‘Not going quite as we expected,’ suggested Cuthbertson.
‘No,’ admitted Wilberforce.
Upon whom, wondered Cuthbertson, would the man try to put the responsibility this time?
NINETEEN
The lunch with Willoughby was as open as that of the previous day, but kept to a much tighter schedule. For that reason they ate at the Ritz, because the bank Charlie had carefully chosen was a private one less than five hundred yards away in Mayfair and he wanted to begin on foot.
They left at three o’clock. Charlie paused outside, handing Willoughby the document case while he struggled into a Burberry, turning the collar up under the dark brown trilby hat.
‘You look rather odd,’ said Willoughby.
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s hope others think so too.’
‘I’d hate to think we’re wasting our time,’ said the underwriter.
‘We’re not,’ Charlie assured him. ‘Believe me, we’re not.’
I hope, he thought.
He led the way through the traffic stop-starting along Piccadilly and up Stratton Street.
An assistant manager was waiting for the appointment that Charlie had made by telephone, one of several calls he had made after speaking to Edith. The formalities were very brief, but Charlie lingered all alone in the safe deposit vault, keeping strictly to the timing that had been rehearsed with the others in Willoughby’s office. Edith would have already decided her route and timetable, thought Charlie, sighing. Maybe even packed. She always liked doing things well in advance.
He and Willoughby left the bank at three-fifty, turning up Curzon Street towards Park Lane.
‘We’re running to the minute,’ said Charlie.
‘Are you sure we’re being followed?’ asked Willoughby.
‘Stake my life on it,’ said Charlie, smiling at the unintended irony. ‘In fact, I am,’ he added.
‘I feel rather ridiculous,’ said Willoughby.
‘You’re supposed to feel scared,’ said Charlie.
Four o’clock was striking as they emerged in front of the park. For several seconds they remained on the pavement, looking either way, as if seeking a taxi.
‘Here we go,’ said Charlie, seeing a break in the traffic stream and hurrying across towards the underground car park. The limousine came up the ramp as they reached the exit and the chauffeur hardly braked as Charlie and Willoughby entered. It slotted easily into the stream of vehicles, heading north towards Marble Arch.
‘Now I feel scared,’ confessed Willoughby.
‘There’s nothing illegal,’ Charlie said.
The halt outside the Marble Arch underground station was purposely sudden, causing a protest of brakes from the line of cars behind, but before the first horn blast Charlie and Willoughby were descending the stairs. They caught the train immediately, an unexpected advantage. As he sat down, Charlie looked at his watch. They were two minutes ahead of schedule, he saw.
‘Only another ten minutes and we’ll see the beginning of the rush hour,’ he said.
Willoughby nodded, without replying. He was staring straight ahead, tight-lipped. The man was scared, Charlie realised.
They jerked away from the train at Oxford Circus almost as the doors were closing, going up the escalator on the left and walking swiftly. The car pulled smoothly into the kerb as they emerged, turned quickly left through the one-way system into Soho and then regained Regent Street.
‘I wish we could go faster,’ muttered Willoughby.
‘Speed isn’t important,’ said Charlie.
There was no need for the braking manoeuvre at Piccadilly station because there was a traffic jam. Charlie led again, bustling down the stairs. This time they sat without speaking until they reached Green Park. As they came up beneath the shadow of the hotel in which they’d eaten, one of Willoughby’s clerks, wearing a Burberry, trilby and carrying a document case fell into step with them and the three of them entered the vehicle.
‘There’s still a car with us,’ volunteered the driver, taking a traffic light at amber and accelerating into the underpass on the way to Knightsbridge.
They got out at Knightsbridge station and as they descended the stairway a second clerk, dressed identically to the first and also carrying a matching case, joined the group. They travelled only as far as South Kensington, but when they emerged for the car this time, one of the raincoated men turned away, walking quickly into Gloucester Road. There was another clerk at Victoria and this time they went on for two stations, getting off at the height of the rush hour at Embankment. The throng of people covered the delay of the car reaching them. They travelled north again, to Leicester Square, and when they got out this time, the man who had left them in Kensington was waiting, joining without any greeting until Holborn. They crowded into the car, sped down Southampton Row and then boarded a District Line train at Temple. The car turned, going back along the Strand, circling Trafalgar Square, then pulled in for petrol in St Martin’s Lane.
On the underground, the group changed at Monument station, caught a Northern line train and disembarked unhurriedly at Bank. According to the prearranged plan, they waited outside the underwriter’s office for the car. It took five minutes to arrive.
‘Let’s go inside, shall we?’ said Willoughby, to the three clerks.
‘So where’s the Fabergé collection?’ quietly complained one of the three men. ‘Lot of stupid bloody rubbish.’
He’d missed the 6.30 to Sevenoaks and now his wife would be late for her pottery classes.
‘You got a new raincoat out of it,’ reminded the man next to him.
‘Bought one last week,’ said the clerk. ‘Sod it.’
To the others in the room, it seemed like blind, irrational rage, but Wilberforce’s emotion was really fear, matched almost equally with self-pity. Now the Director sat hunched forward at his desk, even the pipes temporarily forgotten.
‘How could it have happened?’ he demanded, wearily. ‘How the hell could it have possibly happened?’
A sob jerked his voice and he coughed quickly, to disguise it from the others in the room.
‘We never considered he would be able to get that much help,’ said Snare. ‘We just couldn’t adjust quickly enough.’
‘It was a brilliant manoeuvre,’ added Cuthbertson.
‘We should do something to Willoughby,’ said Snare vehemently.
‘What?’ demanded Wilberforce. ‘There’s no law against playing silly buggers on an underground train. And we’ve already ensured his firm is going to lose money.’
‘Frighten him, at least,’ maintained Snare.
‘Aren’t there more important things to worry about?’ asked Cuthbertson.
‘Christ,’ moaned Wilberforce, in another surge of self-pity. ‘Oh, Christ.’
A secretary tried to announce the arrival of the Americans, but Smith and Ruttgers followed her almost immediately into the room. Braley’s entry was more apologetic.
‘Lost him!’ challenged the American Director. It was a prepared accusation, the outrage too false.
‘And what happened to your men?’ retorted Wilberforce instantly.
Smith hesitated, disconcerted that his separate operation had been discovered.
‘Just a precaution,’ he tried to recover.
‘Which didn’t work. So it was a stupid waste of time and effort,’ said Wilberforce, refusing to be intimidated. ‘We’ve both made a mess of it and squabbling among ourselves isn’t going to help. Recovery is all that matters now.’
‘How, for God’s sake?’ asked Smith. ‘By now Charlie Muffin could be a million miles away.’
‘I had men at every port and airport within an hour,’ said Wilberforce, anxious to disclose some degree of expertise. ‘He’s still here, somewhere.’