‘And Brand’s dead so she can’t prove it?’
‘Unless there’s some paperwork.’
‘Bound to be. What do you hope to do? Subpoena them? Forget it.’
‘I need to gain access to the bank.’
Marie’s burst of laughter was so loud that people at the surrounding tables turned their heads. ‘Are you serious? You want to break into the Banque Eberhardt?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? Because it can’t be done. It’s impossible. And even if you got in – what then?’
‘I’d get to look at the files.’
‘For a start everything’s on computers.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Though they probably keep files too; they’re old-fashioned there. But you wouldn’t know where to look.’
‘I would if you came with me.’
‘Me?’ Marie put down her knife and fork and stared at him incredulously.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m a respectable citizen, you idiot, not a bank robber.’
Ravenel lowered his voice. ‘We’re not going to rob the bank. Just look at some files.’
Marie shook her head. ‘Do you know the penalty for breaking into a bank here? Prison for life. For life. The Swiss take their money seriously.’
Ravenel picked at his salad, took another sip of wine. ‘It’s a private bank, right? Not a commercial one?’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘They don’t have vaults full of money.’
‘But they do have alarms and monitors.’
‘Look, the Brand private fortune is stashed away at the Banque Eberhardt. If the bank is refusing to pay my client, refusing to even admit the money’s there, there’s got to be a reason.’
‘You’re sure the money is there?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Based on what?’
‘Inside information.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve got to take a look at the paperwork in the bank.’
‘What do you want me to do? Go out and buy a gun and a mask?’
‘First I’m going to see if there’s some way I can put pressure on Marte Teske; persuade her to dig out the file. Maybe there’s something in her background. Maybe she has an illegitimate child. Maybe she’s cheating on her taxes. There’s got to be something.’
Marie chuckled. ‘Guy, you judge everyone by your own moral standards. There doesn’t have to be anything. She’s a dull, dreary, devoted secretary who’s given her whole life to the Banque Eberhardt. I doubt she’s ever had a man in her life.’ She held out her glass for Ravenel to pour more wine. ‘This isn’t bad. Gets better with every glass.’
‘You’ve noticed.’
She giggled. ‘Tell me about this client of yours.’
‘She’s English.’
‘How boring.’
‘I rather like her.’
‘Why did Brand leave her this money?’
‘She’s pregnant.’
‘Good reason.’ She pushed her plate away. ‘What are you doing this afternoon?’
‘Making love to you.’
Marie smiled slowly. ‘What a great idea. It’s such a dreary day.’
At 5.30 p.m. that Thursday evening Albert-Jean Cristiani parked a rented Citroën on the opposite side of the street from the Banque Eberhardt. There, as he waited for the white-haired banker to emerge, he pondered the problem Ravenel faced. There was, he knew, no way the American could probe the secrets of a private Swiss bank. Even he, with the clout of the Federal Banking Commission behind him, had found himself up against a blank wall many times during his years as an investigator. True, Ravenel had had luck with the Chiasso business but only because his friend Marie Corbat had shown him how to break into Credit Suisse’s Chiasso computer to find out where the funds had gone.
This was different.
Eberhardt emerged from the bank shortly after six and drove through the streets to the Pont du Mont-Blanc and out onto the Lausanne road. Keeping his distance, Cristiani followed.
About a mile past the town of Nyon, Eberhardt’s Renault slowed and turned up a small lane to the left. Cristiani pulled his own car off the road and waited.
His heart was thumping in his chest. He knew the lane well, knew where it led.
An hour later he saw the Renault turn back onto the main road heading for Geneva. When the tail lights finally disappeared Cristiani pulled out and drove slowly up to the house of Madame Valdoni.
Chapter 34
The rating of the world’s top ten hotels, issued by the journal of the International World Travellers’ Association, was eagerly awaited by all great hoteliers. For them it was the equivalent of Michelin’s three-star rating for restaurants.
Heading the list for many years had been the Oriental in Bangkok. The Hôtel du Cap in Antibes on the Riviera and the Ritz in Paris usually vied for second place. Other great hotels – the Dolder Grand in Zurich, the Mansion on Turtle Creek in Dallas and the Regent in Hong Kong took up the other slots. It was rare for a British hotel to figure on the list, but the year before the Burlington had made fifth place.
Julia had sent out a press release at the time, though none of the London newspapers had picked it up. She had not been surprised. A list of the world’s top hotels, their lowest prices around the £250-a-night mark, was hardly likely to cause much excitement in a news editor’s breast. Mentions had appeared, though, in several travel magazines and Andrew Lattimer had been well satisfied. To celebrate he had thrown a small cocktail party in his office.
Four days after her meeting with Ravenel, when Julia walked into her office, Emma’s face was grim.
‘Get ready for a shock,’ she said.
‘What is it now?’
‘We’re off the list.’
Emma picked up a copy of the IWTA journal open at a marked page. Julia scanned the list. In fifth place, where the Burlington had been a year earlier, was the Plaza-Athénée in Paris.
Julia slumped into her chair. Had it happened during Andrew Lattimer’s term she would have been dismayed both for herself and the hotel. But now she felt a sense of secret satisfaction that this had happened to the man she despised so much. She even found herself hoping that the Sultan, who had been so proud of his hotel’s inclusion on the list, might reassess his opinion of Moscato. Others in the hotel, she knew, would react similarly, though the decision to remove the hotel would have been made long before his arrival.
But it had happened during his tenure. That was satisfaction enough.
‘Serves the bastard right,’ Bryan Penrose said when Julia saw him in the lobby. ‘He runs this place like a labour camp. Maybe the Sultan will kick him out.’
‘It won’t happen,’ Julia said wistfully. ‘But don’t I wish it would.’
That afternoon, Julia saw that Emma was looking worried.
‘You know you asked if I’d told anyone you’d gone to Acapulco?’
Julia sank into her chair. ‘You said you hadn’t.’
‘I’ve remembered something. Two days after you’d gone, Mr Koenig came in to see you. I said you were away and wouldn’t be back for a week. He wanted to know where you’d gone so I said it was a holiday somewhere; I wasn’t sure. Then the phone rang and I had to go to my own room to look up some notes. When I came back he was standing beside your desk. That letter from the TTRA people was lying there.’ Emma hesitated. ‘I think he saw it …’
Julia sat perfectly still. Stricken. She remembered then what Voytek Konopka had said in Acapulco. She even rips into that man she sleeps with now and again … Lives in Los Angeles, I think. They say she bankrolls his projects.
Bobby Koenig. Was he the conduit to Grace Brand?
Julia sat alone in her office as the day ended, trying to come to terms with what she had learned. Bobby Koenig was the man who had betrayed her and Robert?
It seemed inconceivable to her that he could have done such a thing. But who else knew about her trip to Mexico?
S
he pushed aside her cup and, straightening up, crossed to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass, looking out at the small, flagstoned courtyard beyond. The trees, leafless now, stood silhouetted against the darkening sky.
Why had Koenig done this? Robert had trusted him completely; had told him everything. They were friends. Was it for money? Was that it? Was it because Grace Brand had come up with the financing for his latest film? Was he really that base?
Wearily she locked her desk. No wonder Grace Brand had known everything that Robert did. She had the best of all sources: his close friend.
Chapter 35
Cristiani had an apartment in one of the quieter streets in Geneva, just off the rue Voltaire. The floor was polished hardwood, the furniture functional, the curtains heavy. But he liked it a lot, particularly the two balconies overlooking the street. He had two bedrooms, a decent-sized living room and a tiny kitchen. He used it only to sleep. He ate all his meals out.
Since the arrival in town of Guy Ravenel he had been sleeping badly. And the morning after his visit to Madame Valdoni – when, for old times’ sake, he had availed himself of her hospitality in the shape of a rather stunning beauty named Karen – he awoke feeling exhausted. Staring at his face in the bathroom mirror as he shaved he decided he needed a break. What he needed was a little pampering. He knew exactly where to get it.
Three hours away by lake steamer was the town of Evian-les-Bains on the French side of the lake. There, at the Royal Hotel, was the finest spa in the region. Cristiani had been there often and always returned refreshed and rested after being steamed and sweated, pummelled and pulled about.
An hour later he was on the lake steamer, sitting on the main deck watching winter sunshine dappling the snow-covered mountains in the distance. Feeling the tension slowly ebbing from his body he picked up the new murder mystery he had bought earlier that week and began reading.
Bonnet was right, he decided. He had become too preoccupied with the Eberhardt case. He had just spent two frustrating days trying to dig up something on Eberhardt’s secretary, Marte Teske. It had all come to nothing. She had never been with a man, never been involved in any scandal, never taken dope, never said a word out of place. She lived at home with her aged mother. The perfect secretary, Cristiani thought glumly; why can’t I find someone like that?
Ravenel was due back next day. He would have to tell him to forget it; there was nothing he could do.
Three hours of cossetting at the spa helped to revive Cristiani’s spirits. Wearing a white robe over his swimming trunks he adjourned to the sun room to relax over a cup of herbal tea before catching the steamer back. Although he had planned to read, soon he drifted off to sleep. When he awoke he saw with a start that he had barely fifteen minutes in which to board the last boat.
He dressed hurriedly, paid his bill and went out to catch a taxi down to the lakeside. Others, also late, were hurrying too. One of them cried out, ‘Monsieur!’ Cristiani, about to step into a cab, turned. The man was pointing to the ground. Cristiani retraced his steps and looked down. Trampled into the soft ground where he had dropped them were his keys. He retrieved them, thanked the man, and stood for a moment looking down at the perfect impression they had made.
He was still holding the muddied keys in his hand when he boarded the steamer with just a few moments to spare.
The visit to Evian had been a great idea. Now he knew how he could help Ravenel.
‘There may be a way,’ Cristiani said. He sat back, his hands together as if in prayer, looking at Ravenel.
‘You got something on the secretary?’
‘Forget about the secretary.’ Cristiani tilted his chair back. ‘Every Thursday evening Paul Eberhardt takes a little trip along the Lausanne road to a house near Nyon. It belongs to a certain Madame Valdoni, well known for her stable of beautiful whores.’
‘I thought Eberhardt was in his late seventies.’
‘He is.’
‘There’s hope for us all, then.’
Cristiani scowled. ‘I drove up to see Valdoni. I know her. She’s made a lot of money at the game. Used to bank most of it with the Leclerc Bank in Geneva. Seemed a safe enough place to her. She knew I was with the Commission …’
‘You were one of her customers?’
‘Any objection?’
‘None at all.’
‘So she asked me about this bank. I warned her it was shaky and might go bankrupt – sursis concordataire, we call it. She got her money out just in time and put it safely in the Union Bank. So she owes me a favour.’
‘What’s this got to do with Eberhardt?’
‘I’m coming to that. Why are you so damned impatient?’
‘It’s my nature,’ Ravenel said.
‘He usually has the same girl. Valdoni says she hates his guts.’
‘So?’
‘Eberhardt carries the key to the door of the bank on him. Do you follow me?’
‘No.’
‘I think I can persuade this girl to take an impression.’
‘He may have a lot of keys. How will she know which is the right one?’
‘It doesn’t look like an ordinary key. It’s coded. Electronic sensors built into the lock read the key. Anyone using the wrong key triggers an alarm at the police station.’
‘Terrific’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘If it’s coded an impression won’t help.’
‘It will if we know the code.’
‘But we don’t.’
‘Baume-Stromberg installed the locks and alarms fifteen years ago. I have a cousin who works there. He’ll look it up.’
‘You can encode this substitute key?’
‘If you know what you’re doing,’ Cristiani said.
Ravenel sighed. ‘I thought you Swiss were supposed to be so virtuous.’
‘You thought wrong.’
‘One thing: how will this girl get the key? Doesn’t he undress in the room in front of her?’
‘Apparently not. His tastes are somewhat bizarre. He undresses in one room and takes his pleasure in another while watching a film. I’ve worked out what to do with Valdoni. She’ll give him another girl when we’re ready. The girl who hates him – I forget her name – will creep into the room next door and get his keys.’
‘You think it’ll work.’
‘You have a better idea?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s concentrate on this one.’
‘What about alarms?’
‘I’ve checked all that out. I know the Baume-Stromberg systems. There are standard beam alarms on the floor and contact alarms on the windows. There’s a TV monitor in the hall linked to the police station. The vaults, of course, will have time locks. But the offices should be wide open.’
‘I thought private banks didn’t have vaults.’
‘Sure they do. They don’t carry large sums of money; not like the commercial banks. People aren’t dropping in all day to cash fifty-franc cheques. But they do keep some money there. A million or so.’
Excited suddenly, Ravenel got up and paced the room. ‘Have you got a floor plan of the alarms?’
‘You want it on a plate, don’t you?’
‘If possible.’
‘Well, I haven’t. Though knowing Baume-Stromberg there’ll be a beam alarm just inside the entrance two feet from the floor.’
‘The TV monitor that’s linked to the police. Is that on all the time?’
‘No. It’s activated by pressure pads in the entrance.’
‘Then we’d see it go on,’ Ravenel said. ‘A little red light. Give us time to get out.’
‘No little red lights on Baume-Stromberg monitors,’ Cristiani said.
‘Any other good news?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘I think I can handle the alarms,’ Ravenel said optimistically.
‘You’ll have to,’ Cristiani said. ‘I’m damn sure I’m not coming with you.’
‘Around 6 p.m. I’ve timed him. Punctual fellow.’
‘Where’s his home?’
‘In the Old City. Rue des Granges. Very respectable. His car is a Renault, by the way. I have the number.’
‘You’re sure he goes to Nyon every Thursday?’
‘That’s what Valdoni says. He’s a creature of habit. Tells her he’s a doctor. She knows he’s lying. She took a look at his wallet one time.’
‘Nice friend you’ve got.’
Cristiani said nothing.
Ravenel stubbed out his cigarette. ‘How long will it take to get this key made and encoded?’
‘A couple of days. Three at the outside.’
‘So I could go in next Wednesday?’
‘If you’re so inclined.’ Cristiani was suddenly serious. ‘There’s one thing you’ve got to remember, Guy. If this key doesn’t work – and I don’t promise it will – you won’t get another chance. Eberhardt will know someone tried to break in. The lock will be changed.’
‘I’ll have to take that chance,’ Ravenel said.
‘That’s right,’ Cristiani agreed. ‘You will.’
‘I’ll wait in London,’ Ravenel decided. ‘I don’t want to be seen hanging around here. I’ll be back next Tuesday. You’ll be here?’
‘Key in hand,’ Cristiani said. ‘By the way, how much are you paying me for all this?’
‘Fifty thousand.’
‘Sounds fair,’ Cristiani said. ‘I’ll be able to buy a carpet …’
‘You can’t be serious?’ Julia stared at Ravenel, seated on her sofa. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘I’m going to do it,’ Ravenel repeated.
‘But a Swiss bank? You’ll go to prison forever if you’re caught.’
‘I don’t plan on getting caught,’ Ravenel said.
‘But even if you do find proof of the account what good will that do? You can’t admit how you got it.’
‘A little ammunition can be highly effective when fired in the right direction.’
Julia faced him squarely. ‘Mr Ravenel, this frightens me. I won’t be responsible for you getting in serious trouble.’
The Account Page 19