The Money Stones

by Ian St. James

  'Very well.' She looked at Drachman. 'You've heard enough to know what's going on. By lunchtime tomorrow the cargo will be fully loaded. The buyer's agent is already in Liverpool and payment has already been made to a bank in Switzerland. I meet the buyer, hand over the ship's manifest and in exchange he authorises the Swiss Bank to pay ten million pounds into each of three numbered accounts.' She shrugged and gave a wintery smile. 'Unfortunately I can't change the arrangements. I must complete by noon accompanied by two men. We each sign for one account. So, Mr Drachman, it would seem we are mutually dependent. If I am to get my money, you will get yours.'

  'Ten million?' he sounded awed for the first time since I'd come into contact with him.

  'Third shares?' I queried. 'But there were four of you?'

  'Two shared,' she said simply. 'That's all you need to know. Now, I would suggest that we've plenty to do here and-'

  'How do I know I can trust you?' Drachman complained.

  'You don't!' She spat at him, suddenly very angry. 'But you've very little choice in the matter. Kill me and you get nothing. Accept my deal and be bloody thankful you've got it. And I'll give you a piece of advice. Spend some of the money buying yourself a hole, Mr Drachman. Because some day I might just come looking for you. For what you did here tonight!'

  It was an astonishing outburst from a girl five feet tall, trembling like a leaf as she stared into a killer's gun. But no one doubted she shook from temper, not from fear. Afterwards there was little doubt, gun or no gun, that Drachman had forfeited control to Pamela Johnstone. The gun was only used for my benefit, one wave of it in Jean's direction being enough for me to do their bidding.

  We worked quickly. The bodies we searched first. That was my job. I stripped them of their wallets and cigarette lighters and pocket books - 'the dead men's effects' as old Poignton might have said - tossing everything into an open bag held by Drachman standing alongside. It was a grisly business and I worked clumsily, hampered by the plaster casts which Drachman insisted remain on.

  Then the surplus vehicles were disposed of in a way which convinced me that Jean and I had been taken to that remote spot to meet our deaths. Part of the surrounding wall at the back of the house was camouflage. A section had been collapsed and the chunks of brickwork had been placed back together again without the binding of mortar - so that one good shove from the ambulance brought the whole lot down like a pack of cards. Beyond the wall the ground sloped sharply away for forty yards or so before disappearing into old quarry workings, the sides a mass of tangled undergrowth and the bottom hidden in darkness a hundred feet down.

  Drachman and I ran all the vehicles except one over the side of the open pit. Even the Cadillac went, carrying its grim cargo with it. And the two bodies from the house were loaded into the ambulance and then that too was pushed to the edge and beyond. Only the grey B.M.W. seen earlier behind the mini in the drive was retained for our journey.

  Pamela Johnstone supervised throughout, her face marbled by moonlight and her eyes as cold as stone as she gave her orders. Drachman and I spent an hour 'rebuilding' the wall and then we had finished, close to exhaustion as we clambered into the car, me in the driving seat, Pamela Johnstone next to me and Drachman in the back with Jean.

  And so we left the house and its grounds in which six men had died and Jean and I had nearly joined them. Down the long rutted drive and back into the tiny lane. I drove as Pamela directed. Through country lanes for twenty miles, into Chester and out again, and on to the Liverpool road. Until we reached the motel where three rooms had already been booked and paid for.

  Jean was sent to collect the keys. Drachman and I were too dirty and blood-stained and dishevelled not to have invited comment, even at that late hour. And Pamela Johnstone remained in the car at Drachman's insistence. Jean would be free for the first time since Sunday. As I listened to Drachman telling her what to do, I toyed with the idea of slamming the car into gear as soon as she got out. But he forestalled me. Before she was even out of the car I was told to switch off and hand him the keys. And she was told I'd have a hole in the back of my head if she was gone longer than five minutes. White-faced and anxious, she hurried away into the darkness. And I realised that I'd swapped one prison for another.

  Four

  I woke early that Thursday, stiff from sleeping on the floor of the motel room, having been denied the comfort of a bed as we were all crammed into only one of the three rooms reserved. But I felt a hundred per cent better for the rest. Jean and Pamela Johnstone, both fully clothed, remained asleep on separate beds, while Drachman sat with his back to the door watching me. It took a second or two for it all to flood back but when it did it terrified me. A week ago I had been leading a normal life as a moderately successful businessman. Now I shuddered at the crimes I'd be accused of. Embezzlement. Fraud. Conspiracy. Even murder if no one believed my story.

  I struggled to the bathroom and removed the plaster casts, cracking them with blows from the heel of a shoe so forcefully applied that I was almost in genuine need of them. Then I collected fresh clothes from my suitcase and soaked in the bath before dressing, so that by the time I joined the others I felt less edgy than I had done for days. After all, Jean might still be in danger but at least she was here where I had a chance of protecting her.

  As soon as Pamela Johnstone went to the bathroom, I went to work on Drachman. 'Relax', I told him cheerfully. It's time you realised that you're here by invitation.'

  He transferred the gun from one hand to the other and watched me through eyes red-rimmed with tiredness. I guessed that having insisted we all slept in the same room he'd spent the night guarding the door.

  'My invitation,' I stressed. 'Giving Arranson that message when I did. And getting it confirmed when you phoned Hill Street.'

  His dull look failed to register even a flicker of comprehension, so I tried again. 'It was all I could do. While Jean was in danger.'

  'And she's safe now?'

  'Why not?'

  He jerked the gun for an answer. Last night it would have frightened me but I'd had time to think since then.

  'Listen, Drachman, yesterday you were ripped off for four million, today, you can pick up twice as much. Thanks to me.' When he remained silent, I shrugged and added: 'Have it your own way. But you heard the girl. We're mutually dependent. And you wouldn't even be in line for a share if I hadn't got my message to you.'

  'So we're allies?' he said, as if getting used to the idea might take him quite some time.

  'We always were. I got you into this, remember? So I'll get you out of it.'

  I persisted until he succumbed to my next idea. That we all transferred to the next cabin and have breakfast delivered to the room. By now both of the girls had bathed and changed and were looking quite presentable, whereas he looked tired and bedraggled.

  Over tea and toast I concentrated on finding out all I could from Pamela Johnstone.

  'We're due at the bank at eleven,' she said. 'Van Hoffman-'

  'The bank?'Drachman was hostile with suspicion. 'You said a Swiss bank?'

  'They have agents in Liverpool,' she explained wearily, giving him a look of contempt. 'Look, everything's arranged. Just don't interfere, that's all. And for God's sake don't try to alter anything. A wrong word to the people we're meeting and-'

  'People?' he queried. 'What people?'

  He was pushing her too hard and she almost screamed at him. 'Just leave it alone will' you? I know what I'm doing and-'

  'You know what you're doing,' he snapped back. 'But I don't.' He turned to me. 'And you don't either I suppose?'

  'No more than you do.' I turned back to her. 'Which bank is agent?'

  'The Bank of Liverpool and Sao Paulo.'

  I knew it by reputation but had never had dealings with it. But it was well established. Maybe not as prestigious as the Bank of London and South America but after financing Liverpool's trade with South America for a hundred years it was damn near as big. And the Bank of Liverpoo
l and Sao Paulo was agent for Suisse Commercial of Zurich. Which is where the money was.

  'Who's the customer for the cargo?' I asked.

  'His name is Van Hoffman,' she glanced at her watch. 'He'll be waiting for us at the Bank.'

  'Van Hoffman? Dutch?'

  'South African,' she smiled craftily. 'I believe you spoke to him once. On the telephone.'

  I was at a loss at first, but then I remembered. It seemed a long time ago. Late one night at Hill Street, with Jean listening on an extension. And if that was the man, then we had problems. 'But he must know Hallsworth?' I said, alarmed, correcting myself a second later. 'Must have known Hallsworth.'

  She shook her head. 'He knows I've got partners. Male partners. But he never met them.'

  Baffled, I searched her grey eyes for trace of a lie before saying, 'But if he made that phone call to me, he knows who lam. Knows damn well that I'm no partner of yours.'

  She hesitated about that and had the grace to think about it. Or at least pretend to think about it. Finally she said, 'Van Hoffman won't look for reasons to hold things up. It's his money on the line in Switzerland. All he wants is that cargo.' She could see that I was still doubtful because in an effort to convince me she added, 'Beside Van Hoffman's known me to change partners before.'

  I wondered what the hell that meant? And found myself wondering why she had kissed Pepalasis but not Hallsworth. But I'd no time to work on it. Drachman was getting impatient and impatient men with guns make me nervous. But I wanted to find out a bit more about who we were going to meet, so I asked, 'And Van Hoffman's the customer?'

  'He's our customer.'

  'Meaning he's a middle man?'

  'What does it matter?' she pretended to be bored with the whole conversation.

  'Because it's usual to make a profit,' I said coldly. 'Thirty million ex-works U.K. should fetch considerably more overseas.'

  'Oh, so that's it?' Her eyes flashed with temper. 'You're getting greedy.'

  'Not greedy. Cautious. The more I know, the less chance you've got of selling Drachman and me down the river.'

  He threw me a grateful glance while her eyes buried me. She shrugged. 'So Van Hoffman takes a profit.'

  'From whom?'

  'Oh, God Almighty! Who cares? The Rhodesians I should think. Van Hoffman's been running goods through that embargo since the day it started.'

  It was all beginning to make sense. No straightforward buyer would transact business Van Hoffman's way unless the deal was complicated by some factor. And South African businessmen had kept Ian Smith's Rhodesia going for years. I was still staring at her, working it out in my mind, when she obviously misinterpreted my look for one of disbelief because, quite gratuitously, she added, 'And Van Hoffman took care of some expenses for us.'

  I pricked my ears up. 'Such as?'

  She shrugged. 'That place at St Albans for a start. That cost a fortune to set up. And Bruno's crowd from New York weren't cheap.'

  'Bruno Frascari,' I said very quietly, thinking of the apology owed to Kirk McNeil if I ever saw him again.

  She nodded and gave a funny sort of half smile. 'Vince Pickard to you.'

  I pieced a few more details together, cross checking where possible until deciding that the story was as near to the truth as it ever would be with a girl like Pamela Johnstone. And after that there was nowhere to go but the Bank of Liverpool and Sao Paulo itself.

  'What happens after the Bank?' Drachman wanted to know.

  She spat at him. 'We each go our separate ways to hell, Mr Drachman. And remember what I told you about that hole.'

  'I could reach you first,' he snarled back.

  'Just you damn well try!' she hissed.

  It seemed a pity to break it up. But my one remaining hope of seeing old age lay in finding Drachman his money. I felt better though. Better than I had for days. I had a bargaining position for the first time since Monday. Manipulating the balance of suspicion between Drachman and Pamela Johnstone.

  The journey to Lime Street took only half an hour. But it seemed longer. Jean drove, with Drachman coiled like a spring beside her, while Pamela Johnstone sat as taut as piano wire in the back with me. The atmosphere between them fairly crackled with suppressed hostility. And their mutual aversion made me, if not the leader, then at least no more of a prisoner than they were. So we rode in suffocating silence while I thought things over. And reached the decision that was to change the rest of my life.

  'Jean, did you put that lighter in your bag?' I leaned forward, as if to reach for the handbag on the seat next to her. But Drachman was as suspicious as ever and he got there first, his thumb flicking the clasp open and his fingers fumbling inside the bag. Not that he found the lighter. But then he wouldn't. Not when it was in my pocket all the time. But my view of the bag's contents told me all I wanted to know.

  The Bank of Liverpool and Sao Paulo greeted us like visiting royalty. The local director was a man called Hughes, who bowed and nodded his silver-haired head all the way from the lobby to the board room, where a line of assistants stood waiting to slip chairs out from the table then in again as we took our places. And where another man was already waiting for us. A man who introduced himself as Mr Piet Van Hoffman.

  After each of us had accepted a glass of madeira, Pamela Johnstone made a brisk start. 'You've been to the warehouse this morning?' she asked Van Hoffman.

  He nodded and took his curious, eyes away from me long enough to answer her. 'Yes. Everything's in order.' I recognised the accent all right.

  Hughes cleared his throat importantly. 'And I've received copies of the ship's manifest and bills of lading.'

  'Good,' Pamela Johnstone's eagerness betrayed her anxiety, despite her apparent calm. 'Then we can proceed with completion?'

  Hughes looked to Van Hoffman as if for guidance. The room went very quiet. A tug hooted on the Mersey half a mile away and traffic sounds struggled up from the street below. Van Hoffman looked around the table. From Jean to Drachman to me. And then his gaze settled on Pamela Johnstone. The vein pulsated in her neck and the bruise on her cheekbone glowed through make-up she had applied so carefully earlier. Almost imperceptibly she nodded back at him. It was the faintest of movements. As much with her eyes as her head. Van Hoffman hesitated a half second longer, smiled and said, 'Yes, we can proceed.' And Drachman's hiss of relief was heard all round the table.

  Like everything well organised it didn't take long. Van Hoffman signed an acceptance for the cargo and a letter of authority to the Bank to release the funds in Switzerland. And we had another madeira while the information was relayed to Zurich by closed line document transmission. Then the messenger returned and handed Hughes the reply from Suisse Commercial, together with three large sealed envelopes. I looked at the envelopes. They looked plump, secret, and very important. And Hughes almost caressed them as he spoke to us.

  'The arrangements are complete,' he smiled. 'And the funds have now been transferred in equal lots of ten million to three numbered accounts.' He let the full significance of that sink in and then added, 'I'm sure you'll find everything you need for the management of these accounts in the envelopes here. As you see, each of them bears the unbroken seal of Suisse Commercial and we have held them in trust until this moment.'

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, certainly reverently, he released possession of the envelopes to an assistant, who placed the first in front of Pamela Johnstone, the second in front of Drachman, and the third in front of me. I sat staring at my ticket to ten million while the room filled with the noise of crackling parchment as the others broke the seals and spread papers on the table in front of them.

  'My colleagues and I appreciate that you may wish to instruct us individually,' Hughes was saying. 'Should that be the case, private interview rooms have been set aside and...'

  'I'd appreciate that,' I heard myself saying. 'Perhaps if the rest of the meeting would excuse us, Mr Hughes? You and I could...'

  'But of course.'

  He ro
se as I did, one hand reaching for Jean's elbow as the other hand closed on the envelope. I was vaguely aware of the others. Of Van Hoffman watching with enough mockery to have rivalled Hallsworth. Of Pamela Johnstone's white face and wide-eyed unblinking stare. Of Drachman still poring over the contents of his envelope. But only vaguely aware of them. I felt myself walk to the door, sensed Hughes stand to one side, barely heard his murmur about the first door on the left. I might have been dreaming. Or in a trance. Jean's questioning eyes looking up at me, her hand finding mine as we sat together in the manager's office. I heard myself talking to him, knew what I said, was conscious of his reply and aware of my answer. But it was as if I were listening to my voice from a long way off, each word clear and distant but rounded and hollow-sounding. Like in a tunnel. A long, dark tunnel. And that's where I was. At the end of the tunnel.

  We left twenty minutes later. Hughes took care of everything. From the taxi at the side door to ready cash for the journey. But I still felt as if I was watching a film shot in slow motion with a badly synchronised soundtrack. Jean's anxious questions. My reassuring answers. Telling her that we were doing the right thing. It was all too dreamlike to be exciting. Her handing me her passport from her handbag. Us taking the first plane out of Speke Airport. Watching Liverpool and the Mersey drop away below us. Flying Lufthansa to Hamburg and then on from there. To our place in the sun. The sun we found. At the end of our tunnel.

  Postscript

  Thameside Mansions,

  Putney, London, England.

  23 December 1977.

  Bob Harrison woke first. He always woke first. Amy would sleep until lunchtime if he let her. But this morning something had disturbed him. He yawned, stretched, grunted, scratched himself - and waited. Perhaps whatever, or whoever, had roused him would go away again and let him sleep? Turning in his bed he drew his wife into the curve of his body and closed his eyes. But even as he did the door bell rang again. This time a steady, relentless, unremitting buzz. As if someone had jammed a finger in the bell push and couldn't release it.