“Jean-Baptiste, here’s five hundred for you. It has to keep you for forty days. Stay out of trouble and avoid your old haunts. Find the boats and engines and let me know by letter. Open a bank account and tell me where it is. When I approve the type and price of the stuff, I’ll transmit you the money. And don’t forget the shipping agent. Keep it nice and legal all down the line.”
The Frenchman and the German took their money and instructions and looked for a second taxi to get them to London airport, Semmler bound for Naples and Langarotti for Marseilles.
Shannon took Dupree’s arm, and they strolled down Piccadilly together. Shannon passed Dupree his envelope.
“I’ve put fifteen hundred in there for you, Janni. A thousand should cover all the purchases and the storage, crating, and shipping costs to Marseilles, with something to spare. The five hundred should keep you easily for the next month to six weeks. I want you to get straight into the buying first thing Monday morning. Make your list of shops and warehouses with the Yellow Pages and a map over the weekend. You have to finish the buying in thirty days, because I want the stuff in Marseilles in forty-five.”
He stopped and bought the Evening Standard, opened it at the “Properties to Let” page, and showed Dupree the columns of advertisements for flats and flatlets for rent,
furnished and unfurnished. There were, as usual, about 300 flats to rent, ranging from £6 a week to £200.
“Find yourself a small flat by tonight and let me know the address tomorrow.”
They parted just short of Hyde Park Corner.
Shannon spent the evening writing out a complete statement of accounts for Endean. He pointed out that the total had eaten up the bulk of the £5000 transferred from Brugge and that he would leave the few hundreds left over from that sum in the London account as a reserve.
Last, he pointed out that he had not taken any part of his own £10,000 fee for the job and proposed either that Endean transfer it straight from Endean’s Swiss account into Shannon’s Swiss account, or remit the money to the Belgian bank for credit to Keith Brown.
He mailed his letter that Friday evening.
The weekend was free, so he called Julie Manson and suggested taking her out to dinner. She had been about to set off for a weekend at her parents’ country house, but called and told them she was not coming. As it was late by the time she was ready, she came to collect Shannon, looking pert and spoiled at the wheel of her red MGB.
“Have you booked anywhere?” she asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Let’s go and eat at one of my places,” she suggested. “Then I can introduce you to some of my friends.”
Shannon shook his head. “Forget it,” he said. “That’s happened to me before. I am not spending the whole evening being stared at like a zoo animal and asked damn fool questions about killing people. It’s sick.”
She pouted. “Please, Cat darling.”
“Nope.”
“Look, I won’t say what you are and what you do. I’ll just keep it secret. Come on. No one will know you by your face.”
Shannon weakened. “One condition,” he said. “My name is Keith Brown. Got it? Keith Brown. That’s all. Nothing else do you say about me or where I come from. Nor about what I do. Understood?”
She giggled. “Great,” she said. “Great idea. Mystery Man himself. Come on, then, Mr. Keith Brown.”
She took him to Tramps, where she was evidently well known. Johnny Gold rose from his door-side table as they entered and greeted her effusively with kisses on both cheeks. He shook hands with Shannon as she introduced him. “Nice to see you, Keith. Have a good time.”
They dined at the long row of tables running parallel to the bar, and started by ordering the house lobster cocktail in a hollowed-out pineapple. Seated facing the room, Shannon glanced around at the diners; most, from their long hair and casual dress, could be placed in show business or on its fringes. Others were evidently young-generation businessmen trying to be trendy or make a model or an actress. Among the latter he spotted a face he knew across the room, with a group, out of Julie’s vision.
After the lobster Shannon ordered “bangers and mash” and, excusing himself, got up. He strolled slowly out of the door and into the center lobby as if on his way to the men’s room. Within seconds a hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned to face Simon Endean.
“Are you out of your mind?” grated the City hard boy.
Shannon looked at him in mock surprise, a wide-eyed innocent. “No. I don’t think so. Why?” he asked.
Endean was about to tell him, but checked himself in time. His face was white with anger. He knew his boss well enough to know how Manson doted on his supposedly innocent little girl, and knew roughly what his reaction would be should he ever hear about Shannon taking her out, let alone climbing into bed with her.
But he was checkmated. He assumed Shannon was still unaware of his own, real name, and certainly of Manson’s existence. To bawl him out for dining with a girl called Julie Manson would blow both his own concern and Manson’s name, together with both their roles as Shannon’s employer. Nor could he tell Shannon to leave her alone, for fear Shannon would consult the girl and she would tell him who Endean was. He choked back his anger.
“What are you doing here?” he asked lamely.
“Having dinner,” said Shannon, appearing puzzled. “Look, Harris, if I want to go out and have dinner, that’s my affair. There’s nothing to be done over the weekend. I have to wait till Monday to fly to Luxembourg.”