by Len Deighton
'How can you be so sure?'
'Nah! If you'd ever seen a nuke, you'd know why. They bring those cookies in on freight cars, shielded with lead, and crawling with guys in protective clothing... and even if Champion got his hands on one, what does he do-take off down the road in an articulated truck?'
Threatening to detonate it,' I offered.
'You've got a nasty overdose of Serge Frankel,' he said. 'For all we know, he's in this with Champion.'
'Frankel's a Jew,' I protested.
'Spare me the schmaltz, buddy: my violin is in my other pants. If your pal Champion was planning to hijack canned pork, I wouldn't eliminate the chief rabbi.'
'If Champion was planning to hijack tinned pork,' I said patiently, 'we wouldn't have to worry about the Arabs dropping it on Tel Aviv.'
'But how would they move a bomb?'
'Steal a loaded bomber?'
He stared at me. 'You are determined to lay this theory on me, aren't you?' He kicked the water, very hard, with his heel. It splashed all over me.
It's the only theory I've got,' I said. I wiped the splashes from my face.
'Bombers loaded with atomic weapons are guarded like...' Unable to find a comparison, Schlegel shook his head. 'I'll do the necessary,' he promised. 'The people who guard nukes scare easily.'
'I know the feeling,' I said.
Schlegel nodded. 'Come into town Sunday morning, when Champion goes to Mass. I'll see you at the port-Ercole's cabin-cruiser: the Giulietta. Right?'
'I'll do my best.'
'Let's hope the smoke's clearing by then,' he said. He wrapped his sunglasses and cigars in his towel and gave diem to me. 'You want to take my stuff round the pool while I swim back?' Schlegel gave orders in the American style, as if politely inquiring about certain aspects of obsessional behaviour. I didn't answer him and I didn't take his towel.
There's something else you want?' said Schlegel.
'I want Melodic Page's reports, contacts and sheets-anything, in fact-for the month before she died. I want to look at it for myself.'
'Why ? Of course you can have it, but why?
'Murdering the girl was the only hurried and uncharacteristic move Champion has made so far. Something must have panicked him, and it might be something that the girl discovered.' Schlegel nodded. 'Anything else?' 'See what you can find out about this Topaz kid.' 'O.K.,' said Schlegel. He pushed the towel into my hand and dived into the water, leaving barely a ripple. He swam underwater, turning his head only enough to bite air. I envied him. Not only the ability to swim like a basking shark, but also for his jet-jockey readiness to press buttons, pull triggers and dive into the deep end of life, while people like me drown in indecision, imagined loyalties and fear. If Champion was yesterday's spy, Schlegel was tomorrow's. I can't say I looked forward to it.
By the time I started walking round the pool, Schlegel had taken a fresh towel from the rack and disappeared into a changing-room. I took my time. The sun was moving behind the hill-tops, so that the landscape was turning mauve. But high in the stratosphere, a jetliner caught the sun's rays and left a contrail of pure gold. In the cemetery the little girl was still singing.
Did you enjoy the duck?' said Ercole proudly.
'One of these days,' said Schlegel, 'I'm going to fix you one of my special cheeseburgers. With all the trimmings!'
For a moment Ercole was taken aback. Then he roared, 'I hate you, I hate you,' and kissed Schlegel on the cheek.
That'll learn you, Colonel,' I said softly.
Schlegel smiled bravely while Ercole placed a large piece of goat's cheese on a crust of bread, but stopped smiling when Ercole put an arm-lock on him and forced it into his mouth. 'It's not possible that a man won't eat a fine cheese like this,' shouted Ercole. 'I make it myself-with my own hands.'
It was in Schlegel's mouth by now, and he pulled a face as he tasted its sharp flavour.
Louis-Ercole's grandson-watched the cameo, disapproval showing clearly on his face. He was in his late teens, dressed in the dark well cut suit that befitted the heir to a gastronomic mecca, but it was difficult to imagine him presiding over it with the sort of passion that his Falstaffian grandpa never failed to show.
Ercole leaned back in his chair and sipped a little of the vintage Burgundy. He turned to Schlegel. 'Good?' he asked Schlegel finally.
'Wonderful,' said Schlegel, without conviction.
Ercole nodded. It was enough.
We dined that night in Ercole's office. It was large enough to hold a table and half a dozen chairs, as well as the tiny desk at which he did his paperwork. The office was a glass-sided box situated between the dining-room and kitchen, and providing a clear view of both. Such a 'cash-control booth' was not unusual in large restaurants, but perhaps only Ercole's was walled with the mirrored-glass exterior that provided such privacy.
We could see the whole dining-room and kitchen, but the clients and staff saw only their own reflections. We watched a bearded boy walk from table to table, holding aloft carefully drawn landscape sketches. He said nothing, nor did his expression change. Few people for whom he displayed his work granted him more than a casual glance before continuing their meal and their conversation. He moved on. It was a sad society, in which all these property salesmen, plastics executives and car rental tycoons could not only humiliate this boy, but inure him to it.
I asked Louis to purchase a drawing for me. It cost no more than a bottle of Ercole's very cheapest wine.
'Have you gone off your trolley?' asked Schlegel, with no more than passing interest 'It's a good drawing,' I said.
'At least you can tell which way up it's supposed to be,' said Schlegel. He took it from me and examined it, and then looked through the mirror-glass to see the artist. Well, now he'll be able to buy himself some soap,' he said.
'What's so special about soap?' I said. 'Why can't he buy himself some food and wine?'
Schlegel didn't answer, but Louis smiled approvingly and was emboldened to ask me a question. 'Is that Ferrari yours?' His voice was almost a whisper, but it was not so quiet that Ercole didn't hear. He'd moved his chair so that he could watch the restaurant. He answered without turning his head.
'Table twenty-one,' he said. 'The flashy fellow with the open-neck shirt. He arrived in the Ferrari. I wish now I'd made him put the tie on. They both had the hundred-franc menu. He owns a handbag factory near Turin- she's his secretary, I should think.' He took a long look at her, sniffed, and jerked a thumb at Louis. 'Cars and football: that's all this one thinks about.'
'But you said Louis prepared the duck,' I protested.
Ercole reached forward and ruffled his grandson's hair. 'He's not a bad boy, just a bit wild, that's all.'
We were all too polite to remark that the boy's conservatively tailored suit, and deferential whispers, made it difficult to believe. But already Ercole's attention was elsewhere. 'Table nineteen have been waiting hours for their coffee. Tell that fool Bernard to pull himself together.' As Louis slipped quietly away. Ercole said, 'Or you do it.' He didn't take his eyes from the restless people at table nineteen for more than a few seconds at a time but he was able to continue talking as if using some different part of his brain. 'You know what the theory of relativity is?'
'You tell me,' Schlegel invited.
'Bernard's let those two tables in the corner get to the fish course at the same time. They all want it off the bone. Now, for Bernard, the minutes fly like seconds. While for those people who asked for coffee three, perhaps four, minutes ago each minute seems like an hour.'
'So that's the theory of relativity?' said Schlegel.
'That's it,' said Ercole. 'It's a miracle that Einstein discovered it, when you remember that he wasn't even a restaurateur.'
Schlegel turned to follow Ercole's gaze. 'That guy's impatience is nothing to do with Einstein,' he argued. 'With a plug-ugly broad like that facing you, every minute seems like an hour.'
It was Louis who served the coffee to them. He did it we
ll, but he didn't once look at the people he served.
'And the special hand-dipped chocolates,' remarked Ercole approvingly, after Louis had sat down with us again. 'She'll gobble her way through them, just watch. Did you notice her ask for a second portion of the profiteroles?' 'Are you going to the football match on Sunday morning?' Louis undid the lace of one shoe and rubbed his foot He lacked the stamina of the professional waiter.
lie's staying out at Champion's house,' said Ercole.
'Yes, I know,' said the boy. I saw contempt in the glance he gave the old man.
'I think I might have a morning in bed,' I said.
'No Mass for these heathens,' said Ercole.
'It's just a friendly match for charity,' said the boy. 'Really not worth the journey. But next month it will be a good one.'
'Perhaps I'll come next month, then,' I said.
'I'll send you tickets,' said the boy, and seemed strangely pleased at my decision.
Chapter Nineteen
COMPLIANT WITH Schlegel's prediction, the next few days brought perfect spring weather. When Sunday morning came, there was a clear blue sky and hot sun. I went into Nice with Champion, and Billy decided that he would come too. The chauffeur stopped outside St Francois de Paule. Billy asked why I wasn't going with them to Mass, and I hesitated, searching for a reply.
'Uncle has an important meeting,' said Champion.
'Can I go too?' said Billy.
'It's a private meeting,' Champion explained. He smiled at me.
'I'll leave my coat,' I said, anxious to change the subject. The sun is warm.'
'See you later,' said Champion.
'See you later,' said Billy, but his voice was almost lost in the pealing of the church bells.
There was a rehearsal in progress at the opera house across the road. A few bars from Verdi's 'Requiem' were repeated over and over. The red carpet was laid for the 'Caisse', but in the shabby doorway marked 'Paradis', a policeman barred the way.
I cut through the market. It was crowded with shoppers, and with country people in their well-brushed black suits, black dresses and shawls, arguing over cages of rabbits and chickens and snails and brandishing brown eggs.
Out at sea, a yachtsman hopefully hauled upon an orange striped spinnaker as he was passed by a ketch. The sea still had the milkmess of winter, but the surface was calm. The waves lapped the shingle with no more than a gentle slap, and disappeared with a deep sigh of despair.
There is always a blustery wind around the great hillock of rock under which the port of Nice shelters. There was everything there, from a sailing dinghy to tramp steamers moored dose to the cranes. The quayside was piled high with pale-yellow timber, and on the far side of the water I saw the Giulietta tied up along with half a dozen yachts and cruisers. There was no sign of Schlegel on its deck.
The main port of Nice is not the sort of place where you see the fancy yachts double-parked, with film stars dining alfresco on the poop deck, and borrowing a cup of caviare from the tycoon next door. This is a strictly business-only mooring, the Club Nautique is another call. But for a Sunday morning, it was unusually crowded: a dozen men stood around a Peugeot van, and watched two frogmen having their equipment checked. The metal barriers that divide the car-parking area had now been rearranged to cordon off the quay, and a uniformed policeman guarded the only gap in ft.
'Where are you going?'
'A little walk,' I said.
'Little walk somewhere else,' said the cop.
'What's happening?' I said.
'Did you bear me? Get going!'
I walked, but kept to the other side of the fence until I came to some other spectators. 'What's happening?' I asked.
'A body, I should think,' said a woman with a shopping bag. She didn't look round to see who'd asked, in case she missed something.
'A suicide?'
'Off one of the yachts,' said another man. He was dressed in an orange-and-yellow yachtsman's windcheater, with a heavy duty zip in bright red.
'Some millionaire, or his fancy piece,' said the woman. 'On drugs, probably-an orgy, perhaps.'
'I'll bet they are Germans,' said the man in the windcheater, anxious lest the woman's fancies should be so elaborate as to eliminate his own prejudices. 'Germans can't hold their drink.'
The officious policeman came back to where we were standing. 'Move on,' he said.
'Move on yourself, you dirty pig,' said the woman.
'I'll put you into the van,' said the policeman.
'You ponce,' said the woman. 'What could you do with me in the back of the van.' She let out a cackle of dirty laughter and looked round at the rest of us. We all joined in, and the policeman went back to the barrier.
The unity of our gathering thus demonstrated, a hitherto silent member of the crowd was encouraged to speak. 'They think it's a tourist,' he said. 'Tangled in the anchor ropes of one of the boats- the Giulietta or the Manxman there-they think he went in during the night. The frogmen will soon get him.'
'It will take them an hour,' said the man in the yachting-jacket Yes, I thought, it will take them an hour. I moved away from the spectators, and walked slowly up the steep connecting street to the Boulevard de Stalingrad.
Everywhere seemed closed, except for the bakers across the street and a large cafe, its name, 'Longchamps', in white plastic letters on a hand-painted acid-green background. The floor was cleared, as if for dancing, or a bout of bare-fist fighting. There were a dozen or more customers, all men, and none of them dressed well enough for Mass. In a far corner, a man in a booth accepted bets, and all the while the customers were prodding the racing papers, writing out slips and drinking pastis.
I ordered a cognac, and drank it before the girl behind the bar replaced the cap on the bottle.
'That's an expensive way to satisfy a thirst,' she said. I nodded, and she poured a second one. This one I took more slowly. The radio music came to an end and a weather forecaster started a lot of double talk about areas of high pressure. The woman switched it off. I sipped my brandy.
A man came up, put a one-franc coin into the machine on the counter and got a handful of olives. 'Have one,' be offered. It was Schlegel.
I took one without comment but my eyes must have popped.
'Thought they were untangling me from an anchor chain, did you?'
'Something like that,' I said.
Schlegel was wearing native costume: stone-coloured golf-jacket, dark pants and canvas shoes. 'Well, you started celebrating too soon, blue-eyes.'
'Did you ever think of wearing a black beret with that outfit?' I asked.
We took our time before moving to the quietest corner of the cafe, alongside a broken juke-box, 'Here's what you asked for,' said Schlegel. 'The contacts that Melodic Page made with her 'running officer' and the report dated six weeks before her death.' I opened the brown envelope and looked inside.
'She stuck with Champion-very close,' said Schlegel. 'She went with him to stamp exhibitions in Zurich and Rome. The last three cards have special exhibition cancellations, you'll notice.'
I looked at the postcards that Melodic Page had sent to her cutout. They were the sort of thing that several aerophilately firms sell: picture postcards of the Graf Zeppelin airship anchored at some place in South America, the Hindenburg airship flying over New York and a grim one that showed the same airship exploding in flames in Lakehurst in 1937. The last card was a picture of an American airship, Macon, sent after her return to London.
'Nothing complicated about the code,' explained Schlegel. 'She met her contact five days after the postmark date. Seven days after if the postcard was coloured.'
I went through the cards again.
Schlegel said, 'Why did she suddenly become interested in aerophilately?'
I said, 'The cards were easy to obtain. Champion likes using them to send to his collector friends. And if she's at these stamp shows, what could be more natural?'
'This couldn't be a big stamp racket, could it?' sa
id Schlegel.
'Champion might transfer money that way. A stamp is a bit like a bearer-bond but it's not much of an investment. After all, the value has got to go up at least thirty per cent before you've covered the dealer's mark-up.'
'What about forgeries or stolen stuff?'
'No,' I said.
'How can you be sure?'
'On the scale we're talking about, it would be impossible. The word gets around. A stamp crook has to nibble a mouthful at a time. Making a halfway decent forgery of a stamp is a long expensive business. And you can't recoup by suddenly putting a hundred forged rare stamps on the market, or prices would slump to nothing. Even with genuine stamps they would. And what kind of dough are we talking about? Even in the swish Bond Street auctions you won't find many single stamps fetching more than fifty pounds sterling. That kind of swindle isn't going to meet Champion's wine bill!'