by Mark Leggatt
The carriage doors opened and Montrose followed the throng of passengers shuffling out of the station, emerging into the afternoon sunlight. The exit led onto the left bank of the River Seine, the rive gauche. Home of artists and intellectuals, bookshops and café life. Climbing the steps, he emerged on to the quay and the breeze from the water brushed his face. He laid his hands on the cold stone wall, staring at the wide ribbon of sluggish brown water. It was just as he remembered, the river leading to the coast and across the sea to England.
He kept a tight grip of the leather bag and stood back against the quay. Stretched in front of him, the quay wall was lined with green, weather-beaten boxes belonging to the booksellers. The racks held a motley collection of old newspapers, magazines and
dog-eared books, all wrapped in cracked yellow cellophane to shield them from the sun. Browsing shoppers filled the sidewalk. He glanced at a café across the road where waiters were finishing up and stacking chairs on the terrace.
To his right, a small band of tourists pointed at a large street map. He peered over their shoulders. Rue Lamont was clearly marked on the south bank of the Ile Saint-Louis, but from Saint Michel the view was hidden behind Notre Dame. Keeping a tight grip on the leather bag, he weaved past the tourists and strode down the quay, then crossed to the Quai de Montebello.
The Ile Saint-Louis came into view, and he stopped before the Pont de l’Archevêché. To his left the towers of Notre Dame rose into the sky.
Turning his back on the river, he ran over to the other side of the street. There was a café on the corner where he could keep a lookout across the Seine. He searched in his pocket for the remaining coins. There was enough for a few coffees. He threaded his way through the zinc-topped tables, calling out to the waiter. “Un espresso, s’il vous plaît.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared inside the café.
Montrose tucked the leather bag between his legs and looked out over the river. Rue Lamont ran along the quayside, lined with expensive terraced apartments facing onto the water. The waiter returned with a small cup and saucer which clattered on the table.
Montrose took a sip of the strong black coffee. Traffic flashed past to a soundtrack of blaring horns. It seemed every control lever in a French car was connected to the horn. He stared down at his cup. As soon as I use a credit card to buy cash, they’ll pinpoint me right away. They’ll be all over me like a rash. There’s no other way. He leaned over towards the tourists. “Excuse me, can I have a look at your A to Z?”
“Sure, buddy, you lost?”
“No, I’ve got an appointment, I want to find the right street.” The map was open at the page for the Ile Saint-Louis. Montrose traced his finger along the Rue Lamont. Number 69 was clearly marked at the end of the street. Just one diamond. That’s all I need. “Thanks, I know where I’m going now.”
Dropping a few coins on the table, he squeezed between the parked cars and ran over the crossing, narrowly avoiding becoming roadkill. Parisian drivers didn’t stop for pedestrians. They just hit the windshield wipers. These were people who saw traffic laws as vaguely interesting suggestions.
Montrose stopped at the wall facing the Ile Saint-Louis. On the river, a bateau-mouche crammed with tourists slid through the murky water, a ripple of flash bulbs popping when they passed Notre Dame. To his left was a telescope mounted on a steel pillar, pointing to the Ile de la Cité. He pulled out a euro from his pocket and slotted it into the machine, then twisted it right and panned across the centre of the island to Rue Lamont. Number 69 was on the corner. He moved the telescope up and saw two windows in the block on the first floor. One was closed and the other open. An old woman holding a cloth appeared at the open window for a moment, then disappeared. He dipped the telescope to the door. Three gold balls hung lopsided above the window. Mr. Adubi lives above the shop. A glass door was next to a window, packed with a variety of objects. He swung the telescope to the right, but couldn’t see the east side. There had to be more windows, facing on to the street around the corner.
Montrose grabbed the bag and headed for the Pont de l’Archevêché.
Dodging a few tourists, he picked up the pace past the gardens behind Notre Dame, then over the bridge to the Ile Saint-Louis. There was little traffic on Rue Lamont and he hurried past a line of badly parked cars.
A dented trombone, a few scratched violins and a stack of old electric guitars filled the shop window. Along the bottom was a display of cheap jewelry, and china figures. It’s the right place. A tray of old digital watches lay in the corner of the window. I had one of those at college. Another few years and they may be worth something. He pushed open the door. A bell tinkled above him and he saw the figure of an old man in a back office behind the counter. The door closed behind him with a thud and rattled loosely in the frame.
The old man emerged from the office and stood with his hands on the counter as Montrose approached.
“Bonjour. I have something I wish to pawn.” Montrose rolled the dull diamond between his fingers as he stood before the counter.
The old man’s eyes fixed on the diamond.
“I’ll be honest, I’ve no idea if it’s valuable.”
Pulling out an eye piece, the old man held out his hand.
Montrose placed the diamond in his palm. The skin felt like parchment on the tips of his fingers.
“Very interesting, monsieur.” He gripped it between his bony fingers and held it up to the light as he pressed the eye glass close.
“It’s been in the family for years, but we’ve never been sure if it’s a real gem or just a semi-precious stone. But, I have a little cash flow problem and I thought I’d ask.”
“Hmm, cash flow problems, that’s what we’re here for.” The old man rolled it around in his fingers. “It is indeed a diamond.”
“Really? Wow. My grandmother was right. I always thought she was a bit crazy. Maybe not so crazy after all.”
“I can say, monsieur, she had very good taste. It is only half cut, and unpolished, but I believe it may be flawless.”
Shit. “That’s good, yeah?” You sound like an idiot.
“It’s more than good. It could be very valuable.” He removed the eye glass and looked down at the diamond for a moment. “I haven’t seen this type of cut for a long time. Very common in the thirties but it’s difficult to tell.”
“I’m not too worried, as long as it can get me some cash for a few weeks, until I get back on my feet.”
The old man nodded. “Just let me check something, monsieur. I’ll have a look at some samples in my catalogues.” He placed the diamonds and eye glass on the counter, then turned back in to the small office.
Man, just give me the cash. I couldn’t give a damn what cut it is. He stood for a moment and looked around at several ancient clocks hanging on the wall, all ticking at different intervals. Tempus fugit, old man.
A dull bell sounded from a grandfather clock behind him. Montrose turned. Through a cracked glass door, he watched the pendulum swing lethargically to and fro, emitting a ‘thunk’ at every swing. Each movement seemed to be a Herculean effort.
The sound of a muffled voice made him turn back. Is he on the phone? Who the hell is he calling?. He glanced through the gap between the hinges of the door, and saw the old man hunched over a desk. Is he speaking German? No. Yiddish!
A metallic rumble came from behind. Montrose snapped around and saw the shutters on the window rolling down. He snatched up the leather bag and leapt over the counter, then grabbed the handle to the back office door, wrenching it from the old man’s grasp as he tried to slam it shut. “Aw, for fuck’s sake!” He seized the phone and slammed it down. “All you needed to do was give me the cash!”
The old man backed into a corner, terror in his eyes. “Get out of here!”
“And how am I going to do that? You just closed the shutters, you old fool.”
“I’ll call the police!”
Yeah? So, if that wasn’t the police on the phone .
. . “Just empty the till and I’m gone. You can keep the goddam’ diamond.”
“I will not take it. I know where it comes from!”
“Yeah, so do I. So that makes you, me and whoever was on the phone.” Montrose picked up the cash register and angled it around, then dropped it so it would land on its edge. It crashed to the floor and the cash drawer sprung open. Montrose scooped up the bills, and saw the butt of a small revolver hidden underneath. “That’s not smart.”
The old man stood up straight. “Kill me. But I will not let you go.”
Montrose opened the chamber and emptied the bullets onto the floor. Got to be a way out of here. He pulled open a small door at the end of the office.
“No! My wife!”
“Listen, fella, the last thing I’m interested in is your wife. No offense.” Montrose stood before a dimly lit corridor. At the end was a narrow wooden staircase to the first floor. He held the bag in front of him as he ran up the stairs. At the top he emerged into a salon crammed with furniture where an old lady stood in the middle of the room clutching her purse. She screamed as Montrose stood before her, looking down at the gun in his hand.
Montrose tossed the revolver onto a chintzy sofa over flowing with different colored cushions. “Is your name Adubi?”
She nodded, her face tight.
Montrose lifted the bag and squeezed past her, around a coffee table then between an overstuffed chair and the sofa. He held the bag high to his chest and shuffled towards the window. “Are you Jewish?”
Her eyes darted from side to side as her husband stepped into the room. He leaned on the door handle his breaths coming in short gasps. She nodded again.
Arab name, huh? When am I gonna roll a seven in this crap shoot? He turned towards the east-facing windows. They looked a damn sight higher from the apartment than they did from the other side of the river, but there was a ledge below the window that would give him a foothold.
He pulled open the window, looped the leather bag around his arm and climbed out. He placed both feet on the ledge and crouched down. His palms were wet and slippery against the window frame. Just do it. He pushed his feet away, falling for what seemed an age, then slammed into the sidewalk, absorbing the shock in a crouch.
“Fuck!” The blister on his heel burst and the edge of the shoe stabbed into his Achilles tendon. He leaned forward to run just as a black BMW swung around the corner from the north side. “Slowly, boy,” he murmured and began to walk, not daring to look at the passengers. The car rumbled over the cobblestones and turned into Rue Lamont.
The hard leather sliced into his heel as began to run, his shoes slipping on the flagstones. He stopped at the edge of the road leading to the Pont de la Tournelle. On the run in Paris and carrying two heavy bags. There might be about ten seconds before all hell descended. The traffic swept past. A cab sped towards him on the other side. Montrose ran into the road and waved a bag. The taxi screeched to a halt. He jumped in, ignoring the blaring horns of the other cars.
The toothless grin of the Algerian driver turned to greet him. “You’re in a hurry, monsieur?”
“Take me to the Place des Vosges. I have a date with a very beautiful lady and she won’t wait. A hundred euros if you can get me there quick.”
“Allez!”
The tires of the taxi squealed on the cobblestones and Montrose was thrown back into the seat. The driver made a u-turn, then floored the accelerator and headed for the bridge.
The taxi tore up the traffic and shot down side streets, scattering shoppers. Montrose tried to hold on as they slewed around another corner, the driver blasting his horn through a pedestrian crossing. With one hand on the bag and the other on the seat in front, he peered forward. People, buildings and cars flew past. Another few streets and he’d make it, even if they’d nearly taken out a few tourists on the way. The taxi screeched to a halt in front of the Place des Vosges.
“Fast enough, monsieur?”
Montrose threw the driver a hundred euro bill and jumped onto the sidewalk. He ran into the shade of the colonnades around the square and stopped beside a row of tall pillars, pressing himself against the cold, yellow stone.
Blood ran down his heel and pooled in his shoe. He glanced around. The taxi had gone. Walking fast, he turned into the narrow archway at the end of the square. The road was quiet and he dared to look behind. Nothing.
He had to stay off the main streets. But it had to be around here, somewhere. One of those squares where you find the real Paris, not what they show you in the guides. He took a left into the Rue Saint Antoine and tried to ignore the acute, stabbing pain in his heel. He bent down to ease the edge of his heel away from the wound, but the blood rushed to his head and he stood for a moment until his breathing slowed.
To his left was an alley that looked familiar and he followed it around to a square. The restaurant was still there. On the corner was a frosted glass door and a brass plaque. Stein and Son, Secure Deposits.
This had to work. He ran his hands through his hair, adjusted his overcoat and suit, then pressed the intercom.
“Oui?”
“Good afternoon. I wish to enquire about the use of a safe deposit box.”
“Entrez.” The intercom buzzed and the door opened into a brightly lit stone corridor with a small desk at the end.
Behind it sat a thin, old man, his eyes fixed on Montrose. “You’re just in time, monsieur. I was about to close.”
“Excellent,” he replied. “I don’t want to carry this back home.”
“How can I help you?”
“I understand you have safe deposit boxes for rent.”
The man nodded. “That is correct, monsieur.”
“Then I have some family heirlooms I wish to deposit.”
“That can be arranged. You do not wish to display them in your fine house?”
“No, my father recently passed away and I want to make sure they are secure before the whole extended family descends upon me. I’ve just found out about French law and he would rise from the grave if he thought that his most valuable possessions were to be spread amongst his family. They were not always on the best of terms, you see.”
“It is often the way, monsieur. As they say, you can choose your friends, but not your family.”
“Exactly. Tell me, how long has your firm been established?”
“Well, monsieur,” laughed the old man, “give or take a few pogroms and the occasional revolution, about four hundred years.”
“That’s good enough for me. And the price?”
“That depends on how long you want to keep the box.”
“It may be some time. I’m going back to the States.”
The old man looked at the bag. “They will be safe, monsieur.”
“Let’s say ten years. That will give me plenty of time.”
“As you wish, monsieur.” The old man wrote down a figure on a piece of paper and slid it across the table.
That’s about all the cash I have. “Do you do five year terms?”
The man seemed amused. “No, monsieur. Ten year minimum. It deters the lower end of the market, you understand. Perhaps I could recommend somewhere else?”
Yeah, like I have time to shop around. “That’s fine. You don’t mind cash?”
“I don’t mind at all, monsieur, although I shall also require ID.”
Montrose pulled out his passport and the wad of bills from his overcoat, then counted the money and pushed it across the table.
“Bon.” The old man rose stiffly from the chair and gestured towards a door on his right. “I am Monsieur Stein. At your service. Please, follow me.” He produced a ring of keys and unlocked a steel gate, then a tall iron door. It was rough with a hundred coats of paint, but the lock opened silently.
Montrose stepped through the door. Steel boxes lined the wall. Some were old and stained with age, but all looked impregnable.
“You will see the older boxes, monsieur. Some have been there for over two hundre
d years. When the customer has finished with the box, we replace them. No box is ever used twice. Box 62 is empty, monsieur. Select a combination, then spin the dial to the numbers and press the button. Once it is pressed, the number is set and cannot be changed, so I advise that you take your time. Each number must be at least six digits. These boxes cost two thousand euros each, and breaking in will take days.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I shall be outside, monsieur.”
“Thanks.” Think of a number. The Nazi pass? The irony made him grimace. Bending down, he took the sneakers from the leather bag and stuffed them deep into the pockets of his overcoat. He was about to pick up the envelope, but stopped. The accounts had been dormant for over seventy years. The list would be safer here. Another few months wouldn’t make a difference. He pulled back the shirt wrapped around the diamonds and took a last look. They twinkled in the bright overhead lights as he closed the bag and lifted it into the box.
He stood for a moment, staring at the dial. Got it. All Swiss watches have a unique serial number. He tugged at the strap of his Omega then turned the watch over and spun the dial to set the combination.
The old man was waiting when Montrose walked back into the corridor. “Guard your number carefully, monsieur.”
“I will.”
The old man smiled. “Until the next time.”
The late afternoon sunshine filtered through the thick glass of the door to the street.
“Until then.” Montrose turned and walked towards the light.
Ducking into an alleyway, he pulled the sneakers from his pocket then gently slipped off his brogues where the blood from the wound on his heel had congealed on his sock. The relief was instant. He pushed his feet into the new sneakers and swapped the cash to his pants.
Time to lie low and give Reinhard a call. He took off the Crombie and held it in his hand for a moment, running his fingers down the velvet collar and scarlet silk lining before he stuffed it into a dumpster with the brogues. Damn shame, that was the best coat I’ve ever had. But too good for tourists.
