Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  I steeled myself to bully him. "Luck's nothing to do with it - you said they. What was that supposed to mean?"

  He squirmed in his chair. "Sam - it's not I've anything against your friend Green - but - but, well I was rather hoping we might do something together. I know I'm not as well off as I was, but well I would like to help you get started again."

  Was that all it was? Edgar rallying to help. The gesture of a friend.

  "That's very nice of you Edgar but-"

  "It would be fun," he said quickly, "start small and build up. Working together again. Any business you like except clubs-"

  "Edgar, is something the matter?" I asked bluntly. He was frightened, I was sure of it. "Something's worrying you," I said, "I can see that. Frightening you even-"

  "Sssh Sam - please." He looked round the room again, but we were too far away from the other occupied tables to be overheard.

  I lied. It was a brutal, vicious lie of which I shall always be ashamed. "Trouble is," I said, "I'm signing contracts on this new club tomorrow and-"

  "Tomorrow! Sam no - for heaven's sake no!"

  His fear was obvious now. It showed in his voice, eyes, mannerisms - I could almost smell it.

  "But why no?" I asked. "Edgar, just now you said they - who are they? Not Jack surely? Jack is my oldest friend-"

  "Not here, Sam - we can't talk here." He dabbed his face with his table napkin. More than once he glanced at Henderson but even that failed to prepare me for what came next. "You see, I'm followed wherever I go."

  "Followed!"

  "Sssh!" He wiped his hands on his napkin. Now his eyes were everywhere - quick, darting looks round the room which gave a furtive cast to his expression. He said, "I know it sounds ridiculous, an old man's imagination-"

  I followed his look across to Henderson. "You think he is following you?"

  Edgar peered across the room. He frowned anxiously. "I'm not sure. I think he is one of them. I've seen him before but-" he turned to watch the courting couple settle their bill, "It gets you down after a while."

  "Edgar, you can tell me, surely?"

  "I must tell you," he said with sudden determination. "Ever since January I've waited to tell you. But we can't talk here - and your friend will be back in a minute-"

  "Jack? He can wait downstairs, get himself a drink at the bar-"

  "They'll be closing - besides you have your appointment." He swallowed the last drop of brandy. Some colour returned to his face and he seemed more in control of himself than a minute earlier. He checked his watch, "And I ought to be going."

  I cursed under my breath. Jack's involvement had been Kaufman's idea - to provide an excuse in case Edgar suggested we went on elsewhere. Now I wanted to go on and Jack's presence prevented it.

  "Why not come back to my place now?" I suggested, "We could talk for a while longer, in privacy-"

  "But your appointment-" he broke off, looking over my shoulder.

  I turned and saw Jack in the doorway. He waved and began to thread his way between the tables to where we sat. I turned back to Edgar, "Tonight then?" I said urgently, "Come round for a drink-"

  Jack arrived and grinned down at us, "Sorry I'm late. Have I held you up?"

  "Tonight Edgar?" I repeated.

  He crumpled his napkin into a ball and left it next to his coffeecup. The waiter arrived with our bill. Damn and blast everything! There was so much I wanted to know. What had happened to reduce Edgar to this nervy hesitant ghost of himself? And what had become of the other person who had been with us ever since we sat down? Neither of us had acknowledged her. We had both avoided using her name, but Kay had been in our thoughts for at least some of the time.

  "Tonight Edgar," I pleaded, "any time to suit you."

  We stood up. I put some notes on the plate and indicated that the waiter should keep the change. Jack turned for the entrance, and then Edgar said, "About eight then - will that be all right?"

  I sighed with relief. "We've a lot to talk about," I said, with a hand on his elbow.

  He knew I meant Kay. Or at least in part. There was a flash of pain in his eyes, followed by that haunted, worried expression. He nodded, and we followed Jack across to the lift. Henderson was settling his bill, folding his newspaper, marking a page in his book. The three businessmen called for another round of brandies.

  We rode down in the lift and Edgar politely asked Jack about his meeting.

  Jack shrugged, "Oh, you know architects. Full of fancy words like ambiance and charisma to justify their fees."

  I thought how odd. These two are my closest friends, perhaps my only friends, yet they clearly dislike each other. Edgar was being cool and polite, but preserving his distance, while Jack was awkward, even a bit surly.

  Edgar's chauffeur was waiting outside. We were offered a lift but Jack said he had a taxi waiting. Downstairs we turned towards the exit which opened onto the car park, then walked through the doors into the pale sunlight.

  Once, when I was a kid, I was nearly run over. It all happened so quickly but every split second registered in my mind, everything froze in sharp focus, like a frame in a film. So it was then. At the bottom of the steps we started across the car park, our shoes crunching the gravel. Edgar's chauffeur climbed out from behind the wheel of the Rolls to open the rear door. The interior light cast a soft glow over magnolia upholstery and walnut woodwork. A flock of wood pigeons rose in a flurry of wings from a knot of trees thirty yards away. The air was quiet and still, like a churchyard. The sun struggled for life in a bruised sky which threatened rain. The car park was virtually empty. There was a dreamlike quality to the scene - as if I was involved, yet apart from it, watching it, like a play on the stage. Then I heard the shouting.

  "Down, for Christ's sake - get down!"

  I turned and saw Henderson ten yards away, standing close to a yellow car. His knees were bent and his right hand was thrust forward, supported by his left. He looked like a cop in a TV film. Especially as the gun in his hand was blazing away at the bushes under the elm trees. Jack shouted, and as I swung back I saw splashes of red on Edgar's coat. His eyes opened wide in some kind of appeal and his mouth worked convulsively without sound. His knees buckled and he fell backwards, while his gloved hands grasped his lapels, as if to pull the coat tighter against the cold. Then the slow motion camera inside my head stopped as Jack hurled me to the ground.

  I heard a wildly revving engine, the squeal of brakes, felt my face cut by flying gravel, smelt scorched rubber, exhaust fumes. A taxi skidded to a halt in front of us. The driver screamed to get inside. We half crawled, half threw ourselves through the open door. The driver leapt out, crouched like Henderson, fired twice at the bushes, shouted something, threw himself back up behind his wheel, crashed into gear and almost stood the cab on its side as he swerved to avoid the Rolls. The door of the cab swung open. I saw Edgar's chauffeur face down on the gravel, the back of his head covered with blood, his uniform cap a yard away. Then I got a hand to the door and slammed it shut.

  Jack was being sick on the floor and I was trembling like a leaf in a gale. The driver yelled something but he was shouting so much I missed most of it. Then I realised it was directed at his radio. He turned east at the exit, away from the West End, taking the road in the opposite direction - driving fast, dangerously, swerving the cab like a rugby player heading for a touch-down. We were in the back streets of Hampstead Garden Suburb within a minute, flying past smart houses and well tended lawns, braking hard to avoid a green VW as it emerged from a side road, then lurching on again at breakneck speed.

  Jack wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. "Where the hell are we?"

  I clutched the seat and braced myself as we clipped a kerbstone at fifty miles an hour. Then we were back into the main road. I recognised Henley's Corner on the North Circular Road and panicked as I remembered Kaufman saying, "Our hardest job will be to make sure they don't snatch you."

  Christ! Was this our driver?

  More traffic about,
we slowed down. The man shouted over his shoulder, "You okay?"

  I shouted back, "Where are we going?"

  "Procedure. Someone gets hit, you scatter. You see any sign of a tail?"

  Jack craned his neck to the rear window, "What am I looking for?"

  "Could be anything. Anything keeping up with us?"

  "Yeah? I'll tell you if I see a Formula One racing car."

  The driver chuckled and glanced over his shoulder. I got a better look at him. It was our driver! I sighed with relief. We crossed the North Circular and raced on towards Mill Hill. I still struggled to understand. "Why aren't we going back to Rex Place?"

  "We probably will, when I get word. But that might have been hit as.well for all I know."

  Then it registered. Properly registered. They had killed Edgar! In broad daylight someone had killed Edgar! I groaned aloud and Jack gave me a sharp look, "You okay?"

  I nodded.

  "Why should Hardman's chauffeur shoot him?" Jack asked.

  "His chauffeur didn't," I said, "it was someone in the bushes."

  "But the chauffeur-"

  "Got caught in the cross-fire I think. I dunno-"

  The radio spluttered to life. Kaufman's voice shouted above the static, "Oboe - oboe - report your position. Oboe - oboe - can you hear me?"

  "This is oboe," shouted the driver. "We are on the outskirts of Mill Hill, heading north."

  Kaufman's voice boomed through a snowstorm of static, "Where the fuck's Mill Hill?"

  The driver told him. Then Kaufman asked, "Your passengers okay?" The driver said we were. Even that failed to improve Kaufman's temper. He cursed bitterly, then said, "Make sure you're clean, then get back to Sandringham. Use the back entrance. Okay?"

  "Understood," the driver said, "may I have your closing RT procedure please."

  Not even the static masked Kaufman's fury. But he finally stopped swearing long enough to say, "The Times is a lousy newspaper." Then the line went dead.

  "He sounds hopping mad," the driver said cheerfully.

  "Where's Sandringham?" I asked.

  "Rex Place," he threw me a quick look in his mirror.

  Jack grunted. "What was that about The Times!"

  "Safety code. He wouldn't have said it if someone was sitting there with a gun pushed in his ear."

  "I bet," said Jack.

  "We try to plan for everything."

  "Funny," I said, "Edgar Hardman used to say that."

  Chapter Eight

  Rosemary Parker had long since learned that the best way of stopping her guests from dwelling on their problems was to give them something else to think about. Involve them in a project, something they could get their teeth into. The nature of the project varied with the guests. Most were men so as often as not Charles got them busy around the farm, but the women were Rosemary's responsibility and she decided that Maria Green was positively not the farming type. So what to do with her? She was to be at Glebe Farm for at least a week according to Bill Kaufman. She would worry herself to death left to her own resources. But Rosemary had decided upon Maria's project after that one visit to The Dog's Home - though she waited until after lunch before broaching the subject.

  Charles had gone off to see his farm manager and the two women had adjourned to the drawing room, when Rosemary said, "Maria my dear, you could do me the most enormous favour while you're here."

  Maria stopped worrying about Sam meeting Hardman long enough to say she would be delighted to help in any way possible.

  "It's this room," Rosemary said, waving a hand. "The whole house really. Well, Charles's background is army and farming mine too I suppose. We spent so much time abroad, then when we came here the farm itself took priority over everything else but, well I ask you, just look at this room."

  Maria looked. It was a big room, almost square, the fireplace wall all natural brick and horse brasses, the other walls painted a pale green. Blue carpet, yellow patterned curtains, red scatter cushions on the chintz-covered armchairs.

  "It's a complete mess," Rosemary announced, "The whole house is a mess. But I thought if we did a room at a time?"

  Maria looked at her.

  "If you advised I mean," Rosemary said hastily, "colours, fabrics, what goes with what. Well, The Dog's Home is so exquisite. You've obviously got a wonderful eye-"

  "Jack has-" Maria said quickly.

  Rosemary shook her head, "We could start with the wallpapers. If we went to Bristol and borrowed those pattern books they have we could then decide, room by room-"

  "The whole house?" Maria exclaimed.

  Rosemary threw her hands in the air. "We've been here six years and done nothing. Oh, we've fixed the roof and renewed the wiring in some of the bedrooms, but nothing really...and it's such a marvellous opportunity having you here."

  "But I'm not an interior decorator."

  "But you've got the eye," Rosemary insisted, "so I thought if we went to Bristol this afternoon and collected wallpaper books and carpet samples, and those little shade cards the paint makers give out - well, perhaps tomorrow we could decide on each room-"

  "Jack's phoning at six," Maria said quickly.

  Rosemary checked her watch. "It's not half past two yet. We could be in Bristol just after three. We've got plenty of time - don't worry, we'll be back here by six," she paused, to smile appealingly at Maria, "I really would be so grateful. Even Charles remarked upon the atmosphere at your place - and Charles could live in a barn without noticing his surroundings."

  Maria tried to quell her feelings of doubt long enough to return the smile. "People's tastes vary - you've got to live here, not me. I would hate to suggest-"

  "Then I'll suggest, you just stop me if I'm going wrong," Rosemary persisted, "Charles says I can have the whole house done. You can't imagine how long it's taken to get him to say that. And having you here ..."

  Maria laughed, caught up in the other woman's excitement. And it was exciting - to do an entire house from top to bottom.

  "So if we could plan it this week," Rosemary said, "everything carpets, drapes, everything-"

  "You won't blame me - afterwards?"

  "Only if you refuse to help," Rosemary beamed.

  Maria hesitated, taking another look at the room.

  Rosemary said, "There are some good shops in Bath, of course, but I thought we'd do Bristol today for samples and things."

  "The whole house?" Maria said, thinking aloud.

  "We could do Bath later in the week," Rosemary said.

  Maria smiled, "And we'll be back here by six?"

  Rosemary nodded. "Then we could look through the pattern books this evening ..."

  Maria laughed again as she warmed to the project: "Right, you're on. But don't blame me-"

  "I promised." Rosemary jumped up, "On this will be fun! Bristol it is then. Just as well Harry Hall and Ray Peters are here. They can carry the pattern books, they weigh a ton."

  It took us a long time to get back to Rex Place - but then it would, the way we went. Edgware, Harrow, across the Western Avenue at Hanger Lane and down into Ealing, then along the Uxbridge Road to Shepherds Bush and up the Bayswater Road. The driver wouldn't even stop for Jack to clean himself up properly. When we reached Marble Arch he made some adjustment to the fare meter and said, "We're going in the back way. Wells Court. One of you pay me when we get there. Make a job of it - give me a fiver or something and I'll hand you some change. Then turn through the gate. The front door will open as you reach it. Go straight in, but don't run or do anything daft. You got that?"

  I said yes. Then the driver said "Park Lane" into his radio and someone answered "Roger" above a noise like bacon sizzling in a frying pan.

  Jack scowled out of the window. He had barely spoken for the last half hour. Being involved in a shooting is a frightening experience, but he looked more angry than scared. I was angry too, angry with Kaufman and his senseless suspicions about Edgar. And now Edgar was dead.

  We turned into Mount Street and
a minute later we were there number fifteen Wells Court. I had been curious about the place earlier but I couldn't care less now - I was just too tensed up - too bloody anxious to get hold of Kaufman and tell him what I thought of his half baked ideas. But I stood at the kerb and handed the driver a fiver, with Jack looking up and down the street. The driver gave me two pounds and some silver. "Right," he said, almost under his breath, "Turn now - and don't run."

  It was a very short path but it seemed a very long way. Any second I expected the crack of a rifle. My spine tingled where it would shatter under the impact of a bullet. But the door opened as we reached it and a second later I was inside, with Jack on my heels. The cab drew away as the door closed behind us.

  "Down the end," a man jerked his head and Jack brushed past me to lead the way. I heard raised voices, then a telephone rang and somebody snatched it up to bellow an answer. The room was at the back of the house, but even so the blinds were drawn and the lights switched on. It was quite large, bigger than the sitting room at Rex Place. Half a dozen easy chairs were set in a semi-circle facing a desk. Three reel-to-reel tape recorders were bracketed to one wall, and the long table against the far side was littered with telephones. Henderson was speaking into one, leaning against a grey filing cabinet and watching us as he talked. Kaufman rose from behind the desk as we entered. Llewellyn watched us from an armchair. Richardson greeted us with a sick smile from a coffee machine behind the door.

  Jack covered the room with a couple of strides. "You great, stupid bastard!" he roared at Kaufman, "You said Sam would be safe. Promised me. So how safe was today, Kaufman? If I hadn't knocked him down he'd be dead now."

  "Back off will you!" Kaufman shouted back. "Back off and get your head together. You know what was out there today? A professional hit man, right down to a Schneider 303 and telescopic sights. Don't kid yourself - if they had wanted Sam no fancy heroics from you would have saved him."

  "But-"

  "But nothing!" Kaufman stormed out from behind his desk. He was shorter than Jack, but just as angry.

  Henderson cupped the phone with one hand. "For Christ's sake! Hang on will you - I can't hear a word he's saying."