. May 19.
Mme Stemkos deposited . . .
Good gracious, thought Miss Seeton, what a lot of money these people had.
4. May 22.
Mme Stemkos, with Librecksin (husband’s secretary) depos . . . Lodged package (contents unknown) in joint Stemkos safe in vault.
5. May 29.
Librecksin dep . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
10. July 8.
M. Stemkos, with Librecksin, d . . .
(various currencies & denominations).
With a sigh Miss Seeton pushed the papers to one side. Really, it was very difficult. And, she conceded with a wry smile, considering the amount of money involved, not what she was accustomed to, forged or not. She had tried very hard to understand the background which Mr. Telmark had been so insistent upon, but it wasn’t, she feared, very clear. To her. However, it did appear, although the figures always came out different, that, since Mrs. Stemkos had withdrawn a sum in French francs with a great many noughts about two weeks ago, that Mr. and Mrs. Stemkos’ account was now overdrawn. Which seemed odd for very rich people. Or, perhaps, that was how very rich people did it.
Tired of mathematical calculations, Miss Seeton began to jot down impressions of her visit to Switzerland. This exercise absorbed her and it wasn’t until over an hour later when the floor waiter came to her room to remove her tea tray that she realized that she should hasten if she was to do her yoga drill and have a bath before going down to dinner. She glanced quickly through her jottings and felt ashamed. One should not do such slapdash work—really caricature. But, after all, they were quite private and only for one’s own eyes. Really, the one of Mrs. Stemkos was, perhaps, unkind. A pair of nutcrackers angled to the front across the paper with the lady’s face at the business end, her jaw forming the hinge. The one of Vee, too. Well, not exactly unkind. But odd. In removing all that blond hair, the eyelashes and the makeup, in an attempt to realize the character beneath, the result had the appearance of a young man. Miss Seeton put her sketchbook away, took off her coat and skirt, spread a rug and settled on the floor with her textbook Yoga and Younger Every Day open beside her.
Slowly, with careful counting of her breaths, she arched and bowed, she flexed and straightened and steadily, in progressive sequence, the postures became more complicated. Finally she prepared for her recent and greatest achievement, a full
stretch of the spine and neck in a posture called The Noose. Before launching upon this endeavor she studied the book to confirm that she had got it correct. Of course, to say: Lie down upon the floor. Then take one leg and, with no strain whatever, place it behind the head, lodging the foot at the back of the neck; then, still without the slightest strain, place the other teg behind the first, locking the ankles together. Now tighten the leg muscles to increase the bend and clasp the hands around the b . . . was ridiculous. She did not see how any such maneuver could be performed with no strain whatever. By no stretch of the imagination—let alone the spine—could such a pose be termed natural. Really, so very like Mr. Kipling’s armadillo, who loosened a notch each day and curled up tighter and tighter. However, it was undoubtedly beneficial and Miss Seeton experienced a certain pride that in the few years she had been doing these exercises, she had progressed far enough to accomplish this strange and somewhat embarrassing position. Dutifully she lay back, raised one leg and grasped the foot.
Following normal hotel routine and intent upon turning down the bed, the chambermaid entered without knocking. She stared, unbelieving, at a bloomered bottom embraced by clasped hands, above which a small face gazed back at her in mild surprise. Legs in sensible stockings disappeared beneath the outstretched arms to reappear crossing behind the neck with the feet upraised like asses’ ears above the head. For a moment the chambermaid wavered, with training and nature in precarious balance. At last:
“Pardon, madame,” she managed. “I come back later.”
“Mercy,” replied Miss Seeton. Oh, dear. Really, how very awkward. For both of them. To be caught in such a posture was not, when one considered, in the normal way, quite easy to explain.
Returning from the adjoining bathroom, Miss Seeton halted in dismay behind the buttress wall which gave a semblance of division between bedroom and sitting room. A man with graying hair was seated on the edge of the bed and was using the telephone. She stood listening, though she would be the first to admit her French was far from fluent, in the hope that she might glean some explanation of his presence.
“D’ac,” said the man. “D’ac . . . D’ac . . . D’ac . . . D’ac.” He rang off.
Duck? wondered Miss Seeton. Not a word she knew. She must remember to look it up. She moved forward and the man sprang to his feet.
“Miss Seeton? A thousand pardons. The proprietor asked that I should call on you. The maid was a little disturbed. . . .” How in the name of tact did one say the woman had reported that the miss in 301 was having a fit? “I am,” he continued, “a doctor, staying in the hotel, but evidently”—he smiled and indicated the yoga manual, which lay upon the coverlet—“you are your own physician, and all is resolved. Tell me”—professionally he was interested—“what made you commence and how long ago?”
Miss Seeton became pink and flustered. “Nearly five years. It was most unfortunate—my knees, you understand—there was no knock, you see—and they were becoming rather stiff. Then I saw an advertisement and decided to try it—but there was no time to explain, or even to uncurl. When she came in, I mean—with, I must admit, the most remarkable effect—and, in any case, one should not, it can be dangerous, from an advanced posture. Not quickly, that is. Uncurl,” she added. She felt that she had not, perhaps, sufficiently exonerated the maid. “But I do understand how natural it would be for her not to.”
The doctor looked at her in puzzlement, then bowed. “No, one sees that she did not quite understand. But allow me to congratulate you. Five years. It is remarkable, as you say, what the human body can achieve with perseverance. Completely remarkable.” He opened the door, gave a final bow. “Your servant, Miss Seeton,” and shut the door behind him.
At dinner Miss Seeton failed to notice that the service was that much more eager, the smiles were that much broader. Word had already circulated among the staff: here was one could do things they couldn’t.
After dinner Miss Seeton, unaccustomed to idleness, still felt the urge to gather more impressions of Geneva; though now it was the city that was to be at her pencil’s point rather than the people. A lovely evening, windless and warm; she could digest her meal sitting on the broad platform, near that copy of the Albert Memorial, which gave a wonderful view over this end of the lake. Later she would cross the bridge and explore the Old Town. On the drive up to Mr. Telmark’s she had seen a sign, VIEILLE VILLE, so that it would be quite easy to find her way. It would be such a pity not to make the most of her time, not knowing how long she was to be here.
The view over the lake was indeed wonderful and the colors reflected in the dark water fascinated the artist in Miss Seeton. Ribbons, she thought—no, more like curtains of color—appeared to hang reflected in straight lines with sharp division, blurring only at their extremities, where they merged into the blackness of the water. It reminded her of the colored stones in the jewelry that appeared to be so fashionable here. But on the placid surface of the lake the brashness of the neon signs which blazed on the surrounding buildings was transmuted, acquiring a dreamlike quality. Geneva, city of colored dreams, thought Miss Seeton is unaccustomed poetic flight. Geneva, city of colored stones, wrote Miss Seeton in her sketchbook with habitual prosaism. Perhaps, if one listed the colors and then, by day, drew in the outlines, one would, from memory, be able to recapture the magic of the night. Emerald, ruby, sapphire, topaz, aquamarine, amethyst, jotted down Miss Seeton. But points of white jarred where the reflected street lights, like too-bright diamonds, overlayed the design, striking a false note. Diamonds too bright, false, she recorded.
“You come.”
Miss Seeton started; she had heard no one. “I beg your pardon?”
“You come—wiz me,” repeated Elio Mantoni impatiently.
Good gracious. It was that little man who’d been on the airplane. On all three, in fact. “No,” replied Miss Seeton. “I do not.”
“If you do not come, I fire.” Looking down, she saw with astonishment that the hand in his open briefcase held a pistol with a funny bulbous end. “I wish to fire,” he assured her, “but now they want first that you shall talk, so they discover what you know and what you have told.”
Really. He must be making some mistake. But even so . . . Miss Seeton pushed the briefcase to one side; it gave a cough and jerked, emitting an acrid smell. A distant ping, followed by tinkling glass, testified that Mantoni was once more shooting up the Place des Alpes.
“You should not,” said Miss Seeton severely, “point a thing like that. It could be dangerous.”
Mantoni jumped back with fury. He leveled the briefcase again. Now he was indeed justified. He could say with truth the hellcat refused to come. His finger tightened on the trigger. Around him in the garden three more fingers tightened on three more triggers as Mme de Brillot and the agents from the Sûreté, concealed behind assorted shrubs, prepared for action.
“I say—” The impending barrage was checked when Thomas ffoley stepped between Mantoni and Miss Seeton. “You annoying this lady? Better push off, old chap.”
Should he . . .? Mantoni’s finger itched as Tomfool stood in everyone’s line of fire, unconscious that he might be riddled from all sides. No, the Italian realized, he would have to kill this one first and if he did the hellcat would kill him. Too much risk. He zipped his briefcase shut and bowed—“Per favore, signore”—flashed round Tomfool, grabbed for Miss Seeton’s sketchbook and succeeded in snatching the top page before leaping the balustrade, to the ruin of the formal arrangement of lobelia and zinnia in the flower bed below, slithered to the pavement, crossed the Quai de Mont Blanc amid a stridence of protest from the traffic and was lost in the crowd that was wending its way across the bridge. Before he reached the bridge he stopped at the pedestrian crossing and, simmering with fury, waited for the lights to change. Allora, she had outwitted him and made of him a public fool. The night should not pass until she had paid for this. The little green man wallring signaled to the pedestrians and Mantoni crossed with them to cir
cle round the Place des Alpes and join his fellow watcher. If she would stay in the hotel, allora, upon some pretext he would enter it. He would . . . The door of the hotel revolved. He gripped his brother shadow’s arm.
“Ecco!” he breathed.
Young Mr. ffoley was shaken. “I say,” he quavered, “that chap had a gun. After all, I saw it—a g-gun. D-didn’t you know?”
“Yes,” said Miss Seeton. “Or no. Or rather, I don’t think so. I mean, surely it can’t have been. You see . . .” She gave the matter thought. No one could have cause to wish her ill. And, in any case, even if the whole affair was some mistake, no one would produce a real gun in such a public place. So very foolhardy. And besides . . . “It only went off with a sort of pop and made a smell. I think,” she decided, “it must have been meant as some form of practical joke. Rather foolish and not, I’m afraid, in quite the best of taste.”
“P-practical joke?”
“Yes. I remember now, I inadvertently caused him to drop his ticket and things at the airport and this, I imagine, is his idea of retaliation. But I don’t think it can have been real—that seems so very unlikely. It must have been one of these newfangled toys and I expect he probably felt it would be amusing.”
It was to be hoped that the owner of the pharmacy on the far side of the square who had lost the glass pane in his door would appreciate the jest next morning.
Thomas ffoley looked at Miss Seeton and scratched his head. Did she really think he didn’t know a gun with a silencer when he saw one? Quite bats. And to think he’d thought he was doing his career a bit of good by keeping an eye on her. He wouldn’t be doing himself much good if he was dead. If she wanted to play hush-hush games with creeps with guns she could play ’em on her own. High time he got back to Bern.
