But I hardly heard him. I was thinking about Malta. A vague idea touched the corner of my mind, just the edge of an idea which slipped away before I could identify it. I picked the Maltese ring up from the desk. An inscription was engraved inside the gold band, very faint from years of wear. I had to screw my eyes up to read it. Even then only two initials were decipherable. P.D. P.Darmanin? I wondered what the P stood for.
"Sam?" Kaufman said from the coffee machine.
I concentrated on the ring in my hands. Was the idea something to do with that? Diamonds caught the light as I twisted it in my fingers. I told myself to do as Kaufman had earlier - draw a line from the ring ... to what? The ring...Malta...Kay had gone to Malta? FABERGE! His name exploded in my mind. I could have sworn I said it aloud, but neither Kaufman nor Llewellyn showed any sign of hearing me. Kaufman returned to his chair. He was watching me intently.
I said, "Look up Faberge on that list of yours. Let's hear the names of his associates again."
Kaufman opened his folder, turned a page and began to read. I let him finish, then said, "One name is missing."
"Go on," he said softly.
But I had already gone on, in my mind. My memory was picking up images like blips on a radar screen. I stared at the wall above Kaufman's head - afraid to look at him in case he distracted me. My brain clung like a limpet to those slender threads of memory.
I began slowly. "When I was fighting Faberge that night. Martinez had gone into the water, Faberge was swinging that boathook like a claymore, and I was trying to hold him off with this length of rope...when this skiff appeared from the river. The man standing up threw something with his right hand, but his left arm was forward for balance. I thought he was holding something in his left hand at first. It caught the light. But it wasn't in his hand, it was on it. He wore a ring on his left hand...that's what sparkled."
I lowered my gaze and met the scepticism in Kaufman's eyes, but I hurried on before he had chance to interrupt me. I had the line now - in my mind if not on paper - and it stretched from Faberge to a ring which caught the light - and on to something else. "The man in the skiff killed Faberge," I said with slow conviction, "and he wore a ring on his left hand. But it goes further than that. Kay was sitting behind the dock when I was sentenced at Oxford. I didn't know she was there till the last minute. She...she was crying and a man reached over to comfort her. He rested his hands on her shoulders. I couldn't see his face, but he wore a diamond ring on his left hand." I tossed Darmanin's ring back onto the desk, "I don't say it had a Maltese Cross, but it caught the light - that's what reminded me."
Kaufman massaged his jaw, as if he felt the need for a shave. "Faberge knew someone who wore a ring like that? Is that what you're saying?"
Suddenly I was connecting people together...people I had never realised knew each other. Yet I must have known. Kay told me where Brooks had gone that night in the boathouse - but I was so thankful that he was out of the way that where he was seemed unimportant. Now it seemed vital. Although only to me apparently, because when I explained neither Kaufman nor Llewellyn appeared at all impressed. Kaufman's reaction was a blunt question. "Are you saying Faberge knew Lew Douglas and that he was the man in the skiff?"
I hesitated. The man in the skiff might have been anyone, all I saw was his outline. I tried to calm down, to explain myself better. "Kay said Brooks had gone to the Fisherman. Lew Douglas owns the Fisherman. He spends a lot of time there ... so did Kay ... you read Edgar's letter. What I'm saying is that Brooks met Lew Douglas that night. Douglas is a flashy dresser. I bet that was him in court that day with Kay and-"
"Okay, suppose you're right," Kaufman interrupted. "Suppose Brooks did meet Douglas at the Fisherman that night? So what?"
"Well, isn't it worth asking him? And another thing - if Brooks went there that night shouldn't Douglas have told the police afterwards? Why didn't he come forward?"
"You're reaching, buddy boy. Building one assumption on another-"
"It all fits," I said excitedly. "Listen, Edgar said Kay was spending a lot of time at The Fisherman. That's when she needed the money. That bastard Douglas was blackmailing her with that picture-"
Kaufman threw his hands in the air. "Slow down, will you? You're getting carried away. You never liked Douglas. You and he had a row about Apex. Okay, but that doesn't make him-"
"Brooks must have taken the photograph to Douglas that night. He must have. They never had a chance to meet anyone else-"
"You don't know that. It was hours before you took that call from Kay-"
But I was trembling with excitement and frustration and anger all at the same time. I knew I was onto something, even though I was unable to define it precisely, even though I was having so much trouble in explaining myself that I was incoherent.
"Will you cool it?" Kaufman shouted at me. "Now then, you say that photograph was taken that afternoon?" "Of course it was taken then!" "Did you see a camera? When you burst in-" "For Christ's sake! I was hardly looking-" "But you were there. And you didn't see-" "It's the only explanation. They took the camera when they left." "Maybe it's one explanation." Kaufman sighed heavily and slid a sideways glance at Llewellyn. "But I can think of others-" "Such as?" I challenged hotly.
Llewellyn cleared his throat impatiently. "It's all assumption, Mr Harris. But...um ... you are assuming that your wife only behaved that way on the one occasion. There may have been others."
Blood rushed to my face. Of course he was right - it was possible - but I could never believe that. "No," I said stubbornly, "that was the only time - and only then because she was spaced out-"
"Her boy friends weren't," Kaufman said sourly. "Heroin turns men off like a cold shower. Makes them impotent."
I avoided his eye and was trying to think of a counter argument when Llewellyn interrupted. "I'm going to phone Bristol," he said, rising to his feet. "Then I'll look in on Henderson." He paused at the door to look back at me. "Maria Green's life might depend on your memory," he said slowly. "Time is running out, Mr Harris. Don't waste it trying to restore honour to your dead wife."
I swore at him. I was confused and agitated but I knew what he was saying ... that there was no connection between Kay and Maria. But I was the connection, in a way which I could not define. And besides I had this picture of Lew Douglas in my mind. He was a great one for personal jewellery, always wearing diamond tie clips and fancy signet rings. It could have been him in court that day. In fact I thought that quite likely. And Kay had needed the money when she was thick with Douglas ... Edgar's letter said that ... so Douglas might have been blackmailing her. Then I remembered something else. "You know Douglas has sold up here and left England?"
Kaufman shrugged. "So what? Enough tax exiles leave this little island to populate Alaska."
"He's not a tax exile. He's still in business. Edgar said he was expanding his hotels - somewhere in the Mediterranean."
Kaufman went very still. His eyes narrowed. "You trying to tell me something?"
"Tunis is in the Med. So is Malta, so is Sicily. And Kay was found murdered somewhere between the three of them. Why don't you find out where Douglas has his hotels?"
Kaufman stared at me. "You're guessing, Sam. Douglas is clean."
"How come you're so sure?"
"How do you think? We investigated him."
I sat there staring at him, willing him to tell me more than that. In the end he sighed and said, "I told you about our informer - that guy who squealed about Corrao. Corrao had been told to buy Apex at almost any price. Nobody was to lose money. Make it a big pay day for Winner Harris."
"That's what you meant by me being looked after?"
He nodded. "You were in Brixton when this came out, and Apex was in receivership. But the finger had been pointed at you so we dug into your background, which included screening your business associates. They were all clean, Hardman as well at that stage. It wasn't until months later that Enrico's man in Palermo fingered Hardman."
&n
bsp; "Then you burgled Edgar's house in Lorimer's Walk?"
"That's right, in January. And we kept tabs on him, hoping for a break."
"And Lew Douglas?"
Kaufman shrugged. "His name's on a file somewhere - with a couple of hundred others."
I can't really explain why I persisted - no single reason was so strong to warrant further investigation of Lew Douglas. But I had the damnedest feeling made up of all sorts of little things. I grabbed Edgar's letter from the desk. It took me a moment or two to find the place. Then I said, "Edgar told Kay about meeting Darlington and the others. Then she spent the night pacing the floor and the following morning she took off-"
"To see Lew Douglas?" Kaufman said sarcastically.
"She went to see him about Apex. She tried to save it."
"But why Douglas? Why not Darlington, or Charlie Weston - he was the biggest stockholder?" Kaufman stared at me then shook his head. "Just now you had Douglas blackmailing her - now she's running to him like he's her big brother. You're jumping about like a flea on a hog's back."
"But she might have gone to see Douglas. He was part of her crowd. Suppose he owns an hotel in Malta? That would clinch it surely?"
Kaufman swore and reached for the inter-com, "Hewit?"
"Yes, Mr Kaufman."
"You got the secondary PKX files with you?"
"No sir, they're at ... at base."
Kaufman flicked me a glance to see if Hewit's concealment of the location of "base" had registered. It had, but I no longer cared about the big house. All I cared about was Lew Douglas at that moment, without really knowing why. Except the more I thought about him the more convinced I became that he had blackmailed Kay.
Kaufman said, "Get onto Lawton, I want the Lew Douglas file. Especially I want to know where his hotels are." He flipped the inter-com and looked hard at me. "Satisfied?"
I don't think I answered. I was remembering something else...Kay telling me one day that Charlie Weston had called in and taken her out to lunch. "We all went," she had giggled, "Brooksy and Marcelle - and Annie Crawford was down for the day so she came too. We went to the Fisherman and had quite a party." So Brooks and Faberge went to The Fisherman that day too! It was yet another possible connection leading to Lew Douglas, and I was just about to tell Kaufman about it when the squawk from the intercom interrupted me.
Kaufman prodded a button and Hewit said, "I've got the digest on Douglas's affairs if that's any help?"
"Skip the rags to riches bit, just tell me where he operates."
"Some of this information is a bit dated," Hewit began apologetically. "For instance, it shows him still owning The Fisherman and two other hotels in England. He sold those, so that's wrong for a start-"
Kaufman scowled. "You got any other wrong information I could use?"
"Lawton is updating things now," Hewit said hurriedly. "Meanwhile, from what I've got here - Douglas owns a part interest in an hotel at a place called Sousse. Then another in Salerno and a third somewhere called Gozo."
"Sousse? Where's that?" Kaufman reached for a pencil, "How's it spelled?"
Hewit spelled it out, then said, "It's in Tunisia."
Kaufman whistled softly. He set the pencil down, then spoke into the inter-com, "You got any idea where,this Sousse is? Like how far from Tunis?"
Hewit barely hesitated. "About a hundred miles south, maybe a hundred and fifty by road, certainly no more than one eighty."
"You sound like an automobile guide. Next you'll say it's a good road all the way and a view of the sea when you get there."
"I don't know about the road, but the sea view is a safe bet. Sousse is on the Gulf of Hammeret."
Kaufman had been about to light a cigarette. Now he stared at the lighter as if surprised to see a flame so close to his face.
Hewit said, "Salerno is in Italy, just south of Naples."
Kaufman put a light to his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "And this other place? What's it called - Cozo?"
"Gozo," Hewit corrected. "It's an island next to Malta, part of Malta really."
Kaufman stared at me. "No wonder you ran casinos. Two out of three ain't bad." He shook his head and was still shaking it when he turned back to the inter-com.
"You know these places, Hewit?"
"No, sir. I've never been to any of them."
"So how come you're so accurate? Locations aren't filed in a digest."
"I have an atlas open in front of me. I guessed you would-"
"Smartass," Kaufman said softly. "Okay - you want to tell me what comes next?"
"Activate Douglas's name from the PKX files to current operation?"
"And?"
"Establish Douglas's present whereabouts?"
"Right," Kaufman agreed. "But Hewit, quietly eh - very quietly."
"Yes, Mr Kaufman. Anything else?"
Kaufman thought for a moment, then said, "Well, you could send someone down with that atlas." He scowled at me as he flicked off the inter-com. "Wipe that look off your face. All we got is Douglas doing business in the Mediterranean. You make a Federal case out of it and you'll likely be disappointed."
Which is what he said, but he sounded as excited as I felt. "This hotel at Sousse," I said quickly. "Hewit said Douglas owns a part interest. Can we find out who owns the rest of it?"
Kaufman frowned. "Maybe - it might be on the stuff Lawton's digging up. Alternatively ..." he hesitated, as if wondering whether to confide in me, "we got a man on his way to Tunis right now, to find this pal of Hardman's - maybe he could check locally-" he broke off as Henderson entered the room.
It was at least two hours since we had visited Henderson in his upstairs room, and there was a marked change in his appearance. He still wore the same stained shirt and was as much in need of a shave as I was, but his manner was totally different. The look of despair had vanished. Instead he grinned from ear to ear as he crossed to the drinks tray.
Kaufman's narrowed eyes followed him all the way, and when he spoke it was almost in a whisper. "You've found him, haven't you?"
Henderson beamed and nodded.
"Thank Christ," Kaufman whispered. "So where is it ... this place, the Oyster Bar?"
"I've even got the telephone number," Henderson poured himself a generous drink. "His name is Salvio. Salvio Darmanin. And his bar is exactly where you would expect to find it."
"In Soho?" I guessed.
"No," Henderson grinned hugely, "at a place called Rabat. In Malta."
Chapter Eleven
Richardson listened to Superintendent Roberts take the man through his story again - or at least, he half listened. Mostly he heard the voices as background to the hubbub of his own thoughts. Soon, very soon, he would have to report back to Llewellyn. He dreaded that. And Llewellyn in turn would have his own nightmare when he reported to Rossiter. Then there was Kaufman to face. Richardson could imagine Kaufman's reaction. Kaufman had made his opinion abundantly clear when Maria was snatched ... the Pipeline had her and would keep her until it suited them ... an intercept was impossible and all efforts to find her would fail ... or so said Kaufman. Rossiter had disagreed, as had Llewellyn, even Richardson himself had felt sure that the police could prevent the Pipeline from smuggling Maria out of the country. But now he had changed his mind.
He looked at the clock above the door. Five thirty. Twelve hours since Maria had been snatched. Twelve bloody hours! He remembered that film of the cellar in Milan and shuddered.
Superintendent Roberts was grey with tiredness. He looked grey in the light cast by the single bulb and his voice sounded grey with strain.
There were five men in the Air Traffic Controller's office at Flitton. The Air Traffic Controller himself was an ex-RAF type called Batsby who had created no end of a fuss an hour ago when pulled from his bed and rushed from his home in a squad car. Next to him sat Murphy whose title was General Manager, though what that involved in a tiny place like Flitton was something the policemen had yet to identify. And
next to him sat Higgins, the customs officer.
"Let's go through it again," Roberts said wearily. "Time of arrival of the Lear jet?"
Murphy stifled a yawn. "Three thirty this afternoon. You've seen the log yourself-"
Roberts continued smoothly. "A charter aircraft on hire to a French medical authority?"
"The Chief Medical Officer of Health for the Department of Mayenne," Murphy said, consulting a file of papers and nodding confirmation of his own statement.
"What happened then?" asked Roberts.
Batsby, the Air Traffic Controller answered. "The pilot filed his return flight plan while the aircraft was refuelled."
"Return flight to Le Mans?" Roberts checked.
Batsby nodded. "Pilot's name was Mesurier - Andre Mesurier. It's all written down-"
"Had you met him before?"
Batsby shook his head.
"Then what?" Roberts persisted.
Batsby sighed. "We had a chat about the charter business. He was telling me most of his time is spent flying businessmen and politicians around Europe. This was his first cargo flight and he'd had to take the seats out of the Lear jet to make room."
Higgins, the customs officer, turned a page in his notes. "The first of the medical supplies from Laport Pharmaceuticals arrived at four thirty and were checked through in the usual manner. But it was only part of the consignment - the rest was still en route from the factory in another van."
"So the return flight had to be delayed," Batsby cut in, "Mesurier got all hot and bothered - typical bloody Frog waving his hands about and saying the stuff was required urgently at the hospital at Le Mans."
"We never held him up," Higgins said quickly. "The stuff was loaded onto the plane as soon as it arrived at the reception bay."
"But you inspected it?" Roberts asked quietly.
"We opened two of the cartons. They were all non-restricted drugs - made at Laport's factory in Bristol. All in accordance with the manifest."
Roberts nodded. "So the goods were loaded onto the Lear jet. Then what happened?"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 67