Overtime. Part 2

The girl smiled. 'That's all right,' she said. 'Be seeing you.'

The prisoner nodded affably, and the door closed after her. With a soft moan, the prisoner sat down on the floor and stared at the wooden bowl, the earthenware cup and the straw. After a long time, he nerved himself to drink some of the broth, which was disgusting, as usual. Still, one had to keep one's strength up, apparently. Why, he was not quite sure; but it was a thing that one did, just as one always tried to be affable to the staff.

The rat scuttled up and sat on his knee, its sharp nose sniffing in the direction of the broth. The prisoner looked down.

'h.e.l.lo, ratty,' he said, 'you want some? Well, help yourself, I disclaim all responsibility, mind.' He put the bowl on the floor and the rat scampered down his leg and hoisted its snout into the remaining broth. After a couple of sips, it looked up, shook its head and slunk away. From a far corner of the cell came the small, clear sound of a rat vomiting.

'Don't say I didn't warn you,' the prisoner said. Then he drank the water.

'It's all right,' said the odd chap. 'I've got a pa.s.s.'

Guy looked at him. By the full light of a summer's morning he had discovered that the odd chap was wearing: a pair of trousers with one red leg and one yellow leg; pointed red leather shoes with wiggly gold buckles; what looked suspiciously like a white silk long-sleeved vest; and a sort of cricket sweater made of tiny interlocking steel rings.

'Now hang on,' Guy whispered, but the odd chap just smiled. He had an odd face too, very long, with a long, pointed nose, and his hair was cut strangely - all short at the sides and back, and thick and curly on top. It reminded Guy of something.

'You just leave this to me,' said the odd chap.

So saying, he walked round the corner, and Guy, to his amazement, found himself following. This was all extremely strange, but maybe being dead was like that.

The solid German soldier standing guard outside the

Mairie of Benville looked up and started to unsling his rifle from his shoulder. Halfway through the operation, he stopped and appeared to relax.

'Morning,' said the odd chap. 'Let me show you my pa.s.s.' He reached inside the steel sweater and produced a sc.r.a.p of folded parchment, which he opened up and showed to the guard. The guard read it, twice, thought about it, shrugged and saluted.

'Thanks awfully,' said the odd chap. 'The British airman is with me.'

The guard nodded. Guy followed the odd chap into the Mairie.

'Please don't get the wrong idea,' said the odd chap. 'I'm not German myself, if that's what you're thinking. It's a sort of all-purpose pa.s.s. Here, have a look.'

He handed Guy the sc.r.a.p of parchment, on which was written:

THIS MAN IS A GERMAN GENERAL.

Guy thought about it. Then he started to reach for his revolver.

'No, no,' said the odd chap, stopping him. 'Sorry, I forgot you'd be convinced. Here, look again.'

Guy glanced down at the parchment in his hand, which now read:

THIS MAN IS NOT A GERMAN GENERAL.

HE IS JOHN DE NESLE.

'Sorry,' Guy said. 'It's just, you get suspicious, you know ...'

'That's all right.' De Nesle put the parchment away, and looked round. 'This way, I think,' he said.

He led the way up a flight of stairs to a small landing, off which opened a number of offices. It looked very much like a town hall anywhere. There was n.o.body about, but then, it was still early. De Nesle was reading what was written on the doors.

'You spoke to that guard in English,' Guy said, 'but he understood you.

De Nesle shrugged. 'It's a gift I have,' he said. 'Ah, this looks like it might do the trick.'

He stopped in front of a door, on which was written Privee:

defense d'entrer. He tried the handle, but it was locked.

'Yes, this'll do,' he said. He rapped sharply on the door three times, muttered something under his breath, and turned the door k.n.o.b again. The door opened. He walked through the doorway and vanished.

For reasons best known to himself, Guy followed.

It is well known that if you are fortunate enough to have a large amount of money and don't feel like paying more tax than you can help, there are skilled professional men and women who will gladly a.s.sist you. What is less well known is that fiscal advice comes on four levels: the ordinary, or High Street level; the superior or specialist level; the deluxe or international consultancy level; and the ne plus ultra or 32A Beaumont Street level.

32A Beaumont Street, London does not demean itself by trading under a name or logo. It does not advertise; in fact, it does its best to conceal its existence from the public, since, despite the murderously high fee scale it operates, if its existence were to become common knowledge it would soon become inundated with enquiries to such an extent that it would no longer be able to function.

The criteria for selection as a potential client of 32A Beaumont Street are almost prohibitively stringent. Wealth beyond the dreams of avarice is certainly not enough. Neither is discretion. Birth, rank, political standing and other such ephemeral factors are of no account. What 32A Beaumont Street looks for in a potential client is compatibility of outlook. Prospective clients of the practice must love acquiring money and hate parting with it more than anything else in time or s.p.a.ce.

Once you have been selected, you are secretly vetted and then directly approached by a member of the practice. If, after a rigorous catechism, you are found to be of the right calibre, you are invited to number 32A to hear what the practice has to offer.

A prospective client, who need riot be named, was sitting in the inner office. To be precise, he was sitting on an upturned orange box drinking instant coffee out of a chipped mug. The practice has never vulgarised itself by putting on a gaudy front merely to impress the punters.

The three members of the practice were grouped round him on the floor. They were all peculiarly dressed and strange-looking, but the anonymous client hadn't become as rich as he had through judging by appearances.

'You are familiar,' said the senior partner - he spoke English as fluently as he spoke all the other languages in the world, but with a curious accent that was probably nearer Italian than anything else - 'with the concept of the tax haven?'

The client nodded.

'Liberia,' said the senior partner, 'the Isle of Man, that sort of thing?'

'Yes indeed.'

'Well,' said the senior partner, 'our basic investment and fiscal management strategy is largely based on the tax haven concept, but with a unique additional factor that we alone can offer. That's why,' he added with a smile, 'our fees are so utterly outrageous.

The client smiled bleakly. 'Go on,' he said.

'Traditional tax haven strategies,' said the senior partner, 'rely on transferring sums of money from one fiscally privileged state to another. We call this the lateral approach, and we find that it has a great many imperfections. We prefer what we term the vertical approach. In our experience, which is considerable, it has no drawbacks whatsoever.' The senior partner smiled. 'Except our fees, of course. They're diabolical.'

'When you say vertical ...'

'It's very simple, really,' said the senior partner. 'Whereas the traditional approach is to move money about from nation to nation, in other words to transfer money through s.p.a.ce, we transfer money through time. Oh dear, you seem to have spilt your coffee.'

'Through -'

'Yes indeed,' said the senior partner, 'through time. Reflect. In Khazakstan in the third century BC, for example, there were no taxes whatsoever. On the other hand, there were no banks either, and nothing to invest in except yaks. We find that yaks offer a very low short-term yield. The Free World in the twentieth century, on the other hand, has a wealth of investment opportunities but insanely high levels of taxation. The obvious thing to do, therefore, is to find a time and a place which offers the golden mean between return on capital and fiscal intervention. We have found such a golden mean, and we can transfer your money there tomorrow, if you ask us to. For a fee, of course.' The senior partner chuckled. 'Oh yes.'