Blame The Dead

by Gavin Lyall

  I went back and showed them the knife. 'I'm good with these things, too. Now both of you get out.'

  The big one stood up slowly and a bit shakily. 'What about the gun?'

  'I'll keep it as a souvenir.'

  He glowered at it in my hand. His face had a blunt, ruddy look, like a man who spends time out of doors. I'd have liked to know more about him; if the gun had been loaded, or if there'd been just him, I'd've gone through his wallet. But not with just a knife against the two of them.

  He still seemed uncertain. I said, 'Breaking and entering witha. firearm. Look, mate – I'm giving you the next five years of your life. I should take it.'

  He took it – but still reluctantly. The other one wasn't so reluctant, though he remembered to pick up the torch as he went.

  I watched them from the front window. They went to the big maroon Jag just down the road, and while they were scraping the windscreen clear of frost I remembered my binoculars. Then they drove off – the big one at the wheel – I got the number.

  And right then, I was ready to join Mr Norton in catching up on some rest. But I still had the power of the press to worry about. I spent five minutes picking my clothes off the bedroom floor and throwing some of them into a suitcase. As a second thought, I added the drawerful of personal papers, address book, and so on. Then I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water around my face. Both cheeks had a red tinge that might need some explaining back at the hotel.

  As I went out, I checked the door latch and told myself for the hundredth time to get a lock of my own put in. A hell of a security adviser I was who couldn't keep a couple of amateurs out of his own flat. Oh, well. I know doctors who still smoke.

  I'd half expected them to wait around the corner and try to tail me, but no maroon Jag followed. Maybe they felt too defeated, maybe they didn't realise I would be getting out again myself. Anyway, I picked' up a bunch of morning papers in England's Lane and was back with my Genuine British Breakfast by eight.

  On the whole, the news was better than the breakfast. The Arras cops had turned up traces of two other Britons who'd spent an hour in a caféthere just before Fenwick and I arrived, but hadn't stayed the night in town. In the meantime they still wanted a nice friendly chat with Monsieur Card, so would he please come forward, being assured he was not under suspicion…

  Ho ho ho, yes mate, and up you, too. I'd come forward when and if I'd got a little bargaining power in my hand, and not until. The story of the two Britons was probably true, but for. the moment it didn't matter if it wasn't: it still turned down the heat under me. And already the attitude to me in the papers was changing subtly; from being important because I was a Mystery Man, I was beginning to sound unimportant because, after twenty-four hours of looking, they hadn't found either me or much about me. We find out the news; if we can't find it out, it can't be news – right?

  Right.

  After breakfast, I started monopolising one of the hotel's two telephone lines (they hadn't even asked about my cheek; anyhow, to them my name wasn't Card). First I rang my answering service; there was a mass of messages from newspapers that they insisted on reading to me; one saying ring Jack Morris at his Federal number; another from a Mr David Fenwick (brother? cousin?) leaving a number, please ring back; finally one from a client I'd been helping on office security saying, in effect, don't ring back. And he wouldn't be the last. The price of James Card slipped badly as first results of his Continental venture were released yesterday…

  Would I have been better off in Arras jail?

  I'd rather expected Mockby to live out of town and maybe he had a country place as well, but meanwhile there he was in the phone book occupying an obviously desirable residence in The Bishop's Avenue. There's nothing but desirable residences up there, as long as you can stand the street name being mentioned in half the fraud cases that come to trial.

  I got a female voice, wife or housekeeper – they still have housekeepers in those parts – which suited me better than Mockby himself. I said quickly, 'Sergeant Harris, Kentish Town police. We've found an abandoned car. Are you the owners of a maroon Jaguar XJ6, licence number…' I read it off.

  She sounded puzzled. 'Well… yes, that's one of Mr Mockby's cars, I think, but I'm sure it's back here. It was out most of the night, I know, but – would you like me to go and check?' Housekeeper, all right.

  'Never mind, madam, it looks as if there's been an error.'

  'Would you like to speak to Mr Mockby himself?'

  What could I lose? He couldn't thump me by phone.

  He came on, big, brawny, and brave. 'Paul Mockby here. What is it?'

  'Good morning, sir. Are you the owner of a Walther P-thirty-eight automatic pistol, nine-millimetre?'

  T… what? I thought it was about the car?'

  'Just answer the question, please, sir.' Let the bastard sweat a bit; he could spare the weight.

  'What?… I… why do you want… what's it to do with me?'

  'Hello, Mockers, old boy, James Card here – remember?'

  There was a long pause while he climbed back into several layers of self-confidence. Then he said grimly, 'Impersonating a police officer now, boy? I could have you for that.'

  'What about your boys? Impersonating burglars, KGB interrogators, and carrying an unlicensed gun. War souvenir, was it?'

  'You can't prove anything,' he said quickly.

  'I might. My flat's still a mess, I can identify both them and the car, your housekeeper'll say it was out all night. And for my money, the young one'll talk. You're an accessory before the fact, old chum.'

  After a while, he asked, 'I'd better talk to you.'

  'You are already. This is close enough.'

  'What are you going to do, then?'

  'You'regoing to tell me what I got mixed up in.'

  After another long time, he said just, 'No.'

  That really shook me. 'Chum, you're taking a big risk.'

  'Perhaps. But I don't think you're the sort that goes crying to the police. And I'm a pretty good judge of men – you have to be, to make money the way I do. Anyway, I call you. Play cards.'

  It was my turn to add a little silence to the proceedings. Finally, 'That thing your little lads were after – it's in the bank. So don't try anything like that again. And if I'd been wearing a gun, we might not have been able to keep the police out of it.

  'I'll buy it off you. I'll do that. And a good price.'

  'As far as I'm concerned, it's Fenwick's.'

  'Fenwick's dead. That belongs to the syndicate.'

  'I'll think about it.'

  'And I still want to talk to you. We might be able to do a little business.'

  'We'll talk – when I've got something more to say. And I'm choosy about whom I do business with.'

  He chuckled – Mr Big again, riding tall in the saddle. 'That's no way to make a fortune.'

  'No, but it helps keep you out of jail.' I hung up.

  Hell. That had been a gold mine full of iron pyrites. The bastardhad been right about me and the police – though my performance in Arras had given him a preview. Even so, he'd still been taking a risk. Or perhaps choosing between two risks.

  I picked up Bertie Bear for the umpteenth time and stared at him. He was beginning to look like Paul Mockby except with fur.

  'I don't see it, but somebody certainly loves you.'

  Seven

  I knew, I'd have to wait until past ten before I could catch Oscar at his office, so I spent a little time field-stripping the P38. Jack Morris and Mr David Fenwick could wait; neither was likely to be good news. The gun wasn't new – I think they still make them – so it probably was a war souvenir. It didn't smell as if it had been fired recently, and when I pulled it through with a strip of torn handkerchief I got only dust, so it hadn't been cleaned recently, either. Still,"I'm not a ballistics man.

  I got through to Oscar at ten past.

  'You're still out of prison?' he asked cheerfully.

  'More or less.
Have you sent a man to France yet?'

  'No. Actually, I'm going myself at lunchtime.'

  'Good. Find out from the police what sort of pistol fired the shot; they haven't said in the papers.'

  'Will they know?'

  'They've got a cartridge case. They can tell from the extractor and firing-pin marks.'

  'Ummm…' He sounded doubtful. 'Well, I'll try and work the conversation around to it. But didn't I tell you to lay off the detective stuff?'

  'Just curious. By the way – Paul Mockby isn't one of your clients, is he?'

  'No.'

  'But you know who I mean?'

  'He's in Fenwick's syndicate. Probably the richest.'

  'You wouldn't have been talking to him recently?'

  'I haven't. I don't say he hasn't talked to somebody here. In fact-'

  'He sent a couple of amateur tough guys around to convert me. He thought I had a little something belonging to somebody else.'

  'I see. And you thought… You ought to read the French papers. Le Monde had a rather good description of you. Including a brown paper package you were carrying which you said was a present for a friend in Paris.' He paused to let me digest that, then added dryly, 'Oddly enough, Iam doing my best to protect your interests. Somebody has to. And I told you to stay away from home.'

  'Thanks, Oscar. Give my love to theinspecteur.'Another angle folded up flat – though this time I was glad of it. It was about time for a drive down to Kingscutt – except for that call from a David Fenwick. It nagged me. He was probably offering to horsewhip me on the steps of my club if my club could afford steps and he could afford a horsewhip, but still…

  With these new all-figure telephone numbers, you don't have any idea of where in London you're ringing. You could work it out, I suppose, but life's too short.

  A woman's voice said, 'Cundall's.'

  'Could I speak to Mr David Fenwick?'

  'Of course not, not at this time.'

  "Oh.' What in hell was this? 'Look, I may sound stupid, but I just had a message to ring Mr Fenwick at this number and I don't know where I'm ringing…'

  'Harrow School. Cundall's house.'

  Oh Gawd Blimey.

  'He should have left more in the message. He can't take any calls until four-fifteen.'

  'Sorry. I'll ring back then.'

  'Just a moment – is this something to do with his father's death?'

  'Probably, but I just don't know. I just got the message.'

  'But you must know whether you had any connection with his father.'

  'I did,' I said grimly. 'I was there when he died.'

  'Oh!' Pause. 'You're that man.'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'Hold on a moment, will you? My husband's just come in… I think he'd like to talk Another pause, filled with distant mutterings.

  Then a man's voice came on. 'John Hawthorn here. Is that Mr – er, James Card?' It was a slow, confident voice, but maybe a little strained. Probably just a man who didn't like the telephone much.

  'I'm Card.'

  'I know David Fenwick phoned you – he spoke to me about it.1 'Uh-huh.'

  'I know he wants to see you. I'm not sure that I'd advise it, but he seems quite certain that he does…'

  'Uh-huh.' Me, I have a great telephone manner.

  'I wonder if you could come out here this afternoon and have a word with me first? Say half past three? '

  'I suppose so.' Bang went my trip to Kent; I couldn't safely count on getting down to Kingscutt and back up to Harrow in time… Still, at least this was a positive step. It made a change for somebody actually towant to see me – apart from various authorities, of course.

  Hawthorn said, 'I'm not prying, you understand, but in a situation like this…'

  'I see your problem, Mr Hawthorn. You're the housemaster, are you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Can I ask one question? I'm a bit surprised the boy isn't at home.'

  Pause. Then, 'Yees. We did send him home yesterday – but he came back in the evening. I suppose… well, here, at least we can keep him busy.'

  'Sounds like the best thing. Half past three then?' We rang off.

  Then I unpacked the fresh suitcase, changed my blue pinstripe for a slightly more swinging number in a chalky mud colour, with fresh shirt and tie to match, and after that there wasn't any reason not to call Jack Morris at the Ministry of Defence.

  He wasn't in his room but he can't have been far off because his secretary said, 'Hold on, Mr Card,' in a cool voice and went away and came back and said, 'He wants to see you as soon as possible."

  'He can buy me lunch, then. Ask him where.'

  She did another round trip. 'He says he's damned if he's going to be seen in public with a disreputable character like you. Be here at half past twelve and he may lend you half a cheese sandwich.'

  'Tell him to stuff it up and blow it out.'

  Still perfectly cool, she said, 'Half past twelve then, Mr Card.' I was going to be there, and we both knew it.

  I parked the car near the St John's Wood taxi rank and took a cab down to Chancery Lane – there's no hope of parking down there – and tucked Bertie Bear up in my safe deposit. On second thoughts, I took out one of my guns – a streamlined little Mauser HSC chambered for -22. Mockby might get more subtle next time, but there would certainly be a next time. With him or somebody.

  After that I prowled the bookshops until I found an identical copy of Bertie Bear. Well wrapped; I felt enough of a bloody fool just buying it. Then I dillied and dallied over to Morris's office.

  At a conservative estimate, about half of London is Ministry of Defence buildings, ancient, modern, and in-between. This one dated from the thirties and was probably taken over during the war; the oversized entrance hall and exaggeratedly solid stonework gave me the idea it had originally been built for an insurance company or the Masons.

  I signed in at the box-office affair in the middle of the hall, was given a chit and an elderly uniformed guide, and we set off down the green-and-cream corridors of power or at any rate secrecy.

  I'd first met Jack when I was a captain doing a stint of my own in the Ministry, though not the same building. His job was something rather vague on the civil counter-intelligence side -vague not because it was Above and Beyond Top Secret but because he was mostly supposed to be keeping a finger in whatever everybody else in CI was up to: the DI5 boys, Special Branch, Foreign Office, and all the service intelligence and investigation outfits. He'd actually been on the streets for a time with what was then MI 5, but you don't last long at that. Your face gets known and then you either get slung on the compost heap or transplanted into an office.

  He was a shortish, chunky man of around sixty, with smooth grey hair, chubby bunched-up features, thin-rimmed glasses, and a cheery manner. He waved a hand from behind his cluttered desk arid said, 'Hullo, buster – pull up a chair.'

  There were two other desks in the office, both the same roundedged green metal jobs, neither occupied. I found a spare chair dating from Ballista Mark I days, dragged it up, and sat cautiously.

  Jack took a bite of a sandwich, waved the rest at me, and mumbled, 'Lemme see your licences.'

  'Driving, dog, or TV?'

  He swallowed. 'You know which, buster.'

  I passed them over. He skimmed through the Ministry one, took a little more time over the police one. Then looked up. 'I'm cracking up, my eyes are going. I can't find any Walther PP in short nine-mil here.'

  I shrugged. 'I don't have one.'

  He chuckled. 'Now you mention it, you don't, do you? You must have been sorry to see that go down the drain.' And chuckled again, then took another bite of sandwich.

  I said, 'If you know of one going, I'll apply to have it put on my licence.'

  'Last one I heard of was in Arras. Our French chums have asked the Yard to try and trace it, with special reference to you. Now ain't that sweet?' He was a good contact man.

  He added, 'No connection proven – so far.'
/>   I was happy to hear it. I hadn't expected anything else, but you can never be dead sure.

  He stood up and stretched his back and grunted. He was wearing indoor country clothes – houndstooth-check suit, criss-cross pattern shirt, brown brogues, all in rather light-weight materials. Club tie, but I didn't know which club.

  'Now – I know why you were carrying an unlicensed gun around France,' he said, aiming a ham sandwich at me. 'Because your own licences don't mean a thing over there, you couldn't get a French licence, and so you might as well take one that can't be traced back if you used it. I'm not even asking you where you got it and having you tell some bedtime story about it. But-'

  'It wasn't in this country.'

  He gave me a quick sharp look, then nodded. 'That's something, then. But the French papers have tied that gun to you and the ones here would have done if we didn't have a law of libel. So far as I know none of the newspaper boys has been clever enough to ask if you've got a pistol licence. We wouldn't tell them, and I've made sure the rozzers won't either, but there're plenty of other people who must know. Down at your pistol club and so on. Once that gets printed, there're going to be people asking why we give licences to people who then go running around France playing James Bond with unlicensed Walthers. Are you getting the picture, buster?'

  I nodded. 'Why d'you keep calling me "buster"?'

  He thought about it. 'Habit, I suppose. I usually only do it to people I like.' He sat down again and rifled through some papers. 'When's the last time we asked you to do a bodyguard job for us?'

  'When those Libyans were over here for the oil treaty.'

  'And that was last autumn. You've got a lot of guns on that licence in return for not much work. How much d'you really need 'em? Or the licence?'