'What's that supposed to mean? By Christ, if you've...'
'We've done nothing,' he snapped. 'Yet. But when you see her she'll be in a wheelchair.'
I was speechless with horror that something had happened to Jean.
'There's nothing at all wrong with her.' He gloated at the fear in my eyes. 'The rug across her knees will be pure camouflage. To conceal the straps holding her legs to the chair.' He paused and let that sink in, then added, 'Just in case she's tempted to do anything foolish. And in case you are - remember - at the first sign of trouble Albert will shove that chair right off the pavement and into the road. Straight under the nearest bus.'
My voice came back then, and with it every swear word and bit of foul language I'd heard in my life. Not that they stayed to listen. Pepalasis had finished playing doctor for the day and he and Hallsworth retreated to the sitting room - leaving Albert on guard in case I was tempted to interfere with their handiwork.
I just about hit rock bottom during the next couple of hours, engulfed in a suffocating depression. I was sick with worry about Jean. And bitterly disappointed that my carefully constructed plan had been so totally wrecked. Now everything depended on Bob Harrison. And I was in a cold sweat of anticipation about his call at nine o'clock. But the 'medics' returned before that. By seven-thirty the plaster casts on my wrist and ankle had set and Pepalasis and Hallsworth trooped back in to supervise the finishing touches to their window dressing. I complied meekly enough, my main concern that they didn't discover the precious cassette. They didn't, but Pepalasis came damn near to finding it when he was working on the sling for my left arm. When he finished we all adjourned to the kitchen for breakfast. And the phone call came about an hour later, when I was on my second cup of tea and sixth cigarette of the morning.
'That was Pamela,' Hallsworth announced when he returned to the kitchen. 'The tape you sent down last night. It was blank.'
I was astonished. First I called Albert as a witness to the message I had dictated, and then I claimed Pamela Johnstone must be mis-operating the machine at her end. Altogether not a bad performance. Good enough to convince Hallsworth anyway. But the Greek watched slit-eyed with suspicion, not saying a word, and listening with every pore in his skin. When I finished he rose from the table and went to the bedroom, returning a minute later with the encyclopaedias.
No respecter of scholarship was Pepalasis. The opening move was predictable enough. Holding each volume by its spine, he shook the pages open for any loose papers. But when he began searching the gaps between spines and covers, and progressed to slitting the leather bindings with a razor blade my stomach turned over. I knew it was only a matter of time. I hobbled across to the sink to refill the kettle, complaining bitterly that they were deliberately withholding my message to Jean. Saying anything and everything to divert attention from the books on the table. But the Greek was oblivious to my ramblings. He began a page by page examination of each volume and twenty minutes later he found it. 'What's this?' he poked a stubby finger at the page in front of him.
'What's what?' I leant across the table, seeing the type on the page and pretending blindness to the rash of spots between the lines.
'BASTARD!' He caught me across the face with his open hand, knocking me sideways and scattering crockery everywhere. 'You had to try didn't you?' He turned to Albert. 'Search him,' he said, and the giant reached me before I was even out of the chair.
Maybe if I'd been twenty-eight and not thirty-eight, had stayed clear of booze and cigarettes and had taken an advanced course in karate, I might have been a match for Albert. And maybe the excess luggage on the end of an arm and a leg didn't help. But as things stood it was no contest. He threatened to break my neck from behind with one hand while his other ransacked my jacket pocket. The cassette was the very first thing he seized upon. Hallsworth went to get a dictating machine from the office while I glumly watched my possessions heaped on to the table in front of me.
They listened to the recording in silence. Apart from the clicking of the kombolois. And Hallsworth drumming his fingers on the table top. It wasn't a bad tape really. Oh, it wouldn't have won first prize in a sound studio or anything like that. But it was every bit as comprehensive as I'd hoped it would be.
'So now Poignton knows!' Pepalasis was badly shaken. It showed in his face and echoed in his voice. 'Who else for God's sake? I don't like it. The risk is now...'
'The same as it's always been,' Hallsworth cut in.
'Poignton knows nothing. You heard his reaction. A lot of vague theories. Christ, he discounted the whole -'
'He did then’ Pepalasis scowled. 'What if he's had second thoughts? He'll be at the meeting today. Another clue and-'
'Jean Wilmslow gets pushed under a bus,' Hallsworth rapped back. 'I'll see to that.'
I exploded. 'And get yourself caught at the same time?'
'In a street accident?' he raised an eyebrow. 'I don't think so somehow.'
I remembered the sick, helpless horror of my sister being knocked down by a corporation bus in Darlington. No one quite knowing what to do. People rushing in all directions. For a doctor, for an ambulance. For anyone who could help. And I knew Hallsworth was right.
'You'll have to see this man Harrison,' Pepalasis was saying to Hallsworth. 'And for God's sake get rid of him without any fuss.'
Minutes later I was back in the bedroom. I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror. Standing all lopsided, sock-covered toes protruding from a plaster cast, arm in a sling, and face as white as my bandages.
Pepalasis stood in the doorway. 'Here, you had better practise.' He handed me an aluminium crutch. 'Otherwise you might fall and hurt yourself.'
The door closed and the lock turned. And I had less than three hours left.
Seven
Bob arrived promptly at nine. I watched as he moved with his soldier's stride up Chesterfield Hill from the direction of Piccadilly. It was odd seeing him like that. Knowing that he was coming to see me and yet wouldn't. As he crossed Hill Street his eyes lifted almost to the level of the fourth floor window. I moved backwards into the room, changed my mind and then almost pressed my face through the pane of glass. But it was too late. He had crossed and was directly below me, trotting up the steps and into the building.
I smoked another cigarette and thought about the meeting downstairs. It wouldn't be easy. Bob was already suspicious. Sunday's supper and our nonsensical telephone conversation had seen to that. And me being absent would take some explaining. Especially with Jean away sick as well. So I discounted Hallsworth's ability to talk the birds from the trees and allowed myself to hope, while Albert glared balefully at me from across the room.
But Bob left after half an hour, clutching a brown paper parcel under one arm, the size of a couple of books wrapped together. I couldn't see his face as he marched back down Chesterfield Hill, so I've no idea of its expression. But my hopes faded and died with every step he took. And-when he turned the corner at the bottom of the hill the feeling of total despair which flooded through me was so painful that I groaned aloud.
Hallsworth unlocked the door a minute later. 'Charming man,' he purred, well pleased with himself. 'Gone away quite happily.'
I would have asked what happened but never got the chance. 'We're all going downstairs now, Mike,' he said pleasantly. 'There's the staff to see and your solicitor is arriving at ten. And we'll be leaving for Holborn at a quarter past.' He paused and fixed me with a conspiratorial look. 'It's all going to work, Mike. No doubt of it. And Jean and you will come through it. Alive and well. Play your part and no one gets hurt. That's all you've got to remember. And afterwards you'll have a new life ahead of you. Oh, not the City and what you're used to, I know. But imagine making a fresh start in South America? You and Jean. Plenty of scope there I'd say.' He took my elbow as if to help me across the room. 'And don't worry about money. We'll make sure that you get some kind of cut.' He grinned happily and I could feel his excitement. It almost tingled out of his f
ingers and into my arm. 'So everything's under control. It's going to be a breeze. A big day. So why not enjoy it?'
I was too astonished to reply at first. But at the door I stammered, 'It's a bit late isn't it? This sudden concern -'
'Believe me, I'm sorry. Sorry about some of the things that happened. But that's all over now. Everything's going to be fine. Believe me.'
Believe him was the last thing I did. But it was a good try. Good tactics. Get me to relax. Pretend we were all in it together. That Jean had never been humiliated. Never been kidnapped. Wasn't in danger even now.
I said nothing, and he helped me down to my office like a boy scout with a little old lady. Pepalasis was on the chesterfield. Drinking brandy. 'Just one,' he said guiltily in answer to Hallsworth's warning look. He raised the glass in toast. 'To a successful day.'
Even through my own mood of despair I sensed his nervousness, keying himself up for the strain of the meeting ahead of him. Hallsworth sat me behind my desk and handed me the fake minute book. 'The entries which need your signature.' He smiled his old friend's smile. The intercommunicating door opened and Pamela Johnstone came in. She dropped a letter file into my tray and Hallsworth said: 'And some letters for you to sign.' He glanced at his watch. 'You've time now. If you hurry.'
I signed. The minute book and then the letters. Seventy two letters, one to each of our clients. Due to the expansion of our business, I read, Townsend and Partner were moving to larger premises. Hill Street was to be closed down. The company was to re-open for business in two weeks' time at a new address, given as P.O. Box 2000, Croydon, and accompanied by an out-of-town telephone number.
'Good-bye Hill Street,' I said, as much to myself as to anyone.
'It served its purpose,' Hallsworth murmured, watching me sign my way through the pile of mail, while Pamela Johnstone went off in search of Seckleman.
I finished the last letter as Hallsworth gave Seckleman the news about his job. The export side was being closed down after this one shipment. 'But I want to stay in touch,' Hallsworth assured him. 'We'll have another big job next year and I'd like you running the team again. So meanwhile we're paying a year's salary as a sort of retainer. Of course, you're free to accept employment elsewhere, but I hope that...'
I stopped listening, vaguely aware of talk about six months' pay for the clerks and three months for the typists. Hill Street was being closed down! Quickly and quietly. All the loose ends were being tidied up. The bank account had been cleared already - thanks to me. And the magic million, Hallsworth's original stake money , which had tempted me more than a year ago, had already been transferred to Poignton's client account as part of the purchase money to be paid to Pepalasis. I smiled grimly as I remembered how strongly I had argued that he should invest it all. How they must have laughed about that.
Seckleman was leaving. He came across to the desk to shake my hand, frowning at the sling and the plaster on my left wrist.
'Cut myself shaving.' I grinned at him. 'Nice knowing you - hope to work with you again one day, eh?' I doubted it, but he seemed pleased at the prospect. He shook my hand, said goodbye, and was ushered out by Hallsworth.
Pamela Johnstone returned to scoop up the pile of signed letters. Pepalasis asked for the sixth time, 'What time's this lawyer arriving?'
'Arranson? He'll be here at ten.' Hallsworth put the minute book in the cabinet along with the other financial records. His financial records. 'Relax. We're on schedule. It's going to be a breeze.'
I wondered if Drachman would show. After all, Arranson was his lawyer and attending on behalf of the three of us Drachman, Emanuel and me. And bringing a banker's draft for four million pounds with him.
But Arranson arrived alone. He was an unprepossessing little man of about fifty wearing a perpetually nervous expression. As if everything he saw of life frightened him half to death. It probably did with Drachman for a client.
I introduced everyone and Pepalasis suggested a drink while we waited for the cab to arrive. Arranson refused. So would I if my day hadn't started at four in the morning. So I had a brandy along with Pepalasis while Hallsworth muttered something about another appointment and left. And at ten fifteen we went too. The cab, ticking like a time bomb, at the front door. Pepalasis and Arranson on either side of me, crossing the lobby like a funeral procession. Me arranging stiff limbs and the lightweight crutch into some sort of sequence as I negotiated the steps to the pavement. Time had run out. We were on our way. To the biggest fraud ever committed in the City of London.
Eight
For reasons best known to himself the cab driver took us to Holborn via Green Park, a less direct route than Berkeley Square and Piccadilly which is the way I would have gone. Perhaps he had just come from there and the traffic was bad, who knows? And it hardly mattered. There was no hurry and for those who enjoyed it, the morning sunshine was delightful. Not that we gave a damn for the weather. We rode in silence, avoiding each other's eyes and nursing private thoughts. I gazed grimly through the half opened window at the outside world and resented it. People laughing and joking as they enjoyed small everyday things, like not having to worry about the person you love being mutilated and killed by an animal like Albert.
Half way down the Mall a girl crossed the road fifty yards ahead, her legs brown under a white summer dress. Long, graceful legs. Like Jean's. And the same colour of hair. She paused on a traffic island, her back to me as she watched the oncoming traffic. Something in the way she stood seemed familiar, one leg bent slightly, her right arm loose at her side, her left clasping a bag to her waist. Suddenly, absurdly, it seemed she had to be Jean! I came alive, my head turning as we approached, my right arm already rising to rap the partition for the driver to stop. Pulling alongside. Almost there. Her head turning as if drawn by a compulsion to look my way and into the cab. She did, and our eyes met across a gap a yard wide as I stared into the face of a total stranger, someone I had never seen in my life before. Shock waves of disappointment knocked me back in the seat. I felt sick with disappointment. Physically sick. And cheated by another cruel joke, a torturer's trick to wring the last ounce of misery from my despair.
I still ached with bitterness ten minutes later when Pepalasis led me across the pavement, and Arranson and the commissionaire arranged themselves like sentries on either side of the plate glass doors at A.W.F. Sunlight glittered on the glass, the doors swung open, and I hobbled through.
Harry Smithers greeted me with a mixture of concern and amusement, finding vague comedy in the thought of me falling head over heels down the stairs at Hill Street. And McNeil was already there when we arrived. I gave him a murderous look and made a point of avoiding his proffered hand, at which he looked shocked and offended, and more than a shade puzzled. So for that hundredth time I found myself wondering whether I was right or wrong about his being Frascari?
A man called Henry Simpson arrived, the tame lawyer hired by Pepalasis to form the British-based company, and to comply with the niceties of the Companies Acts.
The room began to fill. Peter Emanuel hurried through the formalities of greeting others until he reached Arranson.
'Any problems?' he asked. Arranson flinched at the prospect of involving his client in even a minor difficulty, while I shuddered at the thought of Drachman's reaction to what would happen in this room within the hour.
'You're all right, aren't you?' Emanuel had seen my shudder.
'Shock, that's all.'
He nodded sympathetically at the plaster casts. 'Delayed.'
'Anticipated,' I corrected, and shut up as Pepalasis took the seat next to me.
Poignton made his entrance, greeting the other solicitors with the disdainful look he practised on his articled clerks. He was far and away the most senior lawyer present and undoubtedly the most capable, and his attitude served notice that if the others wanted a demonstration of his competence he would be happy to oblige.
'Changed your mind?' he murmured as we shook hands. 'Too much at stake?'<
br />
'That's an understatement. Even for you.'
Faded eyes crinkled knowingly and he turned away to greet someone else while I watched and wondered. Wondered just how much he did know? At times, I had been as good as convinced that he was in league with them however improbable it had seemed. But Pepalasis had finally convinced me otherwise. He was afraid of Poignton. His fear had been obvious when he listened to the tape. And it was evident again now. And for Poignton to involve himself had never made real sense in my mind. After all he had money enough for his comforts and he already had what he craved most from life - an untarnished reputation and universal approbation. I watched him move away, my head shaking slightly, thinking that the poor sod had been used and knowing the feeling.
Tommy Richardson waved from the other side of the room, his big farmer's face grimacing at my bandages. He was about to make his way over when someone caught his elbow and trapped him in conversation. I felt relieved. I was too wound up with worry about Jean to share in the general mood of celebration. And even now, torn with a terrible indecision about signing when it actually came to it.
About thirty people milled round the table, chattering like women at a church bazaar, sipping sherry served by frock-coated stewards while waiting for Harry to get the meeting under way. Their attendance was totally unnecessary. Harry and I would sign for the consortium and Pepalasis would sign for himself. But Harry wanted to make an occasion of it.
Pepalasis touched my elbow, and nodded towards the windows. Time already? My stomach turned over and I pushed him away angrily as he offered to help me from the chair, remembering only his striking Jean, and the look on his face as he had gloated at her nakedness.
I hunted the pavements opposite, my gaze sweeping past shop fronts to the station entrance. Seeing everything and nothing. Pedestrians, shoppers, office workers, tourists. But no sign of Jean. I turned to Pepalasis, dimly aware as I did so of someone in the background tapping the table to bring the meeting to order.
The Money Stones Page 24