That did not please him; he was near to being brusque. ‘You are not here with the power of decision?’
‘Let us say, Colonel, that my advice is central, but it would never do to wound the amour propre of the person with the money needed to complete, now sitting in a Swiss bank.’
‘That would be where the transaction took place?’
‘Contracts could be signed in Bucharest and the monies released on my cognisance.’
‘Let us leave that all aside, Herr Jardine, and get to know each other better. Enough has been said tonight to encourage me to believe you are a serious person, and given I have much to ponder, I fear to say more in case it is potentially misleading. I suggest, however, we commit to meet tomorrow, where I will be happy to return your generosity, for there are better places to eat and drink in Budapest than these grand hotels.’
‘Very kind.’
‘Tell me, Herr Jardine, are you a married man?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘He’s as slippery as a barrel of eels and I think he plans to ply me with food, drink and loose women tomorrow evening.’
‘Time to swap places, old fruit,’ Lanchester joked.
‘What about me?’ Vince asked. ‘Don’t I get a sniff?’
‘Find your own,’ Jardine replied as he went to his jacket and pulled out the paper Monty Redfern had given him, which he waved before the others. ‘Given I don’t trust the bugger, I think it is best if I try and find out something about him. I was given a number to call by a Jewish friend in London and there’s no time like the present.’
‘Is he Jewish too?’ Jardine nodded. ‘Then don’t call him from the room, Cal. I had a meeting with a banker today. He spent half the time railing about the Jews, as well as telling me how wonderful the Iron Guard was and how they would soon rid the country of what I think he called a pestilence. It might be worse than Germany.’
‘Christ,’ Vince exclaimed. ‘I might as well ’ave stayed fightin’ Mosley.’
‘I’ll call from the lobby.’
That was still busy, the Rumanians keeping the kind of late hours that would have pleased a Spaniard. The phone was on a desk by the reception and Jardine was just about to go to it when a fellow in a grey suit, not terribly well cut, turned his face away just a mite too quickly, bringing up the hackles. Still he went to the phone, but instead of asking for an outside line he called Vince’s room.
‘I am in the lobby, Vince, and I fear not alone. I will go out for a bit of a walk, old son, and I need a second eye. I will wait in the lobby, then take point.’
There was enough of the soldier still in Vince to pick up on what he was saying: ‘second eye’ was an expression they had used in Iraq when a man going out needed cover. ‘Taking point’, another one, was self-explanatory.
‘Gotcha, guv. Two ticks and I’ll use the stairs.’
Jardine positioned himself looking towards the lifts and staircase so he would see Vince appear, thankfully unseen by the man that needed to be checked out: his eyeline was angled. There was always a chance he was wrong, that the fellow looking away, as he had, was coincidence. When Vince appeared on the first landing, Jardine headed for the double doors at the entrance, nodding to the uniformed flunkey who held it open for him and ignoring the look of the top-hatted doorman, who wondered if he wanted a motor taxi or a trasura. Shaking his head he went past the deep rows of diners sitting in the outside restaurant and out to the plaza on which the hotel stood.
The night was warm, even slightly muggy, and the streets were busy with promenading couples, the women dressed up to the nines and the menfolk in clothing that announced good tailoring, the impression very like that of the Italian nightly passeggiata. All along the boulevard there were cafes, even open shops, and every building was lit up, giving the place an air of prosperity, not that it was complete.
Beggars were ubiquitous, overweight women swathed in shawls held forth emaciated babies, uttering a constant low-volume plea, gaunt-looking men sitting in doorways with their hands held out making a similar sound. Jardine did no more than an uneven circuit, spotting several places that should have a phone, probably a public one, before coming back to the hotel like the bored tourist he was seeking to portray. Back in his suite, Vince joined him.
‘You’re being tailed; one geezer is all I could see.’
‘Dimitrescu.’
‘Has to be, dun it?’ Vince made a fist. ‘You want I should see him off?’
‘No, there’s no point, but I want you to go up to Mr Lanchester’s room and say from now on he’s to stay off my floor. You can take messages back and forth if need be.’
‘What about that call you was gonna make, guv?’
‘I saw a few places. Any idea what the phones take?’
Vince pulled out the coins from his pocket, bani and lei notes, left over from the purchases they had made that day. As usual for a pair who did not know the currency there was a mass of it.
‘Help yourself.’
* * *
‘I’d like to speak to Israel Goldfarbeen, if I may.’ The English was a long shot — he had forgotten to ask Monty if the contact spoke it — as was the idea of hearing a reply, the cafe he was in being so busy he needed a finger in one ear.
‘You are speaking to him.’ The voice was deep, the speech careful and slow.
‘I am a friend of Monty Redfern, from London, he gave me your number.’
‘Montague Rotefarn, the alter bok, how is he?’
Not having the least idea what an ‘alter bok’ was, he replied, ‘In rude good health, sir, and my name is Jardine. I am a stranger in Bucharest and he advised me that you could help me.’
The reply was jovial. ‘Mr Hardeen, I am stranger in this country and I have lived here all my life.’
‘I’m in search of advice. Would it be possible to meet?’
‘If a bohmer like Montague sent you, how can I refuse?’ Which left Jardine wondering where to find a Yiddish dictionary. ‘You got a pen?’
‘I have.’
‘What am I saying, “pen”? You get a trasura, you say the Yiddish theatre. The driver will spit at you, the ganef, but he will want the fare, so spit back. My house is on the left of the theatre. You’ll see the lit window. Just knock.’ He then demanded to know from where he was coming. ‘But don’t pay more than thirty bani.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Now, if you like.’
Jardine looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven.’
‘In this sheise country that is midday. Come now and drink with me. I want to hear about Montague.’
He and Vince were in one of the few motor taxis not long after, having handed over a ten-lei note to the top-hatted doorman for the service of lifting his finger, Vince being sure the tail had no wheels. ‘He’s probably on the blower now, guv, telling his boss.’
‘As long as his boss doesn’t know where we’re going.’
The taxi took them from the Athenee Palace to another grand hotel, the Francez, where Jardine paid the driver off, engaging the aid — after a bit of a wait and for another ten-lei note — of a second top-hatted doorman to get another taxi. Vince, having observed others do the same, insisted that when he died and came back, a hotel doorman was the job he wanted.
‘Talk about easy green.’
‘You have to buy that job, Vince.’
‘I’ll borrow the money off you. The way the berks that use these places give tips, I’ll pay you back in a week.’
The ride was not long because Bucharest was not large, and the driver did not spit, which was just as well because Vince would probably have clouted him, but he did look as though someone had just shot his cat as Jardine paid him off.
‘Cheery sod,’ was the Londoner’s opinion.
The door opened a split second after Jardine knocked, and before him was a giant of a man in a collarless shirt, with big shoulders, protruding belly, a round smiling face and a thick red beard. ‘So rich you use motor cars, already. Enter, enter.’