Colin Forbes - Deadlock

'What quarrel?'

Intrigued again, Newman listened while Boden described the scene he'd witnessed inside Haber's wheel-house. The brief struggle between the two men. Followed by a long conversation prior to Haber slipping moorings and sailing upstream.

'You mean Klein travelled aboard?' Newman asked.

'Oh, yes, and Broucker. too. That was really queer.'

'Who is Broucker?'

'Haber's employee. He mans the second barge, the Erika. It was left moored here while they sailed south. Never known that to happen before.'

'Tell him what happened later,' Simone urged.

'I'm not sure this is any of our business…'

Tell him! Or I will.'

Boden explained that normally there would be nothing strange about Haber taking his barge upstream. He travelled across the border to a landing near Fumay, a small quarry town in France where he took on board gravel. He then returned downstream past Dinant to Liege and other destinations to make delivery.

'But,' he explained, 'this time he already had a load of gravel aboard. So why return upstream? Why take Broucker, who should have stayed to look after the Erika? ' And why was this Klein aboard? It's weird.'

'It's weirder than that,' Simone broke in. 'Late the following day, close to dusk, Willy saw the Erika leaving its mooring. We had been into town to collect supplies. Willy came back first – just in time to see the Erika disappearing downstream, heading towards Namur and Liege.'

'What's weird about that?'

Newman had earlier unfolded his Michelin map of the Meuse and was making notes on it. He scribbled in shorthand the sequence of events Boden was describing.

'We haven't seen the Gargantua since it sailed south. The barge has disappeared.'

'It could have sailed back without your seeing it and continued north towards Namur,' Newman objected.

'It is impossible,' Simone said vehemently. 'We are not thick. Either one or both of us have been here since it departed upstream.'

'But you said you went into town to purchase supplies…'

'From shops in Dinant on the waterfront. The Gargantua could not have passed without us seeing it.'

'Maybe after dark?'

'Barges don't travel after dark,' Willy told him. 'It hasn't come back.'

'Then maybe it broke down…'

'In that case,' Simone broke in again, 'Broucker would stay with it to give a hand. But we told you – we saw the Erika sailing downstream. Broucker's barge…' She looked at her husband as he cocked his head. A ship's hooter was tooting. He went up on deck, followed by Newman and Simone.

Newman was glad of the interruption. It gave him a chance to get away from the barge. He still saw nothing significant in their anxieties. Thanking Simone for the coffee, he was about to disembark, when Willy grabbed his arm. 'Wait.'

The hooter had been sounded by a large two-deck cream power cruiser gliding downstream. A short thickset man wearing a navy-blue blazer and grey slacks stood on deck staring at the barge through a pair of binoculars. He waved and Willy gave a brief wave back as the slow-moving vessel turned inshore aft of the barge.

'He knows Klein, too,' Willy said. 'He's another Englishman. A Colonel Ralston. Lives on that boat with his girl friend. Cruises along all the canals. Dead drunk most of the day.'

Newman watched as crew members jumped ashore at a landing stage and made the vessel fast. A small wiry man waited until the gangplank was in position, wheeled a bicycle across it and rode past the barge along the towpath towards Dinant.

'Think I'll go and have a word,' Newman said.

Seen close up, standing at the head of the gangplank, the owner of the Evening Star had a brick-red complexion, iron-grey hair and a moustache of the same colour. He stood with hands in blazer pockets, a thumb protruding.

'Who the devil are you?' he greeted his visitor.

'Robert Newman. I'm interested in the Meuse. I gather you know it well?'

'Well, don't just stand there. Come aboard!'

A very upper crust voice, a clipped military-style tone, the manner of a man used to obedience. Newman followed him down a companionway into a spacious saloon. Walls of mahogany, chairs covered with expensive fabric, and at the far end a well-equipped cocktail bar.

Ralston laid a stubby-fingered hand on the polished counter. He swung round and stared at Newman with blue eyes. Small red veins showed on his pugnacious nose. Sign of a hardened drinker.

'Care for a sundowner? And sit.'

'It's a long time before the sun goes down,' Newman remarked. 'Coffee would be welcome, if available…'

'Alfredo!' roared the colonel. 'Coffee for our guest. On the double!'

A slim dark-skinned man appeared behind Newman, walked behind the bar and disappeared beyond a doorway. Ralston would be in his ear! y sixties, Newman guessed, his short stature compensated for by the force of his personality; he was close to being a caricature of the military officer. But there was nothing amusing about the cold blue eyes. He poured himself a whisky into a cut glass, added a splash of soda from a syphon, downed half the glass, ran his tongue over his lips.

'That's better. You're the foreign correspondent chappie. Recognize you from your photo. Back of the jacket on that bestseller you wrote. What's your game?'

'I told you

'Playing it close to the chest? Want to see some of the Meuse? Have a berth aboard the Evening Star? Cost you – I'm not running a charitable institution.'

'How much?'

'Twelve thousand francs. Belgian.'

Newman had seated himself on one of the banquettes lining the sides of the saloon. A gleaming mahogany table was close enough for him to take a pile of francs from his wallet, lay them on the table, keeping his hand on top of the pile. Twelve thousand Belgian francs. About?200.

'What do I get for that?' he asked Ralston who still stood by the bar; his favourite position Newman suspected.

'Grand tour of the river up to Namur. Then Liege. On the way, maybe a brief call on one of our eminent bankers. You know Belgium well?'

'Not really,' Newman lied.

'Here's your coffee. 'Bout time, Alfredo. Chopchop…'He continued in the style of a brisk lecture. 'The Frogs all swim like lemmings for their hols to the French Riviera. Most people don't know about the Belgians. They've got their own riviera – in the south of their country like the French. On the Meuse, in fact. So Millionaireville is just north of here…'

'Millionaireville?'

'Riverside mansions of the rich. Estates running down to the Meuse. At Profondeville – where the banker is -and further north at Wepion.'

'Who is this banker?'

'A Peter Brand…'

Newman removed his hand from the pile of banknotes. Ralston had been eyeing them as he talked. Newman had the impression his two passions were drink – and money. Nothing in his expression had shown at the mention of Peter Brand.

The Evening Star was sailing slowly down the Meuse. Wooded bluffs of the Ardennes rose on either side as Newman drank fresh coffee, left alone in the saloon for a short time. He had met the wiry weatherbeaten man who had cycled past the Bodens' barge.

'My ex-batman, Sergeant Bradley,' Ralston introduced. 'He keeps the whole shooting match moving. Watches the crew and all that. Don't stand for any backsliding, do you, Sergeant?'

'Not my way, sir,' Bradley replied. 'Got to keep them up to scratch.' He turned to Newman. 'Just like the Army. Keep on their tails or they slack off. Same the world over.'

'You must have seen something of the world,' Newman commented to Ralston who was pouring a fresh whisky. He picked up a silver cup inscribed with wording. 'Your unit?'

'Seventh Highlanders. Best regiment in the Army. The times we had in India, Egypt and Italy.' Ralston gazed into the distance. 'Seems an age ago. Now we cruise the canals. Always on the move. Just like the old Army days.'