“It’s a possibility. We’re working on that already.” “Pass me that bridge, will you?” “Certainly.” The brigadier laid the bridge on the baize and lined up his shot. Bogge said: “It’s been suggested that we might instruct the paymaster to continue to accept the forgeries, in case he can bring in any new leads.” The suggestion had been Vandam’s, and Bogge had turned it down. Vandarn had argued-something that was becoming wearyingly familiar-and Bogge had had to slap him down. But it was an imponderable, and if things turned out badly Bogge wanted to be able to say he had consulted his superiors. The brigadier unbent from the table and considered. “Rather depends how much money is involved, doesn’t it?” “Several hundred pounds so far.” “It’s a lot.” “I feel it’s not really necessary to continue to accept the counterfeits, sir.” “Jotly good.” The brigadier pocketed the last of the red balls and started on the colors. Bogge marked the score. The brigadier was ahead, but Bogge had got what he came for. “Who’ve you got working on this spy thing?” the brigadier asked. “WeU, I’m handling it myself basically–.-” “Yes, but which of your majors are you usingr’ “Vandam, actually.” “Ah, Vandam. Not a bad chap.” Bogge did not like the turn the conversation was taking. ne brigadier did not really understand how careful you had to be with the likes of Vandam: give them an inch and they would take the Empire. The Army would promote these people above their station. Bogge’s nightmare was to find himself taking orders from a postman’s son with a Dorset accent. He said: “Vandam’s got a bit of a soft spot for the wog, unfortunately; but as you say, he’s good enough in a plodding sort of fashion.” “Yes.” The brigadier was enjoying a long break, potting the colors one after another. “He went to the same school as I. Twenty years later, of course.” 100 Ken Follett
Bogge smiled. “He was a scholarship boy, though, wasn’t he, sir?” “Yes,” said the brigadier. “So was L” He pocketed the black. “You seem to have won, sir,” said Bogge.
The manager of the Cha-Cha Club said that more than half his customers settled their bills in sterling, he could not possibly identify who payed in which currency, and even if he could he did not know the names of more than a few regulars. The chief cashier of Shepheard’s Hotel said something similar. So did two taxi drivers, the proprietor of a soldiers’ bar and the brothel keeper Madame Fahmy. Vandam was expecting much the same story from the next location on his list, a shop owned by one Mikis Aristopoulos. Aristopoulos had changed a large amount of sterling, most of it forged, and Vandarn imagined his shop would be a business of considerable size, but it was not so. Aristopoulos had a small grocery store. It smelled of spices and coffee but there was not much on the shelves. Aristopoulos himself was a short Greek of about twenty-five years with a wide, white- toothed smile. He wore a striped apron over his cotton trousers and white shirt. He said: “Good morning, sir. How can I help youT’ “You don’t seem to have much to sell,” Vandam. said. Aristopoulos smiled. “If you’re looking for something particular, I may have it in the stock room. Have you shopped here before, sir?” So that was the system: scarce delicacies in the back room for regular customers only. It meant be might know his clientele. Also, the amount of counterfeit money he had exchanged probably represented a large order, which he would remember. Vandam said: “I’m not ‘here to buy. Two days ago you took one hundred and forty-seven pounds in English money to the British paymaster general and exchanged it for Egyptian currency.” Aristopoulos frowned and looked troubled. “Yes … THE KEY TO REBECCA 101
“One hundred and twenty-seven pounds of that was counterfeit-forged-no good.” Aristopoulos smiled and spread his arms in a huge shrug. “I am sorry for the paymaster. I take the money from English, I give it back to English … What can I do?” “You can go to jail for passing counterfeit notes.” Aristopoulos stopped smiling. “Please. This is not justice. How could I knowT’ “Was all that money paid to you by one person?” “I don’t know-” “Think!” Vandam said sharply. “Did anyone pay you one hundred and twenty-seven pounds?” “Ah . . . yes! Yes!” Suddenly Aristopoulos looked hurt. “A very respectable customer. One hundred twenty-six pounds ten shillings.” “His name?” Vandam held his breath. “Mr. Wolff—-,, ‘Ahhh.” “I am so shocked. Mr. Wolff has been a good customer for many years, and no trouble with paying, never.” “Listen,” Vandam. said, “did you deliver the groceries?” “No. “Damn.” “We offered to deliver, as usual, but this time Mr. Wolff—~” “You usually deliver to Mr. Wolff’s home?” “Yes, but this time-” “What’s the address?” “Let me see. Villa les Oliviers, Garden City.” Vandarn banged his fist on the counter in frustration. Aristopoulos looked a little frightened. Vandam said: “You haven’t delivered there recently, though.” “Not since Mr. Wolff came back. Sir, I am very sorry that this bad money has passed through my innocent hands. Perhaps something can be arranged … ?” “Perhaps,” Vandarn said thoughtfully. “Let us drink coffee together.” Vandarn nodded. Aristopoulos led him into the back room. The shelves here were well laden with bottles and tins, most of them imported. Vandam noticed Russian caviar, American canned ham and English jam. Aristopoulos poured thick strong coffee into tiny cups. He was smiling again. 102 Ken Follett