Kaufman bristled up at Jack, then swung back to his chair. Richardson closed the door behind me. Henderson resumed his telephone conversation.
Kaufman waved at an armchair. "Sit down, Sam. You look white as a sheet. You want a coffee or something?"
"No," I said, "I don't want coffee."
Henderson finished on the telephone and turned to Kaufman, "Rossiter's blown a fuse about Hampstead. Says there'll be all sorts of repercussions. He wants you and the Brigadier up there at six o'clock."
Kaufman scowled at Llewellyn. "He's a pain in the ass. But unless we go his men with the pointed heads will trample over everything."
Llewellyn nodded. "Tricky situation," he said mildly.
"Is that right?" Kaufman said aggressively, "Well it's your end of things so I'm relying on you to keep him in line."
"Quite," Llewellyn nodded. He turned to me, "Surprising turn of events, eh?"
"Not for me," I said coldly, "I never thought Edgar was your mysterious Ferryman."
Kaufman flushed. "So how many innocent men get whacked by hit men? Hardman being killed don't change a thing. He was in this up to his back teeth. Maybe someone down the line got ambitious. A struggle for power? Happens all the time."
"That's your explanation is-it?" I sneered.
"I don't have an explanation. You think this is little Miss Marples - saying the vicar done it in the study? Well it ain't that cosy. I told you what we got. A man ripped apart as he shouts Hardman's name down an open line. That fancy photo locked up in Hardman's safe."
"He was frightened. Terrified! He was going to tell me-"
"Yeah? Well he ain't now," Kaufman slapped the flat of his hand down on the desk. Then he sighed heavily, like a man trying not to lose his temper. "Okay, Sam, cool down. Let's hear what you got on that recorder. You did switch it on I suppose?"
It was the most treacherous act of my life, but. I opened my jacket and unbuttoned my shirt. The recorder taped to my chest was as slim as a cigarette case and about half the size. I winced as the plaster came off. Henderson proffered a hand and after giving him the recorder I fumbled with my cufflinks. They were the microphones but no wires connected them to the recorder so I had no idea how it worked. I placed the cufflinks on the. desk just as Henderson slotted the recorder into a machine mounted on the wall. Then Edgar said, "This is fun. Lunch in the country, no less."
I felt sick as I listened. I had betrayed Edgar - led him to his death. Listening made it worse, hearing the fear in his voice, his warning, his obvious concern for me expressed only hours ago. And now he was dead. I couldn't stop telling myself that.
It was all there - right through to the gunshots in the car park but nothing after that - either the tape had run out or the recorder switched itself off when Jack knocked me over. I chain-smoked my way through it and watched other people's reactions. Not that they gave much away. Richardson drank a gallon of black coffee, Llewellyn puffed on his pipe, Henderson fidgeted and Kaufman doodled on a scrap pad. It took an hour and a half to listen to the whole tape, maybe a bit longer, certainly long enough for me to get my nerves under control and for the temper to fade from Jack's expression.
When it was over Kaufman asked, "What was that business about Charlie Weston and Lew Douglas? How come the old man owed them that much?"
I reminded him about the Apex deal, but his scowl deepened, "Yeah, you mentioned something - but there's nothing in the Minute Book about it."
"Why should there be? It wasn't really Apex business - more of a private arrangement between the directors."
"You could have elaborated more than you did," he said grudgingly.
"Oh, for God's sake! I answered your questions-"
"Sam," he said heavily, "it's not even a matter of questions. The point is us getting to know everything. Your story, remember? Somewhere there's a clue in your background. If we keep digging-"
Llewellyn interrupted, "It's almost five thirty. I ought to be getting over to Rossiter's place."
Kaufman sighed, "Think you can handle him? By yourself I mean? It's not I'm chicken but-"
"Better without you," Llewellyn smiled as he stood up. "You'll be here, will you? If I need-"
"I'll be here," Kaufman walked heavily to the table next to the coffee machine. "I may not be sober but sure as Christ I'll be here." He picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker. "Want a slug before you go?"
Llewellyn shook his head. At the door he paused to look at me. "He's quite right you know, Mr Harris. Corrao's instructions were to take Apex without hurting you. If we knew why I'm sure we'd know who. Don't you think?"
But he left before I could tell him what I thought. Richardson uncurled himself from his chair and followed him out.
"Drink, Sam?" Kaufman asked.
I accepted a whisky gratefully but Jack said, "I could use a wash first."
"Bring it with you," Kaufman said handing him a glass. He sat on the edge of the desk and reached across to push a button on the inter-com. When Lucia answered he asked, "Anything happening?"
"No visitors, but the phone's been busy. Press mainly - they've picked up the angle that Hardman was Sam's ex-father-in-law. They want Sam's comments."
"And you said?"
"That Sam is shocked and very upset, and he's not taking any calls until tomorrow."
Kaufman nodded approvingly. "Nobody suggested Sam was there when it happened?"
"No, nobody," Lucia confirmed.
I saw the look of relief on Henderson's face. I wondered how my name had been kept out of it. My face had appeared in the morning papers so one of the waiters might have recognised me.
"Anything else?" Kaufman asked.
"A man called Darmanin keeps calling. He sounds very upset and says he needs to speak to Sam urgently." She hesitated, "I would have buzzed through, but you said no interruptions."
Kaufman looked at me. "You know any Darmanin?" When I shook my head he said, "Probably some lousy reporter. You ask what he wanted, Lucia?"
"Yes - but he'll only discuss it with Sam."
Kaufman shrugged. "Anyone watching the place?"
"Next door say nothing has moved in the last hour."
"Okay - we're coming through' Kaufman switched off and stood up. He looked at Henderson. "Hang on for word from Llewellyn - see how he made out with Rossiter. Come on, Sam, let's go home."
But I took a quick look at number fifteen Wells Court first, at least at the ground floor. The open door opposite revealed three men playing cards - tough, competent-looking men in their early thirties who jumped up when Kaufman poked his head round the door. He said to relax and added something which escaped me. My attention was taken by the far wall, where a dozen guns were slotted into racks above enough ammunition boxes to support a small war.
Back in the corridor Kaufman said, "House is divided vertically. From the front it's a three-storey house - from the back it's an army camp."
He led the way into a passageway - and then we came out into the larder at Rex Place. The kitchen was full of light and warmth. Cooking smells closed round me like memories from another world - my world, Jack's world - the world of clubs and restaurants, of good food and mature wine.
Kaufman clapped a hand to his eyes and sniffed approval, "Don't tell me - let me guess. Spaghetti Bolognese?"
Lucia turned from the stove, "It's Ossobuco - and it won't be ready for an hour yet."
"Fine. Jack wants to brush up and Sam and I are going to bounce a few ideas around."
Jack said, "Smells good, Lucia."
She pulled a face at his stained jacket. "It did till you came in. Best put that on a hanger - I'll sponge it out later."
Jack went upstairs while Kaufman and I went into the sitting room. The drapes were drawn and the room glowed softly in the light cast by the two table lamps. I noticed a neat stack of paper next to the telephones and remembered the notes Lucia had typed two days ago. Two days! Could it really be as little as that? I sat down and was reaching for my cigarettes when Luci
a came in from the kitchen. "Seeing you two with glasses in your hands makes a girl thirsty. Anyone going to pour me a drink?"
Kaufman did the honours. Lucia sat on the arm of a chair and I watched her watch him mix a Bloody Mary. I would have to get to know her all over again. She had seemed soft and feminine at dinner the other night, elegantly assured perhaps, but with that hint of vulnerability which men find attractive in women. But what had Jack said? "She carries some sort of rank in the Carabinieri junior to Enrico but not by much. She's tough, Sam." She didn't look tough, sitting on the arm of that chair, her sleek legs crossed and the soft light painting shadows under her cheek bones. But appearances were deceptive. She had coped with the shock of what happened at Hampstead, fielded telephone calls from the press and no doubt dealt with a hundred other emergencies - and yet she still seemed cool, calm and collected. But the poise was deceptive too because her hand shook when she accepted the drink from Kaufman. "You all right?" he asked quickly. She blushed faintly and nodded, just as the telephone rang and Jack came back from upstairs. Lucia rose and crossed to answer the telephone.
She gave the number, listened for a moment, then said, "Yes hello again Mr Darmanin - I'll check if he's in."
But she looked to Kaufman for an answer. So did I. He shrugged and said, "Why not?" We moved to the desk together. "Remember the procedure," he said softly. Then he switched on the loudspeaker extension.
"Hello - Sam Harris here."
"Mr Harris - my name is Darmanin," the voice paused as if to give me time to recognise the name. It meant nothing to me and when I remained silent the voice continued, "My son is - my son was - Tony Darmanin." I threw a puzzled look at Kaufman. Then the voice said, "Tony worked for a friend of yours until - until this afternoon - in Hampstead."
It took me a moment to realise what he meant. Then I blurted it out, "The chauffeur?"
"Mr Harris, can you see me now - tonight?"
"Your son was the chauffeur?"
"Yes, yes-" the voice said impatiently, "can we meet tonight?"
I wondered why. A bereaved father. A man I had never met. Nor had I known his son. It seemed such an unlikely request. I tried to think of the best thing to say - expressions of sympathy jostled questions in my mind. Kaufman was busy writing on a scratch pad and I was wondering how to answer, when Darmanin said, "I - I must see you now. My courage will fail by the morning, or- or the Pipeline will kill me too."
I heard Lucia's sudden intake of breath and saw Jack's shocked expression. Kaufman swore softly and wrote "meet him" and "procedure" on the pad. Procedure was underlined three times. As calmly as I could I asked, "Where are you, Mr Darmanin?"
"Greek Street. Number fifty-one. I run a bar, The Lantern. It is closed tonight but I live upstairs-"
"Are you alone?"
"More - more-" he sounded close to tears, "more alone than in the whole of my life."
Kaufman wrote "cab" in large letters, followed by something I couldn't make out. He wrote it again and added the name "Ellis".
I said, "Look, Mr Darmanin, I can't get over myself but I'll send someone in a cab. He'll be with you in ten minutes-"
"I must see you-"
"You will - I'm sending someone. He'll ring your doorbell and say he is looking for a Mr Ellis. Have you got that?"
"I don't understand-"
"Just remember - Mr Ellis. The man in the cab will bring you to me. Do it this way and nobody need know we've ever met. It's safer - understand?"
"Ellis? Yes - but-"
"I'll see you shortly," I said and hung up. I looked anxiously at Kaufman. There was a grim smile on his face as he prodded a button on the inter-com. "You get all that?" he asked, and Henderson said "yes" from the operations room next door.
Kaufman said, "Get down there. Take Watkins in the cab and have a back-up ear behind you."
"Understood. Which entrance when we come back?"
"He called here, didn't he? If he's got this number he's got this address. Bring him to the front door," Kaufman paused, as if struck by a sudden thought, "Oh yeah - have Smithers look this place The Lantern over, and the apartment upstairs. Tell him we'll keep Darmanin here an hour - so he's to be in and out in fifty minutes."
"Right," Henderson said. There was a click as he switched off.
Kaufman flushed with sudden excitement. "It's beginning to break. Didn't I tell you? Stir the pond up real good and all sorts of stuff floats to the surface. There're a lot of nervous people in this town right now."
"I know," I said, "I'm one of them."
"Stop worrying. You saw what we've got next door."
"Very reassuring - but Edgar Hardman is dead and that man sounded very frightened."
"He did, didn't he. That man - running a nothing special bar in Soho - whose son was employed by Hardman as a chauffeur. I wonder-"
"He's Maltese," Jack said unexpectedly.
"He's what?" Kaufman snapped.
Jack shrugged. "Darmanin. It's a Maltese name. I employed a Maltese waiter once. His name was Darmanin."
As soon as he said it I knew he was right. It fitted. I said, "Soho is full of Maltese. Mainly they run cheap bars, clip joints, the garbage end of the business-"
"And prostitutes," Jack added, "The Maltese are the biggest bloody pimps in the West End. Have been for years."
I nodded and was about to add something when I saw the expression on Lucia's face. And when she spoke her voice was huskier than usual, "My brother used Maltese papers to get into the UK at the end of the sixties."
Fiore Serracino! That film - that cellar in Milan! Suddenly it seemed a hell of a lot closer. Even Kaufman's voice had an edge to it when he spoke. "Serracino pretended to be Maltese. That never made him one. This Darmanin-"
Lucia interrupted. "Fiore lived in Cardiff amongst the Maltese. He would have made contacts-"
Kaufman snapped the button down on the inter-com, "Henderson?"
"He's just left, Mr Kaufman. Hewit here." "You got anything on that chauffeur yet?" "We're awaiting the police report now. It should-" "Get onto Llewellyn. He's with Rossiter. Say we want everything on that chauffeur. Now - not next week for Christ's sake-" "Yes sir!"
Kaufman looked at his watch: "Henderson will be back soon. Meanwhile think, Sam. You got any idea how long this chauffeur worked for Hardman?"
I shook my head. "I wouldn't have recognised him. Put a man in a cap and uniform and he looks like any other-"
The squawk from the inter-com interrupted me. Kaufman answered and Hewit said, "Sorry, Mr Kaufman. I just checked. The info on the chauffeur. The prelims came across the teleprinter ten minutes ago. You want me to bring them over?" Kaufman swore, then said, "Just read 'em out." "There's not much," Hewit apologised, "just the preliminary details. Tony Darmanin, aged twenty-five. Single, lived with his father in Greek Street. Occupation chauffeur. Maltese nationality, been here about three years. No police record, clean driving licence, no record of any other employment." He paused, "That's all so far. You still want me to call the Brigadier?"
"You bet your sweet life," Kaufman growled. When he switched off he gave Jack a grudging glance of admiration. "You were right, Hardman did employ a Maltese driver." "That's not a crime," I said.
"You heard his father," Kaufman swung on me, "So goddamned frightened he came out and said it - the Pipeline will kill me too."
"Maybe they killed his son on purpose," Jack queried, "perhaps he wasn't caught in the cross-fire. Maybe they wanted to kill him?"
"Instead of Edgar?" I suggested helpfully. But even that failed to make sense. Edgar had been frightened of something. Something he might have told me about. Dammit, he had been going to tell me.
What had he said - "I must tell you...ever since January ..."
"Something happened in January," I said. "You heard that tape. Something-"
"Okay, Sam," Kaufman waved a hand impatiently, "we got men ripping Wyndham Hall apart right now. And Hardman's pad in Chelsea. Anything comes up and we'll know about it."
But he looked at Lucia as he said it. And she caught that look. Kaufman was shutting me up. So was Lucia because she answered his look with one of her own. "I'll make some coffee," she said, moving towards the kitchen, "I've a feeling it will be hours before we eat. Dinner will be ruined."
Jack saw the look too because he said, "What was that about?"
But instead of answering Kaufman listened at the window. "That sound like a cab to you?"
"I asked what that was about?" Jack repeated pointedly.
"Sssh," Kaufman cocked his head. Then he shrugged, "Maybe not." He crossed back to the desk and peered at his watch under the light from the table lamp. "Christ, how far away is Greek Street anyway?"
I shrugged, "Fifteen minutes - depends on the traffic. But that wasn't-"
"It's nearly seven," Kaufman looked at me, "what time did Henderson-"
"Nearly seven!" Jack checked his own watch, then raised it to his ear. "Hell! I promised Maria I'd phone her at six. She'll be worried sick. Look, I'll just give her a quick call-"
"Make it upstairs, will you?" Kaufman nodded at the telephones on the desk. "I want the outside line kept free here. We've installed another one upstairs. The green handset."
Jack walked to the door. "I'll keep it short," he said casually, but he gave me a hard look as he passed. People swear we are telepathic. Perhaps they are right because I knew what he was thinking then. He was remembering Kaufman's look, fixing it in his mind. So was I. Kaufman was holding out on us. We both knew it - but right then Jack was telling me to wait until he came back before I made an issue of it.
I nodded and said, "Give Maria my love."
"Not likely. She talks about you too much as it is."
He was still grinning as Lucia returned from the kitchen. "Are you calling Maria?" she asked, and when Jack nodded she smiled and said, "Give her my love."
The pang of jealousy caught me by surprise as Jack left the room. "Give her my love" was such an automatic thing to say about Maria. Everyone loved her, she was that kind of woman. Not that I was envious of Jack - I was glad for him, and Maria - if ever there were a perfect couple, they were it. But just at that moment I felt lonely for that closeness which sometimes grows up between a man and a woman. Kay and I shared it once - a long time ago - another lifetime, when we were first married-.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 62