by John Brunner
“Laird, you look bored,” Courcy said suddenly.
“Do I? Sorry, I was wondering about something. I think I figured it out.” Laird rose. “Like to dance?”
“Yes!”
Very much later she said, “What sort of a hotel is yours—stuffy?”
She was leaning close against him while they barely moved in time to a slow, hard-driving blues at medium volume—by contrast with what had gone before it sounded like a summer breeze. The floor was packed with couples brushing one another.
“Why?” he murmured over the scented tresses of her hair.
“I’d like you to take me somewhere a bit more private.”
A lot’s happened to this town since the old days. I last had that kind of thing said to me in Berkeley!
But the Hurstmonceaux was a hotel of the traditional British type, with a stern-faced staff stationed at every corner. That was probably what Courcy meant by stuffy. He told her so, and she sighed.
“Damn… And I don’t think I can take you home with me. Mummy isn’t exactly a dragon, but she’d definitely draw the line at that.”
Laird reflected for a while. He said finally, “Did your mother know about you and Sammy?”
“I didn’t tell her straight out, but she must have realised.”
“And—?”
“She pretended not to know. After all, Sammy wasn’t just well off—he knew all the proper people, too.”
“This town hasn’t changed as much as I thought,” Laird grunted. Courcy pulled back and looked up at him.
“What was that?”
“Never mind.”
FIFTEEN
Absurdly early, scarcely rested but with his mind switching instantly into high gear so that sleep became impossible, Laird awoke with the remembered taste of Courcy’s mouth against his. Also his fingers recalled that he had been right about her bra.
Christ, something could have been arranged!
But he had no wish to inherit the nickname of “Sammy’s sweeper.” When Sammy had been laid decently to rest in his mind, there would be time enough to find a girl of his own and make for the places he had promised himself he would see: Stonehenge, Edinburgh, Wells…
He rolled over and reached for a cigarette. In the act of setting a light to it, he abruptly realised that during the night something had crystallised in his mind. He went cold all over.
I’ve decided that Sammy was murdered.
But the notion was absurd. If there were a way of frightening a healthy man to death, surely Scotland Yard would have found out about it, or Dr Shannon would have dug it out of a medical journal, or—
No good. It wasn’t a conclusion rationally reached. It was the result of meeting person after person, Polly, Bitchy, the Flanceaus, Courcy, everyone, who didn’t believe he’d died of natural causes. He finished lighting his cigarette and lay on his back watching wisps of smoke twist towards the ceiling.
Who? For what reason? His family, maybe—the Number of the Elect taking vengeance on a backslider? That almost made Laird laugh aloud.
And, above all, how?
That seemed like the toughest question of the three. A much easier line of approach would be why? Last night Courcy had told him about a whole area of Sammy’s life he’d previously been ignorant of.
He reached for the phone and asked the operator to tell him approximately what time stockbroking firms began their day’s work in the City.
Having breakfasted, on the point of going out, he hesitated and turned back to the phone. He dialled Sammy’s old number.
“Polly? Laird here. I think I was a bit rude to you yesterday, wasn’t I? I’m sorry.”
“Not at all.” But she sounded hoarse and unhappy. “You’d been very kind and helpful, and I was the one who was sharp.”
“Are you getting on okay?”
“Oh yes!” She didn’t seem very convinced. “I’m just waiting for someone to come around from the solicitors to go through the inventory with me.”
“Finally took notice, did they?”
“Yes, and apparently it’s due to—to Medea.”
“You don’t say!” Laird lowered himself on the corner of the phone-table.
“Yes, I had a phone-call from her last night. She said she asked Mr Hines why I looked upset when I went out of his office and he said he thought I wasn’t very pleased with what they’d done for me and she said they ought to worry more about my part of the estate than hers because hers was big enough to look after itself… Wasn’t that sweet of her?”
Laird had reservations on that score, but aloud he agreed with enthusiasm.
“Well, the reason I called up,” he said. “I meant to say this to you yesterday. Did the—what do you call them over here?—did the estate agent you went to see about the house mention whether it would be better to sell it furnished or empty?”
“Oh, furnished, he said. It might make a difference of a thousand pounds!”
“In that case, would you be willing to rent it to me while you’re looking for a buyer? I don’t care for the idea of living in a hotel the whole of my stay.”
“I… Well, I don’t know. I never thought about renting it.”
“Naturally I’d move out on a couple of days’ notice if someone did want to buy it.”
In the background at the other end there was the shrill of a doorbell. Polly said, “That must be the man from Praidle and Hines. I’ll ask him if it’s a good idea and let you know.”
“Okay,” Laird sighed, and cradled the phone.
Sammy’s sweeper, hm? Here I am picking up on his car, planning to take over his house, and at the head of the line for his girlfriend!
“Ah, hell,” he said aloud. “Can I help it if the bastard had taste?”
Number 9 Leg of Mutton Lane displayed a typical City of London façade—pillared, dirty with the grime of decades and stained with pigeon-droppings. Inside, however, he discovered an ultra-modern suite of offices whose walls and doors were decorated with a slick monogram combining S with R and K, for Skelton, Roberts and Knightley Ltd. A leggy pale girl with a Roedean manner greeted him from behind a table sized intercom unit with a hanging mike on an extensible arm.
“Good morning, may I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to Barnaby Skelton, please,” Laird said. “In connection with your company that finances business ventures.”
“Barsamby Loans, you mean!” the girl said brightly. “Have you an appointment, Mr—?”
“Walker. I’m afraid not. But since I happened to be in the neighbourhood, I thought I might drop in.”
“We-ell, I’ll see if Mr Skelton is available…” the girl said doubtfully. “Just one moment, please.”
Covertly eavesdropping as she whispered to the swinging mike, Laird heard a man’s voice say, “Okay, send him in. Things look as though they’re going to be pretty quiet on ‘Change today.”
The girl beamed at him. “Down the corridor on your left!” she exclaimed. “Mr Skelton does happen to be free!”
Skelton himself was a far cry from what Laird had imagined as a British stockbroker, except that he wore the City uniform of dark jacket and striped pants and there was a bowler hat on a stand behind the door. The office was furnished with the most recent Scandinavian designs; one wall was covered with a blown-up copperplate engraving of a tea-clipper under full sail, and its occupant sat not at a conventional desk but at a sort of switchboard across one corner of which a series of bright yellow lights formed changing numerals.
Youthful in appearance, bluff in manner, lean and muscular and with an outdoorsy air as though he had come direct from a game of cricket or a trek across a grouse-moor, Skelton extended his hand.
“Good morning, Mr Walker! Do sit down. I don’t normally see clients of Barsamby Loans without appointment, but today you happen to be in luck. August is not the liveliest month for the market. Cigarette? Ah, I see you’re impressed by our engraving there—that’s the clipper-ship Princess of Asia which at one t
ime held the record for the China run and made my family’s fortune in the very British commodity of tea!”
In exchange, of course, for opium.
But Laird kept that comment to himself.
“Excuse me a moment,” the broker muttered, eyeing the numbers on the corner of his electronic desk, and reached for a switch. “Desmond?” he said to the air. “I see that stock we were talking about did go through seven during yesterday’s trading—”
“But it came back to seven one and a half in deals after close of business,” a voice replied from the desk.
“In that case find out who’s buying and see if you can get us seven two. It’s not worth hanging on—it’s been going up and down like a yo-yo on those takeover rumours.” Skelton let go the switch and favoured Laird with a dazzling smile. “Sorry, but one must look after all one’s customers, don’t you know? Now! I don’t believe we’ve had details of the undertaking you have in mind, have we?”
I can see why Sammy chose this guy to partner him. He has a sort of wound-up tension like what I saw in some of Sammy’s women. Probably be insulted if I told him so!
Aloud he said, “Well, I—”
And stopped dead. A voice had said in memory, as clearly as though the speaker were in the room, and with a distinct German accent, something about “having business with Mr Logan.”
It’s the longest shot I ever tried in my life, but…
“Dr Emmerich Tileman is a client of yours, isn’t he?” he said.
Skelton blinked. “It was he who recommended you to Barsamby Loans, was it? Well, there’s no secret about the fact that I’m on his board of directors, but I presume he explained to you that that’s not a line we generally take much interest in—only the exceptional circumstances persuaded us, the refugee background and all that. The entertainment industry is a classic demonstration of the old saw about high profits and high risks, isn’t it?” Skelton glanced once more at the flashing, changing figures on the corner of his desk.
Entertainment industry? Good grief!
“Incidentally,” Skelton resumed, “do I take it that you yourself are one of Dr Tileman’s—ah—patrons? I don’t recall that we’ve met before. Do you live in London?”
“No, I’m only visiting right now. But I have been here before, of course,” Laird let the words ooze into the air like oil leaking from a submerged wreck. “Now may I just check that I understand the method of operation of Barsamby Loans? According to what I’ve been told, you finance the establishment of the new company and take a seat on the board, is that right?”
“Correct. The directors’ fees are charged at a level equivalent to the rate of interest which would otherwise be payable on the sum loaned, plus an agreed percentage of the profits, usually between fifteen and twenty-five depending on the amount of capital the other party puts up. Advantageous to everyone concerned, I think you’ll agree.”
“And you take a direct personal interest in every venture you support? There must be a great many by now.”
Skelton looked pleased. “Yes, there are indeed—though I assure you not so many as to prevent us taking a strong personal interest in all our projects, as you say.”
“It sounds good,” Laird nodded. “Though presumably Sammy Logan had more time to devote to that side of it than you, with your brokerage business to run as well.”
At the mention of Sammy’s name, Skelton had tensed. Laird noted the reaction and decided to drive his needle a little deeper.
“By the way, talking of Sammy: who’s taken over his directorship? Or is it still undecided?”
Skelton took a long time over framing his answer. When he finally spoke his voice was chilly.
“I notice you refer to my late partner by his first name.”
“Why not? I was a friend of his.”
“But I gathered that it was Dr Tileman who recommended you to us!”
“Are the two mutually exclusive?” Laird murmured.
All of a sudden Skelton had become agitated. He said, “I think we’re digressing, Mr Walker, and I haven’t a lot of time to spare. Shouldn’t we come down to the exact nature of your proposals?”
Laird eyed him for the space of a dozen heartbeats. At last he rose to his feet.
“I don’t think it’s worth taking up any more of your time, Mr Skelton,” he said. “If you make it a policy not to involve Barsamby Loans in the entertainment industry, I won’t try and argue. No doubt I can raise adequate finance elsewhere.”
“I didn’t mean—” Skelton broke off, nonplussed.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Laird said with a sweet smile, and held out his hand.
On the way to the exit, he repeated his smile to the girl at the reception desk and was rewarded by a glittering display of well cared-for teeth.
SIXTEEN
It was about time to beard Dr Tileman directly, Laird decided. He checked the doctor’s card to refresh his memory about the address and stepped into the road to hail a taxi. Even if Tileman wasn’t at home, it would be a good idea to find out what he could from his neighbours, local shopkeepers or whoever might be persuaded to talk about him.
The cab took him to a modern apartment block in Chelsea whose site must have been cleared by a fire—or possibly the Blitz—for the rest of the neighbourhood was uniformly Georgian: family residences of three floors and basement, a church, a pub fronted by trees in green wooden tubs.
A long table of tenants outside the entrance concluded with Penthouse—Dr E.S. Tileman. Laird hesitated with his finger on the bell, wondering what to say over the intercom to gain admission.
While he was still undecided, a woman with a Peke emerged from the elevators visible through the glass front door. With unchallengeable aplomb Laird pushed the door out of her way directly she had turned the lock. The dog yapped at him; she gave a mechanical smile of thanks. And he was inside without the inconvenience of explaining his business.
However, the elevator did not bring him directly to the interior of the penthouse, as he had hoped. It gave on to a miniature landing from one side of which a flight of stairs led down—a fire exit, presumably—and on the other was a locked door. He sighed. He’d noticed on his previous visit that the British had not yet really adjusted to the existence of the elevator. He gave the door a hearty bang with his fist.
It opened to reveal not Tileman but the blonde he had seen at Paymaster Mews. She was wearing a black and white print frock a little longer than the fashionable length, but it did good things for her legs and arms. Her face, though, was so taut with anxiety that the calm beauty of her features was spoiled.
“Oh! You’re the American—the friend of Logan!”
Her accent was remarkably similar to Tileman’s, with just that same shadow of German colouring the words. Laird nodded.
“May I come in?”
“You wish to see Dr Tileman? He is not yet back.” She blocked the entrance with all her body, as though afraid for him even to see past into the apartment.
“I don’t mind waiting,” Laird murmured.
A curious play of emotion showed on the girl’s face. At last she stood back, with an almost guilty air.
“Yes, come in. But I do not think you should speak with Dr Tileman. I think you should speak with me.”
Trying to make sense of that remark, Laird stepped inside. A glance around told him two things: that the owner was rich as Croesus, and that he had lousy taste. The furnishings and fabrics were from the finest London stores—Heal’s, Harrods—and nonetheless they had an air of cheapness. The hot brown chairs clashed with the stern grey carpeting, the mock Queen Anne cabinet of the hi-fi shrieked complaints at the clean modernity of the TV.
Closing the door, the girl said, “May I get you a drink, Mr Walker?”
“Please. And do call me Laird. And you are—?”
“Dagmar Schell.” She uttered the name with a quick headshake, as though to imply it didn’t matter. “Please sit down. And what to drink, then?”
; “Oh, a cold beer would be fine.”
She fetched him a Carlsberg from the adjacent kitchen and poured it tidily with just the right amount of head. Laird sipped it, waiting for her to explain the statement she’d made when letting him in.
But she took her time over reaching the point. She said first, “Please, what do you want to see Dr Tileman about?”
“About the business he had with my friend Sammy, of course.”
The girl’s eyes swung up to fix him, round as searchlights, and all the colour drained out of her face. She trembled visibly. Laird stared at her. After an incredulous pause he said, “What in hell does Tileman do to you—beat you?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean!”
“Blazes, woman! Anybody could tell just by looking at you that you’re scared out of your wits! Why?”
With odd, pathetic dignity she said, “It is no concern of yours how I behave, Mr Walker.”
“And no concern of yours how Sammy Logan died?”
It was a completely blind stab, but the results were so painful he came close to wishing he could call the words back. Her eyes snapped shut and she raised her hand as though to ward off a blow.
“Please, Mr Walker!” Her voice was almost a moan. “Why don’t you leave me alone?”
Has this crazy search of mine struck pay-dirt?
“A moment ago you were saying I ought to talk to you,” Laird snapped. “What about?”
“I—I have nothing to say to you after all. I’m sorry.”
“Okay. Maybe you have something to say to Inspector Lewis of Scotland Yard. He’s very interested in your boss’s connection with Sammy Logan!”
“No! No!” She shot out both hands in an imploring gesture. “It is nothing for the police, I swear it’s not!”
“What, then?” Laird rose and gazed grimly down at her from the full vantage of his six foot three.
But before she could choke out her reply, the door from the landing swung back with a click of the key, and there in the entrance stood not only Tileman… but Medea.