Syndicate extract billions of dollars from the States? By the same methods - intimidation?"
"Sometimes - many successful men leave skeletons behind as they climb. There is an American who has built up what he calls "a blackmail bank". That could be used by the Syndicate. That, plus the lure of huge, invisible and so non-taxable profits when the money is invested in European crime the drug traffic and so on."
"Are the Soviets involved?" Beaurain demanded.
"Viktor Rashkin, the proteg é of Brezhnev, is at the Russian Embassy in Stockholm," Goldschmidt observed. Unlocking the drawer which contained the envelope of money Beaurain had handed him, the dealer handed it back. "Keep this. Use the funds for your investigation. As you know, my dear Jules, I am a supplier of information. May I just for once enter the prediction business?"
"Go ahead." Beaurain pocketed the envelope. "And thank you."
"I have heard there is to be a meeting of all key members and "shareholders" in the Stockholm Syndicate within the next two weeks.The Americans are flying to Europe - the conference will take place somewhere in Scandinavia. I predict that within the next fourteen days there will be a frightful collision between Telescope and the Stockholm Syndicate. Only one organisation will survive."
At that moment the grenade came through the window and landed on Goldschmidt's desk.
Beaurain reacted with great speed. If he lobbed it back into the street he might cause hideous casualties to passers-by. His hand grasped the obscene object, he rushed to the door, hauled it open and hurled the grenade as far as he could down the narrow hallway. Slamming the heavy door shut he waited for the explosion.
"Superb reflexes, my friend as always," Gold-schmidt commented drily. The emergency had drained the tension out of his system.
"I think it's a dud."
Beaurain was looking at the second-hand of his watch. He waited a little longer. Louise, white-faced but controlled, nodded towards the window.
"Just before it happened I heard a car start up and approach. There was a Volkswagen parked further up the road when we arrived. It had one man behind the wheel."
"I noticed it. I'm going to check."
"Be careful."
Beaurain returned tossing the grenade in the air like a tennis ball. "It's a fake," he assured them. "No primer.
Who wants to scare the living daylights out of Dr. Goldschmidt? There's a note on this spill of paper. It says, "Get out of Belgium by nightfall."
"Undoubtedly a message from Dr. Otto Berlin. He objects to my compiling a dossier on his activities."
"That address," Beaurain said quickly. "In Hoogste van Brugge. I think we'll go there immediately. What does Berlin look like?"
Goldschmidt was unlocking a drawer in his desk. "My photographer who took these pictures - I was going to get them when the grenade interrupted us -says Berlin is about five feet ten tall, very fat, hair black and greasy, with a moustache curling down the sides of his mouth. Walks with a waddle like a duck. Short-sighted - wears horn-rimmed pebble glasses, sounds repulsive."
"That's a very precise description."
"Sounds most conspicuous for someone who wants to avoid the limelight," added Louise.
"Here are the photos - you can keep them. They're very good, considering they were taken under poor conditions. Berlin has a girl assistant. Very distinctive hair-style as you'll see - very dark, cut close to the head like a helmet."
Beaurain and Louise looked quickly at the prints but neither of them said anything. Berlin's assistant was the girl whose taxi they had taken. Beaurain shoved the prints in his pocket with the envelope containing the Deutschmarks.
"Thank you, Henri. You have been more helpful than you may ever realise. From now on, be very careful."
At the far side of the T'Zand Square they entered the Zuidzandstraat, a narrow street which was almost deserted. "Prepare for trouble," Beaurain said as they arrived at the entrance to the gloomy Hoogste van
"Sometimes - many successful men leave skeletons behind as they climb. There is an American who has built up what he calls "a blackmail bank". That could be used by the Syndicate. That, plus the lure of huge, invisible and so non-taxable profits when the money is invested in European crime the drug traffic and so on."
"Are the Soviets involved?" Beaurain demanded.
"Viktor Rashkin, the proteg é of Brezhnev, is at the Russian Embassy in Stockholm," Goldschmidt observed. Unlocking the drawer which contained the envelope of money Beaurain had handed him, the dealer handed it back. "Keep this. Use the funds for your investigation. As you know, my dear Jules, I am a supplier of information. May I just for once enter the prediction business?"
"Go ahead." Beaurain pocketed the envelope. "And thank you."
"I have heard there is to be a meeting of all key members and "shareholders" in the Stockholm Syndicate within the next two weeks.The Americans are flying to Europe - the conference will take place somewhere in Scandinavia. I predict that within the next fourteen days there will be a frightful collision between Telescope and the Stockholm Syndicate. Only one organisation will survive."
At that moment the grenade came through the window and landed on Goldschmidt's desk.
Beaurain reacted with great speed. If he lobbed it back into the street he might cause hideous casualties to passers-by. His hand grasped the obscene object, he rushed to the door, hauled it open and hurled the grenade as far as he could down the narrow hallway. Slamming the heavy door shut he waited for the explosion.
"Superb reflexes, my friend as always," Gold-schmidt commented drily. The emergency had drained the tension out of his system.
"I think it's a dud."
Beaurain was looking at the second-hand of his watch. He waited a little longer. Louise, white-faced but controlled, nodded towards the window.
"Just before it happened I heard a car start up and approach. There was a Volkswagen parked further up the road when we arrived. It had one man behind the wheel."
"I noticed it. I'm going to check."
"Be careful."
Beaurain returned tossing the grenade in the air like a tennis ball. "It's a fake," he assured them. "No primer.
Who wants to scare the living daylights out of Dr. Goldschmidt? There's a note on this spill of paper. It says, "Get out of Belgium by nightfall."
"Undoubtedly a message from Dr. Otto Berlin. He objects to my compiling a dossier on his activities."
"That address," Beaurain said quickly. "In Hoogste van Brugge. I think we'll go there immediately. What does Berlin look like?"
Goldschmidt was unlocking a drawer in his desk. "My photographer who took these pictures - I was going to get them when the grenade interrupted us -says Berlin is about five feet ten tall, very fat, hair black and greasy, with a moustache curling down the sides of his mouth. Walks with a waddle like a duck. Short-sighted - wears horn-rimmed pebble glasses, sounds repulsive."
"That's a very precise description."
"Sounds most conspicuous for someone who wants to avoid the limelight," added Louise.
"Here are the photos - you can keep them. They're very good, considering they were taken under poor conditions. Berlin has a girl assistant. Very distinctive hair-style as you'll see - very dark, cut close to the head like a helmet."
Beaurain and Louise looked quickly at the prints but neither of them said anything. Berlin's assistant was the girl whose taxi they had taken. Beaurain shoved the prints in his pocket with the envelope containing the Deutschmarks.
"Thank you, Henri. You have been more helpful than you may ever realise. From now on, be very careful."
At the far side of the T'Zand Square they entered the Zuidzandstraat, a narrow street which was almost deserted. "Prepare for trouble," Beaurain said as they arrived at the entrance to the gloomy Hoogste van
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