“And maybe some computer disks, too,” he said. He inspected the available stock and picked out the type he needed. “A couple of these, I think.”
They returned to Dominique’s apartment where the spare bedroom was handed over for his use.
“My very own workshop,” he said, getting down to work. Work stopped quite quickly when he found they’d forgotten to buy a plug for the soldering iron. He removed the two-pin plug from the room’s bedside lamp and attached it to the soldering-iron. Then he had to borrow a pair of tweezers from Dominique, and a small magnifying glass (which she used for reading) from Madame Herault.
As he worked, he could hear Dominique and her mother talking in the living room. Whenever Madame Herault spoke too loudly, her daughter would “shush” her, and their voices would drop to a whisper again. It was as if he were the surgeon and this some particularly difficult operation. It wasn’t really. It was the sort of stuff any teenage kid could accomplish with the aid either of inspiration or the plans from a hobby magazine. It took Barclay just over an hour. The wire he was using was no thicker than thread. He feared it would snap. Using runs of shorter than a centimeter, he dropped countless pieces and then couldn’t find them, so had to cut more tiny lengths.
“A kid would have a steadier hand,” he muttered. But at last he was finished. He washed his face, splashing water into his bleary eyes, then had tea with Dominique and her mother. Then, with Dominique in her room and Barclay outside the front door, they tested the two small devices. Their range was not great. He hoped it would be enough. A neighbor passed him as he was standing in the stairwell with the receiver. He smiled at her, and received a mighty and quizzical frown in return.
“All right,” he said at last, after Dominique had hugged him briefly for being a genius, “now it’s your turn.”
But before they left, he tried telephoning Dominic Elder at his London hotel. He didn’t know why exactly. Maybe he just wanted the assurance he felt Elder would give. But Elder wasn’t there.
They drove back to Separt’s block and squeezed the car into a parking space, then Dominique went to the phone booth on the corner and tried Separt’s number. She returned quickly.
“An answering machine,” she said. “And I don’t see his car anywhere.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s out. He may just be working. Did you see his car when we were here earlier?”
“To be honest, no. It may be parked on another street.”
“So what now?”
“We’ll have to try the intercom. If he answers, that’s too bad.” So they walked to the front door and tried the intercom. There was no reply. “So now we know he’s out,” she said.
“Which doesn’t get us in.”
He looked up and down the street. A woman was heading in their direction, pausing now and again to chastise her poodle about something it either had or had not done. “Back to the car,” he said. They sat in the car and waited. “When I call you, don’t come,” he ordered. While Dominique puzzled over this, the woman stopped finally at the front door to the block, and then opened the door. Barclay sprang from the car and held the door open for the woman, who was having trouble persuading her poodle to enter the building.
“Merci, madame,” Barclay said. Then he called towards the car: “Dominique, ici! Vite!” Dominique sat still and looked at him. She had changed, back at her apartment, into faded denims and T-shirt, and she was wearing her lipstick again. She now checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, ignoring his calls.
Barclay made an exasperated sound and shrugged to the woman. But now the woman was inside the building and making for the lift. “Ici, Dominique!” Barclay glanced behind him, saw the lift doors close with the woman and her dog inside, and now gestured for Dominique to join him. She lifted the plastic bag from the backseat and got out of the car. He gestured her through the door, and it locked behind them. They waited for ages while the lift took its cargo to the third floor, paused, then started down towards them. After their own ascent, the lift opened onto Separt’s private floor. There were two doors, one unmarked, the other belonging to Separt’s apartment. Dominique got busy on this door. She had brought some old-fashioned-looking lock picks with her from her apartment. No doubt they had belonged to her father before her. Barclay had his doubts whether they would be up to handling modern-day locks. But within two minutes, the door was open.
“Brilliant,” he said.
“Quick, in you go.”
In he went. It was his job now. Hers was to stand by the lift. If it was called for, if it started back up from ground level, then she’d call to him and he’d clear out. What they would do after that was unclear to him. “We’ll think of something,” she’d said. “Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry!
Well, after all, what was there to worry about? He was only bugging someone’s private home, having broken into it. That was all. And in foreign territory, too. And without permission from Joyce Parry. That was all. It was a breeze...
The telephone was on the floor beside the desks, next to the answering machine. He unscrewed the receiver and fixed the small transmitter in place, screwing the receiver shut again and shaking it to check it didn’t rattle before replacing it in its cradle. Then he placed another transmitter down at the other end of the room, stuck to the underside of the sofa. Recalling how Separt liked to sit on the floor, he slouched on the floor himself. No, the bug wasn’t visible. He had no way of knowing if either bug would work. In theory they would, but in practice? And as for getting them out again afterwards...
Now he went to the computer. It was switched on, which saved a bit of time, but also indicated that Separt wouldn’t be gone for long. He opened the box of computer disks beside the terminal. There were half a dozen disks, none bearing helpful markings. He pulled his own disks out of his pocket. The shop assistant had formatted them already, and Dominique had given him some French computer commands. The keyboard was slightly different from British models, but not so different. It didn’t take long to copy a couple of Separt’s disks.
A hiss from Dominique at the open door. “Lift’s coming!”
He closed the disk box and checked the screen display. There was no indication that he’d accessed the computer. Dominique was calling out floor numbers as he took a last look around. It might be another resident. The lift might stop before the penthouse. But it didn’t look like it was stopping.
“Two... three...”
He was out now. She closed the door and did what she had to do with her picklock. Just the one lock needed reworking, the other being a Yale-type which had locked itself on closing.
He looked at the lift. “Four,” he said. “Five. Christ, Dominique, it’s this floor next!”
She swiveled from the door and pushed him backwards. His back hit the landing’s other door, which opened, and suddenly he was in the emergency stairwell, his kidneys colliding with the banister. He gasped while Dominique pushed the door closed again, just as the ping of a bell from the landing signaled the arrival of the lift. They both held their breath and listened as Separt unlocked his door. He closed it behind him, and all was quiet again.
“He didn’t notice anything,” she hissed, leaning her head against Barclay’s shoulder. “He’s gone inside. Come on.”
They crept stealthily down one flight of stairs, entered the fifth-floor landing, and summoned the lift from the floor above to take them to ground level. Back in the 2CV they smiled at one another, releasing the tension.