The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘I didn’t say that. It could be that he doesn’t know what he’s shipping. Or it could be that, for all we know, Alain Barnier is John Largo.’

‘It’s unlikely,’ I said. ‘Barnier is established here. The other thing is he looks too much like an international criminal mastermind. The sharp clothes, the French accent and the goatee beard … I think John Largo would keep a lower profile.’

‘So don’t I,’ said Devereaux, then grinned at my puzzled expression. ‘You’ll have to learn Vermontese. It’s what we say when we mean “so do I”. You know the other thing it could be … maybe John Largo is like Robin Hood. A kind of composite character. Maybe John Largo is more an organization than a criminal. Maybe Barnier is part of John Largo.’

‘He has a partner. A guy called Claude Clement. Here …’ I took my notebook from the side pocket of my dinner jacket and copied the addresses onto a blank page, tore it out and handed it to Devereaux. ‘I found that when I was stealing paper clips. Maybe Barnier and Clement are in this together. So what now?’

‘I’ll get onto Washington, see if we’ve got anything on Barnier or this other guy. In the meantime I suggest you keep tabs on him. I also suggest you give me everything you get, as soon as you get it. Otherwise I might just offer McNab or Ferguson my professional insight into who clobbered their beat boy. And, remember, I’ve still got a thousand dollars if you lead me to Largo. Don’t hold out on me again, Lennox.’

‘There is one more thing,’ I said. I had just remembered it myself. Taking out my notebook again, I scribbled a second note and handed it to Devereaux. ‘That’s the address in New York the jade demons are being sent: Santorno Antiques and Curios.’

‘Thanks.’ He took the note and put it in his pocket without looking at it.

We didn’t talk much after that. I drove him back to his hotel and waited to make sure he got in; it was three in the morning and it took an age before an elderly night porter opened up for him. Devereaux turned and gave me a half wave, half salute and disappeared into the hotel. I sat for a moment, staring at the closed oak door. I had given Devereaux everything. Almost everything. I hadn’t mentioned the visit to the Free French naval monument. It probably wasn’t anything, but I needed to check it out for myself first. I was deep tired. Tired to the bone. There were so many thoughts buzzing about my head but my brain had pulled the shutters down and turned the sign around on the door.

Thinking would have to wait until morning.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

First thing the next morning, I made another trip to the Mitchell Library. This time it wasn’t to meet with anyone. I was looking for a very specific piece of information.

I was aided in my search by a rather accommodating librarian who fell for my helpless hunk act. She was a brunette, about thirty, and was dressed in a vaguely bohemian way, or as bohemian as the formality of the city library would allow, with her dark hair loose. I had spotted her from across the main library. She had been supporting an impressive array of heavy reference books in her arms and in turn supporting an equally impressive bust on the books. She looked to me like a free-thinking type: I found an open-minded attitude an asset in a woman. We hit it off right away. It could, of course have been our shared bibliophilia, but my guess was it was more likely to be my very obvious and profound appreciation of her best assets.

In any case, her cooperation made my search faster and more efficient than if I’d stumbled around myself. It took me forty-five minutes to compile the newspaper articles, service reports and casualty lists that I needed. Of course, there were details that I couldn’t get to: Britain was a secretive state, and nearly ten years after the end of the war there were details of the conflict that remained locked away in Whitehall basements, where they would remain for another eighty years at least. But I found enough to be getting along with; I also managed to get the home address of my brunette research partner as well as very specific times I could call: along with the vaguely bohemian dress, she wore a wedding band on her left hand. I guessed her husband was neither bohemian nor open-minded.

She left me at one of the desks with all of my research materials. I was focussed on one event and I spent two hours going through newspaper accounts and official reports on the disaster. But it was the casualty lists and service lists that interested me most. Finally, I found what I was looking for: Alain Barnier had been a junior officer on the Maillé-Brézé. It would explain the Frenchman’s attachment to this part of the world. It would also explain his visits to the memorial on Lyle Hill.

But, as I looked at Barnier’s name on the page, it left more unexplained than explained.