The Run Around cm-8

by Brian Freemantle

  Chapter Twenty

  The London passport files are computerized so it took less than half a day for the response to Charlie’s query, an assurance that no British document had been issued to anyone in the name of Klaus Schmidt during the preceding two years. Another bet won, thought Charlie; pity he wasn’t as good with the bloody horses. It was still useful, though, giving him an excuse, albeit slim, to seek a further meeting with the other intelligence chiefs. He wouldn’t give them a reason, of course: just hint at some additional information to keep them curious until they were all in the same room. And there was also what he hoped to achieve from the meeting with the night clerk at the hotel off the Boulevard de la Tour.

  The Bellevue was a hotel small enough to miss, lost in a long and continuous block with shops and offices extending either side, the entrance no bigger than that into an ordinary house. There were four steps up into a minute vestibule, where the reception desk fronted the door. A breakfast area was to the right, an alcove of round tables and toadstool-like chairs, with a bar to the left, zinc-topped and dwarfed by the espresso machine that provided the breakfast coffee, and incapable of accommodating more than two tables. The television had to be suspended from a supportive arm, high on the wall, to get it into the place at all. Well chosen, judged Charlie, expertly. Discreetly inconspicuous, a hotel without regulars, none of the staff knowing the guests or guests knowing the staff.

  The night clerk was a bonily thin man named Pierre Lubin who tried his best by wearing a dark jacket with dark striped trousers carefully brushed to hide the shine of constant use. The collar was the hard, detachable sort that enabled a shirt to be worn more than once, provided the cuffs were properly reversed.

  Lubin smiled in instant recognition when Charlie produced again the photograph and said: ‘Drugs, isn’t it? That’s what the other policeman said.’

  Lubin was enjoying the attention, after a lifetime of being ignored, guessed Charlie. He said: ‘The investigation is international; that’s why I’m here from England.’

  ‘Important then?’

  ‘Very much so. I’d like you to help me all you can.’

  ‘Of course,’ offered the man, eagerly.

  ‘He said his name was Klaus Schmidt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘German?’

  ‘Certainly not Swiss-Deutsch.’

  ‘Why are you so certain?’

  ‘I know the accent, of course; the difference.’

  ‘Definitely German, then?’

  Lubin put his head to one side, doubtfully. ‘There was an accent,’ he said. ‘In his German, I mean. A blur in some of the words that I had not encountered before. But it was very precise: very grammatical.’

  ‘As if it were a learned, carefully studied language you mean? Not his first or natural tongue?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the clerk. ‘Until you mentioned it, I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘He signed a registration card?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With an address?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Lubin. ‘The police took it.’

  Another demand he could make upon Blom, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Tell me the system of registration?’

  ‘System?’

  ‘A guest has to complete a card?’ said Charlie, knowing how it was done from his booking into the Beau Rivage.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the clerk.

  Knowing the answer again from his own experience, Charlie said: ‘But isn’t it a requirement that the passport number is given and actually lodged, here at reception, at least overnight.’

  Lubin trapped his lower lip between his teeth and visibly coloured. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

  ‘But you didn’t do that?’

  ‘No,’ said the man, in further admission.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was late when he arrived,’ said Lubin. ‘He complained at having travelled a long way and to be in a hurry to get to his room. And it’s such a time-wasting regulation: I’ve always found it so pointless.’

  Until now, the very moment it mattered, thought Charlie. There was nothing to be gained by openly criticizing Lubin. Charlie said: ‘Tell me about him. What he looked like.’

  Lubin did so hesitantly, someone anxious to compensate for an acknowledged mistake, determined to leave nothing out. Charlie counted off the descriptive points against those he already knew, slotting one set perfectly into the other. This was the man, thought Charlie; he could smell it! Coming to the most important part of the interview, Charlie said: ‘I want you to take your time, don’t hurry. But tell me what he was carrying.’

  Lubin sniggered a laugh, as if he found the question amusing. He said: ‘A suitcase, of course.’

  ‘Only a suitcase?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No briefcase?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A shoulder grip maybe?’

  ‘Nothing more than a suitcase.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘The type made from some solid plastic, to prevent any pressure on the clothes.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Grey,’ said Lubin. ‘They always seem to be grey.’

  ‘How large?’

  The night clerk extended his arms sideways and then held his right hand palm down, in a measuring gesture approximately four feet by three feet and said: ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Quite small then?’

  ‘Enough for maybe one suit, a change of shirt and underwear, perhaps,’ said the man. ‘That’s why I remembered his remark about going on to New York. I thought at the time he seemed to be travelling very light.’

  Charlie smiled at the irony of the other man using the word. He said: ‘Who carried the bag to his room, that night when he booked in?’

  ‘I did,’ said Lubin.

  Charlie sighed, relieved: maybe a break at last. He said: ‘How heavy was it?’

  Lubin shrugged. ‘Just a suitcase.’

  ‘Heavy? The sort of weight you’d encountered a lot before? Or light?’ insisted Charlie.

  Lubin considered the question, smiling again. ‘Actually,’ he recalled, ‘it was quite light.’

  Charlie let go some more held breath. ‘And he didn’t object to you carrying it?’

  ‘He seemed to expect it,’ said Lubin.

  Charlie said: ‘Tell me about his demeanour. How did he treat you?’

  ‘Treat me?’ Lubin appeared confused by the question.

  ‘Did you consider him polite?’

  Once more Lubin did not react at once. Then he said: ‘He was very direct.’

  ‘Direct?’ echoed Charlie. ‘Would some people have considered his attitude rude?’

  ‘Possibly,’ agreed the clerk. Then, with longer reflection, he added: ‘Yes, I suppose he could have been considered rude.’

  Already knowing the arrival time of the Swissair flight, Charlie said: ‘What time did he get here, the night he booked in?’

  ‘It’s difficult to remember accurately,’ qualified Lubin. ‘Nine-thirty, probably nearer to ten o’clock.’

  Which would accord close enough with flight 837, Charlie decided. He said: ‘He complained of travelling a long way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But didn’t say from where?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he look tired?’

  ‘Not really. I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Did he ask for any food?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there a room bar?’

  Lubin smiled apologetically. ‘The hotel isn’t quite of that standard.’

  ‘So did he ask for a drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just went directly to his room and stayed there?’

  ‘On both nights,’ confirmed the man.

  ‘What about a tip for carrying his bags?’

  ‘It’s odd that you should ask that,’ said Lubin.

  Which was why I posed it, o
n the off-chance, thought Charlie. Encouragingly he said: ‘What was odd about the tip?’

  ‘He was very careful about it: gave me exactly fifteen per cent. Counted it out, coin for coin. People don’t often do that, not coin for coin.’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘They don’t, do they?’ Then he said: ‘Tell me, in as few words as possible, how he came across to you: the sort of man, I mean?’

  There was a by now familiar pause for consideration. Eventually Lubin said. ‘Ready.’

  ‘Ready?’ queried Charlie, curious at the man’s expression.

  ‘Even in a hotel like this there is usually a kind of uncertainty you can detect in a person. They’re away from home, in a place they don’t know, a place they’re unsure of. So there’s an uncertainty. But with him there wasn’t. That’s what I mean by ready. He seemed quite confident: that he could cope with whatever difficulties he might come up against.’

  ‘He probably believes he can,’ said Charlie, distantly.

  ‘This drugs business,’ said Lubin, ‘is it very serious? Might it get in the newspapers even?’

  ‘It’s very serious,’ said Charlie. Again, a remark for his own benefit. He went on: ‘And it should get in the newspapers.’

  ‘Could I be a witness?’ asked the little clerk at once, his need obvious.

  ‘If it gets to any sort of case, I’ll see that you’re called,’ offered Charlie.

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Lubin. ‘Thank you.’

  Charlie wrote his name and the 31-02-21 telephone number of the Beau-Rivage on a piece of Bellevue note-paper and said: ‘I want you to make me a promise. If he comes back I want you to call me at this number. Will you do that for me?’

  ‘Of course,’ undertook Lubin. ‘What about the Swiss authorities?’

  ‘Did they leave a number for you to call?’

  ‘No,’ said Lubin.

  ‘You tell me and I’ll tell them,’ said Charlie at once. For all the effort the Swiss appeared to be putting into this the bastard could be driving around the streets in a tank with a hammer and sickle on the side and playing the Moscow Top Ten on its tape deck.

  ‘Is he dangerous?’ demanded Lubin.

  ‘Very dangerous,’ warned Charlie. ‘If he comes back try as hard as you can to behave quite normally. And don’t call me from any of the phones here, which he might overhear. Use a public kiosk.’

  ‘It’s very exciting, isn’t it?’ said Lubin, enthusiastically. ‘Just like in the cinema.’

  ‘Just like that,’ agreed Charlie.

  He used a kiosk himself to call the Beau-Rivage, to be told there were no messages, and then immediately redialled Brigadier Blom. There was a protracted delay, but finally the counter-intelligence chief came on to the line, the reluctance clearly obvious in his voice.

  ‘I think there’s the need for a meeting,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Of everyone?’ said Blom, gradually.

  ‘We’ve agreed to liaise completely, haven’t we?’ said Charlie, extending the encouraging carrot.

  Blom bit straight into it. ‘How about three o’clock?’ he asked.

  ‘So there was something already arranged!’ seized Charlie. ‘I must have left the hotel ahead of your call.’

  There was a moment of trapped silence from the other end of the line before Blom repeated: ‘Three o’clock,’ and rang off.

  Deciding he deserved a small but personal celebration Charlie discovered a bar serving Glenfiddich, ordered a large one and loosened his shoelaces, aware as he did so that they’d soon succumbed to wear again and didn’t look half as posh as they’d been for the bank manager meeting. Which seemed a long time ago. The reference letters would have certainly arrived by now. What would Harkness have done? Almost a silly question, he decided. What about another one, with a more uncertain answer. Glass in hand, Charlie scuffed across to the wall-mounted bar telephone, managing a connection at once to David Levy at the Bristol.

  ‘Hi!’ greeted Charlie, cheerfully. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘This an open line?’

  ‘I’m in a bar,’ confirmed Charlie.

  ‘Tried to reach you, about two hours ago,’ said Levy. ‘Didn’t bother with a message.’

  ‘Been out and about,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Anyone contacted you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a meeting at three,’ disclosed Levy. ‘The American wants a daily get-together, whether there’s anything to report or not.’

  It appeared at least as if the Israeli were playing honest injun, if that wasn’t too much of an ethnically mixed metaphor. And additionally that there was a lot of heat burning out of Washington. Charlie said: ‘I know. I’m going.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I called our host.’

  ‘You weren’t intended to be at the party.’

  ‘I know just how Cinderella felt,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Have you got any presents?’

  ‘Maybe. How about you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Could be a dull affair then,’ said Charlie. He’d finished his drink as he telephoned and he gestured for a refill on his way back to his table, where he sat in head-bent concentration, reflecting upon what he’d discovered. Bits, he decided: useful bits but not enough to tell him where to go, with the speed he considered necessary to get there. One positive avenue, at least. He hoped Blom hadn’t regarded that as lightly as the man appeared to be treating so much else and left it uncovered. What else? It certainly seemed Blom and Giles were determined to exclude him. Which was a bugger. But with Levy’s forewarning Charlie thought he could upset that in their laps: definitely cause them as much irritation as they were causing him, which was always important when people tried to piss him about. Charlie greatly admired the credo of America’s Kennedy dynasty, don’t get sore, get even. He usually managed it, although perhaps not on the scale of the Kennedys.

  Charlie stopped after the third whisky and only took a half carafe of wine with a lunch of lamb and wild mountain mushrooms, congratulating himself when he left the cafe on remembering to get the all-important bill. He had quite a bunch, back at the hotel, in one of the hotel envelopes. Harkness was going to be pleased with him. No, thought Charlie, in immediate contradiction: Deputy Director Richard Harkness was never going to be pleased with him, not in a million years. Maybe he really did know how Cinderella felt.

  For the first time he did not hurry to get to the chrome and glass building on the Rue Saint Victor. If he were going to be the uninvited guest then he was going to make a fittingly grand entrance. Which he did. The three other men were there and Brigadier Blom was actually moving impatiently around the room when Charlie entered.

  ‘Late again!’ he said. ‘Had to re-arrange a couple of things, to get here. Still, better late than never: that’s what I always say.’ He smiled around the table. Only Levy responded, an expression of curious amusement.

  ‘You said there was a reason for us to meet?’ said Blom, at once.

  ‘But this meeting had already been arranged, so what you have is probably more important than what I have,’ retreated Charlie, in apparent politeness. ‘After you.’

  The redness started in Blom’s face. He looked awkwardly to Giles and said: ‘I believe you have some information?’

  ‘Negative, I am afraid,’ said the American. ‘Our immigration and FBI people tracked Klaus Schmidt down, in New York. He’s a banker: respectable as hell. Doesn’t even know the Bellevue Hotel.’

  ‘So Charlie was right?’ said Levy.

  It was an unnecessary intrusion, goading, and Charlie wondered why the Israeli was trying to irritate the other two men. Charlie said: ‘And there’s no British passport in that name, either.’

  ‘A dead end?’ persisted Levy.

  To Blom, Charlie said: ‘What about the address.’

  ‘Address?’ frowned the white-haired man.

 
‘The man who stayed at the Bellevue put an address on the registration card, which your people apparently took,’ said Charlie. ‘Might be interesting to find out what it was?’

  Blom was very red now. He snatched out to one of the three telephones on his desk, gave clipped instructions and slammed the instrument down so hard that it jumped off the rest and he had to put it back on a second time, more gently, further angering himself. He said: ‘So what is it that you’ve discovered!’

  ‘I thought you should know about there not being any Klaus Schmidt passport,’ said Charlie, refusing to be hurried.

  ‘Is that all!’

  Don’t come the high horse with me, sunshine, thought Charlie. He said: ‘The last time we met the supposed identification of Klaus Schmidt was being hailed as a breakthrough comparable with the discovery of penicillin! Now we’ve got two independent and guaranteed sources proving an attempt to lay a false trail.’

  ‘Providing, that is, that this whole episode isn’t one wild goose chase,’ fought back Blom.

  ‘It isn’t,’ insisted Charlie.

  ‘You got some additional proof?’ asked Giles.

  ‘I spent a long time with the clerk at the Bellevue,’ said Charlie. ‘The physical description he gives matches that of the man at Primrose Hill, in almost every respect. He further says that the man was direct: the airline staff considered him rude. He arrived at the Bellevue at exactly the time it would have taken him to travel in from the airport, after the arrival of flight 837-’

  The jar of the telephone broke in, cutting Charlie off. Blom listened without question to what was said and then put the telephone down, hard again. For a moment he looked back at the three questioning faces and then he said: ‘It was an address in the Eaux Vives district of the city: the Rue de Mairie. A Mercedes salesroom. There is a space upon the registration form for a passport number: the one filled in has no relation to any Swiss-issued passport.’