That was the clincher, thought Peter. The consideration which outweighed all other considerations. Moreover, he would not have to trust Meyer to pay him. In the way things had been arranged the fifty thousand pounds would be in his hands. A bank draft, not a cheque. He would post it straight to his own bank. As he was thinking about this he was interrupted.
“This is the Captain speaking,” said the metallic voice of God. “We have been informed that a storm centre of considerable violence has built up over Germany. It is moving south-west, very slowly. The prediction is that it will be over the Massif Central in three or four hours’ time and may marginally affect southern France by later this evening. We are making a small detour to keep well away from its influence and for this reason as you will see if you look out we shall be approaching Bordeaux from the west, not from the north. This will add fifteen minutes to our flight time.”
The message was repeated in French. The tone was confident and comforting. But Peter shared the general relief when he was able to catch a glimpse of the steel grey waters of the Gironde, and the run-in to Merignac airport began.
“I am indeed glad that you were able to come,” said Joseph Wellborn. A very different figure from the aloof, courteous gentleman who had greeted him on his previous visits. He looked like a man who had heard the first warnings of a mortal disease. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and his hand trembled slightly as he lifted a cigarette to his lips – the last of many, judging by the state of the ashtray on his desk.
“Have there been any developments?”
“Yes. This was pushed through the door sometime last night. It seems they were nervous of using the telephone.”
“Possibly,” said Peter. “Though I see no reason why they should be.”
He was examining the document, which looked like a page torn from a child’s exercise-book. On it was printed, in capital letters, ‘This is your last chance. As soon as it is dark send your messenger to the old Campe Militaire de Laugnan. He will be allowed to examine the painting and will bring back with him instructions as to the time and place of exchange.’
Peter was thinking of what Meyer had said to him. The need for expedition. He had repeated it twice. The Iranians were to forward the draft to the Banque de La Guyane ‘as soon as it was in their hands’. They were to post it ‘without delay’. Why was this so important? The matter had already dragged on for over a week. Why the desperate hurry? Was it just kidnappers’ technique? Give your victim no time to think.
He said, “When does the last post leave Bordeaux? And when does it arrive in Paris?”
“I will find out for you.” Mr. Wellborn seemed relieved at having something to do. After speaking on the telephone to someone who was evidently a senior official in the Post Office, he said, “The last post leaves Bordeaux at half-past eleven, but to catch it letters have to be in town boxes by eleven and local boxes by half-past ten. Such letters would be in Paris by five o’clock and would be distributed to addresses in the central arrondissements by nine.”
“Then since it has been emphasised to these men that they must post off the money without delay, we may assume that the exchange will take place sometime after I return from the Campe Militaire, but before ten thirty.”
“No doubt,” said Wellborn. “Do these details matter?”
“It is always useful to be able to forecast the moves of the opposition,” said Peter. His reaction to Wellborn’s nervousness was to assume a mantle of calm. He wished he felt as calm as he sounded. “You will notice, incidentally, that the time limits have been shortened. Previously, I understand, they stipulated ‘before the weekend’. That would suggest Friday night. Now it has been moved back twenty-four hours. Tonight is to be your last chance. I wonder if something has happened to frighten them?”
“I have done nothing, I assure you. I have followed their instructions to the letter.”
“I don’t doubt it. But these people have the instincts of animals. They can detect a threat before it develops. It might account for their reluctance to use the telephone.”
“Do you think so?” said Wellborn. Every new obstacle which stood between him and the most precious of his paintings, every delay in its return into his hands, deepened his nightmare of misery and helplessness.
“Of one thing I can assure you,” he added bitterly, “they are in no danger from the police.”
“You are certain of that? When I spoke to him I thought that Commissaire Meurice was determined to make a stand against these thugs.”
“Indeed, so determined was he that his superiors must have become alarmed. He was posted to Corsica and departed last week.”
This shook Peter more than he cared to admit. It had been at the back of his mind that if real trouble developed it would be possible to appeal to the police and that they would help. If they were now adopting a rigorously neutral attitude he would indeed be on his own.
A further point occurred to him. He said, “Then it wasn’t the police who warned you about those two Iranians being in the neighbourhood?”
“Certainly not. Even if they had known of it, I doubt if they would have taken such helpful action. No, I learned of it through Hervé Gobard. He heard of it from his brother, Georges. He runs an unofficial ferry from Port de Goulée to Mortagne. This brings him into contact with the Brotherhood of the Gironde – so called. Salmon-poachers and smugglers. It was one of them, a neighbour of his, who happened to know Goraji and Rasim. No doubt they had had dealings with them before.”
Peter had returned to a consideration of the note. “There are two difficulties here,” he said. “The first is a practical one. How am I to find my way to the old Campe de Laugnan?” He was examining the huge expanse of green on the map. It started at the tip of the Medoc peninsula and ran south almost to Bayonne, the five thousand square miles of the Pare Régional des Landes; mostly uninhabited and in parts visited only by foresters. “It is an easy place to get lost in. You may remember that I did so last time I was here and on that occasion I was never more than half a mile from the main road. This camp is described as ‘de Laugnan’, but in fact, it seems to be totally isolated.”
“As to that, you need not worry. I have a very reliable guide for you. Laure Gobard. She has agreed to accompany you.”
“Young Laure. Do you really think she—?”
“There are few people who know the Parc des Landes better.” Mr. Wellborn was speaking, for the first time, with some animation. Possibly the result of ceasing to think of his own troubles. “When she was young – I mean eleven or twelve – she must, I fear, have been lonely. In those days we had two women who did all the housework. Having so much time on her hands she used to spend a lot of it in the woods. Her father didn’t like it, but the foresters knew her and looked after her. And anyway, as they said, she was so quick on her feet and knew the terrain so well that someone who meant mischief would have had precious little chance of catching her. Mind you, they had to draw the line when she started staying out at night.”
“At night?”
“All night, on some occasions. No one would have known about it if her Uncle Hervé hadn’t caught her sneaking back in the early hours one morning. He told her father and they put a stop to that.”
“She’s a remarkable girl,” said Peter. “And I’ll be happy to have her as a guide. Now the second point and perhaps a rather more serious one. This theft was obviously well planned. What is to prevent the Iranians – who may have contacts in the Paris art world – from having prepared a duplicate? You often see students, in the Louvre, copying the pictures and really they seem to do it extremely well. I don’t mean that a copy would get away with it for long. Any sort of expert could immediately tell it from the original. But suppose the only opportunity I have of inspecting it is a few minutes – by torch light perhaps—”
“There will be no necessity,” said Mr. Wellborn, “for you to examine the picture at all.”
“Then how—?”
“All you need ascert
ain is that it is still fixed to its original stretcher. It is, in fact, most unlikely to have been taken off it. Any attempt to do so would result in seriously damaging the canvas. And you must remember that these men have only had the picture in their possession for a few days. That would give them neither the time nor the technical apparatus necessary to remove it neatly. If they made the attempt they would leave very obvious signs of their efforts.”
“I’ve no doubt you’re right. But if they’d got a substitute picture ready, why should they not have faked up a substitute stretcher?”
“They might, of course, have done so. It would not really be difficult to make a convincing stretcher out of suitable wood. Possibly removed from another old picture. But what they would not, and could not, have done is to reproduce in it certain features which I will explain to you.”
He sounded much easier, thought Peter; now it was the professor instructing his students.
“When my father inherited these pictures from his father his attention was drawn to the fact that the canvas, in a number of cases, was not really taut on the stretcher. Close examination showed why. The pins which had been used originally were of soft metal and had rusted. In some cases they had broken right through. The solution was to withdraw them – a most delicate operation, as you may imagine – and refasten the canvas to the stretcher using new pins. These, as is common nowadays, were of copper. They were not, for obvious reasons, driven through the holes left by the original pins. They were inserted, in every case, one inch above or to the right of the old pins. All you will have to do, therefore, is to turn the picture over and examine the back of the stretcher. The old holes were filled in with some form of wood substitute, but they will be perfectly visible. If they are there, it is the genuine stretcher. If it is the genuine stretcher, it is the genuine picture.”
“Then that seems to remove the last difficulty,” said Peter. The last excuse, also, for not undertaking the enterprise.
Luncheon was served by Laure, who seemed unperturbed by the part she was going to be called on to play. It was a silent meal. When it was over Mr. Wellborn summoned Peter to his study and succeeded in surprising him. He unlocked his desk and produced a yellow-coloured slip of paper, printed in green, with the well-known logo of the Crédit Agricole at the top. It had been signed by two directors and was a draft on the bank for five hundred thousand francs. He pushed it across the desk to Peter.
“But,” said Peter, “I can’t accept this until I’ve done the job.”
“You have done the greater part of it by coming here. I cannot tell you what a relief it has been to have someone to discuss this matter with. I felt so very lonely. Now your confidence has restored my own.”
Peter folded the draft and slipped it into his wallet. It was difficult to say which was the heavier burden. The misplaced confidence which had been placed in him or the money which had been so trustfully paid to him.
He said, “The first thing I must do is to have a word with Laure. When I know how long it takes to reach the Campe de Laugnan I may be able to make some sort of plan.”
He found her in the kitchen with her grandmother. Her father was sitting on a stool beside the range, crouched forward, with his head in his hands. When he saw Peter he straightened up and began to get to his feet.
Peter said, “Don’t get up.”
Gran’mère said, “It would do him good if he got up and went outside and made himself useful.” And, before Laure could voice the protest she was going to make, “All right. All right. We are all sorry for him. But sympathy is a poor medicine.”
By this time Michel-Ange was standing up. Ignoring Gran’mère and addressing himself to Peter, he said, “If it could be contrived, sir, that I meet these men once more—”
“If things turn out as we hope,” said Peter. “The only person who will meet them will be myself.”
Michel-Ange growled something under his breath and sank back onto his stool. He was a powerful man, barrel-chested and broad in the shoulders. In a fair fight, Peter thought, he would be a formidable opponent.
He turned to Laure and said, “Can you show me, on this map, the way we shall be going this evening and explain how we propose to travel?”
“There are bicycles for both of us. We go through Queyrac and out onto the highroad.”
“The D.l.”
“Is that its name? We can continue down it towards Lesparre and turn to the right before we get there. You can see there is quite a main road which goes to St. Isidore and out to the coast. About five kilometres along it we should be on the south side of the old camp. It was, you understand, a Campe Militaire, but that was many years ago, before the war. If we went that way we should only have a short distance to walk up the old track to the camp.”
“But, for the most part, it would mean using main roads.”
“That is so. We should certainly be seen.”
“I’d like to avoid that if possible.”
“In that case we will not use the main road at all. We will cross it at Queyrac and take this very small track – you see it? It is marked only with a dotted line.” As she drew her finger along it Peter noticed that although it was the brown, rough hand of a boy, the fingernail had been delicately tinted in pink. “That takes us to Roquillac, which has been deserted for many years. After that we walk.”
“How long if we go that way?”
“Half an hour. Perhaps a little more. We shall have to go slowly. It is much overgrown.”
“If we leave here at seven it will be dark by the time we get there.”
“Dark or nearly dark.”
“So watch out for the wolves,” said Gran’mère.
Laure ignored this. It seemed to be a family joke.
He decided to fill in some of the time which yawned between him and seven o’clock by going for a walk. He could make no detailed plans until the Iranians had declared their intentions, but it would do no harm to get some idea of the lie of the land. When he reached the gateway at the end of the drive he turned left and walked for some two kilometres until the road he was on crossed the main road. Here, as he had hoped, he found a post-box set in the wall. The evening collections were at four thirty and ten thirty. He had brought with him an envelope addressed to his own bank in London. The draft for five hundred thousand francs went into the envelope and the envelope, after a last-minute hesitation, into the box.
Now he really was committed.
He swung round and started back the way he had come, passing the entrance to the château and heading for the river. Ahead of him the dusty poplar-lined road ran straight as an arrow for five kilometres, then swerved to the right. This was Port de Goulée. It turned out to be half a dozen cottages and a landing-stage with a hut at its inshore end. There were two boats moored there. Both had oars and a mast which was stepped and both he saw, when he looked more closely, had a stern fitting for an outboard motor, which had been removed and was, no doubt, locked in the hut.
There was no sign of life. A yellowing notice on the wall of the hut indicated that both boats were available for hire. One of them, he guessed, belonged to Georges Gobard. There was a tide table, which Peter studied. High tides that day, Thursday, were at 00.20 hours and 12.40 hours. Since it was then half-past three they were approaching the mid-point when the tide would start to ebb. At that moment it was holding the current, but barely making against it. He confirmed his calculation by watching a clump of weeds which floated upstream, very slowly, past the end of the pier.
At his feet the broad silver-grey river was hardly ruffled by the wind. To his left he saw a single tramp steamer rounding the Pointe de Richard. It was making use of the last of the floodtide to reach Bordeaux. He wondered what cargo it was carrying. Perhaps it belonged to the Brotherhood of the Gironde which Wellborn had mentioned. The name suggested men, cloaked and masked, with rapiers at their hips. More probably a gang of bearded poachers with sawn-off shotguns.
He got up reluctantly and started on his r
eturn journey.
When he reached the château he went straight up to his room, kicked off his shoes, pulled the eiderdown over him and settled down to see if he could get a couple of hours’ sleep. He thought it unlikely that the state of his mind, full of plans and possibilities, would allow this; but he had had very little sleep the night before, the room was warm and the bed was comfortable.
In five minutes he had slid into a state that was nearer sleep than waking. He was on the broad back of the Gironde, drifting slowly down stream and out to sea.
He was asleep.
8
Stewart had spent the morning in the office, in a bad temper, partly caused by boredom, partly, as he was honest enough to admit, by the fact that the interesting and heroic part in the affair was being played by Peter and not by himself.
He addressed himself resolutely to the letters, some from his own in-tray and a much larger number from Peter’s. New clients were refused. Existing clients were turned off as tactfully as possible. His mind was now made up. Starfax had run its course. A satisfactory course, as the latest communication from his bank manager demonstrated.
He was trying to make up his mind where to go for his solitary lunch when the telephone rang.
It was Colin Chaytor and he was so disturbed that Stewart was unable to make out what he was talking about. Finally he managed to ask, “Are you phoning from the office? Or from a call-box, or what?”
Having to deal with a direct question produced a break in the flow of his words. He said, “Oh, no, I’m not at the office. I’m at home. The most terrible development—”
“Look here,” said Stewart, overriding him ruthlessly, “unless you talk a bit more slowly and a lot more clearly I shan’t have a chance of understanding what you’re saying. To start with, why aren’t you at the office?”
“I couldn’t stay there. Not in the light of the developments—”
“All right. I understand that. There have been developments.”
“Terrible developments.”
Paint Gold and Blood Page 20
