The Swiss nodded once.
'We have not had many dealings with Zürichsbank over the years.'
'Please show proof of your identity.'
Patiently Graves showed him a letter which said, on Hillyard, Cleef stationery, 'Mr Jacques Graves is acting in my name and with my full authority.' Pilgrim had signed it. Kleiber examined it with ostentatious care, thumbnail picking at the embossed letters of the bank's name. 'Go on, please.'
Graves said, 'We have something of a mystery. You will be aware that every year on the seventeenth of July the sum of fifty thousand pounds is paid by Hillyard, Cleef into an account here.'
'Yes.'
Did this bastard speak only in monosyllables, Graves wondered. Kleiber was as opaque and uncommunicative as a concrete block.
'You may also know that these payments have been made every year since nineteen-twenty.'
Kleiber nodded.
'The mystery,' Graves said, 'is that the original authorization for these payments was made by a man now dead. At some point the record of their purpose has been mislaid. We continue to pay, naturally, because that is our obligation, but we would now like to know -' He stopped. A tiny smile twitched Kleiber's lips before he said, 'Unfortunate.'
'And expensive,' Graves agreed.
'Also careless.'
'As I say, we would simply like to know to whom the money is being paid, whether to the bank, or to an individual, or to a company. In complete confidence, of course.'
'Wait.' Kleiber rose and left the room. A lock clicked as the door closed. Graves, familiar with Swiss caution and precaution, was unsurprised.
A minute later Kleiber was back, resuming his seat across the table. He said, 'The payment goes into a numbered account.'
'Yes, I know. The number -'
Kleiber shook his head. 'It is a matter of law. I can give you no information.'
Graves said, 'We hoped you might be disposed to help us.'
'No. The law is specific, as are the bank's own regulations.'
Graves dangled his feeble carrot. 'It would be nice to think our two banks could find other ways to co-operate.'
Kleiber's face was stony. 'Mr Graves, it is impossible. You knew that before you came here.'
Graves shrugged. 'All right, Mr Kleiber.' He rose. 'The door's locked?'
Kleiber nodded, looking at Graves with pebbly eyes. Then he said, 'It is not unknown that people seeking illicit information about numbered accounts approach the staff of the bank. I should warn you that such approaches are pointless.'
'I have no intention -' Graves began.
He was interrupted a second time. 'Only a very few people here have access to numbered accounts,'
Kleiber said, 'and all of them, I promise you, will at once report any such approach to the police. The police would prosecute. The man who made the approach would go to prison. It is the law.'
'I understand. Perhaps you'll unlock the door now.'
'In a moment,' said Kleiber. Again came that twitching and superior smile. Briefly Graves wanted to hit the pudding face. 'You will not leave empty-handed, Mr Graves. There is something we have for you.'
'What?'
'Wait, please.'
Kleiber left the room; once more the lock clicked. He returned almost immediately holding an envelope, which he laid on the table. 'For your principal.'
'What is it?'
Kleiber's twitchy smile now became a small smirk. 'My bank holds an instruction that should any enquiry be made about deposits made in the account, that packet is to go to your principal.'
'Myprincipal?'
'The principal of the company, or other organization making the enquiry, Mr Graves. In this case Mr Laurence Pilgrim, since we are aware Sir Horace Malory is now standing aside.'
Graves picked up the envelope. It was not addressed.
'Follow instructions,' Kleiber said. 'It is for your principal. Do not be tempted to open it.'
Behind Graves the other door clicked open. He said, a little sardonically, 'Well, at least you're letting me out.'
'Good day, Mr Graves.'
He stood for a moment in the corridor outside the secure interview chamber, turning the bulky envelope in his hands. It was manila, sealed with red wax, in an image which appeared to be that of an eagle. A guard, in a grey uniform watched him from a desk at the end of the corridor. It occurred to Graves that the envelope was far from new: the shine from the paper-maker's calendar rollers had gone, though the strong paper remained pristine. How long, he wondered, had the envelope been here, in the Zurichsbank, awaiting the question?
Briefly Graves debated what he should do. He had been well aware, before Kleiber told him, of the hazards of tampering with the employees of Swiss banks, but he had tampered before and would again, so Kleiber's clear threat didn't discourage him. But the envelope was unexpected; and since it was for his principal, it should be delivered at once. He could always come back. He collected his document case from the guard, placed the envelope inside it, and entered the lift. In the street outside he had to wait two or three minutes for a taxi. At the airport a disappointment awaited him: the British Airways flight had left and there was an engine fault on the Swissair flight to Heathrow. It was two hours before the jet took off. When he arrived by taxi at Hillyard, Cleef, he was unable to deliver the envelope to his principal. Pilgrim, was, by now, on the M4, being driven to Gloucestershire, and dinner with some Nigerians interested in the funding of a steel mill.
The envelope must wait until morning.
Sir Horace was counting. Two, three, four of the daffodils were showing yellow; a good many more seemed about to burst their buds. Even the tulips were swelling. Early, he thought. But then, the garden was well sheltered.
He strolled round the corner, wondering about Jacques Graves and when he would return. There was no doubt Graves was efficient, but something about the man put him off. Seemed to wear some kind of scent: one of those concoctions advertised for after a shave. Standing too near him once, Malory had caught a whiff of it and was instantly reminded of the interior of his new Bentley. Leather and wood, some such nonsense. Malory had not liked that smell, and he did not like the scent in his nostrils now. It was clear and he recognized it: the smell of danger.
He had quite forgotten the door. When he reached it he halted, appalled. In some way it caught the spring sunshine and reflected it back in dazzling, coppery sheen. God, he thought.
'Oh, Sir Horace, Mr Pilgrim was asking for you,' said Mrs Frobisher.
'Hardly unusual,' he murmured, easing off his coat.
'Yes, sir. He did say -'
'I'm sure he did. Is Mr Graves back?'
'Yes, Sir Horace.'
'Mm. Coffee first, I think.' It was more self-discipline than self-indulgence. Horace Malory, sipping his coffee and removing the hand from the Romeo No.3, positively burned to know how Graves had fared with the unforgiving Swiss. But he had learned long ago that violent curiosity was best allowed to subdue itself. He therefore drank a second cup.