‘Beef salad,’ said Charlie, resigned. He’d overcooked the meat at home anyway.
The barmaid retreated to the kitchen hatch and Charlie looked around the bar, sipping his drink. There were pictures of men in flying gear standing alongside Battle of Britain aircraft, a propeller mounted over the bar and near the counter-flap a man who was obviously the landlord stood frequently touching the tips of a moustache that spread like wings across his face. Mechanic, guessed Charlie. He’d never met a World War II pilot who wore a moustache like that; something to do with the oxygen mask.
Professional as the barmaid, the landlord isolated a new face and detached himself from the African group, moving down the bar. As the man approached, Charlie was aware of the critical examination; the man kept any expression of distaste from his face. Charlie resolved to get his suit pressed. And perhaps a new shirt.
‘Afternoon.’
‘Afternoon.’
‘Sorry about the food. Fire in the kitchen.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Charlie.
‘Repaired by next weekend.’
‘Afraid I won’t be here then,’ said Charlie.
‘Didn’t think I recognised you. Just passing through?’
‘Just passing through,’ agreed Charlie. As always. Never the same place twice, always polite but distant in any conversation.
‘Nice part of the country.’
‘Very attractive.’
‘Been here since ’48,’ said the landlord, hand moving automatically to his moustache.
‘Straight after the war, then?’ said Charlie, joining in the performance. Why not? he thought.
‘More or less. You serve?’
‘Bit too young,’ said Charlie. ‘Berlin airlift was around my time.’
‘Not the same,’ dismissed the man.
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Had a good war,’ said the landlord. ‘Bloody good war.’
Charlie avoided any reaction to the cliché. It sounded as obscene now as it had when he first heard it. The bastard who had taken over the department had had a good war. And tried to continue it, by setting him up to be killed.
‘There were a lot who didn’t,’ said Charlie.
The landlord looked at him curiously, alert for mocker) then relaxed.
‘Sorry for them,’ he said insincerely. ‘I enjoyed my time.’
His glass was empty, Charlie saw. He pushed it across to halt the reminiscence.
‘Could I have another? Large.’
‘Certainly.’
Charlie knew the man would expect to be bought a drink. But he decided against it, even though it was the first conversation he had had for more than twenty-four hours. He wondered how the man would react to know he was serving whisky to someone technically a traitor to his country.
The landlord returned with the drink and waited expectantly.
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.
There was an almost imperceptible shrug as the man took the money and returned Charlie his change.
‘What line of business are you in, then?’ he asked, lapsing into the pub formula.
‘Traveller,’ said Charlie. It seemed the best description of the aimless life he now led. Even before Edith had been killed they had done little else but move nervously from one place to another.
‘Interesting,’ said the publican, as automatically as he fingered the moustache.
‘Sometimes,’ agreed Charlie.
The woman returned with the salad. The meat had been carefully cut to conceal the dried edges.
‘Looks very nice,’ said Charlie. Insincerity appeared to be infectious. Then again, it was always dangerous to draw attention to himself, even over something as trivial as complaining about a bad meal in a country pub. He manoeuvred himself on to a bar-stool and the landlord nodded and walked back to his group. Charlie sawed resolutely at the meat, examining his attitude. What right had he to criticise a man for whom the war had been the biggest experience of his life? Or feel contempt for opinionated Sunday lunchtime drinkers? Charlie was always honest with himself, because now there was no one else with whom he could share the trait. And he knew bloody well that he would have gladly handed over the fortune he possessed to change places with any one of them, walking stiff-kneed back to their detached, white-painted, executive-style homes to worry about their mortgages and their school fees and their secretaries’ becoming pregnant. His attitude wasn’t really contempt, he recognised. It was envy: envy for people who had wives and mistresses and friends. There was only one person whom Charlie could even think of as a friend. And there had been no contact from Rupert Willoughby for over a year. So perhaps he was even exaggerating that association.
He pushed away the meal half-eaten and immediately the barmaid took his plate.
‘Like that?’ she said.
‘Very nice,’ said Charlie. It was nearly closing time. She would be in a hurry to get away. He hesitated, decided against another drink and paid his bill. Another £5. And he was regarded as someone who had stolen money!
Back in the car, he sat for a moment undecided. If he took the B roads and drove slowly, it would be at least seven before he got back to London.
On the balcony of his apartment high on the island’s Middle Level, Robert Nelson stood, glass in hand.
‘Fantastic,’ he said, looking down at the Pride of America. The liner was an open jewel-case of glittering lights. Because it was late, the slur was more noticeable in his voice.
Beside him, Jenny Lin Lee said nothing.
‘I’ve taken six million of the cover,’ he announced, suddenly.
‘What?’ she asked, turning to him.
He smiled at her, wanting to boast.
‘Lu put the insurance out on the open market. Christ, you should have seen the scramble!’
‘But you got £6,000,000 of it?’
‘Yes,’ he said, missing the urgency in her voice. ‘Beat the bloody lot of them.’
He frowned at her lack of reaction.
‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he complained, petulant in his drunkenness. ‘No one else got anything like that much. There’s already been a cable of congratulation from London, signed by Willoughby himself. Even promised a bonus on top of the commission …’
‘If it’s important for you, then I’m pleased,’ she said, turning away from the balcony and the view of the floodlit ship, shifting slowly at anchor.
He followed her into the room.
‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I find it completely impossible to understand you.’
She stood in the middle of the room, a slim, almost frail figure, the hair which she constantly used for dramatic effect cascading to her waist because she knew he liked it worn that way and it was inherent in her to please the man she was with.
She walked to him, smiling for the first time, cupping his head and pulling his face to hers.
‘I love you, Robert,’ she said. ‘Really love you.’
He held her at arm’s length, looking at her.
‘Why tell me that?’ he asked.
‘Because I wanted you to know.’
The noise of the explosion woke Nelson and the girl four nights later, as it woke nearly everyone on the island and the Kowloon waterfront. By the time Nelson got to the balcony, the flames were already spurting from the stem and as he watched there was a noise like a belch and the blaze gushed through the main funnels of the Pride of America.
A gradual glow in the stern was the first indication that there was fire there too, then one of the plates split and huge orange gouts burst out, like a giant exhaust.
‘Oh my God,’ said Nelson softly. He was very sober.
Beside him, the girl remained silent.
Because it was dark, neither could see that the water with which the fire boats were already attacking the blaze was still stained with the welcoming dye. It looked like blood.
3
Lu had wanted to hold his press conference on the Pride of America. But th
e engine-room explosions had blown away plates below the waterline, settling the liner to top-deck level in the water, and the harbour surveyors forbade the meeting as too dangerous. Instead the ship-owner led a small flotilla of boats out to the still smoking, blackened hull, wheeling around and around in constant focus for the cameras, the customary silk suit concealed beneath protective oilskins and the hard-hat defiantly inscribed ‘The University of Freedom’. John Lu was by his side.
The millionaire waited four days after the fire for the maximum number of journalists to gather and then took over the main conference room in the Mandarin Hotel to accommodate them. He entered still carrying the hat and put it down on the table so that the title would show in any photographs.
He was more impatient than at previous conferences, striding up and down the specially installed platform, calling almost angrily into the microphone for the room to settle.
Finally, disregarding the noise, he began to talk.
‘Not a fortnight ago,’ he said, ‘I welcomed many of you aboard that destroyed liner out there …’
He swept his hand towards the windows, through which the outline of the ship was visible.
‘And I announced the purpose to which I was going to put it.’
The room was quiet now, the only movement from radio reporters adjusting their sound levels properly to record what Lu was saying.
‘This morning,’ he started again, ‘you have accompanied me into the harbour to see what remains of a once beautiful and proud liner …’
He turned to the table, taking a sheet of paper from a waiting aide.
‘This,’ he declared, ‘is the surveyor’s preliminary report. Copies will be made available to you individually as you leave this room. But I can sum it up for you in just two words – “totally destroyed”.’
He turned again, throwing the paper on to the table and taking another held out in readiness for him, this time by John Lu.
‘This is another report, that of investigators who have for the past four days examined the ship to discover the cause of the fire,’ continued Lu. ‘This will also be made available. But again I will summarise it …’
He indicated behind him, to where two men in uniform sat, files on their knees.
‘And I have asked the men who prepared the report to attend with me today, should there later at this conference be any questions you might like to put to them. Their findings are quite simple. The Pride of America has been totally destroyed as the result of carefully planned, carefully instigated acts of arson.’
He raised his hand, ahead of the reaction to the announcement.
‘Arson,’ he went on, ‘devised so that it guaranteed the Pride of America would never be put to the use which I intended.’
He referred to the report in his hand.
‘“… Large quantity of inflammable material spread throughout cabins in the forward section,”’ he quoted, ‘“… sprinkler system disconnected and inoperative and fire doors jammed to prevent closure … debris of two explosive devices in the engine room, together with more inflammable material, ensuring immediate and possibly uncontrollable fire … kerosene introduced into the sprinkler system at the rear of the vessel, so that the fire would actually be fed by those attempting to extinguish it …”’
He looked up, for what he was saying to be assimilated.
‘Provable, incontrovertible facts,’ he said. ‘As provable and as incontrovertible as this –’
Again the aide was waiting, handing to Lu a length of twisted, apparently partially melted metal about a foot long. The millionaire held it before him, turning to the photographers’ shouted requests.
‘There is some lettering upon the side,’ he said, indicating it with his finger and once more holding the metal for the benefit of the cameramen. ‘A translation will be made available, together with all the other documents to which I’ve referred today. But again I will summarise it for you. This is part of the outer casing of an incendiary device. It was found, together with other evidence still in the possession of the Hong Kong police, in the engine room. The lettering positively identifies it as manufactured in the People’s Republic of China …’
Lu returned the casing to the table behind him, happy now for the noise to build up.
‘Arson,’ he shouted, above the clamour. ‘Arson committed by a country frightened of having the free world constantly reminded of the evils of its doctrine.’
He snatched again for the incendiary casing.
‘Their former leader, Mao Tse-tung, once preached that power comes from the barrel of a gun. This is the proof of that doctrine.’
He slumped back against the table, reaching out for the instantly available glass of water and throughout the room more aides began moving with microphones so that questions would be heard by everyone.
‘Do you feel fully justified in making the accusations that you have today?’ was the first, from an unseen woman at the back.
Lu led the mocking laughter that broke out.
‘I’ve rarely felt so justified in doing anything in my life,’ he said. ‘Is it possible for a country to sue someone for defamation of character? If it is, then I shall be happy to accept any writ from the People’s Republic of China.’
‘Will you attempt to buy another vessel to create another University of Freedom?’ asked the New York Times correspondent.
‘And have it burned out within days? That blackened hulk out there can speak as eloquently as any political lecturer of the dangers I wanted to publicise.’
‘What about the professors whom you had already engaged?’ demanded the same questioner.
‘They were employed upon a year’s contract. In every case, that contract has been honoured in full and first-class air fares made available to return them to whichever country they choose.’
‘How much has all this cost?’
‘I have never made any secret of the fact that I purchased the Pride of America for $20,000,000.’
‘Does that mean you’ve lost that amount of money?’ queried an Englishman representing the Far East Economic Review.
‘Of course not. International maritime regulations insist that all vessels be properly insured.’
‘So the $20,000,000 is recoverable?’
‘Certainly I shall eventually be reimbursed for the purchase of the vessel. But that, gentlemen, isn’t important. What is important is for the world to recognise the flagrant reaction of a country terrified of the truth, and the lengths to which it is prepared to go to prevent that truth …’
‘Who were the insurers?’ asked the Englishman.
‘The cover was spread amongst a syndicate of Lloyd’s of London.’
‘Is the claim already submitted?’
‘Probably,’ said Lu dismissively. ‘I’ve left the matter in the hands of my lawyers.’
Two days after Lu’s heavily publicised conference, an announcement was made in the name of Chief Superintendent Sydney Johnson of the Hong Kong police. As a result of intensive enquiries since the arson aboard the Pride of America, it said, Hong Kong detectives had arrested two Chinese who had been employed aboard the vessel for its modification refit. Investigation had shown them to be mainland Chinese who had illegally crossed the border into Hong Kong only six months previously. Their families still resided in Shanghai.
On this occasion, Lu did not summon a conference. Instead he issued a brief statement. Without wishing to prejudice any court hearing, it said, the police announcement was regarded as proof of every claim made by Mr L. W. Lu, who looked forward with interest to a full judicial examination of the arrested men.
Both men were hesitant, each unsure of the other.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d come,’ said Rupert Willoughby.
Charlie Muffin walked farther into the underwriter’s office, taking the outstretched hand.
‘Never thought I’d get past the secretary,’ said Charlie, indicating the outer office.
‘She’s a little over-protect
ive at times,’ apologised Willoughby. It was easy to understand his secretary’s reluctance. Charlie wore the sort of concertina’ed suit he remembered from their every encounter, like a helper behind the second-hand clothes stall at a Salvation Army hostel. The thatch of strawish hair was still disordered about his face and the Hush Puppies were as scuffed and down-at-heel as ever.
‘Your call surprised me,’ said Charlie. Willoughby was the only person who possessed his telephone number. Or the knowledge of what he had once been. And done.
‘I had decided you’d never call,’ he added.
‘I almost didn’t,’ admitted Willoughby.
‘So you’re in trouble.’
‘Big trouble,’ agreed Willoughby. ‘I don’t see any way of getting out.’
‘Which makes me the last resort?’
‘Yes,’ said the underwriter, ‘I suppose it does.’
4
Rupert Willoughby was a tall, ungainly man, constantly self-conscious about his height. He took great care with his tailoring, trying to minimise his stature, but then defeated any effort of his tailor in an attempt to reduce it even further by hunching awkwardly. He crouched now, untidy, his blond hair flopping over his forehead as he bent over his desk, occasionally referring to a file as he outlined the details of the Pride of America cover, every so often jerking up to the other man, as if in expectation of some reaction.
Beyond the desk Charlie sat with his legs splayed before him, head sunk upon his chest. By twisting his left foot very slightly, Charlie could see that the repair hadn’t worked and that the sole of his left shoe was parting from the uppers. Which was a bloody nuisance. It meant a new pair and those he was wearing were at last properly moulded to his feet. It always seemed to happen like that, just when they got comfortable. Looked like rain, too.
‘And so,’ concluded Willoughby, ‘my proportion of the syndicate makes me liable for £6,000,000.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘It appears you are.’
How much the man resembled his father, thought Charlie nostalgically. Practically an identical style of setting out a problem, an orderly collection of facts from which any opinion or assessment was kept rigidly apart, so that no preconceptions could be formed. Sir Archibald Willoughby, who had headed the department during almost all of Charlie’s operational career and whom Charlie realised without embarrassment he had come to regard as a father-figure, had obviously groomed his real son very carefully.
The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin Page 2