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ENCORE! by Mark Frankel
Smith had arranged to meet me at three o’clock in the Brasserie Lipp on the
Boulevard St. Germain. Apparently it was near his hotel.
"Try to get a corner table," he’d said.
I’d been to the bank that morning and drawn the seven hundred thousand euros. It
was neatly packed in bundles in the black brief case he had given me. They
fitted perfectly. Smith was always a stickler for detail.
We’d been safe in Brazil for over ten years and had arrived in Paris just
yesterday afternoon. When the cancer unit at Neuilly had contacted Lisette with
the news that her mother’s condition was deteriorating rapidly, we’d taken the
first flight out of Rio.
Despite Lisette’s protests, I’d insisted on accompanying her. After all, ten
years had passed since I’d left England and my physical appearance was
considerably altered. Surely they wouldn’t still be looking out for me after all
this time?
We’d sat with the patient all night and had only just re-entered the apartment
when the phone rang. I grabbed it without thinking, alerted too late by
Lisette’s gasp of dismay. That’s what ten years of freedom does for you. Once we
would have been on our guard immediately, but who else could it be? Apart from
the hospital no one knew we were in Paris.
"Morning Billy," said the instantly recognisable thin nasal voice. "Don’t hang
up on me will you. I know where you are. Followed you from the hospital. Knew
you’d turn up in Paris sooner or later when the French police tipped us off
about Lisette’s mother."
Blind fury at my own carelessness was soon replaced by bitterness, however. "Why
don’t you leave me alone. It’s been over ten years now. Nobody cares any more."
Lisette had overheard. White-faced, she’d rushed into the bedroom and started
throwing things into a suitcase. I stopped her. It was too late for that, now.
"You know me, Billy. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. Jack Smith always gets
his man – and the law doesn’t give a shit how many years it takes. But before
you try to make a run for it, I’ve got a little proposition to put to you. You
know the café Deux Magôts of course? I’ll meet you there at 12 noon. You can buy
me lunch."
"I’m not leaving Lisette while her mother’s dying," I said. "How do I know this
isn’t just one of your little traps?"
"You’re trapped already," came the complacent voice of someone who knew he was
holding all the cards. "I can pick you up any time."
Smith was already there when I arrived, sitting right at the back of the
interior. He looked smart in his charcoal grey suit, blue shirt and red tie. It
seemed an eternity since I’d last seen him through the wrong side of prison cell
bars in Brixton. ‘Gentleman’ Jack Smith they called him. He’d always dressed
more like a bank manager than a detective sergeant in the Flying Squad. Ten
years hadn’t changed him at all.
It had been a June day much like this one when we had all met at Guy Lombard’s
Buckinghamshire estate to discuss the details of the robbery. Guy was like a
second father. Mum had died giving birth to me - and Dad, the notorious Johnny
Frisco, hadn’t survived a shoot-out on his last bank raid.
Guy was every inch the country gentleman; tall, silver haired and distinguished
looking. He’d been a successful Shakespearean actor but his keen mind needed
something more than a stage for stimulation. He had found it in crime.
There were five of us – Guy, Jim Wallis, Neale Miller, George Prescott the
Securicor driver - and me, Billy Frisco. Prescott regularly collected the used
notes from six different branches of Lloyds bank.
Everything went smoothly and the proceeds were stored away in a safe house,
known only to Guy, but to be revealed to all of us when we planned to meet there
in a month’s time. Then we all went our separate ways.
We’d hoped to get at least four million pounds. The newspapers claimed we’d
doubled that but we didn’t allow ourselves to get too euphoric. These things
were always exaggerated for insurance purposes, Guy said..
The Flying squad were livid, though. They were proud of their new, high-tech
specialist team led by Detective Sergeant Jack Smith, and recent successes had
been rewarded with fulsome praise in the press. But you’re only as good as your
last case. Now, whilst the headlines screamed accusations of gross misuse of
public funds, there were murmurings that someone’s head should roll.
But Smith was to prove a dangerous enemy. He was a vain man and we had
humiliated him. It wasn’t in his nature to forgive and forget.
Prescott was hauled in four times for questioning. We’d taken the precaution of
roughing him up when we left him and he stuck to his story. He’d been promised
half a million quid and that was a big incentive for a man who was due for
retirement.
Eventually, the time came for us to regroup. I’ll never forget the excitement of
that early morning when we met at what turned out to be a remote coastal
farmhouse. Guy had assembled long tables in a barn adjacent to the property and
we spent the entire day counting and re-counting, stopping only for drinks and
sandwiches, until we were all agreed on the final total. Even so it was hard to
take in. We’d really hit the jackpot. It was eight million, seven hundred
thousand pounds.
Guy deposited my share in an offshore account and headed for Brazil. I planned
to join him in a week or two. It was to be later than we thought.
Prescott finally cracked and did a deal with Jack Smith. As a reward for his
co-operation he was promised a reduced sentence and a new identity. The rest of
us got thirty years each. Guy was tried and convicted in absentia.
Jim and Neale had their sentences reduced when they agreed to give up their
share of the money but I said I’d rather rot in jail. That’s when I really got
to know Smith. He never missed his weekly visit.
The thought of being locked up for 30 years finally got to me though and by the
end of the second year I’d decided it wasn’t worth holding on to a life that was
just a living death. So I went on hunger strike. Of course, they force-fed me
but after a few months of this I was still deteriorating and knew it couldn’t
last much longer.
One morning, I awoke up to find myself in a room in the prison hospital, hooked
up to saline drips and God knows what else. I also had my own personal guard,
sitting yawning in a chair by the window.
I was there for several days while they pumped vitamins into me. Then, as I was
starting to get my strength back, I had a surprise visit from my ‘mother’. A
nurse brought this grey haired old lady, hobbling on a stick, into my room one
day and left her there under the watchful eye of the guard. We left with me
dressed in the guard’s uniform. Guy told me afterwards he’d always known his
‘Scottish play’s’ witch’s outfit would come in useful one day.
Madame Maillot, whose late husband had been an old friend of Guy, lived in a
small house behind the Sacre Coeur in Paris. For the time being I would stay
with her until I recovered my strength. Before long, I became totally captivated
by her daughter, the dark and lissom Lisette, and just six months later we were
married in a small church in Montmartre. I used the name John Wilson but later,
we repeated our vows in Buenos Aries under my real name.
During the following ten glorious years, Lisette gave birth to our two sons,
John and Christophe. They were now Brazilian nationals and staying with close
friends whilst we were out of the country.
Guy was uneasy about the trip from the start, however, and had insisted on
meticulously planning every detail himself, just like the old days. Only when he
felt he had covered every possible contingency, did he finally bestow his
blessing.
But we had reckoned without Smith. I wondered what possible emotion could
motivate a man to show such tenacity. I was soon to find out.
Over his beer and sandwich, Smith put his proposition. My share from the robbery
had been a million. He wanted half of it. He was due to retire soon with only
his pension to show for it. Internal politics and jealousy at his successes,
plus one or two unfortunate blots on his record, had conspired to prevent his
well-deserved promotion, so he had been casting around for an additional source
of income. Half a million quid, sensibly invested, would do him nicely. He’d
always fancied trying his hand at writing. Thirty-five years in the police force
had given him a few stories. With no family to share the money with he’d retire
to Paris and have a shot at it. He could live the sort of life escaped criminals
like me enjoyed. As far as the French police were concerned he had either missed
me or it was a case of mistaken identity. I could clear off back to where I had
come from.
Smith had brought two identical black brief cases with him. If I didn’t agree to
his deal he would have me picked up in the morning and held for extradition.
Alternatively, I would take one of the brief cases away with me and pack it with
the half million pounds sterling in Euro notes. He would fill the other one with
old newspapers. We would meet and exchange briefcases.
If it had been anyone but Smith, I would have assumed this was some kind of sick
joke. I couldn’t see the point of going to all that trouble. But Smith was
adamant. He had read it in a detective story and wanted to see how it worked in
practice. Imagine - a detective sergeant in the Flying Squad reading detective
stories! Smith was full of surprises.
So I finally had my answer. I now understood his motivation; he must have been
planning this for years. But could you trust a bent copper? Did I have any
choice? I felt very alone and wished Guy was here to advise me.
"Thought you’d see sense," he said.
To flatter his ego I congratulated him on trapping me after all this time.
He leaned forward confidentially. "I’ll share the secret of my success with
you," he said. "I’m probably going to use it in a story, anyway. "It’s called
‘Patience’. First you gather together all the suspect’s contacts and you apply
the four infallible concepts – births, deaths, marriages, hospitals. Then you
sit back and wait. Nearly got you when the French police passed on a picture of
the Maillot daughter’s marriage - but they sent it too late. Soon as I
recognised John Wilson I was on a plane but you’d already left for Rio. "It was
a long wait but the hospital tip-off finally nailed you."
And now a week had passed. I had the money and Smith had made the final
arrangements. Lisette had been with her mother when she died and the funeral had
taken place. There was nothing to keep us in Paris, now – except Smith.
It was a fine summer’s day when I emerged from the metro station at Odéon and
walked slowly along the Boulevard St. Germain beneath the shade of the giant
plane trees. Groups of brightly-dressed tourists chattered animatedly in
assorted languages above the noise of impatient traffic.
I was twenty minutes early and hoping the lunchtime crowd had started to thin
out so I could get the corner table that Smith had requested. Sure enough,
Lipp’s was half empty.
I sat and carefully stood the case on the floor so that it rested against my
leg, as instructed. The waiter approached and I ordered a glass of water and
told him I was waiting for a friend.
Outside, a guitar player had finished his performance and collected some money
from the tables, but when he tried to enter the brasserie, he was stopped by a
decisive shake of the waiter’s head.
Smith arrived at exactly three o’clock and sat down opposite me, placing his
case on the table against the wall. Apart from no buttonhole in his lapel, he
looked like he was dressed for a wedding.
"Deux demis, s’il vous plaît," he told the waiter before nodding approvingly in
my direction. "This one’s on me," he said and then sat there silently examining
the pictures on the walls until the beers arrived. "To a life of leisure," he
said, raising his glass. He took a long swallow before indicating an old black
and white photograph on the wall by our table.
"That’s Hemingway, you know; came here often. Used to order cervelas – that’s a
sausage like a heavy, wide frankfurter split into two and covered with a special
mustard sauce; one of Lipp’s specialities. Makes me feel hungry just thinking
about it."
He licked his lips but the laugh had sounded nervous and for the first time I
noticed his eyes were glistening. Could it be that Smith was actually capable of
human emotion?
He reached for the case by my leg. "I’ll trouble you for the key," he said.
I handed it to him and he winked.
"You don’t mind if I just go and check it?"
He stood up and I watched him walk past the bar through the door marked Telefon/Toilette.
I looked around the brasserie, thinking of all the famous writers and painters
who had once sat here. Who would have thought that a hard man like Smith had
always cherished the secret hope that he might some day join their ranks.
The subject of my thoughts eventually re-emerged through the door and dropped a
coin into the saucer on the bar. He resumed his seat, carefully placing the case
under his chair.
"Glad you decided to see sense," he said. "Avoids a lot of unpleasantness."
"What about your precious reputation?" I sneered. "Doesn’t it bother you that
officially Jack Smith failed to get his man this time?"
His cold blue eyes fastened on mine for a brief moment then he gave a short
laugh like a bark. "I got something better, didn’t I?"
Somehow I managed to keep control of my emotions. I wasn’t proud of my life of
crime but at least there was always a sense of honour among thieves. A bent
copper was somehow different.
An old, grey-haired lady in a voluminous black silk dress had come into the
brasserie carrying a tray of white lilacs tied into small bunches. She had
circled the other tables and now approached ours, her ravaged face squinting at
us.
"Lilas, messieurs? Pour bon chance."
Lipp’s was always sympathetic to lilac sellers. They were the only street
vendors allowed inside their cherished establishment. It was said that Madame
Lipp’s mother had been one of them, but that was probably just a rumour started
by people who didn’t like Madame Lipp.
Smith shrugged and reached into his pocket. "Suppose it is my lucky day," he
said.
In her eagerness to take the proffered coin, the old lady stumbled against the
table. The strap around her neck gave way and the entire tray tipped towards the
floor, scattering bunches of lilacs in all directions. Ever the gentleman, Smith
leapt to his feet and began picking up the flowers whilst I re-attached the
strap to the old lady’s tray and replaced the cloth that had been draped over
it.
"Oh, messieurs! C’est très, très gentil," cackled the old crone.
Smith finished his beer and stood up, retrieving the briefcase from under his
chair. He hesitated, testing the weight. My heart was thumping so loud I was
afraid he might hear it. Then he reached across the table and grabbed the other
case.
"I’ll take this one as well. Wouldn’t want to spoil the set, would I?"
I should have known better than to expect Smith to trust anybody.
"Well Billy, I’ll say goodbye then. Just drop these into the hotel’s safe
deposit then I think I’ll go for a nice, leisurely stroll around the Luxembourg
Gardens. Look me up, next time you’re in Paris."
When he had gone, I walked quickly towards the door. A cab pulled up and a
grinning Guy opened the door for me.
"Did he take both of them?"
I nodded. "You were right; suspicious bastard, but luckily he didn’t know about
the spare under your tray."
Guy tapped on the driver’s window. " Charles de Gaulle. Vite! - s’il vous plaît."
He lifted the briefcase onto my lap. "Well - let’s have a quick look – just to
make sure."
I took the spare key out of my pocket and opened the case, making sure the lid
concealed the contents from the driver. The 700,000 euros lay there just as we
had packed them that morning.
Guy breathed a long sigh of relief. "Let’s hope that was my last performance,"
he said. "Getting too old for this kind of thing."
I took my last look at Paris as the cab picked up speed. Lisette would be
waiting at the airport and Guy’s plane would soon be on its way back to Rio de
Janeiro. It was good to be going home.
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