The Money Stones

by Ian St. James

  'You bastard!' I hissed. 'You promised. If anything's happened...'

  'Look,' he said urgently. 'Down there.'

  I looked, and not seeing what I expected, almost missed it. An ambulance parked, ten yards from the tube entrance. The driver was already at the back of the vehicle, opening the doors and lowering a ramp to the ground. Then I saw her. Jean in an invalid chair, a rug across her knees, being pushed from the door of a shop, a woman holding the door open to make manoeuvring the chair easier. They progressed to the ambulance, the woman who had helped, Jean in the chair, and then the man pushing. The driver went forward to meet them. He stopped, gripped the underside of the chair and helped lift it into the road. Then he straightened and turned, facing across the road, looking up to the windows. It was Hallsworth. A bus passed between us, obscuring my view. Then it was gone and they were still there. Faces turned upwards. As motionless as a tableau. Jean's frightened expression contrasting with Pamela Johnstone's drawn defiance. And the glowering stupidity of Albert behind. Another bus passed and I remembered the threat, and imagined muscled arms tensing before sending the chair forward under the crushing weight of those wheels. It would be so easy. Then, as I watched, Hallsworth lifted his hand, very slowly, to the peak of his cap in a mock salute, holding the gesture for perhaps half a minute before returning his hand to his side. From the corner of my eye I saw a policeman approach, his hands clasped behind him while his eyes looked up towards the windows, as if he had been watching the whole performance at the kerbside. For a second I grabbed at the hope that he would intervene, stop them, delay them, until I could reach the street and explain what was happening. But when I looked back Albert and Pamela Johnstone were already in the back of the ambulance with Jean. And Hallsworth was hurrying round to the driver's door.

  'Hallo?' Peter Emanuel stood at my shoulder. 'Some sort of accident?'

  'Not yet,' I scowled at Pepalasis. 'And there'd better not be one.'

  The official meeting only lasted fifteen minutes. I don't know whether Harry Smithers disliked Pepalasis instinctively, or whether it was a result of bits and pieces fed to him by McNeil, but dislike him he did. It was obvious from the way he ran the meeting. He saw it all as an elaborate joke, with everyone present knowing about the provisional contract with U.S. Steel except Pepalasis and his lawyer. It was spitefully meant and Harry must still be regretting it. But the actual business went smoothly enough, Poignton had seen to that. The members of the consortium presented bankers' drafts which were verified and accepted by Simpson. Then the contracts were produced, heavily bound documents already agreed between the lawyers in private session. And then came the moment of signing. Harry penned his signature with a flourish while I watched the smallest bead of sweat form on Pepalasis's forehead. I hesitated and looked at the men round the table. None of them would ever trust me again. They would swear and spit on my name after today. I would be finished in the City. And if Drachman had my balls on the end of a garlic knife they would laugh and say it was what I deserved. I felt sick. And tired. And very frightened. But the thought of Jean in the back of that ambulance with Albert made me tremble most of all. I reached for my pen, took a deep breath, and signed. There was applause and flashbulbs - and then champagne.

  I got quite drunk. Not drunk enough, but certainly lightheaded. Lots of grinning faces, loud masculine laughter, plenty of people slapping my back. After half an hour of it, Pepalasis was making apologies about leaving and having to take me with him. Cheerful goodbyes all round. Beefy handshakes. Out to the lobby, with a few of the others who were also going. I got into the lift, slowly and clumsily, expecting Pepalasis to follow, but someone delayed him and he turned too late to catch the doors.

  Peter Emanuel was in the lift with me. And Arranson.

  'Very satisfactory,' Arranson was nodding. 'Very satisfactory indeed.'

  'Your boss won't think so,' I said quickly. 'Not in a few days' time.'

  His eyes widened in shocked surprise but before he could say anything I added: 'It's a con. Everyone loses their money.'

  He dropped his jaw and his briefcase at the same time and floodgates opened to let fear into his eyes. Emanuel, next to him, might have been pole-axed.

  'Not that I'm worried,' I said airily. 'I'm off on a long sea voyage. But perhaps you'll deliver a message to your client for me?'

  Arranson's expression beseeched me to make it a good one so I remembered the meeting at Paddington and said: 'Why don't you tell him to go fuck himself?'

  Before either of them could answer, the doors slid back to reveal the ground floor entrance hall. I heard the clatter of footsteps from the stairs and a second later Pepalasis came into sight, struggling to retain his balance on the polished marble.

  'Good exercise,' I nodded at him approvingly. 'Wish I could do it.'

  He got his face into some kind of muddle, scowling at me and smiling at the others simultaneously. It's no easy trick, and he had difficulty with it. But his legs worked well enough to get both of us out into the street a minute later. The commissionaire already had a cab waiting and we were away, Arranson and Emanuel looking after us like whipped dogs.

  'So, we sold your island for you.' I slurred the words slightly, pretending to be more under the influence of the champagne than I was. 'Tell me, now it's all over, just how much nickel is there in that place?'

  His roar of laughter had the cabbie turning and wanting to join in, until sight of my sour expression turned him back to his steering wheel.

  'Well?' I prompted, watching him closely, thinking that the exaggerated laughter was an expression of his relief at getting the meeting over with.

  'There's some,' he smiled craftily. 'But most of what's there we put there.'

  'You put there?'

  He grinned hugely, while I wondered why they had bothered. After all McNeil could have reported finding almost anything without fear of contradiction from me. And then another struck me, 'You got rocks onto that island? Through the barrier reef?'

  'There's another way,' he confided artfully. 'From the other side. It's very much easier.'

  'I get it. You took me the scenic route.'

  He had another good laugh at that and let his nerves out another notch. When he had finished chuckling he said, 'We lived in that godforsaken hole for six months.' His smile faded at the memory. 'And worked like slaves to salt that mine. Almost every passage in the place is lined with nickel deposits.'

  I tried to take it all in. 'Why nickel? I mean, why start with diamonds and end with nickel?'

  He seemed surprised. 'You really don't understand, do you? Even now. You're a fool, Townsend. A fool disguised as a clever man.'

  That about summed up what I thought anyway, so I gave him no answer and a moment or two later he added, 'You had to discover something. Don't you understand? Something I didn't know about. That way you were the art collector getting a Rembrandt for the price of a cheap etching.' His smile overflowed with self-satisfaction, 'That way you and your clever friends back there could all have a good laugh at my expense.'

  'Some joke,' I murmured, and was about to ask something else when he leant forward and told the driver to stop. Through the window I saw Hallsworth standing at the top of the steps to his club. His eyes sought us out as we drew alongside and a grin lit his face as Pepalasis raised the briefcase to the level of the window. 'Okay?' he asked as he climbed in.

  'It was a breeze,' I said. 'Where's Jean?'

  'In a safe place,' he answered, dismissing me as a parent would a child, his eyes flicking a glance of enquiry to Pepalasis who nodded.

  The cab took us to Hallsworth's bank where I joined them in the manager's office. I doubt that they wanted me there, but they could hardly ask me to cruise round the West End until they had finished. And maybe they weren't that bothered - after all there seemed to be damn all that I could do about anything.

  The manager showed the kind of deference bankers the world over reserve for very large sums of money. Even at the Bank of En
gland, thirty million would warrant an extra biscuit with the afternoon tea.

  Hallsworth handed him a list of payees. 'Those are our suppliers' bank accounts,' he said briskly. 'The total transaction, including your fees, amounts to an exact total of twenty-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-one thousand.'

  I thought nine thousand was a lot to leave as a tip and then remembered that the cheques given to the Hill Street employees would have been drawn on the trading company's account.

  The manager looked at his watch. 'You're running early, which helps.' He nodded at the two assistants and handed them the bank drafts. As they left the room he smiled at Hallsworth. 'Rest assured - all of the banks will be in receipt of the bank transfers within the hour.' He gave the faintest of shrugs. 'After that of course, it's between them and their customers.'

  Hallsworth nodded. 'All of the banks are co-operating. They'll confirm receipts to their customers immediately.'

  After that, Hallsworth and Pepalasis signed a couple of authorisations and we left. On the way to the door the manager must have felt I'd been left out of things long enough, because he. said, 'You've had an accident Mr Townsend?' Considering the aluminium crutch and the plaster casts it seemed an especially inane remark, but perhaps banks don't select their managers for their powers of observation.

  'No,' I surprised him with, 'I'm trying to avoid one.' But I didn't give much for my chances.

  Part Six

  One

  We were back at Hill Street by one o'clock. My eyes searched the row of parked cars but that's all they were, not an ambulance anywhere to be seen. I was told to pack a suitcase which included my passport and was locked in my bedroom to get on with it. It all seemed an elaborate farce when I knew they would kill me. But packing a suitcase with one arm in a sling isn't easy and it helped me take my mind off Jean for a while. For almost half an hour. Then I stewed until seven o'clock when Pepalasis opened the door and motioned me to follow him to the sitting-room.

  'Help yourself,' he nodded at the coffee pot and the plate of sandwiches.

  Breakfast had been twelve hours earlier. Twelve hours, sixty cigarettes, a glass of brandy and a few more of champagne. I helped myself and watched him pack a suitcase with financial records brought from my office.

  'Where's Jean?' I asked, almost mechanically.

  'For Chrissakes - ' he began, but the telephone interrupted him.

  'Who's Drachman?' he asked, one hand over the mouthpiece.

  Dear God, he didn't know! Arranson had used the expression 'my client' all morning and Emanuel and I had kept as quiet as the grave about the source of our funds.

  'A pain in the neck,' I pulled a face and held my hand out for the phone. 'Been pestering me for weeks about some advice. Small stuff, not important. Give it here - I'll speak to him.'

  But he swayed back beyond my reach, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, his grip tight on the telephone. For an instant he stared at me, as if trying to decide the truth, then maliciously he leered as he spoke into the mouthpiece. 'I'm sorry Mr Drachman, but Mr Townsend's too busy. Er, he's packing to go on a trip.' Without waiting for a reply he slammed the receiver back into its cradle, no doubt delighted to have foiled a suspected escape attempt.

  'I couldn't have put it better,' I said, while my mind gagged at the thought of Drachman's reaction.

  Hallsworth joined us an hour later. Apparently all of the staff had gone happily on their way, clutching their newfound wealth, and we were alone in the building. He nodded at the suitcase. 'Everything ready?'

  'Up here, yes,' Pepalasis nodded. 'Downstairs?'

  'Finished.' Hallsworth turned to me, 'And you?'

  I hoped that wasn't meant as it sounded. I patted my jacket pocket. 'Even got my passport. What about Jean's?'

  He smiled. 'Flat twenty-eight, Sutton Mansions, Fulham. Don't worry, she's got it.'

  'I'll fetch the car,' Pepalasis hoisted a suitcase and looked at me. 'What about him?'

  'Wait in the lobby downstairs,' Hallsworth instructed, and then turned to go into the bedroom, no doubt to search it before we left.

  It was a strange feeling travelling down in the lift with Pepalasis, neither of us speaking, both knowing we were leaving the building for the very last time. When we reached the entrance hail he said, 'Wait here. And no tricks.'

  I prodded the plaster cast on my foot with the crutch. 'Like running for help?'

  There was no sign of Jean. Or Pamela Johnstone or Albert. Or of Kirk McNeil. I wondered if I would get to know Frascari's identity before they killed me. Not that I had long to brood over it. Hallsworth was down within a minute or two, and moments later the boot of the car was full of suitcases, Pepalasis sat behind the steering wheel and Hallsworth got into the back with me. As we stopped for the lights at South Audley Street I glanced back for a final look at the building which had played such a big part in my life. And my heart missed a beat as a long Cadillac slid into the line of traffic three cars behind us.

  For some reason I imagined we were going to Winchester. I expected Pepalasis to make for Chiswick and the beginning of the M3. But instead he went north, through Camden Town and on to Hampstead. We even passed Jack Straw's Castle, and I remembered stopping there for a drink with Sue on the way back from Barmouth. Sue? I laughed aloud at the thought.

  'What's so funny?' Hallsworth snapped, and it came as a surprise to realise how nervous he was. I took a hurried look at the grim expression and thought about the car trailing us and my sense of humour vanished.

  Pepalasis stopped for fuel at Scratchwood and just before we pulled back on to the motorway I saw the ambulance. Ambulances look much of a muchness really. See one and you've seen them all. But this one was parked when we arrived, blinked its headlights in greeting, and pulled out ahead of us as we left. I felt close to Jean at that moment and prayed that she was still unharmed, shifting in my seat to get a better view. But the ambulance stayed fifty yards ahead and the smoked glass of the window defied all efforts to see inside.

  We were north of Birmingham before I guessed where we were going. It had to be Liverpool. To the cargo. To a ship putting to sea tomorrow night. Pepalasis had mentioned a voyage and Hallsworth had promised to put us down in another country. Promised? A sideways glance at his set expression convinced me otherwise. I peered back at the road behind. The Cadillac was still there - four cars away and keeping formation like a fighter pilot. It passed us once. On a long open stretch without any exit points - only to slow down after a couple of miles to allow us to pass. I squinted through the windows, trying to glimpse its passengers. But my glances had been secretive. I was afraid that any obvious interest would draw the attention of the others. So the hasty peering had proved nothing. But I was sure that Drachman was in that car.

  Turning off to Nantwich worried me. True, it's one way of getting to Liverpool, but it's a roundabout route adding thirty miles of bleak, open countryside to the journey. Dusk was settling fast, and as the light faded, so the tension seemed to grow between Pepalasis and Hallsworth. As if they were keying themselves up for something. Not a word passed between them, but I could sense their nervousness. Then, abruptly, the ambulance swung off the main road and we followed through what were little more than country lanes. I glanced over my shoulder. Twice I thought I saw the lights of the Cadillac. Then they were lost behind the twists in the road.

  We skirted Nantwich, and Timperley afterwards, using secondary roads all the way. I guessed our position as somewhere at the base of the Wirral, with Chester away to our left and Ellesmere Port miles to the right. Whoever was driving the ambulance was going more slowly now and we closed up until we were barely ten yards behind. Trees crowded the edge of the road. An occasional gap in the hedges revealed the stark mounds of gravel pits, black with shadows under a darkening sky. Then the ambulance stopped.

  Pepalasis had expected it and he halted two yards behind. We were pulled off the road, both vehicles facing up a long drive, flanked left and right by a tall beech hedge. A
derelict gatekeeper's lodge squatted to one side, its crumbling masonry ghostly in the light of a pale moon. But there was no gate across our path. No reason to stop that I could see. Yet something told me we had reached the end of the line. This was the place where they would kill me. And Jean. I strained forward in my seat, noting the rutted surface of the drive, and the general air of neglect. Untrimmed hedges, the disused stone lodge. Pepalasis cut the engine and switched off the headlights. I watched to see if the ambulance would do the same. It did. The darkness deepened in silence. Inside the car no one spoke, until I said, 'Funny place for a picnic.'

  'Shut up!' Pepalasis hunched his shoulders and a second later I heard the click of the kombolois.

  'We're two minutes early,' Hallsworth said, looking at his watch, a green phosphorous blob in the darkness. A fast moving blob as he grabbed my wrist.

  'Christ, you're jumpy.' I pulled the pack of cigarettes clear of my pocket and felt his grip relax. 'You searched me. Remember?'

  'Shut up!' Pepalasis repeated urgently, without turning in his seat.

  Hallsworth released his grip and I put a cigarette to my lips before fumbling for my lighter. If the Cadillac was still with us it would pass the entrance to the drive at any second. Except pass was the last thing I wanted it to do. I flicked the lighter, adjusted the flame to maximum, turned sideways to make it clearly visible through the rear window - and lit the filter end of the cigarette. -

  'Blast!' I spat it out with all the simulated surprise I could muster, transferred the still burning lighter to my plastered hand, and reached for another cigarette.

  'Put that blasted thing out!' The agitation in the front seat increased by the second.

  I shut the lighter off, leaned forward with a fresh cigarette in my mouth, and flicked the lighter again. Long enough for its flame to stab the darkness and the end of the cigarette. Car headlights flitted past the end of the drive behind us, one second there, gone the next, the engine note a low purr, travelling no faster than cruising speed.