Presumed Dead, page 2
‘That’s right,’ David was saying. ‘Aunt Freda’s brother, Albert, was my father. He died when I was twelve. I only knew Aunt Freda for a little while, when she came over for the funeral, but she made a big impression on me.’
Just wants to reminisce a bit, Ross thought, still feeling cold with shock. Better indulge him, can’t do any harm. ‘She made a big impression on everyone she met,’ he said. ‘She was a lovely lady.’
David carried on, ‘I remember she stayed in New York for a month and took me everywhere. We went to the movies, the zoo…. even a baseball game. I guess she was trying to help me get over Dad. She would spend hours telling me stories about her home in Switzerland. I’m hoping to make it up there next week to take a look around. This is the first time I’ve been in Europe.’
‘It’s worth a visit. Lake Lucerne is a very beautiful place.’ He’s just a tourist, Ross told himself. Nothing to worry about. He doesn’t suspect anything. Better make sure though. ‘Are you over here for business or pleasure?’, he asked.
‘Business.’
‘Bad luck,’ Ross said sympathetically. ‘What’s your line?’
‘I’m with the FBI,’ David replied.
For the second time in five minutes, Ross was grateful for his cast-iron self-control. His insides felt like they’d turned to water, but without flinching, he managed to say, ‘Really? How interesting… and what have you found to investigate here in Monte?’
‘I’m not on an investigation, I’m part of a liaison team. We’re over here working with the French police to figure more efficient ways to detect international money laundering. We’re just about wrapped up now.’
‘So you’re a kind of financial policeman?’ Ross asked, relief flooding through him.
‘That’s right. I trained as an accountant, but after I qualified and got a job, I found it was pretty boring, so when the FBI started looking for people with financial skills to train as special agents, I applied.’
‘How interesting,’ Ross said, starting to dislike the little man intensely for the scare he’d thrown him.
David continued, ‘They put us through the same basic training as the regular agents, then after that we were sent on extra courses to learn how to spot financial irregularities.’
‘Confidentially,’ Ross said, deciding to pull the pompous little man’s leg, ‘there’re a few people on this boat whose finances wouldn’t bear close scrutiny, if you know what I mean... I say, You’re not under cover are you? Not after someone here, some master criminal?’
David took a slow sip from his drink, then looked up coolly and said, ’As a matter of fact, I came here tonight looking for you.’
Ross actually flinched this time. ‘Looking for me?’ he asked incredulously.
‘I spotted your name on the guest list in one of those society papers the other day, and managed to get myself invited as a guest of the American Ambassador. I was going to look you up while I was in Europe anyhow, you being my uncle and all, and this seemed as good a way as any to meet you.’
Ross’s shock turned to anger. I don’t need this, he thought. The last thing I want tonight is to be stuck with this little twerp playing Happy Families. He decided to break away. ‘Well it has been nice meeting you,’ he said, ‘but you must excuse me.’
‘Sure,’ David replied pleasantly, ‘I’m glad I was finally able to meet you.’
They shook hands, and Ross had just turned to walk away when David called, ‘Oh, Sir, there was just one question I had.’
Ross closed his eyes briefly and sighed, then turned back smiling and asked, ‘Really? What’s is it?’
David looked him straight in the eye and asked, ‘Where was Aunt Freda buried?’
Ross hadn’t seen that one coming and it caught him by surprise, but he recovered in an instant and replied truthfully, ‘In my family vault at the village church, in Minster at Stone, north of Hertford. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I want to go visit her grave and pay my respects,’ David replied. ‘Thanks for the information. Be seeing you.’ With that he turned and walked away.
Ross stared after the little man as he disappeared into the crowd. He knows, he thought, he knows! How the hell did he find out? It was over twenty years ago for God sake! I haven’t even thought about it myself for years… it’s ancient history!
He gulped his drink down and grabbed another as a waiter passed. He needed time to think. Going down one deck, he managed to get away from the noise of the party and stood at the railing, looking over the calm water towards the shimmering lights of Monaco. He could see cars high up on the Moyenne Corniche, the cliff road that followed the curves of the mountainside above the town where the Alps finally come down to meet the sea. He could see pinpoints of light standing out like jewels all over the hillside. Sweeping left and right into the distance were some of the most exclusive properties in Europe. He intended to own one of those properties before very long… and a yacht like Ricky’s… and a Learjet.
Then his insides churned with anger. He was angry with Alice for never letting him have what he wanted, angry with Freda and that pipsqueak nephew of hers, but most of all, angry with himself. You’re being a bloody fool, he told himself. You’ve had a rough day, your nerves are in tatters. There’s no way on earth Wiseman can suspect you over Freda’s death. It’s just his nasty little policeman’s demeanor.
Ross had had past experience with the police, and he didn’t like them. They could make the most innocent question sound like an accusation, and the most innocent man feel like a criminal.
Finishing his drink, he steadied himself against the railing, forcing his anger down. You’ve got nothing to fear from Wiseman, he told himself, nothing at all. He’s just another blundering American, he can’t touch you.
Fighting to calm himself, he looked at his watch: midnight. Another seven and a half hours to go, he thought, before Alex does the business. Then just a few weeks more, and I hit the jackpot.
Chapter 3
At precisely seven-thirty the following morning, Alex Crawford, wearing wig, sunglasses and a walking outfit identical to the one they’d dressed Alice in the day before, strolled downstairs into the hotel lobby and handed the key to the receptionist with a smile.
‘Thank you, Madame Webley,’ the receptionist said pleasantly. ‘I hope your throat is feeling better this morning.’
Alex replied with a smile and a little so-so wave of the hand.
Sauntering leisurely through the town, looking in shop windows, trying to be noticed by as many people as possible, Alex arrived at the Montenvers mountain railway station on the edge of town just in time to board the eight o’clock service. The bright red, two carriage, rack-and-pinion train slowly zigzagged its way up the steep mountainside, through tunnels and over precarious bridges, to the Mer de Glace terminus at over six thousand feet. The huge glacier, whose name means literally Sea of Ice, was a popular tourist attraction and useful setting-off point for high altitude walkers and climbers. Despite the early hour, the carriages were packed with tourists and a few climbers, anxious to make the most of the pure, early morning light and the clear mountain air.
When the train finally ground to a halt at the terminus, the crowd surged out onto the terrace overlooking the glacier, from which three paths led in different directions. The original plan had been to set off up the path towards a viewpoint known as Le Signal, but because of the problems Ross had had with Alice the night before, the new instructions were to follow the path leading in the opposite direction, down towards the glacier.
Setting off down the trail at a brisk pace, being sure to stay just in front of two male climbers, Alex walked for about quarter of a mile before stopping, then bending over in the middle of the path to tie a bootlace. The two climbers nudged each other and stared appreciatively at the long, slender legs and shapely backside blocking their way. Smiling and excusing themselves as they squeezed past, the two men carried on down the path towards the glacier, chatting happily as they disappeared around a corner.
After checking there was no one else in sight, Alex quickly removed the sunglasses, wig, fleece jacket and padded bra, stuffed them into the rucksack, then slipped into a pair of blue tracksuit bottoms and set off back up the path towards the rack-railway terminus.
Hardly anyone noticed the pleasant looking young man with short brown hair, wearing a white polo shirt and baggy blue trousers, as he rode the rack-railway back down to Chamonix, crossed the iron bridge to the SNCF mainline station then boarded the train for Paris.
.
It wasn’t until an hour or so later, that the warm sun streaming into the refuge hut brought Alice out of a deep sleep. She felt snug and comfortable under the pile of blankets, and for a few moments thought she was at home in her own bed.
Then she tried to move, which was a mistake. Pain washed over her and she suddenly remembered, with fresh horror, what had happened the night before. The burning rage she’d felt towards Ross, the rage that had driven her through the snow and across the ice, the rage that had saved her life, flared again.
She lay perfectly still for a few moments looking around, trying to take in her new environment. Slowly she moved each part of her body, testing it for function and pain. She was incredibly stiff and found every movement agony, but eventually managed to prop herself up on one elbow so that she could look out through the open door.
Just outside the hut she could see a tall, deeply tanned man wearing a white T-shirt and red climbing trousers. His braces hung loosely at his sides and he was drinking from a steaming tin mug. He kept looking up at the sky, cocking his head from side to side as if listening for a distant sound. Apparently feeling her eyes on him, he glanced over his shoulder into the hut, and seeing she was awake, quickly came inside and knelt on the floor next to the bunk.
‘So you are awake!’ he said in good English with a mild French accent. ‘How are you feeling?’
She studied his handsome features, the three-day-old stubble, the tousled dark hair, the worry lines on his forehead and the look of anxiety on his face. She tried to smile, but her chapped and split lips were too painful. Finally she just settled for saying hoarsely, ‘Not too bad. Thank you for helping me,’ as she lay back down flat on the bed, wincing with pain.
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, brushing the hair from her face and gently feeling the temperature of her forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘You had me worried for a while last night. I thought I would never get you warm.’
She was overwhelmed by his kindness, and felt her anger ebbing away. Not knowing really what to say, she asked, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Philippe Dulac. What is yours?’
‘Alice Webley.’ Then she asked, ‘What is this place?’
Looking around him he replied, ‘This wooden palace is the Refuge de la Charpoua, high on the Glacier de la Charpoua, about seven kilometers from the town of Chamonix. It is one of many refuge huts placed throughout the mountains for climbers to use. But you do not look like a climber. Tell me, how did you manage to get this high up without any equipment?’
Alice shifted her gaze away from him and said, ‘I’d rather not say.’
Philippe looked rather taken aback by her reticence, but said cheerfully, ‘Well, do not worry, we will have you safe in a hospital as soon as the rescue helicopter arrives.’
Panic flared in Alice. She looked straight at him again and asked urgently, ‘Have you called them yet?’ She desperately wanted time to think things through before going back.
‘Cell phones do not work in most of these deep valleys, and the smaller huts do not have radios, but the helicopter patrols the area several times every day. When I hear them coming, I will signal to them. Do not worry.’
Alice relaxed a little, then asked, ‘How badly am I hurt?’
‘Nothing too serious, mainly bruises and some cuts on your hands and legs. I think you must have fallen.’
‘I fell all right,’ she said coolly. Then, after thinking for a few moments she added, ‘Look, I don’t think it’s worth bothering the helicopter rescue people. Couldn’t I just stay here for a little while, then walk down?’
‘Without crampons? You would never make it!’
‘Don’t you have any spare ones I could use?’ she asked.
‘There are a few spare pieces of climbing equipment here for people to use in an emergency,’ he admitted.
‘Fine then, that’s what I’ll do.’
‘But you are hurt,’ he protested. ‘I do not understand why you want to walk all that way when you could be flown to the hospital in just a few minutes!’
‘Call it pride if you want to. I got up this mountain, and I want to get back down it under my own steam.’
‘You are a very obstinate woman, Madame Webley,’ he smiled, ‘but I like your spirit. If you are going to stay here, it is on two conditions. One, that you let me look after you, and two, that if you are not fit to walk by tomorrow, you let me signal to the helicopter.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with relief. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘Now, If I’m going to get you well enough to walk off this glacier, you are going to have to eat. I will make you some hot soup.’
.
Down on the yacht off Monaco, Ross had just surfaced following a very late night. After recovering from the scare David Wiseman had thrown him, he’d spent the next few hours drinking and playing cards. When he’d finally gone to bed around dawn, he’d drifted into a restless sleep. The image of Alice tumbling away from him into the darkness kept being intermingled with visions of Wiseman asking, ‘Where is she buried… where is she buried?’
By ten, he’d given up trying to sleep. He showered, shaved and made his way onto deck, looking, he hoped, very much better than he felt in his affluent yachtsman outfit; white deck shoes, cream Chinos, yellow polo shirt, navy blazer, and white peaked cap. He found Bonatti and a few of the resident guests sitting in deckchairs on the afterdeck under an awning, some eating their breakfast, others drinking theirs. Bonatti spotted him and called out, ‘Good morning, Ross! Come and sit here next to me, my friend.’
Ross exchanged pleasantries with some of the other guests, then took his place next to Bonatti and ordered coffee from a steward. He couldn’t face solid food. When the coffee arrived, he turned to his host and asked, ‘Ricky, do you remember that chap, Wiseman, you introduced me to last night?’
‘The little New Yorker with the glasses?’
‘That’s the fellow,’ Ross said. ‘ What do you know about him?’
‘Not much, he came with Henry White, the US Ambassador. He told me he was related to your wife, asked to be introduced to you. Is there something else I should know?’
Ross suspected some of his friend’s dealings, especially in the United States, wouldn’t stand up to the briefest scrutiny from the FBI. He’d decided during the early hours to use that knowledge to his advantage. ‘Nothing important,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Oh, he did mention that he works for the FBI… as a financial investigator.’
Bonatti was visibly shocked, and asked urgently, ‘Did he ask you anything about me?‘
‘No. Well, not directly,’ Ross replied. ‘But he did say he was investigating someone down here for money laundering and tax evasion, and I got the distinct impression he was rather more interested in you than he pretended to be.’
‘Is he really related to Alice?’ Bonatti asked.
‘No, that’s another thing. He said he was my first wife’s nephew, but I certainly don’t remember him. You don’t think he could have just made that up to get on board, do you?’
Bonatti’s face darkened, the laughing bonhomie of the genial host replaced by a murderous hardness. ‘I’ll get him checked out,’ he said. ‘If it is me he’s after, he’ll wish he’d never been born.’
‘Let me know what you find out, would you? I’d be interested to know what he’s up to.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that, Ross,’ Bonatti said, ‘and thanks for tipping me off.’
Ross smiled with satisfaction as Bonatti excused himself and hurried away, saying he had a phone call to make.
If he knew Ricky and his associates, Wiseman was as good as dead.
.
By two that afternoon, the subject of their deliberations had just crossed to the north side of Lake Lucerne on a car ferry, following a five-hour drive via Milan from Monaco. After disembarking, David drove the final few miles into the lakeside resort of Weggis, and parked his hire car on the quay near an open-air bandstand where a three-piece orchestra was playing Strauss.
The scene could have come straight from the lid of a chocolate box. The flowerbeds, magnolias, palms and fig trees paraded a palette of colors in the warm September sunshine while a paddle steamer glided gracefully past on the tranquil lake against a backdrop of snow capped mountains. It was as beautiful and peaceful a place as he had ever seen, so he sat for a while listening to the orchestra and soaking up the afternoon sun, trying to relax.
He’d been looking forward to this trip to Europe for years, since before Aunt Freda had died in fact. While she was over in New York with them, just after his father’s death, she’d promised him a vacation at her chateau, or Schloss, as she called it, on the lake. But she’d died before he was able to come.
He could remember vividly how upset and disappointed he’d been, when a few months after her visit his mother had received a letter from Aunt Freda telling them that she was to be married to an English nobleman, Sir Ross Webley of Hertfordshire.
She’d sounded really happy and excited in the letter, and he’d been bitterly jealous. Looking back later, he’d realized it was just a silly schoolboy infatuation, but at the time, he’d been deeply in love with his glamorous rich aunt, and he hated the thought of losing her to another man.
