Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘You’d want offices. A staff. Money.’

  ‘Begin in a small way. I’ve got money. I’d put up the capital. Even give you a job to begin with.’

  ‘Office boy?’

  ‘PA to me. Twenty-five a week do you?’

  ‘You’re joking.’ Boysie gulped at his drink, a ginger ale disguised as brandy. ‘It’s a great idea, Colonel. I’m with you. But I’m only with you on one condition.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘A share. I put in a share of the cash. Where were you thinking of offices?’

  ‘I haven’t been thinking. Tinkering with the idea in the back of my mind. But if I’m going ahead, why not here?’

  ‘This flat isn’t big enough to swing a tart’s bar.’

  ‘No, you idiot. Dolphin Square. Plenty of room, plenty of flats going. You’ve got one. I could get one, and we could rent a double to operate from. The kind of clients we are after would feel at home. What else do we need? ‘Equipment—a secretary, private line, our own switch-board. Could be arranged quickly.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Start on a capital of, say, sixty thousand pounds.’

  ‘Just the two of us?’

  ‘If you like.’ Mostyn could see from Boysie’s face that the figure could not be split down the middle. ‘You put up half? Fifty-fifty?’

  Boysie hesitated. ‘Sorry. No. You’d have the lion’s share. I can manage ten thousand.’ Even that was pushing it.

  ‘Mmmm.’ Mostyn disquieted. He did not think Boysie could find even that much.

  ‘Okay.’ Boysie quickly. ‘What if we get swamped? How about some muscle?’

  ‘Muscle?’ Mostyn blank-eyed.

  ‘Come off it. You know exactly what I mean. A third party. Our third party.’

  ‘Our third party?’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Charles Griffin.’

  ‘Griffin? But—’

  ‘I had dinner with Griffin the other night, Colonel.’

  Mostyn’s face flushed, the expression of a man who has been given a swipe and back-hander from a Lesbian wrestler. ‘I see.’

  Boysie was going full out. ‘Officially, Charlie’s retired, but I think he’d appreciate a share in something like this.’

  The silence was ear-splitting. Boysie’s mind raced over the possibilities. Mostyn was right. They could make a bundle. Mostyn weighed the problem carefully. They would need at least three men in operation if things moved fast. Forty thousand was nothing to him. Sixty thousand was nothing to him. But it would help to have the odd twenty thousand thrown in by a couple of others. Griffin he could trust even more than Boysie. Boysie always made him nervous. Boysie and Griffin together would hold only a third of the shares.

  Boysie waited.

  At last Mostyn nodded. ‘If he’ll play he’s in. Ten thousand from each of you and forty from me.’

  Boysie gestured towards the telephone. ‘You know his number as well as I do.’

  Mostyn wearily heaved himself out of the chair. The phone call was a classic piece of confidence-building double-talk. Griffin was a businessman. By the time the telephone was replaced, the hook was baited. ‘We’re supposed to go straight round. I think you’re right. Like me, he’s bored stiff.’

  As they got to Mostyn’s car Boysie asked, ‘You’ve been out there before? You know the way?’

  ‘Many times.’ Mostyn turned from the car door and smiled. It was one of the most sympathetic smiles Boysie had ever seen from Mostyn. The ex-Second-in-Command added quietly, ‘Shakes you a bit, doesn’t it?’

  *

  Griffin was enthusiastic. The plans were outlined. Ten thousand compared to the potential returns was nothing.

  ‘It’ll be a real pleasure workin’ wiv yer both. What we gonna call the outfit?’ He already had a cheque book open.

  ‘Security Unlimited.’ Boysie without inspiration.

  Mostyn disregarded him, like a man pretending he did not have halitosis. ‘What about Mostyn Secuior. Nice ring about that.’

  ‘Look, mate’—Griffin’s pen poised over the cheque book—‘even though we got the smaller shares, if yer name’s gonna be there, then our names gonna be there as well.’

  ‘What about initials?’ Boysie brighter.

  ‘You may have something there.’ Mostyn happier. ‘MGB Limited.’

  ‘Sounds like a bloody film company.’ Griffin.

  ‘Okay.’ Boysie. ‘First two letters then. BOMOGR.’

  ‘Stanislave Bomogr. I suppose. The Latvian Bomogrs, of course.’ Mostyn at his oiliest.

  ‘Got it.’ Griffin with evil intent, ‘only way it fits. GRIMOBO. GRiffin, MOstyn, and BOysie. I’ll sign on that. GRIMOBO Ltd.’

  Mostyn looked furious. ‘MOGRIMBO,’ he snapped. Griffin closed his cheque book. ‘GRIMOBO or nothin’.’

  ‘MOGRIMBO,’ repeated Mostyn.

  ‘BOGRIMO,’ said Boysie.

  Twenty seconds’ pause. Mostyn capitulated. It was too good a thing to louse up now. ‘All right. So be it. GRIMOBO Enterprises. I’ll settle for that.’

  Smiles all round. Boysie’s cheque book joined Griffin’s on the table. Pens moved.

  It took a week. When Mostyn started something he really put on full power. Lawyers. Registration at Old Street. Lease of premises. The quiet installation of a switchboard and safe. Dubious equipment, ranging from hand guns (Mostyn’s contacts provided Firearms Certificates without a blink) to ‘spike mikes’, swizzlestick antennae, recording gear, microphones, and all the paraphernalia of intrusion. One of Mostyn’s ex-secretaries, Virginia Cockfosters—a lady of uncommon virtue and bloodhound visage—was persuaded to leave her present post with a textile firm to become GRIMOBO’s first secretary, while another ex-Department telephonist, a shapely little darling with a no-nonsense personality and the unprepossessing name of Kate Kooker, took over the switchboard.

  They were ready to go. Mostyn, Boysie, and Griffin met together in the now converted double flat in Dolphin Square. Glasses were charged—lethally. Smiles wreathed all faces. What lay behind the smiles was a different matter. Not one of the trio would admit that they were not in it for the fun, kicks, or danger. In relative terms they were all there for one reason. Hard cash at anyone’s expense.

  ‘To GRIMOBO!’ Mostyn raised his glass, and the thought flickered through his mind, I’m going to screw the arses of those two.

  ‘GRIMOBO,’ said Boysie, thinking, I’m going to screw the arse off Mostyn at least.

  ‘GRIMOBO,’ added Griffin. Under his breath he muttered, ‘Screw them.’

  The next morning saw an advertisement in the per sonal column of a select newspaper:

  GRIMOBO ENTERPRISES Small private confidential security organisation will undertake any lawful security work; industrial, political, private. Write Box B.432, The Times, E.C.4.

  Part Three: Madrigal

  If you like it...Macabre?

  Chapter Nine: Corgi

  The Royal Corgi to unleash

  And waddle swift to death across the heath.

  Ernest Newman, Peenemünde

  ‘And this is Cockfosters.’ Mostyn introduced his new secretary to Boysie and Griffin on the first official operational morning. Boysie, with a leery eye on the telephonist, Miss Kooker, bit his tongue. Griffin did not contain himself.

  ‘Thought it was Dolphin Square,’ he gurgled.

  Miss Cockfosters nodded, unamused, while Mostyn looked livid and shuffled his feet.

  ‘What we do then, guv’ner?’ Griffin as perky as ever.

  ‘Wait for public response.’ Mostyn haughtily. ‘Miss Cockfosters and myself are going to plan a tasteful publicity campaign.’ The pair headed for the chairman’s office.

  ‘And the best of British, South American, and Peruvian luck to him. There’s a Les if ever I—’

  ‘Oooh. Mr. Oakes.’ Miss Kooker coy.

  ‘What’s up, Kookie? You’ll have to get used to worse than that. Specially if you’re going to be wo
rking for him.’ Boysie jerked his head in the direction of Mostyn’s door. ‘Right bastard he can be.’

  Nothing happened on the first day. On the second they had fifteen letters, all from companies advertising their wares, which ran from office equipment to prophylactics. At mid-day Boysie, fed up with sitting around, took a walk up to a magic novelties shop in the Tottenham Court Road, and returned with a set of cards, which he placed at vantage points in the main office. The cards bore slogans like, ‘Please Do Not Play with Your Yo-Yo during Office hours,’ ‘Look Alive Remember You Can Be Replaced by a Machine,’ and near Mostyn’s door, ‘Be Reasonable...Do It My Way.’

  On the third morning Mostyn removed the cards, and at 10.30 the telephone rang. There had also been a heavy mail, which neither Boysie nor Griffin had been allowed to see. The telephone rang again at 10.45. Mostyn made two outgoing calls, and Miss Cockfosters strode out into the main office. Mostyn wanted both Boysie and Griffin.

  The Colonel looked pleased. ‘We’re in business, chaps. Things’re beginning to pick up. I’m off in half an hour.’ Looking briskly at his watch. ‘Member of Parliament’s wife being blackmailed. Sounds like our old friends.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Boysie dryly.

  ‘Redland, of course.’

  ‘No. Who’s the bird?’

  ‘The lady will remain anonymous for the time being. If I need to call you into the case, you will be briefed then. We work on the same principle as the Department. The “need-to-know” principle.’

  ‘What’s on for us then?’ Griffin fed up to his second and third molars.

  Mostyn smiled. Oh Gawd, thought Boysie. He knew that smile. ‘For you Charles,’ said Mostyn pompously, looking at Griffin, ‘we’ve got a nice one. Tidy select boutique in Hall Green say they’re getting their window-display ideas pinched by the opposition down the road.’

  ‘An’ where the ’ell’s ’All Green?’

  ‘Birmingham,’ said Boysie with satisfaction. His grin faded as he saw Mostyn’s eyes.

  ‘Boysie boy, we’ve got a call from the Ministry of Pensions and National Insurance.’

  ‘Yes.’ Boysie knew what was coming.

  ‘Oh, you’ve guessed.’ Mostyn with pleasant greasiness conveying mock disappointment.

  ‘Collecting off bleeders who owe loot to the Min of Pen and Nat Ins.’

  ‘In a word.’ Eyebrows raised looking like a lamb with a hyena wanting to get out. ‘Sharp lad.’

  Mostyn tossed a big manila envelope across the table to Griffin. A larger one followed for Boysie. ‘Instructions. Good hunting, chaps.’

  ‘GRIMOBO for ever,’ grunted Boysie, disgruntled as he left.

  Boysie stood one week of debt-collecting—days of searching for non-existent addresses and trudging after invisible men and women never home, gone abroad, visiting relatives, or passed away. It was a Thursday lunchtime when he returned to the office, sank into a chair, tenderly eased his shoes off, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, my aching feet! ‘

  Griffin, back from Hall Green after ‘a righ’ old rave up wiv some of them brummy dollies,’ looked up from the table where he was engaged in a game of patience.

  ‘’Ard time of it then?’ said Griffin. ‘Wanna use Dr. Scholl’s foot spray? Does wonders.’

  ‘Money down the drain.’

  ‘Does my feet a power of good.’

  ‘No, this place. It isn’t going to survive on jobs like these—collecting debts and fiddling about with petty little provincial boutiques.’

  Griffin sniffed. ‘Think yer wrong, Mr. Oakes. Gather we’ve gotta really big one on our ’ands. Yer was goin’ ter be recalled this afternoon anyway. Conference three o’clock.’

  ‘Oh? What’s it all about, Kookie?’ To the little telephonist.

  Miss Booker acted deaf and dumb.

  ‘Sworn to secrecy,’ said Griffin knowingly.

  ‘Glad to hear she can swear at all.’ Boysie picked up a copy of The Times.

  The paragraph jumped out at him from the front page, at the bottom of column three. DEATH OF GENERAL KHAVICHEV. Boysie’s stomach pulsed. A second of anguish. It was only a short piece:

  General B. P. Khavichev who was the Russian officer in charge of Military Intelligence on the Eastern front during World War II died of a heart attack in Moscow yesterday, according to a Tass Agency Report.

  Boysie felt tears welling up for no reason. He swallowed hard, hearing the broken Russian speaking to him from the past. ‘...a short time of horror. A moment of fear. After that, rest, sleep. It is of little consequence. It has to happen one day.’ Boysie let the paper drop from his fingers. For a moment there was a terrible dread, then lightness. Khavichev was right. Out loud he said, ‘Yes. It’s of little consequence. It has to happen one day.’

  ‘What?’ From Griffin.

  Boysie took a deep breath. ‘Oh, nothing. Sorry.’ A. faraway voice. He was remembering—Khavichev’s farewell, Berlin, Mu-lan, the four Chinese, Warbler, Gazpacho, Madrigal. Christ, he hated Madrigal.

  ‘Oh, you’re back, are you?’ Mostyn stood in the doorway. ‘You’d both better come in now. Something really big at last. Our first live one.’ Inside the office, seated, Mostyn burst his plastic explosive bomb. ‘At three o’clock this afternoon we have a VIP visiting us with what he regards as a pretty desperate security problem.’

  ‘Not the PM wanting our help with the strikes?’ Boysie flippant.

  Mostyn did not smile. ‘Not the Prime Minister, no.’ Cold. ‘But it is the strikes—or at least a strike, which could be connected to others.’

  ‘Yeah, there ’as been a glut on the market.’ From Griffin.

  ‘In the North it’s been going out of control completely. I don’t have to tell you that. At least I hope I don’t. Ten major walk-outs in two weeks, and now they’ve threatened rail and motor industries as well. There’s been usual wild sniping, attacks on the trade unions, talk of corruption and Communist agitation.’ Mostyn paused. Boysie and Griffin nodded in unison before their Director continued. ‘Our client believes he has definite proof of outside interference. Politically bent union leaders, all that sort of balls.’

  ‘Who’s the mystery man then? The client?’ asked Boysie lightly.

  Mostyn seemed to inflate with pomp. ‘None other than Lord Mamian.’

  Boysie and Griffin looked at each other. Dismay. Boysie noting Griffin’s face was ashen; Griffin seeing Boysie’s face chalk white.

  ‘What the devil’s the matter? Never heard of him?’

  ‘Not quite sure.’ Boysie slow. On the defensive.

  Griffin quickly interceded, ‘’Asn’t gotta stepdaughter called ’Ortense, ’as ’e?’

  Dark thunderclouds seemed to appear visibly over Mostyn’s head as he flipped through the dossier in front of him, reading random excerpts. ‘Born 1907...educated Bradford Grammar School...scholarship to St. Edmund Hall, Oxford...became member of Labour Party 1930...strong connections with trade-union movement...took over as chairman of IWC Board 1934...1939 entered Green Howards...distinguished war service, finishing up as a colonel, full colonel, MC. DSO...three Companies...largest Mamian Electronics...created first Lord Mamian of Stockport 1947...married...Lady Elizabeth Barnstaple...in 1940. Her second, yes, she has one daughter, Hortense. What have you been up to?’ His piggy eyes darting between the two men. ‘Boysie?’ The accusing finger.

  Boysie was flustered. ‘Nothing—er—nothing at all, Mostyn, sir. Clear conscience. Driven snow.’

  ‘Er—let’s put i’ that we do know the ’On ’Ortense. Socially, as you might say.’ Griffin had a greyish pallor now.

  ‘Intimately?’ Mostyn’s question like a blast furnace. ‘Definitely not.’ Boysie ramrod straight.

  Mostyn pondered, then accepted. ‘Okay. This looks like the goods. A real break. If either of you have loused it up by playing mums and dads with Lord Mamian’s daughter, I’ll—’ No need to say more.

  ‘Only hope she doesn’t show up here with Daddy,’ murmured Boysie as he and Griffin left the
office.

  ‘Unlikely. Rift in the family loot I gathers. ’Asn’t talked to daddy for years.’ Griffin smug but with a niggle of worry pricking under the skin.

  ‘I’ve got news for you,’ said Boysie, his face like the mask of tragedy. ‘I sent her packing. Told her to get back to her father and mother.’

  ‘Oh Christ. Then we do ’ave to keep our bloomin’ digits crossed.’

  ‘Fingers, legs, toes, anything to hand.’

  Boysie and Griffin lunched meagrely at a nearby pub. Brown ale and sandwiches. Boysie could not help thinking that this was a far cry from the palmy days at the Pizzala, Carlton Tower, Rib Room, or Claridge’s.

  There was a relaxation of tension when His Lordship arrived, on the dot of 2.59 p.m., accompanied only by a dewy-browed personal, and obviously very private, assistant. Both Boysie and Griffin smelt a fully fledged lawyer and accountant in him. There were brief introductions, the assistant taking a back seat. Mamian filled the room with a curt presence. He was a tall man, worn well for his age, not running to fat and still retaining a military bearing, waxed moustache, facial veins showed mildly blue against a high colour denoting the possibility of high blood pressure. He was also a man who cared little for the social niceties, one who had never bothered to drop his northern manner or to try to overlay his born-and-bred accent with a pseudo-film of BBC newsreader English. When they were all seated he snapped his fingers at Membersby (the assistant), who, with the fawning manner of a Uriah Heep, handed him a heavy folder.

  ‘Ah’ve ’ad you checked out, Mostyn,’ Lord Mamian began. ‘You won’t ’ave t’ mind that. Good career, and ah’ll tell thee now, ah’m puttin’ complete faith in you and your organisation. Goin’ righ’ out on a limb comin’ to you at all. But ah’ve no other choice. Truust a man so truust ’oo ’e truusts.’ He indicated both Griffin and Boysie. ‘That’s one o’ me mottoes. Truust a man so truust ’oo ’e truusts—’

  Mostyn interrupted. ‘Mr. Oakes and Mr. Griffin are my fellow directors. Both know a great deal about security matters. Quiet as a grave you might say.’ He looked hard at the pair.