by Gavin Lyall
'Oh, marvellous, old boy – quite the best. We're clear up the creek and grounded on a falling tide without him. He actually knew something about shipping, you see. Most of them don't know a bosun from a binnacle.'
'The underwriters? How the hell do they insure them, then?'
'Oh, experience, statistics, averages, you know. I mean, you don't have to know anything about life to write life insurance, do you, old boy?' He grinned in his mild way; you couldn't quite imagine Willie giving a real rollicking grin. Might frighten the horses; even the tanks. 'But Martin was really interested, particularly in the Norwegian companies. Made us a leader, far as Norway went.'
'Leader?'
'Yes. You know what I mean? Well, it means the syndicates that traditionally set the rates with the brokers, they're the leaders – what? Another underwriter sees a broker hawking around a slip for a Norwegian ship and he looks to see if Fen-wick's taken a line on it and if they have, well, he knows the premium's right – you know? Other syndicates are leaders in tankers or oil rigs or towing risks… but most just follow the lead of the leaders, what?'
I nodded. 'You sound as if you know something about shipping yourself,'
'The family used to be in it, old boy. But we got taken over in the fifties, so I just have to play with it at one remove instead of going for nice long cruises in the owner's cabin, what?'
He smiled and I smiled back. The politely vacant expression might be genuine, but I had a feeling there was something behind it. A man who knew himself, perhaps.
'How did the syndicate do, then?'
'I say, you're asking rather a lot of questions, aren't you, old boy?' But he was still perfectly pleasant with it.
'Guilt feeling, maybe. Wanting to know something about Fenwick, after what happened…' I dangled the bait.
'Oh, mustn't be hard on yourself, old boy. Sure you did everything…' He let his voice drift away.
'It just bothers me.'
'Well, it's no secret we were doing all right. At least Martin kept us afloat in the bad years – and some syndicates broke up then, you know – and we were just about to get going again… and well, you know?'
'How did Fenwick himself manage in the bad years -without profits?'
His eyes went cool and distant, but a fragment of smile remained. 'Just haven't the foggiest notion, old boy. Know I had to sell a few hunters, though. Do you hunt?'
It was a bloody silly question, but it made it politely clear he wanted a quick change of topic.
'Only fleas on cats."
'I… don't think I got that?'
'Fleas on cats. Great sport when I was in Cyprus. Get a light-coloured, short-haired cat – white or ginger's the best. And a pair of eyebrow tweezers, and track them through the undergrowth and – click!'
'Sounds rather sporting. But by rights there should be an element of risk in a blood sport.'
I shrugged. 'You could always try it on an unfriendly cat.'
He put on his vague smile and his eyes focused somewhere else. 'Just so, just so,' he murmured, then sort of faded away.
The party had thinned out a bit, but the remainder were settling in for the duration. David wandered past me, made a conspiratorial face, and led the way upstairs. He had a big room – well, I suppose there weren't any small rooms in that house, except for the servants' – nicely cluttered with the fallout of childhood. A worn old teddy-bear sat on the deep window-sill, a fancy electric train set was collecting dust in one corner, a battered control-line model Spitfire hung on the wall. And books; he had books the way Cyprus cats have fleas.
I picked up a fat volume from beside the bed: Barbara Tuchman's The Guns of August. 'Have you read this?'
'Only once so far, sir. Do you know it? '
'Marvellous book. I think she treads a bit gentle on the original Schließen Plan, though.'
He concentrated. 'I thought it only went wrong because… von Kluck came down east of Paris instead of west – and exposed his flank.'
'Maybe. But nobody seems to have asked what would have happened if he'd followed the Plan and gone west. He'd've been out of touch with the Second Army – or stretched pretty thin – and he'd still have been marching for a month and moving farther than anybody else. Either way, he'd got a damned tired Army. And that was the Plan's fault.'
'I suppose so.' He smiled. 'Can I quote you in my essay, sir? -as an ex-Major of Intelligence?'
'If you like. Now – d'you want to hear how I've been getting on?'
'I'd like to know why you were attacked like that.'
'They were after whatever Bertie Bear was supposed to be. They found the new copy in my flat, and I babbled about him when they hit me with the truth-drug technique, and they didn't want to know. So we know he was a blind, and there's something that size and shape around.'
'Not in Daddy's flat?'
'No. Somebody searched there before me, mind-' his eyes opened wide; '-but I got jumpedafter that, so if it was the same mob they didn't find it at the flat, either. And it can't be at Lloyd's or Mockby would have nicked it. He knows what it is, by the way.'
He thought about this. 'It might be in this house, then.'
'Yes. Can you go through his stuff here?'
He looked doubtful, but nodded slowly and fumbled at his inside pocket. 'I don't know if I should have done this, but – it's a letter my mother threw away.'
I suppose the code of the greater public schools doesn't encourage snooping through parents' wastebaskets, so I un-crumpled it – it had been screwed into a ball – and said quickly, 'Oh, yes, you were right,' long before I'd found out he certainly•was right.
It was on the office notepaper of Jonas Steen, Marine Surveyor (it actually said that in English), of Bergen, Norway. Handwritten, in the mature but slightly inaccurate style of a man who usually gets his thoughts typed out for him.
And it said:
Dear Madam,
May I express my great sorrow at the terrible death of your husband, whom I also knew? It must be a very great shock.
I would not trouble you more at this dreadful time but there was a certain book I think he was carrying to France when he died. If it was not taken by Mr Card who was with him, do you please know where it is?
Yours with great sorrow,
Jonas Steen
I read it twice, then said, 'A book. Just "a book". He's playing it pretty canny. Isn't he? Not much help to your mother in finding it. You don't happen to know if she wrote back?" He made a rueful face. 'I can't very well ask her.'
'No, I see that. Well, at least I can talk to this bloke Steen.'
'I'm not sure you really ought to go on, sir. I didn't know it would get as rough as… well, as beating you up.'
'Didn't know myself. But I can't stop as long as anybody thinks I've got this book.'
'You could say it was just a colouring book.'
'Yes? And you think they'd believe me?'
'I see, sir. I suppose they couldn'trisk believing you.'
'Anyway, as long as they think I've got it they'll keep coming to me – and they won't be looking too hard in other places. It's made Mockby commit himself. And the party of the third part.'
'Do you think it could have been Mr Mockby who sent those gangsters to beat you up?'
'Very much doubt it. It's more the style of the Arras boys.'
He went pale, blinked, and turned away quickly.
I said, 'So I'll ring this bloke Steen and – well, we'll see. One other thing: would you consider bringing Willie Winslow in on this? Tell him you've hired me and so on?'
He fiddled at the train layout, switched a couple of points, joined a couple of carriages. 'If you like, sir. Why, though?'
'We might need somebody to put pressure on Mockby. Winslow's one of the syndicate, and he seems a sympathetic enough bloke, so…'
He still hadn't turned around and wasn't going to until he'd found a way of wiping his eyes without me noticing. 'All right, sir. Will you talk to him or shall I?'
&
nbsp; 'Better be you. Get him to take you for a ride in that ruddy great Panzerkampfwagen of his. But ask him if he'd ring me.'
He managed to get his sleeve into his eyes fairly unobtrusively, then wandered on and twiddled the model Spitfire. 'Did you find out anything at the flat?'
Had I? Had I honestly found out anything except a lot of figures that barely added up even into guesses?
'Not really. Just a general picture of your father's pattern of life… I hadn't known your mother was American until today. Do you know her side of the family well?'
Tve met some of them. They're rather rich, I think. Mummy goes over to see them every year but… but I don't think Daddy got on with them very well. I don't think he wanted me to go. I haven't been since I was… nine, I think.'
Mummy flies over every year, does she? Which would mop up half her investment income for the year in itself – unless somebody over there sent her a ticket. And if they're rather rich, why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't they send her more than airline tickets? Like late Turners for the wall of the house. Like the house itself. And money to run it.
How would a man like Fenwick have taken that?
I said, 'Here – you'd better have the key of the flat back. The solicitors'll want it sooner or later.'
He turned and took it, looking no more than a little red-eyed.
As gently as I could, I said, 'I've seen soldiers cry in action. The best ones, too. I'll keep in touch.'
Downstairs, the party had dwindled to a handful who were sitting down by now and looking as if they'd move when the liquor ran out. Mrs Fenwick caught us at the bottom of the stairs and looked at David with a slightly reproachful smile.
'You've been monopolising Mr Card, dear. Now run along and see if anybody wants a drink.'
David said dutifully, 'Yes, Mummy,' and pushed off. Around her, he seemed to drop a couple of years. But maybe most children do around most mothers.
Mrs F sat firmly but elegantly on a long bench sofa and patted the space beside her. 'Do you want to tell me what happened that day?'
And that was as much choice as I got about speaking to her or not. So I told her – most of it, anyway. I left out Bertie Band some of the colourful bits when Fenwick died, but she got the rest pretty straight.
She sipped her gin and tonic and listened carefully, nodding occasionally. When I'd finished she just said, 'I'm sure you did everything you could.'
It was nice to hear, but a bit unexpected. 'He obviously wasn't expecting anything like that,' I said defensively.
'I'm sure he wasn't,' and she smiled reassuringly. It was a nice, easy, little-girl smile, and she looked as if she could laugh out loud without spoiling anything. Most women look either as if they're acting or trying to call the fire brigade.
I asked, 'Have you any idea of who could be involved?'
'I'm afraid not.' A rather sad smile this time. 'He didn't talk about his work much. If it was anything to do with the syndicate, Willie might know. Mr Mockby certainly would.'
'Yes, and what he'd tell me you could write on a pin-head and leave room for all those angels, too.'
'You don't like Mr Mockby?' She looked almost mischievous.
'Only on first and second impressions.'
She nodded. 'I sometimes wish he hadn't joined the syndicate. Of course, he did bring in a lot of money…'
That was as good a cue as I was ever likely to get. I ahetned and asked, as politely as I could, 'Are you… going to have any problems that way?'
For a moment her face went blank again, like when she'd first found out who I was. But then she smiled again. 'Oh, I think I'll manage. David's schooling will be covered by insurance… I may leave this house; it seems a bit of a waste to keep on such a big place… and Martin's deposit in Lloyd's will come back to me, of course.'
'Of course.' Then I realised what she'd said. 'Come "back", was that?'
The smile got a little wistful. 'Oh, yes. It was always mine to start with. You have to be born with money these days, and Martin wasn't.'
I picked my words like a man pulling thorns out of a lion's paw. 'You helped start Mr Fenwick up in Lloyd's, then?'
'He was already a broker there when we married, but he wanted to become an underwriter and they have to have capital, you see. So of course he had to have mine.'
I'd've liked to know what thatof course meant, but maybe I'd gone far enough in the thorn country. 'How long have you been living in England, Mrs Fenwick?'
'About sixteen years now. Are you going on trying to find out what happened to Martin?'
'Well, sort of. You haven't heard anything about why he was going to France? What he was taking, or anything like that?'
She looked at me for a moment, then said, 'No. I haven't heard a thing, I'm afraid.'
I just nodded, letting the lie sink in. It had been beautifully done; if I hadn't known it was there I'd never have felt it hit.
'I'm not really being much help, am I?' she asked kindly.
'Oh, I don't know-'
'Had you thought he could have been being blackmailed?'
I paused and just looked at her sweet smile. She sipped her gin calmly.
'No,' I said slowly. 'I hadn't really thought that. Why should I?'
'Well, it does sound so much like it. He's taking something to a secret rendezvous to hand over to strangers… that was right, wasn't it?'
'Blackmailers aren't killers. The golden goose and all that.'
'I suppose not.' She sighed, as if sorry to see a good theory go down.
'Anyway – blackmailed for what?'
'How would I know? What do men with a flat in town get up to?'
'I don't know," I said carefully.
'Have you met Miss Mackwood? '
I suppose if she'd painted it on a board and then hit me over the head with it, I might have got the message stronger. Just might.
I nodded.
'Pretty little thing, isn't she?'
I nodded again.
'Have you got a cigarette?'
'Sorry. Don't smoke.'
'Clever you.' She stood up with an easy flowing movement. 'I'll just… would you like Willie to run you back down the hill?'
Upon the command 'Dismiss!' you execute a right turn, a normal salute, then break off and proceed in an orderly fashion back to your quarters.
I said, 'That would be very kind.'
Fourteen
I hadn't had any lunch and it was too late for any pub to have anything edible left, so I'd just have to live on the canapés I'd lifted. For the first half hour I drove fast – not because of the Scotch, or at least I didn't think so – but because if I went slow I'd have time to think and that would muddle me even more.
But past Sevenoaks the train slowed me anyway. And maybe it was time I really tried to remember the Fenwick I'd known. No, not 'known'; just met.
He'd picked me up at the put-down place for Huston station. My idea; it's a one-way underground street so you can easily spot if somebody's being followed by a car that doesn't stop or doesn't let anybody off. But nobody was.
My first impression was of a man near fifty who'd probably stand up at just under six feet. Neatly dressed in a checked country suit (abroad counts as country to some people), with shortish greying hair and trim slight sideboards as his one concession to fashion. Generally fit-looking and tidy: you'd think he was Something in the City and you'd be right. And seemed a nice bloke. Had I ever learned anything more?
Driving south he'd told me as much as he ever did about the job: just that I was to be there at a rendezvous in Arras in case somebody or bodies unknown turned nasty. I should have asked more, of course, and a couple of times I'd probed gently, but… had he headed me off? Would he have told me if I'd asked him head on?
Then we'd chatted about the weather, the Common Market, a bit about cars – neither of us knew or cared much, but it's standard masculine manners – and rugger. He'd said he was married and I'd said I wasn't, not any more, and we'd left it at that
. Maybe he'd seemed a little concerned – preoccupied – but most clients in this work are ready to climb the walls.
We went Folkestone-Boulogne instead of Dover-Calais -just because it seemed less likely – and I bailed out before we reached the boat. Then we 'met' in the bar after I was pretty sure nobody had picked him up. He took water with it, I took soda. Significant?
The drive to Arras was quiet; I suppose both of us were thinking ahead. One thing, though: halfway along, he'd asked, 'Are you carrying a gun?' Most people wouldn't say 'carrying'; it's more or less a professional word. I said, 'Yes.'
'What type?'
'Are you interested in pistols?'
'Not all that much, but I met a lot in the Army: Control Commission in Germany in forty-five. Even had to carry one, at times."
'Walther PP chambered for short nine-mil.'
'The old.380 round? Not too common, are they?'
'They are now. Standard gun in a lot of British police forces. Small enough to hide, doesn't shoot into the next county, makes a nice big bang. For me, the idea's to scare them, throw them off their aim. I don't usually get a chance for a really careful shot; the assassin gets that.'
I'd picked the word carefully; my last attempt to probe. But he just gave a grunt of laughter. 'Oh, there won't be anything like that.'
Well, so I now knew something he hadn't known.
But not much more. Because, in a way, I still agreed with him. Thereshouldn't have been 'anything like that'. Fenwick just wasn't the type to get shot, and believe me, I know the type. Most of my bodyguard clients just can't count the number of people anxious to get a shot at them, nor the good reason for each shooter. That's why I like payment in advance. But Fenwick? No. It just doesn't happen to people like him. Except when it does, I mean.
Back home, I reheated the last of the breakfast coffee and washed up the breakfast bits and pieces and turned on the television and turned it off again when it was just football scores and finally settled down 'to ring Jonas Steen in Bergen. Now, there are several things you need to know about ringing a total stranger whose number you don't know – the office number on the notepaper was no use for a Saturday – in a foreign country, but the first is the most important: you shift the Scotch and the soda across to the telephone table before you even start. It saves a lot of dashing to and from the cupboard in the next hour or so.