“That’s an un-American activity,” said Fiona.
“Oh no,” said Harry, “we still got a couple of things that have to be done by hand.”
George Ferdinand apologised profusely to Harry about having to leave early, telling him that he had a little business to take care of. I caught his attention for just a fraction of a second. There was something odd about the way, when under a little pressure, his eyes never stayed still, flitting in all directions. There was constant perspiration on his upper lip and forehead.
Since meeting him five hours ago my opinion hadn’t changed; this man was not to be trusted.
The waves were tripping over, crashing on to and falling through the foamy, hissing remnants of their predecessors. I wondered how long before we would begin doing the same?
Chapter 7
Rumple’s ruddy colour had returned to his cheeks. He was perched on a chair by the French doors that opened out to the garden, checking over and cleaning his dive equipment. Mrs Rumple looked up from her typing as we came into the room. We, however, all looked a little worse for wear after several of Harry Caplin’s cocktails.
Rumple came over to me and said, “I caught a chap snooping around the front gates earlier, sir. An unsavoury character if ever I saw one. When I asked him what he thought he was doing snooping around, he said that he had an appointment to see you. To be honest, sir, I didn’t believe him and challenged him further by walking down to where he was stood.”
“Unfortunately, before I got to him he’d jumped into his car, wound the side window down and before driving off; he said to tell you to be at La Café, the one down by the beach, at nine o’clock sharp.”
“Did he now, well I certainly didn’t have any appointments today because no one knows that I’m here. Did he give his name Rumple?”
“No sir. Unfortunately he went off down the road like a shot out of a gun. But I’d recognise him alright”
“Go on then man; tell me, what did he look like?” I said impatiently.
“Well, sir, he was tall with smarmed hair parted down the middle, I’d say he was late forties, possibly early fifties. He had a thin long face and a complexion that looked like a lunar landscape on a very bad day.”
I showered and put on a change of clothes. Before going back downstairs, I made sure the automatic pistol now holstered under my arm was completely concealed. Satisfied, I went down to tell the others what to do if for any reason I didn’t phone in on the hour, every hour.
I pulled the Mercedes into the car park of La Café. In the far corner I spotted the blue Porsche, the registration was the same as the car that had recently followed me all the way from Bournemouth to London. Owned by Mr Robert Flackyard.
“Good evening, Mr Dillon — so good of you to join me.” The voice was familiar yet the tone was now cruel and cold. His words hung in mid air, suspended on invisible wires.
I slowly turned to greet the darting eyes and sweaty face of George Ferdinand, who was sat at a small circular table overlooking the water. A handful of people were sitting at the bar talking and laughing loudly, as people do when they’ve had too much to drink. Otherwise the café was virtually empty.
I spoke with deliberate nonchalant slowness.
“Well, well, Mr Ferdinand — what a pleasure, we meet again so soon. Why am I not surprised to see you? Is this the little bit of business you had to take care of?” I noticed the small automatic laid on his lap partly covered by his jacket. He stroked the silenced barrel slowly up and down as if it were some sort of phallic. His eyes darted up at me and caught me looking at it.
“I have no wish to harm you Mr Dillon or your friends. I am here to escort you to Mr Flackyard’s home in Canford Cliffs. He wishes to have a conversation with you, that’s all. My instructions are to ensure that you arrive at his home safely and on time.” He stood up, the 9mm held in his left hand covered by his jacket now draped over his arm. The barrel pointing directly at my stomach, without a word he jabbed the gun in the direction of the rear door.
As I got up to leave I said over my shoulder, “Listen, George, the gun under the coat routine, it’s a bit of a cliché, you know? Why don’t you be a good boy and put it away before you hurt someone. After all, you know that you won’t use that peashooter in public. There are far too many witnesses around, and it would be much simpler if you were to put it away yourself, before I have too take it away from you?” The end of the pistol barrel was sharply jabbed in the small of my back in reply.
Once outside he stopped and said. “I’m reliably informed Mr Dillon, that you are carrying an automatic pistol under your left arm. Please be so kind as to pass it to me — carefully.”
I was instructed to get into the driver’s seat of the Porsche. “If I don’t call in on the hour, there will be an army of police at Flackyard’s house within five minutes,” I said.
“Please don’t be so melodramatic Mr Dillon. Mr Flackyard would not be that stupid. Feel free to use your mobile phone whenever you wish,” he said with a sneer. “Now if you don’t mind, please drive. Our host does not like to be kept waiting.”
I parked the Porsche in a secluded side road lined with cherry blossom trees on either side.
George was still waving his gun about as he told me to get out of the car.
He slowly pushed open the wrought iron gate, the hinges protesting noisily at this interruption of their slumber. Holding it open for me, he said in a lowered voice, “This is where I leave you, Mr Dillon. Please walk towards the house.
“A member of the staff will come and meet you.” With that he silently left me alone at the home of Mr Robert Flackyard, entrepreneur and probably one of the biggest criminals on the South coast.
By 9.15pm the sun is well down. To the west the skyline was intensely mauve and the sun, hitting the higher storey of the white Spanish style house, made it as pink as the flowers on the rhododendrons along its walls. The last rays of the sun did a spray job on the side of Flackyard’s angular face, and behind him the gold lettering from some of his exquisite first edition book collection did a glittery dance over his shoulder. The house was richly furnished and I didn’t have to be asked to dinner to know that the cutlery would be only the highest quality sterling silver.
On Robert Flackyard’s contemporary cherry wood desk was a porcelain-and-gold pen set, a gold letteropener, the latest hi-tech computer flat screen and half a dozen A4 typed sheets. They weren’t held down with bottle tops, either.
“I understand you to be a keen diver, Mr Dillon, an expert on wrecks in particular, I am led to believe?”
It wasn’t an exact description, but it wasn’t a question open to retort, either.
I said nothing. Flackyard undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie; he then motioned me to sit. I wondered just how much outside of the law you had to be to have a set-up like this.
“In the course of time, this coast has attracted adventurers of all sorts. Not all of them have sought recently lost treasure, and some of them have been far from successful. To the point of losing there lives.”
We sat opposite each other in soft luxurious leather sofas, a low glass coffee table in the middle separating us. A man dressed in a formal black suite, white shirt and dark tie appeared in the doorway.
“Would you like tea or coffee Mr Dillon, or perhaps something a little stronger?” Flackyard asked.
“Coffee would be fine, thank you, black and strong please.”