"Midnight Plus One" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lyall Gavin)

TWO

As far as I know there had never been anyone called Mercedes Melloney, which doesn't surprise or sadden me. It was just Ron Hopkins' idea of the sort of name he needed to sell the sort of dresses he made. He had another, and better, idea of how to sell them, of course; that was why he needed the sort of advice I specialised in.

It sounds crazy, an English mass-production dress manufacturer giving fashion shows in Paris, but Ron didn't haul a plane-load of clothes and models across the Channel for anything but the health of his bank balance. According to him, the French had stuck to thehaute couture from the big fashion houses, or the tailor-made stuff from the little-woman-round-the-corner. Which left themselves wide open for somebody doing cheap up-to-date mass-production clothes. And since he'd been doing this for three years now, I suppose he was right. Always taking into account his little gimmick, of course.

The show was in the dining-room of a big hotel in Montparnasse, probably because Ron thought Paris was more Parisian on the left bank. It was a long, narrow room done up in white and gold and long scarlet drapes that did a fine job of recalling a pre-1914 era that it had never known. It also gave a good excuse for the hard little gilt chairs you had to sit on.

As Merlin and I came in Ron zoomed down at us, under the impression that we were French cabinet ministers or some such leaders of fashion, saw who I was, and said sharply: 'You're late, boy.'

'So's the opposition. ' I did the introductions. 'Henri Merlin, Monsieur Ron Hopkins. A vrai dire, c'est Mercedes Melloney.'

Merlin smiled politely.'Enchanté.'Ron was wearing a dark-green dinner jacket with light-green silk lapels and a pink orchid which was his idea of how to look as pansy as he thought the Paris dress trade was. Behind it, he looked as English as roast beef and as homosexual as a tomcat.

He gave Merlin a fast up-and-down, then nodded at the catwalk down the middle of the room. 'There's a front seat for you over there, boy, and your pal next to you. Don't go selling me out, now.'

I leered at him, and we kicked our way past a row of legs to our places; the audience seemed to be mostly women, and mostly either those who had got old without getting fat or got fat without getting old. A couple of trumpeters in plumed brass helmets let out a toot to announce a new range of dresses and half a dozen models floated out from an arch of roses. Somewhere along the way Merlin had picked up a programme.'Numéro37,' he read. 'It is called Printemps de la Vie. Springtime of life – a most enchanting title. When he first designed it,le Maîtrenamed it onlyau Printemps.Your Hopkins shows a most accurate understanding of that somewhat decayed age of woman to which it is supposed to sell. When I decide that it is also exactly the same dress, it will cost him one million francs.'

'It won't be exactly the same,' I said.

He was looking at his programme again. 'And these frightfulnesses are supposed to be forle cocktail.'

A model in a black sheath dress twittered her feet up the catwalk and paused to despise the air over our heads.

Merlin looked up and said firmly: 'Of what sex is that creature?'

The girl's negligent smile froze on her face.

I winced. She was thin all right, but not that thin. 'Very sexy,' I said loud and clear. 'I could rape her myself, here and now.' She didn't seem encouraged.

Merlin shrugged his fat shoulders. 'For Englishmen, always sex. Sex and fashion are not even connected. In England, you think if a woman gets raped her dress must be fashionable. You have forgotten all you knew about France, Caneton.' He slid me a sideways look.

I knew about the look without meeting it. 'Wait until after this case. What's this job you want me to do?'

Merlin said quickly and quietly: 'A client wishes to go from Brittany to Liechtenstein. Others wish him not to go. Shooting is possible. You wish to help him get there?'

I pulled out a cigarette and lit it and blew smoke at a model's ankles. 'How was he planning to get there? Plane? Train? And what are you paying for this?'

'I would say twelve thousand francs – nearly one thousand pounds. I would suggest by car; it is more simple, more – more flexible. And there are frontiers to cross – or you have forgotten where Liechtenstein is?'

The far side of Switzerland, between it and Austria. And what's this lad doing in Brittany if he should be in Liechtenstein?'

The trumpets tooted again and the models drifted away Next scene: dresssportif.

Henri said: 'He is not in Brittany now. He is on a yacht in the Atlantic. He cannot reach Europe before tomorrow night, and the nearest point he can reach is Brittany. C'est très simple. You take him from there to Liechtenstein. The problem is the others who know also where he is and that he must be in Liechtenstein very soon.'

It didn't sound like just the only problem to me – not like twelve thousand francs-worth of problem, anyway.

'I've only heard of two good reasons for going to Liechtenstein,' I said. 'One is to collect the new postage stamps they do every year. The other is to set up a tax-dodging company. Your man doesn't sound like a stamp collector.'

He chuckled gently. 'His name is Maganhard.'

'I recognise the fortune. Not the face.'

'Nobody knows the face. There is one passport photograph only – just one – taken eight years ago. And not in France.'

'I'd heard he was something to do with Caspar AG.'

He spread his hands. 'One hears anything about such men. I cannot tell you much, you understand – perhaps he himself will tell you more – but he will lose much if he does not reach Liechtenstein quickly.'

'Lawyer's confidences, eh? Now let's get this straight: I pick up Maganhard in Brittany, in a car, and drive him to Liechtenstein, fighting off gunmen all the way. Very simple. Only why doesn't he go by plane or trainand ask for French police protection?'

'Ah, yes.' He nodded and looked atme witha sad smile. There is of course the other problem. Heis wanted by the police of France.'

'Oh yes?' I said casually. 'And what would thatbe for?'

'Anaffaire of rape. Last summer – on the Côted'Azur.'

'They notice such things down there?'

He smiled again. 'Fortunately the womandid not complain until after Maganhard had left France. I had to advisehim not to return.'

'It didn't get much space in the papers; I never saw it.'

'As you say' – he shrugged – 'in summer on the Côte d'Azur rape is merely a variation on a theme. But still illegal.'

'I might not be too keen on helping a rapist escape justice.'

'C'est possible. But the police would be no problem – they will not know he is in France. Only his rivals know he must get to Liechtenstein.'

'On the other hand, rape is about the best frame-up charge I know.'

'Ah.' He gazed sunnily up at the models and said quietly: 'I had hoped the great Monsieur Caneton had not forgotten everything he once knew.'

A model stalked past, hips and head shoved well forward as if she was auditioning for the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and wearing a tartan cloak where the Campbell Macdonald war was still going on.

'All right. Why don't you fix a private plane for him? – then he wouldn't have to show his face at the frontiers.'

He sighed. 'Airfields are carefully watched these days, mon Caneton. And it could not be a small aeroplane to fly all the way from Brittany to Liechtenstein, not one that can land just in a field anywhere. And all the good pilots are honest – and the bad pilots' – he shrugged again – 'a man like Maganhard does not fly with bad pilots.'; That all added up. I nodded. 'So where can I get a car? -not hired or stolen.'

'The police have not confiscated the Paris cars of Maganhard – and I do not think they know I have the keys. Would you wish the Fiat President or the Citroën DS?'

'If it's not a fancy colour, the Citroën.'

'Black. Nobody will notice it.'

I nodded. 'Are you coming with us?'

'No. But I meet you in Liechtenstein.' He smiled up at the girl in the Glencoe Massacre cloak and asked out of the side of his face: 'Do you want also a gunman? '

'If there's likely to be shooting, yes: I'm not a professional. I hear that Alain and Bernard are still the best men. And the American, Lovell, is the next best. Can I have any of them?'

He glanced at me. 'You know such people?' He hadn't expected me to be able to name the top three bodyguard-gunmen in Europe.

'I also have clients, Henri – and some ofthem are worried about getting shot in the back, too.' Perhaps I was exaggerating. I certainly had clients who were liable to get shot, but most of them – rightly – didn't value their own lives at as much as a good bodyguard costs. Still, one tries to keep in touch.

He nodded. 'I forgot – you knew Alain and Bernard in the war, I think.'

I had. They'd been a couple of good Resistance men, farther south, who hadn't wanted to lay down their guns when the war ended. So they hadn't. I'd heard that they always worked together – and also that not all of their work was bodyguarding. But if I could get them on my side, I was ready to skip moral questions.

Merlin said: 'I am afraid I cannot contact them. But I can get Lovell. You know him?'

'Never met him. He was in the American Secret Service, wasn't he?'

Over there, 'Secret Service' doesn't mean what it does in Europe. In America, the Secret Service specialises in providing bodyguards for presidents and their families. That all meant that Lovell was a well-trained man – but what did his leaving the service mean? Well, maybe some people just don't like being organisation gunmen.

Merlin said: 'I will fix for Lovell to meet you at Quimper.'

'If that's where we're starting. Can you get the car to meet me there, too? I can drive to Liechtenstein inside twenty-four hours, but I don't want to do any driving the day before.'

'I fix it.'

The trumpets called the models home across the sands of Dee.

Merlin gave me a satisfied but slightly curious look. 'It seems, Caneton, that you are doing this job. Do you know why?'

'Twelve thousand francs is why.' Perhaps I'd said that a little too quickly. I said more slowly: 'Provided I get eight thousand in advance – and double if I land in jail.'

Merlin nodded.

'And one more thing,' I said. 'You're Maganhard's lawyer: I want your promise that he didn't do this rape -and that he's going to Liechtenstein to save his own investment, not pinch somebody else's.'

He smiled a sleepy, cat-like smile. 'So Caneton is a moralist – you wish to be on the side of truth and justice now, hein?'

'I have the impression,' I said sharply, 'that I was on the right side when you first knew me – in the war.'

'Wars are so simple, morally.' He sighed. 'But I promise: Maganhard is no rapist – and he is not trying to steal another's money. You will believe that when you meet him.'

The trumpets blew a complicated fanfare: Big Scene -evening dresses, including number 37. The models flooded out through the arch of roses.

Merlin waggled his backside to get more comfortable on the stiff little chair, and said: 'I ring you at your hotel, later. Now – we become the enemies. Voici.'

He had spotted number 37.

To me, number 37 -Printemps de la Vie – was just a bolt of bottle-green silk wrapped around the girl to give a lot of horizontal creases up top and vertical creases below, and dragging a short train behind. But I got Henri's point about the age of the women who'd wear it: under those thick creases you could be any shape at all. The only idea the dress put across was that you were rich enough to afford a lot of bottle-green silk.

I leaned over to Merlin and whispered: 'Far better than anythingle Maîtrecould have done.'

'La mode n'existe qu'à Paris,'he said firmly. 'If it is good – it is stolen.' He had a photograph in his hand and was glancing from it to the model and back again.

She knew what he was doing; she slowed up as she went past us, groping around her waist for a pocket or belt to hook her hands into. I don't know why models do that; if a girl hooked her hands into her belt in real life you'd think she was a tart.

Merlin exploded. 'It is the dress ofle Maître! It is -c'est un vol! Votre Hopkins, il est un larron, un espion…'

Istopped listening. I knew where we were, now.

When he'd finished, I said mildly: 'I agree there are similarities. But there are differences, too-' If that was true, I couldn't spot them. But Merlin had.

'They are very small. It is the dress ofle Maître. Many years your Hopkins has done this. Now Henri Merlin has caught him.'

I said thoughtfully: 'I doubt Hopkins will give in without a fight.'

'Then we will fight.' He stood up and shoved back along the front row. The model had turned and was floating along the catwalk, keeping level with us. I winked up at her and she winked down at me. She'd given up trying to find a belt or pockets and just had one hand on her hip. It didn't make her look less like a tart. Only like a cheaper one.

At the door, Hopkins and Merlin were standing pretending not to look at each other.

I smiled at both and said to Merlin: 'Excuse me – I have some advice to give to my client.'

'Advise him to be rich tomorrow or cut his throat tonight.' He gave me a fat grin. 'I ring you.' And he marched out.

Hopkins said: 'Well, boy – does he think he's got a case?'

'No. He started getting angry in French. If he'd had a case, he'd have explained it to me in English. But I acted worried enough so that he'll push it a bit.' I looked at my watch. 'He'll probably leak the story to the Press tonight. He's got time.'

'Marvellous.' He thumped my shoulder, grinning hard.

'You'll go too far one of these days, Ron. They'll nick you.'

'I'll ruddy wellhave to go too far. I can't pull this stunt much longer: they'll get fed up and stop making a fuss. And then what'll happen?'

'Nobody in Paris'll buy your clothes.'

'Dead right, boy. Unless they think I'm pinching the big Paris ideas, I'm finished.'

'La mode n'existe qu'àParis'

'Ay?'

'Something Merlin said. Roughly translated, there's no fashion but Paris fashion.'

'Right again, boy.' Then he turned mournful. 'Put Paris on the label and you could sell 'em a sack that still smelled of manure. Don't get me wrong – I'm not knocking Paris. It's a bleeding miracle how good most of their stuff is. But it don't need to be. Most of the old cows haven't got no more taste than a sixpenny hamburger. That's why just being good ain't enough.' He waved a hand at the models titupping past us.

I shrugged. 'Why not change your name – call yourself Ron Paris? Then you could put Mode de Paris on the label.'

He stared at me. Then he thumped my shoulder again.

'You're a marvel, boy. Knew I was on to a good thing when I got you instead of one of them lawyers. Too much bloody law with them.'

I smiled weakly at him. 'I'll ring you in a few days, Ron.'

He shook my hand, a cool firm grip that had nothing to do with his fancy dinner jacket. 'What you doing now, boy?'

'Spending a few days over here. Might be doing a little shooting.'

'Shooting – in April? You can't shoot anything now.'

I shrugged again. 'I've been told you can find something.'