Bannerman nodded. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘No. I didn’t tell you. There are many things I haven’t told you, things I am not going to tell you, things you will have to find out for yourself. Things that only I could have told you — and there are people who would know that. I am prepared to help you, for reasons of my own, but I am not going to be your, or anyone else’s, sacrificial lamb.’ He paused as Jacques brought the drinks then he leaned across the table again. ‘He had booked a flight for Sunday evening for himself and his daughter. London,and then a connecting flight to New York. Tickets and passport were in his inside jacket pocket.’
Bannerman felt tiny needles of shock prick his skin. For the first time he began seriously to doubt that there had been a third party, doubt the interpretation of the child’s drawing. ‘It is just possible then that Slater went with a gun to the Rue de Pavie intending to kill Gryffe, take the money and skip the country.’
‘It is possible,’ du Maurier conceded, ‘but I doubt it. It is a theory with very little to support it. Do not forget all that I told you yesterday. Before I was instructed to drop the case, we found no way of connecting the gun to Monsieur Slater. In fact, I don’t think we ever would. The registration number had been filed off, and I doubt ballistics would have a record of it. It was a professional’s gun. A once only job. And Monsieur Slater was not a professional. Also, he was not stupid. A man is shot dead, a man whom others knew was meeting Monsieur Slater in his house that morning. Monsieur Slater disappears. Those are the actions of a stupid man. Too, Monsieur Slater’s flight to London was not until Sunday evening. Even if he had meant to murder Monsieur Gryffe and run, as you say, he would not wait nearly twelve hours. He would never have reached the airport.’
Bannerman conceded du Maurier’s logic with something like relief. Since finding the packed cases there had been a niggling doubt in the back of his mind about Slater. At no point until then had he thought Slater capable of being involved in murder. Du Maurier’s confirmation of Slater’s intention to flee the country had brought that seed of doubt to flower. But now it withered as quickly and left a greater clarity. ‘Then we are left with the original question of what business Slater had with Gryffe. Blackmail?’
Du Maurier smiled. ‘Go on.’
‘If Slater was blackmailing Gryffe then there would be no need for him to make a hurried departure. Maybe,’ he drew on his cigar, ‘maybe if Slater had been blackmailing him for some time, Sunday was to have been the final payoff. A quarter of a million dollars is a lot of money, but I wouldn’t have thought it was enough to make Slater give up everything here. Certainly not overnight.’
Du Maurier poured water into his absinthe. ‘It’s all possible,’ he said. ‘Personally I like the idea of blackmail. It answers many questions, though not all of them by any means. If, for example, Monsieur Slater had been blackmailing our friend for some time, where is the rest of the money? He certainly did not bank it either here or in England. There was no money in the flat, though it is possible that money was removed from the safe by your intruder. Somehow I don’t think so. What was taken would more likely be evidence, whatever it was that gave Monsieur Slater a hold over Monsieur Gryffe. So, if there was more money, where is it?’
‘A numbered account in Switzerland.’
‘Again, possible, but I think not. We would have found some record of such an account among his personal belongings.’
Bannerman took a slug of whisky. ‘Seems you, too, have been busy.’
Du Maurier smiled and ran a hand through the remains of his black, wiry hair. ‘More importantly,’ he went on, ‘blackmail does not furnish us with any motive for murder by a third party.’
‘Somebody else who felt threatened,’ Bannerman suggested. ‘If Slater had dirt on Gryffe, then some of that dirt could possibly have stuck to the third party.’
The policeman scratched his old chin. ‘Assuming that was true,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘would the murderer then have left the money behind? Not only is it a lot of money, it also provides a possible clue as to motive.’ He sighed. ‘There is little point, Monsieur Bannerman, in speculating. We could talk around the subject all night and only create for ourselves more questions that we cannot answer.’ He emptied his glass.
Bannerman placed a hand on his arm to stop him rising. ‘One final question. Gryffe had another house in Brussels. Where?’
The Inspector frowned. ‘He had no other home in Brussels. Only in the Rue de Pavie.’
Bannerman shook his head. ‘You are not as thorough as you might have been,’ he said. ‘Slater lists two home numbers in Brussels for Gryffe. They are in his contacts book. Presumably one of them is the Rue de Pavie.’ He took out his notebook and flipped through to the page where he had noted the numbers, and pushed it across the table at du Maurier. The other man’s frown deepened.
‘The first number is the Rue de Pavie,’ he said, ‘what makes you think the second number is Belgian? It could be anywhere.’
‘In the contacts book it was preceded by a code in brackets. The international dialling code from Britain to Belgium.’
Du Maurier shook his head. ‘It is not a Brussels number. Provincial perhaps.’ He took out a small black notebook and a pen and copied the second number into it. ‘I will check. Because the case is closed it will not be easy. Perhaps a few days.’ He scribbled another number on a fresh page, tore it out and handed it to Bannerman. ‘If you need to call me, phone that number. Speak to no-one else but me. Do not come to the Rue des Quatre Bras.’
Bannerman took the sheet of paper and folded it into his top pocket. He said, ‘I shall want Slater’s car from the pound.’
Du Maurier stood up. ‘I will arrange to have it taken to the Rue de Commerce. Au revoir, Monsieur.’ He pushed his way out of the café and Bannerman stared at the remains in his whisky glass. He knew more now than when he had come in, but still not enough. He drank the last drop of whisky and noticed that du Maurier had left him to pick up the bill. He drew out a five hundred franc note and dropped it in the saucer, and then left the warmth of the Café Auguste to brave the snow and the raw night.
The newsboy was still selling papers. The news was still bad and business was still good.
III
Bannerman ate alone in a bistro off the Avenue de la Toison d’Or, a small, cheap eating house where they served good steak and Bordeaux wine by the carafe.
It had stopped snowing when he left. He headed back along the Boulevard Waterloo toward the Porte de Namur. Over the meal he had thought again about Palin with some disquiet. The man bothered him, without his knowing quite why. He had known plenty of drunks, abusive ones at that. But with Palin it was something else. Bannerman checked his watch. It was after eight. He had been unwise to leave the cuttings in the office, and he decided it would be safer to stop off at the International Press Centre and pick up the folders. They would be more secure at the flat. There was no way he wanted to risk Palin getting his hands on them.
At the Pone de Namur he rode the escalators down into the Metro and spent twenty-five francs on a ticket to Schuman.
There were only a few lights still showing in the windows of the IPC building. A bored-looking telephone girl sat behind the reception counter. Up steps and beyond the desk, across a wide, thickly carpeted lobby, the sound of voices oiled by alcohol came from the press bar. Bannerman took the elevator up to the sixth floor.
The corridor was dimly lit, every second light switched off for the night. He watched his shadow overtake him, fade like a giant and then drift by him again as he passed under the next light. All the offices were empty and the floor was quiet as death except for the distant rumbling of traffic that came up the Boulevard Charlemagne from the Rue de la Loi. Bannerman looked out his key and thought about phoning Sally again from the office. The key wouldn’t turn in the lock. He swore softly and tried another key. The same again. ‘Shit!’ He tried the handle and the door pushed open. Someone had forgotten to lock it.