The Gigantic Shadow (12 page)

Yugoslavia Invites,
said the travel agency poster. But they all invited, those bright unreal places where brown bodies lingered for ever by a sapphire sea, where one looked at the endless stretches of canvas in the galleries and the bits of stone stuck up in the squares which somehow one had never had the time, or even much inclination, to look at yet.

The girl behind the counter had real blonde hair, a brightly enamelled but spotty face, and very white teeth which she showed in a smile.

‘Is there a flight to Belgrade?’ he asked. ‘Before eight o’clock tonight. I want two seats.’

She answered in tones so mellifluous that the words were almost sung. ‘No flights to Belgrade today, I’m afraid. The Belgrade service operates only three days a week.’

‘Or anywhere else in Yugoslavia.’

‘There are no flights available elsewhere in Yugoslavia for the whole of this month,’ she sang triumphantly.

‘What about Italy?’

‘There are flights to Rome, Milan, Naples.’ He was about to say eagerly that any of them would do when his precipitancy was checked. ‘I can get you on a flight to Naples – let me see – next Thursday. The others would take rather longer.’

He dug his nails into the palms of his hands. This conversation, with its picture of a man who wanted to get out of England in a hurry, was becoming altogether too memorable in case of future questioning.

‘It’s like this,’ he said, appealing a little desperately to the spotty enamelled goddess on the other side of the counter. ‘We’ve just got an unexpected holiday, this friend of mine and I, it starts today and we don’t want to waste any time, only got a couple of weeks you know. We want to go somewhere hot. And we want to go today, or perhaps by a night flight if there’s nothing earlier.’

She nodded like a blonde mandarin. Then she went away and talked to a man inside a glass cubicle. The man came out. Hunter had to control a growing feeling of panic.

‘I’m afraid we can’t offer you anything at all today, sir. Not for Europe.’

‘I see. Oh, well –’ He was anxious now only to get away.

‘The only thing we have is two cancellations on the midnight flight to Tangier.’

‘Why, that would be splendid.’ Feeling that he had betrayed too much enthusiasm he added, ‘It isn’t just what I wanted, but we can get across to Gib., and then go to Torremolinos perhaps. I’ve always wanted to see Malaga.’ His voice tailed off. They were paying him no attention. With a nod and a smile the man had gone back inside his cubicle. The girl was writing out details of the tickets.

‘Return?’ she asked.

‘Single. We shall come back by train, I think.’

She flashed her smile at him. ‘If you’re coming back from Spain, don’t forget to make your train reservations in advance. You can’t board any of the fast trains otherwise.’

The Chinese girl showed him in again to the great room overlooking the park. This time she wore a black frock with an emerald dragon on it, buttoned tight to the neck. Her arms were bare, and on both of them there were large bruises. In her eyes, as she opened the door and for a moment looked at him, Hunter seemed to see some message that he could not understand. Then she looked down at the floor, and the momentary impression was gone.

This time Westmark’s silk shirt was peach-coloured, his cuff-links large pearls. The 1803 Madeira was produced and appreciated. He talked about the weather, about going to Ascot, about a yacht he thought of buying which had been offered him by a member of a certain Royal family, a family that must be nameless.

‘You will know who it is I mean, I expect. It is a nice yacht and I should like to help him, but that is not easy.’ His gentle smile expressed his sorrow that it was impossible to help everybody.

Hunter became impatient. He opened the zipping bag, took out the packets of money, and put them on an inlaid rosewood table. Westmark stopped talking. His fingers stroked the stem of the Madeira glass.

‘How much money is there?’

‘Fifteen thousand. In ones.’

‘We were speaking of more than that.’

‘That was talk. This is money.’ Hunter spoke with a confidence he did not quite feel.

‘Where do you want to change it?’

‘In Tangier.’

The German nodded. ‘Is the money hot?’

‘No.’

‘Where did it come from? If it is your own, why not write me a cheque?’ Hunter had no answer. He had not expected such questions. Westmark sipped his Madeira. ‘People do not often come to me with a sum of money like this, and in pound notes too. They write a cheque. I make a piece of property, or something of equal value, available to them in Gibraltar or Valencia or Naples. I have agents in all these places. I have an agent in Tangier, naturally. Or a bank account is opened –’

‘You told me all that before. And I told you I wanted your agent to give me cash. Cash is what you’ve got there on the table.’

‘Where did the money come from, Mr Hunter?’ Hunter jerked back his head in alarm. ‘Yes, I know your name. Your face was familiar to me, but at the time I could not place it. I have done so since.’

‘Well?’

Westmark shrugged. There was something epicene about him, in spite of his size. ‘I have to know the names of those I deal with. It was foolish to call yourself Smith. I know what has happened to you. Where would you get fifteen thousand pounds?’

‘It came from a bank. And I didn’t steal it. Somebody gave it to me.’

‘Very well. I am sorry. We cannot do business.’

I mustn’t let him see what this means to me, Hunter thought. He sat on his striped chair, sipped the Madeira, and said nothing.

‘If you acknowledged that the money was hot, that you had obtained it in some way that you wished to keep to yourself, then we might have arranged something. I have my own terms for hot money.’

‘It’s not hot. I told you that. They’re all ones, and they’re not new. They’re not in sequence. They can’t be checked.’

Westmark went on as if he had not spoken. ‘But you insist that it came from a bank, that somebody gave it to you. Very well. Go and pay it into your own bank, and give me a cheque. Or go and give it to somebody else. I want nothing to do with it.’

He’s got me by the short hairs, Hunter thought, and he knows it. Bitterly he said, ‘All right. The money’s hot, though not in the way you mean. It can’t be traced. But I want to go abroad, and I can’t take it with me. What’s the deal?’

Westmark drank the rest of his Madeira at a gulp. His eyes watched Hunter. ‘Why is it important that you leave England in such a hurry?’

‘That’s nothing to do with it. Or with you.’

‘Very well. Fifty per cent.’

‘So that’s how the good life’s paid for.’ Hunter began to throw the packets of money back into the bag. Westmark watched him throw a few back, and then spoke again.

‘Come now, Mr Hunter. Be reasonable. There is a risk connected with this money, or you would not want to get rid of it so quickly. I take the risk, not you. All you have to do is to go to my agent in Tangier, Mr Kadiska, and he will make available to you seven thousand five hundred pounds in any currency you care to name.’

‘If you honour the agreement.’

‘As I said to you before, you will not find anybody to tell you that Theo Westmark does not honour his agreements. If I wished to cheat you I should agree to any terms you wished. But I have said already, take away the money if that is what you want. I shall forget that you have ever been here.’

There was no time to get in touch with Dawes and make fresh arrangements. But Hunter went on putting money into the bag. Suddenly Westmark laughed, a rich musical sound.

‘You are not an easy man to deal with, Mr Hunter. Do you suppose I have built up my business as – what shall I call it? – an honest broker – by cheating my clients? I told you before that there must be mutual trust in our affairs. I trust you, when you say that my agents will not be arrested when they try to pass this money. You do assure me of that, don’t you?’

‘I’ve told you, there’s nothing wrong with the money.’

‘I accept your assurance,’ Westmark said gravely. ‘And now, if you wish, I will give you a cheque. You can walk out and post it to Tangier to await your arrival. It will mean nothing, but if it soothes your feeling of anxiety…’

‘No. Write to Kadiska, your agent, as you suggested. That’s good enough. But let’s talk about the terms.’

Westmark held the glass up to the light. ‘Sweet, rich, strong. It is nectar. I am afraid that you do not appreciate it.’

The cloying smell was in his nostrils again. He said again, doggedly, ‘Let’s talk about the terms.’

‘But what is there to talk about?’

‘You said fifty per cent. I’ll pay ten. That gives you fifteen hundred pounds for writing a letter.’

Westmark shook his head. ‘It is not for writing a letter, but for taking a risk with something I know nothing about. I could not do it for less than forty per cent. It would be foolish.’

In the end they settled for twenty-five per cent. Instead of having twenty-eight thousand five hundred pounds for conversion in Tangier, he and Anthea would have twelve thousand two hundred and fifty.

‘Another glass of wine?’

‘No, thank you.’

Like a great cat Westmark walked over to the table, and stood looking at the money. He did not touch it. ‘Then let me wish you all the luck in the world.’

He left the room. Westmark was still looking at the money on the table. The Chinese girl appeared, eyes downcast, and went with him to the door. There she said something.

‘What’s that?’ Hunter asked. ‘What did you say?’

‘Your name is Hunter.’

‘Yes.’

‘It is not good for you to come here. There is a man –’

The door of Westmark’s room opened, and his bulk filled the doorway. His voice was soft. ‘Kitten, are you talking to Mr Hunter? You know I do not like you to talk to my guests. Come here.’

The girl almost ran to him. The cosmetic mask did not change, but Hunter sensed the terror behind it. He let himself out.

He was the only person to get off the train at Blanting, and he left the padlocked zipping bag with the money in it, in the luggage office at the station. As he left the village behind, and turned off into a field of wheat, following the route he had taken with Anthea, the sky darkened. Presently it began to rain, no more than a few drops at first, but then with thick persistence. Hunter was wearing a dark suit and thin town shoes. As he walked along, skirting the edge of fields, walking over tracks already used by cattle, he trod in mud that squelched persistently underfoot and that once or twice oozed thinly over the edge of his shoe.

After half an hour’s walking he began to feel unsure that he was going in the right direction. How stupid he had been not to ask Anthea to draw a map, he reflected. He felt mingled relief and alarm when he turned into yet another field and came almost face to face with a farm labourer trudging along in sou’wester hat and black oilskin cape.

The man was smoking a pipe. He took it out of his mouth to say, ‘Arternoon.’

‘Good afternoon.’ Hunter tried to move into the shelter of a small bush which immediately pelted him with raindrops.

‘It’s a wet ’un.’

‘It is indeed.’ He spoke with what he felt to be odiously false joviality. ‘I seem to have lost my way a bit. I’ve come from Blanting.’

‘Might help if you said where you were tryin’ to get to.’

‘Of course. It’s the nearest village – over in this direction, I think.’ He pointed wildly.

The man shook his head. ‘Not that way. Bassington estate that way, old Manor House. Nearest village’s Leddenham, couple of mile across the fields, straight as you can go. Then you come to the road, turn right and matter of a quarter of a mile along go sharp left –’

He ceased to listen, waited until the man had finished giving directions which were both long and elaborate, and then offered thanks. The labourer looked at him curiously. ‘You’re welcome. Didn’t come out prepared for weather, eh?’ Hunter laughed feebly. ‘If you’re stayin’ in Leddenham best place is the Black Bull.’ He stuck his pipe in his mouth again, nodded goodbye, and was gone.

There’s a man who won’t forget me, Hunter thought. But at least he knew in which direction the estate lay. He plunged on through thick grass, nettles, brambles, until he reached the barbed wire. The wood was on his right – he had gone a hundred yards too far, that was all.

As he reached the edge of the wood, the rain stopped. He wiped his face and hair with a handkerchief, but water continued to trickle down his neck and to drop from his suit. There was water in his shoes, too, as he trod on bracken up a barely marked path. Suddenly he was in the glade, and looking round he saw that he had come along the overgrown path he had seen leading on through the wood, when they had come here before together.

‘Anthea,’ he called, and called again. His voice sounded strange in the unstirring wood, strange and – although he did not think of himself as an imaginative man – frightening. There was no answer, but perhaps sound did not carry far in such surroundings. He wiped his head and face again. He was shivering a little, possibly with the beginnings of a cold.

Slowly, reluctantly, he began to push a way through the brambles that, as they had done before, sprang back at him. He had only a few yards to go, yet he was shivering uncontrollably by the time he had pushed a way through to where the stone hut stood, and there was unmistakable terror in his voice as he cried her name again.

She did not answer. He did not know what it was he feared, what sort of ultimate betrayal he expected to find inside the hut. She had left the place, changed her mind suddenly about the whole plot – that would be like her. Or it had all been some sort of trick played on him – that possibility had, as he knew, always been present somewhere in his mind. Or she had told somebody about the den in spite of her promise not to do so, some secret enemy, and she lay within the hut, dead.

He did not want to prove his fears, or to know the details of her betrayal if she had betrayed him. He did not want to open the hut door. But had he not already realised that he had reached a point from which there was no turning back? He walked to the door of the hut, and pushed. The door creaked and opened.

The hut was empty. The dust lay on the floor, as it had done before. Anthea had never come here, nobody had come here. Had he not accepted this as a possibility? Yet now that he was confronted with the act of betrayal, now that the hut offered its silent evidence that she had cynically rejected all that they had talked about, he could not believe it. He stumbled to the door again and out of it, walked round the hut looking for footprints (but there were no footprints except his own), leant against the side of the hut staring at the green bushes in front of him, and mouthing unintelligible words. There was nothing to be seen here, and nothing to be done. When he looked round the scene that should have been the victorious climax of their planning, tears came to his eyes and ran down unchecked.

As he left the hut and stumbled away, pushing through again to the glade, thin sunlight filtered through the poplars. The tears were still in his eyes, but as he walked back, stepping recklessly in puddles, smearing his shoes with mud and filling them with water, he sought for an answer to the question: why had she done it? What purpose could there be in a plot which left him with fifteen thousand pounds in ransom money, to use as he wished?

Was there, then, another sort of explanation, one which did not involve betrayal? Had her stepfather discovered what she meant to do, locked her up, and handed over the money in order to have him arrested afterwards while in possession of it? Had Roger Sennett somehow discovered the plot, and told Lord Moorhouse? When he got out of the wood the day was bright and warm. On the dripping branches, in the sunlight, birds sang. He had recovered his faith in Anthea, and he knew what he meant to do.