‘Understand,’ Chen said.
‘It’s the murderer we want. And any money that was taken. Because whoever took it probably murdered him. Anything you can tell me about that, Mr Chen?’
Mr Chen looked at his hands.
‘As to money in basement –’
‘You know nothing about it. Know that,’ Warton said.
‘Exactly. However, in business, quite normal to keep dollars. Often needed.’
‘What denominations?’
‘Ah?’ Mr Chen said.
Summers coughed. They’d already agreed to split the job between them. ‘What we wondered,’ he said, having received a nod from Warton, ‘was whether, in going through his papers, you’d seen any reference to the money. The amount of it, and the actual value of the bills.’
Mr Chen continued gazing tranquilly at them.
‘Because if a largeish sum was involved,’ Summers proceeded steadily, ‘and if, for convenience, Mr Wu had kept it in large bills, the numbers might run consecutively. Any information on the numbers would be a big help in tracing them.’
‘Or,’ Warton said, ‘would also be a big help to know the numbers on either side – if for any reason there had originally been a much larger sum that had been split.’
Mr Chen’s nose wrinkled very slightly.
‘Rike some tea?’ he said.
They said they would.
Mr Chen picked up a housephone and ordered some, in Chinese. His instructions seemed lengthy for the supply of three cups of tea, but he put the phone down presently.
‘Tellible business,’ he said.
‘Yes. Any idea how we could get this information, Mr Chen?’
‘Thinking,’ Mr Chen said.
The tea came almost immediately, brought by a young Chinese. Chen had a few words with him as he handed it round, and the young man went.
‘Hope you rike tea,’ Chen said.
Warton and Summers didn’t like it. There was no milk or sugar in it. However, they sipped it.
Mr Chen sipped his.
‘No, Wu kept no information rike that,’ he said, having evidently thought sufficiently. ‘However, I know he kept only hundled dollar bills.’
‘Are you sure of that – all in hundreds?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mr Chen said. ‘And new ones. Large sum in new one hundled dollar bills – plobably consecutive?’
‘Yes. How many are we thinking of?’
‘Twenty-five,’ Mr Chen said, adding gently, ‘should think.’
‘Would be very useful, of course, to have the numbers of any – adjacent bills. Realize the difficulties. Though none from our end,’ Warton said significantly.
‘Understand. Tly.’
‘Yes, well, he’s got rid of his,’ Warton said as they returned to the car. ‘Point of that phone chat – to see if any still around. He’d help if he could. Still – it’s something, Summers. On to the next step now.’
*
The next step, because less private, had all day been generating difficulties at the Yard. But after several hours Warton managed to get a form of words agreed, and Information Room put them out.
The agreed form was that the police now had details on twenty-five numbered bills of a hundred dollars each, stolen in the course of murder from Blue Stuff. All currency dealers and exchanges were being advised. It was unofficially understood that no action would be taken against ‘informal’ dealers who came forward, and nor would the money be confiscated. The police interest was in murder, not possible currency offences.
‘Should freeze the stuff, anyway,’ Warton said. ‘Nobody will come forward, of course. But if he’s changed any, he’ll soon be getting aggro. We don’t let him out of view now. Mason in place?’
*
Mason had been in place since eight o’clock, when he took over the late shift. It was now some time after nine, and he was jiggling his drink as he kept an eye on Artie, and on the sodomites who were dancing all about.
He was in the gay club, Shaft.
The interior of Shaft was a sultry red from the paper moon lanterns, but the dance floor was a swirling mass of stripes from the psychedelic slides in the reflectors. The place smelt like a barber’s and was very hot; also fairly exploding now to the thud of hard rock. Though early in the evening, it was already pretty full, and Mason was glad of Artie’s hair style, which meant he could keep him in view without sticking close.
He did move a bit closer, though, discreetly elbowing his way, as Artie moved. Artie was gesticulating at the lights to the manager; a respectable elderly poof, face well preserved behind black executive glasses, except that it was powdered and rouged.
As Artie stopped, Mason stopped, and saw from his watch that it was a quarter-past. He casually transferred his glass to his left hand and with the right felt in his trouser pocket and pressed the beeper there. He kept hold of the instrument, which was switched to ‘silent’ and awaited the single answering pulse. His partner outside was watching the fire escape and the rear exit. Mason’s job was the interior and the front exit; neither presenting any difficulties. The enormous first-storey club-room was approached by a single flight of stairs with a wicket gate at the top; two burly bouncers carefully examined membership cards and photographs there.
Mason’s credentials had been in order (though quite new and obtained rapidly through special channels, despite the club’s long waiting list).
He got the answering pulse and removed his hand.
‘May I buy you a drink?’
An eager young fag, very pert in urchin cut and ear-rings, had accosted him.
‘Got one, thanks,’ Mason said, showing it. ‘Just waiting for a friend.’
‘Sorry,’ said the young fag politely.
Quite. They were terribly polite here. After his first, acclimatization, shock, Mason had seen that. He’d thought he might feel like hitting the first one who propositioned him, but he hadn’t felt like that at all. They were so polite, and all terribly nice; ‘gay’ the word. There was a sensation of excited gaiety in the air, not so much of abandon as of release, as if pressures were lifted and they could be what they wanted to be. What they seemed to want to be was gay and dressed-up. Eyes shone all around.
Artie seemed to have become stuck in a long and contentious discussion with the manager, who was worriedly shaking his head, one finger on long upper lip; so Mason settled on his heels and looked about him.
Five or six hundred people were in the huge murky barn of a place, a hundred or so on the dance floor, others chatting around or lounging on banquettes. A line of young male prostitutes fringed the dance floor, braceleted hands clicking, slim hips jiggling. There was a sprinkling of lesbians about. One, very dramatic in sombrero and high boots, was threading her way through the crowds, casting long looks. Another stood immediately in front of Mason, handsome in black velvet cloak and pearls; except that when she turned, Mason saw it was a man, quite beautiful with green eye-liner and silvery evening purse.
Mason gave him a smile, and received in return a haughty toss of the head and, presently, a backward puff of smoke from a long cigarette holder. But he had to move again. Artie was moving; up the couple of broad steps that led to the lounge and dining area.
Tables were spread here, and banquettes grouped as pews for greater intimacy. A little necking seemed to be going on, but not much, the prevailing atmosphere almost of marital propriety; partners’ hair being smoothed, collars adjusted. A grave young couple, both mandarin-moustached, quietly sat and held hands as they drank in one pew. In another a raffish threesome sprawled; one of them, high safari boot cocked on a table, for all the world like a dissolute young buck just in from hunting.
Mason saw Frank suddenly. He was with his Indian friend. He also saw that Artie had seen Frank; and that Frank had seen Artie. After the briefest of glances, they turned away.
Hello-hello, thought Mason … But he had to stick to Artie, who was now moving well out of range of Frank. He was moving to the buffet t
able. Some further argument seemed to develop over the buffet table, and Artie and the manager disappeared into the latter’s office.
There were no problems with this office: only one door to it, as Mason knew. He had studied the layout. He kept it in view, however, and when Artie reappeared followed him again.
He hung around in the club till a little after eleven, when Artie left. He had been keeping up the quarter-hour sequence of signals, and he gave the double one now, and on his way to the door received the double answering pulse that meant his partner was making his way to the front.
He gave Artie a couple of minutes and went out himself.
The unmarked police car was already on the corner of the street.
‘On foot,’ his partner said. ‘Turned into the King’s Road.’
Mason turned into the King’s Road, too; and when Artie picked up a cab, himself got into the trailing police car.
By half-past eleven, Artie was home and Mason in position at the front of the house, his partner at the rear.
They stayed there till half-past three, when they were relieved and driven back to Lucan Place. Mason made his report there in the Incident Room, and then was driven home; and on the way back remembered he’d forgotten to mention Frank.
He was so tired he couldn’t think if the incident, or non-incident, was important or not. But tomorrow was another day; except that it was already here.
27
ARTIE was up early in the morning. He briskly made breakfast, picked up the newspaper, and glanced at it while eating. Unemployment figures terrible, inflation rate terrible; everything fugging terrible. But he suddenly saw something worse, and stopped eating.
He read the story several times. They had the numbers?
His first thought was to call Liverpool right away.
There was no phone at home, but he knew how he could get his father at the docks. Then he knew he couldn’t. Every time he picked up the phone lately there was a click.
For the same reason, he couldn’t send a telegram. Or an express letter.
He read the thing a couple of times more.
It was a put-on, he knew. But they wouldn’t know at home that it was a put-on. He wondered if he should ring from a box. It would take time to get the old man; and maybe they tapped boxes, too … Perhaps he should get Steve to ring. But he hadn’t figured yet how much to tell Steve.
Hot shit!
He couldn’t eat any more breakfast. He couldn’t even drink coffee. He lit a cigarette and blinked the smoke out of his eyes and cleared and washed the breakfast things.
He had a lot of calculating to do, and he sat and did it for an hour until he could call Isaacs, the new guy putting money into the film. Isaacs was a small-time distributor, and on the basis of the rough-cut, Artie had wrung £500 out of him.
He heard the phone click as he picked it up, and mouthed a silent obscenity into it. But he got Isaacs and told him the problem that had arisen at Shaft.
‘So what do you want, Artie? I’m not a caterer.’
‘Just another hundred quid,’ Artie said.
He managed to screw Isaacs up to fifty, and called Steve.
‘Did you fix Shaft?’ Steve said.
‘No problem. When can I see you?’
‘I’ve got therapy at twelve. Say – two o’clock?’
‘Okay.’
‘Listen, what the hell is this in the paper about –’
‘At two, then,’ Artie said. ‘I’m pushed, Steve.’
He hung up, sweating.
He knew he ought to call Frank on the problem at Shaft, but he didn’t call him. There were one or two ideas he wanted to feed Steve, and he didn’t want Frank there.
He made some other calls, and also some black coffee, and carried on with the paper work, and by two was at Steve’s.
Steve’s arm was in a sling. There was a double layer of sutures in the wrist, and he was moodily nursing it as he opened the door.
‘Is it hurting?’ Artie said.
‘It’s okay. Just this Bitch of Buchenwald who does the therapy … What’s this with the money?’
Artie made silent inquiries as to bugging.
‘No, that’s over,’ Steve said.
Artie put the record-player on, all the same. ‘I already told you,’ he said, when he’d done so, and at high volume. ‘It’s a fugging put-on.’
‘But – twenty-five hundred dollars, and they know the numbers?’
‘They know nothing,’ Artie said.
‘But what twenty-five hundred dollars? It’s that sum again.’
‘Yeah.’ Artie paused. Time to go to work now. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said. ‘You know you said someone must have been there before us – well, I mean, shit, someone obviously was. But maybe there was another two thousand there.’
‘Well, that’s what –’
‘Forget the Press. That’s bananas. If they knew the numbers would they keep them secret? They don’t know them – point one. Point two, if the police information is correct, where would they have got it from?’
Steve thought.
‘Stanley?’ he said.
‘How, Stanley? If Stanley knew so well, they’d have nabbed him. Who else must have known, for certain?’
‘Chen?’
‘Chen … And with him, it’s got to be right. I mean, if he took the money himself, he wouldn’t have told them, would he? So if he Knew Denny had twenty-five hundred dollars when he left, and we found only five hundred, then someone definitely took two thousand. Right?’
‘Right,’ Steve said.
‘Yeah. Whose idea was it to ask Denny for money in the first place?’
Steve looked at him.
‘Have you flipped again?’ he said quietly.
‘No. I’ve just been thinking about it.’
‘Well, skip it.’
‘Okay. Another point,’ Artie said. ‘Who turned up first after, you know, that poor Dutch chick?’
‘We’ll drop it now,’ Steve said.
‘No, we won’t. We’ll get it out of the way,’ ‘I mean, Christ, I don’t even know what you’re thinking. You couldn’t think it was me, could you?’
‘Oh, well, Jesus Christ, Artie –’
Artie saw Steve was embarrassed and not looking at him.
He threw in his final effort.
He said, ‘Steve, do you honestly think – I mean, could you imagine me attacking you, in any circumstances?’
‘Artie, I’m not listening any more. It’s finished. Over,’ Steve said.
‘Well I said it now,’ Artie said. ‘But just before we finish with it, I want you to do something for me.’ He threw just about everything into this. ‘You’re sure you’re not being followed any more?’
‘Certain.’
‘Then call this number.’ He had written it on a cigarette. ‘Ask for Horace Johnston – it’s my old man. Do it before five. You might have to hang on some time. When you get him, say you’re speaking for Artie. Don’t say who you are – just you’re speaking for Artie. Tell him not to believe what he reads, but that Knocker better hang on to what he’s got.’
‘Knocker?’
‘Just that. And don’t phone from here. Do it from a box. Have you got enough coins? Here’s some coins. Have you got the message?’
‘He shouldn’t believe what he reads, and Knocker better hang on to it.’
‘Right. And when you’re through, smoke that cigarette. Don’t forget. I don’t want you involved, Steve.’
‘Okay,’ Steve said. ‘Now – Shaft.’
‘Shaft,’ Artie said with relief, and went into the couple of snags they’d got there.
He explained the chief poof’s reluctance to have higher wattage in his reflectors, and the difficulty that had arisen with the food. They apparently put out a hundred quid’s worth of food on the big buffet table, and the old man didn’t want to lay it out early in the day, when they would be shooting with their own extras, because it would stale by ev
ening. He had no objection to dressing the table for them, et cetera …
‘I half fixed that,’ Artie said, and told of the extra fifty quid he’d wrung out of Isaacs. ‘It’s really up to you what you want there. I thought we could finalize it, with the camera angles, on Sunday.’
‘With Frank,’ Steve said.
‘Okay.’
They went through ideas for the new lighting plan that would be needed and the relevant script pages, while Artie pondered how to settle the next outstanding matter. He said, ‘See, we been pretty tied up the last few weeks. I had some other ideas how the end should go. I jotted them down on paper, actually.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Steve said.
‘I thought once we’d got Shaft and the Lucan pub and the other interiors out of the way we could have a full discussion. It doesn’t affect what we shot. It’s just – a different conception.’
‘Well, let’s do it,’ Steve said.
‘Sure.’
‘All of us. Including Frank.’
‘Sure,’ Artie said again.
He wasn’t so tense when he left.
He thought it had gone not too badly.
*
He still had a lot to do when he got back. He talked the wardrobe people into accepting a hundred on account, ironed out the wrinkles with the leading actors they’d be needing, and at five blinked his way out of the role of producer back to that of part-time waiter.
He bussed his way down the King’s Road to Chez Georges to walk right into a new problem.
Serge had the ’flu, and Georges had a special gourmet lunch booked for the following day.
‘Oh, Christ, Georges, I’ve got a lot on tomorrow,’ Artie said.
There was equipment-hire as well as wardrobes, both needing deposits, and both to be talked into a couple of things they didn’t yet know about; and gourmet lunches went on till four. That left barely a couple of hours before the evening session.
‘Artie, I’m relying on you. I’m not well myself,’ Georges pleaded with him in French. ‘And Albert is in a terrible mood. Do me this favour.’
It was true Georges wasn’t looking well himself; and Albert lately always in a terrible mood; so Artie saw he’d have to do it, and worked tensely through the evening, all the strain suddenly returning.
The Chelsea Murders Page 17