Tremor (3 page)

However the ‘ayes' had it, and the film was to be a prestigious one, no expense spared. Nadine spoke fluent English, so the tide ran in her favour.

But the director, Mortimer Morton, a plump, elegant man of forty, then at his peak because of the runaway success of his last film, had come over with the producer and the author and had held court at the Scribe. He had a list of eight French actresses he wanted to interview, and he exercised, as most directors do – once they are appointed – dictatorial powers. Out of courtesy the producer and the author were consulted, but Mort, as he was called, must have his way.

And his ‘way', it was soon perceived, was influenced by certain criteria of his own. He perhaps rightly assumed that all the actresses had been put forward by their agents with suitable CVs and the strongest possible recommendations. Therefore any one of them, in a sense, would do. So he wanted the one who would interest him most. He wanted the one who would be most likely to please him when he got her into bed.

Such was the prize that probably most of the applicant actresses would have given favourable consideration to the general idea. But the other seven were not given the opportunity. Though watched over by a duenna of a mother, a girl called Maria Antoine took his fancy, and from the glances they exchanged, even under the lowering gaze of Mama, it did not seem that his fancy would be unrewarded.

At her own interview at which only the three men were present Nadine of course knew nothing of this. Queries were made; she was asked to read a little of the script, photographs were proffered and accepted, compliments exchanged; it was all over in fifteen minutes. Only the next day, her publisher friend was informed of the outcome by the author and passed on the message to her.

It had been a bitter pill for Nadine. The prize of a lead in an important Rank film was gone, and all the latent possibilities of Hollywood to follow. Depressed and angry, she had turned down a secondary role in a good French movie and had decided to sit back and take a holiday from films, from metropolitan France, and, in particular, from René. They had been appearing together in a farce at the Théâtre Gramont and, when it folded, so had their association. She could well afford the break.

Passports had been stamped at Casablanca but there was the inevitable wait for luggage at Agadir, and eventually she followed the porter out to the waiting bus. The sky was sulphurous with cloud, which was lit at one edge as if by a setting crescent of moon. No stars showed. She heard a woman greeting another and saying that this exceptional heat had begun only yesterday.

The bus filled up, and presently a tall good-looking young man sat down beside her. She had seen him on the plane a couple of rows behind her. Dark enough for a Frenchman, but his colouring was English, and so were his clothes. Then she heard him talking to an older man on the opposite seat.

Handsome, she thought, and his voice had a better accent than the man he was talking to, who had a nasal oscillating voice that she found difficult to follow. They were not friends, it seemed, had only met on the plane. Both spoke fluent if accented French.

She was aware that the younger man was secretly observing her; probably his choice of seat had not been accidental, but she ignored him, preferring to stare out at the approaching lights of Agadir.

He had excellent hair, Castilian brown, curling like a mane, cut expertly to brush his collar, fine hands with a single gold signet ring, big bright sensitive eyes, a mouth that naturally wanted to curve into a smile.

This bus, rather than depositing its freight at a central terminal, stopped at the main hotels of the town, and she discovered that both of the Englishmen were getting off at the same stop as herself, in front of the great illuminated glittering sign of the Hotel Saada.

This was beyond the main town and was built along the new esplanade bordering the beach. A white lip of surf could be seen beyond the lights.

Seven passengers for the Saada, among them three sloppily dressed women she had seen on the plane, who talked in voices which varied between the blatant and the subdued. Friendships, it seemed, had already been struck up on the way, for the older Englishman was talking and joking with them while they waited for Nadine to hand over her passport and sign the register. She thought, I don't want to be caught up in that group.

As she moved away in the wake of the bellboy who was to show her to her room, the younger man came across.

‘Mad'moiselle, pardon me, did you drop this?'

This was a lace handkerchief he held out. She looked at it and thought: how original.

‘No, m'sieur. It is not mine.'

‘I beg your pardon.' His dark eyes sought hers. He had beguiling dimples in his cheeks as he half smiled. She did not smile back at him because of the company he was in. But she inclined her head gently, since there was no point in being discourteous, as long as he was prepared to keep his distance.

She passed on.

The house had belonged to a well-known violinist and his artist wife. Mr Artemis bought it from their son when they died. Near the top of Hampstead village, Georgian, square-built but elegant, well-proportioned rooms, a tidy but otherwise uncultivated garden, all surrounded by a high brick wall which keeps out the sound of traffic.

Mr Artemis is entertaining. He is a substantial, soft-spoken man, going grey, heavy eyelids, a blood blister on his bottom lip.

Four men in the room with him: Big Smith, Jonnny Carpenter, Joe Rooney and Greg Garrett. They have not been here before and are not entirely comfortable in these discreetly elegant surroundings. All tall men – except for Greg – and all casually dressed as for a pub – except for Greg, who likes to be thought of as dapper and affects tight trousers and fancy waistcoats.

‘Should be here by now,' says Mr Artemis, glancing at the clock. ‘You said eight, didn't you.'

‘Yeah,' from Big Smith. ‘He'll be 'ere. Last thing he says to me: “I'll be there, spot on.” ' Taking a gulp of Scotch that his host has provided. Big Smith is about fifty, big-stomached, badger-hair slicked back and thinning, cockney accent, looks a bruiser, and was once.

Others are all younger. Johnny Carpenter is middle thirties, lean, narrow-faced, known often for some reason as Jacques or Frère Jacques. Bright-eyed, devious, always with a crumb of cigarette stuck to his lower lip. (They quickly get to that stage and then stay there a long time.) Joe Rooney is the heavy, a bit slow of movement and brain, but you can always rely on him in a crisis. Sweats in a thick jumper even on a warm day.

This is not a warm day, being Wednesday the 24th of February, 1960.

On cue the discreet manservant comes in with the fifth guest, Fred Prosser.

Prosser is a weasel of a man, greying, lined, spotty, blinking too much, as if surprised by the light. It seems only Big Smith has met him before.

Smith does the honours. ‘This is Mr Artemis. Meet the rest of the boys, Fred. Get him a wet, Nosey. D'you mind?' to Artemis. ‘What d'you like, Scotch, brandy, gin, vodka? … This is best single malt. That suit?'

After a minute Fred Prosser is sitting on the edge of a cane-bottomed chair, clutching a glass and having a cigarette lit for him.

Big Smith says heartily: ‘I've told the boys most of what you told me, Fred. How I went round this morning to Benson & Benson, seven o'clock this morning, dressed respectable; you let me in, showed me round afore anyone else was there, so I could see it all for meself: safes, offices, alarm switches, the lot, so I got a good picture of how everything works. Right?'

‘Right.'

‘And I've told them how you'll do the same for any of 'em, so in case we like to move, we know just what we're moving into. Mr Artemis can go too if need be.'

‘That should not be necessary,' says Artemis.

‘Anyway the others can go, smell out the lie of the land, if they so wish. Right, Fred?'

‘Right.' Fred sips experimentally at his drink and has to take a short breath.

‘Any questions?'

The others are eyeing Fred, who eyes them back. He looks not so much like a member of the underworld as one of the underclass, the underprivileged. You can see him in a dole queue. He does not look a strong character, one you would necessarily rely on.

‘Are you employed by the bank?' Artemis asks.

‘No, sir. It's this cleaning company. Zenith Cleaning Co. I been with them three years. But only on this job two months. The bank's got this contract, so I go there every morning, see. I go at six thirty every weekday. Bachelor, the caretaker, lets me in. He lives on the top floor, and as he comes down he switches off the office alarms and then lets me in.'

Johnny Carpenter coughs through the smoke of his cigarette. ‘Sounds bit too easy to me. Why can't anyone ring the bell, knock the caretaker off, walk in? Where's the catch?'

‘First off the caretaker has to recognize me through the grille, see? Then when he lets me in there's damn all to take. All the cash and securities are in safes and vaults. And there's all the other alarms.'

‘What other alarms?' asks Artemis, settling on a pair of lightly tinted spectacles.

‘Good stuff. All modern stuff.'

‘Such as?'

‘Well.' Fred Prosser shifts. ‘ The AFA Central Alarm System, with air-pressure differential detectors. You wouldn't have a chance, not without them being switched off. Not a chance. The bulls'd be round pronto.'

‘What time do the staff come?'

‘About nine. Some a few minutes before that. From seven to eight thirty I have the place more or less to meself.'

‘How many staff?' Johnny Carpenter asks.

‘Fifteen and a doorman. As soon as they've checked in they go to their offices. It's a merchant bank, see. Not men sitting behind grilles.'

‘But cash?'

‘If you know where to look for it.'

‘And you do?'

Prosser looks at Big Smith. ‘And he does,' says Big Smith.

Prosser blinks rapidly. ‘There's two safes and three vaults. Safes are on the ground floor; vaults are in the basement.'

‘How do you deal with these alarms?' Mr Artemis asks.

‘Switch 'em off.'

‘So I would have supposed. But are there not keys?'

‘Yes, Mr Railton, the manager, and Mr Leeds carry 'em between 'em.'

‘When do they come?'

‘About a quarter after nine. Mr Leeds is always first.'

Big Smith, receiving a nod from Artemis, passes the whisky bottle round. There is the clink of glasses.

Johnny Carpenter coughs again. ‘Don't know as I all that fancy a merchant bank. Too much doing deals on paper. Cash is what you want.'

‘Cash is what we all want,' says Big Smith.

Greg Garrett has pale blue eyes that seldom seem to blink. Though the one small man among them and the quietest of them all, he is the most dangerous. He's the sharp-tempered one who might pull a trigger at the wrong moment. Now he squints down at his yellow-patterned silk waistcoat and flicks away some ash that has floated across from Johnny. ‘Personally I'm a bit agin it too … Course you never can tell. These fancy jobs. You play the black and the white goes in off. Who'd have thought that Twickenham job would have come up roses?'

‘Someone got killed on that Twickenham job,' says Big Smith. ‘Awkward accident. You want to avoid that. When folk get killed it makes it all more serious, like.'

‘I would not want any of that,' says Artemis, his eyes yellow behind his glasses, but suddenly alert.

‘No, no, of course not,' says Smith. ‘Sure thing not.'

There is silence for a few seconds. Nimbus clouds of tobacco smoke hover above them.

‘Merchant banks,' says Johnny Carpenter again, folding his long arms, ‘merchant banks never carry that much
cash
. You can't expect millions. What
can
we expect to make it worthwhile? What would you say, Big? It's your idea.'

‘What would you say, Fred?' Big passes the buck.

‘Oh.' A shrug. ‘ Couple of hundred grand.'

‘You seen it?' demands Garrett.

‘How can you expect him to have seen it?' Big is exasperated. ‘It's always a bit of a toss-up, as you've just said yourself.'

‘One good thing.' Johnny Carpenter sniffs. ‘These merchant places, security's not so tight. And they
do
have some cash. Often gold. What have you
seen
, Fred?'

‘I know there's plenty about. I seen the empty bags. And the bands. Often as not they're thrown out with the waste.'

‘Bands?'

Johnny sighs patiently. ‘You never seen used banknotes in packets, Greg? Course you have; what about Bournemouth? Those brown-paper bands says fifty-pound notes, and then the number in the packets. Makes 'em easier to deal with and count. That's what you meant, Fred?'

‘That's right.'

‘Right.'

They all listened to a sports car accelerating up the hill.

‘Might come round tomorrow,' says Garrett. ‘See for myself.'

‘OK.'

‘What about guns?' says Big. ‘You arrange that, Mr Artemis?'

‘I would prefer not.'

‘Then Greg can, I know. Greg's got his own estate, Greg has. Shoots his pheasants regular. Aside from his Twickenham doorman.'

Greg says: ‘Keep your wit for them as appreciate it.'

‘If more of you want to come round in the morning, come,' says Prosser. ‘But I wouldn't want to wait long.'

‘Why not?'

‘Zenith Cleaning rotate their cleaners. Never been more'n three months on any one job.'

‘Are you the only cleaner?' Mr Artemis asks.

‘Yes, sir. I work a five-day week, like the rest of the bank.'

After another silence Big Smith says: ‘ If it's up to me I'd go in as soon as poss. Any more questions? What about you, Joe?'