Their crossing had been a later one than usual, and it was dusk when they reached London and dark by the time they pulled up outside the Rayhome office. Collings carried the bag upstairs. The reception desk was empty, but David could see a line of light under the door of the Chevertons’ room and could hear the rumble of voices.
As Collings carried the bag in, David caught a glimpse of both the Chevertons and a third man, someone he had not seen before. He got an impression of a belted raincoat and a broad pair of shoulders before the door shut. He walked slowly along the passage and sat himself down in the small waiting room at the end.
Time passed. David looked at his watch. More than thirty minutes. He got up and moved across to the door. He had heard no sound, but it seemed to be locked.
David examined the window. It was unbarred and opened easily, but it gave on to a sheer drop of nearly twenty feet into a small, enclosed courtyard.
“If this was a bedroom,” he said, “I could knot three sheets together and be off. Even a pair of curtains might do the trick. But no curtains.”
He was regretting the lack of soft furnishings when the door opened and Bob Cheverton came in. He was smiling. He said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, David. We had a couple of telephone calls to attend to. Another successful trip, I gather.”
“Did you have to lock me in?”
“Lock you in? We didn’t lock you in. Why should we? There isn’t a lock on the door. It jams sometimes.”
“My mistake,” said David. “I suffer terribly from claustrophobia. It started when my mother locked me in the airing cupboard at the age of six and forgot about me. I was there seventeen hours.”
Cheverton was still smiling. He said, “One thing all our clients tell me about you is that you have a wonderful imagination. Here’s your bonus. Same as last time. Now you’re getting into your stride, we should be able to make it a regular one.” He handed David an envelope. “No need to bother the tax man about it, eh?”
“One of the prime objects in my life is to save the tax man bother,” agreed David. They were out in the passage by now. A quick backward glance showed him that there was a bolt right at the top of the door.
As he passed the Chevertons’ room he could see Ronald Cheverton sitting at his desk. Belted raincoat had gone. David shouted out, “Good night.” Ronald raised his head for a moment and looked at him with dead, dispassionate eyes.
David went out into the street.
He was thinking hard.
It was possible that the door had, in fact, been jammed and not bolted; but he did not believe it. It was possible that the Chevertons and the stranger had examined the bag and not detected the substitution he had made. He did not believe this either. In which case, the needle had swung round to Storm Warning. Force Twelve on the Beaufort Scale.
It was neatly done.
A girl was coming towards him along the pavement. She seemed to be drunk and was tacking gently from side to side, talking to herself. As she reached David she veered towards the roadway. David naturally veered inwards. The man stationed in the doorway at that point hit him, once, with a silk stocking full of wet sand.
“Nothing,” said the man in the belted raincoat. His name was McVee, and his nickname, used only by privileged friends, was Monkey. He had a nose shaped like a little boot, which had been squashed down, in some fight or accident, on to his upper lip. This may have accounted for the nickname.
“You’re sure?” said Bob Cheverton. He was trying to keep his voice level and not succeeding very well.
“Sure? Of course I’m sure. If he’d had half an ounce of tobacco on him we’d have found it.”
“So what’s he done with it?”
Collings said, with a truculence which failed to conceal his own nervousness, “One thing’s bloody certain. He didn’t get bloody nothing out of that bag from the time we left Calais. I’m not saying he mightn’t have picked a lock and got it out one night on the trip. Like I’ve told you before, I can’t stay awake all night. It’s not reasonable. But if he got the stuff out of the bag, it’s still in Italy. That’s for sure.”
“What do you mean?” said Bob. “If he got it out. Who else could have got it out? Apart from you.”
Collings said, “I’m not taking that from you or anyone,” and lumbered to his feet.
There was a fifth man in the room, a plump character, without much hair on his head. His tanned face, neat dark suit, silk shirt and discreet gold cuff links suggested a businessman who spent his holidays in the Bahamas or the South of France. His voice, when he spoke, matched his appearance. There was authority in it. He said, “Don’t be stupid, Collings. Just relax. No one’s accused you of anything, yet.”
“He said—”
“It doesn’t matter what he said. All he was doing was examining certain possibilities. For myself, I can see two and two only. Either Morgan filched the stuff one night, in the way you’ve suggested, or it was never there at all.”
The four men considered the second possibility.
Bob Cheverton said, “I can’t see the sense in it, Trombo. We’ve played straight with them on twenty consignments or more. We’ve paid them their money. Why should they cheat on this one?”
“I didn’t say they were cheating. I said they might have been. Myself, I don’t believe it. They’re businessmen. How would it pay them to short-change us? Very well. So let us look at the alternative. Your new man, Morgan, removed the real stuff and put in this substitute. I do not blame Collings. One man couldn’t keep an eye on another man all the time, day and night. If he was clever with keys and had his wits about him, he could have lifted this consignment. Next point. We know that it did not come back to England with him. So what did he do with it?”
Bob Cheverton said, “He might have had an accomplice. Someone on the Continent he passed it to.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Ronald. “He’s a loner.”
“I don’t believe it for another reason,” said the man called Trombo. “The market for the stuff is here, in London. He has hidden it. Somewhere in or around Florence. When the heat is off, he’ll go back for it. He can afford to wait. We can’t. So we must find it. Or buy another package. And buy it quickly.”
There was silence in the room. Everyone there knew what he was talking about. Their consignments went to half a dozen doctors whose dubious medical ethics allowed them to sell it on, at exorbitant prices, to the addicts who craved it, begged for it, lived for it. If they could not satisfy their patients, they could be in trouble. A man or woman, screaming and raving, who thought the doctor was holding out for a higher price. A patient who was capable of killing the doctor and wrecking his surgery in a mad search for the white crystals that meant the difference between temporary happiness and intolerable misery.
Bob said, “Buying a package in London will be very expensive. Perhaps impossible, in the time available.”
“Right,” said Trombo. He awarded him the bright smile which a teacher gives to an intelligent member of the class. “In that case, the answer must be that we find the original package. Yes?”
“Somewhere round Florence,” said Ronald. “What a chance!”
“You forget something,” said Trombo. “What does the proverb say? He who hides can find—or can be made to find. Well?”
The four men looked at him. In an emergency there was no doubt who was leader.
“We could ask Mr Morgan to tell us what he has done with our property. If we asked him in the appropriate way, I think he would tell us. The disadvantage of that method is that it would be slow. He might give us information which subsequently proved to be misleading. This would not, ultimately, do him any good, but it would cause undesirable delay. Or we can send him to look for it. You will ask him to conduct the additional tour to Italy. The one Watterson was going to take.”
“Won’t that make him suspicious?”
“Not if Watterson is unable to take it himself. You can arrange that, surely?”
&nbs
p; Ronald had already started dialling. Bob said, “It’s no good. You won’t find him at home. Not at this time of night. He’ll be out on the booze.”
But the telephone was answered. They could hear that it was a woman’s voice. Ronald was saying, “Oh, I am sorry. When?” And after a long explanation, “I see. It must have been a great shock. You’ve got our number. If there’s anything we can do to help, just give us a buzz.”
He rang off and said, “That was his sister. Watterson had a stroke. Luckily she was on the spot and got him into hospital.”
“Lucky in lots of ways,” said Bob. “Now we don’t need any excuses.”
Trombo said, “When does your next trip leave?”
“In two days’ time.”
“Very well. When he gets to Italy he will be under professional observation. Either he will lead the observers to the hiding place. He will be given every possible chance to do so. Or if, by the end of the trip, he has not done so, then our Italian colleagues will remove him to a quiet place and will persuade him to divulge the necessary information.”
“Suppose he won’t tell them?”
“Why suppose anything so stupid? Do you want me to explain to you the methods by which they will cripple him?”
“No,” said Bob thickly. “I expect you’re right.”
Ronald Cheverton said, in his gravelly voice, “And suppose he refuses the trip. He’s done his six trips. He’s due a fortnight off.”
“Invite him round tomorrow. He should by that time have got over the effects of the unfortunate experience he suffered when leaving your office. Indeed, it will have left him short of cash. You will be sympathetic. Offer him a substantial bonus if he will take this extra trip.”
“And if he still refuses?”
“When you make the offer, McVee and two of his friends will be on the premises. If he refuses, you can immediately adopt the alternative solution. Our friends may not have the finesse of the Italians, but they are not inexpert in extracting information.”
McVee’s small mouth opened, and he uttered a sound like a gentle kiss.
David was not unconscious for more than a minute. As the lightning flashes in front of his eyes slowed down and the mist cleared a little, he realised that he was being handled by at least two men. They had taken his coat right off and were now pulling down his trousers. He wondered vaguely about this and decided to let it ride. There was very little he could do about it.
Hands slid inside his open shirt and felt his body. He grunted and tried to roll over. Other hands pinned his shoulders to the ground. The floor was cold against bare skin. Hands were sliding down now, inside his legs. His shoes and socks had already been pulled off. He wanted to be sick, but realised that if he showed any signs of coming back to life he would be hit again.
He decided not to be sick. He contented himself with groaning.
There was a muttering of voices which went on for a long time. Then his coat and trousers were dumped on top of him, and there was the tip-tap of footsteps going away.
Three men, he thought.
He sat up cautiously. His head was opening and shutting like a frenzied oyster, but the lightning flashes had died away. He had been concussed often enough on the rugby field to recognise the familiar symptoms.
Either you were going to be sick or you weren’t. You weren’t. All right. What about trying to get dressed before you die of cold? The trouble was that his coat and trousers seemed to have been turned inside out. It took him several minutes to overcome this minor difficulty. Socks and shoes next, but don’t bend forward too far or too suddenly.
Now try standing up. Hold on to that door handle whilst the floor stops rocking.
He had been dragged into the open entrance hall which served a block of offices. A notice, inches from his eyes, said, “Happy-Go-Lucky Food Products.” A fine time to talk about food.
His wallet had gone, but there were coins still in one of his trouser pockets. Enough for a train fare, if he could walk as far as the station.
Stop being feeble, Morgan. Of course you can walk.
The exercise seemed to do him good. By the time he reached Holborn Kingsway Underground Station he was able to buy his ticket and get past the barrier without causing any comment. The back of his neck was stiff and sore, and his head was still throbbing, but the rhythm was slowing down. Perhaps he hadn’t got concussion after all. Perhaps it was just a stiff neck. He repeated this to himself a number of times.
“An important point, David, bach. A vital point.”
He was still saying it as he opened the door of his hotel room. The point was that if he was concussed, he ought not to drink spirits. If he wasn’t, a stiff whisky was exactly what any reasonable doctor would have ordered.
He poured himself out a stiff whisky, sat down in the shabby armchair in front of the gas fire and drank it. It seemed to do him no harm. He poured out another, but did not drink it at once.
He wanted to think.
He knew, of course, why he had been slugged and searched. He knew that the taking of his wallet was the merest blind. He wondered what would happen next.
What he really needed was comfort. Someone to hold his hand.
Susan was on the point of going to bed when the telephone rang. She said, “Yes. Who is it?” in her senior-secretarial voice.
“It’s me.”
“Oh, God! Not again. What do you want now?”
“What I want, love, is someone intelligent. Someone to hold an intellectual conversation with.”
“Don’t you ever give up?”
“This is only the second time I’ve telephoned you this month.”
“Only the second? It seemed like a lot more often. What do you want?”
David appeared to be considering the question. Then he said, “I need help. Help and comfort, in great therapeutic doses.”
“Why don’t you get it from that dishy blonde you’ve been seen going round all the Holborn bars with. Who is she, anyway?”
“No names, no pack drill. As we used to say when I was in the army.”
“When were you in the army? And where?”
“Out East. The gorgeous East—palm trees, palanquins, Pepsi- Cola.”
“If you enjoyed it all that much, I can’t think why you troubled to come back.”
“The end of that chapter in my life is a sad one. It was the Colonel’s daughter. A beautiful girl of no more than eighteen years with a taste for romance.”
“Then a liar like you should have suited her down to the ground.” There was a long pause. “I say, are you all right? You sound a bit funny.”
“Three doctors have advised on my case, all men of experience. They all advised whisky.”
“My advice, which I give you for nothing, is that you should go to bed.”
“But who with?”
“Alone, for once in a way.”
“Big deal.”
“Look, David. You’re fun to talk to, sometimes, when you’re sober. When you’re tight, which I think you are now, you’re just a dead bore.”
“A hard woman. Harder than rock. Harder than chilled steel. A soothsayer at Portmadoc once warned me to beware of hard women.”
“Stuff and nonsense.”
“What’s stuff and nonsense?”
“What you’ve been talking for the last five minutes. I’m tired. I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
“In that case,” said David with dignity, “I shall terminate our conversation forthwith. If you wish to renew it, you can do so through the usual channels.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
David replaced the receiver. He still looked sad, but not as sad as he had been. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself.
“My dear fellow,” said Bob Cheverton, “of course you must report it to the police.”
“A useless and troublesome exercise,” said David. “I know exactly what they’ll say. ‘Can you describe your assailants, sir?’ An
d when I confess that I never even saw them, they’ll say, ‘Of course, that makes it very difficult, sir. We’ll do what we can.’ And then they’ll do damn all.”
“But they got all your money.”
“They were kind enough to leave me enough to get home by Underground.”
“Naturally, we’ll help out. An advance against your next bonus or a loan. Just as you like.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“The least we can do. Particularly as you’re helping us out.”
David had agreed, with surprisingly little demur, to take the forthcoming Italian trip.
“Poor old Watterson,” he said. “I only met him on that one occasion, but I can’t say I’m greatly surprised. It wasn’t simply the amount of alcohol he consumed. It was the speed with which he put it down. Like a desert sucking up rainwater after a long drought.”
“Sad,” said Bob. “Very sad. Well, if you’re quite sure you’re up to it, we’ll look forward to seeing you here tomorrow morning. We’ve a full coach load for you.”
“It should be a most interesting trip,” said David.
15
It was at about this time that Susan received two letters, both of them with the Salisbury postmark.
“My dear Susan,” wrote her grandmother. “I so much enjoyed your last visit—all too short—and hope you will soon be coming down again. A number of the people you met have spoken kindly of you. You seem to have made a great impression on old General Wheeler and an even greater one on young Mr Preston, our most recently joined vicar-choral.”
Susan vaguely remembered a tall, serious young man with unruly elbows and knees.
“I called yesterday on Rebecca Woolf, who must also be counted as one of your admirers. She seems to regard you as a great expert on Meissen china—surely a new departure for you? I had no idea you were a collector. I did my best with her, but I am afraid I still find her an excessively dull conversationalist. I learned nothing about her husband that I had not heard many times before. You said you found her interesting. I wonder what you found to talk about.”
The End Game Page 11