by Len Deighton
‘I’ll tell you this, Charles,’ Max Breslow began after the woman had left them, ‘we’ll have to move fast or we’ll get nothing out of all this except an early death.’
‘You look much better now, Max,’ said Stein. ‘The colour is coming back into your face.’ It was a charitable remark to make about the pale visage of his guest.
Breslow smiled. ‘Do you mind if I smoke, Charles?’ When Stein shrugged to show his agreement, Breslow reached inside his blue blazer for a leather case. Stein waved away the offer of one of the small, dark, evil-smelling cigars which Breslow lit with studied care.
‘We must make all the material public,’ said Breslow. ‘I’ve thought about it a great deal, and consulted with a copyright specialist …’ He raised the hand holding the cigar, flattening the palm towards Stein. ‘Don’t worry, Charles. The discussion was all kept on a hypothetical level: no names, no subject matter, nothing to associate it with the movie. But …’ He paused while he took a long inhalation of the cigar and blew smoke. Stein remained impassive. ‘But,’ continued Breslow, ‘the fact is that we need to establish a clear claim to our rights in this material.’
‘It’s not our copyright,’ said Stein. ‘This stuff originated from all kinds of long-dead people: Dr Morell, Hitler’s adjutants, the secretaries, translators.’
‘Long dead, you say?’ said Breslow with a smile. ‘Those are the operative words. In law, as I understand it, copyright can be communicated by the transference of a document in some privileged way.’
‘Never mind all that legal double-talk,’ said Stein. ‘I went all through that kind of monkey business back in 1950. Get to what’s on your mind.’
‘You have to make all your material available,’ said Breslow. ‘It’s as simple as that. Until now we’ve continued in good faith but you’ve got to release the more sensitive material. At least release it to the translators, so that I can show it to publishers and film people and so on.’
‘Nothing doing,’ said Stein flatly.
Breslow leaned over until he was almost lying flat upon the sofa and, with the tips of his fingers, took hold of a brass ashtray. With difficulty, he straightened up and knocked a little ash into it before putting it at his elbow on a small side table. ‘We have a good script. I’m delighted with the young director I met last week and he’s free to start immediately. The executive producer I’ve used on the last two films is lining up studio space here in the city, and we are proposing to do a few outdoor sequences at a movie ranch out in the desert. The film will soon be starting, Charles. Now comes the time for our next move.’
‘Let’s see the way it goes for a week or two. I’ve never promised anything – I just said I’d think about it.’
‘First it was, let’s see if we can get the finance for a movie. Then it was, let’s see if we can get a satisfactory script. It’s been, let’s see, let’s see, let’s see, all down the line, Charles. Now we really have to get moving.’
‘There are a few ends still to be tidied up,’ said Stein. ‘I’d want to meet this director, take another look at the script and look over the contracts concerning the finance.’
‘Shall I tell you something, Charles? I suspect that the truth is that you don’t want to publish these papers. You’ve had these documents for so long now that they have become a part of your life. You talk of them in the same way that you speak of your stamp collection. You’ll never sell your stamps – you told me that last Monday – and I’m beginning to suspect that you are equally reluctant to lose possession of these papers.’
‘Maybe there’s some truth in that,’ conceded Stein.
‘In the ordinary way, perhaps it wouldn’t matter much,’ said Breslow. ‘But we are playing for big stakes, my friend. Who knows what money can accrue from a careful and skilful utilization of this fine asset? But make no mistake about the price of failure.’ Breslow rubbed his arm. ‘Isn’t it enough for you that the British tried to kill me today? How long do you think it will be before they make such an attempt upon your life too? How long before they decide to kill your Billy? Or my girl Mary? Ask yourself all this while you are demanding more time to think about the script and the director and the financing of the film.’
‘I’ll have to get some protection for Billy,’ said Stein. He wiped his mouth with his flattened hands. ‘I’ll have to get on to one of these security outfits and have them put a twenty-four-hour guard on him.’
‘Don’t fool yourself,’ said Max Breslow. ‘If something happened to your Billy I would blame myself if I hadn’t warned you that these people are professional killers. These are not muggers looking for the price of a few joints; they are killers … A couple of guys from a security outfit, you say … The sort of highly trained men that governments employ would kill them without a moment’s thought or hesitation. No, you’ll have to do better than that if you are to sleep at night without Billy on your mind.’
Charles Stein did not move or even blink. Not for the first time, Max compared him with the large reptiles that he had sometimes seen out in the Californian deserts. But was he one of the harmless varieties, Breslow wondered, or was he dangerous? Every time he was about to make his mind up about this, he found something in Stein that made him pause. Stein stirred his tea and then sucked the spoon briefly before drinking.
‘What are you going to do about Mary?’ said Stein.
‘Me?’ said Breslow. As if suddenly remembering the traffic accident, he ran his fingers along his arm until he found a place that made him flinch. ‘It’s not worth getting killed for, Charles. And I won’t let my family suffer. I shall make contact with our friend Mr Boyd Stuart and make sure he understands that I have no access to the other papers and that I’ve never seen any of them. That should be enough to remove me from the firing line.’ Breslow leant forward and tapped Stein’s arm. ‘It’s you I’m worrying about, my friend.’
‘That makes two of us,’ said Stein. He selected one of the coconut cakes of which he was particularly fond. He chewed a piece from it and then studied the filling. ‘I’m too old to die a violent death,’ said Stein. ‘I’ve got my end all figured out. It’s going to be upstairs in the best bedroom with Billy and his grandsons listening to what I tell them about the investments.’
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ complained Breslow, who felt that his own narrow escape was not being treated seriously enough.
‘I’m not joking,’ said Stein and ate the remainder of the cake. ‘You should taste one of those,’ he advised. ‘I get them from a little baker in Glendale. Maybe that seems a long way to go for cakes but there’s no one else who uses real coconut and makes the pastry with butter.’
‘Let me put a hypothetical question to you,’ said Breslow. ‘We are businessmen, are we not? And neither of us is getting any younger, my friend.’
Stein’s face remained expressionless. Breslow waved his cigar to indicate the expensively furnished room, the cut-glass chandeliers and the illuminated cabinet containing a collection of valuable porcelain figures at which Stein seldom glanced. ‘You have made for yourself the life you want. Can the world of business really offer you anything?’
‘Spit it out, Max,’ Stein told him.
‘Very well. Suppose I was able to arrange a sale of your papers? Suppose we were to include a provision that gave you a percentage of the film profits made, as well as putting a lot of money in your pocket? What would you say to getting out quickly and easily, and giving your attentions to something else?’
When Stein replied, his voice was gruff and his speech was slow. ‘I’ve told you before, Max. I am just the front man for a syndicate. I don’t own these papers. I just own a very small share in them. The people I’m working with trust me and rely on my judgement. I have to stay close to this deal and make sure my syndicate gets fairly treated.’
‘And why not?’ said Breslow. ‘Who’s talking about selling anyone short? What I’m telling you is that a big financial backer could take over this project and make more
money out of it than we ever could. I know a corporation which has diversified into movies, TV, books and paperbacks. There would be cash up front, Charles. And a company like that could never come under the sort of physical threats that the British are subjecting us to.’ He rubbed his arm again. ‘Have you got the documents here in the house?’
‘Don’t crowd me, Max.’
‘Very well,’ said Breslow. He placed his cigar in the ashtray in such a way that it was clear he had finished with it. Then he got up to leave.
‘You mad at me?’
‘My friend, how could that be possible? We are virtually partners, are we not? I’m worried about you. I wish you’d tell me something I can do that might help either or both of us in this present predicament.’
‘I’ll phone you tonight, Max.’ Stein rang the spoon against his cup reflectively. ‘Or, failing that, first thing in the morning.’
‘Very well, Charles, but make sure you double-lock your doors tonight. These people mean business.’
‘I still got a few tricks up my sleeve,’ said Stein.
Max Breslow smiled condescendingly. ‘Of course you have, Charles. But let’s hope you do not have to demonstrate what they are.’
Billy had arrived and had parked his Thunderbird by the time Breslow was ready to leave. Both Steins stood by Breslow as he got into the driver’s seat and nervously touched the controls of his wife’s yellow Chevette. It was not a car that Max Breslow liked to drive; only in the big Mercedes did he feel really at home.
‘Benedict Canyon will be better at this time of day,’ said Billy, who had just returned from taking Mary Breslow back home. ‘It will take you to the Van Nuys turn-off. The Ventura Freeway was already crowded when I was heading back. Or take Mulholland Drive.’
Breslow shook his head. The hillcrest route provided dramatic views across the valley and back across Los Angeles, but it was a steep and winding road with soft edges that required an element of caution. ‘No, I’ll stick to the freeway,’ said Breslow. ‘A determined driver would find it easy to force this little car off the road, and there are places where a car could disappear into the undergrowth for weeks.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Stein. ‘But I think you’re overreacting.’
‘We’ll talk on the phone when you’ve had a chance to think about everything I’ve said.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Stein.
The Chevette backed off the ramp with a roar of engine and a puff of smoke; then, as Breslow got the feel of it, it started off down Cresta Ridge Drive, negotiating each hairpin with exaggerated care.
‘What’s eating him?’ said Billy.
The two men went inside and Charles Stein told his son everything that Max Breslow had said. Billy walked round the large sitting room, restlessly fingering the notes of the grand piano and helping himself to one of his father’s favourite coconut cakes. At the end of the long story, Charles Stein waited for his son’s reaction.
‘I sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to Mary,’ said Billy Stein.
His father sighed noisily. ‘It’s Mary now, is it? You only met her at lunchtime. What’s hit you? Love at first sight?’ he inquired. ‘Or are you writing a new musical for Streisand? Are you going to keep circling the carpet, mooing like a lovesick cow?’
Billy smiled anxiously. ‘I knew you were going to blow your top,’ he said. ‘I told Mary that you had this hang-up about Germans, and that you would be certain to hit the ceiling.’
Billy noticed that his father was blinking very rapidly. In spite of the stillness of his father’s large frame and his inscrutable face, Billy recognized this as a danger signal. ‘You been discussing me, eh? You cruised along in the little old T-bird, with Mantovani oozing out of the stereo, and talked about your dad’s shortcomings. Tell me, Billy. Did she exchange confidences? I mean, did she tell you a few of good old Daddy Max’s little passions and preoccupations?’
Billy was smiling with amused exasperation, waving his hands in an effort to still his father’s wrath. ‘All I said was … if you were listening to me, dad … you’d know that all I said was that I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. Right? You don’t have to throw some kind of one-man race riot.’
‘Now my kid is lecturing me on intolerance. Listen, Billy, did I ever tell you about some years of my life I gave up to fight the Nazis?’
‘Did you ever tell me anything else?’
The argument had settled into its usual style, and neither of them took it too seriously. Charles Stein muttered something inaudible and ate the last of the coconut cakes.
‘You didn’t tell me about how lucky I was having a fancy education and the Cessna and the T-bird and the boat and everything.’
‘Don’t press your luck, Billy,’ said Stein, and his son was careful enough to accept the warning.
Charles Stein went over to the red house-phone and pressed the button to connect him with the phone in his housekeeper’s apartment. ‘I’m going out now,’ he told her. ‘Could be I’ll be back very late tonight. Don’t open the door for anyone. Make sure you double-lock the doors and check the window catches. I hear there were more break-ins up the hill last week. And it’s Friday, the 13th, Mrs Svenson.’ He hung up without waiting for his housekeeper to reply.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Billy.
‘Visiting a pal,’ said Stein, and Billy knew that he would get no more from his father.
Chapter 19
Charles Stein was not the kind of man commonly seen in the entrance lobby of the Gnu Club. His unkempt appearance and off-hand manner deceived the staff into believing that he was a tourist or a drunk looking for a small beer and some go-go dancers. The receptionist was a slim young man with rimless spectacles, who had committed to memory the faces of most of the big-spending clients and was able to recollect the names too. He exchanged a glance with a large man sitting inconspicuously behind the coat-check hatch. Silently, the man put on his peaked cap, stepped out on to the soft carpeting and stood where the spotlight that was directed upon the long-stemmed roses illuminated his ‘security guard’ arm badge and the big biceps muscles too. ‘Good evening, sir.’ The guard employed that veneer of exaggerated politeness which is unmistakably an intimidation.
Stein blinked at him but did not answer.
‘I said, good evening, pal.’
‘I am not your pal,’ said Stein, ‘and if you will step aside I’m going upstairs.’
‘Oh, that’s what it’s all about,’ said the guard wearily. ‘You came in to use the john?’ Over Stein’s shoulder he made a pained face at the young receptionist.
‘No,’ said Stein.
‘Try the Alcove Club, just a short walk down the block,’ advised the guard. ‘This is just for rich kids.’
‘I’m the father of a rich kid,’ said Stein.
‘Hey, he’s a joker,’ said the guard to the receptionist. ‘OK, fats, you’ve had your fun. Now hit the street and keep walking. You need a tuxedo to come in here. And a clean shirt.’ He grinned at the receptionist. The guard had moved farther into the light now. It shone on the brightly polished leather belt and cross strap and the bright chromium badge on his blue shirt.
‘How would you like to move aside?’ said Stein quietly.
The guard clasped one large hand in the other, and began to pull at his finger joints one by one, as if trying to count. ‘And how would you like to learn how to fly, fatso?’ he said. He pushed at Stein’s belly forcefully enough to halt him.
The receptionist was craning his neck to be sure that no important clients were about to enter the outer doors and so witness a would-be client being manhandled. For this reason he did not see what happened next. He expressed his regret about that many times over the ensuing weeks. He heard a grunt of pain, a strangled yell and the resounding thud of a heavy weight hitting the floor. The vase of roses toppled too and broke on the floor.
‘Flying is just for the birds,’ Stein was saying softly to the prostrate guard while removing
a set of brass knuckles from his fist. Delicately, with the toe of his two-toned oxford, he moved the groaning security guard over until he could see his face. The long-stemmed roses were twisted round the guard’s body and his uniform was wet with water from the vase.
The petrified receptionist pressed appropriate buttons on the telephone and said, ‘Reception. There’s a guy tearing the place apart down here.’ A pause. ‘No, Mr Delaney, I can’t get the security man, he’s crippled the security man already.’ He put down the phone. ‘Mr Delaney is coming,’ said the receptionist, more to himself than to Stein or the guard.
Stein put the brass knuckles back into his pocket and waited for something to happen. Behind a door marked ‘Private’ there was the sound of feet hurrying down stairs. Two men came through it, close together. One was holding a short baton, while behind him a much older man had a pistol carried low and pointing to the ground. It was an old gun, its blue finish now worn shiny.
‘OK!’ said the man with the baton. He was a young man in an expensive silk suit and frilly blue evening shirt. His face was pinched and his hairline prematurely receding, but he had the broad shoulders and biceps that come only to the truly dedicated weightlifter. ‘Where is he?’
The security guard was still lying on the floor, both hands clasping his belly. He groaned. A rose was entwined in his legs.
‘Who did it, Murray?’ said the young man. The guard groaned again.
‘I did it,’ said Stein simply.
‘You hit him?’ The young man was outraged. He said,
‘Murray and me work out together at the gym.’
‘Well, I didn’t know that,’ said Stein apologetically.
‘You’re going to have to get out of here, mister,’ said the younger Delaney, taking care not to hold the baton in any way that might be interpreted as a threat.
‘You want to be laid out cold, kid? This is Chuck Stein. He don’t take no lip from anyone except me.’ The elder Delaney was a big man, taller than Stein, with the smooth cat-like movements that come with physical fitness. He was tanned and had that sort of naturally wavy hair that responds well to a perm every week.