The Money Stones

by Ian St. James

  I felt sick. Jean began by reading the headlines from the day's issue of The Times. A copy was folded in my out tray and I grabbed it to follow every line as she read. Afterwards, in a halting, frightened voice, barely recognisable as hers, she dictated the briefest message saying she was unharmed and had been promised I was unharmed too. Her voice broke near the end, and the undercurrent of terror came to the surface in a series of gulps as she fought against the tears.

  The recording lasted for less than two minutes and I rewound the tape and played it through a second time. My hand shook as I operated the machine, my guts turned to water at the fear in her voice. Then, the black hate took over again. They must have expected trouble because when I looked up Albert had been summoned from upstairs and he was the first one I saw, standing in the open doorway like a jailer waiting to return me to my cell.

  'It's not enough,' I said in a voice distorted with emotion that I didn't recognise as mine. 'It's not enough. I'm not signing anything. Not a bloody thing. Understand? Not a damned thing. Until she's freed.'

  But I went upstairs without protesting. I was still shaking I think. I took a bottle of scotch and some fruit with me and allowed them to lock me in. It was seven o'clock. I stretched out on the bed to think, knowing that I had only sixteen hours left. Sixteen hours left to save Jean's life.

  Four

  I was a third of the way down the bottle of whisky when the answer came. No wonder Hallsworth had been so shaken by the hitch at the docks. The crisp new thought had me trembling with excitement. And it blew enough holes in Poignton's argument to make me wonder again just how much he knew? Of course he was right. All that stuff about Bank of England consent to transfer thirty million outside the U.K. It could mean delay. Weeks certainly, months possibly. In extremis, even outright refusal.

  But exporting thirty million pounds worth of goods was a very different matter. No government interference. In fact the very opposite. It was the Frascari con all over again! Or at least a variation on the theme. Collect thirty million from the consortium, push it straight into the export company via the London-based company set up by Pepalasis, pay the suppliers and end up with goods worth thirty million on the high seas. The cash would never leave the U.K. Not as cash. But its value would have been moved out of the country as effectively as shipping gold bullion - while everyone believed that the Greek still held it in London.

  Discovering how was one thing. Stopping it, another. And the nine o'clock chimes from St Mary's in Mount Street raised desperation to the level of panic. My brain hunted for something positive to cling to - and found Bob Harrison. Bob. Calling in twelve hours time and knowing damn well that something was wrong. All that gibberish on the telephone.

  Christ, he'd played his end well. Maybe he was already working on something? Jean's name was in the phone book, perhaps he had gone to Fulham in search of her? And not finding her was putting two and two together.

  I left the whisky alone and fifteen minutes later had the idea about the cassette and hammered on the door to be let out. 'Hallsworth,' I said when Albert answered, pushing past him into the corridor. It was a mistake. For a big man he moved fast. A foot stuck between mine to upset my balance and two blows to the ribs fell like power hammers.

  'Now what?' Hallsworth stood in the open doorway to the sitting room.

  'Get this animal off for a start.' I struggled upright and felt my ribs cautiously.

  Hallsworth nodded and Albert eased back enough for me to pass into the sitting room. Pamela Johnstone was there, an outdoor coat draped around her shoulders, as if she was coming or going.

  'I've thought it over,' I said firmly. 'And it's not on. I'm not signing unless Jean's released first.'

  'Out of the question.' Hallsworth's answer was equally positive.

  'Then it's no deal.' I put everything I had into sounding confident, like a salesman of second-hand cars, pretending it was his loss if he didn't take me up on my offer.

  'Co-operate and she's safe,' he said. 'If not?' he shrugged. 'I warned you what might happen.'

  I wasted the next few minutes telling them both what I thought of them before finally asking: 'When does she go free then? If I sign.'

  He hesitated. 'A week's time. Next Tuesday. After a sea voyage.'

  'And me?'

  'At the same time and place. You'll both be put on to a direct flight to Buenos Aires from an overseas airport. After that it's up to you.' He laughed humourlessly. 'But I wouldn't hurry back to London if I were you.'

  I supposed it was a hint that news of my frauds would be leaked in a short time. That I believed. But not the bit about being set free. If anything had sealed my fate, my outburst about the real Sue Ballantyne had. And if they killed me they wouldn't risk Jean's silence for long afterwards.

  'Not good enough,' I shook my head, paused a moment and then began to pave the way for the idea I'd had earlier. 'But I'll give you a deal if you want one. Something guaranteed to make me sign in the morning.'

  He was tempted and it showed. Pamela Johnstone watched us, not saying a word, her white face empty of expression as her teeth nibbled at her lower lip and the strain took its toll.

  'I want proof that Jean is unharmed,' I said slowly.'When I sign. I want actually to see her.'

  His lips tightened and he was shaking his head as I continued. 'The A.W.F. Boardroom overlooks Holborn. You can see as far as the junction with Gray's Inn Road from the window. About a hundred yards. There's a newspaper stand on the corner. And the entrance to the tube is opposite the A.W.F. office. Ten minutes before the meeting starts I want to be able to see Jean from that window. I want to see her walk down the street, buy a paper and then come back again. As simple as that. If she's there I'll sign. If not, you haven't got a prayer.'

  I tried to say the whole thing in a take it or leave it fashion. As if their decision was of no consequence. And in a way that's how I felt. I don't profess to be a brave man but if violent death is inevitable twenty-four hours or so would make damn all difference. Especially if it gave Jean a chance to get free.

  'I warned you that we'd made contingency plans,' Hallsworth threatened. 'Your participation tomorrow isn't absolutely vital.' He shrugged and then speculated on an alternative. 'A sudden illness in the night, preventing your attendance. Me arriving, with your signed power of attorney-'

  'And risk postponement?' I countered quickly. 'You wouldn't dare. A week ago, maybe. You could have prepared the ground, made it convincing. But to arrive at the actual completion meeting without me?' I left the question hanging in mid-air for him to think about, and then got the shock of my life as Pamela Johnstone tipped their hand.

  'And if we agree?' she asked anxiously. 'You'll attend the meeting? Sign everything? Behave normally?'

  'Subject to one other condition.'

  That was too much for Hallsworth. 'You're making a lot of demands,' he sneered angrily. 'I warn you. Overplay your hand and...'

  I ignored him and spoke to the girl. 'Are you leaving for Winchester?'

  She glanced quickly at. Hallsworth, as if frightened to answer. Neither spoke, so I sighed heavily and explained. 'You've taken Jean somewhere. And Albert the Terrible was gone long enough last night to have made Winchester and back.' I looked at the girl. 'So I presume you have got a cottage or something down there?'

  Hallsworth answered with a question. 'Why do you want to know?'

  'I want a message taken to Jean. In your interests as well as mine. She'll be more prepared to co-operate if she knows that tomorrow is my idea.'

  They thought about that for a few seconds before the girl said with unexpected decisiveness, 'Very well. What do I tell her?'.

  'I'll record the message. It's better don't you think?' I held my breath. It the crucial that they agreed. The whole plan depended on it. They pondered and I've seen happier people, but in the end the offer of my co-operation was too tempting and they agreed. 'But just remember,' Hallsworth warned as Albert led me from the room, 'Pamela will be there
when the tape is played.'

  We went downstairs, propped together like amiable drunks. It took me no time to dictate what I wanted onto the cassette on which Jean had recorded her message to me. Albert must have thought me a very cold fish. No pleasantries, just a recital of what was to take place in the morning, ending, 'Hallsworth promises that we'll be set free on Tuesday next at an undisclosed overseas airport.'

  Then I switched off, rewound the tape, slipped the cassette into my pocket, and allowed Albert to hug me all the way back upstairs, but not before I had deftly palmed an extra, blank cassette without Albert noticing.

  'There you are,' I handed a cassette to Pamela Johnstone. 'And thanks.' I went to the bookshelves.

  'Now what?' Hallsworth eyed me suspiciously.

  'Bedtime reading,' I grinned, clutching the two encyclopaedias. 'Come on Albert, time to tuck me in.'

  Five

  Albert turned the key in the lock and from the inside I blessed the old mortice for creaking enough to warn me of anyone returning in a hurry. It would give me time. Time to get from anywhere in the room to the bed. Into bed. To where they would expect to find me. I waited impatiently, listening to his shuffling withdrawal down the corridor. Then I changed into pyjamas, expecting a routine inspection later and knowing suspicions would be roused if I was found to be still fully dressed. Hurriedly I set to work. There was so much to do in such little time.

  From my jacket I retrieved the two separate cassettes from the two separate pockets, staring hard at the one taken from Poignton's office as I tried to remember how much blank tape had been left on the reel at the end of the meeting. I guessed ten minutes, which meant the last third of the tape. The other cassette was easier. Jean's message had taken less than two minutes and mine to her, dictated on to the same tape and immediately after hers, had taken even less. So the first third of the tape carried both recordings. I marked the cassettes to tell them apart and hunted for a razor blade and sticky tape. And a cylinder of lighter fuel to use as a pick-up spool. Quickly I stuck the leading inch of Poignton's tape to the cylinder and started winding, careful not to twist the tape in the process. Guessing where the recording ended was a hit and miss, but I banked on the hope that anyone hearing it would establish the point of the conversation, even without. the last few words. So with two thirds on the cylinder I cut the tape and yanked most of the remaining footage from the cassette before cutting again, leaving just enough to receive tape spliced from the other cassette. That done I reeled the first third of the second cassette on to the cylinder, cut and spliced it with sticky tape to the tiny piece protruding from the mouth of Poignton's cassette. Rewinding was more difficult. The tape twisted as it approached the mouth of the cassette and the task put a strain on my trembling fingers. But ten minutes' careful work saw the job completed, and another twenty had the Poignton recording safety spliced and reeled in after it.

  The whole story was on that tape. My accusations to Poignton in his office, his denials, Jean's frightened message. And a carefully precise description of the events planned for the next day. All I had to do now was to get the cassette to Bob in the morning. That was all.

  I hid the mess of loose tape under the wardrobe, lit a cigarette and tried to think of a way of slipping the cassette to Bob when he called. Getting Jean into the open had been more than I dared hope for. There was a chance, if Bob listened to the recording soon after he left the office in the morning, that he could get her as she walked down Holborn. Maybe not much of a chance. But I wasn't exactly loaded down with alternatives.

  I practised for half an hour. Trousers slipped over pyjamas and standing sideways on to the wardrobe mirror. The trick was to palm the cassette from my trouser pocket and extend my hand for a hand-shake. Without the cassette being seen. Bringing it out of the pocket was the easy part. The problem was as my hand opened and straightened, the cassette was a fraction too large for the curvature of my palm. And in twelve attempts I saw the cassette five times and dropped it twice! Experiment taught me to keep the thumb and index finger close together, and splay the other fingers like a claw. The hand looked unnatural but in the next dozen attempts I only dropped the cassette once, and barely glimpsed it at all. So by the time I had finished I was near perfect. Satisfied, I returned the cassette to the pocket of my suit jacket and turned my attention to the encyclopaedias. Hallsworth was bound to inspect them. He had watched me take them into the bedroom and would never stand by in the morning while I handed them over to Bob. Not without inspecting them first. The question was, how thoroughly would he look at them?

  I almost decided not to do anything with the books. But fear that I might bungle the sleight of hand with the cassette made me desperate for a second line of communication. So I worked until two o'clock. A code would be too flattering a description, but at least the message escaped superficial inspection. No page was obviously marked. No passage of print was underlined. Nothing was written in a margin, or in a flyleaf. But it was all there. A full account. More obvious to a blind man than a sighted one. A puncture made with a pin under the second letter of a word in every sentence for more than three hundred pages. Good enough, I hoped, to escape Hallsworth's scrutiny. Not good enough, I prayed, to elude Bob if I gave him some kind of clue.

  I switched the light out and lay staring into darkness, thinking about the A.W.F. building. It stood cheek by jowl with others, one grand entrance on to Holborn, with no other door visible. But there would be a rear entrance or a side door somewhere. There had to be. I imagined arriving in the morning. By then Jean would be near by, no doubt guarded by one or other of them. It wouldn't be Pepalasis. He would be with me, going to the meeting. I pictured us passing through the doors, side by side, perhaps McNeil greeting us in the lobby. All three of us turning and moving towards the elevators. That's when I'd make my move. It had to be then. Wait for the elevator doors to open, turn quickly and race down the corridor, find another way out at the back somewhere. Hit the street with them yards behind me. Double back to Holborn. I'd be running up from the corner as Jean walked down from the tube station. Albert probably a pace behind her. Maybe Bob would make an appearance at the same time. A minute! That's all we'd need. A minute - to bundle Jean to safety somewhere. A minute - to break their hold on me.

  I was desperately tired and longed for sleep. What plans I had were made, and I felt relieved to have made them. So I was almost lightheaded with fatigue as I drifted off, amused by my last conscious thought. Of Pamela Johnstone listening to the blank tape she had taken to Jean.

  Six

  They came for me at four in the morning. Hallsworth and the Greek. And Albert. I opened my eyes and they were grouped round the bed, like pall bearers at a coffin.

  'Get up,' Pepalasis ordered abruptly, before turning from the bed and moving across to the wardrobe. 'Which suit are you wearing today?'

  'Today?' I blinked, barely focusing. 'What's this? Dress rehearsal?'

  'Which suit?' he repeated. Scrambling from the bed I pointed at the grey herringbone and reached it before he did in case he searched it.

  'Get washed and dressed.' Pepalasis was certainly giving the orders. He jerked his head at Albert who jerked his towards the bathroom. I followed him from the room, thinking there was nothing for it but to do as they said, and get back to the bedroom as quickly as possible. When I returned the suit appeared undisturbed where I had left it.

  'I've had your new demands explained to me,' Pepalasis said briskly. 'And we'll agree to them.'

  'You woke me to tell me that?'

  'Subject to certain conditions,' he finished.

  I told him where to put his conditions but he wasn't listening. 'You're going to have an accident,' he said with a glimmer of a smile. 'How painful it will be is up to you.' He turned to Albert. 'I'll need a bowl of cold water. Try the kitchen.'

  I struggled into my clothes as Albert left, and Pepalasis opened a briefcase to produce a roll of bandages and cotton wool. And a paper bag which looked as if it containe
d flour.

  'The story is that you fell downstairs,' Pepalasis said simply. 'Here at Hill Street. Last night. Fracturing your left wrist and right ankle. You were taken to St George's Hospital where the appropriate limbs were encased in plaster.' He shrugged. 'You'll be mildly uncomfortable, that's all.'

  'That might be your story,' I said. But it's not mine.'

  'It had better be. Because if it isn't, Albert will inflict enough damage to your wrist and ankle to make a visit to the hospital highly desirable.'

  He was deadly serious. So was Hallsworth, standing next to him. Albert returned with a bowl of water and the three of them stood watching me make up my mind. Minutes later Pepalasis was bandaging my right ankle with cotton wool padding to provide a suitably swollen appearance. 'This stuff takes about two hours to set,' he said, turning the contents of the paper bag into plaster of Paris with a magician's flourish. 'So stay on the bed and think pure thoughts, eh?'

  I voiced a dozen which were anything but, without even denting his smile.

  'Why so bitter?' he asked. 'We're complying with your requests. Just taking a few precautions, that's all.'

  'Who's Frascari?' I asked quietly, hoping to catch him off guard.

  He straightened up at the end of the bed, and brushed the iron grey hair from his eyes. 'So? Questions now.' He sneered, while accepting from Hallsworth a clean towel to dry his hands. 'From the man who knows everything.'

  I said, 'It's McNeil isn't it?' and tried to intercept the quick look of surprise which flashed between them. But they recovered fast, Hallsworth turning away to murmur something to Albert while Pepalasis hooded his eyes as he spoke to me. 'Miss Wilmslow,' he said slowly, and I jumped at the sound of Jean's name, 'Will keep the appointment you've arranged for her. But don't be alarmed when you see her.'