Since, this time, she had with her only the one boy, a polite and biddable viscount, and realised that she might be pressed for time, Mrs. Chaytor decided to use the hovercraft crossing from Dover. She was in Paris by midday and had completed the handover of her charge before one o’clock. She then made her way, on foot, up the Boulevard de Magenta, passing the western end of the Gare du Nord. She noticed that the Café Continental was back in business, though looking sadly battered. She was heading for the maze of small streets that lay to the north of the station, on the other side of the Boulevard de La Chapelle.
She had been warned that she might be followed and had been told to take no notice of it. ‘Carry on as normal,’ Harry Meyer had told her cheerfully. She hoped that he knew what he was doing.
The Café d’Afrique, which she found in the Rue Jessaint, was a smaller and quieter place than her previous rendezvous. There was a single line of half a dozen tables on the pavement, none of them occupied. She stumbled down two steps into the dark interior where she found a bald man, with his sleeves rolled up, leaning over the ‘zinc’, and two workmen drinking Pernod and arguing with him. The discussion, a political one, was accompanied by thumpings on the bar and other gestures of dissent and defiance. She succeeded, finally, in attracting the bald man’s attention and he served her with a cup of lukewarm coffee, which she paid for.
Her appointment was for two o’clock and when this hour had come and gone she began to get worried. On previous occasions her contacts had been punctual to the minute and she had been instructed that if they failed to arrive she should take herself off as quickly as possible and return home without making any further attempt to get in touch.
She decided to give it exactly five minutes. At four minutes past, when she was gathering her things together, the street door opened. But it was only a small and grubby boy. He came into the café, looked round, and sauntered over towards Mrs. Chaytor. He seemed fascinated by her coloured umbrella which was propped against the table and stared at it and at its owner with bland impertinence.
The proprietor, spotting him, said, “Défilez, goujon,” before continuing his discussion which had ascended to a climax of fury. The boy took no notice of the insult, but sidled up to Mrs. Chaytor and said what she guessed to be, “Are you waiting for someone?”
She nodded. The boy dipped a hand into the pocket of his baggy ankle-length trousers and produced an envelope. He said, with a grin, “There is nothing to pay, ma mère,” and sidled out followed by a glare from the proprietor.
The paper in the envelope said, ‘Leave without haste and make your way to the Gare du Nord. Opposite the steps which lead down to the Metro you will notice a line of four guichets. They deal with such matters as, reservations, group tickets and refunds. They are not much patronised. The guichet on the left will be shut. Approach it at exactly half-past two. This is important. Time yourself by the clock above the Metro steps. Knock on the guichet window. When the man, who will be waiting inside, opens it, do what he says.’ The note was typewritten and was unsigned. She folded it, put it in her handbag, finished the coffee and made for the door. None of the three men spared her a glance. The street outside seemed to be empty.
Mrs. Chaytor was a woman who usually managed to control her nerves, but she was conscious that her mouth was dry. She said to herself, ‘Don’t hurry. You’ve time to spare. Spend a few minutes buying yourself a paper at the bookstall. Don’t keep looking at your watch. There are plenty of clocks in the station.”
She located the guichet which had been described in the note. At two twenty-nine, she started to stroll towards it. When she knocked the interior blind shot up as though she had touched a spring. There was a speak-through attachment in the glass of the window. A man whom she could only see indistinctly said, “Go to the door on your left. It will be unlocked.” The blind shot down as quickly as it had gone up.
The door was marked, ‘Personnel SNCF’. She turned the handle, pushed the door open and went through, pulling it shut behind her. Now that she had a clear view of the sallow youth who was waiting inside she realised one thing. He was terrified almost out of his wits. His hand was shaking so badly that he bungled the job of refastening the bolts on the inside of the door. She pushed him aside and finished the job for him. “Well,” she said sharply. “What now?”
“Through there.” He was pointing to a door on the other side of the room. “Quickly, quickly.”
“It would save time, young man,” said Mrs. Chaytor, in her most schoolmistress-like French, “if you pulled yourself together and gave me proper instructions.”
The youth gulped and said, speaking a little more calmly, “You go through there, along the passage and down the stairs. At the bottom you will find a door which you can open.”
“Very well. And then?”
“That is all I know. Now, please, please go.”
He was almost on his knees. Mrs. Chaytor moved off with deliberate slowness. When she reached the door at the foot of the stairs she found that it was both locked and bolted, but as the key and the bolts were both on her side she opened it without difficulty and stepped out. She was in an alley, between one side of the station and a windowless block that looked like a warehouse. While she was wondering what to do next, a closed car slid up beside her.
She recognised the driver, a stout and jolly-looking man who had acted as go-between on previous occasions. Everyone addressed him as Jojo. She had never discovered his real name. When she started to get in beside him he held up one fat hand and gestured her into the back. After she had climbed in and shut the door she discovered that the windows were curtained. Jojo drove off, gathering speed as he cleared the mouth of the alleyway.
This was a part of Paris that Mrs. Chaytor knew well, a district favoured by traffickers in cheap jewellery and knick-knackery. With time to kill when waiting for her charges, she had often strolled through it, window-shopping and occasionally making a small purchase. When the car checked before crossing a main road, she knew that it was the Boulevard de La Chapelle. The immediate right fork which they took was clearly the Rue de La Goutte d’Or where some of the better shops were to be found. The next main crossing was over the Boulevard Barbes. After this she was at a loss. The car was taking first right and first left turnings at random. All she could tell was that it seemed to be heading west. Then, as it turned a corner, the curtains swung slightly apart and she caught a glimpse of white monuments and gravestones. This could only be the Cimetière de Montmartre and she now knew where she was. A right turn as they reached the north-west corner of the cemetery wall, followed by a left turn, would take them into the Rue Lamarck. It was an area which had lately been redeveloped, she remembered, with blocks of newish and rather expensive flats.
The car came to a halt. Jojo said, speaking more sharply than he had ever done before, “Do not get out until I tell you. When you move, move fast, but don’t run.”
It was evident that he was keeping his eye on passers-by on the pavement. She could hear their footsteps approaching and receding. She sat with one hand on the door-catch.
“Now,” said Jojo.
She pulled the door open and moved quickly across the pavement and into the entrance hall of the flats opposite. Jojo was on her heels, but she had time to notice the number, thirty-four. A porter was standing beside the lift. Jojo ignored him. He hustled Mrs. Chaytor into the lift and slammed the gate shut. When it stopped at the fourth floor he held the gate open for a few seconds, examining the passageway to left and right, before he allowed her to get out. Then he walked across, pressed the bell and spoke into the entryphone. As the door opened Mrs. Chaytor noticed how ponderously it moved and saw that a sheet of steel had been bolted across the inside.
She was in a fortress.
There were two young men in the passage. One of them shook hands with Jojo, the other ushered Mrs. Chaytor along the passage and into a room, adequately but unimaginatively furnished, with a long window which filled the outer wall. It would have given more light had its bottom half not been covered by a mesh screen. The man who had been sitting on the couch in front of the window, rose to greet her. The young man grabbed her umbrella and suitcase and hurried out of the room.
When Commissaire Paul Meurice had described Agazadeh Zaman to Peter as a dangerous man, he had spoken the truth. He was a fanatic who had camouflaged himself behind a façade of mediocrity. His black hair, originally curling and rampant, had been subdued by careful barbering. His skin was no browner than that of any Frenchman who had spent his summer on the Riviera. His suit of charcoal grey cloth was well, but not too well, cut. Passing him in the street you would have placed him at once as one of the legion of middle-class bureaucrats and businessmen who kept the wheels of government and finance turning in that crowded strip which lies along the north bank of the river between the stations of Concorde and Châtelet; men who lunched in the Rue de Montpensier and returned every evening to their families in the outer suburbs.
This impression would not have survived five minutes of conversation, but Zaman talked very little and never to strangers. Mrs. Chaytor only knew that she respected him and feared him; feelings which were increased by his invariable politeness.
He waved her to a seat and said, “I trust you have not been put out by our last-minute change of plan.”
She said, “Well, it was a little disconcerting.”
“But necessary.” Although he spoke impeccable French, when dealing with Mrs. Chaytor he preferred to converse in English. He knew that her French, though serviceable, came from the schoolroom.
“On the last occasion, and on this, you were followed by a young man whom we believe to be called Mohammed Jemal. He is one of a group of dissidents from our country who have been given sanctuary in yours. They spend much of their time parading the streets with banners calling for the overthrow of the Ayatollah. If that was all they did they would hardly be worthy of notice. Unfortunately one or two of them are more active. Jemal is one such. His primary objective in following you was, I surmise, to find me. And, if he could, to kill me.”
Mrs. Chaytor noticed that he said this without emphasis or bravado. He had lived under the threat of assassination for so long that it had become a way of life, to be accepted without emotion.
“Our manoeuvre at the Gare du Nord has had two excellent results. He has lost your trail. We are still on his. So, having failed in his primary task, he will be all the keener to succeed in the other one; which is, I feel certain, to deprive you of the exceedingly valuable picture you will be carrying and our country of the large sum of money it will fetch through the efforts of the good Mr. Meyer. And of your husband, too, of course.”
Mrs. Chaytor said, “Yes.” She was aware of the important part that her husband played in these matters.
“On this occasion the picture is too old and too fragile to be rolled in your umbrella. It will be in that suitcase.” He indicated the case which was standing at the end of the couch and which had caught her eye as soon as she came into the room. It was not her suitcase, but it was very like it. It was the same size and made of the same stuff. There were labels on it not unlike those on hers.
“It has a compartment in the lid which I would defy anyone to find, even in the unlikely event of such a regular traveller as yourself being suspected. I will show you the trick of it. It is this case upon which young Jemal’s attention will assuredly be fixed. He will have no opportunity to steal it whilst you are on the train or the boat for we will see that you are well, and moreover openly, escorted until you reach London. In any event, it is no doubt on the final stage of your journey that he will be planning to act. I assume that he knows your house and the surrounding area well. Explain to me exactly how you reach it.”
“On one of the suburban line trains from Waterloo to Staines. Then a bus to Stanwell. Then a walk to our house.”
“How far?”
“Less than half a mile.”
“But not, I understand, along a well-lit street.”
“Unhappily, no. It’s a side road. There’s no lighting on it, or in the place where we live. We are, now, its only remaining inhabitants.”
“Excellent. It is surely there that he will plan to relieve you of your suitcase. As an additional incentive he will have noticed that the last of the team that was guarding you on your journey was left behind in London. You follow what I am saying?”
Mrs. Chaytor understood exactly what Zaman was saying and liked none of it.
“Don’t be alarmed. The withdrawal of your escort will be more apparent than real. We are planning this campaign on a large and careful scale. Two of my best men are leaving by air. Rest assured they will deal with Jemal.”
When he stopped speaking the words ‘deal with’ seemed to hang in the air. Mrs. Chaytor said abruptly, “You mean they will kill him?”
“Certainly. And if you cherish any soft feelings towards him perhaps you will recollect that he has already been responsible for the deaths of a number of French citizens.”
“Then why not report him to the authorities here?”
“I considered it, of course. But I had to reject it. To bring the crime home to him, I should have been forced to come out into the open and give evidence. It would be the end of my usefulness. My services to our leader are too valuable to take such a chance. Of course, if you were prepared to give evidence yourself—”
“I couldn’t possibly identify him,” said Mrs. Chaytor hastily. “Why, I hardly saw him—”
With a contraction of the lips that might, in a less reserved man, have been described as a smile, Zaman said, “You will see, then, that my way is best. All the necessary steps will be taken in England. We will leave the whole matter as a puzzle to be unravelled by your celebrated Scotland Yard. Right? Then, all we have to do now is to transfer your personal effects to this case and send you on your way.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Chaytor. She hoped that her legs would support her when she stood up. “That’s all.” But to herself she said, with total conviction, ‘Never again. Never again.’ She repeated this in time with the beating of her heart, which had started to play tricks with her, slowing at one time to a heavy irregular thudding, then doubling in speed and racing.
Once she was seated in the train, speeding smoothly towards Amiens and Boulogne and had taken several deep breaths, she felt her heart steadying. She told herself, in the firm voice she had so often used with her young charges, ‘Stop being silly. Everything will come out all right if you do exactly what you’ve been told.’
She had no difficulty in spotting her guardian for this part of the journey, a tall Iranian with a pock-marked face who had seated himself where he could keep an eye on her and on her case in the rack above. When he left the carriage at Amiens and moved to the corridor, one of his compatriots, who had been standing there, immediately took his place. This one was shorter and stouter, but looked equally wide awake. Both of them followed her as she made her way onto the boat. They did not embark with her, but she noted that one of the stewards, a dark boy, was unusually attentive. He found a seat for her in the lounge and visited her more than once with offers of refreshment and of help, which she did not need.
At Dover the Customs Officer, an old friend, waved her through with a smile and without troubling her to open her case. Everything seemed to be going easily and smoothly.
It was while the train was running through the fields and orchards of Kent that doubts began to creep in.
Zaman was clever, no doubt about that. And an excellent organiser. But had he, on this occasion, misread the minds of his opponents? Were his precautions all being taken in the wrong place? Those two men of his, who were to guard her on the last stage of her journey, had crossed, that evening, by plane. Presumably Jemal had done the same. There was an hourly shuttle service between de Gaulle and Gatwick. But why should it be supposed that Jemal was operating on his own? Zaman had mentioned that there were a number of activists. The walk from the bus to her house looked like being a battlefield, with her in the middle.
These fears travelled with her to Victoria. She considered the possibility of cloakrooming the case, but realised that this action would certainly be observed. The objective of her assailants would then be switched to the cloakroom ticket in her pocket rather than the bag in her hand. There was no comfort in that idea.
Dusk had fallen by the time her suburban train crawled into Staines. Fortunately the bus terminus was directly opposite the station exit. She went out with the crowd and made her way to the waiting-room. There were several people there waiting for the Windsor and the Chertsey buses. It was nearly an hour before her bus arrived. By that time only three other passengers remained: a middle-aged woman with two talkative children. She hoped that they would come all the way with her, but they got off at the reservoir turning, leaving her alone with the conductor.
He seemed inclined to conversation. It appeared that he was a vegetarian, a teetotaller and a member of the Staines Regatta Committee. She expressed suitable interest in all these activities. She wondered whether she could possibly ask him to walk with her from the bus terminus to her house, but decided that this offer would certainly be misconstrued and equally certainly rejected.
When the bus finally drew up she dismounted slowly, picked up her case and started off. She had not gone far before an urgent shout stopped her. Looking round she saw that the conductor was holding out her umbrella.
“Likely you’ll need this,” he said, “before you get home.”
She had been too worried to pay much attention to the weather, but now she noticed for the first time that the stars had been covered and the wind was rising.
On the left of the road there was a dry ditch with steep sides. On the right it was open ground until about half-way, where there was the entrance to a farmhouse, so long empty that the ‘For Sale’ boards were almost illegible. No help there. Indeed, the entrance would be a very likely place for an ambush.
Drawing on her considerable stock of resolution, Mrs. Chaytor put these thoughts aside and strode out. In the event of attack she had decided to drop the case and bolt. Let them have the picture. It would give her a chance of escape.
She had almost reached the farm gate when she heard the sound behind her and swung round. It was a car and it was coming fast. She jumped for the farm gate, found it padlocked and threw herself at the top bar.
The car stopped with a jerk and a voice said, in tones of surprise, “Mrs. Chaytor? Well met. Sling that case on board and jump in.” It was Stewart. Her husband was already out on the road. He took the case and handed it to Peter who was in the back of the car. He said, “You should have taken a taxi from Staines, my love. How often have I told you? Five minutes later and you would have been soaked to the skin.”
The first heavy drops of rain were hitting them.
“Autumn storm. Quick come, quick go,” said Stewart. The windscreen wipers were working overtime as he drove forward through a screen of rain. “I’ll park as close to the door as possible. You go first, Colin, with the key and get the door open. Then we’ll all jump for it. Right?”
Five minutes later they were sitting in front of a newly kindled fire, sampling Mr. Chaytor’s whisky. Even Mrs. Chaytor, normally abstemious, was gulping down her share with the rest. Her husband, who had been in the kitchen to fetch the glasses said, “You were last out of the house this morning, my love. Did you leave the kitchen window open?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, it’s wide open now.”
“Burglars,” said Stewart comfortably. “Better go and see if they’ve taken anything.”
When he came back Mr. Chaytor was looking puzzled. “As far as I can see,” he said, “they haven’t taken anything. On the other hand the catch of the window had certainly been forced and there are muddy footmarks on the kitchen floor. Red mud from the back garden and it’s still wet.”
“That solves the mystery,” said Stewart. “It was a burglar. He heard us coming and bunked.”
Peter and Mr. Chaytor nodded agreement. Mrs. Chaytor kept her thoughts to herself. So Jemal had broken in and had been waiting for her, expecting the house to be empty. Zaman’s men, if indeed they were outside, would have been in no position to interfere. She would have been at his mercy.
“You’re shivering,” said her husband. “Have another drop of whisky and I’ll get some soup on the boil.”
“I’d better refix the window,” said Stewart.
Peter, left alone with Mrs. Chaytor, looked at her curiously. It was clear to him that she had been badly frightened, but far from clear by what. Was it the attempted burglary? No. She had been frightened before that. Then was it something that had happened in France? That was more probable.
Stewart, standing at the open kitchen window, was thinking on the same lines. He did not entirely believe his own burglar theory. And what had Mrs. Chaytor been up to? As he drove up she had not simply been standing in the entrance to the farm. He had the impression that she had been starting to climb the gate.
The rain had nearly stopped and the moon reappeared for a moment among the racing black clouds which were the tail end of the downpour.
It was whilst he was staring out of the window that the scream came.
It was from somewhere beyond the end of the garden, a shriek of pain and outrage, cut off sharply. It had been loud enough to fetch Peter and Mr. Chaytor from the front room. They stood staring out into the night. The moon was playing hide-and-seek among the clouds. When it shone out they could see as far as the garden fence, but not much beyond.
The cry was not repeated.
“A rabbit chased by a stoat,” suggested Peter.
“That wasn’t an animal,” said Stewart. “It was human.”
Mr. Chaytor nodded agreement. They stood for a minute peering out and listening, but all they could hear was the wind whipping through the branches of the trees.
“Have you got a torch?” said Stewart.
Peter said, “You’re not going out, are you?”
“Must see what’s happening.”
Typical, thought Peter. “Why should we?” he said.
“It’s none of our business,” agreed Mr. Chaytor. But when he had produced a torch the three of them set out together, with Stewart leading, and climbed the railed fence at the bottom of the garden.
A hundred yards beyond it they reached the filter beds. These covered an area as large as a football field and were surrounded by a three-strand barbed-wire fence. They were divided, by one central and a number of transverse walkways, into rectangular boxes with steep sides, full of the partly treated sewage of the airport. An overlay of some green chemical which floated on the top of each box masked the smell.
“It came from somewhere in there,” said Stewart. The top line of wire was slack enough at that point to be pressed down and stepped over.
“For God’s sake,” said Mr. Chaytor, “be careful how you go. Some friends of ours lost a dog there last year. He slipped in and couldn’t get out. Poor beast.”
The centre walkway was wide enough to be used with some confidence. When they were half-way along it, Stewart said, “We’ve gone too far. It was over on the left, back there. Watch your step.”
This was one of the side turnings, easy enough in daylight, tricky by the light of a single torch. They advanced cautiously until they reached the boundary wire on the left.
“It came from near here,” said Stewart. He swung the torch. Away to the right something was hanging on the barbed-wire. From where they stood it looked like a bundle of rags. As they edged closer they could see two feet sticking up into the air. A scarecrow had been turned on its head and lashed to the wire.
Stewart swung the torch down and they saw a face, slimed with green, the eyes open and staring.
“Jesus Christ,” said Peter. “It’s young Jemal.”