Vintage Stuff

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘I’ll tell you something,’ said the chief American investigator after the Major had babbled on for the tenth time about dog-turds in Shrewsbury, ‘you can say what you like about the limeys but when they make ’em they make ’em tough.’

  ‘Not the other one,’ said the medical expert, ‘he’s plain loco. Give him a shot of this stuff and he’ll be psychotic for life.’

  ‘What’s all this shit about letters mean?’

  ‘Zero. He’s scrambled eggs cerebral-wise.’

  ‘So what’ve we got? Two names, Glodstone and Clyde-Browne. They’re not going to like this in Washington.’

  *

  In Whitehall, Deputy Under-Secretary Cecil Clyde-Browne, CBE, sat staring dismally at a pigeon on the roof opposite and wondered what was being decided. Somewhere near by, the Home Secretary, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, the Police Commissioner and the Head of MI5 held his future in their hands. More accurately, they held a telex from the British Ambassador in Paris.

  ‘Well?’ asked the Foreign Secretary, when they’d all had their fill of the ghastly news. ‘Do we hand the little bugger over or do we not?’

  The Chief Commissioner of Police and the Head of MI5 shook their heads.

  ‘Out of the question,’ said M15, ‘I’ve had a look at the imbecile and if the French get their hands on him I’ve no doubt they can programme him to say anything. Not that they’d need much for him to say. Nobody’d believe his story anyway.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do,’ muttered the Foreign Secretary. ‘This couldn’t be some frightful CIA plot, could it? I’ve never been entirely happy about your American counterparts since they tried those damned explosive clams on Castro.’

  ‘I can’t see what they could possibly gain from it. It’s more likely to be KGB-inspired.’

  The Foreign Secretary looked nostalgically at a globe of the world which still showed India as part of the Empire. ‘Where have you got the brute?’ he asked presently.

  ‘In a safe house in Aldershot.’

  The name inspired the Foreign Secretary. ‘I don’t suppose you could arrange for him to have an accident, or Lassa fever, or something?’

  ‘It’s feasible, but with the man Glodstone on the loose …’

  The Home Secretary intervened. ‘I’m not prepared to be party to an unofficial execution,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I mean if this got out …’

  ‘It is out, damn it. Whatever it is. And we’ve got to decide something now. The American Ambassador is due at two and with the confounded French putting it about that there’s an SAS hit-squad conducting an assassination campaign to worsen Franco-US relations, I’ve got to tell the fellow something credible. I know he’s from Arkansas but …’

  ‘The truth perhaps?’ murmured the Home Secretary. ‘They say it always comes out in the end.’

  ‘They can say what they bloody-well please, but I haven’t spent forty years in the Foreign Service to believe that one, and from what I can tell no one knows what the truth is.’

  ‘I suppose we could always put the blame on the IRA,’ said M15. ‘It’s as good a ruse as any and it won’t do the Irish lobby in Washington any harm to get a kick in the teeth!’

  ‘And what the hell do we do with Clyde-Browne? Call the little bastard O’Brien? I know this fellow from Arkansas thinks Bombay is part of a B52, but he’s not going to fall for anything as dumb as an Irish dimension.’

  It was the Police Commissioner who came up with the answer. ‘I should have thought the obvious thing to do was put the lad in the SAS. He’s obviously a born killer and it’s the last place they’re going to look.’

  ‘The first, you mean,’ said the Foreign Secretary, but the Police Commissioner held his ground.

  ‘The last. If we had organized a hit-squad along these lunatic lines, with vintage Bentleys and men with glass eyes, nobody would think the SAS were involved. They’re experts and professionals.’

  ‘But this raving Major Fetherington’s already admitted …’

  ‘Which makes it certain no one seriously believes he is. The man’s in his mid-fifties. In any case he has nothing to do with it. He was in the UK at the time of the murder.’

  The Home Secretary backed him up. ‘It’s the same with Slymne. The Headmaster sent them both off.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said the Foreign Secretary. ‘So how do I explain to this Arkansas beef baron that the bloody boy isn’t in the SAS when he is?’

  MI5 smiled. ‘I think you can safely leave that to me,’ he said.

  The Foreign Secretary had his doubts. He was thinking about Blake, Philby and Blunt. ‘Safely?’ he asked.

  MI5 nodded.

  By the time the American Ambassador arrived, a hooded figure was standing in the ante-room.

  ‘Of course, we wouldn’t disclose the identity of any of our men in the Special Air Services,’ said the Foreign Secretary after asking politely about the health of the Ambassador’s cattle and learning that he was actually into natural gas and came from Texas, ‘in ordinary circumstances, that is. But we’re prepared to make an exception in this case.’

  He pressed a bell on his desk and the hooded figure entered. ‘Sergeant Clyde-Browne, remove your balaclava,’ he said.

  ‘We’re going to want more identification than that,’ said the Ambassador, staring at the large individual with the walrus moustache.

  ‘Fingerprints? I mean the French have got those of the assassin, haven’t they?’

  ‘I guess so.’ He was still guessing when the man, having given his fingerprints, weight, size of shoes and height in centimetres (to confuse the issue still further) donned his balaclava helmet and left the room. ‘Haven’t I seen him some place else?’ enquired the Ambassador.

  ‘Possibly,’ said the Foreign Secretary loftily. ‘Between ourselves I understand him to be in charge of certain … er … unmentionable security operations at Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘I guess that explains it then. Those goddam Frenchies seem to have screwed things up again. I’ll have our security chief check the details but they don’t fit the description I’d been given. The killer was shorter and twenty years younger.’

  ‘And doubtless French,’ said the Foreign Secretary, and saw him to the door.

  ‘Who on earth was that grisly looking blighter?’ he asked MI5 when the Ambassador’s armour-plated limousine was safely out of the way. ‘And what are those unmentionable duties at Buck House?’

  ‘Actually he’s Captain of the Queen’s Heads,’ said MI5. ‘I thought that was rather a nice touch.’

  ‘Captain of … you mean he’s a lavatory attendant? Good God, man, no wonder that blasted Yank guessed he’d seen him before.’ He stopped and looked at MI5 suspiciously. ‘He’s not another swine like Blunt, is he? Has he had positive vetting?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Comes from an eminently respectable Catholic family in the Falls Road area of Belfast. Anyway, he’s only in charge of the visitor’s loos. Don’t suppose he’s set eyes on Her Majesty.’

  ‘I should bloody-well hope not. And if I were in your shoes I’d see to it she doesn’t set eyes on the wallah. Wouldn’t blame her for setting those damned corgis on the brute. Anyway, thank the Lord that’s settled. Even the present American administration wouldn’t have the gall to start checking the Palace.’

  24

  As the cortège drove slowly out of the crematorium, Glodstone stared miserably at the back of the chauffeur’s head. It was one of the ironies of having attended his own funeral that he should now recall that ‘chauffeur’ came from the French for stoker; presumably even modern furnaces had to be attended by somebody to take out the ashes. Whoever had just been incinerated (probably an unidentified tramp or something they’d finished with in the dissecting rooms at one of the teaching hospitals) had gone to his Maker bearing Glodstone’s name. It was there on the death certificate and a little obituary would shortly appear in the Old Groxbournian. The Great Adventure had gone up in smoke.

  ‘I know just how
you feel,’ said the Countess, patting his hand. ‘Mourir c’est partir un peu.’

  ‘What?’ said Glodstone.

  ‘To die is to part a little. But it won’t be for long. By the time the surgeon’s finished with you you’ll be a new man.’

  ‘Surgeon?’ said Glodstone. ‘What bloody surgeon?’

  ‘The plastic one. He’s said to be terribly good with burns.’

  ‘Burns? Considering where I’m supposed to be he’d have to be fucking miraculous.’

  ‘There’s no need to use that sort of language,’ said the Countess sharply, ‘I haven’t gone to all this trouble and expense to have you swearing like a trooper.’

  Glodstone considered the change in her own language and said nothing. There was something about this extraordinary woman that frightened him and it was only when she stopped the car at the top of Hampstead Heath and they were walking down to the tube station that he brought up the matter of burns and plastic surgery.

  ‘What the hell do I need plastic surgery for? Apart from whoever went up in that coffin …’

  ‘Well, we won’t go into that now,’ said the Countess, ‘that’s all past and done with. You’ve got to look to the future and since you refuse to go to Brazil you’ll just have to do what I tell you. The main thing will be to alter the shape of your ears. They’re the give-away and the police always look at them first. Then—’

  ‘But with this wig on no one can see my blasted ears,’ said Glodstone.

  ‘I’m not going to be married to a man with a toupee. It’s unbecoming and anyway, it won’t fit your image. As far as the rest of you …’

  But Glodstone wasn’t listening. ‘Did you say “married”?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I did. You don’t imagine for one moment that I’m going to live in sin with you, do you?’

  Half an hour later Glodstone entered a clinic near Portland Place. On the door a brass plaque seemed to suggest its main business lay in abortions, but Glodstone no longer cared. It was enough to know he was going to be married. It was infinitely preferable to spending the rest of his life in Brazil.

  ‘My hero,’ said the Countess, kissing him lightly on the cheek, ‘now don’t forget to sign your name as Mr Smith.’

  *

  ‘Slymne’s where?’ said the Headmaster when Major Fetherington returned a week later, in the company of two Special Branch officers.

  ‘Rampton,’ said the Major.

  ‘Rampton? But that’s that ghastly hospital for the criminally insane, isn’t it? And what on earth have you been doing to your face?’

  ‘Dog-turd in Shrewsbury,’ said the Major, who hadn’t fully recovered from the effects of the truth drug and his hours of interrogation.

  ‘But that was your backside. Now you come back here with a face looking like a …’

  ‘Dog-turd in Shrewsbury,’ said the Major.

  ‘Christ,’ said the Headmaster. If Slymne was sufficiently off his rocker to be in Rampton, the Major could do with some treatment himself. ‘And what about Glodstone?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve come to see you about,’ said one of the men and produced his identification. The Headmaster examined it cautiously.

  ‘Special Branch?’ he asked weakly.

  The man nodded. ‘Now about Mr Glodstone, sir,’ he said, ‘we’re going to require access to his rooms and we’d be glad if you answered a few questions. For instance, were you aware that he had any Communist inclinations?’

  ‘Communist inc … I thought the sod belonged to the Monday Club. He certainly read the Daily Telegraph.’

  ‘That could have been cover. Homosexual tendencies? Excessive drinking? Chip on his social shoulder? Anything of that sort?’

  ‘All of it,’ said the Headmaster fervently, and glanced out of the window. A number of soldiers had driven up in a lorry and were debussing on the drive. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’

  ‘If you’ll just sign this,’ said the Special Branch man, and placed a document on his desk.

  The Headmaster read it through with increasing alarm. ‘The Official Secrets Act? You want me to sign—’

  ‘Just a simple precaution, sir. Nothing more. Of course, if you’d prefer to face criminal proceedings in connection with certain offences against the person committed in Belfast … ’

  ‘Belfast? I’ve never been anywhere near Belfast,’ said the Headmaster, beginning to think he’d shortly be joining Slymne in a padded cell. ‘You come here and tell me to sign the Official Secrets Act or be charged … Dear God, where’s that pen?’ He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the form.

  ‘And now the key to the School Armoury, if you don’t mind.’

  The Headmaster handed it over and while one of the men took it out to the officer in charge of the squad the other settled himself in a chair. ‘I think I must warn you that should anyone make enquiries about Mr Glodstone or a certain ex-pupil it will be in your interest not to say anything,’ he said. ‘The Belfast charges are still outstanding and having signed the Official Secrets Act the consequences could be slightly unfortunate. Need I say more?’

  ‘No,’ said the Headmaster indistinctly, ‘but what am I going to tell Mr Clyde-Browne?’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Christ,’ said the Headmaster. Outside, the soldiers had begun to load the lorry with all the weapons from the Armoury. That was a relief anyway. He’d never liked the bloody things.

  ‘And now if you’ll just take me up to Glodstone’s rooms.’ They crossed the quad and climbed the staircase. ‘Not that I suppose we’ll find anything of interest,’ said the Special Branch man. ‘When the Russians employ a sleeper they do things thoroughly. Probably recruited the traitor when he was at Cambridge.’

  ‘Cambridge? I never dreamt that Glodstone had been anywhere near a university. He certainly never mentioned it.’

  ‘Obviously not. The man’s clearly an expert. One only has to look at the sort of books he surrounded himself with to see that.’

  The Headmaster gazed at the collected works of Sapper and felt peculiar. ‘I really can’t believe it even now,’ he said. ‘Glodstone was a ghastly man but he didn’t have the brains to be a … what did you call it?’

  ‘A sleeper,’ said the Special Branch man, putting the cigar box containing the Countess’s letters in a plastic bag. ‘Probably in code.’

  The Headmaster tried to look on the bright side. ‘Well, at least I won’t have the damned man around me any more,’ he said. ‘That’s some relief. Have you any idea where he is?’

  The Special Branch man hesitated. ‘No harm in telling you now. We found his Bentley parked near Tilbury yesterday. An East German tramp steamer sailed on Wednesday night.’

  They went back to the Headmaster’s study.

  ‘I think that’ll be all we’ll require for the moment, sir. If anything should occur to you that might be of use to us, we’d be grateful if you’d call this number. It’s a phone drop, so just leave your name.’

  ‘And what about him?’ asked the Headmaster glancing anxiously at Major Fetherington.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I can’t have a master going about muttering “Dog-turd in Shrewsbury” in front of the boys all the time. He’s as mad as a hatter.’

  ‘You should see Mr Slymne,’ said the Special Branch man grimly. ‘The Major’s all right. He’s a hero by comparison. And you can always use him as a groundsman.’

  *

  But it was in Pinetree Lane that feelings were most mixed.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you. Never,’ wailed Mrs Clyde-Browne, ignoring the presence of ten undercover agents dressed in overalls who had already installed double glazing and were now redecorating the entire house. ‘To think that I’ll never see poor Peregrine again!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne cheerfully, ‘he’ll probably get leave once in a while. They can’t keep a garrison in Antarctica for ever.’

  ‘But he isn’t used to the cold and he’s got su
ch a delicate chest.’

  ‘There is that,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne almost gaily. ‘You can always go out and put flowers on his grave. And he certainly won’t need embalming. Things keep for ever on ice.’

  ‘You murdering … No, I don’t want flock fleur-de-lys in the kitchen,’ she yelled, as one of the agents tactfully interposed a wallpaper pattern book between them, ‘and you can stop painting the hall pink. That’s a William Morris design.’

  Mr Clyde-Browne made himself scarce. He had an interesting divorce case to consider involving custody of a domestic cat and now that Peregrine was out of the way it might be advantageous to goad his own wife a little further.

  *

  In Bognor Regis Glodstone looked at his face in the bathroom mirror, and failed to recognize himself. It wasn’t the first time, but it still shook him to see someone he didn’t know staring with such horrid amazement back at him. And horrid was the word. The Countess had been right in claiming the plastic surgeon was good with burns, though, in Glodstone’s livid opinion, she ought to have said ‘at’ them.

  ‘Just let me get my hands on the sod,’ he had shouted when the bandages had been removed and he had finally been allowed the use of a mirror. ‘He must have used a bloody flamethrower. Where are my blasted eyebrows?’

  ‘In the disposal bin,’ said the Sister in charge. ‘Anyway, you specifically asked for total non-recognitive surgery.’

  ‘Non-recog … bugger it, I did nothing of the sort. I came in here expecting to have my ears adjusted, not to be turned into something that’d frighten a fucking punk dalek into a fit. And why am I as bald as a coot?’

  ‘We did a scalp transplant with another patient. He had alopecia totalis. It’s taken very well.’

  ‘And what have I got then, galloping fucking ringworm?’

  ‘It’ll save you having to brush your hair again.’

  ‘And shave,’ said Glodstone. ‘Who did you swap my face with, some terminal leper?’