Джеффри Арчер - Tell Tale - Stories

Dennis unzipped the suitcase and slowly lifted the lid to reveal all the carefully selected purchases they had made during the past fortnight. The junior officer started to take them out and unwrap them one by one, while the senior officer began to make a note of each item. He spoke for the first time.

“Have you kept any receipts for these souvenirs?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Dennis.

“No,” said Joyce, which caused the senior officer to ask the woman to hand over her bag, where he quickly found an envelope stuffed with forty-two receipts.

He took his time checking each item before transferring the amounts onto a large calculator. It was some time before he declared, “You may wish to check my figures, madam, but I think you’ll find the overall amount comes to twenty-seven thousand, seven hundred and sixteen pounds. Now, I am sure you are both aware there is a forty percent import tax levied on any goods purchased while abroad, above the cost of fifty pounds.” He returned to his calculator. “Which means you are liable to pay Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise eleven thousand and eighty-six pounds and forty pence. Should you be unable to do so, all the goods will be confiscated until you have covered the full amount.”

During the train journey back to Audley End, Dennis and Joyce agreed it was the best holiday they’d ever been on, and were already planning where they should go next year.

Joyce felt it might be wise to take a taxi back to Steeple Bumpstead rather than drag all the suitcases on and off the bus. Dennis agreed, although he was down to his last ten pounds.

When the taxi pulled up outside the front gate of The Sidings, Joyce collapsed in tears.

Dennis climbed out of the taxi, and said nothing as he stared at the smoldering remains of what was left of their little cottage.

The local fire chief, a fellow Rotarian, hurried across to join them.

“I’m so sorry, Dennis,” he said. “My men got here as quickly as they could, but once the flames touched the thatched roof, there was little they could do about it.”

“I’m sure you did everything you possibly could, Alan,” said Dennis, trying to look suitably distressed.

Joyce didn’t stop crying, and Dennis wondered if she wasn’t overdoing it. “Look on the bright side,” he whispered, placing an arm around his wife’s shoulder, “No doubt you took out several policies on the house.”

“But I didn’t insure the house,” said Joyce with feeling. “Never could see much point.”

“I think we’ve got a problem on table number three,” said the manager, staring intently at the screen on his desk.

“Which punter?” asked the head of security, as he joined his boss and looked over his shoulder.

“Young guy, with an attractive woman standing behind him. What do you think, André?”

“Zoom in,” said the security chief, “and let’s take a closer look.” The manager touched a button and waited until the young man’s face filled the screen. “I agree,” said André, “he’s a double or quits merchant. I think from the sweat on his forehead, he’s probably got a lot riding on it.”

“And the girl?” said the manager, as he switched the camera to a young woman, whose right hand rested on the gambler’s shoulder.

“All I can tell you is she’s not a one-night stand.”

“How can you be sure?”

“They’re both wearing wedding rings.”

“Get Duval up here.”

André quickly left the room as the manager of the casino watched the young man place another thousand francs on 13.

“Idiot,” said the manager, as he glanced at the front page of Le Figaro, which was on the desk by his side. He didn’t need to read the article a third time. The headline was bad enough.

He looked back at the screen to see the young punter place a further thousand francs on 13. “Idiot,” he repeated. “Haven’t I got enough problems without you?”

Claude Richelieu, the owner of the casino, had been on the phone from Paris earlier in the week, concerned about the latest government directive. The French interior minister was pressing the Monte Carlo gaming council to close the recently opened casino. Too many stories in the press about suicides, broken marriages, and bankruptcies caused by gambling, which was illegal in France, and precisely the reason why they were making so much money in Monte Carlo. The manager had cursed when Richelieu added, “We don’t need any more suicides.”

“But what am I supposed to do,” he asked, “if someone loses badly and then decides to kill themselves?”

“Fix the wheel,” said Richelieu. “Make sure he wins.”

“And if that fails?”

The owner told his manager exactly what he should do if fixing the wheel wasn’t enough.

There was a knock on the door, and the head of security returned, accompanied by one of the few members of staff who wasn’t wearing a dinner jacket that evening. In fact, if you had passed Philippe Duval in the street, you might have thought the short, balding middle-aged man was a schoolmaster, or perhaps an accountant. But he had other talents that were far more valuable to the casino. Mr. Duval could lip-read in five different languages.

“Which one?” he asked, as he stared down at the screen.

“The young guy,” said the manager, once again zooming in on him. “What can you tell me about him?”

Duval watched carefully, but it was some time before he offered an opinion, during which the young man had lost another thousand francs on 13. “He’s French,” Duval eventually said, “a Parisian, and the lady standing behind him is his wife, Maxine, unless they’re both married to someone else.”

“Tell me what they’re saying,” said Marcel.

Duval leaned forward and watched carefully.

“Him, ‘My luck’s got to change soon.’

“Her, ‘I’d rather you stopped, Jacques. Let’s go back to the hotel while we’ve still got enough money to pay the bill.’

“Him, ‘It’s not the hotel bill I’m worried about, as you well know, Maxine. It’s that loan shark who’ll be waiting for me the moment I show my face in Paris.’”

The young man placed another thousand francs on 13. The ball landed on 26.

“Him, ‘Next time.’”

“Is Tony on tonight?” the manager asked.

“Yes, boss,” replied the head of security. “Table nine.”

“Switch him with the guy on table three, and tell him to make sure the ball lands in 13.”

“He’s still only got a one in five chance,” said the head of security.

“That’s better than thirty-seven to one,” said the manager. “Get on with it.”

“On my way, boss,” said the head of security. He hurried out of the room and headed down to the casino floor, but not before the young man had lost another thousand francs.

“Pull the camera back,” said the manager. The manager zoomed out. “I want to take a closer look at that man leaning against the pillar in the far corner.” The camera moved onto a middle-aged man who was also staring intently at the table. “He’s that journalist from Le Figaro .”

“Are you sure?” the manager barked.

“Look at the photo next to his byline on the front page,” he said, tapping the newspaper on the desk.

“François Colbert,” said the manager. “I could kill him.”

“I think that’s what he has in mind for you,” said Duval, as the camera returned to the roulette table, where two of the croupiers were swapping stations.

“Make it land in 13, Tony,” said the manager as the new croupier began to spin the wheel. While everyone’s eyes were on the ball, the croupier’s right hand slipped under the table.