I dropped my gun to the floor and kicked it across to them. They let it lie at their feet.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘Just let me guess. You’re from a rival firm—and you want to make a take-over bid?’
‘Exactly.’ Duchêne gave me a brief nod.
Behind me I heard Pelegrina groan, and then came Freeman’s voice. ‘For God’s sake—what a bloody morning this is turning out to be!’
Silently I seconded the sentiment.
CHAPTER 8
Saraband Two
I was not present at the take-over discussions. I was taken away to a little room at the front of the house where, if it hadn’t been for the bulk of A.T. standing guard outside, I could have had a good view of the sandy drive. In the room with me was a fourth man, whose face was vaguely familiar.
He sat by the door on the edge of a hard chair, a fidgety, nervous little man who looked as though he were waiting his turn to go into the dentist. One thin, almost feminine, hand held a big Colt Service revolver which he kept directed at me. I only hoped that the safety was on. He kept flicking his eyes at me and running the edge of his tongue between his thin lips. One of his socks had been put on inside out. I guessed that he was the talkative type. Conversation would be a way of easing his nervousness. Let him sweat, I decided. I’d got myself into this by trying to do good to those who didn’t deserve it, which confirmed that there was a basic flaw in the Christian ethic. I lit a cigarette and considered the Duchêne angle. It didn’t need much considering. When you look back over events from some crisis point a lot of things become clear. Being wise after the event comes easy. Duchêne had wanted to muscle in on the Dawson kidnapping. And he had let me do all the leg-work for him. That annoyed me. At least, it rated a fee. I had a feeling that I would never get one. But more important, how, I asked myself, had Duchêne or Paulet ever come to know that Dawson had been kidnapped? How had they ever come to know that Freeman was involved? I could think of two or three answers to that, but I decided to reserve judgment until I knew whether they—like Pelegrina and Freeman—were just working for their private interests or, as I suspected, representing a far from private interest.
I smoked another cigarette, and studied the one picture on the wall of the room. It showed a group of Roman matrons in and around a wide marble bath, being toileted by half a dozen handmaidens. They were having a jolly time splashing water at one another. The artist must have been Victorian because their poses were so arranged that there were no pudenda in the slightest bit exposed. Not that it would have cheered me up if there had been.
My guard coughed dryly and put his left hand around his right wrist to help support the big Colt.
I took pity on him.
‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’
The thin face broke into a happy smile to show very bad teeth. ‘On the plane from Tripoli to Malta. I got off with you.’
I remembered then. He’d looked like a worried cotton-length salesman, fiddling around with his order book all through the flight, just across the aisle from me, and never once looking at me.
‘You weren’t on the Tunis plane?’
‘No. Not yours. The early morning one today.’
‘What happened to the Arab guard at the drive gate?’
‘Paulet picked him up and wrapped some rope around him.’ He giggled.
‘Sounds like Paulet. What’s the name of the nice boy outside the window?’ I tipped my head backwards to indicate the A.T.
‘We all call him Mimo.’
‘Nice lad. Probably the best of your bunch. What do you get your pay in—converted roubles?’
He frowned. Some things you just don’t joke about.
‘I’m Brown. Peter Brown.’ He said it amicably to counteract the frown.
‘Not with your accent you aren’t. Not unless some serviceman of that name did your mother in Cyprus or Aden and then, like a fool, made an honest woman of her.’
‘Please not to speak like that about my mother.’ Then he smiled again, not wanting to spoil the chat. ‘Ah, but I remember—you are a very flippant man.’
‘But clever, no?’
‘Very. But you didn’t see Paulet when you arrived at Tunis last night?’
‘If I had I’d have broken his neck.’
‘You think you could do that?’
‘I would have tried.’
He shook his head. ‘Many people have—but it is still sound.’ He held up the Colt a little. ‘If I put this down you will be reasonable?’
‘Try me.’
To my surprise he laid it thankfully on a small table at his side and began to light a cigarette. Blowing a cloud of Gitane smoke, he went on, ‘Your Prime Minister is not a wealthy man, is he?’
‘No. He’s against it on principle. Capital is a dirty word to him—at least in public. And, anyway, with your name, he’s your Prime Minister as well. Or do I just say “ha-ha” to that? Further, as a matter of ethnological interest, if things keep going the way they are and all British troops are withdrawn to the other side of the English Channel, your kind is doomed. Unless the package-tour tourists take over.’
He smiled. ‘You have it wrong. My
