24
Paris, rue des Saussaies. Headquarters of French counter-intelligence is situated in a narrow winding street off the rue du Faubourg St Honore, close to the Elysee Palace. The entrance is a stone archway leading to a cobbled yard beyond and nothing outside indicates its occupants.
Tweed and Newman sat in Lasalle's cramped office, drinking coffee, very strong and bitter. Lasalle had listened in silence while Tweed recalled his conversation with Lady Windermere.
'Sounds a monster,' he commented. 'Why did you see her?'
'One reason only. I wanted to find out whether she knew where Lara was. She doesn't.'
'Why did you want that information?'
'It's a part of the vague picture building up in my mind.'
Lasalle looked at Newman, shrugged, waved his large hands in a gesture of resignation. 'He's playing it close to the chest. As always.'
'Is Lara still at The Ritz?' Tweed asked. 'Because if you still have tabs on her I want to fake a chance meeting with her.'
'Then you might like a brief report from the man who has been watching her. One of my best men. Leon Valmy.
We call him The Parrot behind his back. You will know why when you see him.' He pressed a switch on his intercom, gave a brief order and a minute later The Parrot entered.
'I want you to tell these two gentlemen from England all you know about Lara Seagrave. They both speak French…'
'I must first apologize for messing up my job,' The Parrot began. 'Losing the girl when she jumped into that Volvo near the Place de la Concorde was sheer carelessness…'
'You hadn't had sleep for God knows how long,' Lasalle told him. 'Now, tell them your story. Start with Marseilles…'
The little man with the funny beaked nose sat down at Lasalle's request and began. Tweed leaned forward, watching him intently. Again he felt himself back in his old Scotland Yard days. Some policemen could spend twenty years in the force and learn nothing from experience. The Parrot was a very different kettle of fish.
He spoke precisely, always explained why he had taken certain action. His opening words impressed Tweed. 'There were these rumours of a strange new organization being built up for some great operation. Maybe the hijacking of a ship. In Marseilles the best viewpoint for a terrorist to check the layout is Notre Dame de la Garde. I had been waiting there – on a hunch – for five days before this girl appeared. ..'
He ended with his losing her when she dived into the Volvo. A colleague had taken over the watch on The Ritz. Lara had returned to the hotel two hours later, walking down the rue St Honore, entering by the main entrance.
'One question,' Tweed said eventually. 'When you've had many years' experience tracking people you get a feeling about your target. What is your feeling about Lara Seagrave?'
'Oh, she is highly suspect. She even watches to see if she is being followed. Professionally, too. She uses shop windows as mirrors. She varies her pace. She has been trained.'
'Does she follow any routine?'
'Only one. She goes each day to Smiths' bookshop tea-room on the first floor – except when she visited Cherbourg. She arrives at 4 p.m. Has tea and a cake.'
'Thank you.' Tweed glanced at Newman. 'I think I shall be having tea at Smiths' at four this afternoon.'
He manoeuvred it carefully. The tea-room was filling up. Lara was pulling out the chair of a corner table when Tweed appeared, performing the same action opposite her. Pausing, he spoke in English.
'I do beg your pardon. I didn't notice you. I was dreaming.'
Lara studied him for a few seconds, then smiled. 'Oh, do come and join me. I'm on my own and getting so bored. It will be nice to have an Englishman to chat to over tea. I've spoken French non-stop ever since I arrived in France.'
'Thank you. After a while one gets homesick.' He picked up the menu. 'I see they have a selection of teas. I want something normal. ..'
'Try the Darjeeling. That's my tipple.' She smiled, offered him her pack of cigarettes and when he refused lit one for herself after asking his permission. 'And if you're hungry, they do a very good toasted tea-cake. English marmalade as well. All home comforts!'
'Paradise,' he responded. 'I'll have the same.'
She ordered for them both and he was careful not to ask any direct questions. 'You like Paris?' he enquired. 'By the way, my name is Tweed.'
'Lara Seagrave.' She extended her slim hand. 'Now we're friends.'
She was enormously attractive, he was thinking – with her long auburn hair, her excellent bone structure, the devil-take-the hindmost tilt of her chin, repeated in the humorous glint in her blue eyes.
'You look as though you enjoy life,' she remarked.
'I suppose I like my job. You'll think it frightfully dull. I'm in insurance.'
'What exactly do you do? Sell insurance? You don't look the type, if I may say so.'
'I'm chief claims investigator. Someone dies, a huge sum is at stake. The statistics show it's a most unusual way for a man to die as he did – a ten thousand-to-one chance. I have to check it. I know the wife benefits, I find she has been having an affair with a man who is a confidence trickster. I launch a full-scale investigation. That's an extreme case.'
'Sounds exciting, like being a detective.'
'I was once.'
They ate their tea-cakes, Tweed said she had good judgement. She poured more tea in both cups, then felt around inside her tote bag, producing two articles wrapped in tissue and handing him one.
'Something extra if you've still got space. Couques. They come from Dinant on the Meuse, just across the border in Belgium.'
Tweed unwrapped the tissue, examined the small gingerbread house. 'Quite remarkable. I've never seen anything so well-designed.'
'They're scrumptious.' She ate hers and watched Tweed wrapping his up in the tissue again.
'If you don't mind,' he said, 'I'll keep mine for later. I get peckish about six in the evening – well before dinner. You have a job here in Paris?'
' Had.' Her blue eyes held his. 'Now I've switched from being a secretary to research. It brings in a lot more money. It gives you independence. I want to show my family I can make it on my own.'
'I applaud the idea.' Tweed frowned. 'Lara Seagrave. I've heard that name somewhere. Probably I'm wrong…'
'Probably you're right,' she said with an ironical twist of her full lips. 'If you ever read the bloody Tatler. I'm the step-daughter of Lady Windermere. She's queen of the hitches.'
'She is the one you want to show you can make it on your own, then?' he suggested.
'You're so right.' She paused and studied him afresh. 'It's funny, I'm talking to you about things I've hardly ever said to anyone else. You're a good listener. I wouldn't like to be questioned by you if I'd committed a crime.'
'No crime in wanting to upstage an unpleasant stepmother,' he said amiably.
She looked at her watch. 'Glory! I'm expecting a phone call. Would you think me rude if I rush?'
'Only if you refuse to allow me to pay for the tea.' He lifted his hand. 'No argument. I was lonely, too.'
She stood up, held out her hand. 'I do hope we meet again, Mr Tweed. Four o'clock here will find me for the next few days. Now, I really must go…'
Tweed rose to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw The Parrot, who had paid his bill early, leaving his table to precede her down the stairs. He looked quite different in a beret and a dark overcoat.
'Tell me again about Dr Portch and Norfolk,' Tweed said to Newman as they sat in the lounge area of the Hotel d France et Choiseul.
'I checked old newspapers in the British Museum reading room for starters. I found what I was looking for two years ago – the story which rang a bell when you mentioned the name Portch. He had a practice in Brighton.
