‘It’s hardly the sort of story any woman would make up.’
‘Wrong, Miss Lang. It’s exactly the sort of story some woman would make up. I am not saying you have. But these sort of claims are being made every other day in the US.’
‘Without proof?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Then it’s hopeless. I can’t prove a thing. I have nothing but a piece of paper with the bank’s name written by Robert.’
‘No letters? No notes?’
‘Nothing.’
Ravenel looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You could probably sue the estate if you came to America. Make a fuss in the newspapers. A smart lawyer would get you some sort of settlement.’
‘I won’t do that, Mr Ravenel. I will not descend to the tactics of the gutter.’
Ravenel kept his eyes on her. ‘Have you ever met Mrs Brand?’
‘Yes. In Acapulco. I was there for a conference. She invited me to tea.’
‘Was it a cordial meeting?’
‘It was horrendous, Mr Ravenel. I believe Grace Brand to be mad.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The things she said to me. She was like a demented woman. Robert had told me she was mentally disturbed. That was an understatement.’
‘What sort of things did she say?’
‘She claimed to have had a woman killed.’
Ravenel’s eyebrows rose. ‘Who was that?’
‘A woman named Jane Summerwood. She was murdered in Hyde Park last year. Robert had hoped to marry her. She was pregnant.’
‘Did you believe Mrs Brand? Or did you think she was just trying to frighten you?’
‘I believed her.’
Ravenel drank his coffee. His eyes never left Julia. ‘She sounds like a dangerous woman.’
‘I believe she is.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘You realize that getting information from a Swiss bank is almost impossible?’
‘I know that. I’ve already been to Geneva.’ She told him about her conversation with Alain Charrier.
‘Has it occurred to you that Charrier could have been telling the truth?’ Ravenel said. ‘Perhaps there is no account there.’
‘Robert assured me there was.’
‘Miss Lang, I did not know Robert Brand. But I can tell you that, faced with a pregnant mistress, men have been known to lie.’
Julia flushed. ‘You know?’
‘That you are having a child? Lisa told me.’
‘She had no right.’
‘I doubt I would have come to see you otherwise, Miss Lang. Discarded mistresses seeking redress do not interest me.’ Once again Ravenel exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘You’re sure the Banque Eberhardt was the bank?’
‘Yes. But Mr Charrier would not verify it.’
‘He wouldn’t, would he?’ He held out his cup. ‘I’d like another if that’s possible?’
Julia got up and went into the kitchen. Ravenel’s rudeness appalled her. And yet there was something about him that generated trust. She returned with the coffee.
Ravenel looked at her intently. ‘I have one more question. How determined are you to get this money?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you care how you get it? Or how I get it for you?’
‘If the money’s mine – You mean you’ll help me?’
‘Miss Lang, if you had jumped at my suggestion that you sue the Brand estate in America I would have taken my leave. As it is,’ he nodded wearily, ‘yes, I will try to help.’
‘I don’t have much money.’
‘I take ten percent of whatever money I recover.’
Julia was astonished. ‘Two million dollars.’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s a great deal of money.’
‘I agree with you. But $18 million is better than no millions at all.’
‘Would we have a contract or something?’
‘A handshake will suffice.’
‘I’d like to think about it.’
‘I’ll be in London another three days. Then I’m off to Switzerland to see a friend in Geneva.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet, picking up his raincoat. Julia walked with him to the door.
‘I wish you luck,’ he said.
Julia made up her mind then. ‘I accept your terms,’ she said.
‘I will do my best for you.’ He gripped her hand firmly.
Albert-Jean Cristiani was feeling frustrated. Four times now he had instructed his new secretary, Yvette, that he wanted coffee available all day. He had bought the hot plate in the corner for that very purpose, he explained. All she had to do was switch it on before he arrived and make sure the coffee pot was always full.
She kept forgetting.
‘I can’t think of everything,’ she grumbled. ‘I’ve got to get all these files of yours in order. Everything’s a mess. And there’s all this dust. When are you going to get a carpet?’
‘Soon,’ Cristiani said.
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘Too much coffee is bad for you. All that caffeine.’
‘Let me worry about that,’ Cristiani said. ‘Just keep the plate hot and the pot full.’
She nodded. She was a plump, ugly girl with minimal secretarial skills. He wasn’t paying her much.
‘There’s a message,’ she said sullenly. ‘Someone called Guy Ravenel called from London. Says he’s coming here next week. Wants you to keep an evening free.’
‘Which evening?’
‘He didn’t say.’ She waddled off down the passage.
Chapter 33
Ravenel knew Geneva well. He did not like it. Bankers might claim that it was an international city but to him it seemed a middle-size town with a deeply provincial outlook. As far as he was concerned it had never really escaped the harsh strictures of John Calvin who, in his determination to turn the city into a saintly place in the sixteenth century, had given the church police the right to enter anyone’s home day or night to make sure the Lord was being honoured properly. In those days a smile during a church sermon could land you in prison for three days. It was a wonder the entire population had not fled.
Looking out of the taxi as it sped through the morning traffic into town he reflected that these solid citizens going about their business were descendants of those who had stayed. And were, in their own way, just as censorious and prim-minded. And obsessed with money.
Zurich, of course, was the home of the commercial banks but it was here in Geneva that Switzerland’s highly prestigious private banks were found. Among them the Banque Eberhardt.
Ravenel registered at the Hôtel Bristol and went to his room to freshen up. The shower helped a little but not much. His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. He had slept less than five hours in the past two days. It was catching up on him.
He put on a clean shirt and underwear and changed into a sports jacket and flannels. Then, slipping on a raincoat, he set off for the Quai Wilson.
On the third floor he stopped at a door marked only with a small brass plate: ‘Cristiani et Cie’. He smiled at the ‘et Cie’. The ‘and Company’ was there only to impress clients, he knew. Cristiani was on his own. He pressed the buzzer. The door was opened by a plump secretary.
‘Mr Ravenel? Good morning. He’s expecting you.’ She hung his raincoat on a hook and led the way down a tiny corridor to a glass-fronted door.
Albert-Jean Cristiani was sitting behind a plain wooden desk working a calculator. The walls of his office were bare, as was the floor. The desk was piled high with files and papers. As Ravenel walked in he smiled widely, indicating a chair in front of the desk. Ravenel collapsed into it.
‘You look terrible,’ Cristiani said cordially.
‘I’m tired,’ Ravenel said. ‘I need some sleep.’
‘Don’t we all. You want coffee?’ He poured two cups. ‘I was sorry to hear about your wife.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Good lady.’
Ra
venel nodded. He lit a cigarette.
‘You should cut that out,’ Cristiani said. ‘It will kill you.’
Ravenel shrugged. ‘One of my few pleasures,’ he said.
‘You are not old enough to say that,’ Cristiani admonished. ‘Anyway, I don’t believe you.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘I must say I’m surprised to see you here again. Some people in this city are not too fond of you after that last affair. Someone must have made this visit worthwhile?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Anyone know you’re here?’
‘I just arrived.’
‘Word reaches the Groupement quickly.’
‘So I’m told.’
Cristiani held out both hands, palms upwards. ‘So what do you think of my new quarters?’
‘A carpet would help.’
‘Give me a chance. I just moved in.’ Cristiani drank his coffee noisily. ‘So what is it this time?’
‘A difficult one,’ Ravenel said.
‘More difficult than last time?’
‘Perhaps.’
Certainly Ravenel’s last venture – trying to recover some of the millions lost in the Credit Suisse disaster at Chiasso – had not been easy. But with help from Cristiani and a mutual friend he had finally retrieved some of the money for a grateful client and been suitably rewarded. Cristiani, as a Government employee, had asked for nothing. But Ravenel had found a way to thank him. A painting Cristiani had long admired in a Geneva gallery had suddenly come on sale at a ridiculously low price. Cristiani had snapped it up. The balance, which exceeded $10,000, had been secretly paid to the gallery by Ravenel.
‘Go on.’ Cristiani leaned forward.
‘I need information about the Banque Eberhardt.’
Cristiani sighed. ‘You too, huh?’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘I spent my last weeks at the Commission trying to dig up something on that bank.’
Ravenel’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why the interest?’
‘A couple of deaths.’
‘Deaths?’
‘You know. When people stop breathing.’ Cristiani related his suspicions about di Marco and Leber. Ravenel listened intently.
‘This di Marco – how long had he been with the bank?’
‘Almost from the start. Worked his way up. You want some more coffee?’
‘It’s pretty grim stuff,’ Ravenel said.
‘Thanks. You’re always so polite.’ Cristiani got up and refilled their cups.
‘And you think di Marco knew something?’
Cristiani nodded. ‘And he was going to talk about it. We planned to meet but he got killed first.’
Ravenel lit another cigarette.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Cristiani said. He waved the smoke away with both hands.
‘What’s the story on Eberhardt?’
‘He’s Swiss. Late seventies. Started with the Hamburger Bank in Germany. Later joined the Deutsche Bank. Opened his own bank here just before the war. Stayed friendly with the Nazis.’
‘When you Swiss believed Hitler was going to win the war.’
Cristiani looked glum. ‘Not a glorious chapter in our history, I agree.’
‘And this di Marco was his partner? Who’s he got now?’
‘A man named Alain Charrier.’
‘Any good?’
‘Not as good as di Marco.’ He glared at Ravenel. ‘Are you going to tell me why you need all this?’
‘It’s to do with Robert Brand.’
‘Who just died.’
‘Right. Eberhardt was his banker here. Brand was involved with a young woman in London. She became pregnant. He told her he was putting $20 million into an account for her here. She’s contacted the bank. They deny all knowledge.’
Cristiani smiled slyly. He opened the centre drawer of his desk and took out a sheet of paper. He glanced down at it.
‘Her name wouldn’t be Julia Lang?’
Ravenel’s eyebrows went up again. ‘That’s a good trick,’ he said. ‘How’d you know that?’
‘We tapped Eberhardt’s phone for a month. One of the calls we monitored was to Brand’s widow in Mexico. She made it clear she’d have Eberhardt’s guts for garters if he paid out that money.’
Ravenel drew in a breath. ‘So there is an account there?’
‘Seems so. She’s told Eberhardt to deny it. He’s breaking Swiss law. But I can’t prove it. The phone tap wasn’t strictly kosher.’
Ravenel thought for a moment. ‘Why would Eberhardt do as she says? What’s she got on him?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know.’
Ravenel thought for a minute. ‘How easy is it to get into a bank like Eberhardt’s?’
‘No problem at all. You just walk in and plonk down a minimum of half a million dollars. They’re not interested in less.’
‘I mean out of office hours.’
Cristiani spluttered over his coffee. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly,’ Ravenel said.
‘You must be mad. Nobody breaks into a private Swiss bank.’
‘There’s always a first time,’ Ravenel said.
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. What good would it do?’
‘I’d get to look at the files.’
‘Look,’ Cristiani said, ‘I like you, Guy. You’re an interesting fellow. But I have no intention of coming to visit you once a month in Bois-Mermet Prison.’
‘I’m going to try to get in,’ Ravenel said. ‘There’s a lot of money at stake here.’
‘It would take a fortune to make me even consider it,’ Cristiani said.
‘This is a fortune. A small one but a fortune.’ Ravenel put out his cigarette. ‘First, though, let’s try something else. Know anything about Eberhardt’s secretary?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘See what you can find out. Make some enquiries. There might be something in her background we can use to put on some pressure; persuade her to let us look at the file.’
‘Not a chance,’ Cristiani said.
‘Worth a try.’
‘Okay. Give me a couple of days.’ He shook his head doubtfully. ‘But, Guy, please, forget about the other idea. There’s just no way.’
‘I hear you,’ Ravenel said.
They both rose.
‘Can you amuse yourself while I’m making these enquiries?’
‘I thought I’d go over to Montreux to see Marie Corbat.’
‘Ah, Marie. You’ve kept in touch?’
‘Of course.’ Ravenel smiled. ‘I’ll be back Saturday. You free for dinner then?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Cristiani said.
Ravenel had an hour to kill before meeting Marie Corbat for lunch at his favourite Montreux restaurant, François Doyen. After checking into the Palace Hotel, Ravenel wandered through the town, which had played host to people like Byron and Rousseau when it was little more than a clutch of lake villages. They would not like it now, he reflected, any more than he did. Too commercial, too obviously aimed at tourists. He preferred lakefront Vevey, which lay to the west.
Ravenel’s decision to visit Marie Corbat had not been just for personal reasons. True, they had once enjoyed a brief romantic interlude and stayed good friends. But now he needed her help. Marie Corbat had been executive secretary to the presidents of two of Switzerland’s most important banks – Credit Suisse and the Union Bank. She knew everyone and had extensive contacts in the banking business. She was fluent in German and Farsi, and had worked for three years with the Shah of Iran’s personal Bank Omran through which he had funnelled millions of dollars to private banks in Switzerland and elsewhere. It was she who had helped Ravenel recover some of his client’s money after the Chiasso disaster.
And, Ravenel surmised, she would almost certainly know people who worked at the Banque Eberhardt.
Marie was already there when he arrived, somewhat out of breath from his walk. She greeted him warmly. A tall, statuesque woman in her late fortie
s, Marie Corbat had a haughty exterior which, Ravenel suspected, tended to intimidate would-be suitors. She had never married but was never at a loss for lovers.
‘Ah, Guy,’ she said, embracing him. ‘What a pleasure.’
He kissed her on both cheeks and took a seat beside her on the banquette. They ordered the lunch and wine, with champagne cocktails to start.
‘It’s been too long,’ she said taking his hand. ‘I was so sorry to learn about your wife. You got my note?’
‘Thanks.’
‘And Louise? How is she?’
‘Growing up fast. Five already.’
‘Give her lots of love.’
‘I do.’ He sipped his drink. ‘How is Mama?’
‘Old now. Eighty-four. Still in good health, though. She walks every day. She sends her love.’
‘And you?’
‘Better than I deserve. I drink too much, the doctor says.’
‘No great romance?’
Marie shrugged. ‘It becomes more difficult the older you get. Men want young girls, firm flesh. They are revolted by middle-aged women.’
‘You’ll never be middle-aged,’ Ravenel said.
‘Dear Guy, it happens to us all. We don’t believe that when we are young, but it does.’ She smiled at him. ‘What brings you back to Switzerland?’
Ravenel put down his glass. ‘I need your help again.’
‘If I can.’
They lapsed into silence when the waiter came over with the food. Both ate in contented silence for a while.
‘Marie, I need to find out something about the Banque Eberhardt.’
‘Some big accounts there: Armand de Plessy, Francine Rochas … people like that.’
‘You know Paul Eberhardt?’
‘Of course. He’s old now. But very much in charge.’
‘What about his secretary?’
Marie laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re after her? She’s even older than I am.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Marte Teske. Been with him for years. Not your type at all.’
‘What can you tell me about her?’
‘Sixtyish. Never married. Devoted to Eberhardt.’ She glanced at Ravenel enquiringly. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘A transaction took place recently. Twenty million dollars was deposited in a woman’s account there by Robert Brand, the American billionaire. The bank denies it took place.’
The Account Page 18
