Anything Considered (27 page)

Bennett skated as quickly as he could through the events leading to the taking of the case and their escape from the boat. “And then, when we got to Cassis, we … well, we borrowed a car and—”

“Borrowed a car?” Bennett said nothing. Moreau added automobile theft to Bennett’s transgressions, which were mounting up in a most satisfactory manner: complicity in a tax evasion scheme, impersonation with intent to defraud, robbery—he read the list out loud in a quiet, reflective voice and watched Bennett move uncomfortably in his chair. After a pause while he attended yet again to the combustion of his pipe, Moreau continued. “It seems to me logical,” he said, “that you would then have driven in your borrowed car directly to Monsieur Poe, delivered the case, and received your payment. But you didn’t. Why was that?”

For the first time since Bennett had started his story, Anna spoke up. “That was my idea. I didn’t trust Poe to pay us. He’s not … well, he’s kind of …”

Moreau’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Dishonest, perhaps? Would that be the word?”

Anna nodded vigorously. “You said it. The guy’s a complete snake.”

“
Tiens
. And yet you worked for him. How trusting of you.” Moreau looked at Bennett. “So he hasn’t paid?”

Anna held her breath. Don’t blow it, Bennett. Think of getting out of here with a million dollars. Think of room service at the Villa d’Este. Think of anything you like, but just don’t blow it.

“To tell you the truth,” said Bennett, “we haven’t even seen him—too busy making sure we keep out of Tuzzi’s way. We’ve been hiding out, trying to decide what to do.” Anna breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

“Then you haven’t given him the case.”

“Good God, no.” In his relief that Moreau had not pursued the question of payment, Bennett plunged ahead. “I know it’s safe, of course. Quite safe. Hidden. We managed to arrange that. Didn’t want to leave it in the car, what with all the stories one hears about cars being broken into. Shocking, really—nice place like the south of France—”

Moreau cut him off. “Where is the case?”

Bonfils leaned forward, his pen poised over his notepad. If he could get the information to Polluce quickly enough, he might be off the hook.

Bennett took a moment to think. Best to keep Georgette out of this, not get her involved with the police. The old girl would have a heart attack. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t know, not exactly. It’s with a friend. But if I could make a phone call, I could get it dropped off at my house in Saint-Martin in no time.”

“Bien.”
Moreau sat with his head down, calculating his options, his pipe growing cold. Getting the case back, that was crucial. Gratitude would follow, gratitude from the highest level. But there might be a bonus, maybe a more important decoration for services to France. This Julian Poe, certainly a tax dodger, liable to charges of filching vital agricultural secrets from the state, possibly involved in a murder conspiracy—to pick him up in the act of receiving what were technically stolen goods, well, that would be a fitting end to a highly successful operation.
“Bien
,
”
he said again. “This is what we’ll do.”

He looked at his watch and saw that the afternoon had gone. It would take some time to put everything in place—the net must be secure, with no way of Poe’s slipping through. But there was no rush. The case was safe and hidden. Tomorrow would be soon enough. He pushed one of his phones across the desk toward Bennett.

“I want you to make two calls. First, to arrange for the case to be delivered to your house and left there tomorrow morning. That is possible, yes?”

Bennett nodded.

“The second call will be to Monsieur Poe, instructing him to pick up the case. Shall we say ten o’clock? It will be Sunday, after all. We don’t want to get him out of bed too early.” Moreau rubbed his hands together, a dry, leathery sound, and smiled. “It may be his last comfortable night for some time.” He gave the phone another nudge. “
Allez
, Monsieur Bennett. Remember that these calls will give you your freedom.”

Georgette picked up on the second ring. Bennett could hear the blare of her radio in the background.

“It’s me, Bennett.”

“
Eh, alors!
Have you seen the paper? What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m in Cannes. Listen, I have to ask you to do something for me.”

“Attends.”
Georgette put down the phone and went to turn off the radio. Bennett heard hurried footsteps going and coming across the floor. “So. It is without doubt the affair of the case,
non?
The whole village asks me what I
know—the
salaud
Papin, Madame Joux, everyone. To them I say nothing. I am silent like an oyster. When will you return here?”

“Soon. But before I do, I’d like you to take the case tomorrow morning, and leave it in my house, on the table in the sitting room. Leave the front door unlocked, OK? Someone is coming at ten to pick it up.”

“
Ah bon?
And then you will be back?”

“I hope so. Don’t forget. Ten tomorrow morning, and then get out of the house. Go home.”

“Of course,” said Georgette. And of course she had no intention of missing such a dramatic moment, one that she would be able to describe later to
le tout village
. But Bennett didn’t need to know that. “I shall do as you ask.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” said Bennett. “I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

He put down the phone and looked at Moreau. “The case will be there.”

Moreau had noticed that Bennett had been careful not to mention a name. Some crony in the village, probably. He decided to let it pass. “Excellent. And now for Monsieur Poe.”

Shimo answered and put Bennett through. Poe didn’t bother with any preliminaries. “Where is it?”

“It’s on its way to my house in Saint-Martin. Number three, Allée des Lices. Shimo knows where it is. The front door will be left unlocked. The case will be on the sitting-room table. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, OK? It’ll be there at ten.”

“It had better be.” Click.

Bennett pushed the phone back to Moreau. Bonfils fidgeted on his chair, then stood up and started toward the door. “Chief?
Pipi
. I’ll be right back.”

Moreau ignored him, immersed in his preparations. He gave Bennett a sheet of paper and a pencil, and asked him to make a rough plan of the village. It all appeared to be going on wheels. He could hardly wait to call Chevalier and bring him up-to-date. How many men would he need? Half a dozen should be enough, plainclothes, helicopter on call if necessary. He looked up to give Bonfils some instructions, and frowned. How long did the man need to empty his bladder, for God’s sake?

——

Bonfils stood by his desk, the phone to his ear, his eyes fixed on the glass door of his office. He felt the sweat trickling down his chest, soaking into his shirt. Come on, you bastard, pick it up. Finally, he heard the familiar cold voice.

“Monsieur Polluce? Bonfils. I can’t be long. The case is being delivered to a village called Saint-Martin; the address is number three, Allée des Lices. It’s coming in at ten tomorrow morning. What? No, impossible. Moreau’s got his eye on me. He’s making a meal of it, an operation. I have to stay with him. I know. I’m sorry, it’s the best I can do.” Bonfils hurried back to Moreau’s office, his shirt clammy against his stomach.

——

Polluce took a sip of Cynar and looked out toward the sea, now polished with light from the evening sun. This was turning into a shambles—messy, possibly dangerous, and not a situation he wished to involve himself in personally. His influence with the police, although well distributed among the Corsicans, had never extended as far as Moreau. Overtures, discreet and delicate, had been made in the past, but the self-righteous old
schnoque
had never even accepted a free lunch, let alone an honest bribe. And he was in charge of the operation. Maybe there was a chance that something could be done, but the odds would be long. It wasn’t worth putting a valuable man at risk. Luckily, thought Polluce, there was someone suitable close at hand, someone totally expendable. He put through a call to the
Ragazza
, lying at anchor less than a mile away.

“Tuzzi, I have good news. Our people have been working hard, and various arrangements have been made.” A sudden thought crossed Polluce’s mind. If Tuzzi did recover the case, it would only be fair and businesslike to make him pay for the information. “These arrangements have not been without some cost, but I can tell you that the case is being delivered tomorrow morning. And I can tell you where.”

“
Bene, bene
, my friend. I am very happy for you. I am in joy.”

“But there are some details to be agreed. In getting this information, we have spent a certain sum of money, which I think should come off the price. A little discount between friends.”

Tuzzi was silent. How he hated to part with other people’s money.

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

Tuzzi drew in his breath. Greedy, double-crossing pig of a Corsican. But what could he do? “My friend, that seems very reasonable. You shall have a check on Monday morning, on my mother’s head. I love that this has ended so well for us.”

“Bon
,
”
said Polluce. “You can bring the check with the case.”

“The case? Me?”

“Part of the arrangement is that it will only be handed over to you. There is nobody more reliable. You have my trust. Now listen carefully.”

Five minutes later, Tuzzi was reporting the conversation to Lord Glebe, who, his nose finely tuned to such matters after many years of duplicity, smelled a rat. He hastened to distance himself from the expedition.

“Wish I could come with you, old boy,” he said. “But duty calls in London, I’m afraid. I sometimes wonder how the House ever gets a day’s work done without me.” He leaned over and patted Tuzzi’s arm. “Don’t need me, anyway. Simple errand. Take young Benito.”

“You think it is a square deal? No hanky-pinky?”

“Panky, old boy. No—I think Polluce has called in his
markers with all his unsavory friends, and it’s paid off.”

“So why not they to pick up the case?”

Glebe pulled out a cheroot, while he tried to think of one good reason. “Funny lot, Corsicans,” he said finally. “They attach a great deal of importance to respect—as indeed do you Italians, eh?—and Polluce feels, I suppose, that it’s up to you to make up for the … inconvenience he’s suffered.”

“Ah,” said Tuzzi.
“Rispetto.”

“The very word I was searching for. Wish there was more of it in England. There’s always some clown of a politician being caught with his trousers down, and the bloody press turn it into a national emergency. No respect for the governing classes. Between you and me”—Glebe’s voice took on a confidential note—“that’s why I’ve got to go to London tomorrow. All hell’s broken loose. Distinguished backbencher, eminent man, found in Hyde Park wearing a miniskirt and high heels. Dreadful business. Dreadful. Wrong school again, you see? Always comes out in the end.”

——

Moreau had a busy evening ahead of him. Certain arrangements could be left to Bonfils, but the subtleties, the important details—not to mention the calls to those in high places in Paris—all of that he would deal with himself. He looked at the sketch Bennett had given him of Saint-Martin. Like in many of the little hill villages in the
Vaucluse, there was no through road. It could have been designed specifically with this operation in mind. Half a dozen well-positioned men could stop the whole place up like a bottle. Excellent.

Anna and Bennett, sitting in silence opposite him, were showing the effects of a long, draining day—they were pale-faced, hollow-eyed, and clearly tired. Moreau found himself warming to them; they had been unusually cooperative, and it was thanks to them that his career was going to end on such a high note. He might even mention their usefulness to the authorities in Paris.

“Bien
,
”
he said. “I think that will be all for today, but we shall be making an early start tomorrow. As for tonight”—his shoulders went up in a shrug of apology—“I must ask you to be our guests here. Bonfils will make you as comfortable as possible. The quietest cell for them, Bonfils, as this is Saturday night, and arrange for the restaurant on the corner to bring them something to eat.” With a nod of dismissal, he reached for the phone.

Bonfils led the way down to the cells, rigid with irritation at being treated like a
putain
hotel clerk, and him a captain of police. He pushed open the cell door—two bunks, barred window, the stinging smell of disinfectant—and stood aside to let them in. “Someone will bring food,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Captain?” Bennett’s voice stopped him. “We’d like to see a menu.” He inclined his head. “Please.”

Bonfils struggled with the impulse to kick the Englishman in the tripes and beat him senseless, and went off
to snarl at the desk sergeant. A menu, for Christ’s sake!

Bennett put his arms around Anna and felt her body fit into his, relaxed and limp. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and deep and serious. “It’s nearly over, isn’t it?”

Bennett nodded. “As long as we don’t pass out from starvation.”

——

It was a meal they would never forget, more because of the circumstances than the food. The waiter from the restaurant, a young Algerian who was working in France without the benefit of formal papers, was in evident terror at finding himself serving dinner in a police station. His agitated hands shook, the tray clattered, he missed the neck of the wine bottle with his corkscrew and speared a finger. When Bennett apologized for not being able to give him a tip, he backed out of the cell sucking his wound, his eyes rolling in astonishment. Was this how criminals were treated in France? It was in truth a strange and wonderful country, just as he had been told by his father in Oran.

Bennett raised his glass to Anna. “I promised you room service, didn’t I?”

While they ate, they were conscious of the sound of feet stopping outside their cell, curious eyes looking in through the bars as the night shift inspected these two ex-fugitives, now privileged inmates. A young
gendarme
came in to clear away, gave them coarse, prison-issue towels,
and showed them to the carbolic-scented heaven of hot showers. Full, clean, and exhausted, they collapsed on their bunks. By the time the first batch of Saturday-night drunks and walking wounded were being tossed into the other cells, they were sleeping like bones.