‘Right,’ we both said.
‘The manufacturer does all the correct paperwork. Each shipment is exported accompanied by customs dockets, each shipment is what it purports to be, everything is legal. The next step depends on how badly the customer wants the guns.’
‘How do you mean?’ Litsi said.
‘Suppose,’ Mohammed answered, enjoying himself, ‘the customer’s need is great and pressing. The manufacturer sends the guns without the barrels. The customer pays. The manufacturer sends the barrels. Good?’
We nodded.
‘The manufacturer tells the customer he must pay the price on the invoices to the manufacturing company, but he must also pay a sum into a different bank account — number and country supplied — and when that payment is safely in the manufacturer’s secret possession, then he will despatch the barrels.’
‘Simple,’ I said.
‘Of course. A widespread practice. The sort of thing which goes on the whole world over. Money up front, above board settlement, offshore funds sub rosa.’
‘Kick backs,’ I said.
‘Of course. In many countries, it is the accepted system. Trade cannot continue without it. A little commission, here and there...’ He shrugged. ‘Your manufacturer with an all-plastic reliable cheaply made handgun could pass an adequate profit through his company’s books and pocket a fortune for himself out of sight.’
He reassembled the gun dexterously and held it out to me.
‘Feel it,’ he said. ‘An all-plastic gun would be much lighter even than this.’
I took the gun, looking at its matt black surface of purposeful shape, the metal rim of the barrel showing at the business end. It certainly was remarkably light to handle, even with metal parts. All-plastic, it could be a plaything for babies.
With an inward shiver I gave it to Litsi. It was the second time in four days I’d been instructed in the use of handguns, and although I’d handled one before, I wasn’t a good shot, nor ever likely to practise. Litsi weighed the gun thoughtfully in his palm and returned it to its owner.
‘Are we talking of any manufacturer in particular?’ Mohammed asked.
‘About one who wants to be granted a licence to manufacture and export plastic guns,’ I said, ‘but who hasn’t been in the arms business before.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘In France?’
‘Yes,’ Litsi said without surprise, and I realised that Mohammed must have known the enquiry had come to him through French channels, even if it hadn’t been he who’d spoken to Litsi on the telephone.
Mohammed pursed his lips under the big moustache. ‘To get a licence, your manufacturer would have to be a person of particularly good standing. These licences, you understand, are never thrown about like confetti. He must certainly have the capability, the factory, that is to say, also the prototype, also probably definite orders, but above all he must have the good name.’
‘You’ve been extremely helpful,’ Litsi said.
Mohammed radiated bonhomie.
‘How would the manufacturer set about selling his guns? Would he advertise?’ I said.
‘Certainly. In firearms’ and trade magazines the world over. He might also engage an agent, such as myself.’ He smiled. ‘I work on commission. I am well known. People who want guns come to me and say, “What will suit us best? How much is it? How soon can you get it?”’ He spread his palms. ‘I’m a middleman. We are indispensable.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anything else?’
I said on impulse, ‘If someone wanted a humane killer, could you supply it? A captive bolt?’
‘Obsolete,’ he said promptly. ‘In England, made by Accles and Shelvoke in Birmingham. Do you mean those? Point 405 calibre, perhaps? One point two-five grain caps?’
‘I dare say,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t deal in humane killers. They’re too specialised. It wouldn’t be worth your while to pay me to find you one. There are many around, all out of date. I would ask older veterinarians, they might be pleased to sell. You’d need a licence to own one, of course.’ He paused. ‘To be frank, gentlemen, I find it most profitable to deal with customers to whom personal licences are irrelevant.’
‘Is there anyone,’ I asked, ‘and please don’t take this as an insult, because it’s not meant that way, but is there anyone to whom you would refuse to sell guns?’
He took no offence. He said, ‘Only if I thought they couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. On moral grounds, no. I don’t ask what they want them for. If I cared, I’d be in the wrong trade. I sell the hardware, I don’t agonise over its use.’
Both Litsi and I seemed to have run out of questions. Mohammed put the pistol back into its box, where it sat neatly above its prim little rows of bullets. He replaced the lid on the box and returned the whole to the suitcase.
‘Never forget,’ he said, still smiling, ‘that attack and defence are as old as the human race. Once upon a time, I would have been selling nicely sharpened spearhead flints.’
‘Mr Mohammed,’ I said, ‘thank you very much.’
He nodded affably. Litsi stood up and shook hands again with the diamond ring, as did I, and Mohammed said if we saw his friend loitering in the passage not to worry and not to speak to him, he would return to the room when we had gone.
We paid no attention to the friend waiting by the lifts and rode down without incident to the ground floor. It wasn’t until we were in a taxi on the way back to Eaton Square that either of us spoke.
‘He was justifying himself,’ Litsi said.
‘Everyone does. It’s healthy.’
He turned his head. ‘How do you mean?’
‘The alternative is guilty despair. Self-justification may be an illusion, but it keeps you from suicide.’
‘You could self-justify suicide.’
I smiled at him sideways. ‘So you could.’
‘Nanterre,’ he said, ‘has a powerful urge to sharpen flints.’
‘Mm. Lighter, cheaper, razor-like flints.’
‘Bearing the de Brescou cachet.’
‘I had a powerful vision,’ I said, ‘of Roland shaking hands on a deal with Mohammed.’
Litsi laughed. ‘We must save him from the justification.’
‘How did you get hold of Mohammed?’ I asked.
‘One of the useful things about being a prince,’ Litsi said, ‘is that if one seriously asks, one is seldom refused. Another is that one knows and has met a great many people in useful positions. I simply set a few wheels in motion, much as you did yesterday, incidentally, with Lord Vaughnley.’ He paused. Why is a man you defeated so anxious to please you?’
‘Well... in defeating him I also saved him. Maynard Allardeck was out to take over his newspaper by fair means and definitely foul, and I gave him the means of stopping him permanently, which was a copy of that film.’
‘I do see,’ Litsi said ironically, ‘that he owes you a favour or two.’
‘Also,’ I said, ‘the boy who gambled half his inheritance away under Maynard’s influence was Hugh Vaughnley, Lord Vaughnley’s son. By threatening to publish the film, Lord Vaughnley made Maynard give the inheritance back. The inheritance, actually, was shares in the Towncrier newspaper.’
‘A spot of poetic blackmail. Your idea?’
‘Well... sort of.’
He chuckled, ‘I suppose I should disapprove. It was surely against the law.’
‘The law doesn’t always deliver justice. The victim mostly loses. Too often the law can only punish, it can’t put things right.’
‘And you think righting the victims’ wrongs is more important than anything else?’
‘Where it’s possible, the highest priority.’
‘And you’d break the law to do it?’
‘It’s too late at night for being tied into knots,’ I said, ‘and we’re back at Eaton Square.’