Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Life’s a regular little minefield,’ agreed Charlie.

  ‘Surely you do that!’ said Clarissa and Charlie became aware of the amused attention of everyone. Fran and the other girl, Pandora, must be twenty years younger than he was, Charlie thought. There was a vague embarrassment. And the recurring irritation he had first felt at the exhibition. At least Sally Cosgrove’s refusal to come with them, pleading an official reception with her husband, had spared him her disdain.

  ‘Only in a locked room with the lights out,’ he said.

  ‘That sounds dull,’ protested Pandora. ‘I never expected you to be dull.’

  ‘That’s the trick,’ said Charlie, pushing his chair away from the table. ‘Never do what’s expected of you.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ demanded Clarissa.

  ‘Back to the hotel,’ said Charlie.

  ‘But we’re going to meet Sally and the others … a club,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I want you to.’

  It was an insistence from someone whose wishes were always obeyed. Everyone else at the table had grown quiet, Charlie realised.

  He smiled down at her. ‘I’ve got to be up early in the morning. Business to discuss with your husband.’

  ‘I said I want you to stay!’

  ‘Good night,’ said Charlie, extending the smile around the table before walking away. It would have been a grand exit had the loose rubber sole of his Hush Puppies not caught against the stair edge. If the restaurant manager had not saved him, Charlie would have fallen flat on his face.

  ‘Cinderella is a girl’s part, anyway,’ he apologised to the man.

  6

  Conceit is rarely regarded as a fault among the very rich and powerful. Indeed, it is often mistaken for the confidence which enables them to obtain their riches and position. And often it is the frailty which leads to their undoing. Giuseppe Terrilli knew about conceit and its dangers and he was therefore confident he would never become a victim of it, any more than he would ever become a victim of any human failing, which he recognised was a conceit in itself, but still not a problem because he acknowledged it and could guard against it.

  All his life Terrilli had guarded against what he considered weakness. He had loved his wife absolutely and had seen no contradiction in his readiness to kill her if she had become attracted to someone else, not because of any sexual betrayal but because she might have revealed his secrets. He accepted that he might have enjoyed the effect of alcohol or drugs, but abstained from both because he knew they would weaken his self-control, and there had never been a moment, not since he was eight years old and had pushed his elder brother to his death from the top of their tenement building in New York’s Little Italy and then held back from the instinct to look over the parapet to see what had happened, knowing someone below might look up and identify him, when Terrilli had not known complete self-control.

  With such self-awareness, Terrilli knew the risk of what he was contemplating; like the alcoholic, in brief moments of sobriety, accepts that gin is destroying his liver or the heroin addict that each injection increases the possibility of an aneurysm in the brain. But unlike the man who declares the drink to be his last or the addict convinced the fix will be the final one before the cure, Terrilli was sure he could make it work. And the feeling was confidence, not conceit.

  It just needed planning; the sort of planning he had put into establishing the narcotics operation as one of the most lucrative within the organisation, grossing more than the country-wide prostitution or Las Vegas gambling.

  It was from the criticism of the organisation rather than any police involvement that Terrilli considered it important to protect himself, which was why it had to be an outside operation, organised personally by himself, and not something he could delegate to Tony Santano. If he told Santano, then Santano would tell the organisation. And then there would be a meeting of reasonable men to convince him he was being unreasonable.

  Terrilli was sure that Robert Ghambine was the perfect choice for the robbery. For over two years the man had been trying to transfer from New York to Florida, to become part of the family there. And for two years Terrilli had held him off, waiting until Chambine could be put into a position to provide something. The exhibition was to be his chance, and Ghambine knew it. If he succeeded, then he would be made one of Terrilli’s lieutenants. If he failed, Terrilli would have him killed.

  ‘I’m grateful for the opportunity,’ Chambine said.

  Terrilli had had drinks installed in the Waldorf Astoria suite, but Chambine had seen the older man take just club soda and so he asked for the same, determined to impress in every way possible.

  ‘It is to be a personal thing,’ said Terrilli. There was always the chance that Chambine would inform upon him to the organisation, to ingratiate himself.

  ‘I understand,’ said Chambine.

  ‘I would take it as an insult to myself if it were discussed.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ Chambine assured him.

  ‘I hope I can. How many people will you need?’

  ‘I’ve got to see the size of the exhibition, but I wouldn’t think more than six.’

  ‘Can you find them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Discreetly?’

  ‘You have my guarantee. What is the security like?’

  ‘Appears to be nothing more than normal.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want the collection taken here?’

  Terrilli shook his head. ‘Too soon. Everyone will be alert now. By the time the second week comes in Florida, they will have become complacent and sloppy.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve seen the stamps, tomorrow, I shall go to Palm Beach. I’ve already made a reservation at the Breakers.’

  Terrilli nodded his appreciation at the man’s initiative. Chambine was a thick-set, muscular man who had the habit of clenching and relaxing his hands when he was talking, as if squeezing a ball. He was unobtrusively dressed, which Terrilli liked, just as he liked the man’s attitude, properly respectful without any servility. He wanted Chambine to succeed and not just because he was determined to have the Romanov Collection. Terrilli was growing increasingly uneasy at Santano’s position: it would be good to have someone loyal alongside him.

  ‘Contact will always come from me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I want everything brought to my house. Immediately.’

  Chambine frowned and Terrilli smiled at the surprise.

  ‘No one would dream of suspecting me of any involvement,’ he explained. ‘I’m well regarded within the community.’

  ‘What am I to offer the others?’

  ‘Fifty thousand each,’ said Terrilli immediately. He waited for fresh surprise to show, but this time Chambine curbed it.

  ‘That’s a great deal of money,’ said Chambine.

  ‘For that, I want the best.’

  ‘You’ll get it.’

  ‘And you receive a hundred thousand,’ said Terrilli.

  This time Chambine smiled. ‘You’re very generous.’

  ‘I want the stamps.’

  ‘Consider them yours.’

  ‘Without any trouble,’ Terrilli warned him. ‘I don’t want over-confidence.’

  ‘My word.’

  ‘I’d like us to work together.’

  ‘I’d like that too, Mr Terrilli.’

  ‘We’ll make it the Thursday of the second week. I’ll have to warn my own security people, otherwise you won’t be able to get into the grounds.’

  ‘That will give me more than sufficient time.’

  Terrilli stood up and the other man rose with him. ‘I don’t like violence,’ said Terrilli.

  ‘I’ll see it’s avoided.’

  ‘I don’t mind if it’s the only way … I’d just prefer a clean job, without any killing.’

  Terrilli walked to a desk against one wall, alongside which was his snakeskin briefcase. He took out several bundles
of money, still in their bank wrappers.

  ‘Fifty thousand on account and for advance expenses for the people you’ll take with you,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to count it.’

  Chambine did as he was told. Terrilli watched without speaking.

  ‘Fifty thousand,’ agreed Chambine finally. He looked up. ‘Please don’t think me presumptuous,’ he said. ‘But you shouldn’t carry such amounts around unless you have people with you.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Terrilli curiously.

  ‘Crime.’ said Chambine. ‘Despite what the police claim, there’s still an amazing amount of it on the streets. It’s not safe.’

  ‘People shouldn’t put up with it,’ said Terrilli seriously.

  Charlie didn’t bother to undress, familiar with the rich-woman-amusing-herself routine and guessing she would come. There was a knock within an hour. Clarissa walked straight in when he opened the door, without greeting. When he turned, she was frowning at the room.

  ‘It’s not a suite,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was expecting a suite.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Just as I was expecting courtesy tonight.’

  ‘I was courteous,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You humiliated me, walking away like that.’

  ‘It’s not really important, but the humiliation was yours. I don’t do tricks to finger-snapping.’

  ‘You mean you’re not like my husband?’

  ‘Have it which ever way you want.’

  ‘I intend to,’ she said, turning the expression.

  Charlie walked further into the room, looking down upon the woman. Clarissa had seated herself on the bed, shoes thrown off. Perhaps her feet hurt, too, he thought.

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’ he said sadly. Her eyes were fogged and he didn’t think it was from alcohol.

  ‘I want you.’

  He sighed, irritated by her. ‘I don’t fuck to order, either.’

  ‘This time you do.’

  Charlie sat down in a chair, some way from the bed.

  ‘Stop it, Clarissa,’ he said.

  ‘Because unless you do, I shan’t tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Who is making enquiries about you.’

  ‘Who?’ Charlie’s concern was immediate.

  ‘Nothing’s for nothing.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Now!’

  ‘No. Earn it first.’

  He was always on his knees to someone, thought Charlie. And fifteen minutes later he literally was.

  ‘That’s very nice,’ she said. ‘I knew it would be nice. Here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I brought you a toothpick from the restaurant.’

  7

  Charlie decided it would be a mistake to over-react to Jack Pendlebury’s investigation. He should continue to remain cautious, but not panic. The man was a security official, after all. And even without Clarissa’s over-loud praise at the exhibition, he would have done the same, had he been in Jack Pendlebury’s position. But then, his training had been different; different, that is, unless Pendlebury was not who he claimed to be.

  Charlie sat in the darkened projection room in the Pinker-ton offices, delaying the start of the video film of the previous night’s reception.

  ‘What can Pendlebury discover?’ he asked himself, lapsing into the unconscious habit of talking to himself when confronted with a problem. Very little, he thought. His assumed identity could not be uncovered unless there was a deep examination of the birth certificate with which he had obtained the passport. Were an enquiry made in London, then Willoughby would fully support him, just as Clarissa had when Pendlebury had intercepted her as she had entered the hotel the previous night. Pendlebury had looked tired and travel-weary, Clarissa had said. Charlie closed his eyes, trying to recall what Pendlebury had said earlier in the evening. An appointment, Charlie remembered. But nothing about a journey. He smiled at a sudden thought. By Clarissa’s reckoning, it had been past two o’clock in the morning when Pendlebury had spoken to her. And the reception had ended promptly at six. If Pendlebury’s appointment had been in Manhattan, that meant eight hours for the man to drink. Perhaps that was it; perhaps Clarissa, with her cocaine-numbed brain, had mistaken tiredness for booze and perhaps Pendlebury’s sudden appearance at the hotel was nothing more than a drunken episode.

  Still, better to remain properly cautious, decided Charlie again, pressing the start button for the video-film replay. Because Clarissa’s interception wasn’t the only curiosity, or even the greatest. After the previous day’s cocktail bar conversation with Pendlebury, Charlie had again checked the video mechanism, convinced that he had not made a mistake during his tour with Heppert. And that check confirmed that he hadn’t. The most likely malfunction of any electrical equipment had to be the power supply, which made connecting both systems to the same source ridiculous; unless the purpose wasn’t the one Pendlebury had so glibly offered. Now Charlie had reason to believe it wasn’t. When he had asked the projection room technician to show the film, he’d made the question casual, hardly more than an aside, and the technician had responded ingenuously, unaware of any significance in the request. Despite the duplicated system, there was only one film available. So where was the other one? wondered Charlie.

  Charlie had taken particular care to note where the surveillance cameras were during his introductory tour of the exhibition hall because he considered that photographs would be the most likely means of his being discovered. It would never be possible to know all the people who might examine them and it would only need someone with C.I.A. associations and a long memory to identify him. He’d been lucky to avoid getting killed in the first vengeance hunt by the British and American services; it would be stupid to expect escape a second time.

  Charlie had the sequence of the previous night in his mind and was alert for his arrival on the film. Timing had been difficult because Charlie had been aware of the two fixed cameras constantly trained upon the door, which he regarded as the most exposed spot. He recognised the group of people behind which he had slotted himself and then, intent for the first sighting, saw himself. Or rather, his left arm and part of his shoulder. He smiled, an expression part pride at how he’d managed it and part amusement at watching himself perform. The very point of entry had been the most dangerous, because everyone had paused, awaiting the announcement of their arrival. It was here that Charlie had raised the elaborate brochure in apparent greeting to someone off-camera and got past the surveillance showing no more than the vaguest outline of the back of his head and an almost perfect shot of Tsar Nicholas II, whose bearded face formed the frontispiece for the book.

  He stopped the film, had it rewound and watched a second time, trying to assess it impartially. There was no point in avoiding the cameras if the evasion was obvious; for a trained observer, that would create suspicion and therefore as much danger as a photograph itself. But Charlie was a trained observer; and he knew he’d managed it.

  He sat back in the chair, contented; the greatest hurdle and he’d cleared it easily.

  There were several shots of Pendlebury which Charlie began by looking at idly, and then upon which he began increasingly to concentrate, one professional admiring another. Just as Charlie’s surreptitious entry had been one of expert concealment, so the observation the American was keeping was that of perfection. Despite his apparently aimless wandering through the room, Charlie saw that there was never a moment when Pendlebury relaxed. And then came another realisation, and with it further curiosity.

  ‘He’s not looking at the right thing,’ Charlie told himself, forward in his chair now.

  To ensure he had not had a mistaken impression, Charlie rewound the film once more, to the very point where Pendlebury first appeared, and stared intently at the bulging, dishevelled man. He watched for ten minutes and then had the reel stopped in mid-frame, and sat nodding to himself. He’d re
cognised the illogicality at the time, and forgotten it.

  Pendlebury’s responsibility was to guard against theft of the contents of the twelve display cases. But not once had he looked towards them, which was neither natural nor logical. Certainly there had been security men in every aisle and another in personal attendance for the case to be opened, but there should also have been a time when Pendlebury automatically checked the exhibits. He’d only done so once, at the point where Charlie remembered criticising the opening of the display cases. Apart from that isolated occasion, wherever he had walked, Pendlebury had always positioned himself with one point in view. The door.

  ‘Why?’ muttered Charlie, and as he did so he remembered the incident when Pendlebury had appeared to recognise somebody. He started the film again, smiling at the brief reappearance of his arm when Pendlebury had been talking to him, so that he had almost missed the swivel of the three cameras that could be turned from the control room from which the exhibition was monitored.

  Charlie reached out in readiness for the stop button when he saw the moment approaching when Pendlebury had appeared to react. He halted it early and then took it forward to the right frame in a series of jumps. Having found the frame, he replayed the film through at half speed, then rewound. A mannish woman wearing trousers, an obviously married couple and a sun-tanned man who clearly liked clothes and didn’t care how much he spent on them. Charlie took the film back and forth several times, hoping for some recognition, and then gave up. He was about to ask the control room for freeze frames of the entry when he stopped, hand half out towards the linking telephone. He had the film completely rewound, then asked for still photographs of the sequences he had selected. Next he went through the film, choosing at random four other episodes in addition to the entry of the group that seemed to interest Pendlebury. Having disguised what he wanted, he ran the film on, alert for something else which he hoped would confirm his impression about Pendlebury’s behaviour.

  It came immediately. After the entry of the particular group, the American had started looking at the display cases. And drinking.