The Labyrinth Makers dda-1

by Anthony Price

  'And his credit?'

  'That's rather hard to say. The business seems sound enough. But in a small way, and he's a big spender–runs an "E" registration Jaguar, drinks a fair bit. Girl friend in Harrogate, and an expensive one, according to rumour. The same source says that's why the business hasn't expanded: never enough loose money in the kitty.'

  Audley felt better now, so much so that he began to regret pushing Richardson. Tierney's nerves would be in middling shape, his sense of public responsibility non-existent and his greed unlimited. That had been the original assessment of him, and it was always reassuring to find leopards with all their original spots in place.

  He smiled at them both, wondering as he did so what Faith made of her father's choice of a right-hand man.

  'That's well done,' he said. 'You must have sunk a few beers to get that lot.'

  Richardson grimaced. 'They all drink whisky in Tierney's circles. It was touch and go at the end whether they were going to tell me about him or I was going to tell them about me! And it's cost the nation a fortune.'

  A few minutes later Audley added to that cost with a reversed call to the department. Mercifully the hotel's public telephone was dummy4

  located in an enclosed sentry box of dark varnished wood, with additional privacy provided by a giant plant which flourished aggressively beside it.

  Extension 28 eventually brought him Stocker, as he had expected.

  For the time being, and perhaps permanently, Fred was no more than a friend at court. And at this time of a Sunday morning he would be only just leaving the church he so dutifully attended.

  But Stocker beamed insincerely at him down the phone.

  'David!'–So he had ceased to be Audley at some point in the last twenty-four hours–'I'm glad you were able to get through to me so soon'–was there a reprimand there?–'I gather you know all about G

  Tower?'

  At least he wasn't prevaricating.

  'I do–yes.'

  'You must tell me about your private network some time. It appears to have the virtue of efficiency.'

  Audley grunted non-commitally. That would be the day.

  'And I gather you have also heard about the missing Trojan antiquities.'

  It was a statement, not a question. Audley gloated briefly over the vision of Sir Kenneth Allen's reaction at being disturbed twice in one evening to answer the same question.

  'You consider it likely that that was Steerforth's cargo?'

  'I'm reasonably certain it was.'

  'You have corroborative evidence? From the daughter?'

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  Roskill was reporting back everything to Stocker, for no one else had known about Faith until that morning. But it was only to be expected. If he was dealing with someone as awkward as himself he would have done no less.

  'Yes.'

  'Good. And you consider her involvement in the next stage necessary?'

  'I think it may be essential.' Fred had become resigned to monosyllabic answers until he was ready with a full report, but it would be too much to expect the same of Stocker, Audley warned himself. He was already forgetting the tactical errors which had got him into this mess in the first place.

  'I don't think Roskill and Butler will get anything out of Tierney,'

  he elaborated. 'Not unless we let them lean on him hard, and probably not even then. So I'm going to try a different approach and Miss Jones will be my–my passport.'

  'Proof of your mala fides! I see! And is she a chip off the old block?'

  Audley found the suggestion that Faith had inherited anything from her father except that physical resemblance oddly distasteful.

  'Not in the least. But she's an intelligent young woman, and she wants to help.'

  'Very well–I leave her to your discretion. Now about last night's business. Your three visitors.'

  'They put–devices in the cars and they may have bugged the house.'

  'They did bug the house. I received an interim report half an hour dummy4

  ago. They're still looking.'

  Audley loathed asking questions of his nominal superiors. Apart from their reluctance to give straight answers, which provided him only with negative intelligence, it suggested incompetence on his own part. But he had been pitchforked into this puzzle at such short notice that it would be folly to pretend that he understood what he was about.

  'I don't understand why they did it,' he admitted. 'I can't see why it's so important. And I can't see why a man like Panin has involved himself personally in it. I take it we've offered him full co-operation?'

  'We have–yes.'

  'In that case there must be something I don't know about.'

  'I give you my word, David–for what it's worth–that we know no more than you do. Probably less, on your past form. Panin is a man with very little past, a big present and an even bigger future. We'd like to know more about him, and this is a great opportunity. We don't want to offend him if we can help it, either!'

  Nothing had changed since yesterday.

  'I think you should at least admit the possibility, Dr Audley, that he simply wants to recover the Trojan antiquities. He's an archaeologist. He lost them in the first place –and that probably rankles. He's on holiday, too. On his own time, as it were. Taking precautions could be second nature with him. All we can do is to find those boxes for him, show him the sights and send him home happy.'

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  Audley felt his irritability returning as he retraced his way to Richardson's room. Stocker must know something else, but he wasn't going to divulge it, even in answer to a direct appeal. It must therefore be a matter of high policy, something relating to the official attitude to Panin, rather than to the Steerforth aspect. All he could do was to obey orders without fully understanding them–

  which might suit the field operatives, but didn't suit him at all.

  Roskill's large feet propped on the end of Richardson's bed were the first thing he saw. Richardson himself was still stationed by the window; Faith sat in the only comfortable chair and Butler was perched on a stool next to the wash-stand. The overall effect almost restored his spirits: crammed suspiciously into this little room they generated an atmosphere of conspiracy strong enough to set all the bank alarms in sleepy Knaresborough ringing.

  He caught Roskill's eye and saw disconcertingly that his thoughts were being read and shared. And there was a slow smile spreading across Faith's face. In another second this council of war would slip into farce while he was still searching for the right words to bring it to order.

  Butler saved him: 'You were right about Tierney, Dr Audley. You said we'd get nothing from him, and nothing is exactly what we got.'

  Roskill swung upright on the bed.

  'Master Tierney's memory is very poor. He remembers exactly what's in his little blue log book–which he still has, incidentally.

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  No more, no less. Twenty-four years is a great healer for him. All his harrowing experiences have faded into nothing. He wishes he could help us, but he can't.'

  'I prodded him on Steerforth,' Butler took up the narrative again.

  'Said we had reason to believe that he was bringing in contraband goods and warned him about certain non-existent regulations. He didn't quite laugh at me, but he obviously knows we can't touch him.'

  'Major Butler put on his sergeant-major act,' said Roskill. Then he went to get the car and I told Tierney what a rude bastard Butler was, and how nasty he could get, and how I could smooth things over if he'd just give us a little help. He didn't laugh at me either–

  but he wanted to.'

  'I expect he recognised the technique,' said Richardson. 'He's been through the mill more than once up here. He's a Fifth Amendment man.'

  'I don't think I'd buy my TV set from him, certainly,' said Roskill.

  'He's not a man who inspires my confidence.'

  Butler snorted. 'The set would be all right. It would be the small print of the maintenance ag
reement you'd have to read carefully.'

  Somewhere in the hotel a clock began to chime. It was midday and Audley was abominably hungry already as a result of a sketchy breakfast and a barbarously early start to the day. But there was still work to be done and he nerved himself to organise everyone.

  'What does Tierney do for his Sunday lunch?' he asked Richardson.

  'Drinks it at a flashy pub down the road.'

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  'Right. Miss Jones and I will approach him there. Then we'll take Maclean.' He glanced down at the list from Roskill's file. 'I see there are only two of the ground crew short-listed. Where are the other two?'

  'One died in '54–natural causes. The other emigrated in '50–

  Australia.'

  'You and Butler can split the others then. I'll see you both tomorrow at 9. I'll be at the Bull, Newton Chester.'

  'And the Pole, Wojek?'

  'Monday evening for him–if we have time. I'd like to see Wojek myself. One of you can phone him and make an appointment–say I'm writing a history of Polish aircrew in the RAF.'

  Richardson broke in suddenly, beckoning him to the window.

  'He's coming out.'

  Audley moved beside him, following his gaze. Time had accentuated that distinctive ferrety face. The slope of the forehead and the receding chin had not been so apparent in the photograph; buck teeth for gnawing, long nose for sniffing, separated by the same slightly ridiculous toothbrush moustache. The nose was sniffing now as Tierney stood in his doorway quartering the view nervously with the abrupt little movements of the head of an animal in a hostile environment.

  It would be awkward if Tierney didn't follow his Sunday routine now. But for all his coolness with Roskill and Butler he'd probably need the reassurance of the pub more than usual.

  'Come on Faith,' he said quickly. 'Time for us now!' In a final dummy4

  flurry of decision-making he took the Rover's keys and location from Butler and adjured Richardson to continue covering Tierney.

  By taking the car he was leaving them a transport problem, but that was their headache.

  By the time they reached the street Tierney was a small figure in the distance. But the need for speed was all to the good: Faith had not shown the least sign of nerves so far. She had evidently repaired her make-up while he had been phoning Stocker, and still presented a cool, almost cold, front to the world–the tinted glasses lent her face something of the haughtiness it had without them. The less time she had to think, the less chance there was that the mask would slip.

  Tierney's pub was a perfect example of the tarted-up olde worlde style beloved of the breweries, all beams and padded red plastic and bar ablaze with light. The Sunday morning rush had not yet started and Tierney was alone at one end of the bar drinking whisky greedily.

  Audley ordered gin for Faith, filled up his own small whisky to the top with water and instructed the barman to fill up Tierney's glass.

  Tierney looked up sharply as the barman muttered to him. He had looked them over as they had entered, dismissing Audley but lingering over Faith. But now he was trying to place them both.

  He hesitated for a moment, sipping the drink as though to establish its genuineness. Then he sauntered over to their corner.

  'I don't think I've had the pleasure?'

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  His eyes shifted from Faith to Audley, and back to Faith as he spoke. Neither of them replied, but Faith carefully removed her glasses and stared up at him for a long moment.

  'Are you quite sure of that?' she said.

  A lot depended on Tierney's memory for faces, and it would still require a remarkable leap of the mind, even after this morning's reminder of things long past. But to Audley, knowing the answer, the resemblance was plainer than ever: she had somehow caught the tilt of the head which had been characteristic of her father's pictures.

  It was enough to shake Tierney, but he still failed to make the connection.

  'Steerforth is my name. Faith Steerforth. You haven't forgotten John Steerforth, have you?'

  'My God!' said Tierney.

  'Sit down, Mr Tierney,' said Audley. 'My name's Audley. We'd like to talk to you about old times.'

  Tierney tore his glance away from Faith. 'Old times?' He sat down, raised his glass to his lips and then abruptly set it down untasted.

  His alarm bells were ringing loud and clear.

  'Johnnie Steerforth's daughter! Damn me, but I can see it now.

  Margery Steerforth's baby!'

  'Margaret,' said Faith levelly.

  'Margaret–of course! How well I remember her!'

  Faith took a photograph from her handbag.

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  'Then you'll recognise her now. And of course you will recognise me with her, won't you!'

  Tierney studied the photograph.

  'That's good enough then,' cut in Audley. 'We can get on to those old times.'

  Tierney looked at him innocently. 'Funny you should be so keen on the old times. I had a couple of chaps asking me about them only this morning.'

  Audley leaned forward. 'Don't mess around with me, Tierney,' he said conversationally. 'I'm not Special Branch and I'm not playing old comrades in this crummy little town for fun. I'm here on business and if you're very lucky you'll be able to help me.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about.' Tierney picked up his drink and started to get up.

  Audley reached forward and put his hand casually on the man's leg just above the knee, squeezing powerfully with his thumb and forefinger. Tierney gave a little snort of pain and sat down again as the leg gave way, slopping some of his drink on to the table.

  Tierney looked from one to the other in a mixture of surprise and outrage. Possibly no one had ever done anything like that to him before, certainly not in a public place. Faith had put her glasses on again, and her face was closed behind them.

  Audley turned the relaxing squeeze into a gentle pat. Now he had to turn the outrage into fear.

  'That's better,' he said quietly. 'I wouldn't wish you to misunderstand me, like your little friend Morrison.'

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  'Morrison?'

  'Sergeant Morrison that was. Your look-out man. He didn't help us at all. So now he's not going to help anybody.'

  'Who the bloody hell are you?'

  It was not such an anguished cry as Morrison's had been. There was still a hint of fight about it. But this man lacked poor Morrison's years of blameless citizenship: he had no one to turn to.

  'I've told you my name. You don't know who I am, but I know very well who you are. You brought it here, but your share in it has lapsed. Miss Steerforth has her father's share and I have the rest.

  And I might throw you a bone or two.'

  Tierney drained his glass slowly, trying to charge his confidence at the same time. There was a sly look about him now, a compound of caution and greed brought to the surface by the prospect of profit.

  'I don't even know what it is–or was.'

  That could quite easily be true, thought Audley. Morrison hadn't known either. There was no real evidence that Steerforth intended to double-cross his own associates, but whether he did or not it would be a sensible precaution to keep them in the dark about the nature of the cargo.

  'We don't need you to tell us that. And if you did know it wouldn't matter. You haven't got the form to dispose of it, not in a million years.'

  Tierney smiled obsequiously and gestured to the glasses on the table. It was dawning on him that he might actually be in a dummy4

  bargaining position, and that thought was giving him confidence.

  'My round, I think!'

  Audley put the palm of his hand over Tierney's empty glass. Now was the precise time to demolish Tierney.

  'Nobody's round. I see that I still haven't made myself plain.

  Morrison's dead, Tierney. He stuck out his silly neck and it got broken. He was the victim of a tragic accident–I believe he fell down a flight of stairs. I wouldn't
like to think that you were accident-prone too.'

  Tierney sat very still, his slyness wiped from his face and his confidence draining away, leaving only a thick sediment of fear. If he knew anything about the jungle in which he was a petty scavenger, then he would also know thg,t there were fiercer predators in it, man-eaters some of them.

  'Who was your contact over here–the man you were going to cheat?'

  'My contact–our contact?' Tierney stared at him. 'I–I don't remember. And that was Johnnie's job.'

  In Steerforth's place Audley would have used Tierney to make the contact, first to report that the cargo lift had been delayed and second to report that it had been lost at sea. Dirty work for Tierney.

  'His name was Bloch, wasn't it?'

  'It might have been. I don't remember–honestly. It was the hell of a long time ago.'

  'It was Bloch, Tierney. And he was a poor swimmer.'

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  Tierney frowned, uneasily perplexed.

  'Which is a pity,' continued Audley, 'because he's been for a long swim. That was a little test for you–and you failed it miserably.

  You ought to remember Morrison and Bloch. They were both stupid, and they're both dead.'

  Two mini-skirted girls settled noisily at the table next to them, but Tierney was oblivious to the disturbance. Audley felt a warm sense of power; with Morrison he had been repelled by his own success, but with this hollow man it was different. He was almost enjoying himself. In fact he was enjoying himself.

  'Let's try again. How did you unload it at Newton Chester?'

  The ferrety man breathed out, as though relieved that he had a simple answer to give. 'We used the Hump.'

  'Tell me about the Hump.'

  'It's on the runway, when you're taxiing in. It isn't a hump really–

  it's a sort of dip in the land. But it looks like a hump when you're taxiing in. You can't see the control tower when you're in it, it's down the far end, quite near the perimeter.'

  He licked his lips anxiously.

  'Johnnie spotted it. I mean, if you can't see the control tower from there, they can't see you. We used to just slow down an' drop things there, an' then go on in bold as brass.'