Some Day I'll Find You (41 page)

Mr Arnold made no reply. He looked calmly at James Blackwell, his arms folded quietly in his lap. There was nothing about the younger man that spoke to him of evil. Mr Arnold saw no signs of
degradation or cruelty in the pleasant face opposite his. If James Blackwell had been in RAF uniform, he could almost have been the handsome young man Oliver had once welcomed to his table, and
into his family.

James pulled the champagne bottle out of the silver bucket and began fiddling with the foil around the cork. He grinned at Mr Arnold. He just couldn’t help it. This was all working out so
perfectly.

‘I expect you think I’m a bit of a swine, don’t you?’

Mr Arnold smiled pleasantly in return. ‘I think you’re a total shit, actually.’

‘
That’s
the spirit!’ James popped the cork. Foam poured out of the neck of the bottle, and as it subsided, James poured a little champagne into the twin glasses on the
tray. ‘Good for you, Oliver. Always speak as you find. You and your boy had that in common, did you know that? John always spoke his mind. I liked that about him. I always did.’

‘If my son were here now, he’d do a lot more than tell you what he thought of you. He’d have you by the throat.’

James nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, I expect you’re right there – but he’s not here, is he? It’s just you. With a bag full of money. For me.’ James pushed one
of the flute glasses across the table to Mr Arnold. ‘What shall we drink to? I know. Absent friends.’ He raised his glass.

Oliver left his own untouched. ‘Can we get this over with?’

‘Of course. May I see the money, please?’

Mr Arnold opened his bag and pulled out a heavy grey canvas sack. ‘It’s all in there.’

‘Yes, but all the same, if I might just . . .’ James took out several blocks of banknotes at random and tore off their wrappers. He flicked through them, taking the occasional note
out of its thick pile, and holding it up towards a naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling. Occasionally, he sniffed one of the notes.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said at last. ‘This all seems to be in order. Thank you.’ He picked up the phone and dialled for the operator. He gave a number, and after a moment, he
said: ‘Get her in a taxi. Go to the Negresco. Her mother’s in the main lounge.’

He replaced the receiver and shrugged. ‘And now we wait. Not that I really need to, Oliver, but I am a man of my word. So we wait for the beautiful Diana to telephone and say the
indomitable Stella is safe and sound and back in the maternal embrace. And then we all go home and life goes on. Are you sure you won’t have that drink now?’

‘I’ll wait for the call, thanks. And I’d rather we didn’t speak.’

‘As you wish.’

Both men sat in silence for several minutes, Mr Arnold seemingly calm and relaxed, the younger man fidgeting and bored. He yawned occasionally, displaying perfectly white teeth.

At last the phone rang. James gestured politely to Mr Arnold, who picked up the receiver.

‘Oliver Arnold.’

‘It’s me, Daddy. Stella’s here. She’s absolutely fine. She’s a bit tired, but she’s fine. We’re going straight back to the villa. Are you all right at
that end?’

‘Yes, of course. Don’t worry about me. All’s well that ends well. I’ll see you back at the house.’ He replaced the phone on its cradle.

James was transferring the money from the canvas bag into a soft leather briefcase. ‘Thanks again for this, Oliver. You did exactly the right thing, I want you to know that. If it had been
left to that fool Douglas, who knows how things might have turned out.’

He stood up. ‘I think we’re all finished here, don’t you? Can I get you a cab? I can have one here in a minute to take you up to St Paul de Vence.’

‘I’ll make my own way, thank you.’

‘Suit yourself.’ James hefted the briefcase under one arm. ‘Goodness, this is heavy. I suppose this is goodbye, then.’

‘Indeed it is, James.’ But Mr Arnold remained seated. He pointed at the marks on the other man’s face. ‘By the way, what are those cuts? And why is your wrist
bandaged?’

‘Your granddaughter, old boy. She has a high spirit and sharp teeth. I was considerate enough to give her the good news of her impending release this evening, and this was my
reward.’ He rubbed his wrist ruefully. ‘I won’t hold it against her, though. I didn’t take any nonsense from anyone when I was a kid, either.’

He made to leave the room, then hesitated and turned around.

‘I know this is probably the last time we’ll see each other, but oddly enough, it’s been good meeting you again, Oliver. You know, if I hadn’t been shot down that day,
things might have been very different. I told Diana that.’

Mr Arnold gave a short laugh. ‘I very much doubt it. You were a snake in the grass from the start, I realise that now. But this is certainly the last time we’ll see each other,
James.’ He reached down into his valise and brought up the service revolver that he’d never quite got around to handing back in, cocking the hammer as he did so. The barrel pointed
directly at the other man’s head.

‘How theatrical.’ James burst out laughing. ‘Are you going to say “this is a stick-up” and grab your money back? Do you really think I can’t take Stella, or
Diana, any time I like, Oliver? Do you have
any
idea what I am capable of?’

Mr Arnold smiled at him, almost kindly. ‘Oh, yes. I know exactly what you’re capable of, James. That’s the point. I have absolutely no intention of letting you threaten my
daughter and granddaughter ever again. You really haven’t given me any choice. I’m afraid I can’t possibly let you leave this room.’

James looked incredulous, his eyebrows arching in genuine surprise.

‘Good grief! You’re actually threatening to kill me!’ He threw back his head and roared with laughter again.

‘Well, that raises an interesting point, James.’ Mr Arnold nodded thoughtfully. ‘You see – you’re already dead, aren’t you? James Blackwell died eleven years
ago. He can’t be killed twice. He no longer exists. You’re a walking, talking ghost. One can’t kill a ghost.’

James’s smile faded slightly.

‘I’m not a ghost here in Nice, Oliver. I’m quite the man of the moment. Flesh and blood. And I don’t go under the name of Blackwell. I have serious contacts, associates.
Kill me, and you’ll be taking on forces far more powerful than you can begin to know.’

Now it was Mr Arnold who laughed.

‘James, I know
exactly
who your associates are and they couldn’t give a damn about you. If I hadn’t turned up tonight with the money, they’d have stolen your
business and probably killed you into the bargain. You’re way out of your depth. This whole kidnapping scenario – your own
daughter
, for God’s sake – it’s
pathetic. But I’m not here to punish you; I’ll leave that to God.’

The revolver steadied.

James blinked. He licked his lips.

‘Be that as it may . . . now look, Oliver. You need to think carefully. You’re a civilised man; a lawyer, for heaven’s sake. You couldn’t possibly kill a fellow human
being in cold blood. How would you live with yourself afterwards?’

James realised that a pleading note had entered his voice and he strove to re-assert himself.

‘Look me in the eyes. Go on, look at me! We’re six feet away from each other. Could you really do it? I think not. Put your antique pistol down, Oliver, and let’s both go home.
You’re an old man. Our business here is over and done. I’m no threat to your family. Not now.’ He patted the bag. ‘I’ve got what I came for.’

Mr Arnold sighed. ‘James, I’m perfectly content to look you in the eyes. I was in the trenches for four years. I was in the tunnels
under
the trenches, groping and fighting
and stabbing in the dark. I shot and knifed and strangled so many men, face to face, that I lost count of them. You do, after a while. One more death won’t make any difference.’

James Blackwell stared blankly back at him.

Mr Arnold sighed again. ‘To be perfectly frank, James, I’ve killed better men than you before breakfast.’

He pulled the trigger. The report was deafening in the small room and James Blackwell’s brains exploded through the back of his head and showered the wall behind him. He toppled sideways
and landed full length on the floor, his body giving a single, convulsive shudder. Then he was still.

Oliver Arnold picked up his champagne flute and drained it in one swallow. He removed the canvas money sack from the briefcase, and replaced it in his own valise, along with the gun.

James Blackwell’s legs were partly blocking the door. Mr Arnold kicked them away.

He opened it and listened carefully for a moment. There was no sound of any approach.
Le Loup Anglais
had given specific instructions about not being disturbed.

Mr Arnold slid quietly from the room and closed the door behind him.

He’d killed better men before breakfast.

She knew the moment she saw his face.

‘I didn’t have any choice, my dear.’

Diana let her father into the villa and closed the door. ‘But, Daddy – how did you . . .’

He briefly showed her the gun, before dropping it back in his bag.

‘Dear God.’

‘If I’d thought there was any other way, Diana, I promise I would have taken it.’

She shot the bolts at the top and bottom of the door before turning back to face him.

Oliver Arnold watched his daughter carefully. She was pale, and trembled slightly.

‘He’d never have left us alone,’ she said with sudden resolve. ‘I’m glad he’s dead. Really dead, this time. But how did you bring yourself to do it, Daddy? It
must have been horrible.’

He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead. ‘That’s a conversation for another time, my dear. Don’t worry about me. As you can see, I’m quite all right. But what
about you, Dee-Dee?’

She started. ‘You haven’t called me that since I was a child.’

‘Haven’t I? I suppose I’m feeling particularly protective of you tonight. After all, once you were so very much in love with him, and this week you were reunited, and I’m
sure you must have . . .’ He gave an awkward shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being presumptuous.’

‘No. No, you’re not,’ Diana said quietly.

‘Anyway,’ he went on after a pause, ‘then the awful business with Stella – and now tonight. You must feel very confused and angry, Diana. With me too, perhaps, after what
I’ve just done.’

Diana put both hands on her father’s shoulders, gripping so firmly he almost winced.

‘No! Don’t ever think that, not for one second! James was an evil, evil man. He kidnapped Stella, he threatened to cut her hand off if we didn’t pay him the money. He would
have done it, too, I’m sure of it. His own daughter! If anyone was ever in league with the Devil, it was James Blackwell. You exorcised a demon tonight.’

She released him. ‘Come on.’

They walked slowly into the sitting room, where Diana poured two large whiskies.

‘I’ve behaved unutterably foolishly,’ she confessed, as they both sank into comfortable chairs, ‘from the first moment I suspected James was still alive. Although I do
believe that he managed to sort of hypnotise me after we met again. Actually, I think he hypnotised all of us, right from the beginning, didn’t he? John at Cranwell, you and Mummy at the
Dower House, and me at Girton.’

Oliver nodded slowly. ‘Yes. He had a remarkable facility for making one want to like him and believe in him. Even tonight he was . . . I don’t know, Diana; it’s very strange. I
found myself wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt, even though I knew he was extraordinarily manipulative and dangerous. I very nearly let him leave the room, you know. He was a very
charismatic person.’

Diana sipped her scotch. ‘He was. But I did my mourning a long time ago for him; the man I believed I knew and loved. It certainly wasn’t the person you killed tonight. That was the
real James Blackwell.’

Oliver loosened his tie and eased himself down in his chair, emptying his tumbler in one long steady swallow. ‘Where’s Stella?’

‘In bed, fast asleep. She’s absolutely exhausted.’

‘I’ll bet she is. And Douglas?’

‘He’s staying in Cannes tonight.’

Mr Arnold raised an eyebrow.

‘We’ve come to a decision,’ she said.

By the time the
gendarmes
were peering at James Blackwell’s shattered skull, Oliver, Diana and Stella were back at the Dower House.

They’d left Nice on the first train to Paris and were crossing the Channel before the manager of James’s club had plucked up the courage to gingerly tap on the door of his notorious
client. If
Le Loup
said he wanted to be left undisturbed, you took him at his word.

It wasn’t until nightfall that the manager discovered that nothing would ever disturb the Englishman again, and he called the police.

There was nothing to connect Mr Arnold or indeed anyone else to the killing, and detectives almost immediately wrote it off as a Mafia hit. There had been rumours for weeks that
Le Loup
was in the Italians’ sights; clearly they had made their move.

‘Let dog eat dog,’ the head of the city’s murder squad told his assistant. ‘Close the file. No one gives a shit.’

James was buried in a dreary civic cemetery under his last assumed name of Peter Walker, even though police checks quickly established that his papers were false.

Le Loup
’s protection racket was quietly and efficiently taken over by the Mafia.

Before long, Nice forgot all about him.

Douglas had quickly realised how completely he’d underestimated James Blackwell’s reputation. As Diana had predicted, the private detectives he sought to employ in
Cannes had been slippery and evasive, even in the face of huge financial inducements. He simply could not persuade them to even begin looking for Stella.

By the time he’d called Diana to admit defeat, his stepdaughter was already home and tucked up in bed. Douglas felt foolish and emasculated.

‘I think we need some time apart,’ Diana had told him carefully. ‘We’ve both got a lot of thinking to do. I’m going back to England with my father in the
morning.’