by Colin Forbes
'I can't be sure,' he admitted. 'But we can't worry about it now. We have to split forces. I have to take the express to Brussels to check on that banker, Peter Brand. And damnit, I forgot to call Jacob Rubinstein. I'll do that on our way out to get a quick snack. Here it's a full-dress effort, will take too long.'
'You said we have to split forces . . .'
'Yes. I want you to hire a car and drive to Dinant on the Meuse just across the border in Belgium. Klein may have made one mistake. Which is what I have been waiting for.'
'What mistake?'
'This.' Tweed opened a drawer, took out a tissue-wrapped package and handed it to Newman. The foreign correspondent unfolded the paper and stared at the small gingerbread house. He looked at Tweed and shook his head.
'A couque,' said Tweed. 'A speciality type of gingerbread - and one of the local industries of Dinant. When you arrive, find a bargee, see if this Klein has ever been seen in the area. Follow it up in any way you like. And if you want to get in touch with me quickly call this number.' He wrote on a page from his notebook, handed it to Newman. "That's the number of Brussels police headquarters off the Grand' Place. Chief Inspector Victor Benoit is an old friend of mine - and a very tough policeman. Now, let's get moving.'
'Hold on a sec. Why this interest in barges?'
'I may have been thick. A chance remark Paula made while we were back in Basle at the Drei Konige came into my mind before I fell asleep last night. That bullion I told you about - the big haul stolen from those two banks in Basle - may just have been transported from under the noses of the Swiss police. By barge down the Rhine, then maybe via the Canal de Haul Rhin and north to Dinant.'
"That's a long shot,' Newman objected as they stood up to leave.
'The whole business is a very long shot . . .'
Tweed used the same phone box he had called Paula from to contact Jacob Rubinstein. The bullion merchant came on the line and Tweed announced his identity.
'Could you tell me, first, what you were wearing the day you came to see me? If you don't mind . . .'
'I applaud your caution. Navy-blue serge suit, white shirt, polka dot tie, a Burberry . . .'
'I won't mention names on the phone, Mr Tweed. I am referring to the man whose name I gave you. Do you understand?'
'Perfectly. Please go on.'
'In my business we hear things. We are on the phone daily to most of the world financial centres. We hear rumours - sometimes very unusual ones. We get so we can sort out the wheat from the chaff, to discount nonsense. Regarding the man we spoke of, I have just heard he has arranged for a truly enormous amount of bullion to be held available by the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. It is supposed to be for a loan to some unnamed South American country. I find it peculiar - the amount combined with the urgency.'
'How much bullion?'
'Two hundred million pounds' worth.'
'Thank you for informing me, Mr Rubinstein. It may or may not be significant. I thank you anyway. Goodbye.'
Tweed hurried out of the box. 'Back to the hotel. You'll be able to get a meal later. I'll get dinner aboard the Brussels express.' He was striding out along the pavement, checking his watch.
'A development?' Newman enquired.
'Peter Brand, the shady banker, has just arranged for bullion to the value of two hundred million pounds to be held ready for swift delivery at the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. That could be the ransome amount Klein -Zarov if it is him - will demand for the West to avoid a major catastrophe. Lysenko told me Zarov wanted to make a fortune while still young. If so, we could be running out of time. He may be ready soon to launch his operation. Drive like hell for Dinant.'
They had almost reached the hotel when Newman realized Tweed had been listening to him earlier.
'If you're right, I wonder who is occupying that seventh grave at Cockley Ford?'
25
Eighty miles east of Paris - beyond Rheims - Newman's hired Peugeot broke down in the middle of nowhere. There was no other traffic in the middle of the night, no sign of human habitation for miles.
He slaked his thirst with water from the plastic canister he always carried on motor journeys, made himself as comfortable as possible, and slept through the rest of the night.
The driver of a passing car the following morning promised to phone the nearest branch of the car hire firm. It was still midday before a breakdown truck arrived accompanied by a Citroen. Newman took over the Citroen and drove on to the nearest town where he had a leisurely meal - leisurely because the service was so slow.
It was early evening before he drove into Dinant. Parking the car, he wandered round the town huddled beneath the pinnacle of rock with the citadel at its summit. He chose the Hotel de la Gare because it was anonymous and up a side road away from the main part of the town.
After dark he continued his wanderings, calling in at several bars. He chatted to barmen, excellent sources of local knowledge. He found the shop which sold couques near the Pont de Charles de Gaulle.
He was adopting his normal reporter's technique on arrival at a new place, getting his bearings, studying life along the Meuse waterfront. He slept like a dog that night, had an early breakfast, and strolled along the river bank to where a barge was moored. The Nantes.
'Good morning,' he called up to a thin-faced man with dark eyes who was watching him from inside the wheel-house at the stern of the vessel. 'May ! come aboard? I have a favour to ask . . .'
With some reluctance the bargee gestured for him to cross the gangplank. Newman walked slowly on to the deck. He would have only one chance to get the man talking. What was the right approach? Chance lent him a hand.
A woman appeared, climbing the few steps which he took to lead to the living-quarters. About forty, she was slim with long dark hair and the look of a hard worker. She also looked worried. She stopped at the head of the steps and Newman smiled.
He explained he was writing a series of articles for the Brussels paper Le Soir on Belgian waterways, their importance as a means of transport, the neglect of the government in appreciating their importance.
Tell him about it, Willy,' the woman urged. 'You won't tell the authorities. Tell him. And tell him who you are. Have you forgotten your manners?'
'I'm Willy Boden. This is my wife, Simone.' The bargee extended a wiry hand, still watching Newman cautiously. 'You won't mention my name if we talk to you? The authorities can make life difficult for us if they think we're interfering.'
'No names,' Newman promised. 'Not even a mention of Dinant - just a Meuse bargee. Who would identify you from that?'
'I have your word on that, Mr Newman? And why would an Englishman work for a Brussels newspaper?'
'It's an exchange system,' Newman said, making it up as he went along. 'One of Le Soir's reporters spends six months with my outfit in London, I come over here. Is there something worrying your wife?'
'No, of course not. Why should there be? We had better go down into the saloon. No one will see us talking there.'
They were seated in the cramped saloon on long banquettes with a table between them when his wife started again on her husband. She had a strong face, alert eyes.
'Tell him - or I will. I sense we can trust Mr Newman . . .'
'You and your feminine instincts . . .'
Then I'll tell him.'
'Oh, all right. Leave it to me. I saw what happened. And our guest would like some coffee, I'm sure. So would I - I was up at five this morning,' he explained to Newman as Simone went to a tiny galley at the for'ard end of the saloon. From where he sat with his back to the river bank Newman could see through a porthole a barge passing upstream. Boden followed his gaze.
'That's what Simone is talking about . . .'He was having difficulty getting started. Bargees lived in a closed community, didn't talk easily to outsiders, Newman thought.
'I see,' he remarked, although he didn't.
'Do get on with it, Willy,' Simone called out from the galley. Tell him about Haber and
the Gargantua. Then about the Erika.'
'Joseph Haber is a friend,' Boden began. 'Not a close friend. He keeps to himself. He's an ambitious man. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose.'
'Can lead to problems sometimes,' Newman commented.
That's what I tell him. He won't listen. He wants to be the King of the Meuse - that's how he puts it. Sounds funny, but he's quite serious. He wants to own the biggest fleet of barges on the Meuse. He owns three already . . .'
'No, he doesn't,' Simone snapped as she served steaming coffee in large mugs. 'He owns one - the Gargantua. The other two have large mortgages on them. Come to think of it, I'm sure he hasn't fully paid off the Gargantua yet.'
'Where is he now?' Newman asked as Simone joined them by her husband's side.
'That's the point,' Simone answered, taking over. 'Two days ago he had the Gargantua loaded up with gravel - for delivery to Liege. But when he sails he goes upstream -away from Liege - towards the French frontier and Les Dames de Meuse.'
'What's that?' Newman asked and sipped the scalding liquid.
'A very lonely section of the river deep in the Ardennes. It winds about a lot and the woody hills come right down to the water's edge. It's on the far side of the French frontier - beyond Givet where you pass Customs.'
'I still don't see why you're worried,' Newman remarked. He was beginning to think he was wasting his time.
'He's got to know a very peculiar man,' Simone went on. 'Another man who says he is a writer - a writer of books. And a bit of a businessman. A man called Klein.
Newman's face showed no reaction. He took a long drink from his mug. He had been on the verge of thinking of some excuse for leaving this couple. It could be a coincidence, of course. Lasalle had pointed out Klein was a common enough name.
'Can you describe this Klein?'he asked. 'I know someone with that name.'
'About Willy's height and weight,' Simone said. 'Six feet tall. Wears hunting clothes. His complexion is ruddy.'
Doesn't sound like the same man, Newman thought. In Paris the Corsican, Calgourli, had emphasized his chalk-white face. He felt a pang of disappointment. Then Simone spoke again.
'It's those eyes of his I don't like. I was walking along the bank when he passed me on the way to Haber's barge a few weeks ago. Very strange staring eyes. I felt he was looking into my soul when he glanced at me . . .'
'Stuff and nonsense,' growled Boden.
'He scares me,' Simone persisted. 'He isn't human. And Willy saw him having this violent quarrel with Haber before they took the Gargantua upstream.'
'What quarrel?'
Intrigued again, Newman listened while Boden described the scene he'd witnessed inside Haber's wheel-house. The brief struggle between the two men. Followed by a long conversation prior to Haber slipping moorings and sailing upstream.
'You mean Klein travelled aboard?' Newman asked.
'Oh, yes, and Broucker. too. That was really queer.'
'Who is Broucker?'
'Haber's employee. He mans the second barge, the Erika. It was left moored here while they sailed south. Never known that to happen before.'
'Tell him what happened later,' Simone urged.
'I'm not sure this is any of our business . . .'
Tell him! Or I will.'
Boden explained that normally there would be nothing strange about Haber taking his barge upstream. He travelled across the border to a landing near Fumay, a small quarry town in France where he took on board gravel. He then returned downstream past Dinant to Liege and other destinations to make delivery.
'But,' he explained, 'this time he already had a load of gravel aboard. So why return upstream? Why take Broucker, who should have stayed to look after the Erika?' And why was this Klein aboard? It's weird.'
'It's weirder than that,' Simone broke in. 'Late the following day, close to dusk, Willy saw the Erika leaving its mooring. We had been into town to collect supplies. Willy came back first - just in time to see the Erika disappearing downstream, heading towards Namur and Liege.'
'What's weird about that?'
Newman had earlier unfolded his Michelin map of the Meuse and was making notes on it. He scribbled in shorthand the sequence of events Boden was describing.
'We haven't seen the Gargantua since it sailed south. The barge has disappeared.'
'It could have sailed back without your seeing it and continued north towards Namur,' Newman objected.
'It is impossible,' Simone said vehemently. 'We are not thick. Either one or both of us have been here since it departed upstream.'
'But you said you went into town to purchase supplies . . .'
'From shops in Dinant on the waterfront. The Gargantua could not have passed without us seeing it.'
'Maybe after dark?'
'Barges don't travel after dark,' Willy told him. 'It hasn't come back.'
'Then maybe it broke down . . .'
'In that case,' Simone broke in again, 'Broucker would stay with it to give a hand. But we told you - we saw the Erika sailing downstream. Broucker's barge . . .' She looked at her husband as he cocked his head. A ship's hooter was tooting. He went up on deck, followed by Newman and Simone.
Newman was glad of the interruption. It gave him a chance to get away from the barge. He still saw nothing significant in their anxieties. Thanking Simone for the coffee, he was about to disembark, when Willy grabbed his arm. 'Wait.'
The hooter had been sounded by a large two-deck cream power cruiser gliding downstream. A short thickset man wearing a navy-blue blazer and grey slacks stood on deck staring at the barge through a pair of binoculars. He waved and Willy gave a brief wave back as the slow-moving vessel turned inshore aft of the barge.
'He knows Klein, too,' Willy said. 'He's another Englishman. A Colonel Ralston. Lives on that boat with his girl friend. Cruises along all the canals. Dead drunk most of the day.'
Newman watched as crew members jumped ashore at a landing stage and made the vessel fast. A small wiry man waited until the gangplank was in position, wheeled a bicycle across it and rode past the barge along the towpath towards Dinant.
'Think I'll go and have a word,' Newman said.
Seen close up, standing at the head of the gangplank, the owner of the Evening Star had a brick-red complexion, iron-grey hair and a moustache of the same colour. He stood with hands in blazer pockets, a thumb protruding.
'Who the devil are you?' he greeted his visitor.
'Robert Newman. I'm interested in the Meuse. I gather you know it well?'
'Well, don't just stand there. Come aboard!'
A very upper crust voice, a clipped military-style tone, the manner of a man used to obedience. Newman followed him down a companionway into a spacious saloon. Walls of mahogany, chairs covered with expensive fabric, and at the far end a well-equipped cocktail bar.
Ralston laid a stubby-fingered hand on the polished counter. He swung round and stared at Newman with blue eyes. Small red veins showed on his pugnacious nose. Sign of a hardened drinker.
'Care for a sundowner? And sit.'
'It's a long time before the sun goes down,' Newman remarked. 'Coffee would be welcome, if available . . .'
'Alfredo!' roared the colonel. 'Coffee for our guest. On the double!'
A slim dark-skinned man appeared behind Newman, walked behind the bar and disappeared beyond a doorway. Ralston would be in his ear!y sixties, Newman guessed, his short stature compensated for by the force of his personality; he was close to being a caricature of the military officer. But there was nothing amusing about the cold blue eyes. He poured himself a whisky into a cut glass, added a splash of soda from a syphon, downed half the glass, ran his tongue over his lips.
'That's better. You're the foreign correspondent chappie. Recognize you from your photo. Back of the jacket on that bestseller you wrote. What's your game?'
'I told you
'Playing it close to the chest? Want to see some of the Meuse? Have a berth aboard the Evening Star? Cost you
- I'm not running a charitable institution.'
'How much?'
'Twelve thousand francs. Belgian.'
Newman had seated himself on one of the banquettes lining the sides of the saloon. A gleaming mahogany table was close enough for him to take a pile of francs from his wallet, lay them on the table, keeping his hand on top of the pile. Twelve thousand Belgian francs. About £200.
'What do I get for that?' he asked Ralston who still stood by the bar; his favourite position Newman suspected.
'Grand tour of the river up to Namur. Then Liege. On the way, maybe a brief call on one of our eminent bankers. You know Belgium well?'
'Not really,' Newman lied.
'Here's your coffee. 'Bout time, Alfredo. Chopchop . . .'He continued in the style of a brisk lecture. 'The Frogs all swim like lemmings for their hols to the French Riviera. Most people don't know about the Belgians. They've got their own riviera - in the south of their country like the French. On the Meuse, in fact. So Millionaireville is just north of here . . .'
'Millionaireville?'
'Riverside mansions of the rich. Estates running down to the Meuse. At Profondeville - where the banker is -and further north at Wepion.'
'Who is this banker?'
'A Peter Brand . . .'
Newman removed his hand from the pile of banknotes. Ralston had been eyeing them as he talked. Newman had the impression his two passions were drink - and money. Nothing in his expression had shown at the mention of Peter Brand.
The Evening Star was sailing slowly down the Meuse. Wooded bluffs of the Ardennes rose on either side as Newman drank fresh coffee, left alone in the saloon for a short time. He had met the wiry weatherbeaten man who had cycled past the Bodens' barge.
'My ex-batman, Sergeant Bradley,' Ralston introduced. 'He keeps the whole shooting match moving. Watches the crew and all that. Don't stand for any backsliding, do you, Sergeant?'
'Not my way, sir,' Bradley replied. 'Got to keep them up to scratch.' He turned to Newman. 'Just like the Army. Keep on their tails or they slack off. Same the world over.'
