Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,52

ship the product in two parts.’ He pulled the plastic gun again into components. ‘Say you packed all the pieces into a box, like this, omitting only the barrel. A barrel, say, made of special plastic that won’t melt or buckle from the heat caused by the friction of the bullet passing through.’

He looked at us to see if we appreciated such simple matters, and seemingly reassured, went on. ‘The manufacturer exports the barrels separately. This, he says, ensures that if either shipment is diverted – which is a euphemism for stolen – in passage, the goods will be useless. Only when both shipments have reached their destination safely can the pistols be assembled. Right?’

‘Right,’ we both said.

‘The manufacturer does all the correct paperwork. Each shipment is exported accompanied by customs dockets, each shipment is what it purports to be, everything is legal. The next step depends on how badly the customer wants the guns.’

‘How do you mean?’ Litsi said.

‘Suppose,’ Mohammed answered, enjoying himself, ‘the customer’s need is great and pressing. The manufacturer sends the guns without the barrels. The customer pays. The manufacturer sends the barrels. Good?’

We nodded.

‘The manufacturer tells the customer he must pay the price on the invoices to the manufacturing company, but he must also pay a sum into a different bank account – number and country supplied – and when that payment is safely in the manufacturer’s secret possession, then he will despatch the barrels.’

‘Simple,’ I said.

‘Of course. A widespread practice. The sort of thing which goes on the whole world over. Money up front, above board settlement, offshore funds sub rosa.’

‘Kick backs,’ I said.

‘Of course. In many countries, it is the accepted system. Trade cannot continue without it. A little commission, here and there …’ He shrugged. ‘Your manufacturer with an all-plastic reliable cheaply made handgun could pass an adequate profit through his company’s books and pocket a fortune for himself out of sight.’

He reassembled the gun dexterously and held it out to me.

‘Feel it,’ he said. ‘An all-plastic gun would be much lighter even than this.’

I took the gun, looking at its matt black surface of purposeful shape, the metal rim of the barrel showing at the business end. It certainly was remarkably light to handle, even with metal parts. All-plastic, it could be a plaything for babies.

With an inward shiver I gave it to Litsi. It was the second time in four days I’d been instructed in the use of handguns, and although I’d handled one before, I wasn’t a good shot, nor ever likely to practise. Litsi weighed the gun thoughtfully in his palm and returned it to its owner.

‘Are we talking of any manufacturer in particular?’ Mohammed asked.

‘About one who wants to be granted a licence to manufacture and export plastic guns,’ I said, ‘but who hasn’t been in the arms business before.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘In France?’

‘Yes,’ Litsi said without surprise, and I realised that Mohammed must have known the enquiry had come to him through French channels, even if it hadn’t been he who’d spoken to Litsi on the telephone.

Mohammed pursed his lips under the big moustache. ‘To get a licence, your manufacturer would have to be a person of particularly good standing. These licences, you understand, are never thrown about like confetti. He must certainly have the capability, the factory, that is to say, also the prototype, also probably definite orders, but above all he must have the good name.’

‘You’ve been extremely helpful,’ Litsi said.

Mohammed radiated bonhomie.

‘How would the manufacturer set about selling his guns? Would he advertise?’ I said.

‘Certainly. In firearms’ and trade magazines the world over. He might also engage an agent, such as myself.’ He smiled. ‘I work on commission. I am well known. People who want guns come to me and say, “What will suit us best? How much is it? How soon can you get it?”’ He spread his palms. ‘I’m a middleman. We are indispensable.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anything else?’

I said on impulse, ‘If someone wanted a humane killer, could you supply it? A captive bolt?’

‘Obsolete,’ he said promptly. ‘In England, made by Accles and Shelvoke in Birmingham. Do you mean those? Point 405 calibre, perhaps? One point two-five grain caps?’

‘I dare say,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t deal in humane killers. They’re too specialised. It wouldn’t be worth your while to pay me to find you one. There are many around, all out of date. I would ask older veterinarians, they might be pleased to sell. You’d