The Gigantic Shadow by Julian Symons Page A

overlooking the Park.
    The man who came to meet him was big, fleshy, smiling. His smooth face was tanned and healthy, his air relaxed. He wore a silk shirt of pale lemon yellow, and a dark grey tie with a large ruby pin. His cuff-links were diamonds, his suit a very pale grey.
    ‘Mr Smith? That is a good anonymous name – yet where will one find a name more probable? You will drink a glass of Madeira with me.’ Westmark poured two glasses of rosy wine from a crystal decanter. ‘This is not ordinary Madeira. It has an interesting history. The wine was bottled in 1803, and for something like a hundred years lay in the cellars of the Earl of Clarnish. The Earl, a man unaware of what constitutes the good life, did not touch it. His son was alive to its virtues, but was also – what shall I say? – upon occasion, indiscreet. I was able to assist him in one or two small matters, and this was part of my reward. A reward not beyond price, perhaps, but one I value more than quite a sizeable cheque.’
    The wine was rich and sweet, and held for Hunter a reminiscence of the smell that seemed to pervade the flat. Westmark drank it greedily, and poured another glass. He went on talking about various members of the aristocracy whom he had been able to help, about the ways in which they had repaid him, all with a kind of vague grandiloquence that Hunter found disagreeable.
    ‘The good life,’ Westmark said meditatively, ‘it is what we all want, is it not, Mr Smith? For the fakir his bed of nails, a strange pleasure that I can never understand. For young Landing, about whom I have been telling you, the thrill of putting more money than he can afford on the fall of a card. For me wine – not any wine, but one like this Madeira that has age and prestige, history in its colour and smell. And women – not any women, but those like my Chinese kitten, who have been trained to obedience. For each of us something different.’
    He’s a show off, Hunter thought contemptuously, he likes to talk. Aloud he said, ‘I came to talk about a currency deal.’
    Now Westmark’s loquacity disappeared, as a conjurer’s patter is changed for action. ‘How much, and to what country?’
    ‘It would be quite a lot of money.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘About thirty thousand pounds.’
    Westmark showed no surprise. He was looking at his Madeira, turning the glass round and round.
    Hunter continued. ‘The country is not important. Somewhere in Europe, Italy, Switzerland, Spain. It doesn’t matter.’
    Westmark nodded his large head. ‘That can be arranged.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘You pay me the money. A banking account is opened for Mr William Smith in Zurich, say, or Berne, or Genoa, by my agents. They will pay the money into the account to await your collection. My charge is modest, no more than five per cent.’
    Hunter shook his head. ‘I don’t want a banking account. It can cause complications.’
    ‘Very well. Then you go direct to an agent, and he will pay you the money. Is that what you want?’
    ‘Yes. But I have to trust you. I want some proof that I’m safe in doing that.’
    ‘What sort of proof do you expect, what proof can I give you? You can speak to anybody who knows me, and ask if Theo Westmark is to be trusted.’ The big man was watching Hunter carefully. ‘I have been trusted not for thousands of pounds, but for a quarter of a million. But trust is not necessary. A property can be bought for you, an account can be opened on which your own agent can draw the very day your cheque here is cashed. If you do not wish to use such an agent, if you want to receive the cash from my own representative, then – you must trust me.’ Westmark’s voice was soft as he said, ‘Mutual trust is the basis of business dealings, Mr Smith. You are not trusting me very far when you do not tell me your name.’
    He had no agent abroad whom he could trust. Nor was it a cheque that he would hand over to Westmark, but cash. Once the money was in