'Very,' said Tweed.
Noticing Tweed's absorbed expression Newman kept quiet until they were inside Tweed's room at the France et Choiseul. He waited again until room service had brought the coffee Tweed ordered.
'I haven't remembered the significant bit, but I have recalled a couple of other items I didn't tell you. I must be slipping.'
'You didn't have much time after you arrived at Park Crescent. Then you drove me to Heathrow. The plane was full, so we couldn't talk then. And Lasalle met us at Charles de Gaulle. What are the two items?'
'First, checking Portch's movements after he left Brighton I found there was a six-month gap before he took over at Cockley Ford. The barman whose place overlooks the harbour at Blakeney told me Portch arrived with his furniture, found there was some cock-up in the timing, and went to Holland for about six months.'
'Probably took a locum job.' Tweed was studying a Michelin map of the general area of the Meuse he'd purchased at Smiths' bookshop. 'What was the other thing?'
'You said there were six new graves of villagers who died during the meningitis epidemic. I didn't have much chance to take a good look – Portch and that thug, Grimes, were breathing down my neck. But I'm sure there were seven. Could you have miscounted?'
He had Tweed's full attention now. Tweed pursed his lips in an effort to think back to his night at Cockley Ford. Such a lot had happened since.
'I can't be sure,' he admitted. 'But we can't worry about it now. We have to split forces. I have to take the express to Brussels to check on that banker, Peter Brand. And damnit, I forgot to call Jacob Rubinstein. I'll do that on our way out to get a quick snack. Here it's a full-dress effort, will take too long.'
'You said we have to split forces…'
'Yes. I want you to hire a car and drive to Dinant on the Meuse just across the border in Belgium. Klein may have made one mistake. Which is what I have been waiting for.'
'What mistake?'
'This.' Tweed opened a drawer, took out a tissue-wrapped package and handed it to Newman. The foreign correspondent unfolded the paper and stared at the small gingerbread house. He looked at Tweed and shook his head.
'A couque,' said Tweed. 'A speciality type of gingerbread – and one of the local industries of Dinant. When you arrive, find a bargee, see if this Klein has ever been seen in the area. Follow it up in any way you like. And if you want to get in touch with me quickly call this number.' He wrote on a page from his notebook, handed it to Newman. 'That's the number of Brussels police headquarters off the Grand' Place. Chief Inspector Victor Benoit is an old friend of mine – and a very tough policeman. Now, let's get moving.'
'Hold on a sec. Why this interest in barges?'
'I may have been thick. A chance remark Paula made while we were back in Basle at the Drei Konige came into my mind before I fell asleep last night. That bullion I told you about – the big haul stolen from those two banks in Basle – may just have been transported from under the noses of the Swiss police. By barge down the Rhine, then maybe via the Canal de Haul Rhin and north to Dinant.'
'That's a long shot,' Newman objected as they stood up to leave.
'The whole business is a very long shot…'
Tweed used the same phone box he had called Paula from to contact Jacob Rubinstein. The bullion merchant came on the line and Tweed announced his identity.
'Could you tell me, first, what you were wearing the day you came to see me? If you don't mind…'
'I applaud your caution. Navy-blue serge suit, white shirt, polka dot tie, a Burberry…'
'I won't mention names on the phone, Mr Tweed. I am referring to the man whose name I gave you. Do you understand?'
'Perfectly. Please go on.'
'In my business we hear things. We are on the phone daily to most of the world financial centres. We hear rumours – sometimes very unusual ones. We get so we can sort out the wheat from the chaff, to discount nonsense. Regarding the man we spoke of, I have just heard he has arranged for a truly enormous amount of bullion to be held available by the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. It is supposed to be for a loan to some unnamed South American country. I find it peculiar – the amount combined with the urgency.'
'How much bullion?'
'Two hundred million pounds' worth.'
'Thank you for informing me, Mr Rubinstein. It may or may not be significant. I thank you anyway. Goodbye.'
Tweed hurried out of the box. 'Back to the hotel. You'll be able to get a meal later. I'll get dinner aboard the Brussels express.' He was striding out along the pavement, checking his watch.
'A development?' Newman enquired.
'Peter Brand, the shady banker, has just arranged for bullion to the value of two hundred million pounds to be held ready for swift delivery at the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. That could be the ransome amount Klein -Zarov if it is him – will demand for the West to avoid a major catastrophe. Lysenko told me Zarov wanted to make a fortune while still young. If so, we could be running out of time. He may be ready soon to launch his operation. Drive like hell for Dinant.'
They had almost reached the hotel when Newman realized Tweed had been listening to him earlier.
'If you're right, I wonder who is occupying that seventh grave at Cockley Ford?'
25
Eighty miles east of Paris – beyond Rheims – Newman's hired Peugeot broke down in the middle of nowhere. There was no other traffic in the middle of the night, no sign of human habitation for miles.
He slaked his thirst with water from the plastic canister he always carried on motor journeys, made himself as comfortable as possible, and slept through the rest of the night.
The driver of a passing car the following morning promised to phone the nearest branch of the car hire firm. It was still midday before a breakdown truck arrived accompanied by a Citroen. Newman took over the Citroen and drove on to the nearest town where he had a leisurely meal – leisurely because the service was so slow.
It was early evening before he drove into Dinant. Parking the car, he wandered round the town huddled beneath the pinnacle of rock with the citadel at its summit. He chose the Hotel de la Gare because it was anonymous and up a side road away from the main part of the town.
After dark he continued his wanderings, calling in at several bars. He chatted to barmen, excellent sources of local knowledge. He found the shop which sold couques near the Pont de Charles de Gaulle.
He was adopting his normal reporter's technique on arrival at a new place, getting his bearings, studying life along the Meuse waterfront. He slept like a dog that night, had an early breakfast, and strolled along the river bank to where a barge was moored. The Nantes.
'Good morning,' he called up to a thin-faced man with dark eyes who was watching him from inside the wheel-house at the stern of the vessel. 'May! come aboard? I have a favour to ask…'
With some reluctance the bargee gestured for him to cross the gangplank. Newman walked slowly on to the deck. He would have only one chance to get the man talking. What was the right approach? Chance lent him a hand.
A woman appeared, climbing the few steps which he took to lead to the living-quarters. About forty, she was slim with long dark hair and the look of a hard worker. She also looked worried. She stopped at the head of the steps and Newman smiled.
He explained he was writing a series of articles for the Brussels paper Le Soir on Belgian waterways, their importance as a means of transport, the neglect of the government in appreciating their importance.
Tell him about it, Willy,' the woman urged. 'You won't tell the authorities. Tell him. And tell him who you are. Have you forgotten your manners?'
'I'm Willy Boden. This is my wife, Simone.' The bargee extended a wiry hand, still watching Newman cautiously. 'You won't mention my name if we talk to you? The authorities can make life difficult for us if they think
