Chapter 35
Miller looked out of his apartment window which faced out over the square. At seven in the morning, with hardly any pedestrians and road traffic, the cars parked along the other side next to the shops and cafes were clearly visible. One of the cars was a Lexus 460. Bo was in a big Lexus yesterday, and heading in this direction. There were two hotels on that side of the square. One was four star and had a private car park. Then there was the café that Miller often frequented. That had a few rooms to let in the courtyard behind the main building. But no parking facilities. That in itself was not conclusive. The driver could still be at the four star hotel, and never got around to parking his car there. After all, there were no parking restrictions on the square. That day might be coming with the increasing growth of the town, but it was a free for all at the moment.
Miller picked up the local telephone directory, looked up the number of the French café. Asked to speak to the proprietor, who he knew quite well through his use of the premises.
“Hello, I’m the brigadier who comes across for coffee most mornings. I’m interested to know if you have a certain guest staying in your hotel. This is a matter of national security, so I ask you as a servant of the state. The man is black and has a broken ankle. He has a plaster cast on his left leg. He is a big man, may not have any luggage.”
“A man of that description took a room yesterday evening. He paid cash in advance. It was my request. I thought he may not pay otherwise. He is still here, eating breakfast on a table outside.”
“Thank you. I will inform the police.”
Miller made another call, to a colleague who was a police superintendent in the Maswatiland National Police. He explained that he had a suspect kidnapper, wanted in South Africa. He asked if the superintendent could contact a Major Mazombe in Jo’burg, and ask whether they wanted Maswatiland Police to pick the man up?
Miller put the phone down, checked that the Lexus was still there, and hurried round to McBride’s apartment.
McBride was woken at eight o’clock when Miller rang the apartment doorbell.
He went to open the door in his dressing gown, and stood back to admit Dusty.
“Good morning. Come in.”
Dusty entered the hallway. “I came to wake you up. I thought we might go across to the café on the other side of the square for breakfast. Let me buy you one. I’m on duty later today. I arranged for Mapoza to take you to the airport this afternoon. “
“Kind of you, Dusty. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be with you.” He took a quick shower, dressed and they were crossing the square only twenty minutes later.
Miller noticed the car was still there, and as they drew closer, he spotted Bo drinking coffee at the end table on the sidewalk. He said nothing to McBride, not wanting to worry him. It was highly unlikely that the chauffeur had a gun. Miller had taken Bo’s gun in the forest, used it on Markham, and it was still in his pocket. Bo certainly wouldn’t be able to buy one illegally in Mawabane, probably the most law abiding town in the African continent. Before that, he was in hospital getting treatment to his ankle, and after that stealing a car, and yesterday afternoon trailing them here. A busy life, no time to buy guns.
Marcel, the café owner was serving a table outside, came over when he saw Miller approaching, fussed around showing them to a table. It was well away from Bo’s table, but Marcel made an indicating nod in that direction. Miller expected Marcel to put a finger alongside his nose and wink. He was slightly disappointed when Marcel didn’t do that, and grinned to himself. They ordered coffee and croissants, and Marcel bustled off with the order.
“You have a good life here, Dusty. Mornings frittering the time away drinking coffee.”
“You stupid bugger,” Miller smiled. “This is because you are my guest. Otherwise I would be doing paperwork, then overseeing parades. Discussing a million difficult problems with my subordinates, or with the king himself.”
“I hope you are so in touch with things that you have noticed Markham’s chauffeur sitting at a table down the way. And the Lexus parked there, which I am sure he came here in.”
“I am so up-to-date with events that I phoned the proprietor of this café when I saw the Lexus out of my apartment window at seven this morning, ascertained that Bo was staying here, and then phoned the police locally to alert them. And all before I came round to wake you up.”
“Apologies. I shouldn’t have underestimated your superior abilities. So, where are the police, as we speak?”
“Playing it low key. Or maybe still trying to locate Major Mazombe
in the South African Police, not fully believing the lowly chief of the Maswatiland National Army.”
“So this is where I play my part, and visit the toilets at the back of the café. If Bo is watching us, he may follow me. An opportunity for him to kidnap me, eh? Do you think he has a gun?”
Miller looked at McBride, thinking that his friend was cleverer than he sometimes appeared. “No, I don’t think he has a gun. The one he did have is at present in my pocket. Do you want me to give you some back up, in case?”
“Won’t be necessary. You’ve already saved my life once this week.” With that McBride rose to his feet, waited a moment or two, then strode off inside the café, making for the toilets at the back.
Without turning to look McBride pushed the Gents toilet door open. Casually he walked over to the urinal stalls, stood facing them. Listening hard. Heard the door push open slowly. Was not surprised when a hand descended on his shoulder. He pushed his elbow violently behind him. It hit something soft, an abdomen, and Bo doubled over, winded. McBride turned quickly, kicked at his good leg, and Bo was on the toilet floor, squirming to get to his feet. McBride stamped on his arms just above the elbows. Bent down, and pulled Bo to his feet, dragged him across to a cubicle, pushed his head in the w.c. bowl and held it there while he pulled the flush.
Bo coughed and choked, and was left gasping for air as the water subsided.
“Don’t ever get in my way again,” said McBride, dusting himself down and exiting the toilet door. He looked for the proprietor, saw him hurrying towards him. The noise must have been heard in the café.
“Have you got a key for this toilet?” asked McBride.
“Why, have you got the big man with the plaster cast on his leg? If you have, the police have just arrived to take him away.” Marcel pointed to the front of the café. Three armed police in flak vests were making their way between the tables.
McBride stood back, leaving them room to get through the door. Glancing between the police, McBride could see Bo still hanging his head over the bowl.
Outside on the street, Miller was still at the table drinking his coffee. McBride casually sat down in his seat, picked up his own coffee cup. Miller looked at him. “Your hair needs combing,” he said.
Chapter 36
McBride got wearily off the plane, and made his way through immigration. It was ten o’clock in the morning, British summer time. He had left Mawabe Airport at three o’clock yesterday afternoon and finally after two changes was in Manchester. A total of twenty-one hours, although only fourteen hours of flying time, the rest in transit lounges bored out of his mind. He had got some sleep on the leg from Jo’burg to Amsterdam, and there was virtually no time difference, so no jet lag. He would soon recover when he got clear of the terminal.
He got his car from the long-stay park after paying an enormous bill. The drive to his agent’s house took less than two hours to the west of Manchester, in the heart of the Cheshire countryside.
McBride parked his car off to the side of the front door of Ian Smith’s house. The door was answered by Ian’s secretary.
“Hello Mr McBride,” she said, “I was told you were coming for a few days. Can I help you with your luggage?” He had only brought out of the car an overnight bag, a case containing laundry, and his portmanteau of African paintings.
“Thank you, Dorothy. Could you take the portmanteau? I�
��ll manage the others.”
They had no sooner got into the hall than Ian Smith was bustling in from the back of the house.
“Welcome back to England, John. Hope you had time to paint plenty of pictures in between your adventures?” He was dressed to go out. That meant he had a jacket on. McBride looked at his watch. Lunch time.
“Shall we get a spot of lunch?” said Ian. “We’ll just walk down to the pub, eh?”
During lunch, sandwiches and beers at the bar, Smith questioned him closely about the Ponzi men and whether they had recovered the money.
“More than that, we got a whole lot more. It’s going to be distributed amongst the other members by a charitable trust, who will take into account people’s needs.”
“And that was easy, getting the money back?”
“Not exactly. Dusty Miller got kidnapped. I went to get him back, and he saved my life when Markham was going to execute me.”
“Sounds like you’ve had enough excitement for the foreseeable future. It will be all painting from now on.”
“That reminds me. I’ve had some time thinking about the United States.
What about if I paint double the amount I normally do in the next twelve months? That will give me a year to go to the States and still keep up the sales in the UK.”
“I’m really, really pleased with that decision. It’s all systems go. You won’t regret it. Now let’s get back to the house. You’ve got to show me the new paintings, and then get down to signing those prints.”
The Ponzi Men Page 35
