Reluctant as she was to let her child go, Yvonne Broussard consented to let the little girl sit on the hearthrug, rolling a paper ball for Minou to chase. ‘How did you,’ she demanded, ‘come to have Rosie?’
Anthony lit a cigarette and told her.
‘You went to Belgium?’ she said incredulously. ‘And rescued Rosie?’
‘Yes, Madame. But you understand I didn’t know she was Rosie. Her name in the convent was Agathé.’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘You’ll appreciate, Madame Broussard, that Dr Brooke faced considerable danger to rescue little Rosie.’
Even though, Anthony commented to himself, I thought I were rescuing an entirely different child. My God, what a mix-up!
‘We’ve been very frank with you, Madame,’ continued Sir Charles, looking concernedly at his friend. ‘Will you tell us what you know?’
‘But of course, Monsieur,’ she said, beaming at him, Tara and Anthony. ‘Dr Brooke, he has been so brave, I owe it to you to tell everything.’ Her expression grew serious. ‘This is what happened …’
Yvonne’s story was easily told. She and Paul married seven years ago. Of course she knew that Paul’s father had been born in Germany. What of it? There were many thousands of Germans in America. What she hadn’t realized was how deep the old man’s patriotism ran and how he had passed onto his son his pride in both his family and all things German.
Paul wanted a German name for their daughter, Yvonne a Belgian. They compromised by calling the baby Roswitha, after Paul’s mother, and Agathé, after Yvonne’s. For the first year after Rosie was born, they lived in America. Then Paul organized an expedition to Brazil. The expedition was cut short by the death of his good friend, Richard Cooper. Cooper’s last request was that Paul should contact his only relative, Edward Jowett.
Paul Diefenbach might have a taste for adventure, but he had inherited his father’s business instincts. The Capital and Counties bank was moribund and the Midwest Mutual and Savings wanted a London branch. The takeover was arranged to everyone’s mutual satisfaction. Edward Jowett, who Paul came to regard virtually as an uncle, was retained as Chief Cashier, the bank prospered, and Paul and Yvonne made their home in London.
As tension in Europe grew, Paul took the German side. Yvonne disagreed. Matters had come to a head the previous summer.
Yvonne left Paul for an extended holiday and, taking Rosie Agathé with her, went to stay with her grandmother, Madame Legrand, at the family home in Brussels.
At first, the news that an Austrian Archduke had been murdered in Serbia seemed to make little difference. Yvonne paid no attention to the news; Rosie was ill, struck down by the much feared summer flu, or meningitis.
Then, on 4th August, as Rosie was, thank God, starting to get better, their peace was shattered by the appalling news that the German Imperial Army had invaded Belgium.
Yvonne, said Grandmamma, must return to London at once before the Boche arrived. Rosie wasn’t fit to travel. She could stay with her until this stupidity of a war was over. It wouldn’t last long and Rosie would be perfectly safe. An old woman and a little child posed no threat to anyone’s army.
So Yvonne left. When, back in London, she found that Paul still supported the German invasion, in spite of the terrifying reports coming from Belgium, she took back her own name and left him. When he returned to his senses, she would return to him, but not before.
Then, a few weeks earlier, Edward Jowett had called to see her. He was desperately worried. Rupert Arno Diefenbach, Paul’s father, had been approached by the German ambassador in New York. Germany needed money for the war; could he oblige with a loan?
Anthony, Tara and Sir Charles swapped startled glances. Money. This, felt Anthony, was getting to the heart of things.
‘You’ll excuse me for asking, Madame Broussard,’ said Sir Charles, in his most persuasive voice, ‘but what was your husband’s reaction to this request? Did he agree with the idea of a loan?’
Yvonne nodded. ‘Yes, he did. That is why Monsieur Jowett came to see me, so I could argue against the idea with Paul. There is, Monsieur, a considerable amount of gold in the vaults of the Capital and Counties. The bank, she has prospered, yes? Paul proposed to loan the German government twenty million dollars in gold.’
Charles Talbot stared at her blankly. ‘Twenty million dollars?’ he repeated in a hushed whisper. ‘Dear God. That’s what? About four million pounds?’
Yvonne shrugged. ‘If you say so. Mr Jowett, he was worried, you understand? Paul was stubborn, then something changed his mind.’
She leaned forward. ‘Paul, he is a free spirit. He does not like to be spied upon, and the conviction grew on him that there were spies in the bank. There are Americans in the bank, you understand, Americans who worked for Paul’s father. Paul became convinced that at least one of these men had been put there to spy upon him. So he consulted Mr Jowett, and they worked out a plan. Mr Jowett, he had always tried to persuade Paul that the Germans were not the innocent victims of lies and propaganda.’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps, I do not know, he had been swayed by Mr Jowett and by me. Paul always wanted to know the truth and we told him he was ignoring the truth about Belgium. So, he did what, knowing Paul, I should have expected him to do. He went to see for himself.’
‘He went to Belgium?’ asked Anthony.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘He told me – he told everyone except Mr Jowett – that he was off to South America, and I believed him.’
Sir Charles lit a cigarette. ‘That answers a lot of questions, doesn’t it, Brooke? Paul Diefenbach’s whereabouts is the information Harper and his crew blackmailed out of poor Mrs Jowett. Once they knew he was actually in Belgium, he’d become a complete loose cannon. They needed to keep tabs on him and he’d disappeared.’
He raised an eyebrow in Yvonne’s direction. ‘We’ve seen a letter your husband wrote to Edward Jowett, Madame Broussard. We know that what he saw in Belgium made him change his mind.’
‘That is so, Monsieur,’ she agreed. ‘But, in the meantime, I thought I had committed une grosse erreur.’ She smiled happily at Rosie. ‘Thanks to the brave Dr Brooke, all is well.’
That was stretching the facts more than a bit, thought Anthony, but he didn’t contradict her. ‘What do you mean, Madame?’
‘A few weeks ago a man came to see me. He was very nice, very respectful, and my heart, it was overwhelmed when he showed me photographs of Rosie with Grandmamma.’
‘I can imagine you were overwhelmed,’ said Tara.
Yvonne turned to her eagerly. ‘But yes! Imagine! This man – his name was Smith – said he was part of the American Relief Fund and could travel in Belgium. He had talked with Grandmamma and Rosie. He said that for three hundred pounds, he could bring Rosie to me.’
The three hundred quid was a good touch, thought Anthony. If he’d offered to do it for free, even the most besotted mother would be suspicious.
‘The money was needed, he said, to smooth the way, to pay bribes and so on, and also to pay for his trouble, but he could do it. All I had to do was write a letter to Grandmamma, explaining that she was to give Rosie in the charge of the nursemaid who would be sent to Belgium to collect her.’
‘Didn’t you suspect anything?’ asked Tara.
Yvonne shrugged. ‘I was uneasy, yes, but, Madame, I ask you, would you refuse? The photographs, they proved he had seen Grandmamma and Rosie, yes? If I knew Paul was in Belgium, I would have left it to Paul, for he loves Rosie very much, but I did not know. I paid Mr Smith the money and wrote the letter and then …’
She gulped. ‘I waited. The night before last, Paul returned. He, like me, thought there was a chance that Rosie still could be safe. Then, this morning, he received this letter.’
She took a letter from her handbag and handed it to Sir Charles.
He unfolded the letter. It was typewritten on a single piece of plain paper. He read it out loud.
This morning’s newspaper contains a report o
f the murder of James Dunwoody, shot at the wheel of his Roll-Royce.
His death was not an accident. We murdered him.
James Dunwoody was chauffeuring your daughter, Rosie, and her nursemaid. We have taken your daughter and will hold her hostage until you have fulfilled your father’s wishes.
Be at the Grey Street entrance of the Capital and Counties bank at ten o’clock this morning.
Tell no one. If you do, your daughter will die. We murdered James Dunwoody and will murder your daughter without hesitation.
You have one chance to save her. Take it.
There was stunned silence. ‘That,’ said Sir Charles eventually, ‘is the most evil letter I’ve ever read.’
‘They wanted to be noticed,’ said Anthony heavily. ‘They hired a Rolls-Royce and murdered that poor beggar, James Dunwoody, to be noticed. They made sure that it’d be in the newspapers and you’d take their threat seriously.’ He looked at Yvonne. ‘I take it your husband obeyed the instructions, Madame?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed. ‘How could he do anything else?’ She looked at Tara. ‘When you came this morning, I thought you were one of them, these evil people, but now – now I know that you are good.’
She smiled happily at Rosie. ‘Now Rosie is here, there is nothing to worry about, yes?’
‘No,’ said Anthony. Although Yvonne Broussard didn’t seem to realize it, there was one certain way for a bunch of killers to ensure that Paul Diefenbach couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. And, of course, there was another life at stake.
She frowned at him, puzzled. ‘But what is wrong? Germany will get the money and that is bad, yes, bad, but they cannot harm Rosie.’
‘There was a child in the car with the nursemaid,’ said Anthony.
Tara’s face was pale. ‘It’s Milly, isn’t it, Anthony? They’ve got Milly.’ She looked at him imploringly. ‘Can we save her?’
Anthony got to his feet. ‘I’m going to damn well try.’
TWENTY-NINE
A phone call to Scotland Yard brought the co-operation of the official force. Sir Douglas Lynton met them outside the Capital and Counties, on the junction of Chambers’ Row and Grey Street.
Despite Sir Charles’ reluctance to approach the bank, they didn’t have any choice. As Anthony said, if Paul Diefenbach was ordered to be at the bank at ten o’clock this morning, the bank was the only place they had a hope of finding out what happened to him.
Sir Douglas’s first idea had been to raid the bank with a show of force, but both Sir Charles and Anthony disagreed.
‘I hope we’re doing the right thing, Talbot,’ said Sir Douglas unhappily as they walked towards the entrance. ‘Say the word and I can have every man in the bank arrested and every piece of paper impounded. We can stop these people dead in their tracks.’
‘It might come to that,’ said Sir Charles, ‘but this way, we’ve got a chance of working in secret. It’s not just the gold that’s at stake.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Anthony. ‘They murdered James Dunwoody. I just hope Milly’s still alive.’ He swallowed hard. ‘There’s no real reason why she should be.’
Sir Charles grasped his arm. ‘Think what Father Quinet heard the woman say, Brooke. She didn’t want to be party to killing a child.’
The clerk at the mahogany counter received their request to see the manager politely enough.
‘You wish to see Mr Crichton, gentlemen? May I ask what it concerns?’
‘Say it concerns a large account,’ said Sir Charles with a smile. ‘But we do have to see Mr Crichton himself, you understand.’
After a few minutes wait, they were shown into the green leather and oak-rich office of the manager.
Mr Crichton, a portly, balding man, looked worried to death. He knows something’s going on, thought Anthony as he rose to greet them.
Sir Charles made sure the door was firmly closed before he sat down.
Mr Crichton blinked at him. ‘How can I help you, gentlemen? I understand your business concerns a large account.’
‘Very large,’ said Sir Douglas, placing his official warrant card on the desk. ‘A matter of twenty million dollars in gold.’
The manager gave a little cry and started back from the desk. Sagging in the chair, he clapped a hand to his mouth with a horrible retching noise.
Anthony thought Crichton might very well be sick or faint or both. He clapped a hand on his shoulder, undid his collar button and loosened his tie. ‘Come on, man. Breathe deeply. I’m a doctor,’ he said, authoritatively. ‘Do what I say. Mr Monks, pour me a glass of water.’
Sir Charles poured a glass from the heavy glass water carafe on the desk, adding a generous measure of brandy from the decanter next to it.
The manager gulped down the brandy and water with shaking hands. After a few moments his breathing steadied. He tried to speak and eventually managed a hoarse whisper. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘That depends,’ said Sir Douglas. ‘I need hardly ask if you know what happened this morning. Perhaps you would give us the details.’
Mr Crichton shut his eyes briefly. ‘I knew something was wrong,’ he said. ‘Ever since Brown and Forester arrived, I knew something was wrong.’
‘Brown and Forester are …?’ prompted Sir Douglas.
‘Americans,’ answered Mr Crichton. ‘German-Americans, from the Midwest Mutual.’ He glanced at them. ‘You know about the Midwest and Mutual?’
Sir Douglas nodded. ‘Go on. We’ll ask for any details we need.’
The manager nodded. ‘I call them Americans, but they were German, sure enough. German-American perhaps, but German.’
Brown and Forester? Anthony thought. Make that Bruhn and Förstner, perhaps.
‘They arrived about two months ago,’ continued the manager, ‘posted here by Mr Diefenbach – Mr Rupert Diefenbach – himself.’ He gazed at them earnestly. ‘Gentlemen, believe me when I say that I have not known an easy moment since. Poor Mr Jowett was unhappy about their presence and although I cannot prove it, I believe they know far more about his tragic demise than they should.’
‘Where are they now?’ asked Anthony quickly.
‘Gone. They departed this morning with Mr Diefenbach. Had not Mr Diefenbach himself been present, I would have resisted their actions with all the authority at my disposal.’ He raised his hand and let it drop. ‘But as Mr Diefenbach was in charge, I had no choice but to comply with his orders.’
‘Get to the point, man,’ said Sir Douglas brusquely. ‘What happened?’
Anthony frowned at Sir Douglas and dropped a reassuring hand on the manager’s shoulder. ‘Let Mr Crichton tell the story his own way,’ he warned. He knew the man was on the verge of a breakdown. Any attempt to bully him could send him over the edge.
The manager looked at Anthony gratefully. ‘As you will appreciate, I was surprised to see Mr Diefenbach, as we thought he was in South America. I was delighted to see him return, but, as a matter of fact, gentleman, he was very far from his usual self. He is usually a most affable man, but this morning he was unusually curt and off-hand.’
He lit a cigarette with trembling hands. ‘As soon as I heard Mr Diefenbach had returned, I hastened into the lobby to greet him, but he hardly seemed to know I was there. Brown and Forester met him and I overheard him say, “I thought I was right. It’s you, isn’t it?” and they replied, “Yes. Remember these are your father’s instructions.” They had a brief conversation, which I couldn’t catch, then Mr Diefenbach took them into his office.’
‘Yes?’ said Anthony after a pause. ‘What happened then?’
The manager’s lip trembled. ‘They took the gold,’ he said in a whisper. ‘As you can imagine, I protested, but Mr Diefenbach reassured me everything was in order. He supervised the loading of the gold into a van.’
‘It must have been a jolly large van,’ commented Sir Douglas, but Mr Crichton shook his head vigorously.
‘Oh no, sir.’ His voice took on an oddly reverential ton
e. ‘The gold is composed of eighteen bars weighing four hundred troy ounces apiece. Gold. Solid gold.’
‘What size are the bars?’
‘Approximately seven inches by four inches. They are small, but heavy, of course. As I said, each bar weighs four hundred troy ounces.’
‘That’s what?’ asked Sir Douglas. ‘In ordinary pounds and ounces, I mean.’
The manager shrugged. ‘I imagine it would amount to thirty pounds or so.’
‘Where did the van go?’ asked Anthony.
Mr Crichton put his hands wide. ‘I don’t know,’ he said miserably. ‘They refused to tell me. Despite Mr Diefenbach’s reassurances, I knew something was amiss. Why, Brown and Forester wouldn’t even have one of our drivers. Brown drove the van and Forester sat in the back with Mr Diefenbach, in place of our guards. The whole procedure was most irregular.’
His face was a picture of misery. ‘If Mr Diefenbach had not been present, I would have certainly informed the police. Ever since the van drove away, I have tried to convince myself that all was well.’
He glanced at Sir Douglas’s warrant card and shuddered. ‘What could I do? I have always had the most profound respect for Mr Diefenbach. He is young, yes, and sometimes unorthodox in his views, but the bank has prospered under his guidance and I entertain the warmest feeling towards him.’ He hesitated. ‘Tell me, gentlemen. Has – this is so incredible I can hardly say it – has the Chairman, Mr Diefenbach himself – actually robbed the bank?’
Sir Douglas pursed his lips, unwilling to answer, but Sir Charles nodded. ‘Unfortunately, that’s what it amounts to.’ Mr Crichton closed his eyes in horror. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘Mr Diefenbach was acting under duress. No court of law would find him guilty.’
Sir Douglas raised his eyebrows in disagreement, but Mr Crichton seized on Sir Charles’s words.
‘The Chairman was forced to act, you say? He is an innocent man?’
Anthony could see hope dawning. Mr Crichton sat upright, braced himself, and, when he spoke, his voice was far stronger. ‘Who forced him? Brown and Forester?’ His face grew grim. ‘By George, gentlemen, this needs to be stopped!’ He glared at Sir Douglas. ‘You, sir! You represent the police. You must do something!’
The Price of Silence Page 25