Amber Nine

by John Gardner

  ‘Mr Goldblat. Room 378. One moment please.’

  Griffin came on the line.

  ‘Good morning. It’s your old friend.’

  ‘Ah. Good morning. ‘Ad a good sleep then?’

  ‘Fine. How about you?’ Boysie keeping it formal.

  ‘Me cold seem to ‘ave disappeared overnight. Feel swinging. Slept like a bleedin’ log.’

  ‘What about dealing with the dead wood then.’ Mostyn would have liked that.

  ‘Ah well, sir, let’s ‘ave a little talk, eh? I seen ‘im last night by the way. Walkin’ along the front ‘ere.’

  ‘I thought you were going to bed last night. Tired.’

  ‘Changed me mind. Decided I’d ‘ave a look see. And I saw. Place is better’n Eastbourne. Never been ‘ere before.’

  ‘Where are we doing to meet?’ Boysie brought Griffin back to the problem in hand.

  ‘Well I was just goin’ out anyway, guv’nor. ‘Ow about an aperitif? There’s a nice little place next to me hotel. Went there last night. Bar Sylveste, right next door. Fancied the name. Reminded me of me old army days. You ever ‘ear that song?’ Griffin broke into melody. It sounded like the cry of a strangulated hernia:

  ‘That’s my brother Sylveste,

  ‘E’s gots lots of curly ‘airs upon ‘is chest ...’

  To his shame, Boysie recalled singing the lyric on many occasions, shoulder to shoulder with fellow sufferers in the backs of innumerable Army trucks.

  ‘Remember it, guv’nor?’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve heard it before,’ lied Boysie.

  ‘Oh. Rollickin’ song that. My Brother Sylveste.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Not what you’d call drinkin’, gov’nor. No.’

  ‘And you say this Bar Sylveste’s all right.’

  ‘The goods.’

  ‘Next to your hotel?’

  ‘Can’t miss it.’

  ‘Meet you there in ten minutes.’

  ‘‘Ave an ‘art, gov’nor. Make it twenty. Only just got out of bed.’

  Boysie was on his second Campari by the time Griffin arrived. The Bar Sylveste was nothing out of the ordinary. Just another bar. Boysie sat outside at one of the little round tables watching the world of Locarno go by, and reflecting on Griffin. In the couple of years since they had worked together, Griffin had undergone an unsubtle change. Boysie had always been the undisputed master. It was he who gave the orders, put the finger on the client. Paid the bill. Griffin stayed in the background. A shadow. One who obeyed and did the job—in the most professional way. Now he was spreading himself. Boysie could not help thinking of Mostyn’s remark about his successor in the liquidating business—’Your replacement’s got a touch of the ‘flu’. Griffin had been bunged up with cold. No. Ridiculous. Mostyn would never have Griffin working for the Department. He was a rougher diamond than Boysie had been. If they were using Griffin they would have given him the treatment. The good food and wine touch. The culture bit.

  ‘En’t it smashin’ then? That view of the lake.’ Griffin was dressed in flannel slacks (Boysie winced at the 20 inch bottoms and turn-ups) held up with braces over a shirt the colour of dried blood. He wore large, black, rimmed sunglasses and over his shoulder hung a Carena pistol-grip 8 mm movie camera and a light-meter.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re got up as?’

  ‘Shh, guv’nor.’ Griffin sat down. ‘I’ll ‘ave one of those bitter orange things you’re guzzlin’, please.’

  Boysie swallowed the remainder of his drink and signalled to the waiter.

  ‘Due Campari Prego’. Out to impress.

  ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir,’ said the waiter. Boysie threw a couple of knife-looks in his direction.

  ‘What about this bloody fancy dress?’

  ‘Walls ‘ave ears,’ said Griffin. The waiter returned flicking the coasters on to the table with the agility of a three-card man. When he had gone Griffin spoke.

  ‘It’s the projection of me new image.’

  ‘Your new what?’

  ‘No, I’ll level with yer, Mr Oakes. I’m only doin’ this one as a favour. ‘Cause of the large amount of business you used to put in my way. You still can’t manage it yerself then?’

  ‘No,’ said Boysie curtly.

  ‘There’s some as can and some as can’t. Never bothered me death didn’t. Funny en’t it?’

  ‘Very jocular. What’s this about levelling with me?’

  ‘It’s like I said. I given it up really. But for you, Mr Oakes. Any time.’

  ‘Why the get-up?’

  ‘What get-up? Oh the gear. Merges better with the background, don’t it? Tourist. Read in a book that the ignorant Englishman abroad always wears his braces showing and drinks Guinness.’

  ‘But you’re not drinking Guinness. You’re drinking Campari.’

  ‘Ah, well I’m not that dead ignorant. Am I?’

  ‘Look, if you want to attract attention you’re going the right way about it. Tourist? Christ. I do know what I’m talking about you know. I’ve been trained in these things.’

  ‘You’ve been trained in the other as well, and you still can’t do it. Still ‘ave to send for me.’

  ‘If it’s a question of him or me I can always ...’ Boysie brindled. Then, like a small boy who cannot manage an exercise on the horizontal bar, ‘It’s only the cold thing. Calculated.’ He was fiddling with his tie. ‘You look a mess. People will remember you.’

  ‘All right, guv’nor, go and do the bloody job yourself.’

  Boysie groaned. After a while he said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Griffin. I didn’t want to do this one at all. Bit nervy. You go ahead.’

  ‘Only if you’ll save your bloody criticisms until after it’s all over. I’ve always given good service, Mr Oakes. I can give good service this time. I’m a professional. You know that. You trust me. I’ll see yer all right.’

  Boysie looked hard at the man. In spite of the change of attitude, the awareness to Boysie’s need of him, the strange clothes, Griffin was the same old Griffin. His fingernails needed desperate attention. Boysie sighed. ‘Go ahead then. But I want this finished as quickly as you can.’

  ‘Ah, now that’s the point. You never said nothin’ about that back in London.’

  ‘Circumstances change.’

  ‘You said the bloke was down here for ten days. What you said first was “Southern Switzerland is very pleasant at this time of the year”. Now what’s the point in finishin’ if off quick with all this lovely scenery and spring sunshine hangin’ about? It’d be murder to go straight back to London.’

  Boysie was not going to argue. ‘I want it finished. Now. As soon as you can. Right?’ He rose with his gorge, half the Campari still in his glass. He would show Griffin who was master. The waiter hovered like a buzzard. ‘You understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Griffin unperturbed. ‘But do you, guv’nor?’

  Boysie paid the bill and left—huffy, very uneasy and still racking his brains about Petronella Whitching. More complications were waiting for him back at the hotel.

  *

  A naïve-looking mouse-blonde—cream skirt, sweater and ankle socks—was violently chatting up the receptionist when Boysie returned to the Palmira. St Peter, standing near, looking worried, was trying to deal with two pink-rinsed Americans. Boysie was in no mood for standing on ceremony. He had already decided that he would stay in his room—even eat in his room—until Griffin had done the job. He would then catch the first available train back to Basle or Zürich.

  ‘My key, please.’ Snapping rudely across the conversation. The girl turned towards Boysie. Her hair was cut short, a straight fringe ending above clear grey eyes in which fear and innocence swirled in equal proportions.

  ‘You’re English?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ St Peter put the key into his hand as the girl took hold of his arm, tugging him gently away from the desk. Loudly she said, ‘How absolutely fabulous to see you after
all this time. Fancy meeting you here.’ The accent was snobby green belt. Possibly Esher, thought Boysie.

  ‘What the devil are you on about?’ he asked warily. Those neat lips and toothpaste commercial teeth might become tempting.

  ‘Listen.’ She spoke rapidly and low. ‘What are you doing here? Holiday?’

  ‘Yes.’ Boysie sounding as bewildered as he felt.

  ‘I’m taking a terrible chance on you and I don’t suppose you’ll believe this but its very important. My name’s Lynne Wheater. I’m at Il Portone.’

  ‘Il Portwhateh?’

  ‘... one. Up the lake. The other side of Ascona.’ She was terribly nervous. Boysie knew the symptoms. Even speaking softly fear quavered round her vocal chords. She kept giving regular, sharp looks towards the doors.

  ‘It’s a finishing school. Famous. You must have ... Oh god she’s here. I’m in trouble. Please you must get a message to my father. Please, can you remember, Colonel Wheater. Wimbledon 32697. Please. Tell him Lynne’s got the amber nine trouble.’

  ‘The amber ...

  ‘Please.’ Pleading.

  ‘All right. Don’t worry, 32697.’

  ‘Nobody else. Just my father. Don’t tell her. They’re coming up behind us. What’s your name? Quick.’

  Boysie thought with unusual speed. ‘Oakes. Brian Oakes. Boysie to my friends.’ As if by mutual agreement he turned with the girl. Both were tense, as though ready to ward off an attack.

  ‘Ah, there she is. Come along, Lynne.’ The accent was barely noticeable. She was short, neat, tidy and obviously a woman of authority. For a second, Boysie experienced another quick flick of recognition which died almost before it took hold. There was something about the face—a distinction around nose and eyes—crowned by perfectly managed hair, thick and reorganised from its natural colour into a bluey cobweb-grey. She wore breeches, black riding boots, like polished ice, and a thin white shirt open at the neck. A single diamond flashed on her right hand which firmly held a riding crop. On the grave side of thirty or not, this was a woman to be considered sensually by any man. She was flanked by two much younger girls. Both blonde, tall and wickedly leggy. Both dressed identically: tight short-shorts of black leather, which cut into their thighs like briefs, and grey shirts. It said a lot for the booted lady that her two lieutenants in no way outshone her. There was an almost aggressive sexiness about the trio as they marched—three abreast—across the foyer towards Boysie and the girl.

  ‘I’m so glad we’ve found you, Lynne,’ said the leader as they came close. The two blondes dropped back slightly. ‘You’re not going to be silly and make a scene are you? It wouldn’t be wise. And it wouldn’t be very nice.’

  ‘No Principal.’ Lynne was emanating the cowered fear of a trapped animal.

  ‘Introduce me to your friend then, child.’ Hurling a gilt-edged smile at Boysie.

  ‘Er, coincidence actually. He’s a friend of Daddy’s.’

  In for a penny, thought Boysie. ‘From Esher.’ He said with a grin meant to conjure up nice houses, families, commuting dads, and the sound of lawnmowers on summer evenings.

  ‘Mr Oakes, our Principal, Doctor Thirel.’

  ‘Klara Thirel,’ said Klara Thirel with great charm, extending a hand. Boysie thought she wanted him to kiss it. He shook instead.

  ‘How do you do. Principal?’

  ‘Of II Portone. “The Gateway”. You’ve surely heard of “The Gateway”. Hasn’t Lynne told you? Or her father?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Lynne or Colonel Wheater for some time. Have I, Lynne?’ passing the buck.

  ‘No,’ said Lynne, stuck.

  ‘Well, your father wouldn’t approve of all this, would he, dear? You’d better say goodbye to Mr Oakes and go on with the girls. We’ll have a little chat later.’

  Lynne’s face had gone the colour of marble. She gave a small frightened smile and whispered, ‘Goodbye, Mr Oakes. Give Daddy my love if you see him.’

  Boysie nodded. The blondes stopped eyeing him up and down as though pricing a horse, and fell in on either side of the girl like military policemen. As they moved away, Boysie could not help feeling that the ingenue Lynne was under arrest.

  ‘I’m sorry about this.’ Klara Thirel looked at him intently, head cocked on one side. ‘It’s nerves mainly—her first term. Some of them react like this and try to get home on their own. She’ll be all right. We’ve all been homesick at one time or another.’

  You can say that again, thought Boysie.

  ‘At one time or another,’ repeated Klara Thirel as though reading his mind. ‘You don’t know of our establishment?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Remiss of me.’

  ‘Not at all. Why should you. We’re quite well known though. Il Portone is, I like to pride myself, the most exclusive finishing school in Europe. Maybe we have odd methods, but they work. We specialise in—how can I put it—difficult cases. From the right kind of homes of course. Our results are good. Are you here for long, Mr Oakes?’

  ‘A few days.’

  ‘You must come and see us at work. Come and see Lynne. She didn’t say anything to you? About the school? Anything that struck you as odd?’

  Boysie played it safe. ‘No.’ Firm and true blue.

  ‘Well, I’ll be in touch.’ It was almost an invitation to more than just an open day at the school.

  ‘I’d be most honoured.’ Boysie returning charm for charm.

  ‘And I would personally be delighted to entertain you. There will be an invitation before you leave.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘A charming lady,’ said St Peter. Boysie sidled over to the desk, his eyes fixed on the retreating flexible figure of Doctor Third.

  ‘Tell me more.’ A hand reaching for his wallet. St Peter waved away the intention as though to say, ‘Not now, but make it good when you leave’.

  ‘There is not much to tell. I believe she is German. Her finishing school is good. Well, you saw those two girls. Phew. The uniform is ...’

  ‘A revelation. That was the school uniform?’

  St Peter nodded, a Cheshire Cat smile splitting his face like a segment of melon.

  ‘Better than the old gym-slip and bloomers,’ Boysie to himself. Aloud. ‘What sorts of ages?’

  ‘They have to be over eighteen. I know because an English milord brought his daughter here last year. He offered Doctor Thirel much money, but she would not have her at the school. She was only seventeen. It is very difficult to get into the school.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ said Boysie and headed towards the lift. An evening at Klara Thirel’s establishment would be amusing. Girls in black leather shorts wall to wall.

  A bucket and mop stood against the wall outside Boysie’s door, which was slightly ajar. Chambermaids, he grinned. The cardboard box was on the bed. Bending over it, back to the door, removing the pathetic clothing garment by garment was Petronella Whitching.

  ‘What the blazes! ‘

  She straightened and turned, eyes repeating the look she had given him in the lounge. There was a second’s silence, then she sprang, nails reaching for his face. Boysie grabbed her arms and held on, pulling her to him. For a moment he felt a thrust of excitement as her chest was crushed against his. Then, Petronella threw back her head and spat full in his face.

  ‘You bastard,’ she hissed. ‘Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! ‘

  Boysie was not listening. He had become aware of his right hand round her left wrist. She still struggled. He glanced downwards. On her left wrist, Petronella Whitching wore a single silver chain with a dangling medallion. Engraved on the medallion was a horse’s body from which sprouted the neck and head of an eagle. It was the link. He had seen it, yet not seen it, on the plane yesterday. In his pocket was its twin, the bracelet taken from the drowned body of Karen Schport.

  ‘For God’s sake, you bloody little maniac, just shut up and tell me what this is all about,’ surprised at his own power of command.

  Petronella Whitching began to cry.

>   CHAPTER SIX

  SILVER HIPPOGRIFFIN: LOCARNO

  PETRONELLA was quiet now. Under control and sitting, beautifully bedraggled, on the bed. Boysie had let the hysteria have its head. Burn itself out. He bent down taking hold of her left wrist, gently but with purpose—like a doctor about to feel the pulse. At the same time he slipped the medallion from his pocket, allowing its tissue wrapping to fall away. The little silver bauble dangled from its chain, bumping against its twin which hung from Petronella’s wrist.

  ‘What’s it all about then?’

  Petronella, sniffing, said nothing.

  Boysie gave the medallion a tiny jerk. ‘This was taken from the body of a girl called Karen Schport. She was drowned near here. You’re wearing an identical medallion. Life’s difficult enough for me already. You knew her?’

  The girl nodded, lips close together. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘If ...’ She faltered. ‘If you helped to kill her it matters.’

  Boysie sighed. ‘I’m a Government courier. I came over to collect her clothes. She’s been missing for some time. A lot of people have been looking for her. You knew?’

  ‘I knew.’

  ‘Well?’ Still nothing. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to get it all off your ...’ His eyes lingered below her neckline. ‘Better to tell me all about it?’

  ‘Karen Schport was my sister.’

  ‘Your ...?’

  ‘Step-sister. My own mother died when I was seven. My father’s in the RAF.’

  ‘Whitching’s your real name?’

  ‘Yes. We were stationed in Hamburg. Karen’s mother was an interpreter. They married ten years ago and we all came back to England. Karen and I went to the same school. Father was posted to Weston-super-Mare. Then we moved to London. Karen was ...’ Trying to lock back the tears again. ‘I’d always wanted a sister. Silly, silly. But we got on so well. Then father was posted back to Berlin. Mother—my step-mother—wanted so much to go back to Germany, but Karen insisted on staying in England. I wanted her to come. There were jobs open for both of us. Secretarial. But she said there was still so much to learn in England. Wanted to spend a year playing at being an au pair girl. Those were her words. Father and Mother couldn’t do much about it. She’d retained her German nationality. She was an alien. I tried to talk her out of it because I was worried. Things Karen had said.’