Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  "Relax," Lucia whispered. She unclenched my fist, finger by finger.

  I gave her a brief smile and closed my eyes again. Kaufman's words rang in my ears. "Corrao's orders...make it a big pay day for Winner Harris...the Ferryman knows you...he's a friend of yours ... seen the show at the Point of View ... visited Ashley Grange ... gambled at The Derby ... he knows you Sam and you know him."

  I sighed and opened my eyes just as the sign came on to extinguish cigarettes. Lucia and I were still holding hands. It was her left hand, the one with the wedding ring. She caught my look and squeezed back. It was a warming gesture - the impulse of a newly-married bride ... or the gesture of a frightened girl who was glad to have a man around?

  We landed at Malta's one and only commercial airport at three o'clock - or rather four o'clock local time. I adjusted my watch and craned my neck to catch a glimpse of Kaufman in conversation with the cabin staff. A stewardess peered across to the window seat where Jack was sitting, then a steward gave Kaufman a hand in hoisting Jack to his feet. He faced me for a second, but his eyes were masked by the dark glasses. All I saw was his fixed, immobile expression. Then he turned away, supported by Kaufman on one side and the steward on the other.

  I half rose to my feet, but dropped back again as Lucia shifted her hand to my arm. Of course she was right, it would be senseless to interfere - but I couldn't help thinking that were our roles reversed Jack would do a better job of looking after me. I just hoped he understood, that's all.

  People were ushered back to their seats to give Kaufman's party time to alight without being bumped by the crowd. I twisted my neck and peered through the window into the blistering sunshine. Heat shimmered in waves over the apron. Jack shuffled like an old man, held upright between Kaufman and the steward. Then something else caught my eye. Kaufman carried a burgundy-coloured briefcase in his left hand. Sunlight glinted on the silver security chain attached to his left wrist. The list? Was that the list? God Almighty ... what with everything else I had forgotten about it. And tomorrow night my life could depend on it - my life, Maria's life and perhaps Jack's as well.

  Walking out into that sunshine was like entering a furnace. The air was hot and my eyes were dazzled by the bright sunlight reflected from the white airport buildings. We collected our baggage and cleared customs - but by then Jack and Kaufman had vanished.

  "Are they staying with us, I mean at the same hotel?"

  Lucia was unsure. "I don't think so. Anyway my guess is Bill Kaufman has arranged to meet someone else before going to the Oyster Bar. That's why we were told to stay at the hotel until eight."

  It was the only explanation available. I had to accept it.

  We found a cab and fell into the back seats. My clothes were sticking to me in the heat. The road leading away from the airport made an English B road look like the Ml. The countryside was parched, tinder dry with lots of yellow-brown grass and outcrops of rock. The road climbed slowly towards some old fortifications on a hillside. "Medina," the driver pointed, "built by the Arabs in the time of Christ."

  "Very interesting," I said, "but we want Rabat."

  "It's almost the same place these days," he grumbled as the car bucked in a pothole. We joined another road and climbed slowly past white stone battlements. Pine trees dappled the badly surfaced road with patches of black shade. An old man went down the hill in the opposite direction, hunched in a cart pulled by a donkey. He lifted his walnut face and waved to our driver who shouted a reply. We entered a small town of narrow streets and I saw a sign to our hotel.

  The Grand Verdala is set high up, on the edge of Rabat itself. It is a big, square modern hotel, and the air-conditioning was cold enough to chill beads of sweat into ice cubes. I signed us in as Mr and Mrs Howard and we were shown to our room. It was large, well furnished, with a huge double bed and an adjoining bathroom. Lucia studiously ignored the bed and crossed to the balcony. Half of Malta lay spread out below, with the sea shimmering a few miles away. It was a totally different view, but the panoramic effect reminded me of The Hunter's Tower and Edgar Hardman.

  Lucia almost jumped when I offered her a cigarette. She accepted one and looked at me shyly as I flicked my cigarette lighter. During the flight we had held hands - but here, alone in this bedroom, I sensed her uncertainty. I remembered her embarrassment when Kaufman had so cruelly revealed her disfigurement. Perhaps the scars on her body, or the life she led, or simply old-fashioned values made the sharing of a bedroom with a man an uncommon experience for her - despite her worldly wise manner.

  She looked out at the view. "They say you can see Sicily from Malta - on a clear day."

  I smiled. "Seeing it from here is fine - it's going there that worries me."

  She managed a faint smile in return. "Try not to worry. Enrico is organising some help."

  Bonello! I had forgotten his cryptic comment about forty men in Alcamo, and about him and Lucia meeting the Italian Ambassador in London.

  "You mean the cavalry arrive in the nick of time?"

  A colossal explosion drowned her reply - as loud as the one that wrecked Jack's car in Dover Street. I grabbed her without thinking and pulled her away from the balcony. Then there was another explosion, and another - a whole series of them - like a military tattoo or big gun salute - followed by the chatter of machine gun fire and a screaming noise like the whistle of bombs. We had fallen backwards onto the bed and I was thinking about getting under it when I realised she was laughing. Lucia was actually laughing! Another deafening roar split the air outside and Lucia clung to me as we rolled over.

  "Sam, it's all right." Her arms were around my neck and her hair was in my face. When she turned I saw tears in her eyes. Tears of laughter. "It's a fiesta," she giggled, then she kissed me.

  We stayed on the bed while she explained. "It's a feast day, to honour a saint. People celebrate with fireworks and firecrackers, and processions and bands - it's a festival. All the Mediterranean countries have them."

  Another series of machine gun fire rent the air outside and a whole series of bangs rocked the place. I propped myself up on an elbow and looked down at her. Fireworks? I had neither heard nor seen them in years. Not since I was a kid. Even then English fireworks were tame compared to the noise outside. And it was still daylight? Fireworks were a night-time thing - for kids gathered around bonfires on misty November evenings.

  We listened to the thuds and bangs until the noise faded and died. Lucia's laughter had dispelled her shyness, and she kicked off her shoes to snuggle into my side. A feeling of tenderness existed between us, but not - for the moment - of passion. Perhaps because, despite her amusement minutes before, she was still frightened and worried. And we were both very tired. The shocks of last night and yesterday scratched our nerves like a rash on the skin. Neither of us wanted to make love, but her kiss said she was glad to be cradled in my arms, glad to rest, glad we were together. Which was how I felt before I dozed off.

  The bedside telephone woke me. "Finished your siesta?" Kaufman asked.

  The bed beside me was empty. My watch said seven thirty.

  "I'm down in the bar," he said. "You going to keep me waiting all night?"

  "I thought we were supposed to meet at-"

  "Changed my plans, and I don't want to interfere with yours ..." he paused in case the subtlety of his point escaped me, "but we do have an appointment."

  "I'll be right down. Is Jack with you?"

  He hung up. I swore. The bathroom door opened and Lucia emerged. She was still wearing the suit she had travelled in, but she looked cool and refreshed. I guessed she had showered and I wished I had had time to do the same before going down to meet Kaufman. I grabbed my shoes. "That bastard Kaufman has done something with Jack," I said, "I'll wring his neck before-"

  "Where was he calling from?"

  "Downstairs. He's in the bar. Let me have a quick wash first."

  The Verdala bar was even more reminiscent of The Hunter's Tower - except it was big enough to house
the Palm Court Orchestra instead of the solitary pianist who played Chopin in one corner. The plate glass windows displayed the same view as our balcony. The sky outside had turned a darker blue but pools of shadow testified to the continued glare of the sun. Kaufman sat on a sofa twenty yards away, talking to another man. But the man wasn't Jack.

  "Ah - Mr and Mrs Howard," Kaufman rose to his feet and extended a hand to indicate his companion, "may I introduce Lino Cassar."

  I shook hands with a dark-haired man in his early thirties. He smiled and made a slight bow as he greeted Lucia. I glanced uncertainly at Kaufman. Meeting Cassar had thrown me off balance. I had expected Jack until Kaufman had hung up on me - then I knew he wouldn't be there.

  Kaufman beckoned a waiter and ordered a Bloody Mary for Lucia and a scotch for me. "Lino works for Enrico in Rome," he murmured as the waiter departed, "but he's Maltese by birth. He's come down here to help us out."

  Lucia had been right. Kaufman had arranged another meeting. But the explanation about Cassar was all I needed. "Where's Jack?" I asked bluntly.

  Kaufman shrugged. "Tired after the journey. I left him sleeping-"

  "Sleeping-"

  "Save it, Sam. There're other things to talk about. Me and my buddy have had a busy time of it."

  Cassar smiled and brushed a hand through his hair in a gesture reminiscent of Henderson. He said, "Enrico called me in the early hours of this morning. I was here before noon. I located Darmanin and left a man watching him, then I went to this hotel in Gozo. An examination of the register was most illuminating."

  I knew I was right! "Kay, that's where she went in January."

  Lino Cassar nodded.

  Kaufman said, "And our man in Tunis found Rogers. Frightened him to death, but he stuck to the story he told Hardman - and tells it the same way afterwards - about the burial at sea and all the rest of it."

  I had never doubted that Edgar had written the truth, so I paid little attention. My mind was full of Lew Douglas - and what I might have done to him if the bastard was alive.

  "We had to verify Hardman's letter, Sam," Kaufman said. "It checks out but that doesn't mean it's anything to do with ... with our immediate business."

  The blood rushed to my face. "You mean you're disregarding it-"

  "Ssh - cool it, will you?" Kaufman looked around the bar but his concern was unfounded. The pianist had moved into a Souza march and was playing as if the massed band of the Scots Guards was behind him.

  "Look," Kaufman pointed his finger at me, "I told you not to make a Dreyfus case out of this. We checked it out because Hardman was involved, that's all. But your ex-wife and Lew Douglas were closer than fleas on a blanket. They could have fallen out about anything. There is no positive reason to suppose it concerns this investigation."

  "Investigation?" I scowled at him, "You make it sound like we're dealing with a theft. Christ, even being here now - sitting around, having a drink...while every minute Maria's life is in danger-"

  He flushed. "You think we don't know that?"

  "So what in God's name is happening? Is there any news...from Bristol ..."

  Kaufman slid Lucia a quick look, then he shook his head. "Nothing positive yet. Our people are following up leads ... maybe we'll have some news later tonight."

  I tried to take it all in. All sorts of things troubled me, but one was that it was eight o'clock. I would be in Alcamo in twenty-four hours' time. Meanwhile what the hell were we doing here - chasing round Malta, looking for a man who kept a bar. Even if we found him that would be of no help to me - not when I climbed into the back of that Ferrari.

  A sudden explosion of sound rent the air outside as a battery of fireworks exploded.

  "It's a feast," Kaufman explained, dipping into a bowl of peanuts.

  "I know," I said, "they have them in all the Mediterranean countries."

  He stood up and tossed some notes on the table. "You know," he said, "I'm beginning to get a feeling about this place ... this peanut-sized rock, sixty miles from Sicily. Seems like it could be another link in you know what. And I'll tell you something else. This guy Darmanin had better come across ... we ain't got time for subtleties. Any holding back and I'll beat him to death." He brushed a speck of dust from his lapel. "Personally," he added.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By eight o'clock Richardson and his two assistants were deep in France. A whole series of interviews lay behind them - the Gendarmerie at Chateau la Valliere, the hospital at Le Mans, the Medical Health Authorities - endless questions but very few answers.

  It was clear that the stolen hospital van had rendezvoused with another vehicle in the quiet country lane at Chateau la Valliere, but at what time was difficult to say. Obviously during the night because the van had been located by eight in the morning. And now, at eight in the evening, Richardson reflected gloomily, the gap between quarry and pursuers seemed to lengthen all the time.

  They were going to Lyons, for no other reason than a sharp-eyed gendarme had a hunch. Earlier in the day, just before noon, a minor traffic accident had occurred on the outskirts of Lyons. A black Citroen had collided with a farmer's lorry loaded with produce. Nobody had been hurt and the damage to the vehicles was slight - a bent off-side wing for the black Citroen and a damaged tailboard for the lorry. Under normal circumstances the police would not have been involved - but since the accident occurred within twenty yards of where gendarme Paul Macon was standing, he had almost been compelled to intervene. The farmer had admitted liability and had offered there and then to pay for the damage - making a generous estimate of the cost of repairs and proffering a wad of bank notes which was promptly accepted by the driver of the Citroen. Paul Macon had been surprised by the speed of the transaction - nobody in the Citroen had haggled for a better settlement - and that in itself was unusual in France. Indeed, the driver of the Citroen had seemed more anxious to resume his journey than to spend time extracting a better price from the farmer.

  Macon had cast an eye over the occupants of the Citroen. There were five of them, four men and a woman. The woman, an attractive brunette in her late twenties or early thirties, had remained in the car throughout, as had the two men either side of her in the back seat. Once, when Mason's gaze had met the woman's eyes, he could have sworn that she was afraid of something. But of what? Of being involved in an accident? She had not been hurt, but shocked perhaps...frightened by the squeal of brakes, the jarring thump, the clash of metal on metal. Macon had given her a second glance a moment later and caught her staring at him. Her eyes seemed to hold a message, a mute sort of appeal. But then the man on her right had distracted her by pointing at the old church, and Mason's own attention had been diverted by the driver of the car accepting the money from the farmer. And less than five minutes later the Citroen had resumed its journey.

  At four o'clock that afternoon Macon had reported back to the police station at the end of his eight hour stint. A photograph was being pinned up on the notice board. The photograph of a young woman, an attractive brunette, English too, according to her name. Maria Green. Ma£on knew at once he had seen her before. She had been the passenger in the Citroen.

  Despite sharing a drink in the bar at the Verdala, Kaufman insisted on leaving before us. Presumably he felt that an observer might believe we had met by chance, just as it would be another coincidence for us to be in the Oyster Bar later. I saw the reasoning. He was anxious to preserve our cover as a honeymoon couple. So Lucia and I spent a few minutes browsing in the hotel bookshop, before following Kaufman and Lino Cassar through the revolving doors at the main entrance.

  Night had fallen with surprising suddenness. The sun and the baked blue sky had given way to velvety darkness. A fat full moon shone amid a million stars. But it was still hot. Hot and noisy. The streets had been quietly slumbering when we arrived. Now they were alive with people. The cab driver outside claimed to know the Oyster Bar but was unable to take us there - most of Rabat's streets were now closed to traffic because of the fea
st. He shrugged. "It's not much of a bar. I know other places, in Sliema or Birkirkara. The English like those much better."

  We walked - through streets blazing with colour and crowded with people. Street vendors shouted from stalls as elaborate as carnival floats, selling nougat and cheese cakes, while a man stood on the back of a cart and cut a huge swordfish into steaks with the aid of a saw. We passed two policemen in khaki uniforms with holsters on their hips. Coloured lights were strung across narrow streets little wider than alleyways. Flags and bunting hung from every window, plaster saints stood on wooden plinths at twenty yard intervals, the sound of church bells competed with the crackle of fireworks and the raucous blaring of a brass band.

  Lucia clutched my hand like an affectionate tour guide. She put her mouth to my ear and shouted above the din, "Once a year the statue of the saint is taken from the church and paraded around the streets."

  "These?" I pointed to one of the plaster figures on a nearby pillar.

  She shook her head, laughing. "No, they are the bit players - not the star of the show."

  Further explanation was impossible - the noise was overpowering. The atmosphere of carnival was everywhere on the warm night air. At the next street intersection a marching band was mobbed by a gang of kids, all shouting and singing lustily. Paper streamers showered down in matted clouds from balconies, like ticker tape from New York skyscrapers, to cover the band, the children, and everyone in the vicinity. A bandsman struggled to play while removing a tangled streamer from the slides of his trombone. The crowd surged on every side - mostly Maltese, but interspersed with a few tourists - whose paler skins were made white by the popping flashbulbs of their own cameras.