‘It’s in the boot of your car. Everything. Including the money.’ His coffee and his cognac arrived and he took a gulp of each, swilling the mixture in his mouth with about as much delicacy as if he were gargling. He swallowed, smacked his lips and looked up around him. ‘Weather’s nice.’ He made the remark in such a way that it appeared to be directed at no one in particular. ‘Very nice. Paris is good this time of year.’
I was surprised he had noticed.
‘Yes,’ he carried on, ‘Paris is very good this time of year.’ He took another swig of his mixture. I stared at him curiously. I tried to figure out who he was, what he was. I couldn’t think of anything at all to say to him. I felt like a helpless little schoolboy seated in the headmaster’s study. ‘Like Paris?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I felt he was about to say something of enormous importance; a monumental revelation of some kind; something that would make me gasp in sheer wonder, that would slot everything into place. I waited expectantly.
‘Good. Glad about that. Paris is a nice place. Jolly nice. Well, must be going.’ He finished off his brew and stood up. Gave me another firm handshake. ‘Nice car. Open roof. Good weather for an open roof.’
I tried to read something in his face, in his eyes. There was nothing. Whatever might have been there a few moments ago had gone, snapped shut like a book and sealed in a plain brown wrapper. He melted away among the beautiful girls, the straggling tourists, the smart young men, the limping war-veterans, the chic middle-aged women, and the whirring of 2CVs and the hooting of horns.
The bastard hadn’t even left anything for the bill.
I paid the waiter and drove off into the traffic, heading out in the general direction of Versailles and the forests beyond, where I wanted to find a quiet spot and take a look at Santa’s stocking.
I’d gone about a quarter of a mile when I was flagged down by a police motorcyclist — an unusual occurrence in a city where speed, and a general wholesale disregard for traffic regulations, are the law of the motorist’s jungle.
The cop was elegantly turned out with immaculately blancoed webbing — and halitosis that would drop a skunk in its tracks at 50 feet.
I was scared stiff. I had no idea what that maniac Wetherby had put in the boot and I had an uncomfortable feeling it might be something of more than cursory interest to Monsieur Spick-et-Span here.
‘Licence. Carte verte. Passeport.’
‘Je n’ai pas le passeport avec moi.’
‘Vous restez à Paris?’
‘Oui, monsieur.’
‘Où?’
‘Seize. Rue de la Reine, Passy.’
‘Depuis combien des jours?’
‘Cinq jours, monsieur.’ I lied. I didn’t want them to know I was living here and have to go through the hassle of having French plates put on the car.
His bulging revolver holster and bulging baton holster swung from the belt. ‘Licence et carte.’
I rummaged through my wallet and through the glove locker and produced my English driving licence, international driving licence and green card insurance docket. He read through them, then walked around the car, studying it closely. He didn’t seem to take much notice of the fact that I was sheet-white and trembling. He was probably used to people going sheet-white and trembling when stopped.
He handed me back the documents. ‘C’est une belle voiture. Ça va. Merci, monsieur. Allez.’ He ushered me off, and walked back to his motorbike.
I drove off, gently changing through the gears, letting the revs climb very slowly. I scrabbled in my pocket for my cigarettes. I was shaking like a leaf. I half-lit the cigarette, and smoke and bits of flaring paper whipped away into the slipstream. Maybe it was just a routine stolen car check. Coincidence. And yet… The cop hadn’t looked the sort that would miss a single point but he hadn’t made any comment at all about my papers. I took a drag on my cigarette. Both my insurance and my international driving licence had expired five weeks ago. I wanted to find out what was in that boot. Fast.
I accelerated to a reckless speed, snaking in and out of the traffic. I had a feeling I might be being tailed. I shot a red light, missing the front wheels of a truck by inches, but nothing came over the lights after me and I relaxed a little.
Half an hour later I was thundering down a narrow, twisting country road, the tyres protesting on the warm tarmac. I passed through a couple of sleepy villages, both containing restaurants well praised by the Michelin, and out into the country again. I turned off onto a track into the woods, drove a good distance in from the road, stopped and switched the engine off.
I felt calmer now. A good deep warmth came through the shade of the fir trees and the air smelt good. I listened carefully. All was quiet. I went round and lifted the boot lid, wondering what I was going to find — a chopped-up corpse perhaps; a midget Russian agent — I just didn’t have any idea. It turned out to be a brown Jiffy package, about 18 inches long, I foot wide, and several inches thick. It bore no label and no writing but was very heavy.
I opened one end and tipped out the contents: first a parcel in silver gift-wrap and a tag which said, ‘To Elaine. Happy birthday. With fondest love’ — there was no signature; then a Webley .38 revolver, loaded, with the safety catch on; and an envelope. The envelope contained £500 in used £10 notes, and a note which read, ‘Deliver birthday gift to Mme Elaine de Vouvrey, Apt 5, 91 Rue Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle, Paris 2, Friday 29 May at 11.00 am. Keep the popgun and the change.’
My first thought was that this was Wetherby’s mistress, and she had a husband he was scared of. But £500 seemed to me to be paying rather more than necessary if it was that simple.
There was the sound of a vehicle. I whipped the envelope into my pocket and slammed the boot shut. It was just a tractor towing an old trailer; at the helm was a wizened old farmer with blue beret and obligatory yellow Gauloise stump protruding from his mouth. He gave me a wide berth, churning through some bushes, nodded in a courteous but uninterested manner, and rattled along on his way.
I opened the silver-wrapped box. It contained a soft white powder. I didn’t need a chemistry set to tell me it wasn’t Yves St Laurent talc.
There must have been about 5 pounds weight of the stuff. Sold in a lump amount in a hurry, it must have been worth about £200,000 — a great deal more if broken down into street deals of 1 gramme, and even more still if broken down into individual fixes.
The little knowledge I had about the French mafia quickly dispelled any aspirations that leapt into my head about heading for the hills with the booty.
Instinct told me from the start that this deal stank, stank worse than a Billingsgate garbage can in a heat wave. Instinct told me right now to go find Wetherby and chuck the whole lot back at him; and if I couldn’t find him to go straight to the British Consulate and tell them the story. Sometimes, when I’m cold and lonely, I wish that maybe I’d stuck to that instinct. Luckily it’s only sometimes.
I turned up early at 91 Rue Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle. I’d decided that if there was going to be anything unpleasant lying in wait for me I should try and catch it on the hop. I’d taken a taxi and wasted several valuable minutes arguing with the driver outside the entrance. I wanted him to wait but he didn’t want to wait because it was a no-waiting zone, and in my reasonably competent French I was trying to drum into his stubborn Gallic skull the fact that if he wasn’t prepared to wait in this no-waiting zone he was going to find it was also a no-paying zone.
The message got through and I got out, leaving the door open; he left his engine running. I felt good about that open door and that running engine because I had a feeling I might be needing them both in a hurry.