Hands of the Traitor

by Christopher Wright

  "He's like the man Sister Ewing described. Except for his moustache."

  "It was ... very little. Short."

  "That's the only thing that's wrong. Sister Ewing said the man in the clerical collar -- Fergus Hawkins -- had a big drooping moustache. The age is right though."

  "He used a disguise?"

  "Wouldn't you, if you went to kill someone?"

  "I hope I would never kill anyone. And why would I want a moustache?" Zoé put her hand to her mouth. "I told you, they have come to kill you."

  "I doubt it. I think they came here to look at the site, not me."

  "You are right. They have come to recover their poison."

  "It's only a theory."

  "Go to the gendarmes."

  "They'll need hard evidence. Anyway, the man at the garage told me the captain of the local gendarmes is useless."

  "So what are you planning to do? Arrest the 'Einmans yourself?"

  The white Citroen was now out of sight. Matt shook his head. "They'll be back. I'm coming here tonight to keep watch."

  The drizzle should be easing soon. He started the engine. A trickle of water fell onto his lap from the roof lining as the wiper blades squeaked their way across the screen. The sky over the Channel looked brighter already. Perhaps it would be a fine evening.

  "What's up, Zoé?"

  Zoé suddenly broke her silence. "Your grandfather has been murdered, and all you want to do is watch?" She hit him hard on the shoulder.

  "What do you suggest?"

  "What do I suggest? You are the detective, not me."

  He rubbed his shoulder. "I came to France to question Sophie. I didn't know anyone was going to murder my grandfather."

  "You have taken some pictures of Monsieur 'Einman. We will go to England with the film and give to your friends at the Trinity Green police station."

  "In the meantime those two will be back here digging up their gold. They'd be home in the States before the police started to do anything. We need to stay right here."

  "You must make a plan."

  "That's what Ken keeps telling me. Planning, planning, planning. I don't need a plan; I need evidence."

  "We will get the film processed in Calais and show the pictures to Sophie Boissant. If she can identify Frank 'Einman, you have all the evidence you need."

  "Frank Heinman's an old man." Sophie had been pleasant to talk to, but most old people seemed to have some form of senility, advanced or otherwise. "She probably wouldn't even recognize Frank Heinman from a photo taken during the war."

  "Always you see the problems. Sophie remembers your grandfather. She called him her Tommy," Zoé reminded him.

  He felt depressed, but he didn't want to knock down every idea Zoé had. "It's worth a try."

  She clutched his arm. "I think Sophie is in danger. Perhaps the 'Einmans read her name in the paper. Maybe they have gone to kill her."

  He suddenly felt himself come awake. It was as though he'd been in a dream since learning of his grandfather's murder. "Of course Sophie is in danger. I've been too wrapped up in my family problems to see it."

  "We will go to her now, mon cher."

  "Too right we will." He nodded to himself. We? With a bit of luck Zoé wasn't planning to catch a train south, back to the arms of her beloved Florian.

  *

  SOPHIE SEEMED surprised to see them again so soon.

  "The Americans have had many years to find me. No, they will not come here." She made the idea sound absurd.

  "They're already in France," said Matt. "We've just seen them. It's possible the older one killed my grandfather last night."

  Sophie remained silent, her red eyes almost closed. Then she looked up slowly. "What you say is a terrible thing, monsieur. Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "Can you remember the name of the Americans?"

  "Yes, it was Heinman." She emphasized the H in a way no other French person did. "The young one was called Frank. I remember him clearly. Such a frightened rabbit of a boy."

  Matt felt excited. "Would you be willing to come with us now to the gendarmes?"

  Sophie looked troubled. "It is a hard thing you ask, Matt. No, I cannot do it. It was a dreadful time for me."

  "It's important," he insisted.

  "Perhaps another day," said Sophie.

  "Tomorrow?" asked Matt.

  "Yes, tomorrow."

  Zoé nodded. "Is there anywhere you can go tonight where you will be safe?"

  "I could go to my sister Martha for a few days."

  "Where does she live?" Zoé took careful hold of Sophie's thin arm.

  "It is not far," said Sophie, "but she is old."

  Everyone's old, thought Matt. "We will take you in our car." They'd probably manage to get Sophie into the front seat.

  "Maintenant." Zoé sounded adamant.

  Sophie shook her head, not quite in bewilderment, but certainly she was seeing difficulties. "But Martha does not know I am coming," she protested.

  Matt realized he had to do something quickly to avoid upsetting Sophie. "We'll take you to see her, madame, and then we'll bring you back here to pack your things. Please, it's very important that you do not stay in your house alone."

  *

  MARTHA GREETED the three of them warmly and said of course Sophie must stay with her for as long as necessary. But when they took Sophie back to her own house to pack she insisted she would take a taxi to her sister's -- when she was ready. By the time Matt and Zoé got to the Heinmans' hotel it was nearly dark, but the white Citroen was still in the car park. If the two men were indoors, at least they'd be out of Sophie's way.

  "Sophie, she is stubborn, Matt. I would be very surprised if she moved out of her house tonight. I think you must tell the gendarmes about the 'Einmans, and they can protect her."

  Matt switched on the wipers and squirted the washers to clear the dead flies off the screen, without much success. "And what would the gendarmes do? They'd go to the Heinmans' hotel and ask a few questions, then go away. I don't want the Heinmans tipped off before Sophie sees the gendarmes in the morning. They could make a runner for the States. Anyway, we can't be sure Sophie won't change her mind. If she refuses to tell her story we'd look stupid."

  "So you are doing nothing?"

  "I'm further ahead than you think." He pointed to the dashboard clock. "It's after nine, so there won't be anyone senior at the gendarmerie. In the morning I'm going to give them the film, and make sure they contact the British police at Trinity Green. That way, the police both side of the Channel will know what's going on. Maybe they'll work together."

  For the first time in this investigation he could see a way forward. He put his hand protectively on his shoulder in case Zoé hit him again in her frustration. "Let's wait here and watch. We can win this one."

  He wished he felt as positive as he tried to sound.

  *

  AT NINE-THIRTY, Jason Heinman slipped out of the hotel with a metal detector. Even under the street lights it was possible to recognize it by the shape. Matt guessed it would be easy for Jason Heinman to buy a detector in Calais. The tall American with the pony tail threw it into the back of the Citroen and drove off alone.

  "Viens, Matt, we will follow." Zoé sounded excited.

  Matt put his hand on her arm. "Not yet. There's only one place he's going. We're about to get the evidence we need, and I don't want to blow it. I might be able to get a few more photographs if the floods are on."

  There was no point in following the Citroen in their distinctive Mini. They needed to watch without being seen. The nerve of the man surprised Matt. Surely the security guards stayed on duty round the clock at the construction site. Perhaps not; perhaps they thought no one would be stupid enough to be poking around after dark when the supermarket closed.

  "What we need is a French car on local plates. Something like one of your friend's old bangers." It was half a joke, half a serious suggestion.

  "Philippe." Zoé smiled. "Philippe is
very keen to give me his personal attention. But it is his brother who sells the old cars, not the Garage de Saint Somer." She pointed to the open map on her lap, illuminated with a flashlight kept in the door pocket for night-time emergencies. "I think I can find a way to the construction site down a little track that goes through the woods. It will be un raccourci, a short cut. Maybe we will get there first."

  "As long as we don't catch anything underneath," said Matt anxiously. "I'm not too sure about the exhaust. Okay, call out the way."

  *

  PIERRE DELOIS glanced up at the murky sky. The drizzle that had been sweeping across the construction site throughout the day seemed to have stopped at last, but thick clouds still scurried in from the west. He'd not wanted this job. Security at a busy night club was more in his line, with plenty of young women to impress. This place was too lonely. Henri had slipped into town to visit a friend. It was totally against the company rules of course; there were always supposed to be two men on duty after dark. What did the management think -- the ghost of the Dutchman was coming back with his big knife?

  He stood in the doorway of the security cabin and checked that all the perimeter lights were working. Slowly he breathed in the night air. A handful of old locals had got together recently and decided that this area had been some sort of Nazi war base. Not that they'd ever mentioned it before -- not until the Dutchman came here with his metal detector.

  Within hours the site had been swamped. Half the rabble had come to eyeball the bloodstained ground, the other half to dig for treasure. News of Nazi gold spread rapidly, but no one had been allowed to search -- except the authorities. And they'd found nothing other than a tonne of scrap metal in small pieces.

  Even now treasure hunters tried to get into the compound with their detectors. He blamed the irresponsible press. What had possessed a group of ordinary shoppers to take on a maniac with a knife? And why would the crowd turn on each other? There were some weird people about. Anyway, by this time next week the whole site would be covered in concrete, and no one would be able to dig. Then they could take down the security fence.

  Henri wouldn't be back for another hour, perhaps two. Pierre glanced at his watch for the sixth time in ten minutes. Thinking about those killings made him anxious. A noisy car drew up out of sight in the unlit zone close to the reed beds.

  Perhaps the management were right to insist on doubling up the roster at night. This was an isolated spot when the supermarket closed. Treasure hunters didn't all come with spades and trowels. Some used long knives. Knives were quick, so they said. He stood with his back firmly against the wall of the cabin. The Dutchman had been using a large knife.

  He took some comfort from the tall chain link fencing between himself and the outside world. Even so, it might be best to turn on the auxiliary floods. He had a bad feeling about this night.

  Chapter 17

  SOMEWHERE ALONG the way a small rock had caught the exhaust system, and every time they drove over a bump the engine became noisier. Zoé's raccourci through the woods came out in a small track on the far side of the supermarket site. Matt parked in the shelter of the reeds and rolled under the car with the torch to see how bad the damage was.

  He emerged holding a small plastic box from under the wheel arch.

  "What is it?" asked Zoé.

  "Someone wants to know where we are. Damn." He pulled the battery compartment open and tore out the small nine volt battery. "Let's see if it's fresh." He touched the terminals on his tongue and pulled a face. "It's new. This bug was put here for us." He left the battery out and threw the bug into the back of the Mini. "I bet it was the Heinmans. Jason Heinman's been following our every move."

  Suddenly Zoé called out. "Look, Monsieur 'Einman is coming."

  The white Citroen drove past the site and stopped a few yards down the road, caught in the floodlights. Jason Heinman jumped out and stood beside the wire. Maybe he was waiting for the lights on the construction site to go out. In that case he was wasting his time. Extra floods suddenly bathed the whole area in a harsh glare.

  Zoé caught hold of Matt's hand and pulled him back. "Be careful. Monsieur 'Einman may know we are here from his little bug. Perhaps he has a gun."

  Matt knew that Zoé was serious in her warning, and she might well be right. He tried to pass it off. "Well, I'm not armed. I'm just a simple PI. And the bug is dead now."

  "There is a sharp knife in the food box, Tommy. Here, take it."

  "Tommy?" He took the knife.

  Zoé laughed nervously. "I keep thinking about your grandfather. Sophie said her Tommy had a knife."

  They stood silently on the sandy ground by the side of the car. Matt's ears had been deadened to the outside world during the drive, but his hearing was now recovering and he became aware of the sounds of the countryside at night.

  So much for Zoé's shortcut. The whole exhaust system would need fixing before they went back to England. Maybe he'd get himself a different car. Maybe Tom Grieves had a son with an unwanted wreck, or Florian might have a spare Mercedes. Whatever he got, he'd check it for trackers.

  He peered into the darkness. "Listen: les grenouilles, frogs." The deep croaking came from all around. The reed beds must be full of the creatures.

  Zoé pushed her way in front, seemingly untroubled as the dripping reeds soaked her clothing. "Keep still." She put her hand out to keep him back.

  Matt held onto it, gaining a sense of confidence. Angry voices from the gate to the compound were followed by a single shot that made them both jump. Seconds later the site was plunged into darkness. The frogs became still.

  Matt put his arms round Zoé and held her tightly. Her damp body against his felt beautiful. He pulled her even closer and smelt her perfume. She made no attempt to break free. Why did this have to happen now, out here amongst the wet reeds?

  "One of them has been shot. Keep still," he cautioned.

  "Please." Zoé began to struggle at last. "Let me have the air."

  A hand lamp flashed wildly across the compound, then the person holding it swept the beam slowly up and then down the road.

  "We will go closer and see who it is," whispered Zoé.

  To Matt's annoyance she broke away from his grip. It had been good while it lasted. "These reeds are noisy," he warned. "Move slowly."

  The reed bed ended close to the tall wire link fencing. Matt was reluctant to break cover. Before he could argue the point with Zoé the floodlights came on with such suddenness he could almost hear the sound of the light. The American was moving cautiously inside the compound under the full glare of the floods. Even with the headphones on, it was unmistakably Jason Heinman, the tall man with the pointed beard and baseball hat.

  "He must have shot the guard. You're right, Zoé, we should have gone to the gendarmes."

  "I can find the way to the gendarmerie in Saint Omer," Zoé whispered. "Come back with me through the reeds."

  "You go. I'll wait here until the gendarmes come."

  "But Monsieur 'Einman has a gun. He will shoot you."

  "No, Zoé, I want you to get away. Tell the gendarmes the man is armed."

  Zoé hesitated, holding his hands. "I am worried about you, Matt."

  "He's already started digging. He's too interested in his detector to notice me."

  Zoé gave him a kiss. She held him tightly, even after their lips parted. "Be careful, Tommy."

  Matt heard the Mini leave. Probably half of the Pas-de-Calais heard it, the exhaust was so loud. It sounded like the start of a Grand Prix. Jason Heinman sprinted to the security cabin.

  The lights went off, plunging the area blackness.

  *

  THE SOUND of the engine alarmed Jason, but he was reassured to hear the raucous car drive away from the site. Probably some boy racer with a souped-up engine showing off to his girlfriend. He felt agitated enough already, having taken a wrong turning in the dark and becoming totally lost.

  He'd activated the tracker when he was getting ne
ar the site, just to check that Rider wasn't around, but the receiver had stayed silent. The inquisitive PI must be well out of range, perhaps even back in England. Anyway, that certainly wasn't a small engined car. Perhaps he'd missed a courting couple down one of the small tracks.

  He turned the floods on again and continued his search. He'd made a mistake with the lights. This site would always be lit right through the night. Putting the place into darkness, even for two or three minutes, had been stupid. And that damned Glock had been deafening.

  He lifted the headphones from his ears and stared across at the high chain link fencing. His father was positive: right here, where the drainage ditches intersected, the blonde had buried the gold cylinders. Twelve samples of Berlitzan oil, brought to this place by his father and grandfather. Twelve gold cylinders intended for testing on the English.

  No, not twelve any more. The English soldier had wasted one in 1944, and the crazy Dutchman Van Heteren had found one. But there should still be ten -- just waiting to be dug up. He'd promised Hammid Aziz two, which left eight to take back to the States for analysis. Eight cylinders that would guarantee him financial security for the rest of his life. He could walk away from Domestic Chemicals any time he wanted and supply the international arms trade with a world-beater.

  He decided to keep his gloves on to make sure everything he touched would be free of prints -- even the Glock. He looked at the illuminated display panel on the metal detector. The hi-tech machine needed adjusting yet again. The dealer in Calais insisted this was the latest state-of-the-art device that would work where other machines failed miserably. The range of settings in manual mode seemed complex, with knobs for setting sensitivity and background threshold, but the only position of interest on the scale was marked Gold. Thankfully the instructions came in English as well as French.

  He'd spent the whole afternoon on that damned beach outside Calais burying test objects, coins and bottle tops and rusty bolts, and his gold ring. It had been a struggle to get any sort of response at depth. And then, in spite of the heavy drizzle he'd mastered it. The machine detected his signet ring in the wet sand, while leaving the nearby ferrous objects alone. But things had changed since leaving the beach.

  He fiddled with the threshold control. It had worked this afternoon. Once he'd got it right, he'd gone on to dig up two gold rings lost by bathers, and a badly corroded watch with a gold case. The ingenious meter was clever by the sea, but useless inland. The headphones chattered away noisily, while the needle wavered like a crazy pendulum. If he could dig up just one cylinder of Berlitzan oil he'd go away happy.