Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘But how—?’

  ‘The blond croupier owes me a favour and knows I’ll do for ’im if ’e don’t play. And the middle table’s the bugged one.’

  ‘Bugged?’

  ‘Yeah. Bent. Gassed. Electromagnus in the bulb behind the backtrack. Good man—well trained—just turns the switch for a moment at the right second, ball ’as a steel core and stops a second, then falls into the right slot. You want ter get a Scarne’s Guide Ter Gamblin’, mate, it’s all there.’

  ‘Manchester, here I come.’

  ‘I’ll ’ave it all set. Any change of plan, Mr. Oakes, and I’ll let yer know. Tickets, expenses, and that at yer ’otel in the mornin’. Nice ter ’ave seen yer again. Glad to be of some ’elp. Yer don’t know it, but you’ll be doin’ me a favour and all.’

  *

  Boysie did not sleep well. In the past few days he had become a changed man, alternating between fits of jangling fear and moments of calm, almost calculated diffidence, about the future. Now, cornered and suffering the final indignity of having to go to Griffin for help—financial help—some of the old neuroses were filling the vacant spaces of his subconscious. Those vacuums from which he had cleaned out the more fearsome moments of the last week. He should have not had to go to Griffin. There was money. Something? Where? What? Eventually sleep overcame him.

  He woke with a start. He automatically noted the time: 8.32. Khavichev. That was it—Khavichev and the account in Switzerland. The numbered account. There was money.

  Lighting a cigarette, Boysie tried to reach back into the room in East Berlin, to the conversation. Remember. Remember. Nothing. Try again. Visual. Be visual first. Khavichev was on the bed, sitting waiting for something. They had made the deal, Boysie had accepted. He had just come in from the bathroom. Christ, Khavichev had said a draft for twenty thousand pounds was already on its way. But what bank and what number? ‘The details will be posted to your London address.’ He could hear Khavichev saying it. Details to the flat. Hell. No. For heaven’s sake. The mail waiting for him at the flat. He had not even opened one letter. There had been about half a dozen. Had them in his hand when Mostyn phoned. The raincoat. He had shoved them all into his raincoat pocket, intending to read them if he had to wait anywhere.

  Boysie was out of bed and over to the wardrobe. Rummage. A forgotten handkerchief in the first pocket together with some dregs of tobacco and a pair of old theatre tickets. Then, in the other pocket the letters. A couple of bills. Airmail from the States (that would be Chicory’s latest, she never missed a month). Airmail from Switzerland. It was there, postmarked Zurich. Boysie ripped open the envelope. Khavichev had kept his side of the bargain. Two hundred and forty-five thousand Swiss francs. Twenty thousand quid. He had enough money in hard cash to buy an air ticket to Zurich now. By tomorrow he could be rolling in it. In England, Boysie always carried his real passport wherever he went—taking it from the safe and slipping it into his jacket pocket had been a reaction, as mechanical as breathing, before leaving the flat for that final, undignified lunch with Mostyn.

  Happily, he ordered coffee, shaved, dressed, and went down to Reception. Through their Travel Bureau in the foyer he would probably be able to fix his flight there and then. The hall was crowded, and Boysie paused, automatically, at the Messages and Mail counter. ‘Mr. Oakes, Room 200? Yes, there was a small package.’ He ripped it open. Money, about two hundred pounds, a rail reservation for the four o’clock Euston to Manchester, and a cable confirming room reservation in the name Oakes. Boysie began to get greedy. Why not? Take Griffin’s offer and make an extra thousand on. the side. Finally he stopped in front of the Travel Bureau, grinned, and asked if there were any direct flights from Manchester to Zurich. The answer was affirmative, and at this time of the year there should be no difficulty in getting a walk-on booking. Boysie nodded.

  At three-forty-five he walked on to Platform Four at Euston and found his reserved seat in Carriage G, Compartment A. The whole compartment was reserved, yet only one of the seats was already occupied—by, it seemed to Boysie, a long pair of fatally gorgeous legs.

  She looked young enough to be still a schoolgirl; only the wide grey cat’s eyes, peeping from beneath a fringe of hair the colour of ripe corn, betrayed that age had little to do with innocence or experience.

  Boysie’s gaze got as far as her mouth before his famous self-introductory smile froze. She was using the same pout as last night.

  ‘Hey, you’re ’Ortense. An Honourable.’ Unconsciously echoing Griffin.

  ‘You’re Boysie. Nice Boysie, Griff said.’

  Boysie’s seat was opposite the Hon’s. He sat, limp, a suspicious mind now treading the questionable alleys of why Griffin had so obviously placed this bird on his shoulders. ‘And what else did Griff say?’ He stressed Griffin’s unfamiliar diminutive.

  The girl’s voice was tipped with sugar. No offensive uppercrust drawl. This was not Chelsea game, or Kensington kindling. ‘Griff said that I should stick with you, keep you out of trouble, and be a good girl.’

  ‘In other words, Honourable Hortense, he’s given you your cards and passed you on to me.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ She hummed a happy affirmative. ‘And please don’t call me Hortense, or Honourable either. Griff used to be terribly—you know—proper.’

  Griffin ought to be put away, thought Boysie. What right did he—? Oh well. His eyes were captivated by the long legs, the firm form and confidence of youth. ‘What,’ he asked, leaning forward, ‘what were you to do if I already had someone in tow?’

  ‘Griff said you wouldn’t because your regular works during the day. Anyway, he checked to make sure she’d not arranged time off.’

  ‘Thinks of everything, doesn’t he?’ mused Boysie. He had asked Liz, but she had been furious with him about the previous evening—having arrived at the flat to find the lock changed and ‘that plain girl’ (Elizabeth’s words) in charge. Boysie was certain she did not believe his story, but it would have to wait until he had got the loot from Switzerland. That was more important than anything else.

  The corn-coloured girl laughed.

  ‘And if I don’t call you Hortense, what do I call you? Horty?’

  ‘Ooooh, don’t,’ squealed the Hon. ‘That is my name, Hortense. Hortense Barnstaple.’ She paused, disgust in a wrinkled nose. ‘The Honourable Hortense Barnstaple. Isn’t it ghastly? Friends call me Honey. Honey Mambo.’

  ‘Yes. That’s better. Honey. A—’

  ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A taste of Honey. They all say it. The older men, that is.’

  ‘I’m not an older man, darling.’ Boysie all camp. ‘Let’s make two things quite clear from the outset. One, I’m a middle-aged swinger—’

  ‘A raver.’ She giggled. ‘And, Boysie, you aren’t even middle-aged. Don’t look it anyway.’

  ‘Thanks. Second point, this is a one-night stand. I’m flying on to Zurich tomorrow. So it’s a one-night stand.’

  ‘We’ll see, shall we,’ said Honey confidently, wriggling her bottom. ‘We’ll see.’

  Long before they reached Manchester, Boysie and Honey were, at least if not intimate, firm friends. Boysie had her life story off her as fast as wheat puffed from a gun barrel. The usual kind of downfall came pouring merrily from her lips. Her own father she had never known, her stepfather hard and strict, counterbalanced by a prosaic mother. Cheltenham reared in the background like a stage prop in her life. Her family rifted, then the drift from convention, followed by a succession of older men. Behind the pretty face and innocent pout lay an amoral animal whose cravings were almost satisfied at the age of twenty-one. Boysie suddenly felt he understood her predicament. Father-figure replacing father-figure. This was really scrambled. One young girl in search of a family. He began to sense shame in himself. A puzzling sensation for one who had rarely thought twice about leaping into bed with any young thing that offered.

  The feeling returned when they arrived at the Grand to fi
nd Griffin had again played the jester and booked them into the bridal suite. Ought to be helping this girl, not shacking up with her, Boysie began to think. Ought to get her back to her family. Then she came out of the bathroom, minute frilly pants and bra, miles of leg and sunbeams of smile, served up for the asking. He sighed. Was he getting too old for the high life?

  *

  The Night Owl was easy to find. It was just as Griffin had described—including the queer-looking croupier and the zero coming up followed by a red nineteen. Boysie adhered to instructions. In less than an hour he walked out of the club twelve hundred pounds to the good but with three double Courvoisiers inside him. Boysie was not a hard-drinking man. He liked his brandy, but somehow the body never had a great tolerance for alcohol. One, even two doubles kept him happy. Three constituted a danger limit tending to distort action and common sense. The old smell of success was back in Boysie’s mind.

  ‘Back to the hotel?’ asked Honey in tones meaning only one thing.

  ‘No. Don’t think so. Feel in a winning mood.’ Boysie listing to port.

  ‘Make up thee mind, lad, where’s t’ be?’ The taxi driver with that blunt, familiar rudeness which some Northerners pass off for straight talking.

  That did it. ‘I’ve made up my mind, thank you, driver.’ Boysie getting truculent. ‘Which is the very best gaming club in town?’

  ‘Well, if it’s joost brass you want to chook around, tha’s coom out o’ a pretty fast place ’ere. Only oone better, that’s The ‘Ong Kong. New opened a moonth or so ago. Big brass there.’

  ‘Sounds like a bloody Chinese restaurant,’ slurred Boysie.

  ‘Aye, we’ve gotta Chink eatin’ place called ’Ong Kong an’ all,’ replied the driver. ‘Bu’ there’s this gamin’ ’ell as well. All doon up with fancy women dressed oop as geishas and pagodas and that, shouldn’t woonder.’ Getting his geography mixed.

  ‘Then take us to it, driver. To The Hong Kong.’

  ‘If tha wants to lose tha brass.’

  ‘Oh, Boysie, and I...’ Honey snuggling.

  Boysie’s perverted sense of values acted up again. She would be safer with him at The Hong Kong tables than in a velvety double room at the Grand Hotel.

  ‘The Hong Kong,’ he said firmly.

  The cab pulled away from the curb and Honey slipped a hand into Boysie’s. ‘Thought you wanted some time alone with me, darling,’ she said. ‘After all—’

  ‘Nicer place than you’d imagine,’ he was talking loudly, eyes fixed out of the cab window and heart racing. He had to keep it down. This was not going to be like any of the other quick knock-offs in his life. He was determined. And when Boysie got determined he usually went wrong.

  The Hong Kong was silk smooth, well lubricated and full of what they call in Las Vegas ‘high-rollers’—men and women untroubled at dropping the odd thousand or two in a night. To add atmosphere, The Hong Kong was littered with Chinese: cigarette girls, hostesses, croupiers, and a decor which suggested that customers had left the glitter of the largest city in the north of England and been swept on some jet magic carpet into the big, exciting life of the Orient. It was a large, clever, and psychologically sound confidence trick. Like the big casino-hotels on the Vegas Strip, The Hong Kong was geared to gambling on a twenty-four-hour scale, with clientele sucked into a situation where time had nothing to do with the stark realism of life outside. It was a place where one became totally involved.

  At the door there were the usual formalities, a membership card with an unknown sponsor appearing from nowhere. Inside, the foyer and an ornate flight of steps leading up to the Kowloon Room, dining, dancing, and a nightly cabaret. But the tables beckoned first, and Boysie, now playing the role of the last of the big spenders, cashed in for five hundred pounds’ worth of chips. He stopped at the first roulette table, grinning at Honey, who looked dubious.

  ‘Get the old system going here, baby, and we’ll really make it.’

  ‘Careful, Boysie, please.’ Griffin had given her instructions to look after Boysie, and she was worried.

  A cocktail waitress was at their elbow. Gin and tonic for the lady; a large brandy, Courvoisier, for himself.

  When he had been at the table for less than thirty minutes, half of his Night Owl winnings had gone. He got up solemnly, took Honey’s arm, and made for the foyer.

  A young, dinner-jacketed man barred their way. ‘Maybe you don’t want to gamble any more, but the show’s just starting in the Kowloon Room. Some great acts tonight.’ Persuasive. Boysie looked at Honey. She did not want to go. Boysie, definitely well under by now, still managed to keep control of his intentions. Must tire her out. Not that he didn’t fancy her. It would be—no. A definite no.

  ‘Come on, Honey. Let’s see the show.’ Before she could remonstrate he had her elbow clamped in his right hand and forced her towards the stairs.

  The Kowloon Room was a large circular pad with imitation windows brilliantly lit like a stage set, looking out on to views of Hong Kong bay, the island itself hanging in a blaze of lights and colour like a peak draped with sparkling necklaces, to the right. Someone had put a lot of money, thought, and knowledge into the place.

  Out of character, on a dais, a Latin-American quintet rattled out a rhumba. Their table was towards the rear of the room but with a good view of the dance floor—the size of a small road roundabout. The prices were enormous. One glance at the menu and they had your trousers down. As unsteady as he was, Boysie’s main thought was to get Honey as sloshed as possible. Quickly he ordered a toxic, king-sized Appendicitis De Luxe for each of them. If Honey played, it should do the trick—Grand Marnier, lime juice, gin, and egg whites, on top of the gin she had already consumed. He could slip his under the table. Do anything he liked. Concentration. He must recoup by getting to Zurich as soon as possible. He did not even know the air times. There might not even be a direct flight tomorrow.

  A roll on the drums did not seem to make much difference to the lively chatter around the tables. Through the haze Boysie could see that the habitués of the Kowloon Room were not all slink and high-rollers—more a mixture of those who had lost heavily downstairs and were ready to call it quits, ending the evening with a giggle; middle-class couples being daring for the night; at one or two tables heavy-faced men a bit out of their depth.

  The persuasive gent from the foyer stood in the middle of the dance floor at a microphone, taking over as compère. A bit of heckling from some chinless wonders in the front row as he announced the first act—a coloured girl with a voice that tried hard to be Shirley Bassey’s but missed by a good octave. One of the chinless set, very drunk, made loud comments and was shushed violently by people at nearby tables. Honey held Boysie’s hand tightly during the sentimental numbers and, to Boysie’s delight, swigged long at her Appendicitis De Luxe. The coloured singer ended on ‘you can have him.’

  ‘Now, folks. You’ve had one bit of sex appeal.’ The compère was back at the mike. ‘But here’s something quite out of the ordinary.’ Boysie’s stomach twitched. A brace of stagehands were pushing an ornate chaise longue on to the floor. A pile of clothes at one end. The high-buttoned boots in place. ‘You’ve all seen strippers. At least I hope you have. But here’s one with a real difference.’ The build-up was not as good as Merry Fern’s back in Berlin. ‘Not a stripper but a dresser. From China, the Kowloon Room proudly presents a young lady just back from a sensational tour of Europe. Miss Rosy Puberty.’

  Boysie hunched into his seat and tried to look inconspicuous. Rosy appeared, spot-lighted, from the far corner of the room, to tremendous applause. The act was almost identical with that he had seen at the Ritz Kursal, only, for the sake of British hypocritical decency, his ravishing Mu-lan walked on, not naked but wearing le minimum—a tiny white G-string. The rest followed, the audience excitedly rapt as usual. In the glare of lights she could not possibly have seen Boysie. Even so his face must have betrayed him. Honey leaned over the table, her voice now definitely showing the first si
gns of inebriation.

  ‘Sexy, darling. You embarrassed? Come back to the hotel and I’ll show you better than that.’

  Rosy’s performance had produced its desired effect, completely ignoring Shakespeare’s semi-truism, spoken by the porter in the Scottish play, that drink ‘provokes the desire but takes away the performance.’

  During the clamour of applause Boysie took the opportunity of ordering another Appendicitis for Honey. It had been a shock to come suddenly upon Mu-lan again. Thoughts raced. Should he sneak out and make contact? Or get her address from the management? No. Keep clear—the still voice inside.

  The compère again. ‘That’s all the sex we have to offer you, I’m afraid. But tonight we are more than proud to present a man respected throughout the world for his strange and baffling talents. We are lucky enough to have him here under a four-month contract. When you’ve seen him once, you will want to come back again and again. Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest mind-reader living. Born in China of British parents, this young man has taken over twenty years to develop his extraordinary powers—ten of these years were spent in a Buddhist monastery. I ask you to concentrate on the fantastic Professor Madrigal.’

  The hair rose on the back of Boysie’s neck like the quills of a porcupine at bay. He felt sick, eyes riveted to the artists’ entrance. Professor Madrigal. Hong Kong. He had heard Madrigal say that he had to be in Hong Kong. Could it have been at The Hong Kong? Boysie had not seen the face, but by God he would never forget that voice. ‘K-kill th-em.’ Breathlessness. Heartbeart in his ears. Blood to the head.

  Voices were deceptive. Boysie really did not know what to expect. In his inner consciousness, Madrigal’s face and form had appeared to him in a hundred guises, ranging from a warped Gorilka-like figure to an inscrutible Charlie Chan. The centipedes, which had been moving rapidly along both his small and large intestines, came to a rapid halt as Professor Madrigal walked into view. This could not possibly be the ogre of his nightmares, that shadowy figure lurking and stuttering in the horrific hangar. For a second there was an association of ideas working hard in Boysie’s mind and bringing with them an almost psychosomatic reaction—the smell of the hangar, glare of light, the pain and fear.