There was no sign of a doorbell, so he hammered on the door with his fist. After a long pause the door eased open. Someone peered at him through the crack, then scraped the door wide open.
It was a woman, wearing a woollen pullover, blue jeans and a tweed cap.
“I have come to see Madame de Morganet,” Rick said. “I was told she has a package for me.”
“And you are – ?”
“Rick. Just say it is Rick.”
“May I have your surname?”
“Rick will do. She knows who I am.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
The woman turned away and bent down, and almost immediately came back holding a valise, which Rick recognized as being Dennis’s.
“Madame de Morganet is resting and is not receiving visitors today,” she said. “But she has instructed me to tell you that the bag contains everything Mr O’Leary brought with him, as well as what was agreed. You will have to sign for it.”
“That’s all right.”
She handed over a pen and a blank scrap of paper, on which Rick dutifully tried to scribble, resting the paper against the peeling wall of the wooden porch.
“Madame has asked me to convey her sincere thanks to you, Rick,” the woman said while he was still trying to get the pen to write. “She was pleased and satisfied with your arrangements.”
“Is Dennis here?” he said, as he handed the pen and paper back to her.
“Mr O’Leary left the house during the night.” She stared at him noncommittally.
“Left? Where did he go?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’s a matter for Monsieur and Madame.”
He hefted the valise on to his shoulder. “Look, should Dennis turn up, would you ask him to phone me as soon as possible?”
But the door was already closing, the warped old wood scraping against the stone flags. He heard her say, just as the door closed with a double push from inside, “Mr O’Leary’s phone is inside the bag.”
Rick set off down the drive. As he walked, he eased open the top cover of the valise, and reached inside. He felt the hard weight of the laptop, the plastic case of the mobile phone, clothes and a bathroom bag. He groped deeper and found what he was seeking: many neatly packed wads of banknotes, satisfyingly crisp, down at the bottom of the bag.
He walked past Madame de Morganet’s display board, but did not glance at it. He opened the passenger door of the Volvo, put the valise on the front seat, then went back to look.
Unlike the untidy, weed-filled state of the garden, the sign looked clean and cared for, the glass shining in the wintry sunlight. He read her claimed list of ‘atchievements,’ then noticed the final line:
...Actuarial Calculations, Tax Returns, Law of Probate, Law of Property, Law of Torts, Illusionism and Prestidigitation...
There was a blank area near the bottom, as if to leave room for more skills to be added, then a telephone number.
Rick climbed back inside the car, started the engine and waited for the heater to warm him up. He reached deep into the valise, tossing Dennis’s possessions on the car floor, then removed all the wads of notes and counted them. Each one contained £1,000 in mixed notes, and there were thirty of them in all.
He put the money away, out of sight, and sat in the car, thinking. He inspected the laptop, which booted normally when he tried. The mobile phone’s battery was low, but nevertheless the handset switched on. There were no text messages for Dennis, he had no missed calls.
Finally, he climbed out of the car and took all Dennis’s clothes and personal possessions and placed them inside the trailer. He folded the royal-blue suit neatly. He then locked the trailer, unhooked it from the car and left it where it was, askew across the muddy lane. He put the old Volvo in gear and drove away slowly along the lane, past the weed-filled grounds of the house, beneath the winter-bare trees, against the rising green shoulders of the South Downs, under a brightening sky.