Newman watched as crew members jumped ashore at a landing stage and made the vessel fast. A small wiry man waited until the gangplank was in position, wheeled a bicycle across it and rode past the barge along the towpath towards Dinant.
'Think I'll go and have a word,' Newman said.
Seen close up, standing at the head of the gangplank, the owner of the Evening Star had a brick-red complexion, iron-grey hair and a moustache of the same colour. He stood with hands in blazer pockets, a thumb protruding.
'Who the devil are you?' he greeted his visitor.
'Robert Newman. I'm interested in the Meuse. I gather you know it well?'
'Well, don't just stand there. Come aboard!'
A very upper crust voice, a clipped military-style tone, the manner of a man used to obedience. Newman followed him down a companionway into a spacious saloon. Walls of mahogany, chairs covered with expensive fabric, and at the far end a well-equipped cocktail bar.
Ralston laid a stubby-fingered hand on the polished counter. He swung round and stared at Newman with blue eyes. Small red veins showed on his pugnacious nose. Sign of a hardened drinker.
'Care for a sundowner? And sit.'
'It's a long time before the sun goes down,' Newman remarked. 'Coffee would be welcome, if available…'
'Alfredo!' roared the colonel. 'Coffee for our guest. On the double!'
A slim dark-skinned man appeared behind Newman, walked behind the bar and disappeared beyond a doorway. Ralston would be in his ear! y sixties, Newman guessed, his short stature compensated for by the force of his personality; he was close to being a caricature of the military officer. But there was nothing amusing about the cold blue eyes. He poured himself a whisky into a cut glass, added a splash of soda from a syphon, downed half the glass, ran his tongue over his lips.
'That's better. You're the foreign correspondent chappie. Recognize you from your photo. Back of the jacket on that bestseller you wrote. What's your game?'
'I told you
'Playing it close to the chest? Want to see some of the Meuse? Have a berth aboard the Evening Star? Cost you – I'm not running a charitable institution.'
'How much?'
'Twelve thousand francs. Belgian.'
Newman had seated himself on one of the banquettes lining the sides of the saloon. A gleaming mahogany table was close enough for him to take a pile of francs from his wallet, lay them on the table, keeping his hand on top of the pile. Twelve thousand Belgian francs. About?200.
'What do I get for that?' he asked Ralston who still stood by the bar; his favourite position Newman suspected.
'Grand tour of the river up to Namur. Then Liege. On the way, maybe a brief call on one of our eminent bankers. You know Belgium well?'
'Not really,' Newman lied.
'Here's your coffee. 'Bout time, Alfredo. Chopchop…'He continued in the style of a brisk lecture. 'The Frogs all swim like lemmings for their hols to the French Riviera. Most people don't know about the Belgians. They've got their own riviera – in the south of their country like the French. On the Meuse, in fact. So Millionaireville is just north of here…'
'Millionaireville?'
'Riverside mansions of the rich. Estates running down to the Meuse. At Profondeville – where the banker is - and further north at Wepion.'
'Who is this banker?'
'A Peter Brand…'
Newman removed his hand from the pile of banknotes. Ralston had been eyeing them as he talked. Newman had the impression his two passions were drink – and money. Nothing in his expression had shown at the mention of Peter Brand.
The Evening Star was sailing slowly down the Meuse. Wooded bluffs of the Ardennes rose on either side as Newman drank fresh coffee, left alone in the saloon for a short time. He had met the wiry weatherbeaten man who had cycled past the Bodens' barge.
'My ex-batman, Sergeant Bradley,' Ralston introduced. 'He keeps the whole shooting match moving. Watches the crew and all that. Don't stand for any backsliding, do you, Sergeant?'
'Not my way, sir,' Bradley replied. 'Got to keep them up to scratch.' He turned to Newman. 'Just like the Army. Keep on their tails or they slack off. Same the world over.'
'You must have seen something of the world,' Newman commented to Ralston who was pouring a fresh whisky. He picked up a silver cup inscribed with wording. 'Your unit?'
'Seventh Highlanders. Best regiment in the Army. The times we had in India, Egypt and Italy.' Ralston gazed into the distance. 'Seems an age ago. Now we cruise the canals. Always on the move. Just like the old Army days.'
'You go back to England much?' Newman had ventured.
'Never! Don't pay a penny tax in any country. Advantage of having a floating home. Never stay in one country more than five months. Bradley keeps the log. Ready to show any bloody snooping tax inspector. I can spit in their faces – often feel like doing just that. Have to excuse me. A lock coming up. A bit tricky the navigation sometimes. Like to skipper my own tub…'
Left alone, Newman thought it was a queer set-up. Almost as though Ralston was trying to perpetuate his old Army atmosphere. A tall slim girl with a good figure, wearing a formfitting red dress with a mandarin collar, came into the saloon, sat beside Newman.
'I'm Josette. If I wait for his lordship to introduce me we will never meet.'
'You spend a lot of time aboard?' Newman asked.
'I live on the boat. It's like that. You do realize why he invited you aboard?'
'You tell me.'
'To keep an eye on you, of course. He wonders what you're up to. Brand asked him to keep a lookout for strangers,' she whispered. 'Brand pays him a fee, of course. He's mean over money, the colonel. Except with drink. He's never drunk and never sober. I don't think I'm staying with him much longer.' She pulled at her dark hair, staring straight at Newman. 'Do you need a friend?'
'Let me think about it.' Newman paused. Was this a trap? Had Ralston sent her to get him to talk? He didn't think so. They were inside the lock now. Beyond the portholes concrete walls loomed.
'Ever met a man called Klein?' he asked.
'Yes. A friend of yours?'
'Never met him.'
'He's creepy. He's travelled with us several times. And he was very interested in the bargees – and their craft. Asked the colonel a lot of questions. Especially about one called Joseph Haber. Was he married? Did he have a family?'
'And is Haber married – and has he a family?'
'Yes. A wife who lives near Celle, a small village up in the Ardennes. They have a son called Lucien, I remember. It seemed odd to me why this Klein should be interested in things like that,'
'This Klein just travelled back and forth with Ralston?'
'Not all the time. He spent several days at the home of the millionaire banker, Peter Brand…'
'Change the subject,' Newman whispered as Sergeant Bradley marched in from the opening behind the bar.
Josette had good bone structure, a well-shaped face and her expression was dreamy, but she was quick- witted. 'I think the Meuse is the loveliest of all the rivers,' she said in a normal voice. 'You really should see the section in France called Les Dames de Meuse.. .'
'Colonel wants you on deck,' Bradley told her. 'He's just noticed you'd disappeared.' He poured more coffee into Newman's cup. 'Next stop Profondeville, sir. We dock there and call on Mr Brand's place.'
