“I thought you might know about him. He hired me. No questions asked either way.”
“Trusting of you.”
“I liked his smile. It lit up the room.”
“You should have worn sunglasses.”
“He was generous,” I said. “Put his secretary entirely at my disposal. Travelling companion, guide, counsellor and friend. The name is Vérité Latour-Mesmin.”
“What vintage?”
“About 1935, and thin on the palate. But I’m hoping that decanting will improve it. Anyway, she goes with me on the Vadarci trail.”
Casalis made a face and said, “I don’t think we shall like that.”
I knew what he meant by we, but I was not worried.
“You’re stuck with it,” I said. “And so am I. Now, what about this flat? I don’t like visitors.”
“You can handle them. But I’d better keep away. Be in the George V bar each evening between six and six-thirty. Beginning tonight. If there is anything to be passed we’ll do it there. Here, I could be jumped easily.”
“That’s right,” I said, “you look after yourself.”
“Always do.” He gave me a wave and went.
At twelve o’clock Wilkins came through with her material. I sat in front of the window with several sheets of paper on the table before me, and a large glass of gin and campari in my right hand.
Wilkins had dictated to me a three hundred word summary – and Wilkins could summarize Gone with the Wind into three pages if pushed – of the trial of Vérité Latour-Mesmin for the murder of her husband in May, 1957. The account had appeared in the News of the World. It was that which had made my old memory box flicker because, if I could help it, I never missed my couple of glasses of Guinness and the News of the World every Sunday morning in Mrs Meld’s kitchen. Vérité had been acquitted by a French jury at Limoges, and it had been a very juicy case indeed.
On Malacod, it was mostly international banking, shipping, two museum foundations, charity trusts, and research scholarships ... the same kind of set-up that you would find listed under names like Rothschild, Gulbenkian, Ford, Nuffield and so on. Malacod was a Jew, born in Hamburg, and he was unmarried. There was also a summary from an account in the London Times of 16 February, 1947, announcing a new Malacod research fund, and this included a précis of a second leader in The Times of the same day which, I had a feeling, was less than just to Malacod.
After reading it all through, I mixed myself a second drink, a big one, so that I could toast Wilkins and her industry first. The very little that was left in the glass I libated to Vérité Latour-Mesmin. Ice-maidens are made not born.
*
I got to the George V just after six o’clock. In the bar, a large American, with a Countess Mara tie and a matey manner, kept me company and told me a long story about a friend of his. I kept waiting for the point and it never came. I lost interest in him over the second martini. As it was served to me I saw Richard Manston come into the bar.
He was a sight for sore eyes, but I knew at once that he wanted no part of me. He came up to the bar, three yards away from me, and ordered a whisky and soda. He was in tails and wearing a set of miniature medals. He also had a monocle screwed into one eye and his hair was dyed a nice blond. He was so impeccable that I had the feeling that there were crumbs down the back of my collar. He looked right through me, the American next to me, and the wall beyond us, while the barman, serving him, said, “Nice to see you again, Sir Alfred.” I turned my back on him and pretended to take an interest in the American.
Five minutes later Manston left the bar. As he passed me I waited for the touch and could not be sure that I had marked it. When he was out of the place, I dropped my hand idly to my jacket pocket. I had never met any man who could do it better, except one, and he was in Parkhurst, his talent rotting.
I endured the American for ten more minutes and then I strolled out of the bar. In the hotel main lobby I turned my back quickly and started to light a cigarette, hands well up to my face, and watching everything behind me in a wall mirror. Moving towards the main entrance were Mrs Vadarci and Katerina, togged up in full evening fig, and escorted by Sir Alfred. I watched them go out and it didn’t even occur to me to get a taxi to the Solferino bridge. No girl was going to stand on a Seine bridge, even for two minutes, in blue chiffon and white fox, slightly vulgar, oversized diamonds, and a rising violet mist in her blue eyes. This last, I presumed, was for Sir Alfred. It did not even make me jealous because I knew she was wasting her time with Manston.
I went into the men’s room and pulled out the envelope which Manston had slipped into my jacket pocket. There was a hotel key in it, a cigarette, and a letter which read:
Welcome back, old boy. Have a look around Suite 101. No need to be tidy. Smoke cigarette and leave butt. We may meet again but you don’t know me – no matter what. And don’t be tempted. There are no pickings in this one. Repeat no. Bon voyage. R.A.D.I.
The cigarette was tipped and just above the butt was the legend – Beograd Filter. I knew it was going to taste like hell. I tore up the message
