He told the Home Secretary about it. The Yorkshireman said, “Ay, they’re a rough crowd. What do you suggest?”
“We shall have to tackle it from the outside. Slower, but more certain. The first thing is to trace the money. It comes from somewhere abroad. Regularly, and in largish amounts. The Bank of England is confident that it’s not done by credit transfer. This money actually comes in — that is, it’s brought in physically. If we knew how it would be a start. Either the money would lead us to the man, or the man to the money. When we’ve got proof we’ll let The Peaceful People know exactly how they’re being used. They won’t like it. And they’ll stop financing their Action Committee. Without money they can’t function.”
The Home Secretary had listened to this exposition in silence — a silence which continued after Mr. Fortescue had finished. At last he said, “I don’t have to tell you that things are moving very fast in international politics at the moment. Personally, I’m not unhopeful. The outcome might be very good. On the other hand it might be very bad. And the smallest thing could tip the balance. So don’t take too long.”
The Offices of William Watson (Paris) Limited, Importers and Exporters, are in a small street running south from the Quai des Augustins. The head of the firm is a Mr. Mackenzie, but should you ask to see him you will invariably find that he is absent, on temporary sick leave. You will be invited to return in a week’s time.
If you know the form you refuse to be put off and inquire instead for his deputy, Mr. Rathbone. Mr. Behrens evidently knew the form. He was shown into an outer office and passed, after scrutiny by a severe, gray-haired lady, into the inner sanctum where a surprisingly youthful Mr. Rathbone was trying his hand at a French crossword puzzle.
When the preliminaries had been concluded he said, “Your last signal stirred things up a bit, I can tell you. Do you mind explaining what’s happening?”
Mr. Behrens said, “It’s a long story. Four men were pulled in after a strike meeting in the Midlands. A Welshman named Lewis and three others. They had some trouble with them.”
“Was that when the Superintendent got kicked?”
“That’s right. Well, they found money on all of them. New notes, in sequence. And it was hot money — part of the proceeds of two bank jobs pulled by the Barrow gang last year. But — and this is the odd part — we knew for certain, because we’d had a reliable tip, that the loot had left the country. It was taken across the Channel on the night of the robbery and was out of the country before the news of the robbery broke. It was cached somewhere here, in Paris, until the heat cooled off. Then it was offered, discreetly, for sale. At a heavy discount, of course. Three months ago the Chinese bought the lot.”
“So that’s why you asked us to keep an eye on their Trade Commission.”
“That’s right. We thought it might give us a lead.”
“Well, we’ve got something for you. Whether it’s a lead or not I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me.”
Mr. Rathbone went across to a cabinet labeled “Export Samples,” unlocked it, and extracted a folder.
“The only thing we’ve noticed in the least bit odd is that one of their chauffeurs has been paying regular visits, after dark, to a small place called the Hotel Continental. It’s a moderate-sized dump in the Place Languedoc. Not too expensive, much used by businessmen from England, civil servants coming to conferences, Government delegates, and people of that type. The sort of place where they serve bacon and eggs for breakfast without being asked.”
“And what does the chauffeur do when he gets there?”
“He disappears into the kitchen. What happens after that we haven’t been able to find out.”
“Possibly he has a girl friend in the kitchen staff.”
“Maybe. When he’s not being a chauffeur he’s a Colonel in the Chinese Army — so I think it’s unlikely.”
“Even Colonels have human feelings,” said Mr. Behrens. “But I agree there might be something in it. Could you get a list of all the guests — particularly the English guests — who have stayed at the Continental during the past six months?”
Mr. Rathbone extracted a list from the folder and said, “Your wishes have been anticipated, sir. It goes back to the beginning of the year.”
Mr. Behrens studied the list. Two names on it, which occurred no less than four times, appeared to interest him.
The prison interview room was quiet and rather cold. Punchy Lewis, in custody, looked a smaller, less magnetic figure than Punchy Lewis on a platform. His thin white face was set in obstinate lines. He said, “It’s bloody nothing to do with you where I got the money from. It’s not a crime in this country to own money, or have they passed some law I haven’t heard about?”
“If you don’t realize the spot you’re in,” said Mr. Calder, “it’s a waste of time talking to you.” He got up and made for the door. A policeman was sitting outside, his head just visible through the glass spyhole.
“No one’s persuaded me I’m in a spot,” said Lewis. “I didn’t do anything. If the police charge in while I’m speaking, and get roughed up, they can’t blame me. I didn’t incite anyone. Every word I said’s on record. I’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”
Mr. Calder perched on the comer of the table, like a man who is in two minds whether to go or stay. He sat there for a long minute while Lewis shifted uneasily in his chair. Then he said, “I don’t like you. I don’t like the people you work for. And if I didn’t want something out of you personally, I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you. But that’s the position. You’ve got one piece of information I want. It’s the only thing you’ve got for sale. And I’ll buy it.”
“Talk straight.”
“You think you’re going to be charged with incitement, or assault, or something like that. You’re not. The charge is receiving stolen goods. And you’ll get five or seven for it.”
“The money, you mean? Talk sense, man. I didn’t know it was stolen.”
“That’s not what the police are going to say. Do you know where that money came from? It was lifted from a bank — by the Barrow gang last year.”
“And just how are they going to show I knew that?”
“Be your age. They’ve already got two witnesses lined up who saw Charlie Barrow handing it to you in a Soho Club.”
“It’s a lie.”
“All right,” said Mr. Calder calmly. “It’s a lie. But it’s what they’re going to say all the same. They don’t like having their chaps kicked in the head. They’re funny that way.”
“The bloody sods,” said Lewis. He thought for a moment, then added, “They’d do it, too.”
Mr. Calder got up. He said, “I haven’t got a lot of time to waste. Do we deal or not?”
“What’s the proposition?”
“I want to know where that money came from. Who gave it to you. When and where and how. Details that I can check up. You give me that and the charge of receiving goes out of the window.”
Sir James Docherty said to his wife, “I’m afraid I’m off on my travels. It’s Paris again.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lady Docherty. “So soon?”
“Needs must, when public duty calls. Is there any more coffee in that pot?”
“I can squeeze out another cup. Who is it this time?”
“I’ve got semi-official talks with de Bessieres at the Quai d’Orsay. There are occasions” — Sir James dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee — “when the French Government finds it easier to make unofficial suggestions to a member of the opposition than to the Government. Then they can disclaim them if things don’t work out.”