Meyer had met the man before and knew something of his career. He had started as a junior secretary in the Chilean Embassy at Madrid, had become involved in Intelligence work and had shown such enthusiasm for it that the Spanish government had ordered his expulsion on twenty-four hours’ notice. He had then joined the Banque de La Guyane, first at Georgetown, subsequently in Paris.
No cigars this time. Straight down to business.
Five minutes conversation convinced Meyer that Mr. Agostino was going to be much more useful to him than Monsieur Blaineau. He seemed to be a broad-minded man, with both feet firmly on the ground.
Meyer said, “When I was in Brussels I warned the manager of the Banque Liégeoise that I was contemplating a purchase in South America which would necessitate withdrawing the balance which he holds for me on current account.”
“A large sum?”
“The equivalent in Belgian francs of a little more than £700,000. How long would it take to move this money into your hands?”
Trying to look neither gratified nor surprised the manager said, “By expedited inter-bank transfer, twenty-four hours. Longer, of course, if a weekend or a Bank Holiday intervened.”
“Good. The next point is perhaps not quite so simple. My vendor has indicated that he requires the money in the form of bearer scrip.”
“Hoffman-Laroche, perhaps?”
“We thought of them, of course. But I am dealing with a man who looks well ahead. Odd things sometimes happen in the pharmaceutical industry. No. In the end we settled on N.T.T.”
“Nippon Telephone & Telegraph. Yes. He could hardly do better.”
“You must understand that the two essentials in this transaction are expedition and secrecy. Tell me, once the money from Brussels is in your hands how long would it take you to complete the purchase of the scrip?”
“No delay in the actual purchase. The order and confirmation would go by fax. The purchase money would be paid by inter-bank transfer. The only difficulty is that, being a bearer security, the scrip itself will have to come from Switzerland.”
“And that would take how long?”
“A week or more.”
“Yes,” said Meyer. “That does present a difficulty.”
“If speed is essential, might I suggest an alternative form of bearer security? A certified draft on this bank. It would be cashable on sight anywhere in South America.”
“And I could have that at once?”
“But certainly. The money to back it would be in your account. There would be no difficulty and no delay.”
“Do you know,” said Meyer slowly, “I think that’s an excellent idea? And so simple. I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it for myself.”
Having concluded both pieces of business in such a satisfactory manner he stood himself an expensive lunch at the Taillevent and was only marginally upset, on returning to his apartment, to receive a telephone call from Lisa warning him of the impending visit of Detective Superintendent O’Keefe.
“Did he say what he wanted to talk about?”
“Not in so many words,” said Lisa. “But I gather it’s to do with that young Iranian they found outside Colin’s cottage.”
“In that case,” said Meyer cheerfully, “since I know absolutely nothing about it, there’s nothing I can tell him.”
He had plans for that evening. They involved a visit to a Turkish bath in the fourteenth arrondissement. There, on payment of a sum considerably in excess of the normal fee, he would be given the use of a private bathroom and would be looked after by a young sailor from Toulon. The thought of that suntanned and muscular body was already exciting him.
5
“I realise that you’re a busy man,” said Detective Superintendent O’Keefe. “It’s good of you to see me.”
Meyer, who also thought it was good of him, nodded.
“I needn’t waste time telling you about the unfortunate business out at Stanwell last Monday. Mr. Chaytor is, I believe, your – what is the correct description?”
“My assistant.”
“Your assistant. Yes. I see. He has been with you for some time?”
“For twenty years.”
“Indeed.” The Superintendent paused. He seemed to be in two minds as to how to proceed. Then, starting to speak more briskly, he said, “We know a good deal about both the parties who were involved in this unpleasant affair. Not everything, of course. But enough to be able to arrive at certain preliminary conclusions. Mohammed Jemal was a young and active member of the Iranian Freedom Group. It is thought that he may have been the perpetrator of a recent bomb outrage in Paris. As to the two other men, they would appear to be professional thugs, Nasser Goraji and Mahmoud Rasim by name, who work for the pro-Khomeni faction in France. Our colleagues in the Special Branch duly noted their arrival at Heathrow on Monday.”
Meyer said, with indignation that was only partly assumed, “Surely, Superintendent, if they knew the sort of people they were, they should either have detained them or sent them back?”
“Difficult. They were travelling on what appeared to be perfectly genuine passports. Moreover, they were armed with a letter from an official in the French Foreign Ministry stating that they were accredited to the Syrian Embassy, with whom they had urgent business to conduct. Detaining them would have led to a diplomatic incident at least. In any event, they were not here long. They were on a flight which arrived at half-past six on that Monday evening and they were observed returning to Paris by the nine o’clock plane the next morning.”
“Having met and disposed of Jemal.”
“So one would assume.”
“It’s obvious. They were sent over to kill him and they killed him.”
“No doubt. But why did they select the neighbourhood of your assistant’s house?”
Meyer had been expecting this one and was ready for it. He said, “I don’t find that difficult. It is practically on the back doorstep of Heathrow Airport. Probably they all came over on the same plane. The two thugs followed Jemal, happened, by chance, to catch up with him at or near Stanwell and carried out the assassination.”
“The–o–retically,” said the Superintendent, spreading the word out to its fullest length, “that is a possible solution. But, in fact, it’s quite untrue.”
“Oh. What makes you say that?”
“I say it because it does not fit in, in any way, with the rest of our information.”
As he said this, Meyer realised that the Superintendent was dealing out facts in a carefully predetermined order, as an expert bridge player might lay his cards on the table. He realised, also for the first time, that he would have to be careful when playing his own cards.
“For instance,” continued the Superintendent, “we know that Goraji and Rasim were met at the airport by a car hired for them by the Embassy. It took them to Stanwell Moor, which is a small village on the other side of the B379. Here they left it, instructing it to wait. They said they might be away for some hours. They were back by eleven o’clock and were driven to a small hotel in Egham where they, and the driver, spent the night. Next morning he took them back to catch their flight to Paris. That information came from the car-hire firm. I see no reason to doubt it.”
“Nothing there contradicts the idea I put forward.”
“Agreed. The contradiction comes from the known movements of Jemal. He was seen in London in the late afternoon and no doubt approached Stanwell, in the normal way, by train and bus. That is still to be confirmed. But what we do know is that, when he arrived, he broke into Mr. Chaytor’s house, which was empty at the time, and made himself comfortable in the kitchen.”
“How can you possibly—?”
“How can we be sure of it? We are on very firm ground.” The Superintendent smiled slightly. “In every sense of the word. You may remember the weather that night. It was dry and clear until about half-past nine. Then there was a sudden downpour. It lasted for not much more than half an hour. But a very important half h
our, since it enabled us to work out, with great precision, what Jemal had done. He was wearing the very narrow shoe which such people often affect. The prints which he left, both before and after the storm, were quite clear.”
He was speaking slowly and Meyer was now paying close attention. He was not sure how it affected him, but had an uneasy feeling that there were snags ahead.
“He broke into Mr. Chaytor’s house some time before the rain started. When he left it, in a hurry, it was raining hard. He ran up the path, beside the garden, back to the main road. At that point his prints are joined and trampled on by two much heavier pairs. Goraji and Rasim, we assume. Two professionals would not have taken long to master a boy.”
“That seems clear,” said Meyer.
“Yes. But what is far from clear is why Jemal waited in the house at all. Who was he waiting for? It can’t have been Mr. Chaytor and his friends, since he ran away as soon as they arrived.”
“I suppose you will say that he was waiting for Mrs. Chaytor.”
“Exactly. She came through Customs at Dover at five o’clock. Train and bus would have got her to the house at half-past nine. You know why she went to France, of course.”
“No,” said Meyer sharply. “Why should I know?”
“Mr. Chaytor has worked for you for twenty years. Did he never mention that his wife escorted children to and from France?”
“Oh, that, yes. I thought you meant—”
“Yes, Mr. Meyer, what did you think I meant?”
“What I was going to say was that I knew about Mrs. Chaytor’s trips to France, but wasn’t particularly interested in them.”
“Is that right? I rather gathered that there was one occasion at least on which you were not only interested, but took a very active part.”
“Was there? I had forgotten.”
“It was not all that long ago. Mind you, my information is second hand and may be quite incorrect. The story, as I had it from one of Mr. Chaytor’s friends, was that he was getting very upset about his wife missing her train at the Gare du Nord. And that you took charge in quite an admirable way.”
“It was not an event of great importance,” said Meyer with a smile. “Now that you mention it, I do recall it.”
“Do you know what had caused the delay?”
“I gather that the taxi which was taking Mrs. Chaytor to the Gare du Nord was involved in an accident.”
“A serious accident?”
“Not really. It seems that the driver’s attention was distracted and he collided with a private car.”
“One can hardly blame him for being distracted. After all, it’s not every day that a bomb goes off in your immediate vicinity.”
“A bomb?”
“Thrown into a cafe in the Boulevard de Magenta. Quite close to the station.”
Meyer was thinking fast. He said, “I’m afraid you’ve got this wrong. A bomb was thrown. I read about it in the paper. But that was some time after Mrs. Chaytor’s accident. That was nothing to do with it.”
“It only shows how careful one must be.”
“What do you mean?” said Meyer sharply.
“In accepting information at second hand.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
“But there are still things about Mrs. Chaytor’s part in this killing which I find it difficult to understand. I am trying to build up a picture, but some of the parts refuse to fit. For instance, it might help me if I understood more clearly what part Mr. Chaytor plays in your organisation. You described him as your assistant. What does that involve?”
“I can tell you about that,” said Meyer. (If this bloody man didn’t dodge about so much I might get some idea what he’s really after.) “Colin Chaytor is a painter. Not, perhaps, of the first class, but a very competent professional. He has also made a study of French and Italian art. This enables him to advise me about the pictures I buy.”
“He does a little more than simply advise you. Doesn’t he bid for the pictures, at auction?”
“Yes he does.” (What are we getting to now?)
“At Pikorx. You know about them, of course.”
“Yes, I know about them.”
“I felt you must do. Since you formed the company and hold all the shares; some of them in the names of nominees.”
Meyer drew a deep breath. This man was dangerous. He said, “What put that idea into your head?”
“Our Company Fraud Department. They’re not often wrong about things like that.”
Meyer decided that the time had come to lose his temper. He said, “Look here, Inspector – Superintendent. I’ve been very patient with you. I’ve answered questions on matters which seem to me to have no connection with the crime you’re meant to be investigating. This boy Jemal had no connection with me, nor I with him. Now – if you don’t mind—”
He got to his feet. O’Keefe made no sign of complying. Instead he felt in his inner pocket and pulled out a piece of white card. “This is a photocopy,” he said. “The original was badly stained, but our people brought it up. You recognise it?”
“Of course. It’s my professional card.”
“And if you have no connection with Jemal, nor him with you, what was it doing in his pocket?”
Meyer took a second deep breath. He said, “Many people have these cards. Potential customers, agents, art lovers—”
“And into which category would you place Jemal?”
As he said this, the Superintendent got to his feet. He was a lot taller than Meyer and broader. Standing there, face to face, he appeared for the first time to be menacing.
“I am sorry, Mr. Meyer. But I am afraid you are not being entirely frank with me. You would be well advised to consider your position.” Before Meyer could reply, the Superintendent had swung round, made for the door and let himself out, closing it behind him. Meyer heard his feet rapping on the tiles in the hall, then heard the front door open and shut. He sat without movement for a whole minute, then put out his hand, felt for the telephone, pulled it towards him and dialled a number.
At the last moment, he seemed to change his mind and cut off the call before it could start ringing.
The number Meyer had started to dial was the Starfax office. If he had persisted, he would have found both Starfactors at their desks. Peter was typing a letter. Stewart was reading the Michaelmas term issue of the Chelburian which had arrived that morning.
“An improvement on the last few numbers,” he said. “The new editor has a glimmering notion of how to write.”
Peter said, “Uh?” He was attempting to compose a letter to a madman.
“An interesting section of School Notes, too.”
“Grow up,” said Peter. “You left school three years ago.”
Stewart ignored this. He said, “I see that Dakin has won a scholarship at Oriel. I always said that kid would go far.”
“Actually, you called him a spotty drip.”
“I revised my opinion later. And what do you think of this? ‘All Chelburians will have been pleased to learn that the Reverend Alvin Brind, formerly our Chaplain, has now been offered one of the senior positions in the cathedral hierarchy as precentor. Among his other assignations will be oversight of the cathedral choir. He said, “My long experience of working with boys of all ages at Chelborough will be of great assistance to me in carrying out this duty.” He is remembered here as an inspiring preacher and a great teacher of history.’”
“He’ll end up as a Bishop,” said Peter. “Now, please—”
“One more item. A sad one this time. Do you remember little Mr. Pleydell?”
“He taught art. Lived in a cottage in Dene Lane and rode to school on a very old bicycle.”
“Correct. On this occasion he fell off his bicycle in front of a lorry.”
“How unpleasant. Did it—?”
“No. The lorry stopped in time. He had died of heart failure.”
“An artistic finish,” said Peter. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must
get on with this letter. Damn.” It was the telephone on his desk. A one-sided conversation ensued. Peter said, “Oh, hello darling. No, never too busy to hear from you.” Then, “Oh” a number of times and “Why on earth?” And finally, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to.”
Stewart said, “I take it that was Lisa. What’s she trying to talk you into now?”
“I’ve been invited to tea by her mother. Today.”
“Accept at once,” said Stewart. “You’ll get a good tea and insinuate yourself even further into her good books.”
“I’m not sure. She’s a tough old girl. I still can’t make out if she approves of me or not.”
“Give her that lovely smile of yours and she’ll fall flat on her back.”
When Peter had gone, Stewart resumed his study of the Chelburian. There was a picture of Precentor-elect Brind with the Bishop. Both men looked pleased with themselves. He was deep in a study of the season’s cricket results when Ronald Terry came in. His new style of dressing reflected his elevation to a post in the City. He said, “Really I came in to say goodbye. I don’t think I shall be much use to you now.”
“A busy journalist.”
“It’s a bit more than that. I’ve been offered a job in a company called Inter-Continental Marketing. Not a large outfit, but it seems to be doing very well. Doubled its turnover last year.”
“Marketing,” said Stewart thoughtfully. “I’ve heard one or two people talking about it lately.”
“It’s the in-thing.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“We sell other people’s products for them.”
“Advertising, you mean.”
“Much more than that. All forms of promotion. Briefing their reps, free offers, packaging, presentation—”
“Good luck to you,” said Stewart, “and thanks for all your help in the past.”
After Ron had left he sat for a long time, occasionally turning over the pages of the magazine, but no longer really reading it. When it became too dark to read, he did not turn on the light, but sat there, thinking.
Quite apart from the defection of Ron there were a number of reasons for supposing that the time was at hand for Starfax to close. The only real obstacle was Peter. Those futile jobs which he had tried since leaving school! How could he throw him back onto that dead-end market? Moreover, Peter was clearly enjoying his Starfax work and had a talent for it. An impossibly difficult decision.
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