Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,11

made of plastic’

‘He told me,’ the princess said, looking hollow-eyed, ‘that it would be simple to use the strong plastics for guns. Many modern pistols and machine-guns can be made of plastic, he said. It is cheaper and lighter, he said. Production would be easy and profitable, once he had the licence. And he said he would definitely be granted a licence, he had done all the groundwork. He had had little difficulty because the de Brescou et Nanterre company is so reputable and respected, and all he needed was my husband’s agreement.’

She stopped in a distress that was echoed by her husband.

‘Guns,’ he said. ‘I will never sign. It is dishonourable, do you understand, to trade nowadays in weapons of war. It is unthinkable. In Europe these days, it is not a business of good repute. Especially guns made of plastic, which were invented so they could be carried through airports without being found. Of course, I know our plastics would be suitable, but never, never shall it happen that my name is used to sell guns that may find their way to terrorists. It is absolutely inconceivable.’

I saw indeed that it was.

‘One of our older managers telephoned me a month ago to ask if I truly meant to make guns,’ he said, outraged. ‘I had heard nothing of it. Nothing. Then Henri Nanterre sent a lawyer’s letter, formally asking my assent. I replied that I would never give it, and I expected the matter to end there. There is no question of the company manufacturing guns without my consent. But to threaten my wife!’

‘What sort of threats?’ I asked.

‘Henri Nanterre said to me,’ the princess said faintly, ‘that he was sure I would persuade my husband to sign, because I wouldn’t want any accidents to happen to anyone I liked … or employed.’

No wonder she had been devastated, I thought. Guns, threats of violence, a vista of dishonour; all a long way from her sheltered, secure and respected existence. Henri Nanterre, with his strong face and domineering voice, must have been battering at her for at least an hour before I arrived in her box.

‘What happened to your friends at Newbury?’ I asked her. ‘The ones in your box.’

‘He told them to go,’ she said tiredly. ‘He said he needed to talk urgently, and they were not to come back.’

‘And they went.’

‘Yes.’

Well… I’d gone myself.

‘I didn’t know who he was,’ the princess said. ‘I was bewildered by him. He came bursting in and turned them out, and drowned my questions and protestations. I have not …’ she shuddered, ‘I have never had to face anyone like that.’

Henri Nanterre sounded pretty much a terrorist himself, I thought. Terrorist behaviour, anyway: loud voice, hustle, threats.

‘What did you say to him?’ I asked, because if anyone could have tamed a terrorist with words, surely she could.

‘I don’t know. He didn’t listen. He just talked over the top of anything I tried to say, until in the end I wasn’t saying anything. It was useless. When I tried to stand up, he pushed me down. When I talked, he talked louder. He went on and on saying the same things over again … When you came into the box I was completely dazed.’

‘I should have stayed.’

‘No … much better that you didn’t.’

She looked at me calmly. Perhaps I would have had literally to fight him, I thought, and perhaps I would have lost, and certainly that would have been no help to anyone. All the same, I should have stayed.

Gerald Greening cleared his throat, put the clipboard down on a side table and went back to rocking on his heels against the wall behind my left shoulder.

‘Princess Casilia tells me,’ he said, jingling coins in his pockets, ‘that last November her jockey got the better of two villainous press barons, one villainous asset stripper and various villainous thugs.’

I turned my head and briefly met his glance, which was brightly empty of belief. A jokey man, I thought. Not what I would have chosen in a lawyer.

‘Things sort of fell into place,’ I said neutrally.

‘And are they all still after your blood?’ There was a teasing note in his voice, as if no one could take the princess’s story seriously.

‘Only the asset stripper, as far as I know,’ I said.

‘Maynard Allardeck?’

‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘I’ve met him,’ Greening said with minor triumph. ‘A sound and charming man, I would have said. Not a villain at all.’

I made no comment. I avoided talking about Maynard