Secret Ministry: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 1

by Desmond Cory

  Johnny shook hands. He thought Gann might have made a good chucker-out at that; he had long arms and broad shoulders, and balanced himself on his feet very nearly as well as Johnny. He said, “I’m not worried. Me, I’m always well-behaved in public. That’s the way to get on.”

  Gann laughed and said, “Well… this is as good a place to lose your money as any other, Mr Fedora. And friends of Miss Kane are welcome here at any time.”

  “That’s fine,” said Johnny quizzically. “I suppose she has a lot, huh?”

  “They’re half the clientele,” said Gann mischievously. “The more expensive half.”

  Davida said, “Spare us the witticisms, Paul. Don’t worry about Johnny; I’ll see he loses the usual amount of money.” She threw the fur coat on to a couch, smoothed her dress around her hips and walked over to the door. “This way, handsome. Through the door.”

  Johnny opened the door for her and they went in, stopping just inside. The room was fairly full, but nobody took the slightest notice of them. He leant against the door-jamb and glanced casually round the room; it was a large apartment, lavishly decorated in green and gold and covered with couches and settees, most of them occupied by somewhat bored-looking people. In the centre of the room were tables for roulette and chemie, surrounded by players, and at the far end of the room was a bar, with what seemed to Johnny an amazing selection of drinks. There was a brightly-burning coal fire on the left side of the room, and in the opposite corner was a Lambert piano, highly polished and in magnificent condition. It was the old night-club scene all over again, though perhaps of a higher class than the average. The men were mostly wearing tuxedos and the women, without exception, were wearing expensive dresses. Everybody was looking pretty bored, though there were the usual number of exquisite young things keeping a wary eye open for the man who cleaned up the kitty. Johnny, surveying the room with outward boredom, noticed Teddy Murray standing in front of the fire conversing animatedly with a woman in a powder-blue georgette evening gown. And she was a woman in the deepest meaning of the word. She was a natural ash-blonde with a clean patrician profile and a soft attractive tan that showed the colour of her hair to perfection, without doing so obviously. As far as looks went, she was the only woman in the room who might have stayed fifteen rounds with Davida. And, Johnny thought, that would have been a match worth seeing. If the original Eve had had half what those young ladies had, Adam would have given up market gardening and Milton could never have written Paradise Lost. Not that Johnny could have cared much less about that. He only wished that the old boy could have been there as well, to know what he’d missed by getting born a couple of million years too early.

  He heard Davida say, “I don’t know about you, Johnny, but I feel as if I could use a drink. Do I get my own or will you buy me one?”

  Johnny said, “I’d like a drink an’ I’d like to buy you a drink, too. Go ahead.”

  He followed her over to the bar and watched her sit down on one of the high stools. She crossed her legs and said, “What are you drinking? The whisky’s quite good here.”

  “Okay,” said Johnny. “I’ll have just that. Make it a double.”

  “A double whisky, Joe,” she told the barman. “And gin and orange for me.” She swung round in her seat to face Johnny. She said, “I suppose you drink quite a bit. You look as if you do.”

  Johnny said, “No. My nose always goes red in the wintertime.”

  She laughed and said, “I didn’t mean that. I mean that you’re like the hard-drinking, hard-boiled detective of the Hollywood kind. You must be true to type.”

  Johnny paid for the drinks and didn’t say anything.

  Privately, he thought that that was a laugh. Hollywood’s views on spy-catching had always differed widely from Squires’, or the F.B.I.’s for that matter; and most of the really tough Federal agents that he had known were quiet little men in horn-rims, with white, tired faces and wives and families at home. People often get the funniest ideas about some things.

  Davida said, “Mud in your eye, Johnny.”

  “Mud in yours,” said Johnny courteously, sipping the whisky… Davida was quite right. It was right out of the top drawer.

  There was a sudden burst of conversation and laughter from the roulette table. Davida said casually, “Someone’s taken ’em,” and looked round. Johnny went on drinking his whisky.

  Davida suddenly said, “Well… well… well! It’s Jack again. I wonder… excuse me a minute, Johnny. I’ll be right back when I’ve satisfied my womanly curiosity.”

  Johnny said, “Sure”. He ordered another whisky and watched her walking towards the table. He thought that it was wonderful what a woman can do to a pair of silk stockings, and that what Davida could do to hers was nothing short of a miracle. He then thought that after another whisky or so life might turn out to be quite a cheery little affair after all. And so he made it a double.

  Chapter Four

  TREVOR

  AS he was finishing his whisky someone walked over and sat down on the chair that Davida had just vacated. He saw out of the corner of his eye that it was Murray, and swung slightly round in his seat to face the bar. Murray ordered a gin and tonic, took out a silver cigarette case very much like Davida’s and put a cigarette in his mouth. As if by an after-thought, he offered the case to Johnny. He was holding a thin slip of paper inside the case; Johnny took it, together with a cigarette, and slid the cigarette into his mouth. Then he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches, leaving the note behind. He struck a match, lit Murray’s cigarette and then his own, said, “Thanks, chum,” and pushed himself up to his feet.

  He walked slowly over to the roulette table, wondering what the hell this bit of cloak-and-dagger stuff was in aid of. He watched a couple of plays, then leant back against the wall with his hands in his pockets. After a moment he slipped the folded scrap of paper inside his wallet; took out the wallet and, while apparently checking his money, read the note. It had been written very hurriedly in pencil, and wasn’t easily understandable. It said, quite simply:

  “Driver’s given info. Ask nobody here questions re W. Try and create some sort of diversion here in 5 mins. time.”

  It was unsigned. Johnny closed his wallet and replaced it, then glanced at his wrist-watch. He blew out an untidy trail of cigarette smoke and looked casually in the direction of the bar. Murray was once again talking earnestly to that very attractive woman with the ash-blonde hair and beautifully-shaped hands.

  He looked around the room again, still leaning negligently against the wall. Davida, in conversation with a fair-haired young man in a grey pin-striped suit, managed to catch his eye, smiled and beckoned. Johnny wondered who the man was; decided that it didn’t matter anyway. He was about to detach himself from the wall and go over to her when he saw a man leave the group around the roulette table and come towards him. He moved his head in order to see the man better and found that he was of medium height, with greying hair, blue eyes and slightly too well-manicured hands. Johnny again found himself to be curious as to the identity of a perfect stranger.

  The man stopped in front of Johnny and smiled. He looked as if his voice would be soft, almost a purr; so that his firmly clipped accents took Johnny by surprise.

  He said, “How d’you do? My name’s Trevor; Arthur Trevor. I’m the manager of this den of iniquity, and, believe me, I’m glad to see a fresh face here. I see you’re a friend of Miss Kane’s?”

  Johnny shook the hand that had been offered him and said, “Yeah.” The question had been obviously rhetorical anyway.

  “Charming young lady,” said Trevor agreeably. “Quite charming. We see her here quite often, of course. Er – have a drink?”

  Johnny said, “Thanks. I’d like one.”

  They moved over to the bar and Trevor ordered two more whiskies. He said, “Cheerio”.

  Johnny said, “Cheerio”. And placed another glass of whisky beside the others. He was now beginning to feel definitely goo
d.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you here,” said Trevor, “and I hope to see you again, Mr… er…”

  “Fedora.”

  “Fedora,” said Trevor, as though annoyed at forgetting the name. “And now I must be about my real duties. Nice to have met you.”

  Johnny said, “Nice to have been met.”

  Trevor smiled and walked away, blowing his nose on a clean white handkerchief. As he went, Davida came up and slipped into the chair beside Johnny. Johnny thought that life at this place seemed to consist entirely of meeting one person after another. He became convinced of this when he saw the good-looking young fellow who had been talking to her coming across the room.

  He said, “I’ve been havin’ a one-sided conversation with the boss. He seems a nice guy. Does all the talking and so I don’t have to do anything but nod. All that sort of thing makes social etiquette so much easier, don’t you think?”

  It was no good, of course. The young man walked straight up and stood beside Davida, waiting for Johnny to finish. He obviously was a very poor hand at taking hints. In any case, he had butted in on what Johnny hoped had looked like a private conversation with all the nonchalant gall of an army mule. Johnny drew on his cigarette resignedly and came to the conclusion that the young man certainly had his nerve with him.

  Davida said, “Oh… Johnny, this is Jack Harris. Jack, this is Johnny Fedora, an old friend of mine.”

  Johnny turned and surveyed the newcomer dispassionately. At the same moment Harris turned to look at him, and Johnny was amazed to see that for an instant there was a definite gleam of recognition in his eyes. He said, “Hiya, Harris.”

  Harris said coldly, “How d’you do?… Excuse me while I order a drink. What will you have, Davida?”

  Davida said, “I don’t want anything right now, Jack. Later, perhaps.”

  Johnny frowned at the end of his cigarette; he was trying to imagine where Harris could have seen him before. And the young man’s appearance had been vaguely familiar to him, too. It appeared from his attitude that he was disposed to regard Davida as his own property, and regarded Johnny as something of an interloper. He obviously distrusted this “old friend” stuff that she had handed out even more than Johnny did.

  Johnny looked at him again as he was reaching across the counter; he was presenting his back view and at once Johnny remembered just where and when they had met before. And the circumstances had been definitely peculiar. For a second Johnny wondered what the heck was wrong with his memory these days.

  He said slowly, “Seems like you don’t remember me, Harris.”

  Harris turned round. His face was wearing an almost perfect facsimile of a surprised expression. He said, “No. Ought I to?”

  Johnny said, “Yeah, we have met before.” And Harris damned well knew it, too. He was sure of that. “You dropped me into France once when you were an S.A.S. pilot an’ I was workin’ with the Maquis. D’you remember now?”

  Harris stared at him and said, “Good Lord, yes! That’s right –Fedora, isn’t it? Well… well… that’s a laugh, isn’t it? It had quite slipped my memory, you know. But I suppose all you Intelligence bods have red-hot memories. Mine’s like a sieve.”

  Johnny said, “I remembered.”

  Harris began to sip his whisky. He said, “Well – are you out of it now – like me? Or are you here on business?”

  Johnny said, “Oh, I’m out of it. What are you doing these days?”

  Davida said suddenly. “Well, this is wonderful. But as far as conversation goes it looks as if I’m out of it too.”

  Johnny said, “We’re sorry. Suppose you tell me what he does.”

  Davida said, “Okay. I don’t mind as long as I’m the centre of attraction at this meeting. You’re a charter pilot, aren’t you, Jack?”

  Harris said, “Not exactly. I’m a private pilot. It’s a good job.”

  Johnny said, “Do you get about much?”

  “Not a great deal. I run over to France pretty often – Paris mostly. Usually about twice a month.” He looked down at his empty glass, and ordered another drink.

  Johnny glanced at his wrist-watch again and saw that the five minutes that Murray had prescribed were up. The last time he had been told to cause a diversion he had done it by playing a piano over a street filled with Germans, and, moreover, Germans whose leader he had shot about thirty seconds previously. As a result, he had managed to save a badly wounded group of Maquisards from the firing-squad, and his subsequent escape with most of the top of his head missing had been one of the major miracles of the war. Compared to that, this particular incident looked like child’s play; nevertheless, he thought that the same method might apply. Then, even as he looked round at the piano, he saw that Murray’s ash-blonde had seated herself on the piano stool and was lifting the lid. He swore quietly to himself; grinned at Davida and said, “Look… excuse me a minute, will you? I just want to investigate that piano.”

  Davida looked casually at the piano-stool and then very hard at Johnny. She said, “That’s all right. I’ll come too.”

  Harris said, “Do you play?”

  Johnny said, “I think I’d like to. If that young lady doesn’t mind.”

  “I’ll ask her,” said Davida.

  They went over to the piano, where the ash-blonde was playing the opening chords of Handel’s “Largo”. Murray was leaning on the edge of the piano, listening with appropriate gravity; as he looked up Johnny gave him an infinitesimal nod. He stood just behind the piano-stool and watched the girl’s hands on the keyboard; there was a very nice diamond ring glittering in the light somewhere, and a wedding ring on her left hand. She was playing very well, but without a great deal of expression.

  Johnny said, “Um. You certainly have a wicked left hand.”

  She turned slightly in the seat and smiled at him.

  Women always seemed to smile at Johnny; it was one of those things that he couldn’t help noticing. She said, “You’re being sacrilegious. This is Handel – and very classical. Maybe you don’t like the classics?”

  Johnny sat down on the stool beside her. He said, “I can give out with a few, as we say in Chicago. Do you think I could try?”

  She said, “Why not? Go ahead.”

  Johnny said, “That’s nice of you. I know my manners are lousy, but I wanted to get in ahead of Davida. Do you like this one?” He reached over and played an opening chord; looked up and winked at Murray.

  He decided that it would have to be something pretty spectacular if it was to hold the attention of the entire room – which was apparently what Murray wanted. He sketched a few notes with his right hand and decided to play the last half of the second Hungarian Rhapsody. Once the decision was made, he knew that the rest would be easy.

  He looked down at the keys beneath his hands, and at his slim brown fingers racing over the notes; feeling them as a ship feels the impact of the seas. Almost without realizing it, he found himself looking at the keys detachedly, as if from a great distance; those extraordinary hands of his could rivet his own attention as firmly as they could hold others. Those fingers that were charming music from the piano as birds from a tree were acting as if they could never have felt the nervous buck of a .45 or the hard pressure of a trigger. Those hands were no longer his, no longer Fedora’s; they were the hands of Chopin, or Beethoven, or of Liszt; the hands of all those men who had visited the world only long enough to win immortality before returning to the world of everlasting harmony whence they came… Every time he played Johnny found himself back in his private world of music, far removed from his other existence where he handled a gun with an efficiency that was cold and hard and completely disillusioned. For Johnny, music was the last great illusion; the only one that had been left to him. He watched those slim brown fingers, killer’s fingers, caressing the notes with the firm insistency of a lover; playing the culminating chords and then resting silent on the keys.

  He sat back and realized without surprise that the roulette
table was silent; so was the bar. The whole room was clustered round the piano, deathly silent. He looked up to his left and saw that Murray was no longer there.

  As diversions go, he thought, that one had been pretty successful.

  The woman seated next to him said softly. “Where on earth did you learn to play like that?”

  Johnny began to play again, very softly. He said, “Well, I learnt when I was a kid. Down in Dublin I used to stay with an old Frenchman when my parents were away, an’ he could really slam the ivories.” He took out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled a mouthful of smoke. He looked at the blonde, who was staring at him with wide, almost scared eyes. “After that I spent a lot of time playin’ in America, an’ I learnt a lot there too. Only there they all play like this.” He placed his cigarette on the bottom key and began to improvise a blues, with a soft driving bass that did queer things to the rhythm. That was the sort of music that Jimmy Emerald was so fond of. He looked amusedly at the blur that was his left hand and said, “People who like this sort of thing find that this is the sort of thing that they like. Me, I like it a lot.”

  He finished on the off-beat as if by accident. Somebody had put a glass of whisky on the piano; he thought it had been Davida. He reached out for it and started to drink it. He thought that Murray should have had time to do anything that he had wanted to by now. In any case, he had left the room unobserved; Johnny was sufficiently confident of the magnetism of his playing to be sure of that.

  He nodded to the blonde and said, “Thanks a lot. It’s all yours.” He got up from the stool and grinned at Davida.

  The girl said, “I’m afraid you’ve ruined the audience for me, Mr Fedora. Anything that I might do would only be an anti-climax.”