Colin Forbes - Deadlock

'How much bullion?'

'Two hundred million pounds' worth.'

'Thank you for informing me, Mr Rubinstein. It may or may not be significant. I thank you anyway. Goodbye.'

Tweed hurried out of the box. 'Back to the hotel. You'll be able to get a meal later. I'll get dinner aboard the Brussels express.' He was striding out along the pavement, checking his watch.

'A development?' Newman enquired.

'Peter Brand, the shady banker, has just arranged for bullion to the value of two hundred million pounds to be held ready for swift delivery at the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. That could be the ransome amount Klein -Zarov if it is him – will demand for the West to avoid a major catastrophe. Lysenko told me Zarov wanted to make a fortune while still young. If so, we could be running out of time. He may be ready soon to launch his operation. Drive like hell for Dinant.'

They had almost reached the hotel when Newman realized Tweed had been listening to him earlier.

'If you're right, I wonder who is occupying that seventh grave at Cockley Ford?'

Eighty miles east of Paris – beyond Rheims – Newman's hired Peugeot broke down in the middle of nowhere. There was no other traffic in the middle of the night, no sign of human habitation for miles.

He slaked his thirst with water from the plastic canister he always carried on motor journeys, made himself as comfortable as possible, and slept through the rest of the night.

The driver of a passing car the following morning promised to phone the nearest branch of the car hire firm. It was still midday before a breakdown truck arrived accompanied by a Citroen. Newman took over the Citroen and drove on to the nearest town where he had a leisurely meal – leisurely because the service was so slow.

It was early evening before he drove into Dinant. Parking the car, he wandered round the town huddled beneath the pinnacle of rock with the citadel at its summit. He chose the Hotel de la Gare because it was anonymous and up a side road away from the main part of the town.

After dark he continued his wanderings, calling in at several bars. He chatted to barmen, excellent sources of local knowledge. He found the shop which sold couques near the Pont de Charles de Gaulle.

He was adopting his normal reporter's technique on arrival at a new place, getting his bearings, studying life along the Meuse waterfront. He slept like a dog that night, had an early breakfast, and strolled along the river bank to where a barge was moored. The Nantes.

'Good morning,' he called up to a thin-faced man with dark eyes who was watching him from inside the wheel-house at the stern of the vessel. 'May! come aboard? I have a favour to ask…'

With some reluctance the bargee gestured for him to cross the gangplank. Newman walked slowly on to the deck. He would have only one chance to get the man talking. What was the right approach? Chance lent him a hand.

A woman appeared, climbing the few steps which he took to lead to the living-quarters. About forty, she was slim with long dark hair and the look of a hard worker. She also looked worried. She stopped at the head of the steps and Newman smiled.

He explained he was writing a series of articles for the Brussels paper Le Soir on Belgian waterways, their importance as a means of transport, the neglect of the government in appreciating their importance.

Tell him about it, Willy,' the woman urged. 'You won't tell the authorities. Tell him. And tell him who you are. Have you forgotten your manners?'

'I'm Willy Boden. This is my wife, Simone.' The bargee extended a wiry hand, still watching Newman cautiously. 'You won't mention my name if we talk to you? The authorities can make life difficult for us if they think we're interfering.'

'No names,' Newman promised. 'Not even a mention of Dinant – just a Meuse bargee. Who would identify you from that?'

'I have your word on that, Mr Newman? And why would an Englishman work for a Brussels newspaper?'

'It's an exchange system,' Newman said, making it up as he went along. 'One of Le Soir's reporters spends six months with my outfit in London, I come over here. Is there something worrying your wife?'

'No, of course not. Why should there be? We had better go down into the saloon. No one will see us talking there.'

They were seated in the cramped saloon on long banquettes with a table between them when his wife started again on her husband. She had a strong face, alert eyes.

'Tell him – or I will. I sense we can trust Mr Newman…'

'You and your feminine instincts…'

Then I'll tell him.'

'Oh, all right. Leave it to me. I saw what happened. And our guest would like some coffee, I'm sure. So would I – I was up at five this morning,' he explained to Newman as Simone went to a tiny galley at the for'ard end of the saloon. From where he sat with his back to the river bank Newman could see through a porthole a barge passing upstream. Boden followed his gaze.

'That's what Simone is talking about…'He was having difficulty getting started. Bargees lived in a closed community, didn't talk easily to outsiders, Newman thought.

'I see,' he remarked, although he didn't.

'Do get on with it, Willy,' Simone called out from the galley. Tell him about Haber and the Gargantua. Then about the Erika.'

'Joseph Haber is a friend,' Boden began. 'Not a close friend. He keeps to himself. He's an ambitious man. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose.'

'Can lead to problems sometimes,' Newman commented.

That's what I tell him. He won't listen. He wants to be the King of the Meuse – that's how he puts it. Sounds funny, but he's quite serious. He wants to own the biggest fleet of barges on the Meuse. He owns three already…'

'No, he doesn't,' Simone snapped as she served steaming coffee in large mugs. 'He owns one – the Gargantua. The other two have large mortgages on them. Come to think of it, I'm sure he hasn't fully paid off the Gargantua yet.'

'Where is he now?' Newman asked as Simone joined them by her husband's side.

'That's the point,' Simone answered, taking over. 'Two days ago he had the Gargantua loaded up with gravel – for delivery to Liege. But when he sails he goes upstream -away from Liege – towards the French frontier and Les Dames de Meuse.'

'What's that?' Newman asked and sipped the scalding liquid.

'A very lonely section of the river deep in the Ardennes. It winds about a lot and the woody hills come right down to the water's edge. It's on the far side of the French frontier – beyond Givet where you pass Customs.'

'I still don't see why you're worried,' Newman remarked. He was beginning to think he was wasting his time.

'He's got to know a very peculiar man,' Simone went on. 'Another man who says he is a writer – a writer of books. And a bit of a businessman. A man called Klein.

Newman's face showed no reaction. He took a long drink from his mug. He had been on the verge of thinking of some excuse for leaving this couple. It could be a coincidence, of course. Lasalle had pointed out Klein was a common enough name.

'Can you describe this Klein?'he asked. 'I know someone with that name.'

'About Willy's height and weight,' Simone said. 'Six feet tall. Wears hunting clothes. His complexion is ruddy.'

Doesn't sound like the same man, Newman thought. In Paris the Corsican, Calgourli, had emphasized his chalk-white face. He felt a pang of disappointment. Then Simone spoke again.

'It's those eyes of his I don't like. I was walking along the bank when he passed me on the way to Haber's barge a few weeks ago. Very strange staring eyes. I felt he was looking into my soul when he glanced at me…'

'Stuff and nonsense,' growled Boden.

'He scares me,' Simone persisted. 'He isn't human. And Willy saw him having this violent quarrel with Haber before they took the Gargantua upstream.'