DE NAJERA walked rapidly into the main street and entered a Bureau de Change, while Paul stationed himself at a shop window opposite in which he could see his prey reflected. It was a moment or two before he realized that the shining glass separated him from a delectable display of the more intimate garments worn by females, and blushing hotly he strolled on to the discreet establishment of a watchmaker. After about ten minutes, by which time he was beginning to fear that the Bureau had a back entrance, De Najera reappeared and set off briskly down the road, Paul following. He next went into an imposing-looking building which on inspection proved to be a bank, where he remained for some time. This was beginning to get boring—the man appeared to be going about some perfectly ordinary and legitimate business and Paul felt rather a fool. However, his interest revived somewhat when he saw that the third port of call was another Bureau de Change, and rose to fever heat by the time De Najera had repeated the proceeding eight or nine times, calling at every bank and bureau as he came to it. At last he went back to the hotel, got his car from the garage, and disappeared rapidly in the direction of St. Antoine. Paul hurried back to his rendezvous with Benvenuto, feeling he had some really valuable news to impart, only to find to his disappointment that his confederate had not yet returned. Paul sat down at the table where they had lunched and ordered some tea, pondering over his discovery. Was De Najera planning a getaway? He must have been handling a lot of money to have divided his patronage between so many places—and must also have been anxious to conceal the fact. Paul gave it up, and looking at his watch began to feel a little anxious about Benvenuto. It was nearly two hours since they had parted at the hairdresser’s, and though he felt the extraordinary man was more capable of looking after himself than most people, still—it would be reassuring to see him turn up.
Paul sat back and began to sort out his impressions. It was peculiar, when one came to think about it, the way he had placed complete trust in Brown after knowing him for only a few hours, and found it the most natural thing possible to take the lead from him in the whole affair; particularly as Benvenuto was by no means a transparent or easily comprehensible character. It was impossible to fit him in with the popular conception of an artist, which Paul had previously to some extent shared, the word calling up a vague mental image of some highly eccentric and impractical being whose concerns lay wholly in the realms of imagination. Eccentric, yes—his odd, rather puckish face and oblique turns of phrase fitted that; imaginative he certainly was, for, apart from his painting, his attitude towards the problem they were tackling proved that, but impractical he definitely was not. His appearance that morning in a false moustache and a taxicab, which at the time Paul had privately felt to be a little like an incident in a detective serial for boys, now seemed to be the merest common sense, and his conduct at the wheel of the aforesaid taxicab certainly proved he had judgment and nerve control. Paul was wondering what part he had played in the war when the object of his meditations drove up to the entrance of the café, looking hot, tired, but triumphant. He got down and joined Paul, flourishing a hundred-franc note in his hand.
“A little tip from my fare,” he said with modest pride. “I’d no idea taxi driving was so profitable.”
“What happened?” asked Paul.
“Well, quite a lot. It was a shame you were temporarily blinded because he wasn’t the sort of thing one sees every day. Quite the last person one would expect to find hob-nobbing with De Najera in a scent shop. The Blackfriar’s Ring would be a much more sympathetic setting. He was obviously in an opulent condition, oozing with food and glittering with rings and tie pins. I hopped into the Renault and followed him down the street, drove slowly past him, touched my cap, and said in my best broken English, ‘Taxi—you want taxi, milord?’ He did, it seemed, and on hearing his native tongue an expression of such childish joy illumined his fat red face that he quite charmed me. ‘That’s right, mate,’ he said. ‘Half a mo’ and I’ll give yer the address to go to.’ He brought out a slip of paper from his pocket with the name K. Paleidos and an address in Cannes on it, in De Najera’s handwriting, which I know well. Good enough, I thought, you’re my man. I don’t know Cannes too well, but by going into a garage, ostensibly to get some water, I learnt the direction, and the address turned out to be a dim little bric-a-brac shop near the port, with the name K. Paleidos, propriétaire, over the door, and looked like the sort of place where sailors get rid of things when they come ashore. Another establishment that doesn’t wear its heart on its sleeve, I thought. My fat friend went inside, but reappeared in a minute or two and beckoned me to come in.
“‘’Ere,’ he said, ‘can you make out what this Jane is talking about? I want Mr. Pilidos and keep telling ’er so.’
“There was rather a pretty girl in the shop who explained to me that the propriétaire had a little colic and was at home at his villa, ‘pas loin six kilometres derrière la ville sur la route de Grasse.’ We got the address from her and went along to the Villa Sphinx, which turned out to be a most palatial affair with nude ladies (in stone, of course) climbing about the façade.
“My profiteer rang the bell and was let in, and presently I wandered round the shrubbery which came close up to the house to see if I could come upon anything interesting. As luck would have it, there was an open window and from it came the sound of my fare shouting at the top of his voice, more in sorrow than in anger, in a way the English have when trying to make a foreigner understand them. I kept below the level of the window sill and had not the slightest difficulty in overhearing the conversation.
“‘Well, if yer won’t, yer won’t,’ he was saying disappointedly, and then I caught the chink of metal or glass. A suave voice replied, ‘M’sieur, I am désolé, but it is for me too dangereux. I like not to not oblige, but what will you? The affair is too recent; but if M’sieur will go to Marseille to my confrère, every satisfaction is assured to him.’ Then in a lower voice, ‘M’sieur will understand that here at Cannes I am municipal councillor, yes, friend with the police, but I cannot take such risk. At Marseille my confrère is more friend with the police, she has—how you say?—a graft. I give to you her address, enfin?’ Apparently he had to be content with this and tried, as far as I could make out, to tip Mr. Paleidos, who was much shocked. The door opened and shut and their voices died away. In a second I was in the room, and luck was with me again, for on a bureau in the corner was a little writing pad for notes. I tore the top sheet off, slid out of the window, and appeared round the corner doing up my buttons just as my fare and the discreet Mr. Paleidos came out of the door. They seemed to have got quite matey and were both smoking enormous cigars. They parted with mutual compliments, and I took Flash Fred back to his hotel, where he gave me a couple of cigars of similar proportions and a hundred-franc note, saying, ‘Au revoyer, mate, keep the change.’ ”
Benvenuto felt in his pocket and brought out a silk handkerchief which he unwrapped with care. “Corona-Coronas—and of the largest size,” he murmured reverently. “Here you are—we share the spoils.”
Paul wiped his brow. “I suppose it’s inevitable,” he said weakly.
“What’s inevitable?”
“That I should learn to smoke these things. It’s the second time in three days I’ve been given one. Last time it was a terrible fellow who came down in my sleeper who gave me a Corona and wouldn’t be denied.”
Benvenuto’s hand, which at the beginning of Paul’s speech had shot out towards the cigar, was arrested in mid-air.
“Ginger eyelashes?” he said sharply.
Paul started.
“Yes—and a bald head.”
“Check suit and tan shoes—looked like an ex-pugilist?”
Paul nodded vigorously.
“That’s it—but Brighton Race Course, I thought.”
Benvenuto beamed. “The very man! What did you learn about him?”
“Practically nothing, I’m afraid—I escaped as soon as I could and didn’t go back till he was peacefully snoring.”
“Great mistake, you know. Always talk to people in trains—I do. They’ll tell you things in the intimacy of a railway carriage that they wouldn’t breathe to their dearest friend. Most interesting. That chap would have told me how many gold teeth he’d got, what his income was, and where he’d bought his boots, which would have been a revelation in itself.”
“Now I come to think about it,” said Paul, “he did tell me he’d come into some money lately.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Benvenuto jumped up. “Let’s get to hell out of here. I want to think. And I want to hear what Hernandez does when he’s alone.”
They climbed into the taxi.