by Ian Campbell
"Certainly not."
"We'd better humor him then."
The American offered his hand to each of them in turn.
"Howard Clinton...," the American introduced himself.
"I'm Tom Pascoe and this is Terry Wilding. Neither of us is this Guyton fellow you seem to be looking for."
The American looked crestfallen at his mistake. Pascoe, relieved that the recognition hadn't been 100 %, saw room to worm his way out of the situation.
"I'm sorry. I must be mistaken," added the American, "Are you sure you weren't at a conference at the Grosvenor Hotel in London, two weeks ago?"
"Quite sure," they said, almost in unison.
"O.K... no offence meant... The other guy did have a beard."
"They can cover a multitude of sins.., beards." Pascoe commented, "I'm afraid we've got to be going Mr. Clinton, as we have an appointment with the mayor."
"Sure. I'm sorry to have troubled you..." The American turned and walked back down the street in the direction of the church. Pascoe hoped he wouldn't run into Sam. The thought of the American having a second chance encounter made his blood run cold.
The mayor was already waiting for them, when they arrived.
"Vous-avez vos voitures?"
"Oui monsieur", echoed Terry and Pascoe.
The mayor climbed into a dusty Citroen DS 19 which, with its variable suspension, was eminently suited for the rugged countryside. By the time they had started their cars, Sam was still missing. Pascoe was worried, thinking of her possibly being cornered in the church by the American. As it happened, just when he was at the point of going to look for her, she appeared at the junction of the street with the path to the church. Pascoe motioned to her to hurry up and as soon as she was on board he sounded the horn to signal they were ready. Slowly the convoy moved off, following the road out of the village.
At the cross-roads the mayor turned right, as if to go to Terry's farm, then later on turned right again up a rough and rutted track several hundred yards before reaching Terry's farm. The place was called 'les Boudous' on the map, a name which meant nothing to either of them.
It was built on a plateau overlooking the valley of 'la Valdieu' and with a similar view of the landscape as could be seen from Terry's farm, lower down. The buildings were ruins.., but nothing a small fortune couldn't put right. The mayor showed them around the old farmhouse. Inside – nothing, including the walls and roof could be said to be of a sound structure; indeed, in the center of what was once a sizeable room, grew a fully developed tree. The building needed to be gutted and re-built. The roof, conspicuous by its absence, consisted of the odd dark oak beams and you could see straight through to the sky above. The walls, such as they were, were in a terrible state with the plaster from them lying in chunks over the floor. The best feature of the larger room downstairs was an enormous open fire-place with its throat some five feet wide... big enough to spit roast the odd pig or sheep. The entire ground floor was covered with flagstones, each stone a full half-meter square. They went back outside.
"Ask the mayor how much land there is with this property." Pascoe asked Terry.
"This property has seven and a half hectares, which stretches from the col over to the right to about 200 yards to your left, and from the ridge behind you to the bottom of the little valley here in front of you." Terry informed him after a short conversation with the mayor.
"Thanks Terry."
"C'est combien monsieur?" Pascoe asked the mayor in his best French.
"Trente millions anciens." Sam overheard the figure and looked staggered.
"C'est cher monsieur." Pascoe blew on his finger tips and shook his hand vigorously up and down as he spoke, one of the few gestures whose meaning he knew." C'est un prix pour un anglais!"
"Bien sure, mais vous-etes un anglais," replied the Mayor.
"Pas de tout. Je suis demi-American."
"That makes a difference monsieur.., shall we say twenty-five million ancien", the mayor suddenly broke into fairly fluent English and it took Pascoe several seconds to adjust.
"Old francs?" Pascoe queried.
"Of course."
"Then if the view from here is better than from the other place you have to show us, you have got yourself a deal Mr. Mayor." Pascoe smiled as he proffered his hand to the mayor and turned to Sam.
"What do you think darling?"
"I think 25 million of anything is a hell of a lot of money."
"Monsieur le Mayor is talking in old francs... there were a hundred old ones to each new franc. This property is something less than £22,000 including the seventeen acres of land." After his explanation, Sam laughed and when Pascoe explained the reason for her laughter to Terry and the Mayor, they joined in the laughter.
"What do we do for the usual services Mr. Mayor?"
"For water, you have the spring nearby. For electricity it is possible to have the mains connected but it is expensive; most people here have their own generator, which solves the problem. For the sewage, we make a pit and put in a fosse septique... a septic tank."
"How long would it take to process the papers, Monsieur le mayor?"
"When would you have the money?" The mayor asked in turn.
"I already have it, in cash... ready."
"Then as soon as you are ready to hand over the payment the property will be yours."
"Are there not registrations to be made and solicitors to be involved?" asked Pascoe, not knowing how the transactions were made. The mayor laughed, loudly.
"All registrations are made through the office of the local notaire, who is my cousin. I am already the agent for the owner of this property, and if you wish, I can act as agent for you as well."
"That seems a little bit immoral," speculated Pascoe smiling.
"I am sure it is, but it saves a lot of bureaucracy."
"What about legal searches through the records of the parish?"
"Monsieur Pascoe. No one is likely to build a road through here. If it has taken four thousand years to build one to Rennes-le-Château, I assure you it is unlikely we will build two within the space of a mere century."
“What about planning permission?" Pascoe added.
"You submit your drawings to my office for approval. I have not yet refused anyone. If you make such an application and don't receive a reply from my office within ten days, then permission will have been granted."
"What do you think, darling. Just look at the view."
"I think it's ideal for what we want to do. I'm in favor." She said, studying the landscape intently, looking across the valley to the pine forests and the mountains beyond.
"Monsieur le Mayor, you've got yourself a deal."
They completed the purchase of the property known as 'les Boudous' at the mayor's office at four o'clock that afternoon. There was little comparison with the English method of property dealing - of contracts being exchanged or dates set.
Once the formalities were over, Pascoe re-approached the mayor.
"Yes monsieur Pascoe.., there is something else perhaps?"
"I understand that now as I am a property owner in France, it is possible for me to open a bank account?"
"Bien sure.., you wish to do this?"
"I will certainly need to, in order to pay the accounts of the builders that I will have to employ."
"Of course. Perhaps you would like me to introduce you to the bank at Couiza?"
"If that is possible, I should be delighted."
"Nothing could be simpler Monsieur Pascoe. I will phone immediately."
"Merci, monsieur le mayor." Pascoe thanked him. In all it had been an extremely good day.
Roberts was in buoyant mood when he arrived at Forbes' office, hardly able to contain the news of O'Hara/Freiburg's arrest. Heath was the first to speak.
"I followed through what we agreed this morning and visited each of the major clearing banks in the City and spread the word."
"Is that it?" asked Roberts.
"That
's all I could do, Sir. I informed them that we were enquiring about the travelers’ cheques; distributed the photographs and said we would be interested if any more of them showed up."
"Well I suppose that that's as much as we could hope for at this stage." commented Roberts." How about you, Duncan?"
"I started with the U.S. Treasury Department in Washington," said Forbes, referring to his notebook." They are going to co-operate with us on this through their Embassy here and gave me the name of a Mike Conrad to contact. I also spoke with one of the senior vice-presidents of American Express in New York."
"In what way?" asked Roberts.
"It seems they have been receiving $100 travelers’ cheques drawn on the 'Second National City Bank of Dallas' for the best part of a week now and didn't know what to do with them."
"Weren't they a little bit concerned?"
"Not until after I'd spoken to them." Forbes smiled. "It seems that they don't normally check the returned cheques from all over the world; they merely make sure they are clearly labeled with the details of the place of origin and the date, before storing them in a warehouse."
"So how did they come to notice them this time?" Roberts persisted.
"One of the porters dropped a box and the cheques went flying. He noticed several cheques of a different design and had the sense to bring it to his superior's attention."
"I bet they were surprised when they found out."
"It evidently wasn't the first time a clerk in another country, had put cancelled cheques into the wrong box with them ending up thousands of miles away - who cares as the man on the phone put it... they have enough work to do without opening up every box of cancelled cheques to see if someone has made a mistake of no real importance!"
"What did he say when you told him that his company had paid some of the cheques out twice?"
"To put it politely, he didn't believe me... said it was impossible."
"But he's going to start checking the system?"
"Yes. As far as I could tell."
"So much for American efficiency, technology and 'know-how'." Commented Roberts, surprised at the holes in the system. It seemed to him that the bigger the money involved, the larger the holes became, a sort of Murphy's law in operation.
"How did you get on?" Forbes asked Roberts, in turn.
"I think we've had the first real break since we began this. When I got back to the nick this morning, I briefed everyone and afterwards, a young P.C., name of Quail, told me that last week some American had reported the loss of a lot of travelers' cheques. I checked the lost property book and found the guy's name was O'Hara. I played a hunch and had the name run through the C.R.O computer and it looks like Mr. O'Hara has been a naughty lad - got himself nicked, dipping pockets at Heathrow. CRO informs me that the name of O'Hara is an alias... and the real name's Steven Freiburg and he's currently awaiting trial in the Scrubs, where we have an appointment with him at five o'clock."
"Were the cheques his or had he thieved them?" asked Heath.
"Now that's the funny thing. When I spoke to the arresting officer at Heathrow, he told me that Freiburg had admitted to stealing everything they found on him except for a large wad of travelers’ cheques. He said something about picking them up legitimately at some conference here in London."
"Were the cheques on him the same as the ones he had reported lost."
"No, I thought that strange as well. From what I could discover, he's had about $30,000 worth of cheques through his hands in the last week. That's one of the reasons why we'd better pay him a visit."
"You think he's our man?" Forbes asked.
"Definitely not. Whoever who set this up, isn't going to put himself at risk dipping pockets... he's far too clever for that."
"Well we'll know more after five o'clock," added Forbes. "Did you contact the American Express and Thomas Cook offices?"
"Didn't have time. Once I got that lead, I stayed with it."
"We'd better let them know we're making progress. Keep them sweet, in case we need anything more from them."
"I'll do it right away," agreed Roberts. "May I use your phone?"
Roberts phoned Thomas Cook's in Leicester and advised them not to pay out any more cheques from the 'Second National City Bank of Dallas'. "By the way Duncan," he said, replacing the receiver, "Do we actually know yet whether the Bank exists?"
"Not at the moment. The Treasury Department's still checking and will telex me when they are sure."
Roberts made his second call to Wilson at the American Express office and repeated the warning.
Later, Forbes didn't accompany them to the prison, which secretly pleased Roberts, not that he disliked the man, but just couldn't think of him as a real policeman. He was much happier just to have his sergeant along for the ride.
"How much pressure do you think we should apply?" Heath asked as he drove through the suburbs to Wormwood Scrubs.
"Pressure? I don't know the meaning of the word. Seriously, I think we need to tread very softly indeed. This customer is the only link we have at all and if we scare him off, we're going to be left empty-handed."
"I think you're right. Do we have anything to trade with?"
"I'll give it some thought."
The interview room was as dull and drab, painted in regulation grey and sparsely furnished. Freiburg was eventually escorted in. He seemed as grey as the room, having little 'presence' at all, possibly the effects of spending a few days in the prison...
"Should we call you Freiburg or O'Hara?" Roberts asked the prisoner.
"Freiburg's my name... that'll do."
"Mr. Freiburg, we're here, because we need your help." Roberts opened the discussion in conciliatory tone, knowing that any force he used would tend to make the man clam up.
"Huh? So what do I get out of it?"
"If you co-operate, we'll put in a word for you." He offered.
"What good will that do?"
"At worst, no good at all, but at best, it could help you to walk out of here."
"How?"
"We could have a word with the Home Secretary and persuade him that it wasn't worth wasting the British tax-payers money on keeping you in one of her majesty's prisons. If you were very co-operative we might even have you declared persona non grata."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you'd be deported and we would be permanently deprived of your company."
"What's the alternative.., the iron fist in the velvet glove?"
"You'll stay here on remand for an average of how long sergeant?"
"Six to eight months at the present Sir, while they deal with the back-log of cases."
"Then you will come up for trial, where the current sentence for your offence is 5 years. If you have no previous convictions, they'll let you out, with time off for good behavior of course and..." Roberts left the sentence unfinished.
"Then they'll deport you," added Heath.
"So by not helping us," continued Roberts, "You'll gain nothing except more time to get properly acquainted with one of her majesty's prisons. So far, they've been kind to you as you're only on remand, but once you've been tried and found guilty... "
"What?"
"Well this isn't the worst nick they could put you in."
"You know what I think? I think you're full of shit!"
"Have it your own way. Are you ready to leave Pat?"
"Aren't you going to give him a second chance?" Heath queried his superior.
"Second-raters like Freiburg here don't deserve second chances," said Roberts, jabbing his thumb toward the American." And he definitely is second-rate." He pounded the door and waited for the warder to open up. Before they left the cell they took one last look at the defiant prisoner. The door had half closed before they heard Freiburg shout, "Wait!" Roberts hesitated before re-entering the cell.
"Yes?"
"What do you want to know?" Once the American had decided to cooperate, the only problem was Heath keeping up with his notes. Rob
erts continued his gentle probing.
"When you were arrested Mr. Freiburg, you were in possession of a large quantity of travelers' cheques, drawn on the 'Second National City Bank of Dallas' and you said that you hadn't stolen them, but that they were your own property. We'd like to believe you. Perhaps you'd like to tell us how they found their way into your hands?"
"I picked them up from the Bank in the City."
"Which Bank was that?"
"The 'Second National City'... "
"O.K. We know the name. Now would you be surprised to know that there isn't a bank of that name in the City of London and I very much doubt whether there's one in Dallas either."
"There must be. I went to it twice."
"Why twice?"
"The first time, to pick up the travelers’ cheques; the second time to report the loss of them and claim the replacements."
"And where was this non-existent office?"
"I've told you... in the City."
"Whereabouts – it’s a big city?” prompted Heath.
"It was just around the corner from Bank underground station... I don't remember the address exactly, but I could show you." The detectives looked at each other and smiled. They were on their way.
Chapter 22
The Yard makes progress
"Things got rolling about eleven-thirty and this man starts giving us the spiel. Before he goes into details, he gets us to fill in a questionnaire and photocopies our passports."
"Why do you think he did that?" asked Roberts, more than a little intrigued.
"I don't know. It beats me. He said it was for security purposes. After they had checked all the details, the guy starts talking again.., says he's a representative of this bank, breaking into the European market. Wanted everyone to pay the bank's travelers' cheques into the system, as a pre-launch trial."
"And?"
"That was it. Anyone who wanted to, was given the address of the bank's offices in the city and made their own way there the next day to collect their supply of cheques."
"It sounds so far-fetched that it must be true," commented Roberts. "Was there anyone working with him?"
"Yes, there was this broad with a nice little fanny, but rather plain, you know; hair swept back, glasses; starchy little bitch I guess."