The End Game

by Michael Gilbert

  He lay down on top of the made-up bed and devoted thought to the future. If he got back to England undetected, and he thought that the chances were now in his favour, he would have taken an important step forward on the tortuous track that he was following. No. That was wrong. Not forward. Downward. And it wasn’t a track, it was a ladder which he was descending. When you were on a ladder, it was dangerous to look down, particularly when the bottom of the ladder was resting in a pit of warm darkness.

  The train stopped with a jolt.

  David opened his eyes and sat up. It was broad daylight.

  His watch told him that it was six o’clock, and the board outside the window of his carriage told him that they were at Marseilles. Time for breakfast.

  An unhurried morning took him across the South of France and up the west coast of Nantes. The sight of some cows in a field made him laugh. He was thinking of Mrs Fairbrass and the first Rayhome tour that he had conducted. It seemed light years away.

  At Nantes he got a taxi out to the airport and booked a seat on the afternoon flight to London. The plane left at three o’clock. French clocks being an hour ahead of English, it reached Heathrow at ten past three. By a quarter to four he was on the Underground train heading back for central London.

  There was one more urgent job to do. If Paula had done her stuff, there would be a parcel waiting for collection at the Poste Restante at Burnt Oak. Also, possibly, a letter.

  He had chosen Burnt Oak because it was on the Northern Line and had one smallish post office, in a quiet street near the Underground station.

  He reconnoitred it carefully.

  A man on the corner selling evening papers. He remembered him there before. A woman pushing a pram with one child in it and another walking beside her. A female traffic warden inspecting a line of cars at the far end of the street. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  David walked into the post office, his eyes open for trouble. At the far end of the long counter a youth with a startling crop of pimples was selling a postal order to an old man. At the end near the door there was a middle-aged lady who smiled pleasantly at him and handed him, without demur, the package and letter he asked for.

  David walked out into the sunlight. The child in the pram had thrown a toy dog at the other child. The traffic warden had spotted a defaulter and was sucking her pencil. Life was proceeding normally.

  David let out the breath which, unconsciously, he had been holding and made for the Underground.

  Once he was safely on the train he opened the letter. The message was typed on plain paper. It said, “In answer to your query: There are a number of doctors who are suspected by the police of dealing illicitly in hard drugs, including heroin. List of names and addresses herewith.”

  He studied the list. There was really only one of them that could have matched the description given him by Watterson. “Dr. Ram Jam or something” with a surgery “down near the Surrey docks.”

  By eleven o’clock that night David was drifting through the empty streets of dockland. Barnabas Road, Lavender Steps, Winnipeg Street, Rat Alley, Moscow Street and so into Pipe Street. He picked his way up Leonard Mullion’s front path, avoiding Uncle Tom Cobley on one side and the Big Bad Wolf on the other. He used the key that Leonard Mullion had given him and opened the front door as quietly as he could.

  There were no big bad wolves in the dark little front hall or in the room on the first floor at the back, which overlooked a garden the size of a billiard table, crammed with roses, wallflowers and pinks.

  David opened the window, and the massed scents invaded the room. He took a deep breath. Against all the odds, he had made a home run.

  Less than a mile away the old tramp was settling down in his nest of newspaper. He was settling down to talk, not to sleep, because sleep was hard to come by, and when it did come was full of dreams which slid into nightmares of such horror that he woke shaking and dribbling and running with sweat.

  Irish Mick, who dossed down in the straw beside him, was usually willing to do his share of talking, but tonight felt sleepy and disgruntled at a turnup he had had with an officious policeman.

  He said, “You’re a great one for talking, Percy. If it’s a big secret, the way you say it is, why don’t you do something about it? Turn it into cash. That’s the thing to do with secrets. Sure an’ someone will buy it from you if you take it to the right market.”

  The tramp said, in his educated voice, “There are some chances which one can take and some chances which one cannot.”

  “Sleep on it, chummy. Sleep on it,” said Irish Mick.

  20

  “I’m beginning to think,” said Trombo, “that we may have underestimated Mr Morgan.”

  Neither of the Chevertons had anything to say to this.

  “If I am right,” continued Trombo, in a level voice, which had a definite undertone of menace in it, “it may be very serious. Serious for all of us. Our Italian contacts are not people to play games with.”

  Ronald said, “It was them who made a mess of it. Not us.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Trombo sharply. “The mess was made when you hired Morgan without making any proper enquiry into his background. What did you know about him? Well?”

  “We knew he came from a firm of accountants in the City. The same firm one of our earlier couriers came from. A man called Moule.”

  “Never mind about Moule. What did these City accountants tell you about Morgan?”

  “Sam Lyon, he’s the senior partner, wrote him a goodish testimonial. Then he got on the phone to me and gave me the real story. He said that Morgan was a man who hit the bottle and would pinch the petty cash if he got half a chance.”

  “Which made him, no doubt, the ideal man to act as courier to your parties.”

  “In a way, yes. We fixed him with his own bag. If there was any trouble, he was going to be on the spot. The worse his character, the more likely the dirt was to stick.”

  “Myself,” said Bob, “I always thought he might have some form.”

  “I’m not interested,” said Trombo, “in whether he has been to prison or not. My principals want him found and dealt with. They have been made to look stupid. They will not tolerate that. They have ways of making their displeasure felt. You understand me?”

  The Chevertons looked at each other. Bob said, “We must have an address for him somewhere. He won’t have gone back, of course. But we might be able to pick up the trail from there. Let’s ask the girl.”

  Paula was summoned. She said that the only address she had was the Radstock Hotel in Lucas Street. She had telephoned them already. He had given up his room when he left on the last Italian trip.

  Bob said, “He didn’t leave a forwarding address, I suppose.”

  “The only forwarding address he ever gave me was one for Mr Moule.”

  Paula was not an observant girl, but it did seem to her that this remark was greeted with unexpected interest. For a moment no one spoke. Then Trombo leaned forward and said, “Why should a forwarding address have been necessary for Moule? He left here over three years ago.”

  “David—I mean Mr Morgan—said something about meeting him.”

  Paula was flustered. The atmosphere had suddenly become unpleasant.

  “Go on,” said Trombo.

  “He said, if a parcel arrived for Mr Moule, would I forward it to this address. Poste Restante, it was. At Burnt Oak.”

  “And did a parcel arrive?”

  “That’s right. The day after he left for Italy. I thought it was a funny thing, because the parcel was from Florence, and as he was going to be there himself in a day or two I wondered why he couldn’t have picked it up—”

  No one seemed to be listening to her. Trombo said to Ronald, “Have you got a telephone? With an outside line. In a room where I can be private.”

  The girl behind the counter looked up when the two men came in and managed a smile although neither of them looked worth it. The larger of the two had red hair and
the flat, white face of a boxer. The smaller had an oddly squashed nose which made him look like a bad-tempered monkey. It was the small man who did the talking.

  He said, “Anything here for me? Name of Moule. Spelt with a u.”

  The girl flicked through the contents of the M-N-O slot and said, “Sorry. Nothing here.”

  “You sure? It’d be a large envelope or a small parcel.”

  The girl looked again, rather more quickly this time, and said, “Nothing for Moule.”

  She had a fat envelope with foreign stamps on it in her hand as she said this.

  “That could be it,” said the small man.

  The girl stowed it away without bothering to say anything.

  “Mind if I look?”

  “I’m sorry. No one’s allowed this side of the counter.”

  “Too bad,” said the small man and climbed over.

  The youth at the far end said, “Hey, mister—you can’t do that—” and moved towards the girl.

  This brought him within range of the red-headed man, who stretched out a long arm, caught him by the lapel of his coat with one hand and his hair with the other and banged his face on the counter top.

  “Keep an eye on the door,” said the small man.

  He was rifling through the contents of the Poste Restante cupboard, picking out the larger envelopes and flat packages and putting them on one side.

  The girl had got out a handkerchief and was trying to mop up the blood which was pouring out of the youngster’s face.

  The small man finished what he was doing, hopped back across the counter and said, “You’d better not follow us. I’ve got friends outside.”

  The girl looked at him scornfully. She was dialling the local police station by the time the men were going out of the door.

  Three minutes later an area car, which had been on patrol, reached the post office. The operator said, “A big chap with red hair and a small, ugly chum? We’ll see what we can do.” He spoke on the car wireless. A hastily organised dragnet found the packages. They had been ripped open, searched and dropped in the gutter. There was no sign of the two men.

  A report on the matter went out on the general telex link to the Incident Room at Scotland Yard and came, in due course, under the eye of Chief Superintendent Morrissey.

  It was the name Moule which interested him.

  He spoke on the telephone to Sergeant Brannigan, at Leman Street. He said, “You’ve got a man down there who knows all the local villains. Been on the Station some time.”

  “Wrangle.”

  “That’s the one. Send him up to Burnt Oak Post Office to get a description of the two men who assaulted a post clerk and ripped a lot of stuff out of the Poste Restante and strewed it round the streets.”

  “If he gets anything, do I send it to you at the Yard?”

  “You can tell me about it personally,” said Morrissey. “I’m coming down. Things are starting to move.”

  When Morrissey reached Leman Street he found Brannigan alone in the detective room. Wrangle had not yet reported back. Brannigan was looking at a cedarwood cabinet which stood open on the table. He said, “It came this morning. Addressed to me, at my flat. We don’t often get parcels. My wife was sure it was a bomb.”

  “It’s not a bomb,” said Morrissey thoughtfully. “It’s more what you might call a booby trap. Lucky you’re not a booby.” In the box, carefully arranged, was a set of ten kitchen knives, beautiful pieces of craftsmanship, each with its black wooden handle, copper tang and shining steel blade.

  “When my wife saw those,” said Brannigan, “she couldn’t hardly keep her hands off them.”

  “From Trombo, I suppose.”

  “That’s right.”

  Morrissey had taken out the biggest of the knives. It had a razor edge and a massive backing of steel which gave it weight as well as sharpness.

  “Take off a man’s hand with that easy,” he said. He slotted the knife back into the box. “Must be worth the thick end of two hundred pounds, a set like that. Restaurant stuff. They’ll have to go back.”

  “That’s right,” said Brannigan, with a grin. “I thought I might take them back myself. Tell him what I thought of him.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. Just send them back.” A clatter of feet on the stairs announced the arrival of Detective Wrangle. He looked pleased with himself. He said, “Not much doubt who the men at Burnt Oak were. Ginger Williams and McVee.”

  “Monkey McVee?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “That makes it the Friary Lane crowd. Operating out of their territory, weren’t they?”

  “That’s what I thought, sir. They don’t often go north of the river.” Wrangle was looking curiously at the knives. “Are we starting a butcher’s shop?”

  “Many a true word spoken in jest, son. That’s just what we may be starting.” He thought about it, staring out of the window. His lips were moving as though he was working out a sum. Wrangle, who had worked with him before, felt a prickle of excitement. He had thought there might be something in the wind. Now he was sure of it.

  Morrissey swung round. He said to Brannigan, “Is there anywhere round here we could keep men under cover?”

  “For how long?”

  “A day and a night, maybe two nights.”

  There’s the drill hall in West Street.”

  “Who’s it belong to?”

  “The army, I suppose. It hasn’t been used for some time. You’d need to get the water and gas and electricity turned on.”

  “See if you can do it quietly. Just tell them you need it for training purposes. Bills go to Central. Right?”

  “Do what I can,” said Brannigan. “How many men had you got in mind?”

  “Up to a hundred,” said Morrissey.

  Susan’s job with Holmes and Holmes was proving a lot more interesting than anything she had done before. It involved no shorthand or typing. Her main duty seemed to be keeping people away from Andrew Holmes, but doing it without irritating them. It involved a lot of eating and drinking.

  On her third morning there she sidetracked the Managing Director of a wholesale clothing firm by taking him to lunch at the Savoy. When he had got over his annoyance at being sidetracked, which took about ten minutes, he started to enjoy the experience of lunching with a girl who was easy to look at and easy to talk to. Susan had spent ten minutes reading up the last few annual reports and accounts of her guest’s company and was able to display an informed and flattering interest in its prosperity. When they got back to the offices of Holmes and Holmes in Theobalds Road, he seemed sorry to exchange her for Andrew Holmes, who was now ready to see him.

  Two days later she entertained a Saudi Arabian Minister, who spoke excellent English and was, as she quickly discovered, just as intelligent as she was. On the following week she found herself in charge of four Japanese businessmen.

  It was a routine which did not leave much time for gossip, but sometimes, in the early evening when he was waiting for his letters to sign, Andrew Holmes found time to talk. She discovered from him that he was a keen fisherman and, from other people, that he was a formidable poker player—two appropriate pursuits, it seemed to her, for the head of an advertising agency.

  Inevitably, sooner or later, the talk turned to Blackett. “In his own way,” said Holmes, “he’s one of the most remarkable men in England. He’s taken on the system, on its own terms, and he’s beaten it. The Inland Revenue would give its collective back teeth to catch him out. They’ve had two shots at him, one with the General Commissioners and another with the Special Commissioners, and they lost them both. He’s too big for them.”

  “Too powerful, you mean.”

  “No. Too big. He understands every ramification of his own business machine. The people who try to investigate it only manage to see and understand about a fifth of it. They’re like children trying to chase a grown-up through a maze which he built himself. He understands all the twists and turns and blind alleys
and comes out of the exit, laughing, while they find themselves exhausted and back at the entrance.”

  “They’re very patient,” said Susan. “The tax people, I mean. They don’t give up easily.”

  “Certainly. They keep after him because they hate him and envy him. A senior tax inspector—perhaps he’s a man at the top of that particular tree, living in his suburban semi-detached, driving a five-year-old car and worrying about the way the electricity bills keep going up—finds himself dealing with a man like Blackett, who has a house in ten acres of ground near Virginia Water, a full staff of servants, including a gardener and a chauffeur—”

  “I’ve seen him,” said Susan. “A big, blond brute.”

  “A heated swimming pool, a private squash court and a cellar full of vintage burgundy and claret. What’s his reaction?”

  “Perhaps his reaction ought to be that Blackett works harder than he does?”

  “Don’t you believe it! His reaction is that he’d like to catch the bastard out and extract a walloping fine from him or send him down for a couple of years.”

  “The Inland Revenue can be ruthless, too,” said Susan. “Don’t forget they got A1 Capone after the F.B.I had given up!”

  On another occasion it was Susan who introduced the topic. They had been having a difficult time with a client who didn’t seem to know quite what he wanted except that it was a lot of advertising for a little money.

  “You have to make allowances, I suppose,” said Susan.

  “Why?”

  “He had a beastly time during the war. He told me all about it. Four years in a Japanese prison camp. It must have affected him. Mentally as well as physically.”

  “Blackett took damned good care that it didn’t affect him. Do you know what he did with his gratuity? People who’d been in Jap hands got treated quite well. I think he collected eight hundred pounds in back pay and such like. Quite a substantial sum in those days. He spent the lot on a three-months’ course in a Norwegian health clinic. The sort of place that started with sauna baths and relaxation classes and finished with P.T. and ski-trekking. That was to take care of the physical side. When he got back to England he put in for a government grant and qualified as an accountant in record time. It was immediately after the war, and service people were allowed to cut corners. As soon as he was qualified he took himself off to America. In contravention, incidentally, of the terms he’d got his grant on. He wasn’t looking for money just then. He was looking for know-how. He got a job with a firm of international insurance brokers—if you know what they do.”