Dead Letter Drop

by Peter James

  He turned, desperately trying to jam the two halves of his gun back together. I hit him with the full force of my fist, backed by the full force of my momentum, straight in the solar plexus and then rammed my spare fist into the top of his throat, and with a long gasp followed by a hoarse, rasping croak he crumpled to the ground in a spent heap. I pushed my gun barrel hard against his temple. I was bursting for air, heaving great gulps into my lungs, but he seemed even worse and kept making as though to throw up although nothing actually came out.

  ‘It would give me,’ I gasped, ‘great pleasure to lose you out here,’ I puffed and inhaled and exhaled, ‘so you’d better answer me straight.’

  With his head jammed down onto the damp tarmac by my gun he wasn’t in much of a position to start arguing. For the first time I took a good look at him: He was about 22, with fair, clean-cut hair, and quite handsome features. He was obviously a recent recruit and green to his job. He looked like an all-American football quarterback.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ I asked.

  ‘Mickey Mouse.’

  ‘I’m not joking, my friend; I don’t like you one bit and I hardly even know you yet.’

  ‘I work for the British Embassy in Washington.’

  ‘Bit far north of your patch, aren’t you?’

  ‘Bit west of yours, aren’t you?’

  ‘Who’s your boss?’ I gave him a none-too-gentle toecap in the groin to aid him with his memory; it seemed to work reasonably well.

  ‘Unwin,’ he spluttered. Sir Maurice Unwin was the head of MI6, Washington.

  I repeated the toecap action. ‘Unwin sent you out here?’

  He retched then answered, ‘Yes.’

  My toecap swung again. ‘I don’t think Unwin sent you out here.’

  ‘Okay; it wasn’t Unwin himself.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Hicks. Granville Hicks.’

  I had discovered the mysterious G; the man who had signed the memorandum to Scatliffe. On the list Martha had brought me there were three people who could have signed themselves G. Granville Hicks was one.

  ‘Hicks is going to be pleased with you when he finds you in jail on an attempted murder charge. Not going to be too good for your career, my friend. Or maybe you were off duty tonight, wandering around New York taking pot shots at casual passers-by.’

  He looked at me curiously.

  I removed his wallet and flicked out his driver’s licence and a business card. The names on both tallied: Jules Irving, life insurance salesman. ‘Have you thought about what your friends in Washington are going to tell the police when I’ve handed you in? I don’t think you have: they’re going to tell the police that they’ve never heard of you, that you must be some crank with delusions of grandeur, that’s what they’re going to tell the police. And do you know what the police are going to reckon? They’re going to reckon that you’re one of a million nutters in New York that likes to prowl the streets shooting people. And do you know who the police are going to believe? They’re going to believe the British Embassy in Washington, and the more you try and convince them that you are really an agent working for them, the longer they’re going to put you away. And while you’re in your cell thinking what you’re going to be doing for the next twenty years, someone’ll come along quietly in the middle of the night and bump you off. Think about it; there’s no hurry, we’ve got all evening.’

  He thought about it. It didn’t take much persuasion for him to accept the deal I offered him: that he came with me to the nearest telephone booth, called Hicks and told him he’d succeeded with his assignment.

  Just to make sure it was Hicks who answered I dialled the number he gave me and waited until I heard the voice at the other end.

  ‘Hicks here,’ he said.

  I handed the receiver over to my new friend. ‘I’m calling you back about the car,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided to buy it. I’ll be round in the morning with the money.’

  I listened to Hicks’s enthusiastic reply. ‘Splendid! Thank you so much for letting me know. Good night!’ I replaced the receiver and my friend turned his face towards me.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘You start praying I have a heart attack before tomorrow morning. Good night.’ Holding firmly onto one half of his gun, which I thrust inside my jacket, I sprinted out into the road and grabbed a passing cab. As we drove off I turned and looked at MI6’s dynamite hit man: he was busy scratching his head and trying to think at the same time. I settled back into my seat. It felt okay being dead.

  22

  I stood outside the front door of Sumpy’s parents’ place, and I realised that the fifteen or so years that now separated me from the first time I’d stood on the doorstep of the parents of a girlfriend had in no way toughened me for such an ordeal. Apart from the fact that my features had now been beaten to hell and back by the ravages of time, booze, late nights, fists, and more than my fair share of grimaces, I didn’t feel that anything much else had changed.

  The door opened. She didn’t need to introduce herself: she was Sumpy, albeit thirty years on, but the years had taken very little toll; if anything, the years had made her even more beautiful. Her hair was still fair, doubtless assisted by a careful hairdresser, and her face had all the vitality and sparkle to go with it. As she looked closer at me her expression began to drop alarmingly.

  ‘Mrs Joffe?’ I said, needlessly, but wanting to break the silence.

  ‘Mr Flynn?’ Her expression was now not far removed from sheer horror.

  I suddenly remembered the blood I had felt earlier running down my chin; I remembered that the clothes I was wearing were ripped and filthy from my recent encounter; I forgot about my two days of stubble. I decided to go for sympathy.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve just been mugged.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, her voice plunging into sympathy. ‘You poor boy, come in, come in.’ She turned her head towards the interior of the apartment: ‘Henry, quickly. Mr Flynn’s been mugged.’

  Henry was a 6 foot 2 inch photofit of a successful American businessman; he had a healthy, tanned face, a large frame, open-neck shirt, well-cut dog-tooth sports jacket, elegant grey slacks and the mandatory patent-leather Gucci loafers. In his concern to get me inside quickly he completely blocked the entrance.

  I was swept across the floor and seated in a cavernous velvet ocelot-patterned Roche-Bobois chesterfield, a tumbler of Scotch on the rocks was thrust into my hand, and a damp towel started to dab my face. A nervous Puerto Rican maid was doing the dabbing. Among the Persian rugs, the original Canalettos and Fragonards and the Lalique bowls, I must have appeared to her to be a trifle out of place.

  ‘You poor boy,’ echoed Mrs Joffe. ‘Look at him, Henry, he’s all white and shaking like a leaf.’

  I refrained from telling her that this was more due to the cumulative effect of lack of sleep during the last few days than to the events of the past hour. The maid finally stopped wiping my face and went away.

  ‘Tell us what happened?’ said Mrs Joffe.

  I obliged with as lurid and heart-rending a tale of a mugging as I could muster. When I had finished I had to admit to myself that I hadn’t done a bad job at all. My hosts were certainly impressed.

  ‘I think we must call the police right away,’ said Mrs Joffe.

  ‘You can call but it’s a waste of time,’ said her husband. ‘They’ll drag you down to the station, mess you around for a couple of hours, take a statement if they can find someone who can read and write, then tell you there’s nothing they can do about it and no way they’re ever going to catch the guys. Better to save your breath and have some more whisky.’

  I couldn’t have agreed more. My first glass-full was already giving me a pleasant buzz. I remembered that on my time-clock it was now about half past two in the morning. I hadn’t yet got anywhere to sleep the night – I didn’t want to go near the Intercontinental apartment and I had been counting on staying with Sumpy.

  As int
erest in the mugging subsided I brought the topic of conversation around to the purpose of my visit here: Sumpy. I was careful to remember to call her by her proper name, Mary-Ellen. Both parents were mystified by her sudden move. They were on good terms; they usually saw her about once a fortnight and spoke on the telephone every few days. They’d been away on holiday themselves for the past month and had only got back last night. Mrs Joffe had rung round all Sumpy’s friends since my call but none of them knew that she had moved, and all were surprised by the fact; not even the famous lunchtime Lynn could throw any light on the mystery.

  ‘I’m going to call the police,’ said Mrs Joffe. She appeared to have a grossly misinformed opinion of the New York police force’s interests and capabilities.

  ‘Can you shed any light on it?’ Henry Joffe stared pointedly at me.

  ‘No, none,’ I lied through my teeth; if I went a shade or two paler and shook a little more, they didn’t notice. ‘She knew I was going to be out of town for a few days and I’d told her I’d call her as soon as I got back.’

  ‘Did you try Werner?’ asked Mrs Joffe.

  ‘No good. I spoke to him this afternoon; she’s working on a project for him but he doesn’t expect to hear anything from her for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘There’s probably a very simple explanation,’ said Henry.

  I could have told him how right I feared he was; but I didn’t.

  ‘What kind of simple explanation is it when a girl sells up her apartment and disappears without telling her parents and her best friends?’ said her mother.

  ‘When did you last speak to her?’ I asked.

  ‘Before we went off on holiday. She was fine; she told us she was going out with an Englishman working in computers, I guess that must be you, and that she was having a good time. She sounded very happy. I only hope she didn’t discover some major art forgery and get . . . you know, it can be a pretty ruthless business.’

  ‘She’s been in it long enough to know the ropes, I would think.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Joffe emphatically. ‘She hasn’t been in it that long; she never used to be the least bit interested in art.’

  That shook me.

  ‘Not in the least. When she was at school she couldn’t tell an oil painting from a print. She became interested at university.’

  ‘She went to university?’

  ‘Sure – didn’t she ever tell you? She got a first at Princeton in sociology.’

  ‘A first? No, she never told me.’

  ‘Then she suddenly took a passionate interest in Impressionist paintings; she went to UCLA, studied fine arts and got another first. She joined Sotheby Parke Bernet here in New York, did a year with them, then left to become a freelance valuer.’

  ‘Been a bright girl,’ interrupted her father. ‘Got me that on the wall.’ He pointed to a small but brilliant Van Gogh. ‘Forty-five bucks. It was framed facing inwards, with an oil of the Hudson river on the back.’

  All this information about Sumpy was a shock to me. I knew she was no idiot but if she really was as bright as I had just been informed, and I had no reason to doubt her parents, then she had certainly done a good job of keeping it from me.

  We talked on for a while but I gleaned nothing further of relevant interest, and as we talked and the effects of the Scotch sank deeper into my bloodstream I could feel myself becoming increasingly drowsy; words began to drift over my head, and it became a battle for me to concentrate on what was being said.

  ‘You’re staying here tonight,’ Mrs Joffe suddenly informed me and the words jolted me wide awake.

  ‘No, it’s all right, thank you – I must be going.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere; you’re staying right here tonight. Rosita’s made up the spare bedroom and you’ll get a good night’s sleep; we’ve spare wash things and everything. We’re not having you going out and getting mugged again tonight.’

  I didn’t put up much resistance and besides I didn’t have anywhere else to go; I didn’t fancy traipsing around trying to get a hotel room looking the way I did.

  Within half an hour I was between soft white sheets in a huge soft bed. I felt warm and comfortable and I fell into a much-needed and deep sleep.

  In the morning I was given a massive breakfast and loaned a set of Mr Joffe’s clothes that fitted me quite well. He’d already gone to the office, and I sat and talked to Mrs Joffe. She was extremely worried, but rational, and I felt sorry for her.

  ‘Mary-Ellen’s a very independent girl,’ she said. ‘It could well be she’s fine and there’s a reason for all this that’s very simple.’

  ‘It’s very likely,’ I agreed.

  She asked where she could get hold of me; I told her I had to go out of town again for a couple of days but I would call her that evening to see if there was any news. I persuaded her that there was no point in going to the police just yet; they wouldn’t be interested: selling an apartment isn’t a crime and a few days’ absence doesn’t constitute a disappearance.

  I left Mrs Joffe just before ten, with a busy morning in front of me. My first visit was to a hairdressing salon, where I bought a straw-coloured moustache and a bushy beard to match.

  ‘You’ll have to have your hair dyed – look terrible otherwise,’ said the hairdresser.

  ‘It’s all right, thank you, these are for a friend.’

  He gave me the peculiar look I no doubt deserved.

  My next call was to a drugstore to acquire brown dye and a bottle of peroxide. I hoped the peroxide would bring my dark brown hair down closer to the colour of the beard and moustache; I hadn’t let the hairdresser do it, because I didn’t want any witnesses to the disguise I was planning to adopt. From the drugstore I went and bought a coat, a tweed hat and a pair of silk-lined fabric gloves; silk-lined to keep my hands warm; fabric so that I could use my fingers accurately. I also acquired a pair of sunglasses.

  I went to a bank and cashed 2,500 dollars in traveller’s cheques, then I set about looking for a suitably uninspired hotel; it didn’t take long: it was called the Madison Park East. If you ever need somewhere cheap and nasty to stay the night, New York’s the place to go; it does indeed have some of the best, but it specialises in having most of the worst.

  The man behind the desk gave the impression that he had been sitting there long before the hotel had been built around him; he sat staring rigidly at a wall, an unlit, half-smoked cigarette gripped between his lips. He didn’t look at me, nor move his torso one inch throughout the entire dialogue we exchanged; not that it was a particularly lengthy dialogue.

  ‘Do you have a room?’

  ‘Twenty-five bucks with shower, 30 with bath, 2 bucks a floor.’

  ‘Two bucks a floor?’

  ‘Each floor up, 2 bucks more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the view.’

  I took the second floor. I looked out onto the second floor of another building across a short alley. I did a quick calculation: the building I was in was only fifteen storeys high; the building across the alley was at least forty; it didn’t take me long to figure out that I hadn’t missed much of a view.

  The room was basic and frugal, and the management had laid on a couple of cockroaches on the bathroom floor to greet me. I wasn’t too bothered; I’d paid in advance for a week but I didn’t plan on spending much of that time there.

  The peroxide was filthy stuff but it did the job. I now had whitey-yellow hair and straw beard and moustache. Behind the sunglasses, under the tweed hat and with the coat collar turned up, I had to admit I would have been hard pushed to have recognised myself.

  I left the hotel, keeping my head turned well away from Quasimodo’s grandson; he wouldn’t have noticed me in any event – I walked well beyond the boundary of his vision. He was still utterly motionless, transfixed to the nicotine-stained wall that rose up to the nicotine-stained ceiling; maybe the wall was doing great things for him; maybe he saw wonderful visions, beautiful happenings, cosmic movies; ma
ybe he just saw a wall.

  I checked my watch; it was just gone midday and I was late for my first appointment. I felt apprehensive of my new disguise but no one gave me any peculiar looks and after a short while in the busy street I began to relax. I hailed a taxi and read him the address I had scribbled down on my notepad.

  It was off Lexington, north of 96th Street, the demarcation line of Harlem, where, within the space of less than 200 yards, the area turns from wealthy white-owned apartments to the start of the sprawl of the most infamous black ghetto in the world.

  The estate agent was waiting impatiently outside; both his hands were full, one tackling an ear-load of wax, the other, a vicious itch on his backside. He was a large black man, and both his face and his suit were coated in a film of grease. He handed me a business card which was crumpled and stamped with a large and oily fingerprint; the name on it was Winston G. Desoto, Realtor. He shook my hand in a massive, crushing shake. He released the grip before I had the chance to squeeze back.

  I followed Winston G. Desoto up three flights of stairs, past dirty children fighting in the corridors, and washing hanging on the banisters. The place was in no way right and I left quickly to pay my second call. During the next four hours I traversed the length and breadth of Manhattan without joy and was beginning to feel that maybe what I wanted didn’t exist in this city.

  On my last call of the afternoon I struck lucky; it was perfect: the building was eight storeys high, in the heart of Lower East Side on East 5th Street. The vacant office was on the eighth floor and had a clear view down the street on both sides of the entrance way. Apart from this office the entire building was derelict and in a bad state of repair; it didn’t look as though anyone had been in the building for years.