by Gavin Lyall
So finally I got through. The line wasn't all that clear, so I couldn't guess much about him bar that he wasn't senile and his English was very good.
'My name is James Card. You knew Martin Fenwick, I think.'
'Yees.' Rather reluctantly.
'Well, I was with him when he died…'
'Why didn't you stop it?' Sharply.
'I would have if I could, believe me. Now, you wrote to Mrs Fenwick about a book – right?'
'Why? Why do you ask?'
'I might be able to help you. What book were you talking about?'
'I didn't send him any book.'
I laid off to consider that. It sounded like a lie, though four hundred miles of telephone wire don't make these things easy. But if hehad sent the book, what did that mean?
I asked, 'Well, where did he get it from, then?'
'I don't know. I don't think I want to talk to you any more.'
'Now hold on. I may have the book. What one were you asking Mrs Fenwick about?'
I had the problem that must sometimes occur to people who ride alligators for a living: who's in charge around here? Steen sounded scared, but what of? Did I have some hold over him or was 1 begging from him? It helps to know these things.
I said, 'Who does it legally belong to, then?'
'The owners, of course.' Andthat was a power of help, too.
'Do you want it back, then?'
'It doesn't matter. I am stopping now.' And stop he did. Suddenly I was just sitting there staring at a humming phone and my left hand actually hurting, I was clutching so hard.
So I said, 'Damn, damn, damn.' Then I said, 'But don't think that you have seen the last of James Card. There is no mountain high enough, no sea deep enough, to hide you from my relentless pursuit. Unless it costs too much, of course.'
I put the phone down and immediately it started to ring, which always startles me. I had a brief wild idea it might be Steen ringing to Tell Me All, but it wasn't, of course.
'I say,' the voice said. 'It's Willie Winslow, you know? I've been trying to ring you for ages.'
'Sorry.'
'I had a chat with young David after you'd left. I see now why you were asking all those questions. I rather apologise, you know.'
'That's okay – I knew I was sounding snoopy. Well, are you joining the Classical Remove Hell's Angels?'
'Am I…? Oh, I see. Yes, rather. I mean, I think you're doing just the right thing. Anything I can do to help? – I'd like to pay my share, you know.'
'Well, if you feel like helping finance a trip to Norway. Bergen. Did David tell you about this bloke Jonas Steen?'
'He sort of mentioned it.' Of course, Willie wouldn't be the sort to approve of grubbing through Mummy's wastebasket, either. The Lancers almost never do.
'I just rang him. He sounds shifty as hell and scared with it.' That was putting it a big strong, but it might help justify David's snoopery. 'He wouldn't tell me anything on the phone, but I'd rather like to go over and sort of lean on him, face to face.'
'Oh, yes, of course.' Then his feet suddenly cooled. 'I say, you won't do any of that I Corps stuff, will you? It might look bad if you landed in jail.'
Til try and control myself. By the way, you haven't heard of him before, have you? He's a marine surveyor, whatever that is.'
'David told me. No, I don't think I know him… surveyors sort of value ships, you know? – and tell you what needs doing or what damage has been done. Very important in insurance, of course.'
'That would be how Fenwick knew him? '
T suppose, probably. I say, what was that about a book or something?'
'I was going to ask you. Ithink he sent Fenwick some book. Ithink it was what Fenwick was taking to Arras. So Ithink it was what got him killed. Now – have you got any idea what it might be?'
There was a sort of silence with Willie making er and um noises, probably wondering how in hell you answeredthat. But he might just have had some inspiration; who was it said the only truly silly question is the one you don't ask?
What he actually came up with was, 'Just can't imagine, old boy. I suppose that's what you'll be asking him?'
'Among other things. Meantime, you might check up and see if there's anything in the syndicate's files that mentions Steen.'
Til do that on Monday.'
'And you might try leaning on Mockby and asking him what it's all about. He knows a lot more than we do.'
That was different; Willie found a whole new stock of ers and urns, then said, 'Yes, of course. I'll… The trouble is, he always looks at you as if you were a bloody fool and then explains things so that you don't understand them any better anyway.'
'Well, he won't tellme and I don't suppose we can get David to ask him, can we?' A slightly dirty crack, but I wanted results.
'Oh, no, of course. Well, I'll see what I can do – you know?'
Getting determination into Willie was like fitting shoes on to a snake. And you can try for only so long.
I sighed and said, 'I'll keep in touch. Any idea about boats to Bergen at this time of year?'
He tried to explain about aeroplanes and I tried to explain about aspects of aeroplanes I didn't like, such as getting searched and having a pistol found on you, particularly since some goon had hijacked a plane on a Scandinavian flight only last week and they'd still be hopping, skipping, and jumping about it. Perhaps he didn't get the exact point, but at least he recalled that the Bergen Line ran an overnight service from Newcastle on various days including possibly Monday. 'Do you know Norway?' he added.
'Never been there,' though it was about the one NATO country I hadn't managed to visit in the Army.
'Try the Norge hotel. And their buffet lunches.'
Then he gave me his number – out in Berkshire – and assured me his mother would take any messages if he wasn't around (somehow I'd already decided Willie wasn't married, although he'd never quite said so) and we rang off.
I mixed one last Scotch and soda before taking the mind-bursting decision about what to eat for dinner, and drifted over to the window. The faithful green Morris 1300 was still there, glinting faintly in the street lighting. I wondered if he liked ocean travel.
Fifteen
As it turned out, he did.
Probably I could have shaken him on the way to King's Cross that Monday morning, but now I was curious about how far he'd go. So I just called a taxi and he stuck behind it all the way to the station. I couldn't be sure he'd caught the train because I still didn't know what he looked like. I'd know soon enough, though. I settled down with a small guide-book on Norwegian mountains, morals, and prices. All seemed high.
Sunday I'd spent drip-drying my shirt collection, writing to David to tell him when I expected to have some news, and leaving a message at Dave Tanner's – they were big enough to keep a twenty-four-hour phone watch – saying Sorry but have to go to Norway. The Norway bit was pure swank: I just didn't want him thinking of me as small-time and priced to match.
At about noon I went along to the buffet car and drank a beer that came at blood temperature and gnawed on a sausage roll that looked as if it were travelling on a season ticket. Then I just leaned against the counter and stared at the steamed-up window, which was an improvement on what you can see without the steam on that line. Peterborough, Grantham, Retford, Darlington – that's no Golden Road, and Newcastle itself isn't Samarkand when you get there.
I took my time getting off and into the taxi queue, which was the one place where my shadow – if he'd caught the train – justhad to be the bloke right behind me. What I got was smallish, middle-aged, with a blunt reddish face, thin hair, and no interest in me at all. His clothes were just clothes: a thin overcoat in grey check, a mud-coloured suit, a solid old briefcase.
I didn't give him any help by shouting out, 'Bergen Line Terminal' to my driver or anything like that: I waited and saw. And the next taxi stayed right behind us all the way out of town – I hadn't realised how far the docks were – so h
e must have had more luck with the driver than I ever do. The few times I've had to say, 'Follow that car,' they always tell me I've been watching too much TV.
But we were alone by the time we reached the terminal -though that was likely on purpose, by then.
I got a first-class cabin without any trouble, but boarding didn't start until three o'clock. So I roosted in the terminal bar and caught up with the day's newspapers. At half past two my new-found friend came in, carrying a second-hand (I guessed) suitcase. So he'd been doing a little telephoning and shopping; he couldn't have been authorised in advance to catch boats to anywhere, even if he had the sense always to carry his passport.
The ship was the Jupiter, a nice enough modern job a bit bigger than the cross-Channel steamers. My cabin was on the inside – no port-hole – and that apart. it was just a cabin with a bed and dressing-table and tiny bathroom, exactly what was needed and as memorable as a slice of bread and butter when you happen to need that.
I did a little unpacking and then went for a general snoop -carrying Bertie Bear in a big envelope. I'd brought it along just to see if it was the size of thing Steen meant, but now it might have a second use.
We sailed at five o'clock and when we were ten feet from the shore they opened the bar. The ship was far from full, and about half the other passengers seemed to be a ballet company: all tight trousers and thick sweaters and heavy make-up and voices that could strip paint at fifteen paces.
After half an hour my new friend came in and bought a beer and I started my Bertie Bear act. It involved just leaving the envelope where somebody like the barman would need to move it, then snatching it away before he could lay a finger on it. I did this twice, then felt I was risking overplaying the scene, so I just hugged it to me like an autographed copy of the Bible.
I played the same game at dinner, but after that the timing got tricky. On the boat, he didn't have to follow me around; in fact, he could have stayed in his cabin the whole voyage and not lost me – if that was all he wanted. I hoped he wanted a little more by now, but I couldn't always tell just where he was. Anyhow, after dinner I spent half an hour in my cabin, then went along to another, smaller, bar by the swimming pool just at the end of my corridor. Bertie stayed under my pillow.
I nibbled my way through two Scotches and was ordering the third when he caught up with me again. He paused, smiled at the barman, gave the place a careful look – just as if he were merely exploring – and headed down my corridor.
I let him have a minute and a half.
The cabin doors don't lock except from the inside. I tried mine – gently, gently – and it was locked. I waited; he daren't stay long. And I prayed the corridor would be empty when he came up for air.
It was. He was back inside against the far wall and with the door locked again before he could say a word, though maybe that was because he had the derringer's two barrels up against his teeth.
I held him pinned there for a moment, then counted, 'And one, and two, and three…' and pulled back the hammer. His face went dead white and he started to shiver. I reached into his inside pocket and started tossing stuff down on to the bed.
'Who are you working for?' I asked pleasantly.
'I got to sit down,' he croaked.
'Who are you working for? '
'I shall be sick.'
'Be sick. Who are you working for?'
By now I had all the paperwork from all his pockets. He wasn't armed, unless you count a small penknife, and he wasn't going to kick or swing at me. His arms and legs were quite busy enough just trembling.
'Who are you working for?'
"Herb Harris.'
'Ah. And who'she working for?'
He just folded up. On the way down he grabbed a chair and got most of himself into it, then hung there, panting.
I backed off and sorted through his belongings. His name was Arthur Draper and his passport just said 'salesman', but he had calling cards and a phone-credit card for the Harris Enquiry Agency. He hadn't stolen anything of mine, not that I could find.
Me and the gun sat and watched him. Gradually his breathing slowed down, he got a bit of colour back, and his trembling faded into nervous fiddling movements with his hands. The moment had gone, now – the loss of identity and will that goes with capture and makes it the best time for interrogation. If I reached him now, it would have to be another way.
'Where did you park the green thirteen hundred?' I asked.
He just looked at me emptily, and his hands plucked at his jacket.
'Should take more care of a hired car,' I told him. 'Herb won't like it. Who are you working for, by the way?'
'Get stuffed.'
'You're in no position to say things like that, mate. It's a big jungle and you took a wrong turning. Now…?'
'You think I'm going to tell you?' He was getting back a bit of confidence; his hands were almost still.
'Oh, yes.' I stood up.
'You won't use that gun.'
'Probably not.' I went over to my suitcase and kicked open the lid and scooped some clothes out on to the floor.
'You can't exactly torture me.' But he sounded puzzled.
'Nope.' I opened the drawers in the little dressing-table.
'So why should I tell you? '
I ripped open my bed and tossed the Bertie Bear book over by the suitcase. 'Because if you don't you're going slam into a Norwegian jail for breaking and entering on the high seas and carrying a gun. Look at the mess you've made of this cabin.'
He went flat pale again. 'I haven't got a gun.'
'You will have, friend. It isn't licenced to me, and youare in my cabin, and youdid search it, and you're a private eye who might have romantic ideas about carting a gun around. It just fits – it sounds right. And it gets you off my back. What do I lose?'
I propped myself on the wall by the steward's call button and held up my wristwatch and stared at it: He lasted fourteen more seconds.
'Miss Mackwood.'
I met him again next morning, in the cafeteria. I'd got up too late for the real breakfast, but I obviously hadn't missed much else: that particular piece of North Sea was cold, misty, and wet. Above the surface as well, I mean.
I was sitting over my third cup of coffee and trying not to hear the ballet troupe telling itself how much it had drunk last night and who'd spent how long in whose cabin when Draper dumped himself down opposite. He looked pink and cheery, although he hadn't changed his shirt, and was smoking a long thin cigar that smelt like diesel fumes. Unless it was his shirt.
'I've been thinking,' he told me. 'Right now you can't do a thing to me. I'm not in your cabin, you can't plant a gun on me – I'm fireproof. But you're not.'
'You've been thinking,' I said sourly. 'You want to lay off that stuff. Stunts your growth.'
'All right, Mister Big Time. All I have to do is call an officer and tell him you're wearing a gun. Him or the Customs when we get ashore. So why don't I do it?'
He looked as if he really wanted to know. I said, 'Because it's outside your brief and because all I have to do is tell Herb Harris how much you've told me and you're an unemployment statistic by return of post.'
He took a bite of smoke the wrong way and choked privately for a little while. When he'd finished, I said, 'I'll be staying at the Norge, if I can get a room, so there's no reason to tread on my heels. I'll spend the afternoon talking to people or perhaps something else. Come see me this evening and I'll tell you what I've done, or perhaps I won't.'
He glowered at me, his eyes thick with tears. But he was screwed and he knew it; there was no way in the world for him to follow me if I didn't want to be followed, so he might as well save his time and money.
'And give my love to Miss Mackwood,' I added.
Sixteen
We arrived in Bergen by the servants' entrance. Probably I'd expected to come up some great sheer-sided fjord out of a Daumier engraving, but I must have been thinking of a different season or place or something. What I g
ot was twenty miles of low, humpy green islands on one side and low, humpy green land on the other, dotted with houses and oil tanks, then a right turn and into Bergen harbour itself.
Also, it was raining. Not just casually, as if it were something it did every second day there – which is what the guide-book says – but as if this were the first and last time in years and it was going to get it right.
We docked just after midday, and I hung back, hoping the rain would get tired. It didn't. So at about half past I was out through the terminal and last in line for a taxi. But at least there wasn't any trouble getting a room at the Norge when I finally arrived. It was a modern building, seven or eight storeys high, with the town's air terminal occupying one corner at street level and a vast lobby occupying most of the rest – in contradiction to Hilton's First Law: keep the lobby small so anybody waiting gets squeezed out into the nice big cocktail bar and has to spend money.
It was also pricy, but a good hotel's an investment, I always tell my clients. They don't lose your mail or forget telephone messages, they fix your tickets in a hurry, they don't care what hours you keep.
Upstairs, I changed most of my clothes, hung my sheepskin on the radiator, took a duty-fret swig from the bottle I'd bought on the Jupiter, and rang Jonas Steen. I wasn't worried about him being out to lunch: according to the guide-book, Norwegians eat sandwiches at their desks but then knock off for the day at four or earlier. Anyhow, whatever he was or wasn't eating, Steen was still at his desk.
'James Card again,' I said cheerily. 'I rang you on Saturday, remember? Now I've come over to see you; just got off the boat. How're you keeping?'
'I do not want to see you. I told you that.'
'I know, but I didn't think you sounded totally sincere. Can I come round now?'