The Fall Guy

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The Fall Guy Page 2

by Ritchie Perry


  *

  The bug escaped detection for less than an hour, although its discovery was completely fortuitous. Biddencourt was returning an account to the filing cabinet when he banged awkwardly into the comer of the desk, dislodging the telephone in the process. It was as he bent to retrieve the instrument from where it dangled by the flex that he noticed the disc adhering to the base. To the best of his knowledge he had never seen such a device before, but he instantly recognized it for what it was. His initial impulse was to tear it off, then, almost immediately, he realized this would be a mistake. Now that its existence was known the bug no longer posed a threat, whereas removing it would only serve to alert whoever was listening in at the other end. The first priority was to establish the identity of the electronic eavesdropper and discover why he was so interested in Biddencourt’s affairs. The police were in no way responsible, of this Biddencourt was sure. He had two reliable men planted at local headquarters, ideally situated to provide ample warning of any move against him. This narrowed the field to people who’d recently had access to the office, and of these Otto Schmidt had been the only one to use the telephone.

  *

  Back at his hotel Peters spent a boring, unproductive afternoon monitoring the events in Biddencourt’s office. Nothing he overheard was in the least way compromising, and, more and more, he regretted the impulse which had brought him to Rio Grande. He’d known Biddencourt for nearly ten years and, in his personal dealings, there had never been a hint of suspicion. All he had to go on was a casual remark, a half-drunken observation that Biddencourt used fish wholesaling as a front for other, less legal enterprises. In itself this meant nothing. Nearly every Brazilian businessman worth his salt had something going for him and there was no earthly reason why Biddencourt should be an exception.

  Nevertheless there was no point in half measures. Once Peters had started to investigate Biddencourt he was duty bound to carry through to a conclusion, positive or otherwise. In his telegram he’d hinted he might be on to something and he had far too much professional pride to file a negative report before he was absolutely certain. In view of the limited time at his disposal the bug had always been a long shot, now more direct methods were called for. Biddencourt’s office and house were the obvious targets, but, before he tackled either, Peters intended to have as good a meal as Rio Grande could provide. Like all successful restaurant proprietors, he didn’t believe in working on an empty stomach.

  *

  Lutz and Joao followed Schmidt when he left his hotel for the nearby Hong Kong restaurant. Joao, the shorter of the two men, went in behind him, Lutz waited outside until Schmidt had ordered his meal before making his unhurried way back to the hotel. He knew exactly what he was looking for and it took him less than five minutes in Schmidt’s room to find the receiver. A quarter of an hour later he was phoning Biddencourt from the bar next door to the hotel.

  ‘You can call off the rest of the boys,’ Lutz announced as soon as his call was answered. ‘Schmidt is the man we want all right.’

  ‘You found the receiver?’

  ‘That’s right. It was inside his suitcase.

  ‘Good. Where are you now?’

  ‘Next door to the hotel,’ Lutz told him. ‘Schmidt’s having dinner at the Hong Kong. Do you want me to join Joao at the restaurant or to wait for him here?’

  ‘That rather depends,’ Biddencourt answered slowly. ‘What’s Schmidt been doing since he left me this morning?’

  ‘Nothing much. He had lunch, then came straight back to the hotel. Until he went out half an hour ago he’d been in his room all the while.’

  ‘Any contacts?’

  ‘None, and he hasn’t put any calls through the hotel switchboard. I checked.’

  ‘In that case you can join Joao,’ Biddencourt decided after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Allow Schmidt plenty of rope, don’t pick him up unless it’s absolutely necessary. First of all I want to know exactly what his game is.’

  *

  At midnight Peters was quietly humming the Eton boating song to himself as he sculled gently along the quayside in a borrowed rowing-boat. He was too long in the tooth to fancy clambering over a twelve-foot-high fence with barbed wire on the top if there was a way round. Level with Biddencourt’s warehouse he redoubled his efforts to be quiet, scarcely using the oars -as he drifted in between the two fishing-boats tied to the wharf. Holding on to a bollard with one hand, he carefully scanned the yard, his head only just above the level of the quay. At first he could see nothing apart from the eerie bulk of the warehouse and the stinking stacks of fish boxes. It was fully ten minutes before his patience was rewarded, a sudden flare of light as the night watchman struck a match. Quickly Peters wound the painter round the bollard, lifted himself on to the quay and scuttled into the shelter of the nearest stack of boxes, his rubber soles making no sound on the cobbles.

  Moving towards his objective was a chancy business. At every step he risked standing on one of the horde of cats infesting the yard or stumbling over a loose box and it was a quarter of an hour before he’d worked his way behind the watchman. As a protector of property the man was a dead loss. The first he knew of an intruder was when Peters’s thumbs dug into his carotid arteries and by then the knowledge was no longer of any value.

  With the watchman safely trussed up Peters had no further need for caution, making directly for the office. The door posed no problems. It was secured by a simple spring lock and, using the thin strip of plastic he’d brought with him, Peters was inside faster than if he’d had the key. Once the lights were on he settled down to work, starting with the filing cabinet and going on to the desk, neither of them yielding anything of interest. The safe was a neat job, set flush in the floor beneath the desk, with only the break in the wall to wall carpet to reveal its existence. Considering the trouble Biddencourt had gone to in concealing the safe Peters was pleasantly surprised to find a combination lock, one of a type he’d been weaned on years before, and the contents amply repaid the time he spent in opening it. Fifty thousand dollars in American currency didn’t necessarily mean a thing, although this was an awful lot of ready cash for a fish wholesaler to have in his possession. The bundle of shipping documents, covering coffee exports from Santos to Liverpool, was far more interesting. Of course they could indicate Biddencourt was genuinely involved in the coffee business, but, as a practising sceptic, Peters would have been prepared to wager a year’s income that they pertained to a far more lucrative trade. In a legitimate enterprise Biddencourt would have no need for an assumed name.

  Working slowly and methodically, Peters used a whole roll of film in his miniature camera before he replaced the papers. The safe closed, the bug removed from the base of the telephone, Peters prepared to leave, knowing his part was over. Now it was up to Pawson to check in Liverpool; and if cocaine was being smuggled among the coffee beans, a field agent would be sent to Rio Grande. He Peters, could go back to being a restaurant proprietor pure and simple. Until the next time Pawson needed his services, that is.

  *

  Lutz and Joao were waiting for Schmidt when he came out. As Schmidt closed the office door behind him, Lutz, who was standing some twenty yards away, flipped on the warehouse lights. For a man of his age Schmidt reacted surprisingly fast. The unexpected illumination stopped him in his tracks for only a fraction of a second, then he was running hard for the protection of the stacked boxes, bearing to his right, away from Lutz and towards his boat.

  *

  It took Peters less than a minute to realize he had no hope of escape. The piles of boxes were of uneven height, some reaching almost to the roof while others stood no more than ten feet from the floor, but the overall layout was on strict geometric lines, the network of corridors between the stacks designed like a grid and crossing each other at right angles. The moment Peters saw the second man at the first intersection he knew he was being played with. He was unarmed, something the opposition must have made sure of
beforehand, otherwise they would have taken him directly he left the office. As it was, the men were positioned one on either side, travelling parallel to him and showing no immediate inclination to move in. Their ploy was simple enough and Peters stopped running, saving his breath for later when he’d need it. His situation was comparable to the most basic of chess end games, only, if it had been chess, Peters would have had no hesitation in capitulating. The men were leapfrogging one another so that he was constantly screened, keeping him headed in the direction they wanted and remaining far enough away to make a sudden attack on either of them out of the question. In a very short time he would be forced to the edge of the board, or rather to the edge of the area covered with fish boxes. This was when the real action would start.

  At the last line of boxes Peters stopped, temporarily out of sight of his pursuers. The forty-five yards of completely open ground which separated him from the boat looked singularly uninviting. Not that the boat played any further part in his plans. He would have to swim to safety if he made it to the water, and this was a very big if. Peters suspected he’d been allowed as far as his present position merely to provide the other two with some target practice, the light from the warehouse ideal for their purposes. Nevertheless he was committed. The only alternative was surrender and Peters had few illusions about what this would probably entail.

  They were better than he’d expected, far, far better. He went out fast, zigzagging and heading in the least likely direction, away from the boat. Peters had hoped to cover twenty yards before they started shooting, in fact he managed just six strides and they didn’t even have to use their guns. Instead the bolas wrapped themselves around his ankles and he crashed down, hitting the slimy cobbles hard. Surprisingly, there was no sound of approaching footsteps. Cautiously Peters sat up to see what the two men were doing, only to discover the answer was nothing. They were standing in the shadows, making no move towards him. Evidently the game wasn’t yet over.

  The fact he knew it was only a game, albeit a deadly game he had no hope of winning, didn’t alter Peters’s determination. To give in would be senseless, especially as he now possessed a weapon of sorts. Slowly he unravelled the bolas, rubbing his bruised ankles before he rose to his feet. It was still thirty-five yards to the water.

  ‘Start running,’ the smaller of the two called to him. ‘We’re getting bored.’

  *

  No general could hope to retain his command if he was tortured with guilt every time one of his soldiers was killed, and, in his own peculiar way, Pawson was a general. Agents were killed every now and again, it was one of the facts of life, something which had to be accepted. Everyone who worked for SR(2) was fully aware of the dangers inherent in the job, while Pawson made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of shedding crocodile tears over anyone who landed himself in trouble. He himself had gleaned the knowledge at an early age, before the present department had been created, being barely twenty-two when he was caught working behind the Japanese lines in China. Although England and Japan were still some years away from war Pawson had been treated, with every reason, as an enemy spy. Only one thing had saved him from a firing squad. For three long months, months from which he still bore the scars, Pawson had refused to break under the most rigorous Japanese interrogation. His subsequent escape had entailed a hazardous trek lasting another two months, his own efforts to reach safety repeatedly nullified by the speed of the Japanese advance. When he was eventually invalided out of Hong Kong and back to London, Pawson had expected a hero’s return. Instead he’d been comprehensively debriefed, reprimanded for his stupidity in falling into Japanese hands and subjected to a barrage of gripes about the length of his convalescence at such an inopportune time. There had been no mention at all of his bravery in the face of torture. It had been a harsh lesson, but one well worth learning.

  Consequently Pawson’s dominant emotion wasn’t pity or even sadness, it was a black, murderous rage, a presence which filled the whole building with misgiving. He’d been thwarted in his hopes of bringing the affair to a speedy conclusion and there was a sense of personal affront at losing even an observer in such a pipsqueak operation. Pawson didn’t need to see the body to know Peters must be dead — there was only one way a man of his experience could be kept incommunicado for over a week.

  The third and final factor contributing to Pawson’s anger was directed at Peters himself, at his failure to pass back any worthwhile information. Of all the observers activated, Peters had been the only one to come up with anything approaching a positive response, his disappearance proving the odds on his line of enquiry being the correct one. All Pawson knew was that Peters had gone to Rio Grande, a city of some 75,000 inhabitants, and Peters had given no indication as to which particular citizen he’d been interested in.

  ‘The bloody idiot,’ Pawson snapped, hands clenched deep in his pockets as he stared out of the window. ‘How the hell did he expect anyone to follow him up?’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t think he’d run into any trouble.’

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Reece regretted releasing them. He was dog-tired after the long flight from Sao Paulo, and the change of time zones and the seventy degree drop in temperature, plus God knew how many hours without proper sleep, were hardly designed to have him at the top of his form.

  ‘What did you say?’ Pawson demanded, swinging round to glower at him.

  Reece clamped his lips firmly together and kept quiet, shrivelling under the hostile glare.

  ‘Anyone who works for me should always be ready for trouble. Thousands of people are killed on the roads every day.’

  Pawson seated himself opposite Reece and continued glowering. Reece tried to bear the scrutiny with outward aplomb, wondering how road accidents had anything to do with Peters.

  ‘Why do you think I flew you back to England?’ Pawson asked abruptly, softening his tone slightly.

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘I’ll tell you then. Peters was a good man, one of the very best when he was fully operational, and there’s every indication that he’s been killed. I don’t want you killed as well.’ Pawson flashed a wintry smile. ‘Your fancy woman in Belem would probably object.’

  Reece kept quiet, blushing despite himself. He knew it was far safer to leave the talking to Pawson.

  ‘I’ve a plan to wrap up this whole sorry business,’ his chief continued, a hint of smugness in his voice. ‘A bloody marvellous plan, although I say so myself. We’re going to send in a decoy, someone entirely unconnected with the department who knows nothing about the cocaine and nothing about us. He’ll be our personal puppet, primed to ask all the questions which should bring the opposition down on his head like a ton of bricks.’ There was genuine pleasure in Pawson’s smile on this occasion. ‘When it happens you’re going to be there, safely out of the firing line. Naturally, you’ll do your best to prevent anything too unpleasant happening to our friend but that’s secondary. Passing back the information comes first.’

  As the germ of a plan the idea appealed to Reece, especially the part about him being out of the firing line. Unfortunately he could see several insurmountable snags which doomed it to failure. Not that he dared to say as much to Pawson, who was awaiting some comment.

  ‘There are a couple of points I’d like to raise, sir,’ he said deferentially, toning down the strength of his objections.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Pawson was feeling expansive now.

  ‘Firstly, we can’t be certain Peter’s disappearance has anything to do with the cocaine.’

  ‘There are enough indications to make it extremely likely,’ Pawson answered confidently. ‘Some action has to be taken and we can’t afford to be half-hearted about it. What’s the other thing bothering you?’

  ‘Where on earth are we going to find someone to act as decoy?’ Reece asked, getting to the crux of the problem.

  Pawson picked up a file from his desk,
a faint smile on his lips.

  ‘It’s all in here,’ he said, tapping the folder. ‘You’ll find it makes interesting reading. The subject’s name is Philis and at the moment he’s running a lucrative little racket in the Santos dock area. Perhaps you’ve already heard of him?’

  Reece shook his head, still disenchanted with his chief’s scheme. Set a thief to catch a thief might be a fine maxim in theory, but Reece didn’t want to be around when an attempt was made to translate it into practice. Something of what he was feeling must have been mirrored in his expression.

  ‘Don’t underestimate Philis,’ Pawson warned him sharply. ‘Peters knew him well and was sufficiently impressed to suggest I recruited him. In fact he seemed to think Philis was tailor-made for SR(2). I chose to ignore the recommendation but that doesn’t mean Philis is any ordinary crook. A lot of people objected to him setting up shop in Santos, but he’s still there, and prospering.’

  ‘What makes you think he’ll want to work for us?’ Reece asked, deciding he liked Philis less the more he heard about him.

  Once again Pawson smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured Reece. ‘Philis will be only too glad to help Queen and country. Especially when he learns what I’ve got on him.’

  Chapter 1

  It was only just after nine in the morning but the sun was already beating down, its harsh glare doing a power of no good for my head. I also had a guilty conscience to keep me company, realizing Laurena was going to be a trifle choked when she woke up to find I’d gone. It was the first time I’d been near her for a month, something which had taken a bit of explaining the night before, and she’d be justifiably upset by my desertion. After all, she was the one who’d set up my little deal with the steward of the Oriole the previous day. For ten cases of Black and White at four dollars a bottle she deserved a little more consideration, even if my profit was going to be in cruzeiros. Money apart, she was a sexy little piece, not much of a figure, or a face come to that, but in bed, where it counted, she knew what it was all about. I promised myself I’d pop down to see her sometime in the next few days, just to show my appreciation.

 

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