She wrinkled her pink nose with pleasure. I said, 'Carver. Rex Carver. I think there's a parcel here for me.'
She picked at the corner of the banker's card and said, 'Carvaire…?'
I knew she would.
'Oui, Carvaire.'
She turned away to the rows of pigeon holes behind her, had a brief chat with a chum on her left, and then, starting on the lower row which ran backwards from Z, gave herself the trouble of a long ride up to C. There was a wad of stuff in it which she brought over to me.
'Carvaire?' She started to sort through it.
'That's right.'
She shuffled through the lot, and then shook her head at me.
'There is nozzings, monsieur. Caballaire, there is.'
'Carvaire,' I said. But my heart was right down in my ginger suede shoes already. Nothing she held in her hand looked the size of the parcel I had sent.
'I'm sorry, monsieur. Perhaps he comes the next collection?'
I shook my head and began to gather up the lettuce leaves. I was about to turn away — wondering what the hell had happened, the thought flashing through my mind that maybe Aristide had been at work (he could have made a check of every poste restante in the East of France by now and picked it up) — when the girl said with a sudden note of recognition in her voice, 'Ah, you are Mr Carvaire?'
'Yes.'
'Then it is explained. You are guest of Monsieur O'Dowda, no?' From the way she said it, it was clear that she knew Mr O'Dowda. Who wouldn't in this district? He owned half a mountain not six miles away.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I was way ahead of her. But there was no stopping her. A guest from the château was something to relish and hold on to for a while.
'But Mr O'Dowda himself telephones this morning to see for parcel of his guest, Mr Carvaire. I say, yes, is waiting, so he send his chauffeur with passport for parcel. It is not long ago. One hour, maybe. Maybe a little more. The chauffeur I know well. Is a little man, much joking and winking the eye…'
I didn't wait for the full description of Kermode. I was on my way out.
I sat in the car and lit a cigarette, smoking it as though I hated it, sucking the life out of it. Not Aristide but O'Dowda had done it. O'Dowda had had more to go on. He had my suit with my passport in it. I had told him that the parcel was poste restante. I had told him that it wasn't far away. He could have phoned every main post office around the lake in half an hour and his name would have waived aside all question of formalities. Monsieur O'Dowda's guest? Certainly. Mr O'Dowda's guests were always important… politicians, film stars, the famous… naturally one would send the chauffeur down with a passport for identification.
So what did I do now?
O'Dowda had the parcel. I could imagine him and Kermode, sitting up there in their wax works, laughing their heads off, and probably celebrating with a few bottles of champagne. It would be good stuff, too, as the occasion demanded. Veuve Clicquot, Brut Gold Label, 1959, probably.
I chucked the cigarette out of the car window and swore. Aloud. One word. A good, coarse, satisfying one, and it did something for me. The key log in the timber jam slipped and the run began. O'Dowda was not going to keep the parcel. If ever God had made one man who was due for a disappointment it was O'Dowda. I elected myself as the chosen instrument to bring it about. I didn't know how, but I was going to do it. There wasn't any point in thinking of the hows and whys and whats. At this moment the only sensible course was to home on the target. But before I did I had to make sure of Julia's safety.
I went into the post office to the telephones and called Najib.
When he answered, I said, 'Look, there's a little hitch over the parcel. Nothing serious, but it might be rather later in the day before I can get my hands on it. Is that all right?' I tried to keep my voice normal. It wasn't easy.
Najib said, 'Let's get one thing straight, Mr Carver. I'm trusting you over this. But I cannot go on trusting and waiting for ever. If you do not telephone saying you have the parcel by six o'clock this evening, my deduction will be that you will never have it. In that case I shall have to take other steps. Just which at the moment defeats me. But one thing is certain. If someone else gets the parcel — then you know what will happen to Miss Julia. And, Mr Carver — I shall know very soon if anyone else has it because they will not delay in letting us know. Anymore than I should delay in letting them know that I had it. Understand?'
'Don't worry,' I said lightly. 'You'll get it.'
I rang off and went out.
It was difficult to keep my speed low going through the town. Once through, I put my foot down hard. But if I thought that speed would wipe out thought, I was disappointed. All the way I kept asking myself — how? How was I going to get the parcel? Long before I got there it became clear to me that the last thing I could do was to barge in empty-handed on O'Dowda. The man dealt in force, understood power. The only way to deal with him was from a position of strength. That was the logic. How did one translate it into practical terms?
CHAPTER NINE
'I rage, I melt, I burn…'
I turned off the main road into the driveway to the château, but I didn't go straight to the place. I swung off up the track to the lake.
The Rolls-Royce was standing outside the cottage on flat rear tyres. I went into the cottage, looking for something that would weigh nicely in the hand and give me a feeling of confidence. I had no luck inside. My suit was there with my passport gone, and there was a mass of fishing tackle, but I couldn't find a single sporting gun or any other weapon. The best I could do was a heavy wrench from Kermode's bench.
But outside, an idea struck me. I went over to the Rolls-Royce. In the glove compartment was the compressed-air pistol which had been taken off me when they had jumped me in Geneva. I took it and left the wrench.
I drove back almost to the main driveway and then left the car in the cover of some trees. I made the rest of the way to the château on foot, keeping well off the drive.
A big shooting brake was parked by the entrance steps. I watched the château from the cover of the trees, saw no movement, and started to work my way around the back. I wanted to be inside without anyone seeing me enter. I found a side door and enough cover from a thick thuya hedge to get me to it unseen.
I went into a wide, stone-flagged corridor. When I was half-way down it a door opened suddenly a few yards ahead of me and a man came out and dropped a suitcase on the stone floor. It was Durnford and he saw me.
I went up to him, gun in hand, and he backed into the room. I went after him. It was a bedroom and one glance showed me that he was in the process of packing up.
'Leaving the happy home?'
'Yes.'
He hadn't been drinking. He was stone cold sober. He was more than that. He was pure ice. Gone was the nervous flicker of the eyes, gone the bad-tempered officiousness. Something had happened to change him. Normally I might have tried to find out what, but at the moment I had my own problems.
I said, 'Where are they?'
He turned and began to stuff shirts and underwear into another case. Over his shoulder, he said, 'On the second floor.'
'In the waxworks?'
'Yes. Celebrating. They had a case of champagne sent up.'
'Celebrating what?'
'I don't know. And if I did, I wouldn't tell you.'
He was right back to not liking me. And not only me. At this moment he wasn't liking anybody.
I said, 'How long will they be there?'
'Until they come out.'
'If they had a case sent up it might be a long time.'
'Yes. When they decide to get drunk, they take their time. They're both Irishmen. You know how drunk an Irishman can get.'