I dragged the phone to an armchair and sat down, my legs suddenly weak under me. 'I don't know what the hell you're talking about.'
He laughed. 'Pepalasis would be proud of you. But is he worth dying for? Shall we say, two hundred thousand? Our final offer, Mr Townsend. Don't disappoint me by saying no. Because you'll tell us in the end. One way or another:'
'Is that a threat?' I croaked, dry-mouthed.
'It's a fact, Mr Townsend. Think about it.'
The line buzzed. He'd hung up.
I was still in the armchair when Jean appeared in the doorway, white-faced and trembling. 'Mike, that man! What kind of people? For God's sake, Mike, aren't you frightened?'
I hoped it didn't show, but yes I was frightened. And my hands shook slightly as I rummaged through the telephone directory.
'That laughter.' She sat hugging herself to stop the trembling. 'Awful. And that great thick accent. Oh Mike, please. Let's call the police.'
'There was an accent, wasn't there?' I paused in mid stretch to the telephone. 'What the hell was it?'
'That's easy. Three years in Jo'burg as a kid. South African. Didn't you catch the way he clipped his vowels?'
I was dialling the number. South African? It didn't help. Except that whenever I thought of South Africa I thought of diamonds ever since meeting Pepalasis.
Hallsworth wasn't at his club.
'I think he's staying in the country,' Jean frowned. 'Hampshire or Wiltshire somewhere.'
'Why on earth do you think that?'
'Oh, there was a bit of a tiffin the office the other day. All very silly. Nothing to worry about. But he rang Muriel and asked for the dialling code book to be sent to his office. Well, you know what she's like. Anyone gets their own number and it's an insult. So she offered to get it for him. And he refused, saying he just wanted to look something up. So, of course, she said she'd look it up for him, and - I don't know, it must have touched a nerve or something - because he got quite nasty. Perhaps he thought she was being cheeky but honestly she wasn't. It's just that, without knowing it, he was breaking one of her rules. We all have them, don't we? Our own set of rules?'
She gave me a sly, amused look from beneath her eyelashes, the colour of her face quite back to normal.
'Him staying in the country,' I reminded her.
'Oh yes. Well, I was standing next to Muriel while this was going on, and just about to pick up the book and take it to him, when he must have relented. Or seen the funny side of it, because he told her where it was that he wanted.'
'And?'
'She had a job tracing it. It wasn't listed for STD and she had to check with Enquiries. It's a village. Near Winchester.'
I stiffened.'Called?'
'I'm sorry,' she shook her head, 'it didn't seem important. Perhaps Muriel will remember.'
I got up, heading for the bedroom. 'Get onto Enquiries. See if anything's listed under Hallsworth in the Winchester area.' It was worth, a try. In the bedroom I searched for a weapon. Something I could take a swing with. A club of some kind. But all I could find was my squash racket, which seemed stupidly inadequate, but better than nothing.
'Oooh!' Jean grinned, quite recovered. 'Anyone for tennis?'
'Try the name of Ballantyne, as well,' I said, suddenly wondering how Sue made phone calls at half-past midnight from a country cottage without a telephone.
Jean repeated the name while her eyes tracked me across the room to the lobby. 'Mike?' I looked at her. 'Be careful.'
I started at the front door and worked my way up. Floor by floor, office by office. Checking windows, opening cupboards, daft things like that. The lower floors had false drapes at the windows instead of proper curtains so I worked in the darkness, wanting to avoid a sudden blaze of light. On the second floor I paused long enough to look out of the window. It was a fine night, and I was reaching into a pocket for a cigarette when somebody else had the same idea. And struck a match.
He was perhaps thirty yards away, in the cab of a van parked in Chesterfield Hill. But the flare of the match was as clear as a shooting star from the window. I left the cigarettes in my pocket and watched the end of another one glow down the street. Nearly-one o'clock. Just someone having a quiet smoke? But facing the building? Watching? Waiting? I shuddered, remembering the laughter and straining my eyes to see if there was a second person in the cab. But the shadows defeated me.
Not that one o'clock was late for the West End. People were still about. A couple sauntered up from Berkeley Square, stopping on the corner to embrace, the man stooping, his hands going to the girl's hair. Light brown hair in the lamplight. Another figure on the far side of the street, a measured pace, like a policeman's. Then the sound of an engine and I felt a surge of relief and surprise as the van pulled away, shifting into second gear as it passed below the window and turned the corner. I mocked my nerves and continued the tour of inspection.
On the third floor I checked the skylight. The building changed shape above the level and the stretch of flat roof was the way the burglars had come before. It took a while to get a table beneath it, and a chair on that, but I managed. It was firm and secure, Jean having had it repaired and strengthened the day after we had discovered the burglary.
I finished at the small office on the corner of the third floor, and paused at the window, peering into the street, looking for the lovers and the girl with hair like Jean's. Instead I saw the van. It was slowing to a halt and back in the position of five minutes earlier. It stopped. The driver cut the engine and killed the sidelights. It must have circled the block. Perhaps the driver had seen me at the window? Or heard the policeman as I had? Suddenly I felt more angry than frightened. Angry with whoever was playing silly bloody games at this time of night. Angry with Hallsworth for disappearing. Angry with Pepalasis for his way of doing business. And angry with myself for turning into an old woman. Defiantly I lit a cigarette and smoked about a third of it before going upstairs and leaving the driver to the loneliness of the night.
'Nothing listed for Hallsworth,' Jean reported in the sitting room. 'Or Ballantyne.'
I nodded, not surprised, not anything really - just tired.
Jean undressed in the bathroom and emerged tall and glowing and Grecian in a long white nightgown. We lay together on the sofa for a while, her folded into my arms as if we went to sleep like that every night of our lives. Then she left for the bedroom, leaving the door open behind her.
I closed my eyes and a minute later I was fighting Pepalasis on the sea shore. He hit me and I fell in the sand, got up, only for him to knock me down again. Kirk McNeil bobbed in and out shouting something in a South African accent. And there was another man. With his back to me, a wooden leg and a frock coat and a parrot on his shoulders. Then I caught Pepalasis a real haymaker. He was below me in the sand and I was swinging wild punches in the hope of landing another one. Swinging and falling. And falling and...
'Mike, are you all right?'
I was on the floor, looking up at the sofa, Jean crouched over me, an arm under my head, her nightdress clipping away from her breasts. She kissed me gently and the dream went away.
'You'd better come to bed. But I warn you,' she added sternly, 'if I ever find out that this was some kind of act on your part, you'll never see me again.'
She. needn't have worried - I was asleep within seconds of hitting the pillow.
Nine
Waking up beside Jean was a good start to the next morning and after that it was as if she'd blessed the day for me. The van had gone from its overnight position. I checked to see if the blue car had taken its place, but there was no sign of it. All morning my eyes were drawn to the windows, expecting to find someone watching me from the street. And whenever the telephone rang I jumped, half anticipating the threatening voice of the night before. But nothing happened. Someone had called the dogs off. And I wondered why?
I wished that Hallsworth would make contact. But there had been no word from him when I left for lunch with an i
nvestment client, nor when I returned. So at two-thirty I caught a cab to the A.W.F offices in Holborn, creased with worry that Hallsworth and Pepalasis would miss the meeting.
'Mr Pepalasis?' Harry Smithers peered behind me as if expecting the Greek to materialise out of thin air.
'Coming separately,' I hid my concern. 'With my partner.'
Kirk McNeil was already in the Boardroom, along with a couple of Harry's assistants and Peter Emanuel from A.W.F's Merchant Bankers. And five others arrived a minute later, all members of Harry's consortium.
It was exactly three o'clock. I avoided the question in McNeil's eyes and concentrated on the small talk of the man next to me. Until five minutes past, when there was a knock on the door and Harry's secretary ushered Pepalasis into the room. Alone.
It was the first I'd seen of him since the Dorchester. His nose was slightly swollen and he wore a strip of plaster on his forehead, but apart from that he looked his usual smooth self. 'A thousand apologies,' he began, 'my cab was delayed. The more I fumed the slower he went, and the thicker was the traffic.' He laughed easily, going from place to place around the table, shaking hands, smiling affably. When it was my turn he greeted me like a long lost brother, dropped into the chair on my left and beamed about him like a boy at a birthday party. The beads appeared in his hands as if by magic.
'Hallsworth?' I muttered amid the general clearing of throats and rustling of papers which has preceded every meeting I've ever attended.
'Another appointment, I believe. Said he'd phone you later.'
I felt annoyed enough to pursue it but he turned away and addressed Harry Smithers at the other end of the table.
'Mr Chairman. May I be permitted a word before we begin?'
Harry conjured a smile out of a surprised expression and everyone sat back expectantly, except me. I had a minor heart attack. The Greek in normal form would scatter a room of investors faster than Jews leaving a pork buffet. But I needn't have worried. Pepalasis proved his birth that day. He spoke for six or seven minutes. Smooth, honeyed phrases.
Beginning with an apology for the difficulties in getting the agreement to the table and ending with a lavish compliment on their commercial judgement in backing the venture. In between, he praised Harry for his skill as Chairman, McNeil for his reputation, the whole consortium for their wisdom and me for my efforts to find a formula acceptable to all. By the time he finished they wore the bright-eyed, flushed-face look of brides on honeymoon. And when Harry passed copies of the agreement down the table a minute or two later, Pepalasis signed with a flourish.
'Aren't you going to read it first?' Harry was appalled.
'Why should I? I'm in the City of London doing business with gentlemen. Who's going to cheat me?'
It was a perfect finishing thrust, earning murmurs of approval just short of an outright burst of applause. Everyone signed with great good humour and Harry rang his secretary to bring in the champagne.
The room took on the atmosphere of a cocktail party; several of Harry's colleagues stopped by for a drink, and contributed their good wishes.
I found myself with a glass in my hand talking to Pepalasis and McNeil. 'So we're leaving tomorrow?' I said, still only half-believing.
'But of course,' Pepalasis smiled hugely. 'I'll make a prospector of you yet.'
McNeil's expression doubted it, but instead he asked, 'Now it's all signed, suppose you tell us where we're going? I haven't even changed any currency yet.'
'First stop Sydney,' Pepalasis said, as if Sydney was half an hour's walk away. 'And don't worry about money - you're my guests.'
I'd not been to Australia and the prospect pleased and worried me at the same time. 'I thought we'd only be gone a week?' I said, trying to calculate travel time.
The Greek laughed. 'My island's not in the middle of Hyde Park, you know.'
The phrase struck a chord somewhere but I couldn't immediately place it, and minutes later the party was breaking up and we were on our way. I found myself walking down the steps to the street with McNeil.
'You'll have a better night tonight than last, I reckon,' he said casually.
I swung round, wondering what the hell he meant. The dream flashed back. McNeil chanting something. The phone call. Being followed. Just how much did he know anyway?
He caught my look. 'An end to all the messing about. Everything signed at last. It must have been a worrying time for you.'
I gave a confused laugh, arranged to meet him for lunch the next day, and caught a cab to Hill Street.
'Mr Hallsworth phoned,' Jean said. 'From Heathrow. He was on his way to New York.'
'Oh Christ! That's the bloody limit.'
'I know. He sounded awfully upset about missing you. Said he'd got a crisis over there which he just had to deal with. Apparently he should have gone on Monday but stayed to lend a hand with Pepalasis.'
'Did you tell him about the phone call last night?'
'Oh Mike, how could I?' She was blushing and looking very pretty.
I groaned aloud. 'What else did he say?'
'Wished you luck for your trip. Said Pepalasis was staying with friends tonight so you don't have to worry. Oh, and that he'll be back the week after next, all being well. That's about all, I think.'
I sipped the tea she'd put on my desk and thought about it. Hallsworth had every right to give priority to his New York deal. After all he'd dropped everything to help at this end during the week. And even if he had known about me being followed, and the phone calls, there was nothing he could do about it. I went to the window and looked for the blue car. There was no sign of it. Nor the van. Nor any prying eyes peering up from the street. Suddenly my anxieties evaporated, like a mist dispersed by sunshine. After all, it was the end of the day. The end of a week. A day and a week nearer the Pepalasis diamonds and my half million. Memories of Jean's fragrant softness lingered from last night and I felt totally happy for the first time in weeks.
'I catch a flight to Sydney tomorrow evening,' I said grandly. 'So I'll pack in the morning, lunch with McNeil, and travel out to the airport in the afternoon. But tonight I'm free. So how about coming out to dinner again?'
Disappointment must have been written all over my face when she shook her head. 'I'm sorry, Mike, but I've got somebody coming to my place tonight.' 'Oh.'
'As a matter of fact I was going to ask if I might leave on time? I've a meal to prepare and I wanted to bathe and change into something slinky before he arrives.'
'Sounds - sounds very pleasant,' I said grimly, savagely jealous of the 'he' and remembering last night with unexpected bitterness. It had seemed special somehow, for reasons I wasn't sure about. But special for her too. As if we'd discovered something about the way we felt for each other after all this time.
'Will that be okay then?'
'Yes - I suppose so,' I grunted, black with disappointment.
'Good. You do remember where I live, don't you? Shall we say about seven-thirty?'
I looked at her. I had dropped her at her flat once, but never been inside.
She smiled, blue eyes dancing above the faint blush on her cheeks. 'Oh, and Mike - why not pack tonight? After all, you could leave from my place just as easily as from here.'
Part Three
One
Singapore Airways departure SQ86 cleared Heathrow at 17.30 hours and within a short time McNeil and Pepalasis were swapping yarns like prospectors round a camp fire.
'Of course things have changed a lot,' McNeil reminisced. 'When I was first in the Aussie goldfields we spent more time looking for water than for gold.' He squinted at Pepalasis. 'Ever seen any water flies, by the way ?'
'Actually flying, you mean?' Pepalasis laughed, shaking his head. 'And I never believed a white who said he did either.'
McNeil's eyes puckered. 'Water was a hell of a problem,' he said to me. 'They've got it licked now in most places but, Christ, it was murder then. Even then you always took some Abo trackers with you - in case a water-hole had dri
ed up or got polluted. Odds were you'd had it if that happened. Unless your natives found a water fly.' He took a pull on his drink, as if just remembering made him thirsty. 'It was the damnedest thing, but only the Abos could see the blasted things in the air. They're maybe a quarter the size of a bee but a hell of a lot quicker. Anyway, water flies spend their lives flying to water and grow a size bigger with a gutful on board - and the natives could even spot the full ones from the empty ones, so they'd track 'em back to the flywells. And they were tiny - less than the diameter of a pencil. But once the Abos had found one they'd search for more, until they could tell you the size of the underground water supply from the number of flywells they found.' He grinned triumphantly. 'Saved my life once, that trick.'
My face expressed disbelief but Pepalasis was nodding so I was left in two minds about the story. The conversation ebbed and flowed without help from me, but the more I heard the more apprehensive I became. The implications of the journey hit me for the first time. Not just London to Sydney and on from there to somewhere else. But from one way of life to another. From mine to theirs. And their casual chat, about hardships endured and dangers experienced, provoked thoughts sober enough to deaden the effects of the whiskies I'd sunk since take off.
We talked for hours, alone in the first-class cabin except for the fluttering of the stewardesses. Occasionally we napped rather than slept, ate regularly and drank constantly, made dry by the chat and too many cigarettes. It seemed a time to get to know each other - weigh one another up for what lay ahead.
The Money Stones Page 10