“Is that wise?” said Rasim. “Now that he has his precious picture back Mr. Wellborn may have circulated a warning.”
“It is a chance we must take. I will have a word with Bernard. He is discreet. And being of the Brotherhood he is likely to have contacts in the Post Office. I may be able to find out what I want to know without even using his telephone.”
Peter, who was recovering slowly, listened to this scrap of conversation with interest. Some things were becoming clearer. Mr. Wellborn had mentioned Georges, the brother of Hervé and Michel-Ange, who ran a ferry across the Gironde from Port de Goulée. It was Georges, it seemed, who had learned of the arrival of the two Iranians from one of his neighbours in Port de Goulée. It was logical to suppose that this neighbour might be the Bernard they were talking about. When he had been at Port de Goulée that afternoon he had seen two boats, both with fittings for outboard engines and both, no doubt, capable of crossing the mouth of the Gironde, particularly if the right concurrence of tide and current were observed. It was a reasonable supposition that one of the boats belonged to this man Bernard and the other to Georges Gobard. His mind was starting to work more clearly. If this was right, it explained a point which had puzzled him.
The men had left their own car on the north bank of the Gironde. They had arranged with Bernard to ferry them across. Once over, they had stolen the first vehicle they could lay their hands on. It had been kept hidden in the forest and only used, discreetly, after dark. Then, when the time came to leave, all they would have to do was to abandon it near Port de Goulée, be ferried back by Bernard, pick up their own car and head for Paris. He was convinced that he had read the situation correctly. It fitted in with the men’s professionalism. They had realised that, if a hue and cry had been raised, it would be only too easy for the police to post guards at the regular crossing places of the river. By adopting this method they kept themselves clear of trouble.
By the time he had reached this conclusion Goraji had finished his drink. He said, “I have no doubt that you can keep this boy safe in my absence. But I think we should take some precautions in case he should slip away when your back is turned.” He extracted a length of cord from one of the two big rucksacks that were hanging on the inner wall. “We will remove his shoes – so. And we will attach his ankles to the end of the bed – so.” He knotted the cords expertly. “Now I do not think our little bird will fly away.”
He went out and Peter heard the van start up and the sound diminishing as it cleared the camp and headed for the Lesparre road.
Rasim had followed him out, but had not gone far. Peter could hear his footsteps crunching up and down on the stones. He realised that Rasim, on his own, was more nervous than when he was backed by Goraji. He was keeping his eyes and ears open for intruders. Might this be the moment when he could slip away?
A superficial examination of the cords round his ankles convinced him of the impossibility of this. They had been tightly knotted and the final knots were below the level of the iron bar at the end of the bed.
Such chance as there might have been vanished when Rasim reappeared. He poured himself a second drink and offered one to Peter, who shook his head. His stomach had recovered some stability, but he was not taking any chances.
“You must keep up your spirits,” said Rasim. “As you will be aware, our religion discourages the use of alcohol. When I am in Iran, I observe the prohibition. When I am abroad, I follow the customs of the country I am in.”
“When in Rome,” said Peter, “do as the Romans do.”
“Rome is a fine city,” said Rasim.
He came across, swallowed half the contents of his glass, put it down on the corner of the packing case and perched himself on the bed. He was close enough for Peter to see that he was sweating. The point of a pink tongue came out from between his lips.
Peter said, “I suppose it’s some time since you were last in Iran.”
“Alas, yes. Our work has kept us in France for a number of years.”
“I guessed as much. You speak French very fluently.”
Rasim smirked. “Not too badly for an ignorant man. You also speak it well.”
“No credit to me. My mother’s family were French. She is dead, but many of my relations still live in Paris.”
“And you? You are still very young. Not long out of school I would guess. You live in England?”
“For the last ten years, yes.”
“And how do you pass the time? Chasing girls? They would find you attractive, no doubt.” A hand strayed onto Peter’s leg.
“I’m afraid I have to spend most of my time earning my living.”
“And how do you do that?”
(Keep him talking, for God’s sake.)
Peter started to explain the practice of Starfax. He dragged it out as long as he could and was relieved to note that Rasim seemed genuinely interested.
He said, “So you tell fortunes. Is that it?”
“More or less. We judge what may be in store for a man, or a woman, by considering the exact position of the planets and the stars at the moment of their birth. If you can read the signs accurately you will know what course their life will take.”
“Could you, for instance, do that for me?”
“I could try.”
“Very well.” Rasim sat back to think about it. “I was born, very close to midnight, so I am told, on the eighteenth day of February – that is by your calendar, you understand.”
“A very significant date indeed. It lies almost exactly between the houses of Aquarius and Pisces.”
“What does that mean for me?”
(Peter had managed to look at his watch. Goraji had left at around a quarter past eleven. He had perhaps twenty-five kilometres to cover, all on good roads. He would meet little or no traffic at that time of night. On the other hand, he would not want to call attention to himself by speeding. Say, twenty minutes to Port de Goulée. Five or ten minutes to pursue his enquiries with Bernard. Twenty minutes back. A minimum of three-quarters of an hour. It was now a few minutes short of midnight.)
Whilst Peter was thinking about this, Rasim had been watching him anxiously. He said, “I see you can read something. Is it good or bad?”
“It is equally divided. It seems you will be safe from any death by violence involving knives or guns. At the same time you will have to be very careful when crossing water – this is the significance of the fact that at the moment of your birth, you were leaving the house of the Water-carrier and entering the house of the Fishes.”
Rasim chewed over this information for some seconds. It seemed both to reassure and to disturb him. Finally he said, “So be it. I must, as you say, be careful. You say that you earned your living by this skill that you possess. Was it you alone, or were there others who helped you?”
“One other in particular. An old schoolfriend of mine.”
As soon as he had said this Peter realised that he had made a mistake. Rasim was smiling. “A schoolboy friendship,” he said. “One has heard of such things. In our country it is very common. Before a young man discovers the attraction of the other sex he will take his pleasure with one of his own sex. Great pleasure, sometimes.”
He was now lying half beside and half over Peter, who was held fast by his feet. One of his hands went down and unbuckled Peter’s belt.
“Please,” said Peter. “Don’t do that.”
“A beautiful boy like you. It will not be the first time, I am sure.”
(Only once before, when two older boys had trapped him in a railway carriage. They had been much less brutal than Rasim was planning to be and had left him alone when he had started crying.)
Rasim was now trying to pull down his trousers. The cord round his ankles helped Peter to prevent him. Rasim’s face, glistening with excitement, was a few inches from his own. He said, “If you resist, I may be forced to hurt you.”
Then he stopped. He had heard, before Peter did, the sound of the truck returning. He clim
bed back off the bed and stood up. “No matter,” he said, “we have all night for our games.”
Peter watched him go out, through the inner door. He heard him cross the outer room and step outside onto the path. Then he saw the knife. The point, glittering like a star in the light of the lamp, had pierced the wall-covering near the top and now came slowly down through the tough canvas, with a slurring noise.
Then Laure was in the room. Her face was white and working, but her hand was steady. She sliced the cord which held Peter’s feet. He rolled off the bed, refastened his belt and looked round wildly for his shoes. They might have been put in the suitcase, or hidden away somewhere. No time to waste. Laure had already gone. He followed her, squeezing through the slit in the canvas. He heard Rasim say something which made Goraji laugh. Then he was through the gap in the planking and in the open air.
He saw Laure beckon and stumbled after her. It was not too bad whilst they were inside the compound. He followed his guide who led the way to a place where the bottom strand of the wire was loose and wriggled under it at the cost of a tear in his windcheater. The moon was hidden by clouds and he could see very little. Some yards on he fell forward, on hands and knees, into a hole which seemed, from the dampness of the earth, to have been freshly dug. It was no more than three foot deep and easy enough to climb out of. From this point the going became very difficult.
Not only did he trip over roots, but he trod on stones, some of them flints half buried in the earth with their sharp edges uppermost. First he tried putting his feet down gently to feel for a clear patch. This helped, but not much. The soles of his feet were cut and bruised. He could feel the blood soaking through his socks. Finally he sat down. He said, “I’m sorry, Laure. It’s no good. My feet won’t take me much further. I could hobble along for a bit and maybe crawl. But that’s not going to get us to Roquillac, or even to Laugnan, if that was your plan.”
“We are not far from the Lesparre road. If we can reach it, walking on a smooth surface would be easier for you.”
“Much better.”
“And we might stop a car and get a lift. Not that it is very likely at this hour of the night.”
“Lead on,” said Peter. “If you go slowly I can manage.”
It took them half an hour, an agonising thirty minutes, to reach the Lesparre road. After that it was certainly a lot more comfortable walking on the smooth asphalt. And when they had been going for a few minutes they heard a car coming, from the direction of Hourtin. Peter stumbled out into the middle of the road, waving his arms. Blinded by the headlights he saw, too late, what Laure’s sharper eyes had noticed as she dived back into the ditch.
It was Rasim who jumped out of the van and threw an arm round Peter’s shoulders. Goraji, who had been driving, dismounted more slowly. Rasim said, “How could you bring yourself to leave us after all the care we had taken of you?”
Peter said nothing. He was too shocked at his own stupidity to utter a word.
Goraji was also silent. He seemed to have something on his mind. When they were back in the hut he said, suddenly, “Where did you hide the knife?”
“I didn’t hide it,” said Peter. “It was in my pocket. If you’d looked you’d have found it.”
“Where is it now?”
“Somewhere in the forest. I must have dropped it.”
Goraji chewed on this. Then he said to Rasim, “When I went away you came out with me, yes?”
“That’s right. I did so.”
“How long were you outside?”
“Perhaps five minutes. Maybe ten.”
“Then he had five or ten minutes to cut himself free and escape. And at that time only you were there. So why did he wait until I was back? That was stupid, wasn’t it? And he is not stupid, this boy. I think someone helped him. Someone who came from outside. Someone I fancy I saw slipping off as we drove up. I think perhaps he will tell us the truth if we ask him.”
“Yes,” said Rasim. He was smiling with pleasure at the thought of what was to come.
Goraji said, “Go out and cut me two or three sticks. Supple ones, about a metre long.” And to Peter, “Lie on the bed.”
Since resistance was useless, Peter lay down. Goraji removed his socks. They were matted with blood and had stuck to the soles of his feet. When Goraji jerked them off the wounds began to bleed again. He fastened Peter’s ankles to the bar at the foot of the bed and pulled the bed away from the wall.
By the time he had done this Rasim was back, carrying two whippy branches which he had cut from an alder. He sat himself down on the other bed and started to trim them, doing the work carefully, humming to himself as he did so. When he had finished, he got up and examined the state of Peter’s feet. “A touch of the bastinado,” he said. “That should produce the most interesting results.”
Peter was now quite clear what was going to happen. They were like two boys who had caught a rat alive in a trap and were thinking out interesting ways of killing it. They would torture him, for their pleasure, and when he was a screaming, blubbering wreck they would finish him off and bury him in the grave they had prepared. Since they must have dug it before they came to the meeting place, it was clear that they had never had any intention that he should survive the night.
Rasim came across, took careful aim and brought the stick down. The pain was horrible.
Surprised at the steadiness of his own voice Peter said, in an offhand way, almost as though he were a spectator and not a principal in what was taking place, “Before you go on, you ought, perhaps, to consider one point.”
“Yes?” said Rasim.
“Had you, perhaps, overlooked the fact that my mother’s sister, the Countess Christine de Clissac, lives in a second storey flat in the Avenue de Neuilly? And—” he paused artistically “—that she has no lift.”
It was the tone of voice as much as the words that checked Rasim. Their earlier conversation had left him with the idea that Peter was possessed of hidden powers. Like all ignorant people, he distrusted anything he could not immediately understand. Goraji was less impressed. He said, “If you are propounding riddles in order to save yourself from punishment, do not bother. We have the night ahead of us.”
“Very well,” said Peter. “A further point, then, before we return to my aunt and her flat. Are you both such townsmen that you did not know that no rabbit would leave its hole in a night of storm? Because if you had realised this elementary fact you would have known that Michel-Ange Gobard would hardly have been out rabbit shooting.”
“So?”
“What happened was intended, of course, as a diversion. We could hardly have known that nature would oblige us with a much more powerful diversion of its own.”
“Speak plainly,” said Goraji impatiently. “A diversion for what?”
“Well, I should have thought an intelligent man like you would have guessed by now. To enable us to switch envelopes, of course.”
This produced a very brittle silence. It was broken by Goraji who said, in a voice compounded of distrust and dislike, “Explain that. You say you switched envelopes. I do not think you can have done any such thing. But if you did, what was in the one you handed to me?”
“Nothing. A plain sheet of paper.”
“And the other? The one with the money in it.”
“That is where we return to the point at which we started. The draft went, in a different envelope, which we also had prepared, to my aunt who lives in the Avenue de Neuilly; with a letter asking her to keep it safe and hand it to no one but me. She is a very obstinate old lady and will obey these instructions to the letter. If anyone else tries to get it, you may be sure that it will go straight into the strongroom at her bank.”
The two men looked at each other.
It was clear to Peter that Rasim was already beginning to believe him. Goraji was balanced between belief and disbelief. He said, “Why did you do this? It was stupid and it was dangerous.”
“Agreed. But it was necessary. I hap
pened to learn, at the very last moment, that the man Meyer was almost certainly planning to play Agazadeh Zaman false.”
Peter saw that this statement had somehow raised the temperature of the discussion. His wits were now working well and the solution occurred to him. They had not realised, until this moment, that he knew anything about Zaman. Now, for the first time, the involvement of that formidable man had made itself felt. For, suppose what he was saying was true. Suppose they had been fooled and had allowed five million francs to slip through their fingers.
Peter, reading their silence, continued with increased confidence.
“I will tell you what we had learned,” he said, “and you shall judge for yourselves. Only yesterday we found out that Meyer had sold his house in London, his furniture and his pictures – including, no doubt, the ones that you had obtained for him from the church at Sassencourt. This money, together, we believe, with his private fortune, has been concentrated in the Banque de La Guyane in Paris. Hardly a coincidence, would you say, that he has now so arranged matters that Mr. Wellborn’s draft also is to be added to his personal account at that same bank? You perceive the result? Immediately the bank opens for business this morning he can walk in and draw the whole amount, in the form of a single bank draft.”
“And what then?” growled Goraji.
“When I tell you that he has in his pocket a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires and Santiago, on a flight leaving Paris at midday, well – I expect you can guess the answer.”
He had convinced Rasim. He was sure of that. Goraji, not yet. His mind was more powerful than Rasim’s, but it moved more slowly. What was helping to convince him was that he had nursed a suspicion all along that something was wrong, that some of the facts did not add up. Was he now possibly being told the truth? He said, “If this is so, why did you not tell us before?”
“Why should I? It was my intention to be back in Paris by this morning to pick up the draft and keep it safe until the situation had become clearer.” He added thoughtfully, “I could still do that, you know. It would offer you your only chance – by no means a certainty, but a very good chance – to rectify the mistake you have made. A mistake which will not please Zaman, I am sure.”
Paint Gold and Blood Page 25
