Murphy, the General Manager, took it up. "Not much. Mesurier took a call from Laport's in my office. The rest of the stuff was definitely on its way and would arrive at about six. Mesurier went off to have a coffee, but he was in a hell of a state. Said people's lives were at risk in the hospital at Le Mans and every hour was vital. Dunno what he expected us to do. It wasn't our fault-"
"And the second consignment arrived at six thirty?"
"About then," Higgins agreed. "It may have been a few minutes later. I was bloody glad to see it I know that. That bloke Mesurier was a right pain - in and out every five minutes asking if it had turned up - telling me people were dying in France-"
"And it turned up at about six thirty?"
"That's right," Higgins nodded. "Just the one crate as I said before. Well, we rushed it straight through-"
"Without opening it?" Roberts queried yet again.
Higgins squirmed. "It's standard practice. We don't open everything. The manifest was in order. We had spot-checked part of the rest of the cargo...anyway this Mesurier bloke was making such a fuss-"
"Laport's make regular use of our facilities," Murphy said quickly. "They are by far our best commercial customer-"
"Our only bloody commercial customer," Batsby muttered, half under his breath.
But Roberts was still questioning Higgins. "Can you describe this crate?"
"A crate is a crate. I dunno - maybe six feet long, about three wide and the same deep. Just a wooden crate, that's all."
"Heavy?"
"Well, I didn't lift it myself. This bloke came in wearing Laport overalls and - well I sent the van straight out to the apron. The Laport boys loaded it directly into the plane. Mesurier was helping-"
"A white van?" Richardson joined in. "They delivered the crate in a white van?"
Higgins flushed. "Christ, if you'd had that poxy Frenchman flapping round your office all afternoon."
"A crate like a coffin," Roberts said quietly. He turned to Batsby. "And departure time again was?"
Batsby checked his notes. "Six fifty."
Roberts was about to make a further observation when the telephone rang. He answered, gave his name and listened. Then he said, "Thank you, Mr Samuels ... yes I appreciate that ... I know, but if you would accompany the policeman I would be most grateful...yes, at Flitton...that's right...no, I've no idea how long we shall be ... but it could be quite a long time."
Finally Roberts replaced the receiver. He looked at Richardson. "That was Laport's export manager. He says no order was despatched from their factory for shipment via Flitton. And he has no knowledge of an urgent requirement from the Mayenne Department of Health."
The Flitton officials gasped their astonishment, and although Richardson took the news quietly his calm manner was deceptive. He felt sick. His confused mind buzzed with questions. Had Maria been in that crate? And if she had. why had she been flown to France? France, and not Sicily? He checked his watch. Ten minutes to six. The Pipeline had maintained their twelve hour start. Not only that but there was now a greater distance than ever between quarry and pursuers. But France - of all places? None of it made sense. Richardson took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He would have to phone Llewellyn now. He couldn't delay any longer. He went to the next office to make the call. He just hoped Sam Harris had cracked, that's all. Crack Harris, or at least his memory, and maybe a short-cut would emerge. Something had to emerge, if they were ever to see Maria Green alive again.
All of the lights were out in the big back room at Wells Court. Kaufman hoisted the Venetian blind. The small back yard was coloured grey by the pale light of dawn. Kaufman opened the window and sucked in a breath of chill air. "You Brits kill me. This exercise is costing a million bucks but nobody can afford an extractor fan for this black hole of Calcutta." He glanced at Henderson. "By the way, I haven't seen Llewellyn's smiling face for a while."
Henderson stifled a yawn. "He went round to Rossiter's place."
"He know about you finding Darmanin?"
Henderson nodded.
Kaufman blew a piece of tobacco off his lip with the explosive sound of Borg serving on the centre court. Shadows hung in pouches below his eyes and his need for a shave added to his villainous look. He closed the window and said, "We need this Darmanin kid off the streets and under cover — like now."
It was the third time he had said it, or something similar.
Henderson murmured, "The Brigadier made exactly that point. He's hoping Rossiter might have local connections."
"In Malta? Interpol or local police or what?"
Henderson shrugged.
"I better go round there," Kaufman said anxiously. "We don't know the local police. Look at Italy for Chrissakes. Half the Carabinieri were on Serracino's payroll."
"Malta was a British colony," Henderson pointed out mildly.
"Yeah? So was Chicago. It didn't bother Al Capone none." The squawk box took Kaufman hurrying back to his desk, "Yes, Hewit?"
"Lawton's been back on. He's updating the Lew Douglas material as best he can, but there is a complication. Well, not a complication exactly-"
"For Christ's sake!"
"Well it was news to me. Lawton says you are bound to know, but I thought I would check. You do know Douglas is dead, don't you?"
I felt my knees weaken with the shock. Kaufman slumped into his chair. Even in that poor light I could see the look of anguish on his face. Just as he could see my stunned expression. We stared at each other for a moment in mutual bitter disappointment, then Kaufman said, "No, Hewit, I didn't know Douglas was dead - and why the hell didn't you tell me earlier?"
"I only had an old digest. I did say it wasn't up to date-"
"Does Lawton know when Douglas died?" Kaufman ironed the creases in his face, "Or how he died?"
"Oh, nothing sinister. Natural causes apparently - heart attack, last February."
I felt drained and exhausted. I had been concentrating for hours - all night in fact, linking names, events, times and places. True, I couldn't see where it was leading but I was beginning to feel that it was leading somewhere. Now it was like having a door slammed in my face. And from Kaufman's expression he felt the same way. "Anything else known?" he was asking. "Did he suffer a long illness? Anything like that?"
"Lawton seems to think it was quite sudden. Douglas died at his hotel in Gozo."
Kaufman looked at me, inviting a question. I shrugged. What was there to ask now? What was the point?
Hewit said, "Lawton wants to know shall he keep digging. I mean now that-"
"Keep at it," Kaufman reached for the inter-com. "Nothing has changed."
But we both knew it had. What was worse was that it was almost morning and I had remembered nothing that was likely to help us find Maria.
By eight o'clock Richardson and Superintendent Roberts were back at Bristol Police Headquarters. By eight o'clock three people at Flitton had been shown the white van. All had said that it might be the vehicle which had made the Laport delivery yesterday. Yet Laport's were adamant - no goods had been exported to France. So what ... or who ... had been in the large wooden crate?
And by eight o'clock Richardson had spoken directly to the hospital at Le Mans, who confirmed that they had neither ordered nor received a supply of urgently needed drugs. Which was not the only mystery to have occurred at the hospital yesterday. At four in the afternoon a delivery van had been stolen ... the odd thing was that instead off stealing one of the hospital's four unmarked vans, the thieves had made of with a vehicle plastered with the hospital's name. Why, asked the hospital authorities in bewilderment, should thieves steal something so identifiable? Of course the matter had been reported to the Gendarmerie...but so far the van had not been recovered.
But by half past eight Richardson had at least resolved that puzzle - by a telephone call to the tiny airstrip at Le Mans. Oui, they confirmed, a charter aircraft had arrived from England carrying an urgent supply of drugs for the Mayenne District medical authorities. The pl
ane had landed at 2005 hours and been met by a Renault van belonging to the local hospital...the van was clearly marked ... Besides someone from the hospital had telephoned an hour before, requesting that the cargo be dealt with expeditiously. Of course the customs staff had co-operated - didn't they always in matters of life and death? The cargo was rushed through without being examined and the van left the aerodrome within fifteen minutes of the aircraft's arrival. But where the van had gone to was a mystery.
What did any of it have to do with Maria Green, Richardson asked himself? She was being taken to Sicily according to Corrao. She would be produced at the Cafe Cordina tomorrow night. But perhaps Corrao said that to throw a possible pursuer off the scent? Perhaps Maria Green was to be held at a "safe house" in France while negotiations were conducted at Alcamo? Perhaps...perhaps?
"My people have left for the department store," Roberts said. "They'll start interviewing all staff the moment they arrive. Something might come of it."
Richardson's scowl expressed his doubts.
Roberts sighed sympathetically. "Rossiter was none too pleased I suppose?"
Richardson snorted. None too pleased was an understatement. Rossiter was out for blood. Llewellyn's blood ... Kaufman's blood ... even Richardson's blood if it would help.
"Come on man," Roberts encouraged. "Let's go down to the canteen for breakfast. They'll find us soon enough if something breaks."
What can break now, Richardson asked himself? Jesus, the Pipeline have had Maria for fifteen hours. Maria will break ... she will be broken ... mutilated and destroyed. He shuddered. "Harris," he muttered, "Bloody Winner Harris."
"I beg your pardon?"
We're doing everything wrong, Richardson told himself bitterly. He's a tough sod that Harris, but he knows something. He knows more than he's telling. Llewellyn will pussyfoot around forever, but Kaufman is supposed to be damn ruthless. So make the bastard talk ... I would ... Jesus, I'd beat the bastard senseless, but by Christ I'd make him talk!
We had adjourned to the kitchen at Rex Place. Henderson brewed a cup of decent coffee instead of the muck out of the machine, while I messed about frying bacon and eggs. I remembered Jack yesterday morning, unveiling his surprises with the flourish of a magician. My God, how pleased he had been with everything. And now ... twenty-four hours later ... the Pipeline had snatched Maria ... Edgar was dead ... Jack was drugged on a bed next door in Wells Court ... and I was driving myself mad trying to remember things which had happened years ago.
My thinking had changed in all sorts of ways. For instance I had been furious with Lucia for putting Jack to sleep. Now it seemed the most merciful way of dealing with him. Nobody was looking forward to breaking the news to him. All night long we had prayed for the same miracle - that Maria would be found during the night. But now it was morning, and the news from Bristol was as bleak as ever.
I had changed in another way too. Kaufman was right - this was my story, at least in part. Too many of my friends and enemies were mixed up in it for me to be uninvolved. My mind kept going back to Lew Douglas and Kay and The Fisherman Hotel on the river. I was sure Douglas had blackmailed Kay. And Douglas had been mixed up with Faberge...and Faberge had been involved in the Pipeline ... so why not Douglas too? Lew Douglas ... with an hotel in Malta...Kay had gone to Malta ... Edgar's chauffeur had come from Malta. My head throbbed from the strain of stretching my memory and grappling with a succession of shocks.
Kaufman dabbed his mouth with paper torn from the kitchen roll. "I'm going to see Rossiter," he announced. "You better stay here," he said to Henderson. "Answer the door - man the phone the usual drill."
I asked, "What about me?"
He shrugged. "Get some rest if you can. My guess is that we'll be moving out before midday."
My stomach knotted into a ball. "To Alcamo?"
He nodded and turned to Henderson. "Get onto the Italian Embassy and tell Enrico to get his tail over to Rossiter's place. Lucia too."
I said, "What happens when Jack comes round?"
Kaufman looked at his watch. "He should be out cold for another hour. I'll be back by then. If not you'll have to break the news. It's a shit job but-"
"I'll tell him," I said bitterly. I knew it would be me. But I would have volunteered anyway, rather than trust the job to anyone else.
Kaufman gave me a sharp look. "Get Hewit or one of the other boys to stand by. Jack's too big to go berserk and-"
"Shove it," I said angrily. "No more knock out drops, Kaufman. From now on Jack and I are told everything, understand? And we make the decisions. Just the thought of you holding back makes me nervous."
He flushed but took it without argument. Perhaps his mind was already elsewhere. He buttoned his shirt collar as he vanished into the larder like Alice going through the looking glass.
Henderson went into the sitting room to phone Bonello, and I had just finished drinking my coffee when the scuffling broke out behind the larder. The back wall opened and Jack came through, with Hewit at his heels. Nobody would have to tell Jack about Maria. One look at his face told me that. Jack knew.
"Where's Kaufman?" he snapped at me.
"You just missed him. He went out a couple of minutes ago."
Jack swore savagely and clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles shone white under the skin.
Hewit said, "If only you'd sit down a minute-"
Jack only hit him once. He turned and punched all in one movement. Hewit's head snapped back as if his neck had broken. Both feet left the floor and he was still upright when he hit the pots and pans in the larder. He collapsed into a tangle of arms and legs and crockery cascaded over him with enough noise to rouse the dead. But Hewit never even twitched.
Henderson appeared in the doorway with a gun in his hand. Jack snarled and took a step towards him. I threw myself between them. "All right, Jack-"
"Out the way, Sam. Out the way or so help me God I'll-"
"That won't help Maria," I snapped.
That stopped him. He went very white, with that green tinge people get before they are sick. Even so I thought he would hit me. But then he lowered his fists and turned away. Henderson sighed his relief and pushed past me to get at Hewit. Jack stood over the sink, ran the cold tap and splashed water over his face. "You know they drugged me?" he asked. He sucked his knuckles and stared at me carefully. "Did you have any part of that?"
"No." That was the truth, no matter what I felt afterwards. I took a deep breath. "Maria is safe. Corrao's holding her, but he'll exchange her for me tomorrow night. She's safe, Jack - they won't harm her, I'm sure they won't ..." I hadn't planned to tell him that way. God knows what I intended, but he had guessed about Maria and it seemed the fastest way of conveying some reassurance. Even so I would have given a lot not to have seen that terrible suffering in his face.
Henderson stepped out of the wreckage of the larder. "He's out cold. His pulse is okay but-"
"He'll live," I said, not caring much. I was still watching Jack, not daring to drop my eyes in case he thought I was telling a lie. "She's safe," I repeated. "I've spoken to Corrao. They won't hurt her. They are just holding her hostage for me-"
"All right, Sam." He took a few deep breaths and wiped the back of his neck with a wet hand. "You'd better tell me about it."
I was shocked by the murderous look in his eyes. I nodded and beckoned him to follow me into the sitting room, but Henderson objected. "Use the back room next door," he said, "it's safer in there."
I shrugged and changed direction. "Did you get through to Bonello?"
He was too surprised to be evasive and said yes without realising it. I grunted and stepped over Hewit's legs. Jack followed and I led the way to the big back room in Wells Court. Despite the hour I splashed some brandy into hot coffee drawn from the machine and made him drink it. Then I told him what had happened during the night - more or less truthfully - even if I did exaggerate Corrao's promises to keep Maria safe. We smoked and talked - with me doing most of the
talking - but now and then he asked a question or added a comment, like when I told him about Alcamo. "Franka grew up there," he said quietly. "It's Fiore Serracino's home town. Near Palermo. The heart of the Mafia country in Western Sicily."
That gave me a nasty jolt but I hid my concern as best I could. I told him about Darmanin and Lew Douglas and Malta ... and about Edgar's letter. He listened and was lucid enough, but now and then a look in his eye disturbed me. He was still in deep shock and I was damned if I knew what to do about it.
I had just about finished telling him all that had happened when the door opened. Kaufman entered, followed by Lucia and Llewellyn. Kaufman gave Jack a careful appraising look and received a baleful glare in return. Lucia immediately crossed the room to kiss Jack and take his hand in hers. She had behaved in a similar way with me at the big house. It was a touching gesture but I wished the reasons for it would stop happening.
"How was Rossiter?" I asked.
Kaufman looked at Jack. "He's doing all he can to locate Maria. Try not to worry. She'll be all right - we're sure of that."
"That's nice," Jack said with chilling casualness.
Kaufman coloured slightly. He had shaved during his absence; now he looked more or less normal, if you discounted the dark circles under his eyes. And Llewellyn had changed out of his dinner jacket into a lounge suit.
"We're going to Malta," Kaufman said to me. "To make contact with this kid Darmanin. We'll cross to Sicily from there. There's a flight-"
"Who's we?"
"Me - you and Jack-"
"I'm not going anywhere. Neither is Jack," I said as calmly as I could. "You forgot. From now on we are told everything, then we'll decide-"
"Oh really!" Llewellyn snorted, "There's hardly time-"
"So stop wasting it!" Suddenly I was sick and tired of Llewellyn. "Listen you, whenever you make arrangements someone gets hurt. I followed your precious procedures when I met Edgar. Result? He was shot dead. And I arranged to meet Darmanin the way you wanted it, he was murdered too. Maria stays in the country on your say so - and she gets kidnapped."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 68