Deadlock

25

Eighty miles east of Paris – beyond Rheims – Newman's hired Peugeot broke down in the middle of nowhere. There was no other traffic in the middle of the night, no sign of human habitation for miles.

He slaked his thirst with water from the plastic canister he always carried on motor journeys, made himself as comfortable as possible, and slept through the rest of the night.

The driver of a passing car the following morning promised to phone the nearest branch of the car hire firm. It was still midday before a breakdown truck arrived accompanied by a Citroen. Newman took over the Citroen and drove on to the nearest town where he had a leisurely meal – leisurely because the service was so slow.

It was early evening before he drove into Dinant. Parking the car, he wandered round the town huddled beneath the pinnacle of rock with the citadel at its summit. He chose the Hotel de la Gare because it was anonymous and up a side road away from the main part of the town.

After dark he continued his wanderings, calling in at several bars. He chatted to barmen, excellent sources of local knowledge. He found the shop which sold couques near the Pont de Charles de Gaulle.

He was adopting his normal reporter's technique on arrival at a new place, getting his bearings, studying life along the Meuse waterfront. He slept like a dog that night, had an early breakfast, and strolled along the river bank to where a barge was moored. The Nantes.

'Good morning,' he called up to a thin-faced man with dark eyes who was watching him from inside the wheel-house at the stern of the vessel. 'May! come aboard? I have a favour to ask…'

With some reluctance the bargee gestured for him to cross the gangplank. Newman walked slowly on to the deck. He would have only one chance to get the man talking. What was the right approach? Chance lent him a hand.

A woman appeared, climbing the few steps which he took to lead to the living-quarters. About forty, she was slim with long dark hair and the look of a hard worker. She also looked worried. She stopped at the head of the steps and Newman smiled.

He explained he was writing a series of articles for the Brussels paper Le Soir on Belgian waterways, their importance as a means of transport, the neglect of the government in appreciating their importance.

Tell him about it, Willy,' the woman urged. 'You won't tell the authorities. Tell him. And tell him who you are. Have you forgotten your manners?'

'I'm Willy Boden. This is my wife, Simone.' The bargee extended a wiry hand, still watching Newman cautiously. 'You won't mention my name if we talk to you? The authorities can make life difficult for us if they think we're interfering.'

'No names,' Newman promised. 'Not even a mention of Dinant – just a Meuse bargee. Who would identify you from that?'

'I have your word on that, Mr Newman? And why would an Englishman work for a Brussels newspaper?'

'It's an exchange system,' Newman said, making it up as he went along. 'One of Le Soir's reporters spends six months with my outfit in London, I come over here. Is there something worrying your wife?'

'No, of course not. Why should there be? We had better go down into the saloon. No one will see us talking there.'

They were seated in the cramped saloon on long banquettes with a table between them when his wife started again on her husband. She had a strong face, alert eyes.

'Tell him – or I will. I sense we can trust Mr Newman…'

'You and your feminine instincts…'

Then I'll tell him.'

'Oh, all right. Leave it to me. I saw what happened. And our guest would like some coffee, I'm sure. So would I – I was up at five this morning,' he explained to Newman as Simone went to a tiny galley at the for'ard end of the saloon. From where he sat with his back to the river bank Newman could see through a porthole a barge passing upstream. Boden followed his gaze.

'That's what Simone is talking about…'He was having difficulty getting started. Bargees lived in a closed community, didn't talk easily to outsiders, Newman thought.

'I see,' he remarked, although he didn't.

'Do get on with it, Willy,' Simone called out from the galley. Tell him about Haber and the Gargantua. Then about the Erika.'

'Joseph Haber is a friend,' Boden began. 'Not a close friend. He keeps to himself. He's an ambitious man. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose.'

'Can lead to problems sometimes,' Newman commented.

That's what I tell him. He won't listen. He wants to be the King of the Meuse – that's how he puts it. Sounds funny, but he's quite serious. He wants to own the biggest fleet of barges on the Meuse. He owns three already…'

'No, he doesn't,' Simone snapped as she served steaming coffee in large mugs. 'He owns one – the Gargantua. The other two have large mortgages on them. Come to think of it, I'm sure he hasn't fully paid off the Gargantua yet.'

'Where is he now?' Newman asked as Simone joined them by her husband's side.

'That's the point,' Simone answered, taking over. 'Two days ago he had the Gargantua loaded up with gravel – for delivery to Liege. But when he sails he goes upstream -away from Liege – towards the French frontier and Les Dames de Meuse.'

'What's that?' Newman asked and sipped the scalding liquid.

'A very lonely section of the river deep in the Ardennes. It winds about a lot and the woody hills come right down to the water's edge. It's on the far side of the French frontier – beyond Givet where you pass Customs.'

'I still don't see why you're worried,' Newman remarked. He was beginning to think he was wasting his time.

'He's got to know a very peculiar man,' Simone went on. 'Another man who says he is a writer – a writer of books. And a bit of a businessman. A man called Klein.

Newman's face showed no reaction. He took a long drink from his mug. He had been on the verge of thinking of some excuse for leaving this couple. It could be a coincidence, of course. Lasalle had pointed out Klein was a common enough name.

'Can you describe this Klein?'he asked. 'I know someone with that name.'

'About Willy's height and weight,' Simone said. 'Six feet tall. Wears hunting clothes. His complexion is ruddy.'

Doesn't sound like the same man, Newman thought. In Paris the Corsican, Calgourli, had emphasized his chalk-white face. He felt a pang of disappointment. Then Simone spoke again.

'It's those eyes of his I don't like. I was walking along the bank when he passed me on the way to Haber's barge a few weeks ago. Very strange staring eyes. I felt he was looking into my soul when he glanced at me…'

'Stuff and nonsense,' growled Boden.

'He scares me,' Simone persisted. 'He isn't human. And Willy saw him having this violent quarrel with Haber before they took the Gargantua upstream.'

'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.'

'You go back to England much?' Newman had ventured.

'Never! Don't pay a penny tax in any country. Advantage of having a floating home. Never stay in one country more than five months. Bradley keeps the log. Ready to show any bloody snooping tax inspector. I can spit in their faces – often feel like doing just that. Have to excuse me. A lock coming up. A bit tricky the navigation sometimes. Like to skipper my own tub…'

Left alone, Newman thought it was a queer set-up. Almost as though Ralston was trying to perpetuate his old Army atmosphere. A tall slim girl with a good figure, wearing a formfitting red dress with a mandarin collar, came into the saloon, sat beside Newman.

'I'm Josette. If I wait for his lordship to introduce me we will never meet.'

'You spend a lot of time aboard?' Newman asked.

'I live on the boat. It's like that. You do realize why he invited you aboard?'

'You tell me.'

'To keep an eye on you, of course. He wonders what you're up to. Brand asked him to keep a lookout for strangers,' she whispered. 'Brand pays him a fee, of course. He's mean over money, the colonel. Except with drink. He's never drunk and never sober. I don't think I'm staying with him much longer.' She pulled at her dark hair, staring straight at Newman. 'Do you need a friend?'

'Let me think about it.' Newman paused. Was this a trap? Had Ralston sent her to get him to talk? He didn't think so. They were inside the lock now. Beyond the portholes concrete walls loomed.

'Ever met a man called Klein?' he asked.

'Yes. A friend of yours?'

'Never met him.'

'He's creepy. He's travelled with us several times. And he was very interested in the bargees – and their craft. Asked the colonel a lot of questions. Especially about one called Joseph Haber. Was he married? Did he have a family?'

'And is Haber married – and has he a family?'

'Yes. A wife who lives near Celle, a small village up in the Ardennes. They have a son called Lucien, I remember. It seemed odd to me why this Klein should be interested in things like that,'

"This Klein just travelled back and forth with Ralston?'

'Not all the time. He spent several days at the home of the millionaire banker, Peter Brand…'

'Change the subject,' Newman whispered as Sergeant Bradley marched in from the opening behind the bar.

Josette had good bone structure, a well-shaped face and her expression was dreamy, but she was quick-witted. 'I think the Meuse is the loveliest of all the rivers,' she said in a normal voice. 'You really should see the section in France called Les Dames de Meuse.. .'

'Colonel wants you on deck,' Bradley told her. 'He's just noticed you'd disappeared.' He poured more coffee into Newman's cup. 'Next stop Profondeville, sir. We dock there and call on Mr Brand's place.'