They got caught in traffic crossing central London and Philip had a chance to see the lights. He loved being out in the gathering darkness, loved the lights all round, loved being snug in the corner of the taxi, it was like being a lord or a king. He should have experienced the same feeling when Dave drove him in the Citroen but instead he always felt like a child: vulnerable and somewhat apprehensive.
“Here we are, young sir,” the driver said, leaning out and opening the door. He seemed to have recovered his composure.
Philip stepped out on to the pavement and then remembered the next part of the test. “Please will you wait?” he said. “I’ve got to fetch something and then will you take me back.”
“Right you are. I’ll be here.”
The shop was as he remembered it. Above the window was a hand-painted sign that read: A Loewenthal. Pet shop. On a board next to the door a second sign read: Guinea-pigs. Gerbils. Rabbits. Hamsters. White mice. Budgies. Goldfish Tropical fish. Fighting fish. A third notice on the other side of the door read: Importer of Exotic animals since 1934.
He paused and looked into the window. Often Mr Loewenthal had a basket of King Charles puppies or black and white kittens in the window which drew old ladies and young children, but today there were only a few cages containing mice and a pair of West African cane rats. He pushed open the door and heard the bell ring above him, but the small shop was empty. He stood there for a minute or two not knowing what to do. Then he thought of the bell and he opened the door and closed it again. Still no one came. He felt a slight flutter of panic. What should he do? What would Dick have done?
He went out to the taxi. “Finished already?” the driver said, folding up the Daily Mirror.
“There’s no one there.”
“But it’s open, innit? You went in.”
“Yes, but Mr Loewenthal isn’t there.”
“Did you give a call? A shout like?”
“No.”
“Ah, well, that’s it then. Probably in the back. You’d best shout.”
Philip went back into the shop but still the bell brought no one. A door behind the counter led into another part of the building. When they had come for the other pets, Mr Loewenthal had disappeared into the back each time and come back with a box. “Mr Loewenthal!” Philip called softly. “Mr Loewenthal!” A parakeet in a cage near the door shrieked with laughter and he felt his heart race. Somewhere in the room behind the shop he heard a noise of boxes being pulled about.
“Mr Loewenthal!” he shouted, this time louder.
The noise ceased and he heard footsteps. The door behind the counter opened and a woman came into the shop; she was holding a small crocodile in her right hand. “Yes?” she said. “Is there something?”
“I’ve come for–” The combination of the woman and the reptile momentarily confused him for she, too, appeared to be an exotic specimen. He guessed she must be Mr Loewenthal’s wife for she was almost an exact replica. He was reminded of a large plum over which had been draped a fur coat. She was much younger than Mr Loewenthal but just as rotund. She wore a collection of thin gold chains around her neck and a ring on each finger. He had the impression of great untidiness from her dark hair that seemed not to have been brushed that day, to her clothes which hung on her as on a washing-line. He stared first at her and then at the crocodile. It was about a foot long, and she was holding it so that he could see its yellow belly. It didn’t look like any picture he had ever seen, for the long jaws seemed to spread out at the very tip.
“Yes?” she said again.
Philip had come halfway across London and now he found he was unable to speak. She frightened him. There was something not quite normal about her. And it wasn’t because she had a reptile in her hand. It was her eyes; they had a wildness in them, a sort of madness.
“I’ve come for . . .” He dried up again.
“Get out!” she said. “Go away!”
He felt himself about to be attacked and, turning, would have fled, had he not seen, behind the counter, against the back wall, half a dozen labelled boxes. On one was his own name. He paused and pointed.
“I’ve come to pick that up,” he managed to say.
She bent and looked at the label. “Blanchet?” she said. “Eaton Square?”
“Yes.”
She put a hand to her head. “I’m sorry. Please . . . My husband is sick.”
“Mr Loewenthal?”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
She tapped the left side of her chest. “They took him to hospital at lunchtime. In an ambulance. And Harold, the boy who cleans, doesn’t come until tomorrow.” Philip saw that it was not so much wildness as a mixture of despair and harassment that filled her eyes. “Forgive me for shouting.”
She pulled the ticket off the box. “Take it then.” He picked it up and found it was much heavier than he had imagined it would be.
“Can you manage?”
“There’s a taxi outside.”
“Do we send you a bill?”
“Yes, please. Mr Loewenthal knows.”
She opened the door for him and Philip carried the box out to the cab. He put it down on the seat beside him and thought he heard the faintest scratch-scratch.
“Home?” said the driver.
“Yes, please,” Philip said. There was more authority in his tone than before.
* * *
Dave stood just inside the entrance to Terminal 2 watching the incoming passengers from the Madrid flight. He had never seen Jacmel before but Louise had described him in detail and Dave was certain he would pick him out. But the speed with which the passengers came through the Green exit made it impossible and instead he left his position and drifted towards the inquiry desk. The announcement came almost immediately.
“Would Mr Jacmel’s driver please come to the central inquiry desk. Thank you.”
He pushed forward towards the desk but had not gone more than a few steps when he felt someone grip his arm from the back. He winced and turned angrily. He saw a short thickset man in his late forties or early fifties with steel grey hair cut en brosse, a heavy moustache and pale blue eyes. He was dressed in a grey suit and grey topcoat and wore a grey hat. In the light of the Terminal his skin seemed grey, a dry dusty grey, granitic.
“You are Dave.” His voice was surprisingly soft for his build. He looked as though he might have been a tough ex-paratroop sergeant and Dave had expected a grating delivery. The man moved his hand from Dave’s arm and said, “I am Jacmel.”
Dave was disconcerted. Louise had said nothing about a moustache. He would never have recognized Jacmel. Now he was not sure whether to shake hands with him or not. The French were always shaking hands, weren’t they? But Jacmel did not extend a hand.
“You have the motor?” he said, and glanced at his watch.
“In the car park.”
“Let us go. We are late.”
Dave drove back the way he had come less than thirty minutes earlier. He had expected Jacmel to sit in front with him and again had been slightly disconcerted when he had got into the back seat. Who the hell did he think he was? He was no better than Dave himself. Maybe the French didn’t know no better. As he turned on to the motorway he snatched a glance into the mirror, twisting so that he could see Jacmel. Once he had managed to see Ruth hitching up her tights and had nearly gone into the back of a lorry. Now all he could see were Jacmel’s hands resting on his crossed legs. They were square and blunt and in keeping with the rest of his frame. There was something about the Frenchman that gave him what his Dad had once called “the disquiets”. All the way along the motorway Jacmel had remained silent and he felt an increasing need to break the tension by talking. Manners, he thought angrily. No bloody manners. But what did you expect from Frogs?
“ ‘Ave a good flight?” he said at last as they neared the Chiswick flyover.
“Thank you,” Jacmel said.
Dave waited but nothing further emerged. What the bloody hel
l did thank you mean? He hadn’t given him nothing. He swung down Earl’s Court Road and then along the Embankment past Chelsea Bridge where he turned left and made his way into the maze of Pimlico streets that lie between the river and Buckingham Palace Road. He went north and stopped near the BOAC air terminal. Jacmel got out and came to the driver’s window.
“I will see you at the house,” he said.
“You know the way then?”
“Well enough.”
Dave reached into his jacket pocket and took out two bunches of keys. “Yellow Cortina estate,” he said, giving him one set. “Everything as you wanted. Hired for a week. All above board.” He handed over the second set of keys. “Third floor Keats. Rent paid in advance for three months. Nothing overlooking it.”
“I shall see you at the house.” Jacmel turned away, a grey figure with a lightweight grey suitcase in his hand, and disappeared in the direction of Alderney Street. The winter evening was drawing in and the street lamps were haloed by misty vapour. Dave watched him until he disappeared around the corner and then with an irritated shrug drove off towards Eaton Square.
Jacmel continued for about a hundred metres before turning into a National Car Park in the basement of a block of council flats. The West Indian attendant was in his small wood and glass office reading a tattered copy of that morning’s Sun. He looked vaguely at Jacmel, nodded, and turned back to his paper. Jacmel walked along the parking bays until he came to the yellow Ford. He unlocked the tailgate, swung it up and dropped his suitcase into the back, closed it, unlocked the driver’s door and got in, closed it, and sat in the cocoon of cold silence. He sat like that for a few moments as though almost unwilling to move; as though the next move would begin a chain of irrevocable events. But he did move. He reached over to the glove compartment, unlocked it and opened the flap. The revolver was pushed to the back and all he could see was the butt. He looked over his shoulder but the West Indian was engrossed in his newspaper. Jacmel slid out the gun and placed it on his lap. He flicked open the breech and turned the cylinders. Five full chambers. He closed it, allowed the hammer to come down slowly on the one empty chamber, then tucked the gun into the top of his trousers and buttoned his jacket and topcoat. He started the car, paid the overnight fee, and turned in the direction of the river.
Shakespeare Close had been built soon after the Second World War and for a number of years had been the largest block of apartments in Europe. It was divided into six “houses”, separate blocks with their own entrances, all named after poets: Shelley, Wordsworth, Byron, Coleridge, Tennyson and Keats. Keats House faced on to the plane trees of the Embankment and the black waters of the Thames.
Jacmel drove into Keats House parking area. The block was oblong in shape and had four entrances, two along its length and one at each end. It also had four sets of lifts, two centrally, one at each end, to correspond roughly with the doors. But the building had only one porter who sat in a small cubicle just inside the main doors. The cubicle was in a lobby and from the lobby it was impossible to see the doors at each end of the building. Tenants could reach any of the four floors without the porter ever knowing. It was for this reason that Jacmel had chosen Keats House.
He left the car, walked to the end of the building and entered the small side door. It was exactly as he remembered it from his visit a month earlier. He pressed the button at the lift in front of him and went up to the third floor. He looked at the key. No. 309. He turned left along the corridor, opened the door of 309 and let himself in. He had seen no one and no one had seen him.
He was in a two-bedroomed, furnished flat. Immediately facing him was a small kitchen and bathroom, to his right two bedrooms, to his left a large lounge-dining-room. He went first into the bedroom and then the lounge. In each room he bent and felt the central heating radiators, then he turned up the thermostat. In the second bedroom he switched on a floor humidifier. He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was filled to capacity with milk. He opened a store cupboard and saw the usual staples as well as a dozen large packs of muesli.
When he had gone over each room with care, checking the windows–the drop was sheer to the Embankment, there were no balconies–beds, towels, television, he glanced at his watch and sat down at the telephone table in the lounge. He did not need to look up the number; he knew it by heart. He dialled and heard the brr-brr at the other end of the line. He touched his forehead with his fingers and they came away wet.
* * *
In the house in Eaton Square Dick Howard was cleaning a rifle. The thoughts about Africa, the letter from M Barbot, the unpleasant scene with Louise, had all helped to unsettle him, so he had turned the day into a jour avec. He’d already had one brandy, which meant that the fast had been broken, so he had poured himself a whisky and soda and taken down one of the rifles from the wall-rack. He had always found that handling the guns had a calming effect on him. He had brought out the oil, the brushes, the rags and the pull-through, and was busily cleaning the gun. He loved the smell of gun oil.
He was so absorbed that he did not at first hear the telephone. Gradually its insistent ringing worked its way into his mind and he found himself waiting for Louise to answer it. When she did not he put down the gun and the cleaning cloth and went upstairs wondering where she was. He could have sworn she had not gone out.
He picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“ ‘Ullo. M’sieu ‘Oward?”
“Yes. Who’s that? Mr Blanchet?” It didn’t sound like Michel’s voice but there was no doubt that it was French.
“Here is M Barbot. I wrote to you a letter. Did you get it?”
Howard’s heart gave a lurch. “Yes . . . yes, I got it.”
“Good.”
“I thought you said you were coming–”
“Yes. I thought so too. Next week. But I must be in Athens. So I am here now. Can we meet?”
Howard paused. “I expect so.”
“When?”
“You mean today?”
“It is inconvenient?”
“Well . . .”
“Tonight then?”
He had promised Philip to help him rearrange the menagerie. He couldn’t disappoint him the moment their weekend got under way. “I’m afraid tonight is impossible. What about tomorrow?”
“Alas, tomorrow I am gone. It is only for fifteen minutes. Have you thought about what I suggested?”
“Yes, yes, I have. It’s only that–”
“And then I must go to Nairobi and Mombasa.”
Nairobi. Mombasa. There was Hutchins in Nairobi. Willis in Mombasa. Richards too, probably. Any one of them could run a two-penny ha’-penny game park on the edge of Lake Kivu. And they’d probably heard about it already.
“I am not far from you,” the voice said. “The Carlton Tower Hotel. You know of it?”
“Yes. It’s not far.” He looked at his watch. Philip would be well on his way.
“I am here now if that suits you.”
“Well, I suppose. Yes. All right. But I’m looking after a child, you see, and I can’t be long.”
“I understand. We have a drink. Ten minutes. We look at each other. I tell you one or two things. Then back to your child. Bien. I will be in the cocktail lounge. A window table. It is on the first floor.”
“I know it.”
“I leave my name with the maître d’hôtel.”
“All right. I’ll be there in . . . ten minutes?”
“Très bien. Au revoir.”
“Goodbye.” Howard put the receiver down. “Louise!” he called in the direction of the kitchen. “Louise, are you there?” The maid had been standing just inside the kitchen door, listening. Now she walked to the table and moved some crockery, made a noise. “Louise!”
“0ui?”
He put his head round the door. “Louise, I have to go out for half an hour. Philip may come back while I’m gone. Tell him not to open the box. Follow? Tell him to wait until I get back.”
She
did not answer and he thought she was sullen after their argument. “Comprendo?” he said harshly.
“Je compends!'
He closed the kitchen door with a sharp bang and went downstairs to get his coat. As he closed the door of the house behind him he began to feel the fluttering of panic. What was he going to say? How was he going to answer Barbot’s question? Should he say yes? Should he say no? Maybe? Perhaps? I’ll think about it? These people didn’t hang around and he wasn’t the only ageing white hunter looking for a cushy number. But was it a cushy number? That’s what he had thought about Gametrails Safari Hotel in Kenya–and look what had happened. Anyway, there was more to it than that.
There were no cabs in sight and he began to walk as quickly as he could in the direction of Cadogan Square, trying to keep his head up, trying not to shuffle.
* * *
In apartment 309 in Keats House, about a mile and a half from Eaton Square, Jacmel pulled open the A-D section of the telephone directory and riffled through the pages until he came to the number of the Carlton Tower Hotel. He dialled and asked for reception.
“My name is Barbot,” he said. “I have a message for a Mr ‘Oward. I will meet him in your cocktail lounge, a window table, but I am held up for fifteen minutes. Please ask him to wait.” When he had rung off he walked to the window and stared sombrely out at the water. So far everything was perfect. His hand went to his jacket pocket and he pulled out a crushed packet of cheap Spanish Celtas, lit one and picked several strands of tobacco from his tongue. He looked at the badly made cigarette. Its tobacco was loose, some had fallen out into the pack. Not long now, he thought, and he’d be able to afford a better brand; he’d be able to afford a lot of things he’d not been having lately. He’d be able to eat sucking-pig at Botins again. Be able to buy a new suit–the one he had on was all that was left of the palmy days, in fact his whole outfit, while it gave an air of some wealth, was all he had left. He’d have a couple of suits made in Paris, and a shirt or two from Sulka . . . he caught himself. Not Paris. Never Paris. Rome then. And shoes. And he’d be able to take Isabel to Puerto de Naveccerada for a weekend’s skiing. That would be good. But thinking about Isabel reminded him of Louise. God knew what he would do about Louise.
Venom Page 4
