Jaws of the Tiger

by Andre Baby

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.” The disembodied voice breathed heavily. “I’m calling from a bus stop.”

  Toombs didn’t like the unusual edge in Mills’ voice. “What’s up?”

  “I just came from a meeting with Bolding. He won’t budge. Suddenly all he can see is saving face and his reputation. He sees this civil action against the US government as his salvation. I told him to think about what that would do to the others. I tried, Andrew. I really tried.”

  “And?”

  “He says he doesn’t care about crass interests of some shareholders trying to make money on P & W’s stock going south. I tried to have him wait, at least until we cover the short, but he says his lawyers told him they must act now. It’s a question of credibility, especially for the bankers at Berkeley’s.”

  “So suddenly Bolding has a conscience. Strange coming from a man who didn’t hesitate to sell his own shares when the stock started dipping.”

  “I pointed that out to him. He mentioned it didn’t put the company or the jobs of its workers at risk.There’s not much I can do if he decides to go ahead. If it weren’t for that bitch lawyer of yours…”

  “Name calling won’t do any good, Allister. Besides, Philips and Kent are fully on board.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. It’s out of my control. The file was sent to them.”

  “Christ!”

  For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Toombs broke the silence. “Listen, Allister, I can’t do anything more.”

  “No, but we can.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The stock is rising. We can’t let that happen,” said Mills.

  “I’m not liking the sound of this. Besides, why call me in the first place?”

  “Because if anything goes wrong, you’re in it with us. You’re not getting off the hook just because you’re a solicitor.”

  Toombs felt sweat forming on his forehead. “So you’re tying me in for your protection under client-solicitor privilege. Is that it?”

  “Just an added precaution. After all, it’s a part of the whole operation. You’re a necessary part of that operation.”

  A solid bar formed in Toombs’ stomach. “I only executed the corporate legal wishes of my clients. That’s it. End of story. I’m starting to get very negative vibes from this conversation, Allister. Tell me you’re not considering doing what I think you’re considering.”

  “The problem is being taken care of.”

  “Allister, as an officer of the law, I have a duty to report any—”

  “We thought of that, Andrew.” Mills didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t even think of it. Look out your window. See anything unusual?”

  Toombs went to his window and pulled open the blind. There was a black Land Rover SUV parked across the street in a no parking zone. Its motor was running.

  “Listen Allister—”

  “No, you listen. Why don’t you phone home? You’ll find there’s a car parked in front. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to Sheila and little Patricia, now would you?”

  “You bastards. You wouldn’t—”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 58

  Southampton, Addington Manor

  Bolding left his office in high spirits, in spite of his conversation that afternoon with Mills. Earlier, he’d received an email from Froome confirming that Phillips and Kent had agreed to represent them in their claims against the US Government. He’d set up another meeting with Walters at Berkeley’s Trust and Walters had agreed to reconsider the bank’s decision about keeping the ships under seizure. At last the dark clouds hanging over his head for the past six months seemed to be dissipating. Somewhat.

  “Will that be all, sir?” Higgins deposited the tray containing the glass of scotch on the table next to the brown leather sofa.

  “Yes. Good night, Higgins.”

  “Good night, sir.” Higgins withdrew, closing the door to the music room behind him.

  Bolding got up and walked over to the medieval armoire across the room. He unlocked its heavy oak doors. Inside, from his vast collection of CD’s, he pulled out one of his favorites, Isaac Stern’s rendition of Brahms’s Violin Concerto, and inserted the disc in the CD player.

  Instantly, the big Bowers and Wilkins speakers came to life and the soft, warm melody of the first movement filled the ancestral room. He often wondered what life would have been like if he’d listened to his mother and become a violinist. As a student, he’d shown a significant amount of talent, even if his willingness to practice left something to be desired. There was always a soccer game to play, a sailboat to be sailed, or a sports car to be driven. Besides, he knew even then he didn’t have that special dose of magic necessary for a concert violinist. Still, with enough dedication and hard work, a position as concertmaster in a world-class orchestra had been within the realm of the achievable.

  In the end, his father’s admonitions had won the day. “A man’s duty comes first,” Bolding Senior had said. “Not everyone has the opportunities you were born into. You’d be a bloody fool not to take advantage and make the best of them. When I’m dead, you must run this company, as I did, as your grandfather did. Later, you can fiddle all you want.” Torn between his love of music and his father’s orders, Bolding reluctantly took the corporate plunge. Upon the untimely death of his father at age 70, Bolding had inherited the full weight of the family legacy.

  He returned to the sofa and sat down, engulfing himself in the tempo of the music, occasionally letting his right hand sway in an enthusiastic imitation of the orchestra conductor.

  Immersed in the music as he was, he could never have heard, nor did he in fact hear, the slight rustle of the silk drapes hung over the French windows across the room, behind him.

  Nor did he detect the slow, deliberate movement of the man pushing aside the drapes, pulling out a hypodermic needle from its small case, and walking swiftly towards the seated Bolding.

  Bolding turned slightly, suddenly aware of a human presence behind him. Too late. He felt a sharp sting in his neck just as he started to get up. He looked at the hooded man in surprise, then fear. Bolding tried to rise, but the man pressed heavily with his left hand on Bolding’s right shoulder. He tried to yell, but the sound remained stuck in his throat. After a moment, the black-hooded man released his hand from Bolding’s shoulder, pulled out the needle, and put it carefully back in its case. Even through the hood, Bolding could see the man smiling, seemingly satisfied.

  Bolding tried to scream for help, but could only manage a gurgling sound. He tried to get up but couldn’t. His limbs were numb, powerless. He felt a tingling sensation overcome the rest of his body. He was paralyzed.

  He sat and watched helplessly as the hooded man, wearing white latex gloves, went to the entrance of the music room and locked the door. He turned back and walked over to Bolding’s walnut desk, reached for a pass key in his right pocket and opened the desk drawer. He took out Bolding’s Smith & Wesson .38.

  My God, how did he know it was there? Bolding struggled to fight back panic. His instincts kicked in. If only he could fall onto the table and knock over the glass, maybe it would smash and Higgins would hear it.

  As if he’d read Bolding’s thoughts, the assassin went to the armoire. He found the volume control and turned it higher. The orchestra’s violins and violas became strident, then the bass and cello section burst into a deafening crescendo.

  The man walked over and grabbed a small mauve pillow from the divan opposite them. Bolding watched in horror as the man approached, pillow in one hand, the .38 Smith & Wesson in the other. The man stood beside Bolding and cocked the revolver.

  He grabbed Bolding’s limp right hand and wrapped it around the gun. With the other hand, the assassin held the pillow to Bolding’s right temple, then slowly brought up Bolding’s gun-bearing hand.

  Bolding never heard the shot.

  Chapter 59

  Lyon, Interpol HQ, the
following morning

  Dulac was sitting at his desk scanning through the files of P & W’s officers and taking notes when the phone rang. It was Arlberg.

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “What news?”

  “Open your TV. It’s on channel France 2 right now. Sir Adrian Bolding died yesterday. Authorities haven’t released the cause of death but they say it might be suicide.”

  “Good God. I was just making a list of questions for him about his officers.” Dulac walked over to the TV monitor across from his desk and turned it on. Images of policemen, police cars with lights flashing and the entrance to Bolding’s manor cordoned off with yellow tape, filled the screen. He caught the brunette reporter in mid-sentence. “…police are not giving details at this point other than the death occurred last evening.”

  “I should get myself to Southampton before the Coroner’s Inquest,” said Dulac.

  “Under normal circumstances, I’d tell you to stay the hell out of their business, Dulac.”

  “Thanks. If the Brits object, I’ll tell them you told me that, but I considered these weren’t normal circumstances.”

  “Watch your back, Dulac. Meanwhile, I’ll get Lescop to try for a preliminary police report. As a matter of simple courtesy, drop in on Wade before going to Southampton.”

  “Courtesy was never my strong suit, especially when it’s not reciprocated. Besides, it’s better to get the information directly from the local—”

  “You’re not listening, Dulac. See Wade first. Is that clear? You keep forgetting I have to work with these people.”

  * * *

  Apart from the slight delay at departure, the 11.15 am. Air France flight to London was uneventful. Upon arrival however, the city’s omnipresent fall drizzle did nothing to brighten Dulac’s already foul humor. Dulac paid the cabbie, turned up this collar, grabbed his satchel and walked up the four gray granite steps of the Yard’s entrance.

  As he made his way to the front desk, a text message came in on his cell. It was Lescop. Preliminary report on Bolding’s death. Apparently shot himself with his own .38 Smith & Wesson. Finding door locked, butler and chauffeur broke into the music room, 8:30 am and found Bolding dead. Gunshot wound to the right temple appears to have been caused by .38 Smith & Wesson. Awaiting full ballistic report. Will send more detailed report when available. Lescop.

  Dulac closed his cell phone and smiled at the receptionist. “I’m here to see Harry Wade.”

  “Whom shall I announce?” The petite blonde had a friendly, welcoming smile.

  “Dulac. Thierry Dulac.”

  A few telephone calls later, the receptionist directed Dulac to Wade’s office. “Mr. Wade will see you now. Upstairs, sixth floor, then—”

  “Thanks. I know my way.” Dulac took the elevator. Wade’s secretary met him at the elevator door.

  “You should’ve called. He’s very busy.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  She turned on her heels and walked towards Wade’s office.

  “Ah, Dulac.” Wade sat behind his desk, obviously annoyed to see him. “I can only guess what brings you here.”

  “The late Adrian Bolding.”

  “Quite. Sad, very sad. Please.” Wade gestured Dulac towards one of the cheap wooden chairs. “Strange how the mind works sometime. It doesn’t take much when one is vulnerable, I guess. I’m told he was treated for bouts of depression, though.”

  “You have access to his medical records?”

  Wade looked a little embarrassed. “Well, unofficially of course. Actually, we’ve been looking at Bolding a little more closely since he sold his company’s shares and you tipped us on HOLMES.”

  “You mean the category 3 finding?”

  “That’s all irrelevant now, isn’t it?” said Wade. “So why exactly are you here?”

  “Have you got a report from the local investigating officer?”

  “We have a prelim. Clear-cut case of suicide, as far as they’re concerned.”

  “Shouldn’t the coroner decide that?”

  “Of course. Just a formality in this case I presume.”

  “Any relatives?”

  “His wife died years ago in a car accident. He has a son, and he’s requesting the body for cremation. Of course, he’ll have to wait for the coroner to decide whether or not he wants an autopsy.”

  “You mean the investigating officer hasn’t ordered one?”

  “Again Dulac, it’s as clear a case of suicide as we’ve ever seen. Apparently the butler served him his usual scotch at 9:30 pm. Bolding told him good night, and the butler heard Bolding put on music, which he does regularly, and the butler went straight on to bed. When he didn’t see Bolding at breakfast the next morning, he searched the house and found the music room locked from the inside, front and back. When he couldn’t open it, he called Bolding’s chauffeur for help and they forced the door open. They found Bolding lying on the sofa in a pool of blood, with his .38 Smith & Wesson on the carpet by his side. Sure looks like a…”

  “Just the same, I’m going to take a ride to Southampton.”

  * * *

  Addington Manor

  Dulac took a taxi from Southampton Central. Twenty minutes later, Bolding’s mansion came into full view about half-way down a gravelled road, its simply decorated façade and classical, unadorned lines a typical example of early post-Elizabethan architecture.

  The cab came to a stop before the entrance, where a uniformed policeman was walking nonchalantly back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. A dozen yards or so away, a man in plain clothes, obviously another policeman, was busy lighting a cigarette. Dulac paid the cabbie, grabbed his satchel and walked towards the door.

  “Sorry sir, no trespassing.” The uniformed policeman interposed himself between Dulac and the doorway.

  “Interpol.Thierry Dulac.” Dulac flashed his credentials. “I need to see the crime scene.”

  “Nobody gets through this door without inspector Simeon’s say so,” said the bobby.

  “What if I tell you I have Harry Wade’s, from the Yard?”

  “Don’t know Wade. I need Simeon’s ok.”

  “And where might he be?”

  “He’s inside.”

  “Well then, Sergeant, would it be too much to ask for you to go and get him?”

  “I’ll get him.” The plainclothes cop smiled, obviously amused by the exchange.

  Moments later, a 60ish stout man wearing a rumpled, ill-fitting grey suit appeared at the doorway. He looked annoyed.

  “Yes?” He threw a baleful glare at Dulac.

  “Interpol. Dulac. I’d like to take a look at the crime scene.” Dulac flashed his credentials at Simeon, who took out a pair of bifocals from his suit pocket. He studied Dulac’s creds carefully, then handed them back to him.

  “And what, pray tell, has Interpol got to do with it?”

  “It’s a long story, but Bolding may have been implicated in the hijacking of the Caravan Star.”

  Simeon’s face took on an air of amusement. “Really? Of his own ship? Now that’s a new twist. Anyway, he’s dead, so it doesn’t matter now does it?”

  “There may be others involved. Listen, I don’t have time to explain all of the ins and outs to you.”

  “Wouldn’t think of asking.” Simeon hooked his thumbs inside his bulging belt.

  “All I want is a look at your crime scene. If you don’t have the authority, I’ll—”

  “I have full authority. I don’t see the point since Bolding shot himself but suit yourself.” Simeon stepped aside and let Dulac in.

  They entered a vast hall, where paintings of wig-headed noblemen in breastplate armor adorned the walls, looking down scornfully upon anyone entering. Across the hall, above the doorway leading inside, hung a moth-eaten tapestry of uncertain vintage, over which were suspended two crossed halberds, mounted at an angle. Along the walls below the paintings, a series of red high-backed wooden chairs completed the lugubrious décor. Judging from t
heir sorry state of disrepair, Dulac guessed they hadn’t seen an occupant for the past few centuries.

  Simeon led Dulac through the hall, then along a dark corridor and into a smaller, more intimate room, dominated by two large loudspeakers. To the left stood a desk and a chair. A brown leather sofa was in the middle.

  “The music room,” said Simeon. “Sir Adrian also used it as his study.”

  Dulac noticed the light blue chalk mark penciled onto the sofa and part of the floor. He looked casually at the entrance door’s lock. The torn-out screws offered mute testimony to the force used in breaking in.

  “Deadbolt was in the lock when the butler and chauffeur broke in,” said Simeon.

  “Any other entrance?”

  “The French doors. Over there.” Simeon pointed across the room to two floor-to-ceiling window-paned doors. “They were also locked from the inside.”

  Dulac walked over to the doors and looked out onto a grey marble patio and a gravel courtyard. He checked the locking mechanism of the French doors. It was a simple pivot lock, whereby the lever on one door swung on its axis and fell into a receiving u-shaped latch on the adjoining door. Dulac noted two locks, one at the top, the other at the bottom of the doors.

  “Pretty basic stuff.” Dulac worked the top lever through its axis. He noticed two sensors at the bottom of each door and bent down to take a closer look.

  “Unarmed,” said Simeon.

  Indeed. Why would anyone arm them if he were going to commit suicide? Dulac looked closely at the doors. A thin gap could be detected between them. “Those latches could easily have been opened from the outside.” He didn’t bother to look at Simeon.

  “Thought of that but an intruder couldn’t have locked them back from the outside. The butler and the chauffeur swear both locks were in place when they broke in.”

  Dulac smiled. “Will you ask for an autopsy?”