The Grave of Truth (7 page)

Kesler looked at his watch. ‘Nearly four—yes, I'd think so. But we'll get something sent up. We can nibble away while we count the money.' He put back his head and laughed. Then he placed his hand lightly on Franconi's knee.

‘You were great today,' he said. ‘It was a beautiful job. One of our best.'

Maurice frowned. ‘They didn't tell us there'd be another man with him,' he said.

‘Don't worry about that,' Kesler said. ‘He saw the same as everyone else. Two men in dark glasses. We'll listen to the radio and it's sure to be on the TV now. We're out and clear, like we always are, eh? And this time, we've got enough to give up working.'

Franconi glanced at him and flashed the gleaming smile. ‘You'd get bored, Stanis. You love working.'

‘I love you,' Kesler said. ‘I don't want the luck to run out. I want to go and live in the sun with you; you'd love Tangier. We'd be very happy there. And we could always take a trip if you wanted a change.'

‘I'd be happy wherever we went,' Franconi said, ‘so long as we're together. That's all that matters to me.'

The hotel had a two-star rating; it was comfortable and catered for businessmen and families. Kesler and Franconi had stayed the previous night there and found the food excellent. Franconi parked the car at the rear of the hotel, while Kesler went to the reception desk.

‘Good afternoon,' he said to the clerk. ‘I'm expecting a package—has anything arrived for me?'

The clerk checked in the pigeonholes and glanced under the desk. He shook his head. ‘No, M. Kesler. But there's a gentleman waiting in the lounge for you. He's been here some time.'

‘Ah,' Kesler said. ‘Thank you.'

There were a number of people in the lounge; tea was being served. Kesler recognized the man sitting alone at a table, and went up to him. His eyes noted that the man was carrying a briefcase similar to his own. He went over and shook hands.

‘What's this?' he said under his breath. ‘We weren't expecting you—where's the money—' He gave a wide smile and said loudly, ‘How nice of you to wait for me—come on upstairs—'

They went up the two floors in the lift without speaking. Kesler unlocked the door of his room; Franconi had the room adjoining. Then he shut the door and turned to the map who had seated himself on the bed. There was no smile on Kesler's face. ‘What the hell is this? I was supposed to get a package—nobody told me you were coming!'

‘I've brought the money,' the other man said. He had been their contact for the last five assignments. He was known only as Paul; he spoke French with an accent that suggested he came from east of the Oder, but when Kesler tried him out in German and Polish he refused to talk at all. He was a thin, dour, nondescript human being, with deep-set eyes. Franconi nicknamed him ‘the undertaker'.

Kesler held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.' The briefcase was passed to him and the man Paul tossed him a key. Kesler put the case on the chest of drawers and opened it. The money was neatly packed inside: Swiss francs, in used notes. Kesler didn't trouble to count the packets. He knew his employers had never cheated on a payment. He shut the case again and turned to Paul. Franconi came into the room; he stared at the other man and looked sharply at Kesler. ‘What's he doing here?'

‘He brought the money,' Kesler said.

The man seated himself on the bed again and drew an envelope out of his pocket. ‘I've got a proposition for you,' he said in his ugly French. ‘You've got two hundred thousand francs in there—' he jutted his mean chin towards the case. ‘You could earn three times that.'

‘Oh?' Franconi sneered. ‘Who's the target—the American president, for instance? How do you fancy ending like Lee Harvey Oswald, Stanis—nice bullet in the belly—' He said something obscene in Italian. Paul ignored him; there was a natural antipathy between them. He addressed himself to Kesler.

‘I've got a list in here—' the envelope was raised like a torch, and then lowered. ‘There are four names on it. No presidents—not even the Pope.' His teeth showed in a grimace trying to be a smile. Kesler matched him.

‘Maurice and I are Catholics,' he said. ‘I'm glad it isn't the Pope. Four people—six hundred thousand francs. That's a lot of money. And a lot of risk.' He shook his head. ‘We're not interested.'

‘Wait a minute,' Maurice said. ‘Who are the four targets?'

‘I can't give you the envelope till you've agreed to the job,' the man said. He put the envelope back into his pocket. ‘All I know is there's no one that imporant.'

‘Then why so much money?' Kesler asked. ‘Six hundred thousand francs. Nobody pays like that unless it's in proportion to the risk. We've done the Walther job and we want to enjoy the money.'

‘Show us the names,' Franconi said. ‘If they don't trust us, then get someone else. I'm not going into anything blind and neither is Stanis.'

The thin man hesitated. They were the best in the business. Reliable, efficient: a perfect killing mechanism. He took out the envelope, opened it and handed the sheet of paper to Kesler. There was silence in the room for a minute while Kesler read the list and then read it again. He looked up and frowned at Paul.

‘Who are these people?'

‘I don't know,' the thin man said. ‘What do you care—just find them and get rid of them. You've got a month to do it. But no fuss, no publicity.'

‘Don't try teaching us our job,' Franconi snapped. He came over to Kesler and studied the list. He shrugged. ‘It's a fortune,' he said softly. ‘Just one month, Stanis. Think what we could buy for ourselves with money like that—'

‘I am thinking,' Kesler said. He looked at his lover. ‘You want to do it?'

‘Why not? One month and we've got enough money to have everything we want. There's nothing in this—' he tapped the paper with his index finger. His nails were manicured and lightly polished. He had sensitive, well-kept hands. ‘It's a package deal, that's all. No problem.'

Kesler turned back to Paul. ‘Some have no address,' he said. ‘Just relatives. This makes it complicated.'

‘That's why you're being paid so well,' the man said. ‘You find them, get rid of them nice and quietly, every one an accident—that's important.' He waited, looking at Kesler for confirmation.

‘We'll do it,' Kesler said. The thin man nodded, gave the grimace which was meant to be a smile, and left them.

Franconi waited for a moment, and then, crossing to the door, opened it suddenly. There was no one in the corridor. He turned back to Kesler.

‘I don't trust that little bastard—and I don't trust that list.'

‘Then why did you make me agree?' Kesler seldom got angry with Maurice but his face had reddened. ‘I didn't want to touch it—we've got two hundred thousand besides the money we've saved! Why did you have to be so greedy?'

‘Because it's the biggest chance we'll ever have to be really rich!' Franconi's voice rose. He hated quarrelling with Kesler: rarely as it happened, it unnerved him and he felt sulky for days afterwards. ‘You talk about living in Tangier—yes, all right we can go there and hole up and watch the pennies for the rest of our lives, not being really
in
—if we do this last job we can be
rich
—we can buy a lovely villa, do it up nicely, entertain.… Oh, Stanis, don't you see it's worth it?'

‘I suppose so,' Kesler said slowly. ‘But something about it stinks. Come on, let's not row about it. We've said we'll do it and we will. Let's put that case in the hotel safe till we can bank it, and get something to eat. Then I want to watch the TV news. I have a gut feeling that we'll learn something more about that list.'

For the first time in years, Ellie Steiner surprised her husband. He had rehearsed the scene, every line of dialogue already spoken in his mind, his own attitudes and hers plotted out. He was ready for tears, appeals to his responsibility to her and the children, followed by the patient arguments which so infuriated him because they were full of surface logic. When he came into the apartment, the children were at school, and his wife was alone, watching an educational programme on TV.

She got up slowly and stared at him for a second or two, before coming across very quickly and putting her arms round him.

‘Oh darling,' she said. ‘Thank God you're back.'

She made them both tea and they drank it together in the kitchen. The kitchen was Ellie's kingdom, gleaming with copper and pine, equipped like a spaceship with every gadget that came on the market. She was a marvellous cook. He watched her while she got the cups and a plate of biscuits. He noticed that she looked very pale and tense. He told her about Walther's assassination; without intention, he hardly mentioned the murdered man's wife. She reached out and placed her hand over his. It was a touching gesture, and he squeezed it hard, nerving himself for what had to be said next. That was when she surprised him.

‘Max darling, a man from the Sûreté came here this morning. He wanted to talk to you. He said we could be in danger; you and me and the children. He told me to take them and go away for a while. He said you should come too.'

‘Why would the Sûreté send someone round here? And, for God's sake, why would you and the children be in danger—'

‘Because you saw the killers,' she said. ‘He terrified me; he said the people who murdered Walther could be after you. We've got to get away—you've got to go to Jarre and tell him you want leave!'

‘Wait a minute,' Max said. ‘Wait a minute—this doesn't make sense. I spent hours down at the Sûreté yesterday, making a statement—nobody said anything to me about any risk—as for seeing the killers, so did half a dozen other people.… Who was this man, do you remember his name?'

‘Yes, Durand,' she said. ‘Durand.'

‘Christ,' he said, ‘that's like Smith. I'm going to call Regnier and find out what the hell they're playing at.'

Ellie stayed in the kitchen, setting the cups in the dishwasher; she heard Max's voice and the ‘ting' of the telephone. She stood by the kitchen door and listened. He hated anyone by his elbow when he was talking on the telephone; he had his back turned towards her. On the other end of the line, Inspector Pierre Regnier told Max to hold on, while he made inquiries. Certainly, he had not sent anyone to the Steiners' apartment. Max turned round while he waited and saw Ellie in the doorway.

‘He's finding out about it,' he said. ‘He didn't send a man round himself.… Yes, hello—'

Regnier's voice was sharp. ‘We have no one called Durand on the Walther case,' he said. ‘Whoever saw your wife this morning, he wasn't one of our men. Could be some crank—but she says he showed a card?'

‘He could have shown her a credit card for all the difference my wife would know,' Max said. ‘Someone says they're a policeman, you believe them. I'll call you back when I've talked to her again.'

He saw Ellie's pale frightened face and his heart thumped when he thought of the man she had let into the flat that morning. He listened while she told him what the man had said, and fear began to prick along his skin. Whoever he was, and he didn't accept Regnier's suggestion of a crank, he had tried to prise information out of Ellie which she didn't have, and then tried to panic her so that she in turn would panic him.

‘I've booked for all of us on the first flight to London tomorrow morning,' she said. ‘I'm not risking keeping the children here. If that man wasn't from the Sûreté, then, for God's sake, who was he? Oh, Max, I'm really scared!'

‘You did the right thing,' he said slowly. ‘He could have been some nut, trying to frighten you. But it's better you and the children get out of Paris for a while.'

‘You're coming with us—you're not going to stay here. If there's any danger, we've got to be together!'

‘I shan't be in Paris,' he told her. It was slotting into place, like pieces in a puzzle that was making a picture. ‘I'm going away on an assignment for Jarre. It'll take three weeks, maybe a month. Where are you going to stay in London—with Angela?'

‘Yes,' She seemed thrown off balance by the question. Angela was married to a solicitor; she and Ellie had been close friends. They had stayed with the Steiners in Paris the previous autumn.

‘Max,' she said. ‘Max, where is this assignment?'

He didn't lie to her, although he was tempted. ‘Germany,' he answered. She kept on looking at him, the brown eyes seemed to widen until they overpowered her face.

‘Sigmund Walther's murder—is that what you're going to Germany for?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I'm determined to do it. I want to know who and why, and a whole lot of other things. And it'll help to know you and the children are safe in London with Angela and Tim.'

‘And if anything happens to you, are Angela and Tim supposed to take care of us?'

Oh, he said to himself, Christ, here it comes. ‘Nothing will happen to me,' he tried to sound reassuring, instead of angry. He didn't succeed because he added, ‘Anyway, I'm heavily insured.' She gave him an odd look, and he thought she drew her body back and upright, as if something unpleasant had passed close to her. He felt suddenly alarmed, as if he had taken a step too far in a direction he hadn't intended. ‘Ellie, I'm sorry. Try to understand, will you? This is terribly important to me. I have to find out why Walther was killed, not for bloody
Newsworld
but for myself! For my own peace of mind—I know you're scared and upset, and you want me to come with you, but I can't. I can't give up the chance to find out something—'

He stopped, and in the seconds that followed, he tried to retrace that step towards the brink, by telling her the truth. He didn't get the chance. She brushed her skirt with both hands, as if she were dusting off an apron, and her face was small and pale and set tight like a fist.