Once a Crooked Man

by David McCallum

  “You would have to make it all make sense,” she said with conviction.

  Harry had always had a rule when it came to work. He should take the first firm offer that came to him regardless of the possibility or promise of other jobs. But this was madness. He was about to join a fringe amateur dramatic society performing Kafka. With any luck the final outcome would be a bad review and not an obituary.

  “When you said I was part of your team I didn’t expect to be so actively involved. I’m not equipped to handle anything dangerous.”

  “That’s my job, Harry. To keep you safe and away from anything unexpected.”

  “You’re sure I’ll be okay?”

  “Yeah. Absolutely. You can rely on it.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Okay,” he said, “in that case I’ll do it.”

  “Great!”

  Lizzie drained her coffee and threw the paper cup over her shoulder and onto the floor. She started up the engine and let out the hand brake. With a squeal from the tires the Renault headed north.

  “Where are we going?” asked Harry, looking for a seat belt.

  “Broadcasting House,” she said. “My boss is giving a talk on the radio and he’ll be there until one o’clock.”

  “What’s he like?” asked Harry, giving up the search.

  “He’s from the old school. Likes to micro-manage. A pretty decent sort actually.”

  “What happens if he gives me the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval?”

  “You get to show me New York.”

  “Now that I would enjoy,” said Harry.

  At B.H., a landmark circular concrete edifice at the top of Regent Street and the original home of the BBC, a uniformed page met them in the lobby and assisted them through security. Once down two flights of stairs and along a curved corridor with pale green walls, he ushered them into a small control room. An engineer in shirtsleeves sat at the console. Behind the double glass partition a stocky man in a blue suit could be seen seated in front of the microphone. On a hook on the wall behind him hung his raincoat, a neatly rolled umbrella and a Fedora. He waved to Lizzie.

  “Wait here,” she said, and pushed through the pair of connecting doors.

  Harry watched them mime through the partition. They greeted each other with smiles. The man listened and Lizzie talked. Then she listened as he spoke. A question-and-answer session began and Lizzie became more and more animated, pacing up and down and using her hands and arms for emphasis. Harry could sense her mounting frustration.

  At that moment the engineer decided to check a microphone and slid the control open.

  Her boss was talking. “All we need is a good cover story, my dear. Shouldn’t be an insurmountable problem…” The control slid closed and the engineer rose from his seat and walked past Harry into the studio. As the heavy door swung open he heard Lizzie say, “Why can’t we make an approach under Section Two-Oh-Six or Two-Oh-Seven?”

  “Perhaps,” came the reply. “Perhaps. Definitely worth consideration. But if something goes terribly…” The door swung shut, cutting off the sound.

  Two minutes later Lizzie came out to the control room.

  “Trouble?” asked Harry.

  She shook her head. “Basically he likes the idea. His problem is the American obsession with privacy. But he thinks he can deal with that. Might take a little time, that’s all.”

  Lizzie’s boss came out of the studio. “Thank you, Duncan,” he said to the engineer. “Be a good chap and pop off to the canteen for a nice cup of tea. I’d like five minutes alone with these two if you don’t mind.” Duncan picked up his jacket and left.

  The elderly man gave Harry a firm handshake. As he moved, his clothes smelled as if he had been close to a wood fire.

  “I understand you’re a thespian, Mr. Murphy,” he began. “Might I have seen your work?”

  “It’s possible, but most of what I’ve done has been in the States,” replied Harry.

  “Great admiration for you chaps the way you learn all those lines. How you do it is beyond me.” He indicated they should both sit and settled himself in the chair at the console.

  “It’s highly commendable when citizens such as yourself are motivated to assist the authorities. I can assure you that your efforts are greatly appreciated. But I think you should know that what you are about to do falls outside standard operating procedures. We’re stepping out on a limb, so to speak, and if the bough happens to break we won’t be in the best of positions to stop your hitting the ground. Could be a little painful.”

  Pleased at his own metaphor, he smiled. Harry felt as if he was in a time warp. It was 1944 and he was about to be dropped into France.

  “Electronic eavesdropping devices are extraordinarily sophisticated nowadays,” the little man continued. “Once you make contact you should assume that you are being overheard no matter where you are. Detective Carswell will indicate when it’s clear to talk shop. She will also be using a cover that we’ve used effectively in the past, the overseas representative of a package tour company researching restaurants and hotels. It allows her to poke around without arousing suspicion. You, Mr. Murphy, will be working with a different sort of cast and director, and knowing how Detective Carswell operates, I wish you the best of British luck!”

  He turned his attention to Lizzie. “I’m going to make a phone call or two. Call in a few favors. Go directly through my office. Tell Freddy to give the matter his personal attention. He has pretty good connections, so it shouldn’t take him too long to deal with protocol and the necessary finance. If it becomes necessary I’ll make a couple of calls to expedite matters. Meanwhile you both should work out your cover. Make sure you know your relationship to each other and act accordingly. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to wax eloquent on the subject of the Apis Mellifera.”

  Without saying another word he returned to the studio.

  As Harry and Lizzie walked back along the corridor he asked, “What the hell is Apis Mellifera?”

  “The common honey bee,” she replied. “The Commander is an authority on beekeeping.”

  “Aha! That accounts for the smell of smoke.”

  “What smell?” she asked with a frown.

  “Woodsy smell of burning. You burn rolled-up newspaper to keep the bees calm when you handle them.”

  “How do you know about that?” she asked.

  “Played a homicidal beekeeper once,” he replied. “Amazing what you can learn in show business.”

  When they returned to the Renault, a horrendous medieval contraption had been padlocked to the rear offside wheel with a threatening sticker pasted to the passenger window. Lizzie had neglected to buy and affix a parking ticket to the windshield. The parking space was now permanently blocked. Lizzie climbed into the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition and turned the radio to loud pop music. She lit another cigarette and let out a dense cloud of smoke that curled up the windshield. Harry wound down his window.

  From the glove compartment she produced a cellphone and a small notebook. Handing him the phone, she wrote down three telephone numbers. Below those she scribbled an odd series of numbers and letters.

  “Keep this with you,” she instructed. “The first number is if you get into trouble. Don’t use it unless it’s a real emergency. The second is my direct number. The third is the airline. Call them and make two Business Class reservations to New York on the first flight that leaves tomorrow.”

  “Do I use our own names?”

  “Yes, Harry. We are operating in the real world. We use our real names.”

  Her finger tapped the fourth line. “If you have any problem with the reservation, give them that as a priority code. They’ll know what to do. Leave the mobile on all the time. I’ll call you as soon as I have any news.”

  “What do I do until then?”

  “Find yourself somewhere to stay and decide how you would smuggle one million, five hundred thousand dollars into the United States of Amer
ica. Shouldn’t be too hard a problem for a smart man like you.” She took the key from the ignition and got out. “Remember, when you meet me at the check-in counter we’re supposed to be good friends. Make like you’re glad to see me.”

  “What do we do about your car?” said Harry.

  “The fuzz’ll tow it away. It’ll be a fucking sight safer with them than outside my flat.” Dashing across the street, she flagged down a passing cab. As she climbed in and shut the door, she blew him a kiss.

  Harry closed the windows and retrieved the cases. With them safely stowed in another cab he told the driver to go to South Kensington where there would be several suitable places for him to stay the night.

  A capricious summer shower fell as they passed along Oxford Street, but by the time Harry made his way up the steps of the Five Sumner Place Hotel the sun shone brilliantly. A gentleman with a thick middle European accent was able to give Harry a room on the ground floor.

  Inside was sufficient space for the task in hand. The bathroom was small and clean. On top of the icebox were a kettle, tea bags, packets of powdered milk and a plastic spoon. Sunlight streamed in from a bay window that overlooked the little garden. On the right of this was a high wall and along the left was a greenhouse where tables were already laid ready for breakfast.

  Harry sat down on the bed, picked up the phone and dialed the airline but was informed that all the flights in Business Class were fully booked. The priority code that Lizzie had written on the piece of paper magically produced two seats.

  Lizzie had suggested he figure a way to smuggle the cash, so he lay back on the coverlet and mentally did the math. A hundred and fifty packets of one-hundred-dollar bills needed to be concealed in something that wouldn’t cause undue comment. Everything would also have to be taken on the plane, either in the cabin or as checked baggage. What could he use? What would pass inspection by the TSA with their meticulous and often painstakingly slow checks?

  Was there anything that actors routinely carried with them when they flew to a location? Or the crew? What about a film unit? Even the smallest carry a lot of gear, and usually in metal cases. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to travel with one for a camera, and others for lenses and spare batteries. But could such equipment be protected by 5 percent foam padding and 95 percent cash? The weight wouldn’t be a problem, as camera cases are notoriously heavy.

  Harry locked the room and took the key with him. At a Cyber Café in the King’s Road he went online and began to search the Web. It soon became clear that with so much redundancy in the electronic world there was a great deal of old equipment for sale. He chose a seller in Ealing with an Arriflex 16SRII SR2 movie camera complete with lenses, batteries and film magazines plus a Nagra Stereotime Code recorder IV/S. This selection was primarily because everything was packed in “three sturdy aluminium cases.” The seller also listed a phone number. Harry called and after a brief conversation ran out and jumped into a taxi.

  The cases were piled in the corner of a garage in a semi-detached house. Harry opened all three, ostensibly to check the equipment but actually to again make mental calculations. Each case was padded with almost three inches of dark blue foam. He quickly realized there would be room to spare. With the time he had left he figured he wouldn’t find anything much better, so he peeled off the necessary number of notes and loaded everything into the waiting taxi. To complete the job he needed tools and other paraphernalia, so halfway down the Edgware Road he made the driver wait while he went into drug- and hardware stores.

  Back at the hotel he cleared a space in the middle of the room and sat down at the little desk to calculate on paper exactly how many packets of bills he could hide in each case. Then the real work began.

  34

  When the Murphy family moved to Brooklyn they didn’t own a car. Not wanting to waste the space, Harry’s father turned the garage at the side of the house into a workshop. As well as doing necessary household repairs, he took up woodworking as a hobby. Many of his tools hung on two sheets of pegboard above the workbench, all outlined in red to indicate exactly where they went. When Harry was old enough to sit on the bench without falling off he was given the task of replacing them. This gave him a respect for every hammer, saw and screwdriver. As he grew bigger he was permitted to use the tools and would spend long hours with his dad making projects of his own. Over time he became quite an accomplished carpenter.

  One of Harry’s first professional jobs was as an intern to a summer stock theater in Ogunquit, Maine, where he was hired for twelve weeks to oversee the gathering of all the props and furniture for each of six productions. Old glasses, cracked crockery, books, clocks, radios and an assortment of flower vases filled the shelves of the prop room. Everything else had to be begged or borrowed. With the grand title of assistant stage manager he was sent at all hours of the day and night to every corner of town to procure whatever was needed. What he couldn’t find he made. By the end of the season, he was an adept electrician, upholsterer, metalworker, plasterer and plumber, so the task before him now was no great challenge.

  The camera case linings were carefully loosened, removed and hung over the towel rails in the bathroom. With a black felt pen and a ruler he drew thin lines on the foam where the cuts needed to be made. The slicing and dicing took several hours and he used up an entire box of industrial razor blades. With small sharp scissors he removed all the tiny unwanted pieces of projecting foam and smoothed out the cavity. Great patience was called for throughout as he couldn’t leave even the slightest trace that might reveal what he had done.

  With demolition complete he cleaned up, packed all the detritus into a plastic bag and on a deserted street corner dumped it into a garbage can. His stomach was rumbling in protest at being neglected for so long so he headed towards the lights at the end of the road and an all-night deli.

  Back in his room he lay on the bed and enjoyed two Chicken Tikka sandwiches and a large bottle of orange juice. His energy was renewed and his gut silenced. Pulling on a pair of disposable rubber gloves he turned to phase two.

  Each packet of bills was tightly wrapped in several layers of cling-film. Then they were assembled into bundles and put in alternate directions into the precut cavities. Miraculously, they all went in perfectly.

  With an awl, a pair of tweezers and a box of Q-tips the linings were gently glued back where they were before and the fabric smoothed flat and cleaned of any surplus glue. The only trouble was that there was now a strong smell from the adhesive. Harry opened all the windows and propped the cases as close to the night air as he could. Exhausted, he flopped down on the coverlet.

  Lizzie woke him up very early. The phone rang six times before Harry managed to locate it in the bedclothes and press the key.

  “Congratulations! We are set to go,” said Lizzie. “Did you make the reservation?”

  “Sure did,” said Harry sleepily.

  “Which flight?”

  “The first one, like you said.” He yawned. “What the hell time is it? Where are you?”

  “I am in my office” came the reply. “I’m sending someone over to pick up the money.”

  “What?” Harry asked, slightly confused.

  “The suitcase,” she said patiently. “I need the money.”

  “That’s going to be a bit awkward.”

  “Why?” she said sharply.

  “I sort of made other arrangements.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” She sounded concerned.

  “You told me to work out how to smuggle it and I did. I now have three extra cases,” he explained, “for camera equipment. I’ve wrapped and stashed the bills inside them.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “You told me to.”

  “I told you to?”

  “Yes. You said I was to find a way to smuggle the cash back into the States.”

  There was a distinct silence. Lizzie gave a little laugh. “Let me get this right. You bought three camera cases
and hid the cash inside them?”

  “Yes,” said Harry. “I removed most of the linings and replaced them with the money. I would have preferred something more modern, maybe video equipment, but this was the best I could find at short notice. All I need to know is what we have to do about the airline.”

  “How did you pay for all this?”

  “I used some of the cash. Don’t worry; I can sell all of it in New York and put the money back. I just need to know what happens when we turn up at check-in with three extra bags.”

  “Just a minute, Harry,” she said, and covered the mouthpiece. Muffled sounds could be heard as she talked to someone in the office. Then she took her hand away. “You do what you would do under normal circumstances. You call the airline and tell them what you got. Let them know the bags are properly labeled and can be opened for inspection. They’ll tell you what else you need to do.”

  “Did I do wrong?” asked Harry.

  “No, Harry,” replied Lizzie with a chuckle, “you did absolutely right.” And she hung up.

  A wide-awake Harry sat up and called British Airways. After endless layers of computerized menus a human voice came on the line and Harry was able to describe his predicament. The voice told him that there would simply be an additional charge for each extra bag.

  “That’s all?” asked Harry.

  “Yes, sir” came the pleasant reply. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem.”

  Harry was encouraged by her optimism.

  35

  The girl with the red high heels tucked the money into her bra and picked up her fuzzy pink sweater from the bedroom floor. Max let her out into the street and went back up to the crumpled sheets. Several hours later his eyelids twitched as he heard a knocking. Rocco was tapping on the doorframe.

  “I brought us some food,” he said. “I thought you might be hungry after your strenuous night’s work.”

  “Very funny,” said Max.

  “Maurizio made some hash and eggs.”