Blame The Dead

by Gavin Lyall

  Draper picked up the worn cigar from the ashtray and took out a lighter and – finally – tried to light it. It took time, since it was mostly Havana Saliva by now, but he wasn't in any hurry. Finally he said, 'You've told the police and done all the unsporting things like that, eh, Major?'

  'Oh, yes. I imagine it's in the evening paper and on the radio and so on. You could ask the waiter.' Was I really going to scrape the inside of the lobster's tail completely clean? No – let it rest in peace. 'What I was thinking was – I think I've got a date with the blokes that did it, later on this evening. Could be the same ones that killed Fenwick, as well. I just wondered if you'd like to come along and help out? '

  Twenty-one

  Ireached Willie soon after ten, and I didn't waste any of his money on idle chat. 'Steen was murdered before I reached him.'

  'Good God! How did it-'

  'Never mind. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow – if the police let me leave.'

  'I say – you haven't got yourself-'

  'No, I haven't. Just routine. Now: have you found out anything about him?'

  'Oh, yes. Well, something. He's a sort of Lloyd's sub-agent, done quite a lot of survey work on claims for us when the usual chap there isn't available."

  'Specifically for your syndicate? '

  'It doesn't work quite that way… but I did a list of the ships he surveyed where we were involved. Over the last three years that was the Gefjon, Bergen Wayfarer, Skadi, Runic Queen, Idun. Those five.'

  'Is any one of them special? I've found out that Steen sent Fenwick some sort of evidence about a shipping claim – that's the book-thing he was supposed to be taking to France.'

  The line hummed and crackled to itself for a time. Then Willie said slowly, 'Well, each one's special in its own way. Insurance deals with the exceptional – that's what it's all about, what?'

  'I suppose so.' I wanted to tell him about Maggie Mackwood and Draper, and about my appointment for later on – but if I were Inspector (First Class) Vik I'd have a copper with a tape-recorder down in the switchboard keeping an ear on James Card.

  But at least I could ask, 'Does the name Gulbrandsen or Gulbrandsens mean anything to you?'

  He automatically corrected my pronunciation, but he couldn't do any more.

  'H and Thornton – doesthat mean anything?'

  'What is it?'

  'Don't know. Could be two blokes or a firm or what."

  'I haven't heard of it. Sorry, old boy.'

  'Never mind. Just keep the great brain bent on it and ring me if anything occurs to you. But with a bit of luck I'll learn a bit more tonight. I'll probably be home tomorrow – okay?'

  And now it was time to go and meet Draper.

  He'd been a pretty reluctant conscript – but wars are won by them. Probably it was only a feeling of guilt about the cock-up he'd made of following me plus the promise of a gun that had recruited him. Either way, it was far safer for him to go snooping in the Fontenen's cistern; it could still have a blight of policemen who might know me by sight.

  We met in the Norge's basement lavatory – just in case. He took a careful look over my shoulder, just to make sure, and hissed, 'You bleeding git! The bleeding place shut a bleeding hour ago!'

  No guns.

  'Hold on.' I grabbed his arm as he started around me for the door.

  'Get away,' he snarled. 'I'm not going out to play funny-buggers in the park without some protection, and you can tell Herb and the ABD and the House of bleeding Lords, too.'

  'Stop panicking, you're making yourself conspicuous.' That hushed him – although there wasn't anybody else there to be conspicuous to. 'Look – you don't have to be involved, you can be an innocent bystander as long as you like. I just want you there as a witness… for if I don't get back.'

  'Sing it again-I only cried out of one eye that time.'

  I took a deep breath. 'So screw you, Draper. You're only hired; I really want to know about these people. For once they've stuck their necks out, made a date. I'm keeping it.'

  'Oh my God,' he said slowly. 'How did the First World War ever get on without you?' Long pause. 'All right, then.'

  But that didn't solve the weapons problem; Draper might be mug enough to walk into trouble stark naked, but I certainly wasn't. Room Service had just closed down and the Grill was shut – so I couldn't get myself issued with a steak knife. There wouldn't be any shops open at this time – or would there?

  I asked at the desk. The clerk looked politely surprised, thought about it, shrugged. 'I think only the tourist shop, sir.'

  'Where's that?'

  He pointed at the corner. 'By the air terminal, sir.'

  'What do they sell there?'

  'Souvenirs, sir. Sweaters for skiing, beer mugs, little figures of trolls, paper knives-'

  'Thankyou.'

  I was round there three seconds later. The shop-girl was just closing up, but didn't mind waiting an extra couple of minutes. I pretended to take my time, but there was really only a choice between a longish stiletto-shaped paper-knife and a short, sharp reindeer-horn-handle 'hunting' knife in a cute little fur sheath. In the end I took the sheath job; for all its fancy looks, it was four inches of real sharp steel – and lungs aren't four inches behind your ribs.

  I was ready for a stroll in the Park.

  Twenty-two

  Outside, the night was full of thick, soggy snowflakes that drifted prettily in the lamplight and splattered into ice water the moment they touched you. I turned up my fur collar, shoved my chin down into it, and headed for the Park.

  According to the map, it was at the end of the street, the street itself being the Ole Bull's Plass, and Ole himself – to judge from the statue – had been a violinist or maybe composer. I mean, how do you do a statue of a composer anyway? Have him looking soulfully upwards and he could have been the man who discovered meteorology or the eighth deadly sin, and we all know they composed on pianos anyhow. But show me a town council that can afford a statue of that.

  It was a good, wide street lined with big student cafés that looked warm and safe behind the steamed-up windows, and only me outside. A couple of motor-cycle cops, with little green lamps besides their headlights, paused to give me suspicious glances, and then zoomed away ahead. I slowed down so as not to lose Draper. He was supposed to be following me to make sure nobody else did.

  The Park – again according to the map – was a square job mostly filled with an artificial lake, but touching on main roads at every corner. That would be why they'd chosen it, of course: a selection of getaways if I happened to bring the Riot Squad with me. Though if the snow got any thicker that wouldn't mean much. And it was thickening, all right.

  I waited at the main road before the Park itself, and Draper wandered up, shook his head without looking at me, and went ahead into the billowing curtains of snow ahead. I followed slower. The lights of the town faded behind me and the snowflakes went from silver-white to a vague grey to invisible wet fingerprints in the darkness.

  The timing was tricky. I wanted Draper arriving at the rendezvous about a minute after I did, and from the opposite direction; they might expect somebody to be following me, but I hoped they wouldn't think of a collision course. To get there, he'd have to walk all around the lake, but the exercise would do him good.

  I found the lake myself by almost tripping over a low iron railing; beyond it was a slope of snow-speckled grass and then the glint of black water. I turned right and slowly followed the path around. Now I was really alone, just me and the Whirling snow like dead kisses on my face and dribbling icily down my neck. I'd done ten paces-and twenty-and thirty…

  A figure, waiting, loomed up ahead; just a dark shape with an odd blurriness to the face. I stopped and something poked into my back.

  A voice said, 'Hands high, please.' Then, over my shoulder to the first shape. 'He's clear; nobody following.'

  I held the Bertie Bear envelope high in my right hand and stared at the vague figure in front whil
e other hands explored my clothes.

  'Do you bring your nylon stockings all the way from London, or do you find the Norwegian ones do just as well?'

  'Shut up, Card.' Then, more relaxed, 'No gun, friend? Are you slipping or learning?'

  'I'm just running out of them.'

  He chuckled into the back of my neck. 'All right, I'll take it now.'

  'Hold on. I want some sort of guarantee that I'm in the clear with the police.'

  'I told you that's bloody nonsense. Hand it over.' Yes, I was sure I knew that voice.

  'You'll get me into trouble, losing this.'

  'Don't worry, chummie. You'll never hear of it again. Now -give!'

  I'd stalled as long as I could; wherever Draper was, I had to act now or for ever hold my peace. I lowered my right hand slowly; the knife was already in my palm, the blade hidden inside the envelope. I twitched it; the envelope fell off and he instinctively ducked to catch it. I whipped around.

  There were a stocking-masked face and a gun – but it had wandered off its aim. I slashed for it; the knife bounced off metal, sliced flesh, and stopped on bone.

  He screamed and threw himself away from me – but didn't drop the gun. Instead, the torn envelope finally ripped wide open and Bertie Bear came bouncing free.

  I jumped, trying to smother that gun hand, and he kicked as he fell and got me on the knee.

  Behind me, another pistol exploded, close enough to light the snowflakes in the air around me. The man on the ground yelled,'Don't kill him!'

  I turned as fast as I could, but when I saw the gun it was already swinging. I did the only thing left – tried to throw my head in the direction it was about to be thrown anyhow. But it caught me just above the right ear and I tripped on the railing and did half a cartwheel down the snowy grass bank and ended spread on my face just short of the lake.

  And there I let things rest for a bit.

  My vision seemed shattered, actually busted like a mirror so that I saw several versions of anything I looked at. Dimly, I knew the man who'd thumped me was staring at me. Then helping up the one with the cut hand. Then picking up something. And then both of them watching me for a while, and finally vanishing behind the snow.

  They must have said something, too, but something else inside my head was screaming far too loud for any outside noise to get in.

  I stared at my hand, flat on the grass ahead of me, and gradually all the versions of it faded into one. The sounds inside my head localised themselves to just above my right ear, and when I touched it, there was already a solid lump. But no stickiness, thank God.

  About then, Draper appeared above me. 'Are you all right?'

  'Of course I'm not bloody all right!' I said through clenched teeth. 'And where were you when the world ended?'

  'Watching it. You did all right, Major.' He helped me on to my feet, or thereabouts.

  I brushedon some of the snow on my jacket, looked around, and found the knife. It had blood on the tip, which was about all we seemed to have achieved; at a guess, that hand would hurt a lot longer than my head would. Should I tell Vik to watch the hospitals for a man with a cut right hand? And have Vik ask why I was carrying the knife on his patch, and why I hadn't told him about the meeting, and why I could be blackmailed into it… Hell, a professional like that would never go near a hospital.

  'Well, that wasn't really worth staying up late for, was it?' I said bitterly. 'I hops you didn't get too cold or wet or anything frightful like that?'

  'Don't say such things, Major. He had a gun, that's why I didn't come out. He'd've recognised me.'

  It took a long time for the message to find an unoccupied brain cell. 'You mean you recognised one ofthem? In that mask?'

  'I'd know that voice anywhere. He worked for Herb for a couple of years. Pat Kavanagh, that was.'

  Twenty-three

  The phone woke me.

  I'd put myself and my headache to bed with a sleeping pill washed down by Scotch, and now I had that dispersed feeling a drugged hangover gives; it took a long time to find and fit together, more or less, my body, soul, and, more or less, mind. Then I dropped the receiver on the floor and had to grope for it head down, which wasn't a good idea.

  'I told you not to wake me,' I gurgled.

  '1told them to wake you,' Inspector Vik said.

  'What time is it?'

  'Nearly ten o'clock. If you want to bea good detective you must first learn to get up in the morning. I am coming to see you, so please stay there.'

  'Hell.'

  'Did you know there is a town in Norway called Hell? All tourists go to it to send postcards home.'

  'Thanks. Now get off the line so I can ring for some coffee.'

  'Two cups, if you please.'

  He rang off and I got Room Service and ordered coffee for two and a couple of eggs done any way they pleased, I just wasn't up to such mind-bending decisions yet. Oh – and any morning papers in Norwegian, too.

  The eggs arrived rather hard-boiled, which wasn't anybody's fault but mine, along with a couple of papers. I didn't understand a word, but I found the Steen story in both. My name included.

  Then I had to get out of bed and let Vik in. He was wearing a different suit – dark blue, this time – but which still looked as if he'd slept in it and had a restless night besides. Plus the same overcoat.

  I waved my hand at the coffee and left him to it. Halfway through pouring, he caught sight of the papers. 'Do you understand Norwegian?'

  'No. It's so's you can read the story to me. Or pay for your own coffee.'

  He smiled bleakly and a bit gummily – the cold was still with him – then leaned against the radiator, sipped his coffee, and started reading, 'er… last night there was… er… shot to death Jonas Steen, aged thirty-seven… er, a ship surveyor…'

  And so it went on, simple and factual but, even in translation, sounding a little uncertain, like a man unwrapping an unexpected parcel. It obviously wasn't the sort of crime Bergen was used to.

  I drank coffee and nibbled various sorts of bread and only listened properly when he said, 'The police are searching for a… er, twenty-two pistol…'

  So the boys would now know the Mauser had got away and there wasn't any point in trying to lean on me about it any more. That's all I'd been trying to find out, but I had to look interested right to the end.

  When he'd finished he half folded the paper and tossed it on to the bed. 'And now the other one, perhaps?'

  'No, thanks.' Then I added quickly, 'Not unless it tells me more about Steen.'

  He shrugged and reached for the coffee-pot. 'Nothing much.'

  'So – how's it going?'

  'It is over.'

  I spilled coffee into the saucer and the cup wasn't even half full. 'It's w/tat? Have you caught somebody?'

  He shrugged again. 'You might say.'

  He stared damply at me for a good long time before saying, 'Henrick Lie. We know him. Not a nice person. He knew Steen already, it seems.'

  'How d'you know it was him?'

  'He has confessed.'

  'Do you believe him?'

  'The superintendent believes him.'

  'He could change his mind.'

  'Which? – but it does not matter. Neither of them ever will.'

  I suppose I was still a bit dozy from the alcohol and pill and too much of my thinking was concentrated just above my right ear, but it finally sank in. 'You mean Lie's dead?'

  'With a nine-millimetre, through the mouth.' – And on through the back of the head, taking a lot of the head and brain with it and the gun often recoiling clear out of the fast-dying hand and ending up several feet away. The classic pistol suicide, as simple and formal as a cheque. And faked about as often.

  After a while, I asked, 'And when did all this happen?'

  'He was found at perhaps six o'clock this morning in a car near the Nordnesparken.'

  'And I suppose all the fingerprints and powder-stains are in the right places and the handwriting on
the confession's the real thing?'

  He nodded gently. 'The writing we do not know about yet. But I think it will be right.'

  'I bet it will.'

  'You know a lot about gunshot suicide.'

  'I was sixteen years in the Army.'

  'Ah, yes.'

  'And so? – what did he say? What about Steen?'

  He took out a fistful of soggy Kleenex, selected the driest corner, and blew his nose powerfully. 'It is a secret document until thelikskue – the inquest.'

  'For Christ's sake.'

  'It is not my decision. But have you toldme everything?'

  I didn't have an answer to that, so I said, 'But you aren't going to let it lay, are you? He wasn't in it alone.'

  'We have a confession. The superintendent has decided. So, now we need not trouble with your mysteries. You are free, you can go at any time, anywhere. You could even go to Hell.'

  1 got up slowly and stiffly – I'd pulled a few muscles taking the count last night – and took a shower, a shave, and a look in the mirror. My face looked slack and my eyes bloodshot.but at least the bump above my ear didn't show unless you were looking for it. I'd rather have that than Kavanagh's hand.

  Not that it had stopped him doing some fast thinking and ruthless improvisation, if Lie's 'suicide' had been his idea. That certainly couldn't have been planned ahead, not if they originally counted on implicating me in Steen's death. But once that had fallen through, the suicide had done the next best thing: stopped the police investigation cold in the simplest possible way. Ideas that simply scare the hell out of me, and I don't mean the town.

  Draper rang at half past ten, mostly to say goodbye; he was catching the afternoon plane. I told him I expected to catch it myself and his lack of enthusiasm was almost tangible. I think he regarded me as a bad influence. So I asked about Maggie and he said she was probably staying on a while, but he didn't know why. Neither did I.

  I was out on the street just before eleven. Last night's snow hadn't settled, and for the moment it wasn't even raining, so the town was just damp, not really wet. I drifted towards the north harbour, looking in shop windows until I was certainÌwas alone. Then straight to the Fontenen.