“Insist on the originals or nothing. That’s what they want to see destroyed before their very eyes.” Warboys laughed. “Intriguing. Did you think that one up on the way home? Zwischen tins sei Wahrheit. Appropriate language, too.”

  “Damn the damned language. Yes it’s the truth. I say it to you.”

  “Then I believe. Odd place to keep it, wasn’t it?”

  “It was as near as I could get to keeping it under the bed mattress. So if your people want their dirt they’ve got to find him and get the stuff back. But I want to make this clear – so far as the picture is concerned I make no charges. He’s welcome to it. I make it a retrospective gift.”

  “Odd. You might tell me why one day?”

  “Could be. I think you’d enjoy the joke. But that’s for later. You want the original documents then you must get them to find Maurice Crillon. They’ll mean nothing to him. He’ll be quite reasonable.”

  “Does he read German?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Could he still be at the hotel?”

  “No. I phoned. He’s gone.”

  “When he signed in did he put his address in France?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because unless ordered – I don’t intend to do any work, however slight, for Birdcage.”

  “Something like the faint tinkle of a High Mass bell rang in my ear then – or did it?”

  “It was a bird outside the window.”

  A long sigh came over the line, and then, “We’ll find him, you know. Could be he might write to you?”

  “What for? The man’s just pinched a bloody picture from me. But I have to admit that I’m enjoying the piquancy of it all. Will your bright boy at Birdcage still want to see me?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Didn’t I tell you? He’s got this uncanny knack of being able to tell fiction from truth. Anyway, dear man, it’s nice to hear you sounding so happy over the loss of an Augustus John.”

  * * * *

  When Sir Andrew’s chauffeur reported to him the next morning his – or rather his wife’s – gleanings from the Red Lion Hotel were brief but not without considerable human interest. His son was clearly a chip off the old block. Maurice Crillon had left the hotel at quarter-past two the previous afternoon in his car, after taking lunch with a young lady as his guest. The young lady was fairly well-known to one of the waitresses – a friend of Mrs Lloyd – for she now and then had the habit of coming into the hotel for a bar snack lunch. Her name was Miss Margery Littleton and she worked for one of the town’s solicitors. She had left in the same car with Maurice Crillon.

  And Lloyd added, “I got his address from the register – and of course we know about his car, sir, from his coming up here. I wrote it all down for you.” He handed his employer a piece of paper with the number and make of the car. Underneath this was also written – No.2. Rue de Belfort, Bordeaux – which surprised Sir Andrew a little since why should Maurice not have used his Cragnac address? However . . . it was not his business to worry over that. The days ahead were going to be full of heartwarming piquancies. Birdcage could do their own dirty work. And he hoped that they fell flat on their faces. Perhaps – after a while – he might go and have a private talk with Margery Littleton. Shouldn’t be difficult to find her. His own local solicitor knew all the others and would trace her, no questions asked. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that she had gone back to France for a while with Maurice – chip off the old block. See that with half-an-eye. Then a thought suddenly struck him for the first time – Maurice had taken the Augustus John out of sentiment and as a compliment to him, but suppose some day, sooner or later, he should take it out of its frame, say, to clean it – which it needed – and found the documents, the originals which Birdcage now so avidly desired for some dirty, cover-up deal of their own with the ageing bastards who wanted true peace of mind and, probably more so, release from their yearly tribute to him? Well, if he couldn’t read German and just chucked the stuff into the fire as back packing needing renewing . . . well and good. But if not – and he started something on his own. God help the dear man – he would be walking into a jungle full of tigers. Though . . . thinking that over, he realized at once that Maurice Crillon was not the kind of man who would risk his own neck by coming into the open too soon. There was that about him which in some indefinable way was apparent to him – perhaps because he himself belonged in the same category – that marked him as a survival man. Cher Maurice could well take care of himself.

  That noon the telephone rang and a prim, dehumanized voice enquired whether it would be convenient for Mr Kerslake to call and see him the following afternoon, and whether he could kindly indicate a convenient spot in the grounds of the Abbey where his helicopter might land?

  Sir Andrew said, “The Abbey’s not open to the public that day. He can land in the small paddock to the south of the chapel of the Knights Hospitaller.”

  Putting down the telephone he gave a shrug of his shoulders, thinking how the old crusading knights had gone all the way to Jerusalem on horse-back. Those now who defended Church and Establishment dropped out of the skies like marauding locusts. The world was becoming overstuffed with hundreds of means of annihilating time and distance. Oh, brave new world . . . and how nice that it had Maurice Crillon in it to complicate things for Birdcage. . . dear Maurice, he really had thrown a spanner in the works. No doubt about his blood lines – travel your comforts with you. Sometime he must find out about this Margery Littleton . . .

  * * * *

  At that moment Margery Littleton was lying on her back on the edge of a small copse of aspen trees on the right bank of the river Dordogne. Chiff-chaffs and willow warblers filled the air with song. From beyond the trees came the sound of traffic. She was drowsy from the wine of an early lunch to which had now been added the smooth ecstasy of recent love-making. Maurice, she had soon learnt, was, when desire took him, heedless of risks or embarrassment. He was sitting now farther up the bank talking to an old man who had bicycled into view when their passion had been recently spent and respectability was – like heaven, she wondered – all about them. The old man was using a twenty foot fishing pole which he occasionally jerked to mark a bite and then lifted absurdly small fish free of the water to go into his keep net. Some time that evening they would be in his good wife’s kitchen . . .frits en brochettes. For a little while she let herself imagine she was Maurice’s wife – not seriously, but for the fairytale pleasure of it. There was no harm in it. Nothing was going to mar or mis-shape this glorious break in her humdrum life. When the great firework display was over, the ground littered with the broken and charred rocket sticks, she would only have to close her eyes and the whole episode would be in her memory, unmarred, unmarrable . . . She closed her eyes now against the sun and drifted into a deep sleep which heralded itself by a long sigh of contentment.

  * * * *

  The next afternoon, a blue helicopter came in low over the elms that crested the hills behind Avoncourt Abbey, did a close circuit over the chapel, and then settled to the ground in the small paddock that overlooked the river.

  Kerslake got out of the machine, turned and said something to the pilot, and then walked across to where Sir Andrew Starr waited for him, leaning on the paddock gate. He had met him before briefly at one or two conferences of no importance and doubted very much whether the man would remember him, except by name.

  Sir Andrew pulled the gate back for him to leave the field and said, “Kerslake?”

  “Yes, Sir Andrew.”

  As they shook hands, Sir Andrew said, “Nice to see you. Met you last a couple of years ago. You were minus the moustache then. Suits you. Not me, though. I tried it once and Lady Starr said it made me look like some ageing walrus who’d just lost his last cow to an up-and-coming young rival.”

  Kerslake laughed, a thin, dry sound though it came from genuine amusement, and said, “I don’t care for it much myself. But when they pushed me upstairs Warboys suggested it. New office, newer responsibilities needed a slightly newer persona. Somehow I got attached to it – or it to me.”

  Sir Andrew laughed again and shook his head. “They told me you were as dry as a stick, tough as nails and as ruthless as a broker’s man. You’d like to come in and have some tea – or take a walk along the river?”

  “The river, I think, if that suits you, Sir Andrew. I was born by a river. The Taw – Barnstaple.”

  “Ah, yes. Do you fish it?”

  “No. I poached it until I became a police cadet and had to be respectable. And then . . . well, where I sit now there are bigger but less noble fish to go after.”

  “Bloody sharks most of ’em.”

  They went down the hill path and when they came to the stile leading on to the river bank they both in silent accord – which moved some memory in Sir Andrew, though it was too foggy to be captured – sat on it in unspoken agreement.

  After a moment or two Kerslake said, “I don’t want to go into the bigger issue at this moment, Sir Andrew. Warboys has briefed me on your feelings about that. I think we can leave all that until we get the original papers back. I’d just like to know all you can tell me about this Frenchman, Maurice Crillon.”

  “Damned little, really. Said he was over here on holiday. Staying at the Red Lion. Noticed him coming up here three or four times – used to see him in the picture galleries and then walking down here sometimes. Fact, it was right here that we first got talking – about paintings. Knew his stuff all right . . .” He went on, telling the story, editing it where necessary.

  “So, in a sense, he finished up working for you?”

  “Yes – but not for cash. Just for pleasure. He was passionate in the truest sense of the word about paintings.”

  “Did he ever see the Augustus John in your bedroom before he took it?”

  “Oh, yes. I took him along once to ask him if he thought it needed cleaning. Know what the cheeky sod said? He said it was a lousy painting – right to my face – but it could do with cleaning. Actually between ourselves it wasn’t the best Augustus John in the world. Homer nods occasionally and portrait painters more often.”

  “What kind of car did he drive?”

  “Renault. But don’t ask me the number. Never look at that kind of thing.”

  A kingfisher went down stream fast and a distant cuckoo soothed the afternoon with a few lazy notes.

  Kerslake said, “Seems odd he should take that picture?”

  “Damned odd. But there you are. But I could cite you plenty of other things in my life which were just as damned odd. And, let’s face it, there wouldn’t be any need for all that set-up in Birdcage Walk if there weren’t even odder things in life.”

  “Did you ever gather whether he spoke German or not?”

  “No idea.”

  Kerslake suddenly smiled and said, “Proper up a gum tree, aren’t we, Sir Andrew?”

  “Perhaps. But only for you and all that lot you’ve suddenly decided to do a deal with. You aren’t going to expect me to be broken hearted over all this, are you?”

  “Far from it. I should think you’re really enjoying it all. And personally I don’t blame you. But in my official capacity – well, you know how that must be.”

  “Yes. Well, you’ve got all I can give you. What will you do?”

  “Trace him. It shouldn’t be hard. The French authorities will help one way or another.”

  “And what about the other side? Tell them the original documents have been pinched – or some politer less brutal story?”

  “Tell them the truth, I think.”

  “That’ll be a change coming from Birdcage.”

  Kerslake smiled. “Why do you pretend to despise us, Sir Andrew? You know better than most the need for our existence – and once you worked for us.”

  “So I did, Kerslake. So I did. But that was during a time of national peril. The Sermon on the Mount was put away for the duration.”

  “And afterwards . . . Sir Andrew Starr went into business on his own account.”

  “Damn right. Couldn’t resist it, not with those bastards. And, of course, needs must when the Devil drives. If things had gone their way what would have happened to England’s green and pleasant land? Sure, I blackmailed them privately for years, and then I began to sense that they might try and take me out . . . shooting accident, car crash, something that wouldn’t raise a stink or publicity. Just a brief obituary notice in The Times for Sir Andrew Starr . . . et cetera and so on . . . So, I decided to go to my old firm and take out some insurance – and as a quid pro quo you got the photostat copies.”

  “And now we want the originals.”

  “To burn on the kitchen stove?”

  “Just at the moment there is a division of opinion about that. After all these years some of them have worked their passage back, seen the light and wish to be shrived. Barefoot to Jerusalem and back.”

  “Aye – and that a pilgrimage they would have denied many others. Barefoot and ragged-arsed to a gas chamber was what they had in mind. So, Kerslake, you know my position. The documents have gone – and now the ball is in your court. Exit Sir Andrew Starr – laughing.”

  Kerslake smiled. “I don’t blame you. I fancy we’ll be able to manage without you.”

  “Good. Now can I offer you a drink before you take off?” Kerslake hesitated for a moment or two, and then said, “That would be kind of you. Perhaps, too, I could take a look at your bedroom and the maintenance room where Crillon worked.”

  “Finger prints and all that stuff?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t think Birdcage will be doing any serious chasing. And like you I don’t owe the other side any favours – despite official policy. I just wanted to have the picture in my mind of an itinerant Frenchman, working at the Abbey and then for some quirky reason making off with an indifferent picture when he had so many others of far higher quality to choose from. You must have thought that odd?”

  “My dear Kerslake, I thought it was bloody odd – and also bloody amusing. Fact, I’ve an idea that the gods with endless Time on their hands had decided to set up a completely random set of circumstances so that they could sit back and watch the show – hoping that it would turn out good and run for a long time. Perhaps steal the record eventually from The Mousetrap.”

  * * * *

  Now and again, in the late afternoon on her way back from work, Carla went up to Maurice’s flat to see – though with not any perceptible stir of hope – whether he had written to her. He would never have sent anything direct to the family home, knowing that Aldo would have no scruples over opening and – if necessary – destroying any communication from him.

  Today her hope was rewarded. Nestling in the wire letter box behind the door was a picture postcard of the view from the Domme ramparts, the great, lazy snake of the river Dordogne coiling along the valley below.

  He wrote:

  Briefly here on business. Sorry so long no word, but my thoughts are almost always of you. I am lost without you. Can’t say when I shall be back. My mother died and I have to clear up affairs.

  Love Maurice.

  She dropped the card on to the table and was about to pour herself a glass of Cinzano Bianco when the door bell rang. It not only rang, it went on ringing – which told her all she wanted to know. She opened it to find, without surprise, that Aldo was outside.

  She said, “How did you know I was in?”

  “Theportinaia told me.”

  Carla eyed him for a moment or two, smiling, and then asked, “Why are you so happy? Your face looks quite different when you are in a good temper.”

  “Why should I not be happy? You have made me so.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. My clever sister. I did as you suggested about the telegrams from Switzerland. Antonio Maratino-you know who has the trattoria at Fiesole – well I discover he has a friend who works in the Post Office, who owed him a favour, and from this friend I find out about the telegram from Switzerland. It is good to have friends who are always ready to help and ask no questions —”

  “Mafia?”

  A shade offended, Aldo said, “I talk of friends. Anyway, I find out. So now you can go to Switzerland and have a little talk with this friend.” He handed her a slip of paper which she glanced at briefly and felt no surprise. Even if she had she would not have given Aldo the pleasure of knowing it. She reached for her bag from the table and put the paper in it.

  Enjoying himself Aldo said, “Your face shows nothing.”

  She gave a long mock sigh. “Ah, but Aldo in my heart there is deep sorrow. Always the woman pays, is that not true?”

  “That I have always told you.”

  “But this time it is the man, you, who begins to pay. If I work for you, you must pay me. Before I go to Switzerland you settle one half of my money on me. Without that I do not stir.”

  “One half! I could go for myself.”

  “Then do that.”

  “How so? I do not speak German. And, anyway, cara, these things arrange themselves better between women. One quarter, I pay. Is that not handsome?”

  “One third is handsomer. You have no thought for my feelings? You would send me to talk to this Fraülein. Can you not imagine why she does a thing like this for Maurice? It is not a nice situation, my dear brother.”

  Aldo threw up his hands. “Now – you become all sensitive because Maurice has other women?”

  “We will not discuss my feelings. One half.”

  “One quarter.”

  “One half – and paid into my bank before I go.”

  “One quarter and I lend you my car to drive there and pay your hotel bills.”

  “That you must do anyway. One half.”

  Aldo was silent for a while. Then he suddenly smiled, reached for her hand and kissed it, and said warmly, “You are my sister. Pappa dies too early to bring you up, but I have done it for him. And why not? I am a good son. All right – I make over one third.”

  “Tomorrow. Then I leave when the bank confirms it – in your car, plus all expenses.”