‘Will you warn Count Tomura?’
‘No. He must not know what has happened to Eugen. He must not know Eugen even exists. I killed Dombreux because I learnt from Miss Hollander Max is still alive and therefore Dombreux had lied to us. That is all he needs to know.’
Lemmer gave Nadia a tight little smile of encouragement. ‘The Japanese government wants what I can supply,’ he continued. ‘Count Tomura has been useful as a Mittelsmann. Now he may be useful to me … in another way.’
THURSDAY PASSED SLOWLY at Les Saules. Veronica delivered food and water to the prisoner in the cellar and emptied the bucket he had been supplied with. Eugen Hanckel said little to her beyond, ‘You will pay for this.’ Anger had replaced his initial fear. She was careful never to step within his reach. He looked as if he wanted to strike her. And she understood why.
Appleby did not visit the boy. He explained he did not want anything he said reported in due course to Lemmer. ‘The less he hears about me from his son the better.’ Meanwhile, it was best to let Eugen assume they were kidnappers motivated by money and nothing more.
The terms they had set for Eugen’s release would by now have been delivered to Lemmer. It would be Friday morning in France before any news of his response could be expected. Until then – and beyond then – it would be a matter of waiting.
As dusk fell softly over the lake, the telephone rang. The Marmiers had been given the number to use in an emergency and only in an emergency. Appleby spoke to André, who claimed a serious problem had arisen which could only safely be discussed face to face. With harrumphing reluctance, Appleby headed off in the Berliet, bound for their yard on the other side of Evian-les-Bains. ‘A waste of time, I suspect,’ he complained as he left. ‘But I have it to waste, I suppose.’
No more than ten minutes after he had left, Veronica’s attention was distracted from her latest wrestle with the Grey File cipher by the growl of the Marmiers’ motor-launch. She went to the conservatory and saw them tying up at the landing-stage. Her first thought was that they had misunderstood their arrangement with Appleby and believed they had agreed to come to him rather than the other way round.
She walked out into the garden and called to them. ‘Why are you here?’
The only response was a wave from André. Leaving his father aboard, with the engine running, he strolled up across the lawn to where she was standing.
‘Bonsoir, Veronica,’ he said with a smile. ‘Where is ’Orace?’
‘He’s gone to your yard. You asked to meet him there.’
‘Non, non, we meet ’ere.’
‘Well, he—’
‘Ça ne fait rien.’ Suddenly, from behind his back André pulled out a gun and levelled it at her. ‘Go into the ’ouse, Veronica. Say nothing or I shoot you. C’est compris?’
‘What … are you doing?’
‘Another word and I will shoot.’ He raised the gun and aimed at her face. ‘Go inside. Tout de suite.’
Veronica turned and walked slowly back into the house.
‘Go to the kitchen,’ said André from close behind her.
She headed along the passage past the scullery and into the kitchen, struggling to imagine what the Marmiers thought they were doing – and what she could do to prevent it.
‘Sit down.’
There were two chairs in the room, drawn up at the small table she and Appleby used for most of their meals. She sat down on one of them.
Michel Marmier appeared next to her, accompanied by his usual aroma of tar and tobacco. He wound rope round her legs and arms and stomach and tied her fast to the chair, then muttered something to his son she could not understand.
‘We ’ave come for the boy, Veronica,’ said André. ‘Where is the key for les chaînes?’
By les chaînes he meant the manacles, of course. ‘Horace took it with him,’ she lied.
‘Non, non. I do not think so. It is ’ere somewhere. Tell me where. If I have to, I will ’urt you. I will ’urt you bad.’
‘I don’t know where it is.’
He pulled open several drawers before he found the carving knife. He pushed the tip of it against her front teeth and prised up her lip. ‘You ’ave a nice face, Veronica. Don’t make me spoil it. Tell me where the key is.’
He meant it. She felt horribly certain of that. He would slash her lip and who knew what else if she forced him to. And since the key was lying in a saucer on the windowsill behind him, he would find it anyway as soon as he troubled to look.
Her gaze must have drifted in the direction of the saucer unconsciously. Michel, who had been watching her from the doorway, pounced on it like a cat on a mouse and clapped the key into his son’s hands.
André smiled ironically. ‘Merci, papa.’
‘Dépêche-toi,’ Michel growled at him.
‘Oui, oui.’ André gestured for the old man to leave him to it. And with a scowl Michel left, heading back to the boat, Veronica assumed.
‘Tell ’Orace to phone us when he ’ears from the boy’s father,’ said André. ‘Then we will tell him ’ow much of la rançon we will let you ’ave. C’est compris?’
‘You’re making a big mistake, André,’ said Veronica as coolly as she could.
‘Non, non. ’Orace makes the big mistake, when he takes us for fools. So, tell him, yes?’ He was still holding the knife.
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Bravo.’ He tossed the knife on to the draining-board. ‘A bientôt, Veronica.’
André flung open the door that led to the cellar and vanished down the steps. Veronica heard his footsteps on the concrete floor as he strode across it.
‘Allez, mon petit garçon,’ he shouted at Eugen. There was a rattle of the manacles. ‘Vous êtes—’
André suddenly cried out in pain. There was a loud clunk. His cry subsided. Then the gun went off as a loud boom, echoing in the cellar. And something heavy hit the floor.
Veronica could not understand what had happened. She heard racing footsteps on the stairs. Eugen appeared in the doorway, panting heavily, the gun clutched, waggling, in his right hand. They stared at each other.
‘Where am I?’ Eugen demanded, his voice cracking.
‘What?’
‘Where am I?’
‘France,’ Veronica replied. ‘Near Evian-les-Bains.’
‘Evian? Where is Rolle?’
‘On the other side of the lake. In Switzerland. Put the gun down, please. Before you hurt someone.’
He gaped at her as if she was mad. She instantly regretted what she had said. It was obvious he had already hurt someone. A strangled moan rose from the cellar behind him.
Eugen Hanckel rushed to the window. From there he could see the landing-stage – and the lake. ‘Ein Boot,’ he murmured.
His face was masked with sweat. Veronica noticed for the first time spots of blood on his white football shirt. The gun was waggling even more now. He held it in both hands to steady it and swallowed heavily.
‘Listen to me, Eugen,’ she said. ‘Please.’
He did not seem to hear her. He turned and ran out into the scullery, heading for the garden.
She bent forward and managed to slide the chair closer to the window, until, stretching up, she could see out through it.
Her first glimpse was of Eugen, running towards the launch. Then she saw Michel. He looked round from the wheel, where he was standing, as the boy approached. He must have noticed the gun at once. He brandished the boat-hook and stepped out on to the landing-stage. He could have tried to escape, but concern for his son must have conquered the instinct for self-preservation. In that instant Eugen started firing.
Several bullets flew wide. But one hit Michel in the chest, then another. He staggered and fell.
Eugen jumped past him and into the launch. He untied the mooring-rope and climbed behind the wheel. The craft moved forward, scraping against the landing-stage, then lurched away from the shore.
It slowed and accelerated a couple of times, before Eugen grasped ho
w to control its speed. Then it surged away into the open water of the lake.
APPLEBY SUSPECTED TREACHERY of some kind as soon as he found the Marmiers’ boatyard deserted, the gate from the road padlocked shut. He raced back to Les Saules. Steam was rising from the Berliet’s radiator by the time he arrived. And the light was failing fast.
The scene was better than he had feared in one respect, worse in another. Veronica was mercifully unharmed, though badly shaken. Eugen was gone, not taken by the Marmiers as they had planned, but gone anyway, speeding towards Switzerland in the motor-boat. André lay dead in the cellar, with a large bullet wound in his stomach and a blade embedded in his throat. Michel was sprawled on the landing-stage, dead from two bullets to the chest. The Marmiers’ plot to increase their share of the ransom money had led them to their deaths – and Eugen to freedom.
Appleby stood by Michel’s body, squinting out across the lake. It was too dark by now to see much and Eugen was almost certainly too far away.
A steamer passed by, heading west, as Appleby watched. As its wake approached the shore, he noticed a rainbow shimmer on the surface of the water. He stooped and shone his torch on the ripples lapping at the support-posts of the landing-stage. It was petrol, enough of it for him to smell. His guess was that one of the bullets Eugen had fired had pierced the motor-boat’s fuel tank. How much fuel the tank held and how much it had lost by now he could not say. But suddenly the boy’s escape did not look as complete as it had.
Appleby was already turning over in his mind how to deal with the disaster the Marmiers’ greed had precipitated. If Eugen told the Swiss police all he knew, there would be nothing for it but to call in le Deuxième Bureau. Yet Appleby was far from sure Eugen would tell the Swiss police all he knew. A son of Fritz Lemmer must have been schooled by his father to be reticent as well as resourceful. His resourcefulness had already been demonstrated. His reticence might now save them.
With his customary phlegm, Appleby wasted no time on regrets. The situation was as the situation was. Veronica, for her part, refused to give way to panic. ‘What’s to be done, Horace?’ she asked calmly.
And he had an answer. ‘I’ll raise Brigham and have him scout along the shore road for signs of the boy landing. But it’s virtually dark and there’s nothing he can do beyond alerting us to whatever happens over there, if he finds out. I’d guess the boy will make for Rolle. Beyond that … I’m not sure. My hope is that Lemmer will give us what we want before word of his son’s escape reaches him. Meanwhile, we have to explain to the local police what took place here. This is what I suggest. Three men invaded the house and tied you up. You gathered they’d hidden stolen valuables – jewellery, perhaps – in the cellar while the house was empty. After they retrieved it, there was a falling-out among thieves, leaving two of them dead and the survivor making off with the haul. Eventually, you freed yourself and called the police. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you to face them alone. I can’t risk being held up answering their questions. I’ve missed the last ferry, so I’ll have to drive round to Lausanne. The journey will take two or three times as long by road, but I’ve no choice. Tell the police I left for Geneva earlier today and you’ve no means of contacting me. How does all of that sound?’
‘It sounds a long way from how this was supposed to be managed.’
Appleby nodded ruefully. ‘It is.’
Brigham was fetched from the dinner table at the Beau-Rivage Palace to take Appleby’s call. He began by being irritable, then became reproachful. ‘Nothing like this was supposed to happen,’ he complained. But at Appleby’s insistence he agreed to drive to Rolle and see if there was anything to be seen. He doubted there would be and, privately, Appleby agreed. But they had to try everything. He said nothing about Eugen shooting the Marmiers and left the exact circumstances of the boy’s escape unspecified. He judged it best to delay giving Brigham the gruesome details until they met.
When Brigham returned several hours later, Appleby was waiting for him at the Beau-Rivage Palace. He had by then booked himself into the Meurice. He was tired and downcast, but still cleaving to practicalities. Brigham was tired too and clearly rattled as well as disgruntled.
The disgruntlement turned to consternation when Appleby told him all that had occurred at Les Saules. They went to his room, where Brigham heard him out while working his way through a tumbler of Scotch.
‘This could hardly be worse,’ he pronounced, rubbing his forehead. ‘How in God’s name did you allow it to happen?’
‘I didn’t allow it, Brigham. An operation like this always has the potential to go wrong.’
‘In this case spectacularly wrong.’
‘Hiring the Marmiers was a calculated risk. They turned out to be greedier than I thought.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘You saw nothing on the road?’
‘Not a damn thing. I stopped at St-Sulpice, Morges, St-Prex and Nyon as well as Rolle. All quiet as the grave. No police. No motor-boat. Nothing.’
‘What about Dulière?’
‘I kept an eye on his offices as you asked. He went out this afternoon. I followed him up in the funicular to the station. I was behind him in the queue at the ticket office and distinctly heard him ask for a return to Rolle.’
‘Sent there by Lemmer, I imagine, to find out what the school knows.’
‘Very probably.’
‘He’s not likely to hear anything about the boy’s escape before tomorrow morning at the earliest. That gives us the better part of a day in Tokyo for Lemmer to conclude he has to give in.’
‘You still hope to pull this off?’ Brigham’s expression was sceptical, if not incredulous.
Appleby looked at him sternly. ‘I mean to hold my nerve, Brigham. And I require you to do the same.’
‘MISS HOLLANDER,’ SAID Lemmer softly, taking the telephone from Anna Schmidt. ‘You are punctual. As befits a secretary.’
‘What is your answer, Herr Lemmer?’ Malory asked levelly.
‘To your demands? My answer is this. I will discuss them with Max.’
He had instantly wrong-footed her. She did not know how to respond. ‘I don’t understand. Max is dead, as you well know.’
‘But he isn’t, is he, Miss Hollander? As you well know. I am prepared to make Max an offer. But only face to face. We must meet. Today.’
Malory was struggling to come to grips with the suddenly altered situation. Should she continue to deny Max was alive? Or should she accept Lemmer’s proposal? ‘Will you agree to the terms I laid before you yesterday?’
‘Perhaps. Let Max find out. Send him to me at the Kojunsha Club in Ginza at eleven o’clock. It is comfortable there. And quiet. We can talk in peace.’
‘What makes you—’
‘Max is alive, Miss Hollander. Please don’t pretend otherwise. Dombreux has told me everything. If Max wonders whether he should meet me, tell him this. He was not born in Tokyo.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Tell him.’
And tell him she did.
‘It was only a matter of time before he found out I was alive, Malory,’ Max assured her. ‘I’d hoped it would be longer, but it can’t be helped.’
‘You’ll meet him?’
‘Of course. What choice do I have?’
‘Do you have any clue what he means by saying you weren’t born in Tokyo?’
‘None. It might be no more than bait to draw me in. He wants to keep me – us – guessing. That’s clear. But we have him, Malory. We have him and he knows it.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
‘I’m always careful.’
‘That’s not what Sam says.’
‘He worries too much.’
‘And you worry too little.’
Max approached the Kojunsha Club later that clammily hot morning with more in the way of trepidation than he had been prepared to admit to Malory. What had led Dombreux to tell Lemmer the truth, given how damaging that t
ruth was to his standing in Lemmer’s eyes? Max’s best guess was that Lemmer had good reason to believe only Dombreux knew of the existence of his son and that he and Max must therefore have struck a deal. If so, Dombreux was in serious danger.
But that was his problem. Max had problems all of his own.
A careful scout around the vicinity of the Kojunsha revealed no sign of surveillance. Max entered the club and found it to be just the sort of cool, quiet haven from the tumult of the city he might have imagined. At that hour, when most of its members would be at their places of business, it was echoingly empty, which Lemmer had no doubt considered an advantage.
Max was expected. According to the elderly porter who greeted him, Lemmer was waiting in the little boardroom. As he escorted Max up the stairs, he said, ‘Your father came here often, Maxted-san. I remember him. He was – sonkei-suru-hito.’ Seeing Max’s frown of incomprehension, he added: ‘Someone a man can respect.’
Max was tempted to ask if Lemmer was sonkei-suru-hito. But he had no wish to embarrass the fellow. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
The little boardroom was in fact far from little, with three shaded windows’ worth of the building’s frontage to itself. The table and chairs were made from pale, yellow-brown wood. A fan with vanes as big as propellers was revolving with a deep, thrumming whirr.
Lemmer sat at one end of the table, a Japanese newspaper spread before him, a coffee-cup at his elbow. He was wearing a cream linen suit and looked entirely at ease, unhurried and untroubled.
‘Would you like coffee, Max?’
‘No.’
‘Very well.’ Lemmer nodded dismissively to the porter, who withdrew. The door clicked shut behind him. ‘Will you sit down?’
Max sat, at a distance of several chairs from Lemmer.
‘I’ve been reading about Marquess Saionji. He seems to be in no hurry to return to Japan. He’s currently in England, where he’s dined with the King. I wonder what they discussed. The Kaiser, perhaps. They are cousins, after all. Saionji was the Japanese ambassador in Germany when Wilhelm came to the throne. Did you know that?’
James Maxted 03 The Ends of the Earth Page 17