Madrigal

by John Gardner

  Titters among the classier sections of the audience. Madrigal slowly took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. The band started up a waltz, and the man, now looking larger and, in a way, more ridiculous, stretched out his arms, took hold of the thin air which was his invisible partner, and went through a series of light, perfect waltz steps back to his cronies. Laughter all round, including guffaws from the waltzing man.

  Madrigal stepped forward to take his bow, and Boysie hurriedly summoned the waiter for the bill. All was not right. Dismissed or not, he had to get hold of Mostyn. But quick.

  Honey was quite incapable. In the taxi she lolled against him, murmuring endearments and hanging on. Boysie prayed she would drop into a state of insensibility. It took both himself and the cab driver to get her out of the taxi when they arrived at the hotel. She managed to get across the foyer and into the lift without undue trouble, insisting constantly that she was all right. Once in their room it was all over. Boysie sighed with relief. Honey Mambo was actually flat out, fully dressed, on the bed and snoring.

  Mostyn. No good ringing HQ. He slipped his address book from his pocket and checked on the number, Mostyn’s private number, and picked up the phone. It took at least five minutes to get through.

  ‘Mostyn.’ Sleepy and discontented, the voice came tumbling sharply into Boysie’s ear.

  ‘What the hell’re you ringing me up at this time of night for—this time of the morning. It’s bloody two o’clock. Anyway we don’t belong any more.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, Colonel, but it’s important.’

  ‘The answer is no. I can’t lend you a penny.’

  ‘I don’t want to borrow money. I’ve found Madrigal. Something’s up. Very funny. He’s working in an incredible mind-reading act in Manchester, at a place called The Hong Kong. That’s what he must have meant. He hasn’t gone to Hong Kong at all. He’s here.’

  ‘Madrigal?’ Mostyn still not completely awake, ‘who the hell’s—oh yes, I remember.’

  ‘You know, at the Interrogation Centre—’

  ‘Then tell it to the Special Branch, Boysie boy. I’m not your boss any more.’

  ‘No, but you do run the perishing thing.’

  ‘Perishing. It’s perished. And do I hell run it. Thought bad news travelled fast. You don’t know what’s happened?’

  ‘What?’ Boysie in mid-Pacific.

  ‘Special Security’s been disbanded. Not only you out of a job, Boysie. The Chief’s gone to the Lords, and I’m here on my own. Bloody pensioned off, so go somewhere else with your blasted Madrigals and fiddle-dee-dees. Good night.’

  Final. No comeback. Just the phone clunking into place far away in London.

  Boysie stood, receiver in hand, astonished, mind doing odd twists and rolls. The Department closed. Everybody out. The whistle had blown.

  Honey snored on peacefully. For a second Boysie felt virtuous. A year, six months ago, even a month ago, he would have been undressing the girl and popping in beside her. Tomorrow, the day would have been ridden away on a sexual carousal. Now, this kind of thing was not for him. The Department had closed. Good-bye to the old life. The king is dead. Long live the king. Zurich and the twenty thousand pounds beckoned. He was tired, exhausted, but money always called.

  Jiggling the receiver rests, he got through to the operator. Was Manchester Airport open at this time of night? It was, they had a twenty-four-hour service. Get him Manchester Airport then. It took less than a minute before a revoltingly wide-awake voice was on the line. Zurich? Next flight? Swiss Air had one going out at 03.20. It gave him an hour and a bit. They would put him on to Swiss Air. Another couple of minutes. Yes, there were vacancies, but he would have to hurry. Regulations. By rights you had to be checked in at least thirty minutes before the scheduled time of take-off, but there was a half-hour delay on this flight. (Wasn’t there on all of them?) If it was a definite booking they would hold the scat for him until ten past three.

  Boysie moved. Excuses to the night staff. His suitcase. A taxi quickly. A scribbled note to Honey:

  Dear little Honey,

  Sorry about all this but have to get to Zurich. Leave your address here and I will be in touch as soon as possible. Money enclosed so you’re not left on the rocks. I have no right, but why not try to make it up and go home to your father and mother. Thanks for everything.

  Love,

  Boysie

  A fast taxi ride and an even faster check-in. Yet he still had time for another large brandy—the old stomach playing up, reacting to the thought of flying.

  Take-off, as always, was pure hell: sweating, and the all-too-familiar vivid picture of the aircraft engulfed in flame. But soon they were heading steadily on course. Boysie loosened his seat belt (he never actually undid the wretched thing) and tilted the seat back. Fatigue took over. The next thing he knew was the hostess shaking his shoulder. She had tightened his belt before landing and they were taxiing in. It was six in the morning, chilly, and customs formalities waited. He was in Zurich.

  Boysie found a hotel for one night and deposited his hastily packed suitcase. He made the bank before they were even open. Inside, everyone was polite and eager to assist, among the marble, chrome, and glass. The manager spoke English and tried to persuade him to keep some money on deposit. Boysie was tempted but won through, leaving with a package heavy with Swiss francs. He spent the rest of the day nipping from bank to bank, changing francs into sterling, dropping a couple of thousand on the deal. Never mind, now there were funds for the asking.

  The following morning, in terror, he boarded a BEA Trident and headed for London, money stashed all over the place, even cellotaped to his chest and back—uncomfortable, as it made him crackle at every move.

  Luckily the boys at Heathrow were busy when they finally landed. By mid-afternoon Boysie was back at the Strand Palace, determined not to push his luck. The cash had to last. Now to find a flat and start some new and less terrifying line of business.

  Chapter Eight: Dolphin

  Since once I sat upon a promontory,

  And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back,

  Uttering such a dulcet and harmonious breath,

  That the rude sea grew civil at her song.

  Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  Time, the cliché runs, is a great healer. With some it heals quicker than most. Boysie Oakes had a happy knack of being able to push unpleasant things into the background. He opened with a new bank by popping a thousand pounds of his Russian-provided cash into a deposit account. The rest he kept in envelopes, moving them every twenty-four hours from safe-deposit box to safe-deposit box, on mainline railway and underground stations. Within a few months, he reckoned, he could get a fair old balance showing at the bank. Next, a year’s lease on a splendidly appointed flat in Glendale House, among the lush lawns, fountains, and general amenities of socially opulent Dolphin Square.

  Two weeks went by. Over eight million pints of milk were drunk in the London area, while one thousand three hundred children were born and a similar number of people died, all in London, two at the hands of murderers who were apprehended and charged within a matter of hours. A Cabinet Minister resigned. The Prime Minister visited Washington for two days of talks with the President of the United States, and the Minister of Labour made a Party political broadcast in which he stated that the rise in strikes, both wildcat and those supported by the Trade Unions, was, to say the least, alarming. Indeed, in two weeks there were four major strikes, a couple of them in the North of England.

  In the meantime, Boysie searched his mind for plans which would give him a certain salary with the minimum amount of work. As usual, he merely put off the evil day, made it up with Elizabeth, and spent his now completely free time seeing the latest shows, eating well, and sleeping, with Elizabeth of course, even better. Elizabeth, with her sense of duty and public spirit, continued to work at the Board of Trade. The first fortnight went by.

  The crunch came on a Monday bright w
ith late spring and the good omens of summer. It also came through the same person who had started Boysie on his undercover and neuroticised career as Liquidator to the now defunct Department of Special Security—James George Mostyn.

  Mostyn had become a bitter man. It was not an unnatural reaction. For years he had enjoyed power. Power and the sense of active service were the things which kept Mostyn on the ball. Financially he never had to worry. The golden-handshake cash was welcome, but the Mostyns were an old established family. Somewhere, way back, there had been a title. And it was public knowledge that a Lady Fitzroy Mostyn had been mistress to Henry II long before the king took up with ‘the fair Rosalind.’

  But Mostyn was restless, unsettled. The only world he knew was that of Security and Intelligence. He needed to work. In desperation the former Second-in-Command of Special Security applied for two jobs as security officer in industrial firms, but it was no good. The people at the top just looked blank when he outlined measures which he would obviously have to take if he obtained the post. On both applications he was turned down.

  The ultimate idea came to Mostyn in a sudden explosion of inspiration while sitting over a gin and tonic in the Cheshire Cheese. There would have to be partners of course. He could not do it on his own. No, not necessarily partners. Better to have underlings. His own security service, a private and confidential organisation with Colonel Mostyn at the head. Industry, people with private problems; they would flock to him. So many were frightened to go straight to the authorities. Back to the old game with a difference. Not tied down by the flying mare of red tape. Not all that much anyway. Partners? Why partners? Far better to have underlings. The power puppeteer complex showed in a sardonic smile creasing Mostyn’s lips. Underlings. Yes.

  It was precisely at this moment that thought and coincidence ran headlong into each other. Mostyn took a sip of his drink and nearly choked as a voice, all too well known, came shyly from behind his left shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Colonel. Mind if I join you? Care for a spot of the old mothers?’ asked Boysie Oakes. The Cheshire Cheese was not one of his usual haunts, but loose ends bring individuals into the most unlikely meeting places.

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Mostyn sighed. ‘Thought I’d seen the last of you.’

  ‘Bad pennies and all that.’ Boysie grinned and made for the bar without waiting for Mostyn’s acceptance.

  Mostyn’s eyes followed the broad shoulders, watching as the big buffoon pushed his way through the mill of tourists and journalists crushing for the liquid lift to carry them through the afternoon. Mostyn bit his lip. Underlings? He had held Boysie to ransom for a long time. Could he do it again? The docile killer had not done a fandango when the Department axed him, but a spot of bluff might help. At least he knew Boysie—his ways, limitations, armour chinks. It could be a starter. Smooth. Do it as cool and syrupy as he knew.

  ‘Prophesy not unto us right things, speak unto us smooth things, prophesy deceits,’ he murmured. No one like old Isaiah for saying the right thing.

  Mostyn had mild doubts watching Boysie return to the table. The lad did not look broken. The sudden chop from the Department should have caused grievous bodily, mental, and financial harm. Mostyn, still confident that he was never wrong about human nature, would have staked his reputation on Boysie’s going downhill fast. But his former menial looked clean, well cut, smart, and suavely turned out. Impossible though it might seem, Mostyn had to admit that he may have misjudged. Boysie gave all the signs of having landed on his feet the right way up. These signs were even stronger once conversation began. Boysie brimmed with pleasure, confidence streaming from every attitude, even the way he sat opposite his former boss was disturbing—no aggression, simply the posture of fused one-upmanship and careful diffidence.

  ‘Cigarette, sir?’

  Boysie was too casual. It made Mostyn uneasy. He waved his hand in a gesture of utter contempt for the habit. Silence, then Mostyn’s naturally curious instincts got the better of him. ‘Bit snappy on the phone the other night,’ he began. Gently, don’t let yourself get flustered and pushed into a corner. ‘Sorry about that, Boysie old chum, but it was late and—well, you know. All been a bit of a blow. Didn’t really want to know. You get in touch with Special Branch about that chap? What’s his name? Madrigal?’

  ‘No.’ Boysie complacent. ‘They haven’t been near me, so I left it. Their headache now.’

  ‘Not very public-spirited.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but I lost touch with public-spiritedness working for you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mostyn pensive, trying to work it out. ‘Doing well?’ he asked.

  ‘Not doing at all—’cept in the most vulgar sense. Like what’s-his-name in that Galsworthy book, waiting for something to turn up.’

  ‘Dickens.’ Mostyn’s smile broadening, the tiger knowing he now had the upper hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dickens, not Galsworthy. Micawber, character in David Copperfield—Dickens. Waiting for something to turn up, eh? You look prosperous enough to get along without anything turning up.’

  ‘I had something put by for the old cold front. The rain scores.’ Foxy.

  ‘Didn’t show on your bank account, laddie.’ The old Mostyn, opinionated and full of self-assurance.

  ‘You don’t think I kept everything in my bank account, do you?’ Boysie equally self-assured. ‘The mattress, sir. Under the mattress? I’m a country boy, remember?’

  Mostyn refused to be deflated. ‘So you’re now eating out your savings.’ Sneer. ‘A bed-sitter, and keeping up some sort of image for the sake of the dickie birds.’ He touched Boysie’s lapel lightly. ‘Or should I say duckie birds?’

  Boysie took a long drag at his cigarette, looked at it, then at Mostyn. With distaste he stubbed out the fag end and gave a supercilious one-sided leer. ‘There is only one duckie bird, and I have an apartment in Dolphin Square.’

  ‘My, my. The affluent society. A world of indifference, privacy, and solitude. Stuffed mattresses indeed. Who is your taxidermist?’

  ‘I don’t have a car.’

  Mostyn, despite the somewhat shaking facts, remained his imperturbably true self. ‘I failed miserably, didn’t I, Boysie?’ A fading sigh. ‘Using a customed word like taxidermist and your mind immediately turns to public transport. A taxidermist is an animal stuffer. Birds a speciality.’

  ‘So I am a taxidermist.’ Shrugging. They sipped their drinks before Boysie spoke again. ‘And how are you making out, sir? Enjoying retirement?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Firmly. It slipped out before Mostyn could stop himself. He paused for a moment before plunging. ‘Better the devil you know.’ He knew Boysie and how to handle him. Casually putting his glass on the table, he settled back in the chair, eyes fixed on Boysie’s face. ‘You’ve got nothing in view? No offers? Company directorships or things like that?’ Sarcastic and snide.

  ‘Like old times, hearing you talk like that.’ Boysie found himself unruffled. ‘Why? You’ve got something in mind?’

  ‘Matter of fact I have.’ Mostyn leaning across the table, speaking low as if speaking love. ‘Could be a bundle in it. It’s an idea. You want to talk about it?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t depend—except on the fact that you and I are security-trained. Let’s go somewhere a little more discreet.’

  ‘Such as my flat where you can drink my booze?’

  ‘Precisely.’ The thin, satisfied smile, as Mostyn rose, flicked a hand down the cuff of his right arm, removing imaginary dust, and reached for his umbrella.

  The Dolphin Square flat was not as flashy as Boysie’s old apartment off Chesham Place, but it reflected a more austere taste. Mostyn, while waiting for Boysie to pour the drinks, perused the bookshelves. Instead of the latest blood, thunder, guts, and rapid sex that had crammed Boysie’s former library, he noted that Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald were to the fore. Even Saul Bellow was in there.

  ‘Literary aspirations, eh?’ Mostyn runnin
g the ferrule of his umbrella along the books.

  ‘Don’t damage the spines, Colonel. Your own vertebrae could get snarled up.’ Boysie passed over a drink and sat down. ‘Sit and tell all.’

  Mostyn settled himself with slight discomfort. ‘Security, old Boysie. I’ve had a long time at the game now. Now I’m restless. Been my life and I’ve got to get back. You’re out of a job. I trained you—’

  ‘To kill.’

  ‘All right, to kill. But you spent enough time in my office to know how security works. I mean, you could bug or tap. You know enough about networks, cells, set-ups, cut-outs.’

  ‘Your clichés are showing, Colonel. You’ve been reading too many straight suspense books.’

  ‘Okay, son.’ Mostyn the hard man again—finger up like the ‘Kitchener-Wants-You’ poster. ‘The words are public property. But how many people know the real stuff? Very few.’

  ‘You want to get back into security. Why not apply? The M Sections are still operational.’

  Mostyn laughed. A throaty cynicism. ‘And the Political, not to mention the Diplomatic Agency. See that play on television the other night? Fellow said every diplomat is a legalised spy. The thing is that security doesn’t necessarily concern spies. Outdated Oaksie. Mata Hari went out with Mata Hari. Good Christ, Buddha, Krishna, and Vishnu, you know ninety per cent of the Eastern defectors are wanted for criminal acts in their own countries.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘The individual. The individual who needs security protection. The small industrial organisation whose own security officers know sweet FA—except how to run spot checks on how many people are knocking off company property. I’m thinking of a private security organisation.’

  ‘A hepped-up detective agency?’

  ‘Could put it like that, yes. A private detective agency dealing solely with security. No sleazy divorce cases and what the daily woman saw. A specialised firm. Very smart. Very pricey. But an organisation that gets results.’