Search for a Sultan, page 5
“It would be good advice at that,” said the other. “Anyway, what are you doing in Paris at all?”
“I’d better tell you in person,” said Tommy. “This phone is a bit public. I’d like to come down anyway and see if it really was this Grasshopper gentleman who handled my case. You’ll have some of his fingerprints in stock, I take it?”
“Should do. He’s been inside once or twice but never for long enough. Where are you speaking from, by the way?”
“Opposite the Madeleine,” said Tommy. “I thought I’d just make sure you were in, but I’ll come down straight away if that’s all right.”
Letord hesitated.
“It’s rather awkward,” he said. “That’s why I asked you where you are—I hoped I could meet you for a minute, but it’s too far away. The fact is I have to be in Court this morning to give evidence. Could you possibly leave it over till this afternoon?”
“Of course,” said Tommy, “I’ll give you a ring after lunch and see how you’re fixed then.”
He hesitated for a moment as he came out of the cafe, wondering what to do with the bundled-up suit-case. Even if he bought another one and put it inside, he reflected, he would still have to hump it round Paris with him, which would be tiresome. Better, perhaps, to leave it with his friend in Cook’s for the time being and collect it later.
“Hullo,” said the clerk, “so that’s the wreckage, is it? Sam told me it was in a bit of a mess and it certainly is! You didn’t catch the man, I suppose?”
“No,” said Tommy. “He was too quick for me. Never mind, there’s nothing missing and I was about due for a new suit-case anyway. But I would like to leave it with you for the moment, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a lot to do and I don’t want to be bothered with it all day.”
“Sure—I’ll put it under the counter here,” said the other, taking it from him. “If I’m not here when you come back, one of my colleagues will give it to you.”
“Much obliged,” said Tommy, “and also for your help this morning. If only I could get this fellow Lebouchon’s address now I’d be well on the way.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you during the day,” said the clerk. “I might have a bright idea later—there’s bound to be somebody in the shipping business who knows where he is. Leave it to me!”
Tommy thanked him again and seeing that it was now getting on for eleven o’clock, decided it was time to call on the Ambassador.
His Excellency, the representative of Qathusn in France, turned out to be (as his opposite number in London had put it) “a nice fellow” but not much help. Prince Achmed it seemed had only had formal dealings with his Embassy when he was staying in France, and had left no private possessions or documents there. Nor was the Ambassador very encouraging about Tommy’s prospects of finding a new heir.
“It is extremely unlikely that His Highness would have contracted a marriage with an Infidel,” he said. “He was far too good a Muslim for that. Most likely this picture was of some lady travelling without her husband who had fallen a temporary victim to the Prince’s charms, many did, you know.”
“But the boy,” protested Tommy.
The Ambassador shrugged.
“He need have been no bar to romance, I suppose,” he said. “No doubt he went to bed early at that age!”
“Well, well,” said Tommy. “We can but hope. Meanwhile, it would be helpful if I could have your authority to visit the Prince’s apartment here, and perhaps his bank, and anywhere else you can think of.”
“By all means,” said the Ambassador. “On the back of his visiting card he scribbled a line, authorising Mr. Hambledon to have free access to Prince Achmed’s apartment and effects. “There,” he said, “that should suffice. And now I will ask my secretary to give you the addresses you need.”
Leaving the Embassy Tommy refused to feel discouraged by the Ambassador’s pessimism. There was, after all, Hassan’s story to be remembered and he, surely, had a more intimate knowledge of the Prince’s private life than the Ambassador. Besides, whatever the latter said, the Prince’s attitude towards the couple in the photo was not one which somehow suggested a casual intrigue. His interest in the boy looked as much, or more than he showed towards the woman, and Tommy could not help feeling that they appeared much more like a happy family than chance acquaintances. He decided to go at once to the bank, a branch of the Credit Lyonnais near the Etoile, as they would soon be closing for lunch.
Here, however, he encountered an immediate set-back.
The manager politely but firmly refused to discuss the Prince’s affairs with him without a specific letter of introduction from the Embassy.
“This card,” he said, “is not sufficient for me to permit myself to waive the bank’s strict rules of secrecy in regard to clients’ affairs.”
“Well, perhaps you could telephone the Embassy?” said Tommy. “The matter’s rather urgent.”
“The bank can only accept a written authorisation,” said the other, coldly.
“Oh, very well,” said Tommy, trying not to be irritated by this example of petty officialdom, “I’ll go straight back there and get you a letter.”
As usual, when you want one, there was no taxi in sight when he came out of the bank and rather than wait he walked quickly in the direction of the Embassy, hoping to pick one up, as he went along. None came, however, and it was thus just after noon when he got there and encountered set-back number two. The Qathusians, he found, indulged in the usual oriental siesta and closed their Embassy, all but for one duty clerk, from 12 until 3 p.m.!
He cursed his luck but there was nothing to be done about it and, leaving a personal note for the Ambassador asking for a letter of authority to be sent down to the bank manager as soon as possible, he had a snack lunch (something to be deplored in Paris but he felt he ought not to waste more time than was strictly necessary) and set off for the Prince’s home in Paris.
This consisted of a small penthouse at the top of a quiet but luxurious hotel in the Rue de Berri. Here, happily, he was welcomed more hospitably than at the bank, and found both the manager and the concierge most willing to talk about the Prince, once they had got over the shock of hearing he was dead.
“Do you mean to say there was nothing about his death in your papers?”
“Not that I saw,” said the manager. “And I read two or three dailies.”
The concierge was even more explicit.
“I see almost all the Paris newspapers,” he said, “because I have them on sale on my desk here and I’m sure I would have seen the announcement.”
“Well, I suppose as it was so sudden the Embassy in London hasn’t had time to put out the news. But alas it’s a fact, His Highness died of heart failure, the night before last. I am here, with the Ambassador’s authority, as you see, to look through his papers and other private effects, but before I go up I would like to ask you both one thing. Do you recognise the lady in this picture?”
The two men looked at the photograph on the cruise ship and shook their heads.
“I’ve never seen her,” said the manager.
“Nor I,” said the concierge, “and I see most people who come here.”
“Did the Prince have many friends visiting him?” asked Tommy.
“Practically none,” said the manager. “He just used his apartment here as a pied-a-terre I think, and if he entertained at all, it was at Maxims or one of the big restaurants.”
“As far as I know, only people on business from the Embassy or occasional tradesmen called on the Prince here,” said the concierge, “and I don’t think His Highness ever brought a lady here in all the years I’ve known him.”
“And yet,” said Tommy, “he seems to have had such a reputation as a playboy.”
“But no doubt he was discreet in his afaires,” suggested the manager. “A man in his position would have to be.”
“It’s funny,” said the concierge, “though he went about so much in Society, I always had the impression he was somehow a lonely man.”
“People who live in a crowd most of the time often are,” said Hambledon. “I suppose,” he added, “you never got the impression that he might have had a home elsewhere in Paris? Or perhaps even have been married?”
“He could have had another home,” said the manager, “that would explain why he had so little personal life here, but as to marriage …” he shook his head incredulously, “I cannot believe that,” he said. “He was a confirmed bachelor, I am convinced of it.”
“Did you happen to know his servant, one Sampiero?” asked Hambledon.
“Sampiero!” both cried almost simultaneously.
“We knew him,” said the manager, nodding significantly. “I’ll say we did!” said the concierge. “We used to call him the Corsican Bandit here!”
“And not without reason,” said the manager. “We knew all about him robbing His Highness, long before we could get the Prince to listen to reason. But he was far too kindhearted, was the poor Monsieur Achmed!”
“Did you know,” asked the concierge, “that Sampiero was a deserter from the French Air Force? And wanted, so they tell mc, by the Civil as well as Military police? I only learnt that recently.”
“I didn’t know it,” said Hambledon. “But it explains something I’ve been wondering about. That is to say, if he was a pilot,” he added, thinking of the disappearance of the Prince’s plane the night before.
“Yes, he was a pilot all right,” said the manager. “That was one reason Prince Achmed was reluctant to part with him. It was convenient, I suppose, not to have to fly his own plane himself all the time, though I believe he was very fond of flying.”
“You don’t know I suppose,” asked Tommy, “why he finally got rid of Sampiero?”
“No,” said the manager. “It happened in London, I believe, but it must have been something pretty bad, for we could never get the Prince to listen to a word against him here.”
“You know what I used to think sometimes?” said the concierge. “It’s a queer thing to say, but I sometimes got the impression the Prince was frightened of Sampiero.”
“Nonsense!” laughed the manager. “He reads too many romans policiers monsieur, my concierge, sitting in his little office there all day. The Prince was never afraid of anybody, he was a fine gentleman.”
“Well, I’d better go up and look at his apartment,” said Tommy, thinking privately that there might well be something in what the concierge had said. For if, after all, Sampiero had found out about this secret wife and the Prince was afraid of his father the Sultan, it would explain why a dishonest servant had been kept on so long against everyone’s advice.
“I will show Monsieur the way,” said the concierge. “Allow me to fetch the key and then we will take the elevator.”
“To the top floor,” he instructed the lift-boy, as they got in, and added “Monsieur Le Prince is dead, Jean, did you know?”
The lift boy looked startled.
“I? … n … no monsieur,” he muttered. “How should I … I mean I did not know. I am very sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, we shall all be the poorer for it,” said the concierge, “His Highness was always generous in remembering little services,” he added to Hambledon.
On the penthouse floor there were only two apartments, each with a substantial-looking mahogany front door, and as they approached the Prince’s the concierge stopped short and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Tiens!” he said. “That’s strange. The door is open. If it is that cleaner who has been so careless I will let her know something in the morning!”
“I don’t think the cleaner is to blame,” said Tommy grimly, as he made for the door. “I have an idea you’re going to get a shock, my dear concierge, when we get inside. I seem to have seen something like this before.”
Hambledon was right. The Prince’s Paris apartment when they entered it was in very much the same state as his London one, when Tommy had seen it the previous morning, except that here the intruder had been uninterrupted, so that every room was turned upside down and every conceivable hiding-place explored. He ignored the concierge’s indignant cries of surprise and looked quickly round to see if anything could have been missed but he knew from the start that his task was hopeless. Obviously everything had been thoroughly gone through and it was most unlikely he would find any-anything overlooked, as in London.
The only thing of any interest in fact was a heap of photographs scattered over the bed and these merely because they contrasted so vividly with the picture he had in his pocket … For here there were photos of Prince Achmed at the Coronation, Prince Achmed taking the salute at the Arc de Triomphe, Prince Achmed sitting at the head of a gay table at Cannes or Monte Carlo, Prince Achmed patting the winner in the paddock at Longchamps, Prince Achmed at a dozen fashionable venues, but always Prince Achmed alone in the middle of the crowd, and always looking somehow as if he felt it. Whereas in the simple picture taken on board the Ile de Levant, the Prince looked as if he belonged, as if he were at home, in fact, and as if he were feeling genuinely gay and happy and not merely putting on an act for the public.
The concierge having telephoned down to the manager, the latter now joined them, wringing his hands and lamenting the misfortune which had fallen on him and his hotel.
“Whatever shall we do now, monsieur?” he appealed to Hambledon. “Are we to call the police and have this scandal known all over Paris? It will mean ruin to us—all our clients are wealthy and we have always prided ourselves no burglar could ever enter the premises.”
“I don’t think this was an ordinary burglar,” said Hambledon, “if that’s any comfort to you, and I shouldn’t call the police yet. I myself am going down to the Prefecture later and I will tell them what has happened. Meantime, you had better inform the Embassy.”
“Monsieur is very good,” said the manager. “We are grateful for his advice. The one thing that puzzles me is how on earth an intruder could have got in. We are always so careful about strangers.” He gave the concierge a sharp look, as he said this, and the other man protested indignantly.
“No one has passed my desk, monsieur,” he said. “But there is the tradesman’s entrance and service lift and also other employees besides myself.”
“Including the lift-boy,” said Hambledon casually, as he prepared to leave. “Is he still around? I’d like to have a word with him myself.”
The manager looked surprised. Then he caught on.
“Parbleu!” he cried. “Monsieur has got something there. I recall now, Jean was not about when I wanted to come up! I thought it was strange at the time.”
“Well, perhaps he’s downstairs,” said Tommy. “And 1 may have done him an injustice, but I thought there was something funny about the way he reacted when Monsieur le Concierge told him of the Prince’s death. Somehow, he didn’t seem so surprised as one might have expected.
There was, however, no sign of the lift-boy in the foyer, and Hambledon, who wished now to get to the bank decided not to wait until he was found.
“Let me know later what he says,” he told the manager, bidding him adieu, “I must go and look for a taxi quickly.”
He walked to the corner of the road, and it was then that a blonde lady appeared from a shop doorway and addressed him: “Monsieur, pardon monsieur,” she began, “I wish to speak with you.”
“No thank you,” said Hambledon, mistaking her intentions, “I’m busy.”
“Non, non, monsieur—you do not comprehend me. I wish to speak to you about Prince Achmed.”
“Do you?” said Hambledon. “That’s interesting. Who is he?”
“Ah, monsieur, do not tease me. I know very well you are a friend of his and have just been to his flat. I beg you will listen to me.”
“O.K.,” said Hambledon. “Speak on.”
“We cannot talk here, monsieur, it is too public. Come to my apartment, I beg you. I have much to tell you about poor Achmed. I was his favourite girl-friend you know, and it has been a great blow to me, his death.”
“How did you know he was dead?” snapped Hambledon. “But monsieur, it was in the papers of course, I see it in the journals, where else?”
“Where indeed,” laughed Hambledon. “If you’ve seen it in the papers, my girl, you must have read between the lines for nobody else in Paris has!”
She ignored this crack and began to plead with him again urgently:
“Only come with me, monsieur, for a few minutes,” she begged. “I have much to tell you of Prince Achmed, much that will interest you. Come, we can go by taxi. Here is one now.”
Hambledon had already observed that a taxi which had been waiting with the `hired’ sign illuminated further along the street was now advancing towards them with `for hire’ showing, and it struck him this was more than a coincidence. Nevertheless, when the cab stopped beside them, he opened the door for her and she stepped in. Then, however, he did not follow her, but said, instead, with a smile:
“I think I will find my own taxi after all, thank you. But you take this one, and go back to Monsieur La Cigale or Mr. Sampiero, or whoever sent you and tell them they will need somebody brighter than you to catch Thomas Elphinstone Hambledon. Oh, and by the way,” he added, with a grin, as he went to slam the door, “better tell your friend the lift boy not to go back—he’s been rumbled.”
The bank manager was more genial when Tommy was shown into his office for the second time.
“I have now received a letter from His Excellency,” he said, “and it is quite in order for Monsieur to have access to Prince Achmed’s accounts.”
“Good,” said Hambledon, “but what I am most interested in are any documents or private papers which the Prince might have deposited in your strong-room.”
The manager looked surprised.
“There is nothing,” he said. “Apart from whatever was in the strong-box the Embassy sent for this morning.”
“What!” cried Hambledon. “The Embassy sent for his strong-box?”
