The Key to Rebecca (15 page)

While they played, Bogge said: “Hope you don’t mind talking shop in the club, sir.”

“Not at all,” said the brigadier.

“It’s just that I don’t seem to get a chance to leave m’desk in the day.”

“What’s on your mind?” the brigadier chalked his cue.

Bogge potted a red ball and lined up the pink. “I’m pretty sure there’s a fairly serious spy at work in Cairo.” He missed the pink.

The brigadier bent over the table. “Go on.”

Bogge regarded the brigadier’s broad back. A little delicacy was called for here. Of course the head of a department was responsible for that department’s successes, for it was only well-run departments which had successes, as everyone knew; nevertheless it was necessary to be subtle about how one took the credit. He began: “You remember a corporal was stabbed in Assyut a few weeks ago?”

“Vaguely.”

“I had a hunch about that, and I’ve been following it up ever since. Last week a General Staff aide had his briefcase pinched during a street brawl. Nothing very remarkable about that, of course, but I put two and two together.”

The brigadier potted the white. “Damn,” he said. “Your shot.”

“I asked the paymaster general to look out for counterfeit English money. Lo and behold, he found some. I had my boys examine it. Turns out to have been made in Germany.”

“Aha!”

Bogge potted a red, the blue and another red, then he missed the pink again.

“I think you’ve left me rather well off,” said the brigadier, scrutinizing the table through narrowed eyes. “Any chance of tracing the chap through the money?”

“It’s a possibility. We’re working on that already.”

“Pass me that bridge, will you?”

“Certainly.”

The brigadier laid the bridge on the baize and lined up his shot.

Bogge said: “It’s been suggested that we might instruct the paymaster to continue to accept the forgeries, in case he can bring in any new leads.” The suggestion had been Vandam’s, and Bogge had turned it down. Vandam had argued—something that was becoming wearyingly familiar—and Bogge had had to slap him down. But it was an imponderable, and if things turned out badly Bogge wanted to be able to say he had consulted his superiors.

The brigadier unbent from the table and considered. “Rather depends how much money is involved, doesn’t it?”

“Several hundred pounds so far.”

“It’s a lot.”

“I feel it’s not really necessary to continue to accept the counterfeits, sir.”

“Jolly good.” The brigadier pocketed the last of the red balls and started on the colors.

Bogge marked the score. The brigadier was ahead, but Bogge had got what he came for.

“Who’ve you got working on this spy thing?” the brigadier asked.

“Well, I’m handling it myself basically—”

“Yes, but which of your majors are you using?”

“Vandam, actually.”

“Ah, Vandam. Not a bad chap.”

Bogge did not like the turn the conversation was taking. The brigadier did not really understand how careful you had to be with the likes of Vandam: give them an inch and they would take the Empire. The Army
would
promote these people above their station. Bogge’s nightmare was to find himself taking orders from a postman’s son with a Dorset accent. He said: “Vandam’s got a bit of a soft spot for the wog, unfortunately; but as you say, he’s good enough in a plodding sort of fashion.”

“Yes.” The brigadier was enjoying a long break, potting the colors one after another. “He went to the same school as I. Twenty years later, of course.”

Bogge smiled. “He was a scholarship boy, though, wasn’t he, sir?”

“Yes,” said the brigadier. “So was I.” He pocketed the black.

“You seem to have won, sir,” said Bogge.

 

The manager of the Cha-Cha Club said that more than half his customers settled their bills in sterling, he could not possibly identify who payed in which currency, and even if he could he did not know the names of more than a few regulars.

The chief cashier of Shepheard’s Hotel said something similar.

So did two taxi drivers, the proprietor of a soldiers’ bar and the brothel keeper Madame Fahmy.

Vandam was expecting much the same story from the next location on his list, a shop owned by one Mikis Aristopoulos.

Aristopoulos had changed a large amount of sterling, most of it forged, and Vandam imagined his shop would be a business of considerable size, but it was not so. Aristopoulos had a small grocery store. It smelled of spices and coffee but there was not much on the shelves. Aristopoulos himself was a short Greek of about twenty-five years with a wide, white-toothed smile. He wore a striped apron over his cotton trousers and white shirt.

He said: “Good morning, sir. How can I help you?”

“You don’t seem to have much to sell,” Vandam said.

Aristopoulos smiled. “If you’re looking for something particular, I may have it in the stockroom. Have you shopped here before, sir?”

So that was the system: scarce delicacies in the back room for regular customers only. It meant he might know his clientele. Also, the amount of counterfeit money he had exchanged probably represented a large order, which he would remember.

Vandam said: “I’m not here to buy. Two days ago you took one hundred and forty-seven pounds in English money to the British paymaster general and exchanged it for Egyptian currency.”

Aristopoulos frowned and looked troubled. “Yes ...”

“One hundred and twenty-seven pounds of that was counterfeit—forged—no good.”

Aristopoulos smiled and spread his arms in a huge shrug. “I am sorry for the paymaster. I take the money from English, I give it back to English ... What can I do?”

“You can go to jail for passing counterfeit notes.”

Aristopoulos stopped smiling. “Please. This is not justice. How could I know?”

“Was all that money paid to you by one person?”

“I don’t know—”

“Think!” Vandam said sharply. “Did anyone pay you one hundred and twenty-seven pounds?”

“Ah ... yes! Yes!” Suddenly Aristopoulos looked hurt. “A very respectable customer. One hundred twenty-six pounds ten shillings.”

“His name?” Vandam held his breath.

“Mr. Wolff—”

“Ahhh.”

“I am so shocked. Mr. Wolff has been a good customer for many years, and no trouble with paying, never.”

“Listen,” Vandam said, “did you deliver the groceries?”

“No.”

“We offered to deliver, as usual, but this time Mr. Wolff—”

“You usually deliver to Mr. Wolff’s home?”

“Yes, but this time—”

“What’s the address?”

“Let me see. Villa les Oliviers, Garden City.”

Vandam banged his fist on the counter in frustration. Aristopoulos looked a little frightened. Vandam said: “You haven’t delivered there recently, though.”

“Not since Mr. Wolff came back. Sir, I am very sorry that this bad money has passed through my innocent hands. Perhaps something can be arranged ... ?”

“Perhaps,” Vandam said thoughtfully.

“Let us drink coffee together.”

Vandam nodded. Aristopoulos led him into the back room. The shelves here were well laden with bottles and tins, most of them imported. Vandam noticed Russian caviar, American canned ham and English jam. Aristopoulos poured thick strong coffee into tiny cups. He was smiling again.

Aristopoulos said: “These little problems can always be worked out between friends.”

They drank coffee.

Aristopoulos said: “Perhaps, as a gesture of friendship, I could offer you something from my store. I have a little stock of French wine—”

“No, no—”

“I can usually find some Scotch whiskey when everyone else in Cairo has run out—”

“I’m not interested in that kind of arrangement,” Vandam said impatiently.

“Oh!” said Aristopoulos. He had become quite convinced that Vandam was seeking a bribe.

“I want to find Wolff,” Vandam continued. “I need to know where he is living now. You said he was a regular customer. What sort of stuff does he buy?”

“Much champagne. Also some caviar. Coffee, quite a lot. Foreign liquor. Pickled walnuts, garlic sausage, brandied apricots ...”

“Hm.” Vandam drank in this incidental information greedily. What kind of a spy spent his funds on imported delicacies? Answer: one who was not very serious. But Wolff
was
serious. It was a question of style. Vandam said: “I was wondering how soon he is likely to come back.”

“As soon as he runs out of champagne.”

“All right. When he does, I must find out where he lives.”

“But, sir, if he again refuses to allow me to deliver ... ?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about. I’m going to give you an assistant.”

Aristopoulos did not like that idea. “I want to help you, sir, but my business is private—”

“You’ve got no choice,” Vandam said. “It’s help me, or go to jail.”

“But to have an English officer working here in my shop—”

“Oh, it won’t be an English officer.” He would stick out like a sore thumb, Vandam thought, and probably scare Wolff away as well. Vandam smiled. “I think I know the ideal person for the job.”

 

That evening after dinner Vandam went to Elene’s apartment, carrying a huge bunch of flowers, feeling foolish.

She lived in a graceful, spacious old apartment house near the Place de l’Opéra. A Nubian concierge directed Vandam to the third floor. He climbed the curving marble staircase which occupied the center of the building and knocked on the door of 3A.

She was not expecting him, and it occurred to him suddenly that she might be entertaining a man friend.

He waited impatiently in the corridor, wondering what she would be like in her own home. This was the first time he had been here. Perhaps she was out. Surely she had plenty to do in the evenings—

The door opened.

She was wearing a yellow cotton dress with a full skirt, rather simple but almost thin enough to see through. The color looked very pretty against her light-brown skin. She gazed at him blankly for a moment, then recognized him and gave her impish smile.

She said: “Well, hello!”

“Good evening.”

She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “Come in.”

He went inside and she closed the door.

“I wasn’t expecting the kiss,” he said.

“All part of the act. Let me relieve you of your disguise.”

He gave her the flowers. He had the feeling he was being teased.

“Go in there while I put these in water,” she said.

He followed her pointing finger into the living room and looked around. The room was comfortable to the point of sensuality. It was decorated in pink and gold and furnished with deep soft seats and a table of pale oak. It was a comer room with windows on two sides, and now the evening sun shone in and made everything glow slightly. There was a thick rug of brown fur on the floor that looked like bearskin. Vandam bent down and touched it: it was genuine. He had a sudden, vivid picture of Elene lying on the rug, naked and writhing. He blinked and looked elsewhere. On the seat beside him was a book which she had, presumably, been reading when he knocked. He picked up the book and sat on the seat. It was warm from her body. The book was called
Stamboul Train.
It looked like cloak-and-dagger stuff. On the wall opposite him was a rather modern-looking painting of a society ball: all the ladies were in gorgeous formal gowns and all the men were naked. Vandam went and sat on the couch beneath the painting so that he would not have to look at it. He thought it peculiar.

She came in with the flowers in a vase, and the smell of wisteria filled the room. “Would you like a drink?”

“Can you make martinis?”

“Yes. Smoke if you want to.”

“Thank you.” She knew how to be hospitable, Vandam thought. He supposed she had to, given the way she earned her living. He took out his cigarettes. “I was afraid you’d be out.”

“Not this evening.” There was an odd note in her voice when she said that, but Vandam could not figure it out. He watched her with the cocktail shaker. He had intended to conduct the meeting on a businesslike level, but he was not able to, for it was she who was conducting it. He felt like a clandestine lover.

“Do you like this stuff?” He indicated the book.

“I’ve been reading thrillers lately.”

“Why?”

“To find out how a spy is supposed to behave.”

“I shouldn’t think you—” He saw her smiling, and realized he was being teased again. “I never know whether you’re serious.”

“Very rarely.” She handed him a drink and sat down at the opposite end of the couch. She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “To espionage.”

He sipped his martini. It was perfect. So was she. The mellow sunshine burnished her skin. Her arms and legs looked smooth and soft. He thought she would be the same in bed as she was out of it: relaxed, amusing and game for anything. Damn. She had had this effect on him last time, and he had gone on one of his rare binges and ended up in a wretched brothel.

“What are you thinking about?” she said.

“Espionage.”

She laughed: it seemed that somehow she knew he was lying. “You must love it,” she said.

Vandam thought: How does she do this to me? She kept him always off balance, with her teasing and her insight, her innocent face and her long brown limbs. He said: “Catching spies can be very satisfying work, but I don’t love it.”

“What happens to them when you’ve caught them?”

“They hang, usually.”

“Oh.”

He had managed to throw her off balance for a change. She shivered. He said: “Losers generally die in wartime.”

“Is that why you don’t love it—because they hang?”