‘All right. I think I had better take the gun and the ammunition now. I shall contact you again on Tuesday or Wednesday next week.’
The Belgian was about to protest when the customer forestalled him.
‘I believe I still owe you some seven hundred pounds. Here …’ he dropped another few bundles of notes on to the blotter … ‘is a further five hundred pounds. The outstanding two hundred pounds you will receive when I get the rest of the equipment.’
‘Merci, monsieur’ said the armourer, scooping the five bundles of twenty five-pound notes into his pocket. Piece by piece he disassembled the rifle, placing each component carefully into its green baize-lined compartment in the carrying case. The single explosive bullet the assassin had asked for was wrapped in a separate piece of tissue paper and slotted into the case beside the cleaning rags and brushes. When the case was closed, he proffered it and the box of shells to the Englishman, who pocketed the shells and kept the neat attaché case in his hand.
M. Goossens showed him politely out.
The Jackal arrived back at his hotel in time for a late lunch. First he placed the case containing the gun carefully in the bottom of the wardrobe, locked it and pocketed the key.
In the afternoon he strolled unhurriedly into the main post office and asked for a call to a number in Zürich, Switzerland. It took half an hour for the call to be put through and another five minutes until Herr Meier came on the line. The Englishman introduced himself by quoting a number and then giving his name.
Herr Meier excused himself and came back two minutes later. His tone had lost the cautious reserve it had previously had. Customers whose accounts in dollars and Swiss francs grew steadily merited courteous treatment. The man in Brussels asked one question, and again the Swiss banker excused himself, this time to be back on the line in less than thirty seconds. He had evidently had the customer’s file and statement brought out of the safe and was studying it.
‘No, mein Herr,’ the voice crackled into the Brussels phone booth. ‘We have here your letter of instruction requiring us to inform you by letter express airmail the moment any fresh in-payments are made, but there have been no
ne over the period you mention.’
‘I only wondered, Herr Meier, because I have been away from London for two weeks and it might have come in my absence.’
‘No, there has been nothing. The moment anything is paid in we shall inform you without delay.’
In a flurry of Herr Meier’s good wishes the Jackal put the phone down, settled the amount charged, and left.
He met the forger in the bar off the Rue Neuve that evening, arriving shortly after six. The man was there already, and the Englishman spotted a corner seat still free, ordering the forger to join him with a jerk of his head. A few seconds after he had sat down and lit a cigarette the Belgian joined him.
‘Finished?’ asked the Englishman.
‘Yes, all finished. And very good work, even if I do say so myself.’
The Englishman held out his hand.
‘Show me,’ he ordered. The Belgian lit one of his Bastos, and shook his head.
‘Please understand, monsieur, this is a very public place. Also one needs a good light to examine them, particularly the French cards. They are at the studio.’
The Jackal studied him coldly for a moment, then nodded.
‘All right. We’ll go and have a look at them in private.’
They left the bar a few minutes later and took a taxi to the corner of the street where the basement studio was situated. It was still a warm, sunny evening, and as always when out of doors the Englishman wore his wrap-around dark glasses that masked the upper half of his face from possible recognition. But the street was narrow and no sun percolated. One old man passed them coming the other way, but he was bent with arthritis and shuffled with his head to the ground.
The forger led the way down the steps and unlocked the door from a key on his ring. Inside the studio it was almost as dark as if it were night outside. A few shafts of dullish daylight filtered between the ghastly photographs stuck to the inside of the window beside the door, so that the Englishman could make out the shapes of the chair and table in the outer office. The forger led the way through the two velvet curtains into the studio and switched on the centre light.
From inside his pocket he drew a flat brown envelope, tipped it open and spread the contents on the small round mahogany table that stood to one side, a ‘prop’ for the taking of portrait photographs. The table he then lifted over to the centre of the room and placed it under the centre light. The twin arc lamps above the tiny stage at the far back of the studio remained unlit.
‘Please, monsieur.’ He smiled broadly and gestured towards the three cards lying on the table. The Englishman picked the first up and held it under the light. It was his driving licence, the first page covered by a stuck-on tab of paper. This informed the reader that ‘Mr Alexander James Quentin Duggan of London W1 is hereby licensed to drive motor vehicles of Groups 1a, 1b, 2, 3, 11, 12 and 13 only from 10 DEC 1960 until 9 DEC 1963 inclusive.’ Above this was the licence number (an imaginary one, of course) and the words ‘London County Council’ and ‘Road Traffic Act 1960.’ Then, ‘DRIVING LICENCE’, and ‘Fee of 15/- received.’ So far as the Jackal could tell, it was a perfect forgery, certainly enough for his purposes.
The second card was simply a French carte d’identité in the name of André Martin, aged fifty-three, born at Colmar and resident in Paris. His own photograph, aged by twenty years, with iron-grey hair cut en brosse, muzzy and embarrassed, stared out of a tiny corner of the card. The card itself was stained and dog-eared, a working man’s card.
The third specimen interested him most. The photograph on it was slightly different from the one on the ID card, for the date of issue of each card was different by several months, since the renewal dates would probably not have coincided precisely, had they been real. The card bore another portrait of himself that had been taken nearly two weeks earlier, but the shirt seemed to be darker and there was a hint of stubble round the chin of the photo on the card he now held. This effect had been achieved by skilful retouching, giving the impression of two different photographs of the same man, taken at different times and in different clothes. In both cases the draughtsmanship of the forgery was excellent. The Jackal looked up and pocketed the cards.
‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Just what I wanted. I congratulate you. There is fifty pounds outstanding, I believe.’
‘That is true, monsieur. Merci.’ The forger waited expectantly for the money. The Englishman drew a single wad of ten five-pound notes from his pocket and handed them over.
Before he let go of the end of the wad that he held between forefinger and thumb he said, ‘I believe there is something more, no?’