I ordered another coffee, but it was a different waitress who brought it.
Another chance gone. Over the years there had been a few, and each time Liz stopped me doing anything about it. Wee Jimmy was always berating me and trying to goad me with details of his, probably fictitious, sex life. But I just wasn’t ready. I might never be ready.
For the next two hours I nursed a cold coffee and watched the shop. I hoped they had a high profit margin on their items, for in all the time I’d sat there, they had only three customers. The lights went out at five-fifteen and Durban left the shop.
I rose and looked around for Eileen, but she wasn’t around. I was almost tempted to hang around until six and let the case take care of itself. But I was getting paid, and I’d just feel guilty if I let my personal life interfere—at least so early in the case.
I left the café and followed Durban at a safe distance. He wasn’t hard to tail. His height, his bald head, and the distinctive grey suit made him an easy target. I followed along about twenty yards behind until we reached Queen Street station.
He walked straight onto a train and I had a bad moment when I thought I’d lost him, but when I boarded I spotted him further down the carriage. I took a seat where I could watch the back of his head, and settled in.
By the time the train left ten minutes later, it was standing room only. I realized I didn’t even know where the train was headed. The conductor helped me out with that, announcing stops at Stirling, Dunblane, Gleneagles, Perth, Dundee, Stonehaven and Aberdeen. When the guard came round to collect tickets I cut my losses and bought a single to Perth. I was pretty sure Durban wouldn’t commute any further than that.
I got worried when he didn’t disembark at Stirling, but at least the crowd had thinned. When he got out at Dunblane I slipped out a safe distance behind him.
I’d been in the town before, some ten years previously. A train from Dundee broke down, and a group of us had decamped for two hours in the pub opposite the station. That was the limit of my local knowledge. I hoped he didn’t live too far from the station—I might have some trouble finding my way back.
By the time we got down to the Station Hotel there was nobody between us, and I had to drop back further as we walked up the High Street towards the Cathedral. It was getting dark, and I almost lost him again when he turned into the driveway of one of the small cottages in the Cathedral Square. I walked past his door, and saw him moving around in the front room, putting on lights and checking his mail. It looked like he was home.
I checked out the area looking for somewhere I could lurk without drawing too much attention to myself. I noticed that there was a pub The Tappit Hen, across the square with outside seats, and decided to mix business with pleasure.
I had to enter the bar to buy a pint, and I got strange looks from the locals as I ran in, ordered a beer, and rushed out with it again. Durban was still in his front room, settled in front of a huge television set. I settled down for a wait.
He kept watching television, and I did the rushing trick in the bar again before, about nine o’clock, he finally moved. A light came on in the garage at the side of the house and he drove a large sliver 1960’s Rover out onto his small drive. He parked it outside the house, and my heart sank as he waved across to me.
“Goodnight, Mr. Adams!” I heard him shout. “With all that coffee, and now the beer, you must need some relief, so I thought I’d let you know I’m off to bed now.”
His laugh echoed around the square as he went back indoors, and I put my head in my hands. Some detective I turned out to be. I went back to the bar, slowly this time, and ordered another pint. At least the beer was good. The only other good thing to come out of the debacle was that I was now sure that Durban had something to hide.
When I finished my beer I walked over to his car. It was a thing of beauty; a forty-year-old classic in mint condition. The leather on the seats gleamed as new, as did the vast expanse of woodwork on the dashboard. There was a suitcase on the back seat, but I didn’t think I’d get away with breaking in to the car to find out what was in it.
I heard the noise of feet on gravel and looked up.
“Can I give you a lift to the station, Mr. Adams?” Durban said from just outside his doorway. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill on the way home.”
“Are you sure you can’t tell me anything about the amulet?” I asked. I had to have one more try—he knew I was onto him, so it couldn’t hurt.
“As I’ve said, I have no information that would be of any use to you. Nothing you would understand, anyway “ Durban said. “I would go home and get some sleep, Mr. Adams. If you want to find Johnson’s amulet you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”
He was enjoying himself, and his laugh followed me as I turned away.
I made my way back to the railway station with my tail firmly between my legs. On my way I passed an off-license. I went in and bought a good bottle of malt and put it on my credit card. It was beginning to look like the case was going nowhere, so I figured I’d make the most of the money while I could.
I had a half-hour wait for the ten-thirty train, and had a hard time fighting off the call of the bottle. Things got worse on the train when the guard wouldn’t recompense me for the unused part of my Perth ticket.
“How do I know you haven’t been to Perth?” he asked.
“How do any of us know anything?” I asked, but he wasn’t in the mood for philosophy. I had to stump up for another single back to Glasgow, on the credit card again.
By the time I got back to Queen Street station, it was raining, and I couldn’t get a cab until I’d walked nearly halfway home. It was almost midnight as I paid the cabby and turned towards my door, only to be confronted by two of the people I had least wanted to meet.
“Mr. Adams “ the taller, heavier, one said. “Can we have a wee word?”
“It won’t take much of your time “ the thinner one said.
Of all the people I didn’t want to meet, these two were on top of the list. Detective Inspector Hardy, the fat one, and Detective Sergeant Newman, the thin one, “Stan and Ollie” on the street, were cops. Hard-nosed, no-nonsense cops who believed their own publicity. I let them into my office and hoped I wasn’t in too much trouble.
I laid my damp jacket over the back of my chair, took the whisky from its box, and offered them a drink.
“No, thanks “ Newman said.
“Not while were on duty “ Hardy responded.
I shrugged and poured myself a large one. I downed it in one smooth gulp.
“In some parts of the island that would be considered a criminal offence “ Hardy said.
“Nearly as bad as putting lemonade in it “ said Newman.
Their style of alternating speech was beginning to grate on me.
“So which toes have I stepped on this time?” I asked.
“We need to know your movements “ Newman said.
I spoke before Hardy had a chance.
“Well, the toilet’s through there “ I said, motioning to the door.
“Funny “ Hardy said.
“Very “ Newman replied.
“I wonder if Mr. Harris is laughing “ Hardy said.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
I wanted to sit down in the chair, but that would have left them looming over me. They intimidated me enough already without me giving them any more advantage. They were dressed almost identically, in long black woolen coats that reached their ankles over black Italian suits. The only difference was in their shirts, Hardy white, Newman blue. I suspected that they would have worn trilbies if they thought they could get away with it. Their black shoes were buffed to a deep shine. Legend on the street had it that they were steel toe capped, but I wasn’t about to rile them enough to find out.
As I said, Hardy was the taller. About six-one, and twenty stone, he was a big chap. He had recently taken to shaving his head, and along with the moustache and small beard, it gave him a menacing, almost psychopathic,
look. He pumped iron, and although his stomach had spread in the years that I’d known him, he was still someone I wouldn’t like to meet on a dark night.
Newman was his physical opposite. He stood about five-nine, and weighed only nine-stone at most. He wore his hair long at the collar, and affected tinted aviator sunglasses, even at night. His coat seemed to hang off him, and rumor had it he was an evil, vicious sod who would have been in jail if he wasn’t a cop.
A further rumor had it that they were partners in bed, but I wasn’t about to go down that route.
While I was musing, Hardy had taken out his notebook.
“John Harris. Local derelict and moocher. No fixed abode. Age: thirty-nine. Last known address: a private psychiatric hospital in Ayr. Found dead at eight this evening at the back of Buchanan Street Bus Station. Cause of death: multiple lacerations.”
I thought I could see where this was going. I poured myself another drink and lit a cigarette, pleased to note I wasn’t shaking.
“Sorry “ I said. “I don’t know the man.”
“Maybe this will refresh your memory “ Newman said, and dropped a photograph on the desk.
He was at least ten years younger, and he was clean, and clean-shaven, but I recognized him. It was my singing friend from the bus.
And that’s when I made the mistake. Maybe it was the drink talking; maybe I just didn’t like having cops in my office after midnight. I lied to them.
“Sorry, again “ I said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
I took another sip of whisky as they looked at each other.
“Maybe you’d like to reconsider?” Hardy said.
“It’ll look better later when we have to take you in “ Newman said.
But I had told the lie. Now it was time to live with it.
“Sorry, guys. Still a blank. But if anything comes to mind I’ll be sure to call you.”
“Fobbing us off, are you?” Newman said.
“We don’t give up that easily “ Hardy said.
I sighed deeply and lit a cigarette.
“So why me?” I asked.
“Where were you at eight o’clock tonight?” Hardy countered.
“Out in the sticks.” I said. “Having a pint in Dunblane.”
“And I suppose you’ve got an alibi?” Newman said.
I took out the train tickets from my wallet and showed him them.
“Two singles? And one of them to Perth? Any reason why?” Hardy asked. They had moved closer to me, and now all three of us were crowded around the desk.
“It’s a long story “ I said.
“We’ve got time “ Newman said.
“And two train tickets don’t prove you were there “ Hardy said. He leaned even closer until we were almost nose-to-nose. “Where were you at ten o’clock?”
“Dunblane station, waiting for a train “ I said. I took the credit card receipt for the whisky from my wallet and put it beside the train tickets.
“Haddows off-license, Dunblane High Street, 9:45 “ I said, tapping the receipt. “And the barmaid in The Tappit Hen in Dunblane will verify that I left there about half-nine.”
“Smart arse “ Hardy said.
“A no-friend smart-arse “ Newman said.
“Shall we tell him?” Hardy said.
Newman nodded, and Hardy took out his notebook.
“James Henry Allen, 10 Dalgety Mansions, Maryhill. Private detective, antique dealer, pawnbroker, fence and one-time resident of Her Majesty’s Prison Barlinnie. Aged eighty-nine. Died 10:30 p.m. Cause of death, multiple lacerations.”
“No “ I said, almost shouting. “Not wee Jimmy.”
“A closed room murder case “ Hardy said.
“Very tasty “ Newman said.
“Security locks all still in place and alarmed “ Hardy said.
“How do you feel now, no-friend smart-arse?” Newman said.
I moved towards him, and he raised his hands, but even when angry I wasn’t stupid enough to hit him.
“So why come to me?” I asked, sitting down, hard, in the chair and lighting a new cigarette from the butt of the old.
“We found this on his desk “ Hardy said, and took a package from his pocket. It was a plain brown parcel, with string wrapped around it. It was addressed to me, in Wee Jimmy’s handwriting, but had no stamp on it. Surprisingly, the cops hadn’t opened it.
I turned it over in my hands. I knew exactly what it was. The old man always was soft for the big gesture.
“Are you not going to open it?” Newman said.
“Don’t keep us in suspense “ Hardy said sarcastically.
“I don’t need to open it. I know what it is. It’s a book “ I said. “An old book of Jimmy’s that I admired.”
“Something juicy?” Newman said.
“Porn?” Hardy said.
“No “ I replied. I suddenly felt old and weary. I wanted these guys out of my life so that I could drink the whisky and remember the old man.
“No “ I said again. “It’s a real book. No pictures, just words and ideas. You should try reading one sometime.”
“I’ve read one “ Hardy said.
“He didn’t like it “ Newman said.
Their double act was getting on my nerves. I tore open the package and showed them the Chandler. A card fell out of it.
‘A very merry unbirthday to you ’ it read, and sudden tears came to my eyes as I recognized the old man’s handwriting.
“It is a book “ Newman said.
“Aye “ said Hardy. “And it’s not even new. Nothing for us here just now.”
“We might need to talk to you again “ Newman said to me.
“That’s all right “ I said, not looking up as they left. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I sat there holding the Chandler and drinking whisky until nearly half the bottle was gone and my tears had all dried up. .
I remembered the first time I’d met the old man. All I knew of him before that was the voice at the end of the phone that accused me of stealing his place in the phone book.
I’d arranged to meet him in the bar of The Pond Hotel, and I’d dressed for the part. I had a double-breasted suit, a kipper tie, and a high collared shirt pressed to perfection. Under the jacket I wore a pair of thick black braces, held up, not by metal clamps, but by buttons sewn into the trousers. Nobody would see them, but I knew they were there, an essential part of my detective- noir persona. I smoked a Camel non-filter, and playing with my authentic forties Zippo.
“Let me guess “ a voice said. “The Continental Op?”
I looked up, and saw Jimmy for the first time.
“No. Marlowe.” I said.
He sat down opposite me.
“Philip or Christopher?”
“How about Lew Harper?” I said.
“No. He’d never be seen dead in that suit. I’ve got you pegged more as Mike Hammer. You haven’t got a big-breasted-blonde assistant who does your typing and breathes deeply a lot have you?”
I shook my head. “But I’m working on it.” I said.
“Pity “ he said, “I would have forgiven you your transgressions if you had.”
He ordered two pink gins, with angostura bitters, and we spent the rest of the night talking about private detectives, both old and new. We agreed about Hammett and Chandler, disagreed about Ross McDonald, The Rockford Files, and Magnum, and agreed we didn’t think Bob Mitchum was Marlowe, but that Powers Boothe had been okay.
They had to throw us out at closing time.
After that we shared cases. Or rather, I pumped him for information, he usually provided it, and I sent him all my divorce cases—the more sordid the better.
I’d prepared myself for his death. I knew it wasn’t that far away, but I’d been looking for a hospital bedside, or him keeling over in a bar. I’d never even got a chance to say goodbye.
I put the Chandler in my desk drawer. It would be a long time before I got round to reading it. .
By t
his time the room had gone a bit fuzzy, and my legs betrayed me when I tried to stand. Although it was now past one in the morning, I called my client—if she could call me after midnight, it was the least I could do to return the favor.
To my disgust she answered on the second ring. I didn’t even have the satisfaction of getting her out of bed.
“Mrs. Dunlop?” I said. “Mrs. Arthur Dunlop.”
“Mr. Adams?”
I heard the question in her voice.
“I can’t find your damned amulet, Nanki-poo won’t be singing ‘A Wandering Minstrel’ again, and my best friend is dead. I’m off the case.”
I was just about to put the phone down—and I might have managed it if I had been more sober, then she said the words that made me keep listening.
“We’ll double your money “ she said.
“You know me so well “ I said, and noticed I was slurring.
“Mr. Adams, you are drunk “ she said.
“Yes ma’am “ I said. “And you are a liar, but in the morning I’ll be sober.”
Give her credit, she actually laughed.
“Churchill was better. Double the money, Mr. Adams “ she said, and hung up on me.
“Damn “ I said to the handset, “I wanted to do that.”
Three
I woke just as the sun came up. I was still sitting in my desk chair, with one leg on the desk and the other on the floor.
My back felt like I had been stretched on a rack, and several small furry things had slept in my mouth. And not just slept either—my mouth felt like it had been used as a toilet. A cold shower, a change of underwear, two cups of coffee, and my last cigarette went some way to making me human.
Old Joe struck up the first ‘Just One Cornetto’ of the day. That meant the newspapers had been delivered, and he was ready to receive customers.
When I got downstairs, he had my two packs ready for me, but I made him put them back.
“Camels, please Joe. For old time’s sake “ I said.
“Feeling maudlin?” he asked, but I didn’t reply—I was scanning the front pages of the papers. There was no mention of Jimmy, or of the light opera singer John Harris. And I’m sure old Joe hadn’t heard either—he’d have mentioned something to me.
The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections) Page 6