“Great. See you tomorrow, then. Ah, the money, love?”
She pouted. “You do not trust little Veronique?”
“Well, I need to, er, take the lady for supper.”
“Guy is sleeping, Lovejoy. He has your money. I shall wake him eventually and bring it to you.”
She left then, me calling a ta, see her later, all that. I let their bedroom whoopee start, heard them sink to silence, then departed that place, taking neither scrip nor purse nor staff to aid me on my way. Well, not exactly. I actually went into their room, stole Guy’s car keys from his jacket while they slept their sleep of the dust, and nicked their Porsche. My lies were as good as her lies any day.
The Repository, I worked out as I drove, was model for Colonel Marimee’s mock-up. At the garden party, it had slowly swivelled, the way military models do when top brass play tactical planning. That way, the sun, moon, prevailing winds can be controlled, varied to whatever time their plodding minds plan the action. It’s called actual simulation, as if there can be such a thing.
No daytime action, so night, with a moon as now, fitful yet businesslike. While admiring Lorela Chevalier’s territory, I’d particularly admired the surrounding hillsides. Quite nice mountains, really. Two positions overlooked the Repository mansion house. One was severely wooded, the other somewhat more sparsely. I paused to look at Guy’s map. The bloody thing didn’t give me phases of the moon. Just typical, I raged. The one time I needed it, they leave it out. Cartographers don’t deserve the money we spend on them, that’s for sure. I’d been under fire once or twice, and knew that you want to look down on a target. You leave it in light, while staying in shadow. I watched for the moon as I drove. The wretched thing never seemed to stay in one position. Was it always like that? Ours back in East Anglia wasn’t. Ours is tranquil, restfully there until it sinks behind some clouds to kip the day out. This Swiss moon rolled about like a puzzle pill, sodding thing. Dishonest.
Odd that I wasn’t at all tired. Must be an adrenalin thing. Of the two sharp hills dominating the Repository, I’d already decided the one from which to watch the action. The wooded one, further along the twisting contoured road but more concealment for your actual coward. I felt excited, like going to a film I’d been awaiting. The Repository would be in darkness, leaving me blindly guessing which method Colonel Marimee had chosen to pull the robbery. Or the Repository would be lit like a football field, in which case I’d be the lone spectator at the grandest slickest action ever devised. I had no doubts about Marimee’s military genius. He’d scam the stuff out somehow, no problem. I was quivering to see how, though. Tonight I’d have all the excitement, and none of the risks. Like a holiday. I had to stop myself from singing that Vivaldi bit about a hundred sexy maidens.
And after this, home. Please.
Off the road, on the summit among trees. Pity about Swiss trees, really, all pines or pine-lookers. No variation, planted by some maths teacher with a theodolite, growing to order. Snow, surprised me, mainly because some of it was starting to fall thick, unwieldy. A sky glow showed me direction, though I’d already worked that out. Left? I thought about the motor, backed it on a more pronounced part of the slope so I could hop in and release the handbrake to course downhill. If I needed, I could either race off uphill in the direction I’d been heading, or swing back the way I’d come. I’d decide later. If Marimee’s men were slick and got the hell out in millisecs, I could simply drive off anywhere I liked, a simple innocent passing motorist. I parked safely.
Up into the trees, a slow climb. From the car clock I worked out I had plenty of time. Two whole hours before the rip happened. It was perishing cold, no wind but those big flakes falling. I was surprised. They seemed to ignore the trees and fall down anyway. Perished, I went back for the car rug. I was in a forest, for Christ’s sake. Snow’s supposed to hit the trees, lodge in the blinking branches, make pretty for wandering artists, not slip through and land on me. Stupid snow, Switzerland’s. No hat, either. I hate getting my head wet. Under the blanket like a squaw, I plodded back up among the monotonous evergreens. Footprints now, I saw uneasily. Well, as long as nobody came by and glimpsed the Porsche, okay.
Fifteen minutes, me blundering into those straight tree trunks every few yards. I was sure the bloody thing moved. And I hated the big snowflakes that came on my eyelashes. I had to keep pulling my hands out and wiping my vision free, damned stuff. Why didn’t Swiss snow give warning, like sending different sea winds so you could get ready? I call it basic lack of organization.
Then, of a sudden, the best seat in the house. The Repository was laid out like a toy below, lit by floodlights. Lovely old mansion, with extensions that weren’t too bad as modern architecture goes. I could see the smaller separate place where our genuine antiques had gone for shipment. Mustard-coloured sills and doors, I noticed. Nice touch, Lorela. It was a cardboard cutout copy of Marimee’s garden-party mansion. No, the other way round. The Repository was the genuine place, his the one with the copycat garden to practise on.
No real nooks in a Swiss forest, either. Once you stand still, a wind springs up, sends snowflakes swirling round your ankles. I finished up crouched down, close to a bole as I could get, hooded under my blanket. It stank, I noticed. What the hell had they been doing on the thing, for heaven’s sake?
Looking down at the great house, I started thinking defensive. I mean, when I was a little lad, bits of those interminable Latin lessons stuck in my mind. Not very well. But it seemed that every time Caesar came across an
All unsuccessful, too, Lorela implied. She exuded confidence: nobody was going to besmirch her reputation. Confidence is daunting. I thought back. I’d never heard of anybody doing the Repository over. Plenty of failures, yes, but that’s life. Which was odd, very strange, almost so wrong it must be a fake story in itself. I mean, even the Tower of London’s Crown Jewels have been filched in their time. Down below, a small vehicle moved in silence across the snow-covered grounds. Nobody alighted. Another vehicle moved to meet it, disgorging dogs. Six, four huge and two short waddlers puffing along, pausing to stare at the perimeter fence and wall. No men stepped down.
Except the more I looked at the place, the less I believed in it. Surely somebody could get in? Or were the guards in the blackedout vehicles down there actually Marimee’s hoods? Or in his pay? I was sure the Ali Baba must have been tried—hiding a team inside the antiques as they went into storage. Lorela had said as much. And all the rest of the thieves’ dodges, the Oliver, the donk, the lep, trackle, bammo, the over-and-over, the shagnast, the burnout, the Sunday joint, the spang, not forgetting all the electronic scams the lads are at these loony-tune days. Yet there the famous Repository was, being gently snowed upon. Inviolate, pristine, virgin.
The floodlights went out. Plunge, all black. I almost exclaimed aloud.
God, but Swiss hillside forests are dark when you take electricity away. It was suddenly colder. The chill non- wind came that bit faster. I creaked upright to make sure I could still move. Was it the syndicate’s first move, a fuse ploy? I peered, saw nothing. Just when I was getting really disgruntled, the floodlights slammed back on, frightening me half to death. Then, within a few seconds, off again. On after a count of forty-nine. After that they settled down to a steady hum. I don’t like that abrupt bland crash they make, not even at football matches. It makes me think they’re going to take off.
