by John Brunner
Laird scowled. “You said some of your friends recognised his name. Is there any clue in the fact that they know of him?”
“My dear!” Another reversion to campness. “You don’t think I class people on my payroll as friends of mine, do you? Christ, some of them I wouldn’t share a bloody lifeboat with!”
“I asked you a question,” Laird snapped.
“The answer’s no. Except that it’s jet-set stuff. But you might expect that from Tileman’s obvious wealth.”
Not bad going for a refugee after four years… Laird snapped his fingers. “Say, that’s a point! Don’t you have a residence qualification for people who want to get naturalised as British subjects?”
“Yes, I think it’s four years. Why?”
“When I saw Tileman at Sammy’s place, he claimed that he hadn’t been German for many years quote-unquote. Yet according to that news story he came here only four years ago. Anything in that?”
“I doubt it. We have no diplomatic relations with the DDR, so presumably he’d have come here as a stateless person, and I believe they have special arrangements for such cases. But I’ll look into it, of course.” Bitchy glanced at a clock on the dressing-table.
“Right, that’s all the time I can spare, I’m afraid. And I shouldn’t keep you too long anyway. Your gorgeous ladyfriend strikes me as the impatient type.”
Laird shrugged and rose. Turning to put on the orange wig, Bitchy added, “And do me one favour, will you? Don’t tramp all over the place with clumsy great feet and warn people off! I have the best grapevine in London, no bragging, and what I can get you will be worth ten times what you as a stranger can dig up. Take it easy for a while, hm? I can reach you at Sammy’s old number, can’t I, if anything crops up?”
Christ, I only checked out of my hotel at seven tonight!
But if Bitchy could be that up to date with the news it did make sense to leave the inquiries to an expert for the time being. Laird felt a curious access of relief, as though an intolerable duty had been taken from him.
NINETEEN
When Laird returned to his table, he realised instantly that Bitchy had been perfectly right about Medea.
Impatient type!
Except that the tension underlying her immaculate veneer wasn’t due simply to impatience. More, it stemmed from conceit: what could possibly make her escort of the evening spend so long away from her?
He ordered a second round of coffee and liqueurs and waited for her to choose the next subject of conversation. As he had half-expected it concerned his absence. Accepting one of his cigarettes, she murmured, “I didn’t realise you knew Bitchy personally.”
Laird snapped his lighter. “It was Sammy who first brought me here. Apparently Bitchy is always interested in friends of friends.”
Medea sensed that that was all she was likely to get from him. Her manner became a trifle distant.
“By the way, while you were out of the room, it occurred to me that we haven’t discussed the project you mentioned at Dr Tileman’s. What is it exactly?”
Laird stalled frantically. “Well, I have to admit I went to see Tileman on the spur of the moment. I have lots of ideas in mind—I don’t really think I can face a life of leisure indefinitely.”
“But according to what you told me earlier, you ought to be able to finance yourself,” Medea put in.
“Sure, I probably can. But I’m not a businesslike kind of guy. I’m going to need the best advice I can get if I’m not to make a complete fool of myself. Incidentally, after I’d given Tileman the name of your hotel, I was a bit worried. For all I knew you might not want to get mixed up with Sammy’s business associates. Did I do the right thing?”
“Lord, yes!” Unaccountable enthusiasm coloured Medea’s voice. “I told you this morning, it’s fascinating—But I keep forgetting. You’re not one of Dr Tileman’s clients.”
“I barely know him.”
“You ought to. You really ought.” Medea gazed down at the coal of her cigarette as though it were a crystal ball, and abruptly Laird realised what was bugging her. Some people have a compulsion to share secrets. Medea had one, and she was having the devil’s own job keeping it to herself.
He waited. After a pause she said, not looking at him, “Don’t you think it’s sad when people have no frontiers to explore?”
“I don’t find lack of frontiers a problem.”
“Of course not, being the kind of person you are. But not everyone is so lucky. I told you earlier how I feel about travel nowadays—it isn’t real travel, only tourism. It’s easier than ever before, yet when one arrives one finds that what there is to know was in the books and brochures one studied before leaving home. The excitement is all drained away. Do you see what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“Which is why so many people are driven to their own internal terra incognita—at least I think that’s the reason. For instance, we were talking about Mexico earlier. I imagine you’ve run across their religions of divine possession.”
Laird repressed a start. This was so close to what he’d been discussing with Bitchy only a few minutes ago. He said, “You mean the drug-cults—peyote and so on?”
“Exactly. As an adventurous man, I suppose you’ve investigated these—should one not call them ‘internal frontiers’?”
“Most of them, from pot to acid,” he admitted.
“Don’t you find them fascinating?”
“Not particularly.”
“I’m surprised. You said earlier you’d go a thousand miles out of your way to have an experience like the one you described on that pyramid at sunset. But one no longer has to.”
“So long as I can get them naturally, I’m not tempted to take short cuts,” Laird grunted, and remembered Shannon’s bitter remark about acidheads being likely to keep him in business for the rest of his professional life.
But he had carried his disclaimers too far. Medea emptied her liqueur-glass and began to gather her belongings, a hint so heavy he could not ignore it. He produced his billfold and snapped his fingers for the waiter.
While he was paying up, though, Medea seemed to repent. “It’s not terribly late, is it?” she said. “Shall we go on somewhere?”
“I’m still a little disorganised from keeping New York time,” Laird lied. “I don’t think I’d be very good company.”
“I’ve enjoyed myself very much so far. But as you like. Will you see me to my hotel?”
“With pleasure,” Laird agreed, rising.
In the cab during the short ride back to the Rapallo Hotel, she was silent, but continued to eye him speculatively. By policy, instead of sitting close to her he relaxed into the far corner of the back seat and looked more at the passing traffic than at her. He suspected that piquing her vanity might be the best technique for provoking her into parting with that secret she’d touched on at the club.
The cab drew up before her hotel and he made to get out and hold the door for her. She checked him with a touch on the arm.
“Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Laird,” she said. “I’m so pleased to have heard Bitchy Legree at last, and I found you most interesting to talk to. Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”
And anything else you care to name. The invitation was perfectly audible.
“Not tonight, thanks,” Laird smiled. “I am a bit disoriented.”
With satisfaction he read a question in her face: what did I do to turn him off? And added, “There’ll be another time, won’t there?”
“I’d like that.” She gave him her most dazzling smile. “In fact… Well, I think I know when it might be. Are you tied up on Saturday evening? Or would you like to come to a party—a rather special kind of party, that I think you’d enjoy?”
I think we finally got there.
Laird concealed his jubilation. “It sounds like a great idea,” he said. “I don’t have anything fixed up. I’ve been so broken up over Sammy that I haven’t gotten around to contacting
my other friends in London.”
“Then perhaps you’d like to pick me up here at… Let’s see: I suppose we’d better make it six-thirty.”
“That sounds very early for a party!”
“I told you: a very special kind of party.”
Hmmm!
“Fine, I’ll call for you in the car, then.”
“You have a car now?”
“I bought Sammy’s Jensen,” Laird murmured.
“Really? So I shall finally have my chance to ride in it. See you on Saturday evening, then. Good night!”
She made to get out. It was Laird’s turn to check her.
“The host at this party,” he said. “I’d be right in thinking that I know him, wouldn’t I?”
Medea gave a trilling laugh. “I wish you hadn’t sounded as though you were guessing when you said that, Laird! I do like intelligent men, but it undermines the good impression when you hear them having to guess at things.”
Back in control of the situation by her own standards, she went on, “But your guess is probably quite correct. And believe me you will enjoy it. I had a—shall we say a private view?—on Wednesday evening, and I can promise you something very much out of the ordinary!”
TWENTY
Polly had been thorough in her cleaning-up of Sammy’s house. The big double bed had been stripped and the mattress humped up in the middle to let it air. Laird hunted around until he located a stock of fitted nylon sheets, and with a wry grin selected a black pair to put on.
The bedroom was stuffy. He opened the window and music drifted in. Across the gardens behind the mews a party was going on. He saw a lighted balcony with a couple on it, the girl wearing a white dress. She noticed him and waved.
Laird shivered. Alone in Sammy’s home, he suddenly felt oppressed by the events that had led to his being here. He threw the pillows at the bed all anyhow and went back into the living-room for a final drink.
Maybe I should have taken up Medea’s invitation. But inheriting Sammy’s wife as well as his home and his car…!
For the moment, until Bitchy had broken down the wall of silence, he was at liberty to do what he’d planned to do in London: enjoy himself. He put a late-night programme of music on the radio and dropped into a chair to think about that.
His brain refused to co-operate. He kept coming back to the party Medea had asked him to on Saturday night—a very “special” party, with Tileman as host. What could that imply? A dozen wild guesses chased across his mind; some of them scared him a little.
Likeliest of all remained the possibility of drugs. Yet Bitchy had insisted there wasn’t enough money in drugs in London to account for Tileman’s affluence.
Also the reporter had said, “Don’t touch it—it’s too big!”
Sighing, he went to bed and eventually fell into a troubled sleep.
The bedside phone extension woke him at nine-thirty. The first blinking of his eyes showed him that it was another fine day, but windy, the tops of the trees shaking. He groped for the phone and muttered his name.
“Courcy here, Laird. Sorry if I woke you up.”
“Just as well somebody did, I guess.” Laird fought a yawn, lost, and turned the end of it into a laugh. “Well, what can I do for you this beautiful morning?”
“Well, I just thought perhaps we could do something today. Are you busy?”
Now that’s a great idea. A chance to try out the car… But there was something I meant to do this morning—what? Oh yes! Go look over Tileman’s special-effects firm.
“Laird? You still there?”
“Sorry, just thinking. Yes, that would be fine. Let’s run out of London somewhere. I took over Sammy’s Jensen and I’d like to see how it feels.”
“Marvellous. What shall I do—come over to your place?”
“I do have to pay one call this morning. Just a second.” There was a set of phone-books under the bedside table; he pulled out the A to D volume and leafed through it. Dramagic Ltd had an address in Tottenham Court Road, an area where he might drive a mile before finding a parking space. So best to take a cab there and back. He did a quick calculation.
“Could you be here around noon?”
“Yes, that’ll be perfect.”
“Right, look forward to seeing you. And by the way! How did you know I was here? I didn’t know myself until yesterday evening.”
“I called your hotel and they gave me your new address. I had the shock of my life until I figured out what must have happened. You’ve rented the place from his sister, have you?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve bought his car?”
“Yes, that too.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Courcy said. “We need someone around this town to take Sammy’s place. Only don’t carry it too far, will you? I don’t think you’d look so good in a coffin.”
And she rang off. But Laird’s spine crawled all the time he was fixing breakfast.
He left his cab on the side of Tottenham Court Road opposite Dramagic’s premises. A furniture van was parked under the sign which pointed to the firm, along a narrow alley running back between two dingy buildings. A gang of men were unloading a weird assortment of bits and pieces: half a flight of steps faked to look like worn stone, a leaded glass window in a wooden frame, a construction resembling an astrolabe in slick modern plastic.
Hoping that he wasn’t likely to run into Tileman and have to invent excuses for his presence, Laird followed the men as they struggled under the weight of another improbable object suggesting a turtle turned to plaster and three times life-size. The alley debouched into a yard half full of scenery flats and props covered with black polythene sheet.
And there, by the main entrance to the firm, was Dagmar Schell checking off the items being delivered on a list attached to a clipboard. She glanced up and recognised him and instantly went pasty-pale.
“Mr Walker! What are you doing here?” she whispered, her eyes darting up to the windows overlooking the yard.
“The name’s Laird—I hate being called mister. And why shouldn’t I be here? I thought I’d drop by and say hello, that’s all.”
She seized his arm and drew him back into the alleyway, out of sight of the windows. “Please!” she whimpered. “Go away from here! Dr Tileman is there, in his office. He is very angry. This morning, when Mrs Logan called about you…”
“About me? Why?”
“She wants you to come to Apricots tomorrow, doesn’t she?”
“To Apricots? What’s that?”
“To one of Dr Tileman’s—uh—parties. He holds them in a house called Apricots, in North London.”
“I see.” Laird frowned. “So why shouldn’t I come?”
“You are not the sort of person they are for,” Dagmar declared. “They are for selfish people, greedy people, nasty people!”
“So I’m all of those things. At least Medea thinks I’ll enjoy myself. What—?”
He was on the point of asking what kind of a party Tileman was holding, but she cut him short.
“Please, I heard him talking to Mrs Logan on the phone! It was an argument, and…” The voice ran out, like a record when the player’s plug is pulled.
“Miss!”
The driver of the van thrust a receipt under her nose. She signed it with a shaking hand. The moment the man turned away, she clutched at Laird’s arm.
“Please go! Now Dr Tileman will come to see that everything is delivered. And he is suspicious of you because you were a friend of Mr Logan.”
“So were a hell of a lot of other people. Why me?”
“Because— Oh, if he starts to think you are dangerous, it will be terrible for you!”
Laird fixed her with his eyes. She was deathly pale still, and her lower lip was trembling.
“I think it’s about time somebody was dangerous to your boss. If I have to take on the job, I’ll do it cheerfully. And if I didn’t have another reason I think I’d do it anyway for scaring you into fit
s the way he does!”
She spun on her heel and disappeared.
Talk about Sammy being scared to death! That girl’s in a fair way to being scared to death herself!
And the idea came out of nowhere, trailing implications so terrifying he wanted to ignore them but couldn’t: for the same reason?
When he got back to Paymaster Mews, Courcy had not yet arrived. He poured himself a drink and sat down to scowl over what had just happened.
After ten minutes’ hard thinking he reached for the phone, dialled Scotland Yard, and asked whether Inspector Lewis was back from Birmingham. He was. But he didn’t sound too pleased when he learned who was calling.
“Ah, the visiting sleuth!” he said sourly. “And what else have you found out that we already know?”
“What do you know about Emmerich Tileman?” Laird countered.
There was a moment of total silence. At last Lewis said a trifle more cordially, “You’ve been thorough, haven’t you, Mr Walker?”
“How do you mean?”
“Just what I say. Please go on.”
Puzzled, but relieved too, Laird summed up what he knew about Tileman, and when he had finished he heard Lewis tapping his teeth at the other end of the phone.
“You’ve not only been thorough, you’ve been lucky,” he said. “If I had that kind of luck I wouldn’t be in the spot I’m in right now. I’m dead beat—haven’t had proper sleep for three nights in a row, and I’m going to be up late tonight as well… All right, Walker, I’m going to be bloody unprofessional. I warn you, I’m doing you the kind of favour that could cost me my job, but I just saw a villain get away with something that ought to have bought him three years’ bird, and I’m feeling in a bloody-minded mood. There are too damned many villains getting away with it nowadays!”
He drew a deep breath; it hissed in the phone.
“I told you, I’m not satisfied with the verdict in the Logan case. But we dug into everything we could find, including Tileman’s background. We found a scrap of paper with nothing on it but his name and phone number, and we were getting so desperate we even followed up that.”