The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac (9 page)

Traffic had died away. The night was silent except for the humming of an occasional car on the main road. For the first hour Zia was continually looking at her watch and finding that her estimate of time had to be divided by three. The house was all quiet innocence without a sign of life save the darkening of one ground floor window. As another hour dragged on she was tempted to take some action—any action. She insisted that an enterprising burglar would long ago have been in through the window and had to remind herself that the burglar was unlikely ever to reappear. To fill up time she reconnoitered the quickest way to the lane, nearer than she thought, and established to her satisfaction that she was quite alone in the garden.

She was beginning to wonder how she had allowed herself to be taken in by Irata and his story when the white boat with no lights showing came drifting out of the night as silently as a swan, with barely enough steerage way to reach the landing stage. Caught in the open between terraces she dropped flat in a flowerbed. She could just make out a man outlined against the sky as he stepped ashore and moored his craft. He then came up the steps of the two terraces, passing her closely, and she heard him crunching over the gravel of the drive as he approached the front door. Shortly afterwards all lights in the house were extinguished.

On board the boat was neither light nor a sound. It seemed safe to take a closer, cautious look. It was a motor cruiser with a saloon amidships and a skylight in the bows, probably over a cabin where Georges could safely be confined during the voyage down river. Her experience was only of Danube navigation, but the boat appeared easily capable of that much and ought to be good enough for the open sea. Nobody was left on board unless asleep which was unlikely. Its name was
Amanda
.

They must have emerged from a french window opening on to the lawn for there was no crunch of gravel to warn her. The first she heard of them was a murmur of low voices. Escape under cover of the terrace was still easy but she was determined to observe. In a minute there was not going to be anything more, ever, to observe. The only game was to delay, leaving them with darkness, a mystery, a mess. She cast off the cruiser's painter, lay down and pushed with back against the bollard, legs against the bows. The cruiser drifted away into midstream and she had just time to creep out into the marsh along the fallen willow branch.

Four figures were approaching the landing stage, one leading the way with a pool of light on the ground ahead of him and another man immediately following. Behind him were Georges and a companion. The leader, who sounded as Fyster-Holmes ought to sound, exclaimed:

‘My God! You didn't moor her properly!'

‘Of course I did. She's still moving. Someone has just done it.'

‘Irata! He must be in the marsh.'

‘I'll reach her while you get him. Is the pole in the punt?'

‘Yes.'

The second speaker ran down over the grass and landing stage and jumped, just making the stern of the punt and tumbling forward into the bottom. Pushing the punt clear of the mud, he drifted down on the cruiser and started the engines.

Chapter Five

Georges Rivac entered the car which had so courteously stopped for him. Asked if he was bound for Oxford, he replied that he was. The driver said that he himself was going to Oxford, but on the way wanted to see about some business at Waterperry which wouldn't take a minute. Georges knew the little village and took it for granted that the business was with its horticultural station since there was nothing much else. The driver seemed reluctant to discuss horticulture, switching the conversation to his passenger on the excuse that he appeared familiar with the district. On that point Georges was careful to give nothing away and took refuge in an unlikely story of a broken down car. Only then did it occur to him that he was on his guard against trusting anybody with his past but had impatiently trusted with his present the first person who came along.

By this time they had turned off the main road through the village of Waterstock and into a lane which was hardly more than a field track. Georges pointed out that they could not get to Waterperry that way, but the driver kept going with confidence. Bumping across ruts he turned a sharp bend.

‘Ah, there he is!' he exclaimed and pulled up behind a plain black van parked on the verge.

He got out leaving the door open. Simultaneously Appinger, that hospitable Intertatry manager last seen at Lille, swooped from the back of the van. Georges promptly obeyed the order to change from car to van, for the barrel of an automatic was only a foot from his head. The van started as soon as the door slammed. The whole operation had not taken more than twenty seconds.

He was thankful to be alive; he could just as well have been popped into the van as a corpse. It had been so smooth and easy a kidnapping that he was ashamed of himself. Surely it should have been possible to resist, to run, to yell? But one needed experience. Criminals, secret agents, policemen, they knew what to do. Probably had a practice ground somewhere. And he might have had the sense to remember that they wanted him alive and wouldn't shoot.

Of course! That jay this morning had been right. Somebody had followed him from Thame, lost him in the wood where he met Zia, picked him up as he was meant to do when he left, lost him before he entered Alderton—he was sure of that—and waited till he reappeared on his way to the main road. Then a quick phone call, and out came the car in the hope of collecting him.

The choice of the deserted track was excellent and the journey too short for him to start thinking and become suspicious. Appinger and his service must have quickly recruited an assistant who knew the country well and lived not far off. No telling where. The van was windowless with a partition between him and the front seats, and he could not distinguish the direction in which it was heading. So far as he could judge there was a short spell of main road, a long spell of secondary roads, then through a town and a steady run. Thirty-five minutes in all. Say, twenty miles from Waterstock.

When the van stopped, the Czech slipped through the back door still with his pistol. And no arguing with that, Georges, even if they do want you alive. May not be pleasant. Well, damned if I commit suicide like Kren. With a sack pulled over his head and shoulders he was led across a gravel drive, through the ground floor of a house, up three flights of stairs and into a room. When the door was locked he took off the sack as nobody seemed present to object. He found he was in a little suite of bedroom and bathroom, window facing west on to trees with a hint of downland beyond them. A guest room, probably, in a mature house which might be anywhere.

As soon as he had sat down and drawn breath Appinger came in, giving him no time to think. He was not armed—or not visibly—but taking no chances. Before the door shut Georges caught a glimpse of a stocky fellow on guard outside.

‘Now what is this?' he exclaimed. ‘What have I done? What has Intertatry got against me?'

Absolute ignorance was, he reckoned, the best and simplest game to play: to throw himself back to six days ago and to know no more than he did then. It was not likely that he would be believed, but at least the questions might show him how much they suspected.

‘What a pity that you did not come to Prague with me and avoid all this embarrassment!' the Czech replied in his harsh French.

‘But I was coming!
Voyons
, M Appinger! I just had to visit England first on business.'

‘And what was the business?'

‘But you know already! Karel Kren wanted me to call on some government importers who had been making enquiries about the new model of the engine. He said he had not time to go himself.'

‘Why you?'

‘I understood it was because I had been doing some promising business for Intertatry and I spoke good English. I was very surprised. His visit was entirely unexpected.'

‘There had been no such enquiries, M Rivac.'

‘So I was told. I couldn't make sense of it.'

‘Who did you call on?'

‘But I told you in Lille. The Ministry of Defence. A Mr Lester.'

George again omitted Bridge Holdings. Going by Paul Longwill's description of the firm and its reputation for collecting information, it could be suspect.

‘What message did you give them from Kren?'

‘No message. I did my sales talk and answered questions. I think they are going to give you a trial order.'

Appinger spread out the contents of Rivac's case on the table: pyjamas, toilet necessaries, passport, traveller's cheques and the large envelope he had received that morning. He opened it and pulled out Suzi's two letters.

‘You see, M Appinger! Only on Friday, three days ago, you left a present for me from Intertatry. This change of attitude is incredible,' Georges protested.

‘We are always generous, M Rivac.'

Appinger glanced casually through the letters and put them back in their envelope.

‘Why did you ask for these brochures?'

‘Because I had left them behind.'

‘But on your first visit to England you had them with you.'

One of Georges's intuitions suddenly sparked and flared.

‘But, Monsieur le Directeur, that is just what I did not. On my first journey I did not bother to take any sales literature, understanding from M Kren that they had it all. I found that they did not. They needed details of the improved engine and the quite revolutionary exhaust to prevent fumes in any workshop. Well, I could have sent them copies of the new brochure by post, but you were so polite, so grateful for my services to M Kren that I thought the least I could do was to go over again and deliver them in person. But that was hard to fit in. I had engagements. I was flustered and in a hurry. And when I opened my case in London what did I find? That inexcusably I had packed the brochures for the older model. Both, you must admit, are much alike, both covers pale blue and showing the size of our little engine compared with a litre mug of Pilsner. So at once I telephoned my secretary to send me the right ones.'

Though such inefficiency was not in George's character, the gush of nervous excuses was. He almost convinced himself that the mistake had really happened, but his interrogator offered neither sympathy nor comment and disconcertingly changed the subject.

‘What are you doing at this village of Alderton?'

‘I was there because I knew it as a boy. I have an old friend whom I like to revisit when I can—my grandmother's housekeeper.'

‘And who else?'

‘Nobody. So many years have passed.'

‘Who was the man you met in the wood this morning?'

‘I met no one. I was taking a walk. Very natural, is it not, to revisit scenes of one's youth? M Appinger, I do not know what you can have got into your head. This is an outrage!'

‘An outrage, Rivac? Then explain this second letter from your secretary! You were witness to a fatal accident.'

‘Unfortunately, yes.'

‘Can you tell me what happened?'

‘A man fell overboard. The captain said his name was Rippmann.'

‘I am aware of that. Perhaps you will tell me how you recognised him?'

‘I didn't recognise him. How should I?'

‘Then I will put it this way. How did you know he was to report your movements?'

‘But why should anyone report my movements? I still do not understand.'

‘Enough fooling, Rivac! Do you expect me to believe it was a coincidence that you just happened to witness the death of a man whom you wanted to get rid of?'

‘But I didn't want to get rid of him. I knew nothing of him.'

‘Rippmann had a colleague with him on the ship, Rivac.'

A lie! The colleague would have reported the presence and involvement of Zia.

‘Well, if he'd got any eyes he could tell you what happened. The sea was very rough. This Rippmann was puking over the side. He had forgotten to take out his dentures and overbalanced trying to catch them when they fell.'

‘With a little help from you. It is not customary for agents to commit murder, M Rivac.'

It seemed more and more certain that they knew nothing of Zia. That was quite possible if Harbour Police had taken no action and merely filed the doubtful case. And Appinger had not pressed the question of a meeting in the wood, seeming to accept his explanation. Perhaps when off duty his own heart—if he had one—was among the mushrooms of some Russian birch wood.

‘For the love of God. I am nobody's agent.'

‘I do not think you are, or you wouldn't be here. How much did Kren pay you?'

‘Nothing. Why should he?'

‘What message did he trust you with?'

‘I repeat—apart from business, none! At least tell me what it is supposed to be about!'

‘M Rivac, you are rather cleverer than I expected. I fear that you will have to come with me to Prague after all. Think it over!'

He was left to think it over. What was it Zia had told him? ‘They will put it down to your courage, not your innocence.' Courage, hell! He'd hand them those bloody brochures with pleasure if he had them. Or would he? It would be interesting to find out. A worse problem was Zia. His perfectly simple story might well be accepted provided he was free to explain Zia's part in it. The French are gallant, she said. And so, by God, we are! What about the plaque on the wall of the Rue Feidherbe? Damn the little love!

When Appinger brought him a tray of supper he was accompanied by a masked man, tall, middle-aged and of some distinction to judge by clothes and bearing, who examined him with interest but did not open his mouth. He could well be the owner of this very civilised house and especially careful that his face should never be recognised. Georges was then left alone for the night.

Escape was impossible. The stout door was locked. The window had been very recently nailed up. He found a clothes brush marked with a silver F-H which had evidently been overlooked, for everything else which might give a clue to identity had been removed. The brush and warm water provided an occupation in trying to improve the state of his Lille business suit. Longwill and his masked host had made him conscious of rumpled shabbiness. He wondered whether he had been taken for a small, provincial business man ready to accept anybody's money or whether secret agents normally tried to look insignificant.

At first light he at last fell asleep so soundly that he was woken up by Appinger with breakfast.

‘Have you thought it over, M Rivac?'

‘A thousand times! But still I do not know what you have against me. Kren called on me, good! But why shouldn't he? In any case he was a member of the Party.'

The moment he had said it he knew it was a disastrous mistake. The technique of keeping him sweet and amenable and then encouraging conversation when he was in a comfortable bed and half awake had worked.

‘So you are aware that Kren was a traitor!'

‘Traitor? To what?'

‘Come, come, Rivac! If your dealings with Kren were purely commercial what does it matter whether he was or was not a member of the Party?'

‘Well, I can see you believe he was up to something political.'

‘Why?'

‘Look at the trouble you have taken to find me! I cannot imagine how you did it.'

‘As soon as you realise that there is little we do not know, the better for you.'

‘Then, M Appinger, I will put a question myself if you allow it. Why the devil should I push this Rippmann overboard?'

‘Yesterday I asked you how you recognised him. It is one of the points which will have the attention of my colleagues in Prague.'

‘Of Intertatry?'

‘Rivac, you are overdoing your part of an innocent. You know very well by now that I am not employed by Intertatry. So shall we assume that your first visit to London was to establish contact and your second visit to deliver—what?'

‘The brochures which I forgot. I have told you already.'

‘As yet Intertatry have never ordered any new brochures to be printed.'

Georges was silent. There at last was proof that the brochures did indeed contain Kren's message. His only hope was to hand them over; then the truth—that he had believed Kren and quite naturally obeyed his instructions—stood a chance of being accepted. The time for any other defence of himself had passed. And in any case what was there to defend?

‘Where are those brochures now?'Appinger asked.

To his dismay Georges heard himself answering:

‘But naturally I posted them at once to Mr Lester at the Ministry of Defence.'

‘You posted nothing this morning. You never entered Alderton. You opened the envelope in the main square of Thame, read the contents and left at once to revisit scenes of your youth.'

‘And found them charming, M Appinger.'

‘Then I will leave you with another charming thought to occupy your morning. If you disappear, your friends in Lille will believe you are in England and your friends in England will believe you have returned to Lille. You are such a traveller, and always it seems at short notice. It will be some time before anyone discovers where you are or may be. Now enjoy your breakfast! It will be your last meal today.'