As soon as he was free, Greenfield telephoned Pauline to ask her to come up to the city for lunch. They had a favourite restaurant just off the Strand and they agreed to meet at one o'clock.
It was a cold, gloomy, early-December day, but London was alive with the hustle and bustle of Christmas shoppers. Normally he hated the thronging crowds, yet today nothing could dampen his mood. Pauline was already seated at a table when he arrived at the restaurant, though he was dead on time. He had seemed so different on the telephone to the way he had been for the past two months or so, she had rushed in, eager to find out what had inspired the change.
Greenfield watched her as she pondered over the large menu, remembering the days when he first knew her and had made so many excuses to go to the typing pool to see her. True the long waist-length hair he had found so irresistible had gone, replaced by a short, close-cut style she had considered more suitable as she grew older. Yet this had added a hint of maturity which, strangely, had made her appearance more attractive to him, rather than less.
His spirits were soaring, the adrenalin flowing freely through his veins stimulating all his senses, so that her mere presence was enough to arouse him considerably. He wanted so much to make love to her, there and then, but was sure that such public display of exhilaration would not be welcomed by the patrons of such a high-class establishment!
“So, what's the occasion?” asked Pauline, leaning her elbows on the table, cradling a glass of white wine in her fingers.
“I have some news I thought you would like to hear.”
Greenfield was deliberately stalling, teasingly prolonging the agony.
“Well, come on then, don't keep me hanging on for ever.”
Pauline laughed. It was good to see him so alive and buoyant again after the stress and strain of recent weeks. The sparkle was back in his eye, the lilt back in his voice. Although she hardly dared believe it, there seemed a real possibility that the misery which had hung over them since his trip to Barcelona, depressingly dominating their lives and filling her with so much fear and anxiety, was over at last.
“Your husband is the new Managing Director of Impact Publicity Services.”
The gasp of delight was for her husband's benefit, as the news didn't come as too much of a surprise to her. She had always known this day would come. Jason Henderson's death had served only to bring it a little sooner than she had expected. None of this, however, did anything to lessen her joy, as she put down her glass and leaned across to fleetingly kiss his lips. An intoxicating feeling of relief flooded through her. Surely this meant and end to the pain and torment of the past two months. Today was a new beginning for them.
“Congratulations. No wonder you look so pleased with yourself.”
In a way it was the culmination of many years' dedication for Pauline, also. Seeing his potential within days of arriving in the typing pool at Impact Publicity Services, she had picked him out as her best chance of living the sort of life she saw for herself. Although he always felt it was he who did the chasing, in reality he was ever the prey and she the hunter. Yet, throughout the years of marriage, she considered she had played her part in furthering his career, making him happy and providing him with a good home, creating a personal peace of mind that left him free to concentrate wholly on succeeding at work. She had not been disappointed in the rewards this success had brought her.
Pauline had never pretended to herself that she had loved Howard Greenfield when she became his wife. It was something which had never been important in her scheme of things – until now. Recent events had examined her emotions in a way never previously experienced, as the marriage she had so carefully nurtured threatened to crumble into dust at her feet. What were her real feelings? Had she fallen in love with him over the years? Was such a thing really possible? Or was it the life being married to him had given her she had fallen in love with? Whichever way, she saw it as something she desperately wanted to preserve.
“I'm sorry to have dragged you all the way up here,” said Greenfield, “but I was bursting to tell you and wanted to see the look on your face. There are times when the telephone is too impersonal.”
“I'm glad you did, Howard. I wouldn't have missed sharing this moment with you for the world,” smiled Pauline. “Besides there's loads I can do now I'm here. It may have escaped your notice, but Christmas approaches and I have hardly done or got anything. I don't think I have ever been so ill-prepared.”
“I know.” A frown crossed his brow. “It's been hard to concentrate on anything lately. We have been through a bad time.”
Pauline put her hand on his, instantly wiping away the frown, which had no place in the joyful mood that engulfed them.
“Don't talk about that now,” she said gently. “Let's enjoy this moment together and cast everything else out of our minds.”
The meal was up to its usual excellent standard. Sipping wine afterwards, with the drink and the mood beginning to weave its mellowing magic, Pauline was unable to resist the question.
“Howard, have you heard the truth about Jason's sudden departure from this world?” There was a mischievous glint in her eye. “Did he really go out with a smile on his face?
Greenfield nodded. “For your ears only, but it seems he did go out in style, yes.”
At the invitation of a brief, hastily-typed memo circulated rapidly throughout the building, the entire staff of Impact Publicity Services gathered in the artists' studio, the only room big enough to accommodate so large a crowd, as the seconds ticked away to three-thirty. The half-dozen bottles of champagne, surrounded by packets of paper cups, officially pilfered from vending machine supplies, inspired a constant buzz of expectant chatter.
Dead on the appointed time, Sir Kenneth Craig swept into the room, Howard Greenfield trailing behind him. As the room fell silent, the Chairman of Ibex Holdings made his announcement.
“I am going to be brief, ladies and gentlemen, because I am sure you would rather be sampling the champagne you see here than listening to a long, boring speech from me.” A shuffling of feet amongst the audience, most of whom were standing, indicated he was more than likely right. “However, I would like to take a few moments to formally tell you of the board's decision regarding the appointment of a new Managing Director for Impact Publicity Services.
“Firstly, may I say it was with great sadness that I and my colleagues on the board received the news of Jason Henderson's death. He was a loyal and devoted servant of this company, which flourished under his guidance. I am sure all of you, particularly long-serving members of the staff, share equally our sense of loss.
“But we must live in the present and look to the future. The board felt it important a successor should be quickly appointed and saw the ideal candidate within our own ranks. I am pleased to tell you, effective from nine o' clock tomorrow morning, Mr. Howard Greenfield will be Managing Director of Impact Publicity Services.”
It was a popular appointment, bringing forth a round of enthusiastic applause, over which could be heard one or two cries of “Well done, Howard!”
When the noisy appreciation tapered off, Sir Kenneth concluded, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I think we will pop the corks on these bottles and have our own little celebration. I'm sure there is nothing so desperate at this time that it can't wait until tomorrow morning.”
Greenfield mingled with his colleagues, readily accepting the plaudits and congratulations. This was his moment, the realisation of a cause to which he had devoted all his working life. He was going to enjoy every second, savour every handshake, every pat on the back.
It was about an hour into the celebrations, the champagne well and truly despatched, that Sandra pushed her way through to him. Because of the din, she had to lift her mouth to his ear to make herself heard.
“I'm sorry, Howard, there's a man on the telephone who insists on speaking to you. He won't give a name. Says you wouldn't recognise it anyway. Claims he must speak to you. Very important, he says.”
Greenfield laughed. “Alright Sandra, this afternoon I'll talk to anyone. I'll come and take it on the switchboard.”
Following Sandra into the comparative quiet of the reception area, he picked up the switchboard telephone.
“Greenfield here, what can I do for you?”
“A great deal, I think Mr. Greenfield,” said the voice into his ear. “Your assignment has been chosen. The time has come for you to fulfil your obligations to us.”
Sandra became alarmed as she watched the colour drain from his face. He suddenly seemed unsteady on his feet, so much so that Sandra feared he was going to fall before he desperately steadied himself.
“Are you all right, Howard?” she asked, with obvious concern, but he nodded, making a gesture of reassurance with his free hand. Nevertheless, he had to lean against the switchboard table as his knees weakened once more, threatening to buckle beneath him.
Today, for the first time since falling into the nightmare in Barcelona, he had managed to forget the threat hanging over him. The overwhelming joy of his success had pushed it completely from his mind. It was heading towards three months since those fateful few days. He had even begun to wonder if he dared hope they had forgotten about him or possibly decided they could not use him. Was it really possible these people wanted him to kill someone?
“Are you still there, Mr. Greenfield?” said the voice on the telephone.
“Yes, I'm here,” replied Greenfield, his voice faltering noticeably.
“Good. Be on the corner of Arthur Road and Gap Road, in Wimbledon, at six o'clock tonight. You will be picked up and issued with your final instructions. Are you familiar with the meeting place, Mr. Greenfield?”
“I know it, yes.”
“That's fine. Please be there on time. Failure to make the rendezvous will be construed as a failure to complete the assignment. And you know what that means, don't you?”
Replacing the receiver, Greenfield muttered under his breath, “Oh God, this cannot be happening to me.”
It was spoken so quietly even Sandra was unable to make out what he had said. He stumbled against a desk as he left the reception area, making his way uncertainly down the corridor to his office.
Anxiously, Sandra followed behind him. Having worked alongside him for many years, she was upset and worried at the sudden change she had seen sweep over him.
“Please, Howard, what is it?” she implored. “Was it bad news? Is there anything I can do?”
“It's all right, Sandra.” He forced a smile. “The occasion and the champagne, that's all. Just leave me alone for a while.”
After she had reluctantly withdrawn, he sat in silence, head in hands. So many times he had wondered how he would act when this moment came, trying to imagine what it would feel like to actually take the life of another human being.
They had made it sound so easy. He had enough intelligence to pick the right moment. There would be nothing to connect him with the victim. All he had to do was run. A “hit-and-run man” they had called him, their despicable idea of a joke. In theory, it sounded fine. But could he pull the trigger?
Today, of all days, had not deserved such an ending. He wanted to cry, but the tears would not come.
Chapter Fifteen
The frost was already settling as he waited in the cold, night air at the corner of Arthur Road and Gap Road. It was a few minutes after six when the sleek, dark-coloured Jaguar saloon pulled into the kerb beside him. The back door was opened, an unspoken invitation for him to get in. Allowing only enough time to drop into the rear seat, the car moved off again. As much as he could see in the dark, the man beside him was young, certainly bespectacled, with a rather large nose.
“Good evening, Mr. Greenfield.” The man adopted a business-like tone. It could have been a normal business meeting in the office. “As indicated on the telephone, your assignment has come through. You will probably be glad to know your subject is a male. Men seem to find it so much harder to kill a female. We find such misplaced sentimentality a bit of a bore. Not a problem for you, though, Mr. Greenfield. Here is a photograph of your target. His address is written on the back.”
Unable to see the photograph very well in the dark, Greenfield slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
“What has this man done to deserve such a fate?”
“That is not for you to know, or me either for that matter,” said the man, pushing back the spectacles that had begun to slip down his long nose. “We are being paid solely to eliminate this gentleman. It is not within our brief to probe any deeper into the matter.” Picking up an object from the floor in front of him, he added, “Here is your weapon, Mr. Greenfield.”
Greenfield shuddered at the touch of the cold steel of the silver-grey automatic pistol pressed into his hand. It was an evil, ugly object, which filled him with a barely controllable urge to shake it from his grasp.
“Here is the magazine,” announced the long-nosed man, taking back the gun to demonstrate how the magazine fitted into the butt. “The magazine has fifteen shots, but you shouldn't need anything like that many.”
Greenfield let his head fall back against the top of the seat, a gesture of despair.
“This is ridiculous. I've never even handled a gun before in my life. How am I expected to fire one with any degree of accuracy?”
“Simply by getting so close you cannot miss. The gun is specially made to our requirements. It is lightweight, with virtually no recoil. As the subject should have no reason to suspect you, you should be able to get right up close. Fire off a number of shots and you cannot miss.” Greenfield slipped the pistol and magazine into a side pocket of his overcoat, as the man continued the instructions. “In addition to your subject's address, you will find on the back of the photograph what we consider may be your best opportunity to carry out the task. You see how helpful we try to be. Whatever you decide, the assignment must be completed by the weekend.”
“I don't know if I can do it.”
“That is in your hands, of course, but I'm sure you do not need me to remind you of the price of failure. I think you will do it, Mr. Greenfield.”
“How can I be sure that will be the end of it?”
“You will have to take our word for it. We are a large international, professional corporation, not a bunch of petty criminals. As such, we operate to a strict code of ethics. If we say that will be the end of it, then so it shall. In any case, we have never used an eliminator more than once. It becomes too risky.”
“Will I get the film back? How do I know you haven't made copies of it already?”
“Please, Mr. Greenfield, you really must trust us. When your assignment is completed, you will receive in the post the key to a safety deposit box in a bank somewhere in the London area. Details of the exact location and any necessary documentation to gain access to the box will come under separate cover, for obvious reasons of security. There you will find the film. No copies have been made, nor will there be, if you do what is required of you.”
The car crawled to a halt in the kerb at the exact spot from where Greenfield had been picked up, confirming his supposition that they had been driving aimlessly around in circles. Pushing open the car door, the meeting obviously at an end, there was one final question to ask.
“Does this man I am to kill have a name?”
“Names are not very important to us,” replied the long-nosed man. “Quite often our subjects do not use their real names anyway. If it is really of interest to you, the name we have for this one is Morgan – Tommy Morgan.”
Pauline Greenfield stood at the open bedroom door scarcely able to believe the scene before her.
She had been in the kitchen when she heard her husband come in through the front door. It was a moment she had looked forward to all through the afternoon. The bottle of champagne, the most expensive she could find, purchased while up in the city, was in the ice bucket. This was a great day in their lives; it was a night for celebration. She was des
perate not to lose the mood of their lunchtime meeting, build on it, make it strong enough to wipe out the gloom and despair which had threatened to tear their lives apart. Today was the dawning of a new era for them.
Now her hopes lay in ruins as she watched her husband hurriedly and untidily packing a small suitcase lying open on the bed. Fearing something was amiss she had rushed upstairs as soon as she realised he had gone straight up to the bedroom instead of coming to greet her, but she wasn't prepared for this. Taking a deep breath, she was determined to hold back the tears.
“Howard, are you going to tell me what is going on?”
“I have to go away for a few days.” He didn't look at her, continuing his packing. “I'll stay in the company flat. Just till the weekend.”
“Do I get to know why?”
“There are some things I need to sort out. It will only be for a few days.”
“Things such as what, Howard?”
He stood over the half-full suitcase, staring at its unfolded contents. “I can't tell you, Pauline. Things I have to sort out for myself.”
“Can't tell me!” Pauline shouted angrily across the room. “Remember me, Howard, I'm your wife. I've been your wife for fifteen years. And you can't tell me!”
“After a pause, he said simply, “No.”
“There's someone else, isn't there?”
At last it was out, the great, unvoiced fear that had haunted her since the onset of her husband's strange behaviour. So often she had pushed it to the back of her mind, not wishing to face it as a real possibility. It could no longer be suppressed.
“I thought we would be celebrating tonight, Howard. I've got the champagne on ice downstairs. But it was my turn lunchtime, wasn't it? Tonight you're celebrating with someone else.”
The Hit-and-Run Man Page 10