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“I say, your only chance, because if it occurred to you that you might revisit the château tonight and recover the picture I should tell you that it, with all other valuable pictures, is already in the Musée Claude Bonnier, which is much better guarded than some you have attended to in the past.”
“Explain, then, how you think we could recover this draft.”
“I should have thought it would be obvious. All you would have to do is to drive me to Paris – you have, I am sure, your own car somewhere handy on the north bank of the river – we could be outside my aunt’s door soon after the post arrives. No doubt you would have a knife in my back to ensure that I played my part. But that is where we return, once more, to my first point. I must be able to walk up two flights of stairs to her door. If you are carrying me on a stretcher, she is hardly likely to oblige you – at least without asking some very awkward questions. You follow me?”
Goraji said nothing, but the frown on his face had deepened.
“Then let me add one further point. If you do decide to adopt this course – which I am sure is the sensible one – it may have occurred to you that as soon as you are across the river and have reached, say, Rochefort or La Rochelle, you will be able to telephone Zaman and receive instructions. The western lines from Paris would not have been affected by the storm, only the southern ones.”
When Peter stopped, there was a long silence. Then Goraji jerked his head at Rasim and they went into the next room. He could hear the rumble of voices, but could only make out the word ‘telephone’. Evidently his last point had impressed them.
By now, Peter had been talking for ten minutes. He had been talking for his life. The reaction left him feeling sick and dizzy.
It was not only having to think of the words he was using, gauging precisely what impression he was making. More important and more difficult had been keeping his voice at the right level, a level not of pleading or even of argument, but of simple exposition. The least slip, the slightest faulty intonation would have destroyed the illusion he was building. He was still uncertain whether he had succeeded.
He lay back as comfortably as his feet allowed and took a succession of deep breaths. The room which had been circling around him slowed down as his heartbeat steadied.
He was already beginning to think ahead. Even if his plan was adopted he was far from safe. When they had recovered the draft the men would certainly consider it expedient to shut his mouth permanently. Particularly now they knew that he could identify them in connection with the killing at Sassencourt. But he would, at least, be back in the public eye and out of that foul den. This must be a step forward.
He had no idea how long the discussion went on next door. Towards the end it seemed to him that Rasim was trying to convince Goraji and that Goraji was reluctantly coming round to his point of view. Then the talking stopped, the door swung open and they marched in with the air of men who had made their minds up.
They started packing, putting all their personal belongings into the suitcase and the two rucksacks. They were concerned, he guessed, only to take things which might be traced back to them. Neither of them spoke a word. When they had finished, Goraji came across with a knife. He cut the cord round Peter’s feet. Then, without replacing his socks, he forced Peter’s bare feet into his shoes. He said, “Stand up.”
Peter found that he could stand and could even walk after a fashion. By the time the three of them and the luggage were on the van it was past four o’clock and there was a feeling of morning in the air.
If Laure had gone to the police and if she had persuaded them to move, this was where they were going to run into trouble he thought. But the van cleared Lesparre, turned right into the side road and reached Port de Goulée without any sign of opposition. Evidently the police had either disbelieved Laure, or had been disinclined to act.
The little hamlet was asleep. When the van came to a halt and Goraji touched the horn the door of the only cottage that was showing a light opened and a man came out. Bernard, Peter guessed. He was a short thickset man, almost a dwarf. He waddled to the end of the landing-stage, where only his own boat now swung at anchor and spat into the river.
He said, “The tide has turned and that storm is sending much water down on us.”
“I’m sorry,” said Goraji pacifically. “We might have been here sooner, but we had things to attend to. I am sure you will be able to take us across.”
“As long as this pig behaves itself.” He jerked on the starter. At his third attempt the engine spluttered into life. “Hurry, now. No time to waste.”
Peter was pushed on board first and crouched in the bows. Goraji and Rasim each took one of the seats. “If this cow lets us down,” Bernard warned them, “you may have to help with the oars and sail.”
He slipped the mooring-rope and stepped into the stern to direct their course and to keep an eye on the engine, which seemed to be running steadily enough.
He was manoeuvring cleverly, Peter saw, keeping the head of the boat pointing half into the stream, which was now running strongly, smacking the side of the boat and sending an occasional burst of spray over them.
Out of the darkness, from up stream, came a boat, larger and heavier than theirs. It hit them, not squarely, but at an angle. The force of the current swung it round and held the two boats together.
Laure had not gone to the police. She had called out her own family.
Georges was crouched in the stern, Michel-Ange and Hervé were both standing, locked firmly into position, with their legs spread and their feet wedged against the bottom and sides of the boat. Both were armed with steel bars. As Goraji half rose in his seat, Michel-Ange hit him. All of his fury and all his frustration were behind the blow. Peter heard the crunch as it split Goraji’s skull.
Rasim managed to draw his gun, but before he could fire it a sideways sweep by Hervé had smashed his spine and tumbled him over the side into the water. Bernard was screaming. Peter had his eyes shut. When the screams stopped, he opened them. Michel-Ange’s great hands came down, grabbed him and hauled him into the other boat.
All three of the Gobards were now at work. Sitting in their own boat they were rocking the other boat, lowering one side and raising the other until the water started coming over the freeboard. Then, with a final concerted effort, they turned the boat right over.
It floated away, bottom up, towards the open sea.
12
Meyer spent that Thursday night in his apartment in the Rue Oberkampf. He was out of bed by eight o’clock.
After washing and shaving in the tiny bathroom annexe he completed his preparations for departure, which were simple. He had already booked his heavy luggage through to Buenos Aires, where he proposed to break his journey. All he had to do now was to pack his pyjamas, washing things and slippers into a handgrip which contained some important papers, a clean shirt, some handkerchiefs and a pair of socks. He made a final and unnecessary check of the contents of his wallet, which held his air ticket and a modest supply of French and Argentinian currency, slipped his passport into the slit at the back of his handgrip and was ready to set out. A quick glance around assured him that he had left nothing behind by which he could be identified. He had taken the room on a short tenancy in a name that was not his own. The rent was paid to the end of the month, after which, no doubt, it would be re-let.
One of the attractions of the block had been that there was no concierge to spy on the tenants, who seemed to be, like him, people who valued their privacy. He encountered no one as he made his way downstairs and stepped out into the street. Although it was the third week in October the weather was so unseasonably warm that he abandoned any idea of wearing his light topcoat and carried it over one arm as he set out in search of breakfast.
Over his coffee and croissants he made a few last-minute calculations. His London house, with its contents, had been sold for eight hundred thousand pounds. This was wel
l below the market price, but he had accepted it in the interest of quick completion. In the same way, he had accepted twenty-five thousand from Crankling for all the remaining pictures in his press, aware that the auctioneer would make a handsome profit out of them. Adding the money transferred from Belgium would bring up the total to just over a million and a half sterling.
And that was not all. If everything had gone as expected in Bordeaux the equivalent in francs of a further half million would now be on its way. There was much comfort in these calculations.
He paid his bill and strolled out into the street, arriving outside the Banque de La Guyane as the clocks in the Rue Etienne-Marcel were striking ten. The uniformed commissionaire was swinging open the embossed bronze doors of the bank. He recognised Meyer and saluted. A messenger took him straight up to the manager.
Monsieur Agostino was clearly expecting him. He had a number of papers on his desk and was checking some calculations as Meyer came in. He shook hands, waved Meyer to a chair and said, with a faint note of apology in his voice, “You will realise, monsieur, that in making out the final bank draft in your favour – which I have here, ready for you, as requested – I have made certain deductions.”
“Yes?” said Meyer.
“The Banque Liégeoise retained a nominal balance of five thousand francs in order, as they said, to keep the account open.”
“That seems not unreasonable. And then?”
“Then there was the question of our own commission. Normally when effecting transfers of large sums of money we charge a half per cent on the total involved. In this case, it seemed to me—” the manager paused delicately “—that there were certain rather unusual aspects of the matter. Added to which, the sums involved were very large indeed.”
Meyer said, coldly, “So you saw a chance to increase your commission rate. To what figure, might one enquire?”
“We thought that, in the circumstances, two per cent would not be excessive.”
Meyer made a rapid calculation. He said, without any particular emphasis, “Then I am paying you the equivalent of thirty thousand pounds for a few days’ work.”
“Thirty-two thousand in fact. The total at your disposal was, in round figures, sixteen million francs. The draft I have prepared for you is for 15,680,000 francs. If you feel that the commission I have charged is excessive, you could always appeal to our Board, who have a final decision in such matters. It would only take a few days—”
Meyer took the proffered draft, examined it, folded it and placed it in his wallet. He said, with a slight smile, “I can see why you are such a success in your profession, Mr. Agostino.” Rising to his feet he added, “By the way, I was expecting a letter. I wonder if it has arrived.”
“My apologies. I have not yet had time to attend to my own post. I will ascertain.”
He pressed a bell and to the secretary, who appeared from his ante-room with a speed which suggested that she must have been stationed close to the door, he said, “Please enquire of our postal department whether they have a letter for Monsieur Meyer.”
Whilst she was away the manager observed, “I trust that the letter has not been held up. There is no real reason why it should have been, but you may have heard of the disruption caused by yesterday’s storm—”
“I heard about it on the wireless. However, letters travel by rail, not by wire.”
“True. Yes, here it is.” He took the envelope from his secretary and handed it to Meyer, who slipped it into his pocket unopened, got up and said without any suggestion of warmth, “I will wish you goodbye.”
The manager nipped out from behind his desk and held the door open for him. Meyer ignored a half extended hand and walked out.
When he was back at the café at which he had breakfasted he ordered a cup of chocolate and only when it was on the table did he bring out the envelope and slit it open.
Had a spectator been watching him at that moment he would have read little from the expression on Meyer’s face. A slight bunching of the jaw muscles, the smallest narrowing of his eyes. He was a man who prided himself on total self-control. But the shock had been severe.
He re-examined the contents of the envelope. A single sheet of headed notepaper from Lambrécie, which had been cut in half and folded, reducing it to roughly the size of a Crédit Agricole bank draft. He held it up and examined it against the light. There was nothing written on it. He replaced it in the envelope and started to think.
The envelope had been carefully prepared, in accordance with the arrangement he had made with Zaman. The bank draft should have been enclosed in it. In place of it was this half sheet of notepaper. The fact that it was Lambrécie notepaper suggested that the substitution had occurred at the château. Who, then, could have been responsible?
He considered the possible candidates coldly.
Joseph Wellborn? Most unlikely. He had been scrupulous in following out the instructions of the Iranians. Peter Dolamore? But why should he? His job had been to put through the exchange, not to interfere with it. That left only one uncomfortable possibility. And the more he thought about it, the more did he become convinced that it was the truth. The Iranians had themselves discovered in some unaccountable way that he proposed to walk out on them.
He considered the courses of action that were open to him.
He could wait for further news from Lambrécie. Or even go down there personally and try to ascertain what had gone wrong and to recover the draft. Or he could forgo the five million francs and catch his plane that morning for Buenos Aires. He thought about this for some time, whilst the chocolate in his cup formed a thick skin as it grew cold.
He had no intention of staying long in the Argentine or Brazil, where prices were high and inflation was rampant. As soon as certain preparations had been completed he planned to cross the continent to Santiago, where he had many contacts and where prices were reasonable. Part of the money he already had would serve to purchase a modest estancia and the interest on the balance would be more than ample for his needs.
Within twenty minutes of opening the envelope his mind was made up. He signalled for his bill.
As well as its main entrance, the restaurant had a second one which opened into a side street. At the moment when he stepped out this was deserted. He walked away from the main entrance, turned two corners and was lucky enough to find a taxi discharging its passengers. He said, “De Gaulle Airport, if you please.” The driver thought about it and then nodded. If it had been the rush hour he would probably have refused the fare.
The airport, at Roissy-en-France, was a full fifteen miles outside Paris, on an indifferent road. Most people who had business there preferred to take one of the frequent trains from the Gare du Nord. Meyer, however, was strongly of the opinion that the less he hung around in the centre of the town the better. His arrangement with Zaman had been that he would get the draft from the bank as soon as it opened. There might, he had explained, be some delay in making it out. But he would be with Zaman by eleven o’clock at the latest. He did not underrate the Iranian’s organising powers. After eleven o’clock Paris was no place for him.
He reached the airport at a quarter past eleven. He saw that Flight number 8684 for Buenos Aires and Santiago was signalled on the Information Board, but the passengers were not yet warned for boarding.
He went through the passport and customs checks and settled down in the departure lounge to read his morning paper and wait with what patience he could for the boarding signal to come up on the screen.
The two flights ahead of his, to Geneva and Rome, were already boarding. Evidently neither of them was heavily subscribed and when their complement of passengers had drifted off, the lounge was only half full.
Meyer became aware that someone was addressing him. He swung round in his seat. It was a man in the grey-green airport uniform with Air France flashes on his arms. He was carrying a briefcase and seemed to be some sort of official. He said, in fair if laboured English, “You are Monsi
eur Meyer, a passenger on Flight 8684, yes?”
“Correct,” said Meyer.
“The man who checked your passport did not, most unfortunately, take note that you intended to break your journey at Buenos Aires. It had been assumed from your ticket that you were going straight through to Santiago.”
“I’m spending a few days at Buenos Aires, yes. Is that against the law?”
The man said, with a slight smile, “It is not against the law, no. But were you not aware that, since the recent troubles, all foreigners intending to enter the Argentine, even for a few days, must have their passports endorsed? It is simply a matter, I understand, of checking them against a list of undesirable entrants.”
Meyer said, the alarm evident in his voice, “I knew nothing about this. Are you telling me that I shall have to miss this flight? Because if you are—”
The man smiled again. He said, “It is not as serious as that. The Argentine government has no desire to inconvenience travellers. They have arranged that we can ourselves check the records and endorse your passport. If you will come with me, please.”
Leaving his coat on the seat, but carrying his handgrip, Meyer followed the man across the lounge and through a door marked ‘Administration’. It led into a short passage, with doors on either side of it. At the end there was a right-hand turn. As they went round it the man stopped, so suddenly that Meyer almost collided with him.
He saw that the man had drawn out of his briefcase a curious weapon. It was a knife, about eight inches long, with a triangular blade, each side being concave and each edge razor sharp. Using a left-handed underarm swing he drove it upwards. It slid in smoothly under Meyer’s ribs and into his heart. The operation was performed without fuss or emotion.
As Meyer went onto his knees the man followed him down, keeping the knife pressed home to prevent unnecessary bleeding. It took him no more than a few seconds to search Meyer’s pockets and remove his wallet. Then he exchanged his own briefcase for Meyer’s handgrip and walked sedately back the way he had come.
Paint Gold and Blood Page 26
