The taxi-driver would have been at home on the Le Mans circuit; tyres screaming, wheels drumming over the cobbles, he set out to break the speed limit at every opportunity because, for him, time was money. The buildings flashed by in a confusing blur like film going through a high-speed camera. Tarrant caught a glimpse of the Opera House and the Madeleine, and then they were crossing the Seine beyond the Place de la Concorde, and as soon as they entered the Esplanade des Invalides, he knew he had chosen the wrong place, because in that vast open space, he would be conspicuous, and this was hardly the time to see Napoleon’s tomb. He leaned forward and, in halting French, told the taxi driver to stop.
Tarrant paid him off and started walking blindly. The sudden bleeping of a police siren in the distance sent a cold shiver down his back, and he scurried across the open space of the esplanade towards the cafes in the Rue Fabert where he could mingle with the crowds. To his sensitive and mistaken ears, the police car seemed to be drawing nearer and, in mounting fear, he stopped at a magazine stall and turned his back on the road. Paris Match rubbed shoulders with the underground press, and next to a paperback whose cover showed two women locked in an embrace, he spotted a Falk street plan of Paris. It cost him six francs but it proved to be a life-saver. He walked into the nearest bar, found a table tucked away in one corner of the room and ordered a coffee. Before he could even begin to think of studying the map, he had to remove the chain which linked him to the briefcase.
Harper had reluctantly decided to let Tarrant have the key to the bracelet because they were playing a waiting game, and the idea was not to arrest the contact but to keep him under surveillance, and for this to succeed, they were prepared to see the diamonds handed over. In taking such a calculated risk, Harper had under-estimated the psychological pressures on Tarrant. With David’s life at stake, he was to learn that nothing would be too extreme for Tarrant.
Keeping the briefcase out of sight underneath the table, Tarrant felt for the lock, inserted the key, and turning it anticlockwise, opened the jaws of the bracelet and freed his wrist. Patiently, and with great care, he hid the loose chain under the covering flap and then placed the briefcase between his ankles. Unencumbered, he was then free to study the map; he spent just over a quarter of an hour in the cafe memorising the route he would take to Rolands Bar and then he set off at a brisk walk towards the nearest Metro.
Drabble had said that he was to lose himself for an hour, and by the time he had rung the changes on the Metro at Concorde, Chatelet and Gare de l’Est, he arrived at the place Stalingrad on schedule. Jarman, who was waiting in his car across the street from Rolands, saw him enter the bar hugging the briefcase under his arm. So far, it had gone better than Jarman had expected, but being essentially a cautious man, he waited to see if Tarrant was being followed. Within the space of five minutes, he was satisfied that Tarrant was alone, and he pulled away from the kerb and headed across town. He wanted to give himself a head start before he spoke to Tarrant on the phone.
Tarrant was on his second beer and halfway through his third cigarette when the waiter sidled up to him and said, in almost perfect English pronunciation, ‘Monsieur Tarrant?’
Tarrant looked up sharply.
‘You are Monsieur Tarrant?’
‘Yes, I am, how do you know me?’
The waiter shrugged his shoulders Gallic fashion. ‘You are as Monsieur Drabble described you, he wishes to speak with you on the telephone.’
‘Where?’
The waiter pointed to the phone fixed on the wall near the bar. ‘Just there, monsieur,’ he said.
Tarrant ground out his cigarette, picked up the briefcase and walked across the room and lifted the receiver.
Jarman said, ‘This is Drabble. Have you got the merchandise?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, now bring it straight round to 179 Boulevard de Grenelle. I shall be waiting for you in my apartment on the second floor. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Good. I would remind you that your son’s life is in danger.’
Tarrant said, ‘Why else would I co-operate with you?’ The question didn’t get through, Jarman had hung up on him.
There seemed to be no end in sight, and if they kept him running all over Paris as they had been doing, the whole bloody set-up would go sour because Tarrant supposed that, by now, Vincent or Drew would have alerted the French police and his description would be broadcast to every patrol car. His feet pounded a savage tattoo on the pavement as yet again he made his way to the Metro.
Jarman knew that he was cutting it fine, and from the windows of the rented apartment on the Boulevard de Grenelle, he kept an anxious watch on the elevated platform of Bir-Hakeim with his binoculars. With growing uneasiness, he saw train after train pull into the station and then depart, and with each arrival, he told himself that he would see Tarrant emerge on the street below and each time he was disappointed. He began to curse his mania for security, convinced now that his obsession for double- checking every move would be his death. At exactly twenty minutes past two, Tarrant appeared in the entrance to the station and Jarman heaved a sigh of relief.
He moved away from the window, slipped off his shoes, and leaving the door on the latch, crept out into the hall. Jarman had chosen this particular apartment house because it had a steep spiral staircase and, at a point midway between the second and third floors, he knew he would be out of sight from the landing below. He waited there in ambush, and presently he heard Tarrant’s footsteps on the staircase, and he counted off each pace because he had to strike at precisely the right moment, and if he bungled it there would be no second chance. The buzzer outside his flat sounded twice, and Jarman came down the stairs like a cat, swung the binoculars in an arc and smashed them against Tarrant’s skull. The force of the blow hurled Tarrant into the door which swung open and, since there was nothing to support him now, he fell forward on to his face like an axed tree and lay still.
Jarman dragged him into the flat and closed the door. He slipped his feet back into his shoes, paused long enough to check the contents of the briefcase and then left, locking the door after him. He walked down the stairs as if he hadn’t a care in the world, smiled at the near-sighted and almost totally deaf concierge, and then stepped out into the street. His Renault 16 was parked just around the corner of the block.
By three o’clock, he was halfway between Versailles and Dreux and he planned to stay on Route Nationale 12 until he reached Fourgères. He was confident that no one would miss him, least of all Madame Laurent, who earlier that morning had instantly accepted his explanation that he would be away from Paris for a few days on business. He kept a sharp eye out for a phone booth and found a convenient one in the village of Le Mele-s-Sarthe opposite a filling station.
He checked the dialling code for St Malo and then rang through. When the woman answered, he said, ‘This is Marcel Vergat; I wish to speak to Madame Julyan.’
*
His head felt as though someone had cut loose with a pneumatic drill, and a throbbing nerve end behind his left eye transmitted shock waves of pain which exploded inside his skull. He was seeing everything through a hazy curtain as on a foggy winter’s day, and he decided that the room was definitely upside down because the furniture was on the ceiling, and the more he considered it, the more Tarrant became convinced that the grubby ceiling badly needed redistempering, but someone would have to remove the cobwebs first because there were bloody hundreds of them right there in front of his nose. When he managed at last to get up on to his hands and knees, his mind at least was better orientated. He grabbed hold of a chair and slowly pulled himself up on to his feet. His fingers, gently exploring the swelling on he back of his head, came away sticky with blood and he moved unsteadily in search of the bathroom. The cold water felt soothing but its effect on his acting head was only temporary.
Tarrant returned to the other room and tried the door which opened out on to the landing. He ratt
led it, kicked it, pulled it and put his shoulder against it but the damn thing wouldn’t budge. He opened his mouth and yelled at the top of his voice but the only positive reaction that this produced was a distinct feeling that the top of his head had just been sliced off with a cheese cutter.
It came into Tarrant’s mind that there ought to be a fire escape but although he searched every room in the apartment, he failed to discover one. He did, however, notice that the sitting-room had a small balcony, and opening the French windows, he saw that the occupants of the adjoining flat had obligingly left their windows open. Ten feet and a nasty drop to the street below were all that separated him from the next balcony. A drainpipe neatly bisected the distance and there was a small ledge which spanned the entire gap. It wasn’t all that wide and his heels would be hanging over the edge, but he figured that the drainpipe would give him added support and a couple of good strides ought to do it.
He climbed over the wrought-iron balustrade, swung his left foot across the gap, found a toe-hold, and stretching out his left hand, grabbed hold of the drainpipe. Vertigo nailed him there like a starfish and for several minutes he was unable to move, but then, closing his eyes, he swung the other leg across on to the ledge. He should have straddled the drainpipe, but as it was, the whole of his body was to one side of it and the hand holds were all wrong, and he knew that if he didn’t move at once, he was going to fall off. Tarrant went round the obstructing drainpipe like a novice, flailed out with a sweating hand, seized the balcony rails and heaved himself across.
Drawn curtains masked the interior of the room, and pushing them out of the way, he stepped into the gloom, and taking two paces forward he bumped into the bed. The woman reared up like a startled horse, grabbed hold of the sheet to cover her nakedness, and for a moment stared pop-eyed at Tarrant, until finding her voice, she released a piercing scream. Each nerve-jangling cry was louder than the one before, and by the third, the man sleeping beside her had surfaced and was scratching the matt of black hair on his chest. By the time he had thought of getting out of bed to deal with the intruder, Tarrant was halfway down the staircase.
A torrent of abuse followed Tarrant out on to the street, and the concierge stepped out of her room to add to it. The noise alone was enough to attract unwelcome attention, and his unsteady gait heightened a suspicion that he was drunk. Pedestrians gave him a wide berth, but a gendarme on duty at the junction of the Rue du Commerce and the Boulevard de Grenelle took one look at him and summoned a patrol car.
They took him to the Prefecture de Police opposite Notre Dame and there they held him until Drew and Vincent arrived. Neither man seemed overjoyed to see him but then that was understandable. Harper, they said grimly, wanted to have a long, heart to heart talk with him, and that too was understandable.
10
THE TOWER BLOCK HELD LITTLE FASCINATION FOR CHESTERMAN AND, although this was only his second visit, he was getting a little bored with the place. He was also becoming a little tired of Tarrant and his personal problems, but most of all, he had seen enough of the caretaker to last him a lifetime. This feeling was not shared by the latter who, remembering the two pounds which had already come his way, knew he was on to a good thing.
He greeted Chesterman like a long-lost friend, a warm smile appearing on his narrow face. ‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘haven’t seen you since the day before yesterday. Still working on the same case, are you?’ He stood up and pushed the ladder-back chair towards Chesterman. ‘You sit on this,’ he said, ‘and I’ll squat on the desk.’
Chesterman gingerly lowered himself on to the rickety wooden chair and looked round the tiny office. Every inch of the wall facing him was covered in cheesecake; girls in bikinis, girls in the buff, girls in bras and pants, blondes, brunettes, redheads, green-eyed, blue-eyed and brown-eyed, girls with pouting lips and overdeveloped bosoms, girls flat as planks and all of them shared one thing in common—they were unattainable as far as the caretaker was concerned. One look at him, one whiff of his foul breath, and they would run a mile.
He leered at Chesterman and said, ‘Like my pop art?’
‘I’ve got some of my own.’ Chesterman reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Six of them, to be precise. Who do you fancy?’
‘Bit on the small side, aren’t they?’
‘Head and shoulders.’
‘Like a passport photo?’
‘Similar.’
‘I like them full length.’
‘Don’t we all,’ said Chesterman, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers. Do you recognise anyone?’
The caretaker arranged the pictures in his hand and studied them carefully. ‘This to do with that divorce case you were talking about last time you was here?’
‘Our client is having trouble with his wife—she intends to contest the action, so we have to be sure that the evidence against her will stick.’
‘I’ll have to go to court, will I?’
‘It might come to that.’
The caretaker searched the photographs again and then scratched his head. ‘I’m not too sure,’ he said.
Chesterman sighed and extracted a pound note from his wallet. ‘Of course you realise we can’t pay you to give evidence because that would be very dodgy, but I daresay we would be quite liberal about your expenses afterwards.’
The man plucked the note out of Chesterman’s hand and, in exchange, handed him one of the photographs. ‘That’s the one who spent the night with Major Tarrant.’
Chesterman said, ‘Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.’
‘What happens now?’
‘Nothing until you hear from us again.’
‘Will it be all right to go on my holiday next month?’
Chesterman retrieved the other photographs and walked towards the door. ‘I doubt if it will come to court this side of Christmas,’ he said.
Chesterman left the tower block without regret and telephoned Wray from a public call-box in the Wandsworth Road.
He said, ‘I’ve just been having an interesting conversation with our friend—we’ve come up on the numbers game. The woman he picked out is a Mrs Barbara Lee Waterman—a divorcee. She was transferred to Bath early in March of this year. Do you want me to follow it up?’
Chesterman could hear Wray chewing on the stem of his pipe as he considered the problem. ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘I think Harper will want to look into that angle. You’d better come back to the office; I’ve no doubt that, once he’s spoken to Bath, he will be in touch with us again.’
Wray’s assumption was not entirely correct. After Harper had spoken to the Personnel Supervisor in Bath, he was in touch with quite a number of agencies. Barbara Lee Waterman, it transpired, had started her holidays on Saturday, the day before David Tarrant was kidnapped; they understood she was touring the Continent with a friend.
*
The Sappers of 83 Corps Engineer Regiment had to wait until the CID had finished their detailed examination of the track and the adjacent area before they could begin to raise the sunken Land- Rover, and this recovery operation itself also posed a number of problems. Before the Land-Rover could be lifted out, it had to be moved closer to the shelf where the crane would eventually be positioned. Frogmen righted the vehicle, carried out an underwater reconnaissance and then anchored a number of pulleys to the floor of the gravel pit.
A Scammel recovery vehicle was driven down on to the lower shelf and its winch gear was strung out, the steel wire hawser being passed through the pulleys before it was shackled to the Land-Rover. In this manner, the Land Rover was drawn by the winch gear along the bed of the pit following the route which the frogmen had selected. It was a slow business, since a number of potholes made it impossible for the vehicle to take a straight path, and in addition, it was constantly being un-shackled and the hawser relaid as the Land-Rover passed each pulley in turn.
By early afternoon, it was close enough to the shelf for the Scammel to be replaced by a Coles Crane which then lif
ted the Land-Rover out of the water and placed it down on dry land. Subsequent visual examination of this vehicle revealed that engine and chassis numbers had been chiselled off and acid had been used in an attempt to finally obliterate all traces of these numbers. Two large packing crates and four suit cases were recovered from the bed of the gravel pit and their contents carefully listed.
James Stroud who had, at last, been allowed to make a statement, merely confirmed what the evidence found at the Coxwold gravel pit had already suggested.
*
The bedroom, which faced south, was a sun-trap even in the late afternoon. From May through to early September it could be uncomfortably warm on a fine day, and this day it had been exceptionally hot for the time of year with the temperature in the mid seventies. McKee, who was lying on the bed facing the window, still sweated even though he was half naked.
In periods of stress, he prided himself that he had the ability to think calmly and clearly and act decisively, but at the moment there was no need for him to think calmly or act decisively because other people were doing that for him. He had planned the whole thing in minute detail and had rehearsed the principal actors in their parts, but now that the operation had reached the point where, temporarily, he was unable to stage manage events, he was finding it almost impossible to relax and do nothing.
The sound of light footsteps outside his room alerted him, and rolling off the bed, McKee crossed the room and opened the door.
Ruth Burroughs said, ‘How clever of you to anticipate me.’ She held out the set of reins. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve finished my sewing, does it meet with your approval?’
McKee took the reins and examined the canvas pouches which had been tied to the leather harness.
‘I made fourteen pouches, that was the number you asked for, wasn’t it?’
He placed the reins on the chest of drawers. ‘You’ve made a good job of it,’ he said.
A faint smile hovered on her lips. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ she said softly.
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