We were still in the big back room at Wells Court. Kaufman was half way down another drink and I had poured myself one with shaking hands. Hewit and the man Johnny had left, and Llewellyn had returned from meeting the man called Rossiter. Llewellyn knew what had happened. It was in his face. He slumped into an armchair without removing his overcoat, and gazed stonily across the desk at Kaufman. Nobody said a word. I'm not sure I trusted myself to speak - not right at that moment - and we were still sitting like that when the door opened. Watkins, the cab driver, stood in the opening. He glanced at the three of us - Kaufman rubbing his jaw, Llewellyn tight-lipped, and me with a glazed expression on my face - then he stepped back into the corridor and Henderson came in, looking like a refugee from a traffic accident. Blood spattered his shirt front and most of his jacket. He seemed shaken and tired, but more in control of himself than I would have expected after losing so much blood.
"It's not mine," he said in answer to my unspoken question, "it's Darmanin's."
Kaufman looked up. His expression was no longer angry. Instead his face bore a bruised, beaten look and he quickly hooded his eyes, as if afraid of what they might reveal. "Have a drink," he growled, "then tell me about it."
Henderson was surprised - either by Kaufman's tone or the invitation itself. He looked from Llewellyn to me. I poured him a scotch. He downed half of it, set the glass on the desk, and collapsed into the chair next to mine.
"We found the place all right," he said quickly to Kaufman, "Darmanin must have been waiting because he came to the door immediately - wearing an overcoat, all ready to go. Then there was a shot and the poor bastard was knocked backwards down the hall. I flung myself after him and kicked the door shut behind me. It was just the one shot. The old man caught it in the guts. Big shell, by the state of him. No point in calling a doctor. I said one was coming but I don't think he believed me - I don't think he cared-"
"Calm down. Finish your drink."
Henderson had been speaking rapidly, too rapidly I suppose because Kaufman had stopped him. The sort of thing you would do to a man in shock - that, or slap his face. Henderson knew it too because he finished his drink then ran a hand through his hair. "Oh shit," he said, "what a bloody awful day."
Kaufman pushed his cigarettes across the desk. A telephone jangled with enough noise to make me jump. Kaufman hit a button and the ringing transferred itself across the hall. It stopped as someone answered it. A pulse twitched in Henderson's neck, jerking the vein like a fishing line. His eyes closed and I could almost feel him trying to relax. We looked away, embarrassed, as if we had caught him committing an indecent act. It went very quiet, for what seemed a long time.
Then Henderson resumed. "We were in a heap at the bottom of the stairs," he said, "me and the old man. There was nothing I could do for him. I just cradled him in my arms, propped up on that step like a couple of drunks. I had my Walther on the floor next to me - just in case someone charged through the front door. But I never expected it. Watkins went on round the block, but the back-up boys were only fifty yards behind."
He took another long pull on the cigarette. His hands stopped shaking and his voice steadied as he regained control. "The old man kept calling me Mr Harris," he nodded at me, "obviously thought I was you. Said he had heard all sorts of rumours about me - Sam Harris that is - in his bar. Wanted to know if it were true about me having a score to settle with the Pipeline."
His gaze shifted to Kaufman, as if anticipating a question, but when none came he continued. "So I pretended to be Sam Harris. Yes, I told him, I had a score to settle, then I asked what he knew about the Pipeline. He kept shaking his head and saying he knew nothing but his son knew everything. It was all very garbled, just the odd word here and there. He was suffering a lot of pain. I'd got him turned to the wall because I didn't want him to see his guts hanging out - the smell was bad enough - and he was struggling a fair bit. I thought he was writhing with pain at first, then I realised he was trying to take a ring off his finger. He said I should take the ring to his son. His other son. He runs a bar too, called The Oyster. He kept saying the son knew everything - all there was to know about the Pipeline."
Henderson paused to reach for the glass which I had re-charged. This time he merely took a sip and continued immediately. "All this took four or five minutes," he said, "and then ... then the poor devil died on me."
The announcement was marked by another long silence. As long as a minute perhaps. A minute's silence. Respect for the dead. Like at the Cenotaph.
Henderson flicked his hair back with one hand and reached into his pocket with the other. "Smithers never turned up," he said to Kaufman, "probably warned off by the back-up team. I remembered you wanted the place looked over, so I had a quick look through the flat upstairs. Not much - cheap tatty furniture, a few papers, bills, receipts, stuff for the bar downstairs - but nothing of value, nothing to link him with the Pipeline. Oh, there was one thing. I found his passport. Darmanin was Maltese. Maltese passport, with his photo in it. Then I heard someone ringing the doorbell like mad so I found a way out round the back. Watkins picked me up on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue." He withdrew his hand from his pocket, "That's the ring. Diamond I think, but I'm no expert."
It was diamond. A man's gold ring, with a square face in which small diamonds had been set in a Maltese Cross design. Not that I paid much attention. I was too appalled by Henderson's story, especially as it so swiftly followed the news about Maria, I was shocked to my core about that.
Kaufman used the stub of his cigarette to light another one. "Where's this bar? What's it called - the Oyster?"
Henderson looked desperately tired. He had recovered his colour but he looked exhausted. He shook his head miserably. "That's just it. I said it was garbled. The old man tried to tell me - God knows he tried - but it was right at the end and he was vomiting a lot of blood. I couldn't understand what he was saying. Then - like I said, the poor devil died. I never even got the son's name."
A look of pain crossed Kaufman's face.
"I told Watkins," Henderson said apologetically, "he's trying to find the Oyster in the telephone directory."
"And the sniper?" Kaufman asked.
Henderson shrugged. "You'll have to ask Harvey and the backup boys. All I know is he got away. He must have been on the roof opposite. I checked the angle, I reckon he could see into Darmanin's flat from there. That's what he was after - Darmanin coming to the door just made it easier."
Llewellyn's growing impatience had been marked by a series of muffled curses. Suddenly he snapped, "I can't imagine what Rossiter will say. He was bad enough about Hampstead. Then this Bristol thing sent him into hysterics - and now another shooting in London. Four killings in one day! I tell you quite frankly - as like or not he'll abandon the whole exercise."
Kaufman lifted his head to stare, just as I found my voice. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked coldly.
Llewellyn shuffled a quick glance at Kaufman, then turned to me, "Look, Mr Harris, some people take the view - I'm not saying I do, but there is a view which says this exercise was ill-conceived. That you and...um ... Jack Green for instance, ought never to have been involved. It seemed a justifiable risk at the time but-"
"Get to the point," I said bluntly.
"Well, the view is you should be removed from the operation entirely. You said yourself - it has nothing to do with you. Naturally you would be required to sign certain papers-"
I began quietly - not until the end was I shouting, "What's the matter, Llewellyn? You tired of playing God? Lost your bottle? You've messed my life about with the finesse of a back street abortionist — and now you want out. Is that it? Well you're too bloody late. What's happened to Maria? What about Jack for God's sake? I don't give a sod for the views of some people-"
"Sam," Kaufman shouted, "that's enough."
"Screw you. You're as bad as he is. Smart as paint at that big house of yours. Now look at you. The first day of your bloody stupid scheme-"<
br />
"Shut up!" Kaufman pounded the desk, "You think shouting helps? It's just so much happened so fast-"
"You bet it has. I remember fighting these bastards three years ago. They hit me every day, every night, every sodding hour until I didn't know my arse from my elbow. But that was just me - not knowing what I was up against. But you knew! That's what beats me - you knew, yet you still involved Maria and Jack and ..." I stopped in mid-sentence. Suddenly I realised it was an hour since we had left Rex Place. "Where is Jack anyway? What's he doing over there?"
Kaufman avoided my eye. "Lucia's with him. He's okay-"
"Okay?" I was on my feet and making for the door, "I wouldn't take your word for the time of day. You're out of your depth. You're-"
The squawk from the inter-com stopped me. Kaufman touched a button and Lucia's voice sounded strained as she said, "It's Corrao calling back - for Sam."
Every eye in the room looked at me. One of the recorders switched itself on with a click like a whip crack in the silence. I watched two ten inch spools share the tape out between them. Then I sprang across to the desk and grabbed the telephone. "You little bastard! That's about your mark - kidnapping a woman. Well get this, Corrao, I'll murder you when I get my hands on you. By Christ-"
"Sam!" Kaufman grabbed my arm, "you're not even through yet. Cool it for God's sake! Just get a grip of yourself."
He was trembling with nerves and temper - or I was. "Just keep him as long as you can," he said, "remember - shouting won't help Maria." He gave me a long hard look, took a deep breath, then touched a button on the inter-com.
I tried to stop shaking. "Corrao - is that you?"
He laughed. The same remembered gloating sound. Then he said, "Well, Winner? Did you have your little chat with Jack Green? How's his wife by the way? Did you ask him?"
Kaufman was making desperate signals. I gritted my teeth. "Get… get on with it, will you?"
Corrao chuckled, but he was just beginning to twist the knife. "You won't learn, will you, Winner? Ask and you shall receive. Make demands and threats and...well you see what happens?" "Where's Maria? You listen to me, Corrao-" "No! You listen. You wanted a meeting, well you've got it - but on our terms. Start understanding that and your partner's wife might stay alive."
I bit my tongue until I tasted blood. "You understood that?" he snapped. "I hear what you say."
"And you'll do as I say - just remember that." Kaufman had the loudspeakers turned on. Corrao's threat reverberated round the room until I thought my brain would explode. "Listen, Corrao, I'll make a deal-"
"You haven't the cards," he said contemptuously. "Yes I have. Southampton, Hull, everything I know. That's why we're meeting, remember? Go on."
"Look - nothing happens to Maria, right? Nothing. I'll come to your meeting, bring the list, everything - but I want Maria back first-"
"You want? Making demands again, Winner?" he clicked his tongue, "Forgetting your manners so soon. Ask remember, ask and you shall receive-"
"Dammit man - I am asking-"
"Begging?" he giggled. Then his voice hardened. "Our terms, Winner, not yours. Now listen carefully because I'll only say it once. You are invited to a meeting in Alcamo in two days' time. Be at the Cafe Cordina in the Piazza Ciullo at eight o'clock in the evening. And Winner, make sure you bring that list-"
"Where? For God's sake - where did you say this meeting-" "Alcamo. Don't say you don't know it; Winner. Alcamo is in Sicily. It's beautiful. Like Naples. What do they say? You'll die when you see it."
Sicily? Fiore Serracino? The Sicilian connection out in the open? I put a hand to my forehead and it came away wet with sweat. Kaufman signalled me to keep talking and somehow I stumbled on, "Why two days?" I asked. "Why not sooner? I want a meeting now-"
"Two days because we say so," Corrao snapped. "Goodbye, Winner. See you in the Piazza Ciullo-"
"Wait! Don't hang up. For heaven's sake - what about Maria?"
"She'll be there. Our terms, Winner. Your partner's wife in exchange for you. That's the deal. Talk it over ... it should make an interesting discussion-" "Where is she-"
"Quite safe. Bring your partner with you. His wife will be waiting for him at the Cafe Cordina. But one word in the wrong quarter-" "No-"
"Yes. Just you and Jack Green - and the list of course." Then he hung up - just put the receiver down. The loudspeakers magnified the dialling tone to the noise level of a helicopter. I was so startled that I dropped the telephone...but the connection was broken already.
Kaufman jabbed the inter-com. "Hewit-" "Lost him, Mr Kaufman. Maybe another minute and-" "Shit," Kaufman cut him off. He looked at Llewellyn. "Sicily," he whispered, and I could see the fear in his eyes.
The scene in the staff canteen registered as soon as Bob Richardson stepped through the door. He saw Harry Hall seated with Charles and Rosemary Parker on the far side of the room. He would have words with them later - especially Harry Hall - first he must present himself to the senior officer.
"What's happening here?" he asked as soon as he had been introduced to Superintendent Roberts.
Roberts sighed. "This - this incident - occurred just as the store was closing. The customers and most of the staff had left by the time we arrived." He pointed to the GPO engineers, "We're installing extra phones - then the store's personnel people and some of my officers will begin telephoning all members of the store's staff - asking if they saw anything unusual in the store this afternoon-" "That's a hell of a job."
"And that's an understatement," Roberts said hotly. "You know and I know what we should be doing. A television appeal - asking potential witnesses to come forward-"
"No," Richardson shook his head, "that's already been vetoed." "Then I want it known that we're working under a severe handicap," Roberts snapped, trying to control his temper, "something like two thousand customers and staff were in this store between five and six this afternoon. God knows how many of the employees are on the phone - probably less than a third-" "I was asked to convey the Chief's apologies-" Roberts snorted his disgust. "Apologies will be worth nothing if we come up empty-handed. It will be my neck on the chopping board-"
"What about the white van?" Richardson interrupted.
"What about it? Every copper between here and Land's End is looking for it."
"But nothing so far?"
Roberts didn't even bother to answer - the expression on his face was enough.
"The docks?" Richardson persisted, "The airport-"
"All taken care of," Roberts said grimly. "Photographs of Mrs Green have been rushed to every emigration official, every customs man, every check-in desk-"
"I'm sorry," Richardson backed off, "nobody meant to imply-"
Roberts thrust a finger under his nose, "The Charles Parkers and Harry Halls of this world do not come under my jurisdiction. But when they are involved in a job in my manor I should be told about it-"
"Quite," Richardson nodded, wishing that he had been able to stay in London.
Roberts glowered. "All right then, just so long as we understand each other." He paused and when he resumed a note of sarcasm sounded in his voice. "Now then - is there anything new you can tell me about this caper?"
Richardson hesitated. "Well, we think we can guess where they're taking her."
Roberts stared at him, "Well, man, out with it."
"Sicily."
Roberts whistled softly. "The Pipeline." He shook his head sadly. "That poor wee lassie - I wouldn't be in her shoes for all the tea in China. What do you rate her chances ... if we don't find her I mean?"
"I'm afraid we don't rate them at all," Richardson lowered his gaze, unable to meet the other man's eye, "our guess is that she will be put to death - unless we find her within the next forty-eight hours."
It was the longest night of my life. Nobody got any sleep except Jack, and he was drugged. Lucia did it while we were all in the big back room, and she and Jack were waiting for us in Rex Place. I suppose she dropped something into his drin
k, the way they dealt with me the night before. I was blazing mad when I discovered it but Jack was out cold by then. Bonello appeared on the scene and deflected most of my temper away from Lucia. "Jack can do nothing tonight," he said, "only suffer - or get in the way. Meanwhile we have work to do."
And work we did. We split into groups in London whilst, from what I could hear, Bristol and elsewhere were being torn apart in an effort to find Maria. That worried me sick. Corrao had ordered my silence. What would happen if the Pipeline found out? What would happen to Maria then? Not that I had a chance to worry on that score ... I was too busy answering questions and trying to remember. Kaufman was obsessed with his theory that the best route to the Pipeline lay buried in my memory. If he could uncover that he might be able to reach Maria. So we picked up from where we left off yesterday - with the famous list of names. It was a continuation of the question and answer session started at the big house, but this time I tried so hard to remember that I thought my head would burst.
Kaufman's list seemed to include everyone I had ever known. He started with the old payroll records, people who had worked for me, everyone, right back to the days when I ran the sandwich bars. Then there were the employees at Winston's and Jennifer's and those at the Point of View. But his main list came from the membership records of the gaming clubs - he concentrated on those most of all. The police computer had processed them already so often Kaufman knew more about people than I did ... but still the questions came...remember this, what about that, did you ever see these two people together? He was seeking a link, a pattern, a connection which would lead to the Pipeline, but with more than ten thousand names to examine it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Hour after hour, name after name. It seemed futile at times but we kept going. Working stopped me breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought of what might be happening to Maria. We smoked until our throats were parched, drank black coffee from the machine, then lit fresh cigarettes to start the cycle over again. Kaufman made lists and sub-lists, cross-checked and referenced, drew circles and lines on scraps of paper...and was forever trying to link the lines back to Edgar Hardman.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 64