Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  “And Firn?”

  “Olaf Firn is their paymaster.”

  “You mean that if one of the groups wants an important job done they get hold of Firn and say, ‘Here’s the cash. Please arrange for someone to do it.’”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Then – surely – if you know this, all you’ve got to do is keep your eye on Firn and he’ll lead you to these professional killers.”

  Bearstead smiled sourly. He said, “Tell me, Mr. Leone, how do you imagine Firn would set about hiring a professional killer? Perhaps you see him meeting him in a back street pub with a shopping bag full of used one pound notes?”

  “All right,” said Anthony. “Pax. It was a stupid thing to say. I’m sure that if you could have followed him you would have done.”

  “Olaf Firn is an accountant, with an office in Cheapside. He runs it under another name, of course. I believe he’s very well thought of as a tax adviser. And you could bug his telephone and fan his mail every day in the year and learn nothing except how to outsmart the Inland Revenue. He operates accounts, for himself and his clients, in Luxembourg, Zurich, Lichtenstein, Abu Dhabi, Bombay and, for all we know, in Timbuktu and the Pearl Islands. He travels a lot, mostly in Europe and America, but also in the Middle East and India. He’s on Christian-name terms with some of the top finance men in those countries and attends high-powered conferences as an adviser on arbitrage and liquidity. You see a flat-footed policeman sitting in the corner, at one of these conferences, taking notes perhaps?”

  “You’ve made your point.”

  “If we’re to deal with Firn and with the men he employs and pays – they too have accounts in half a dozen countries – there’s only one possible way. We have to be ahead of them, not plodding behind them. We have to know, or guess, what they’re going to do and be there first.”

  Bearstead finished his drink. Anthony leaned across and refilled his glass. He did it smoothly, to avoid breaking in on the flow of words. He had rarely heard anything which interested him more completely and he wanted, above all, to know how he might possibly be involved.

  Bearstead said, “Recently an SAS man happened to recognise Liam. It seems Liam was visiting the premises of one of your leading local characters: Arthur Drayling. You know him?”

  “The garden man? Yes, I’ve met him.”

  “I’ll leave out the details of how the SAS man happened to recognise him, because they don’t affect what I have to say, but you can take it from me that it was an outrageous fluke. The sort of thing a betting man would rank as a hundred to one chance. You follow me? Right. Now let’s look at you and Firn. The fact that you recognised him depended on you being at Azam Kahn’s place at that particular moment and on having talked to Commander Elfe when you were in Pakistan. What would you call that? Another hundred to one chance?”

  “Certainly. Also on my wife having remembered his name. I’m good at faces; bad at names. I’d totally forgotten it.”

  “And when you combine a pair of hundred to one chances?”

  “I’m not a great mathematician, but I imagine you multiply them together and call it ten thousand to one. Would that be right?”

  “Something of the sort. Makes you believe in providence, doesn’t it? But there was more to it than that. There was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Providence has slipped us one more card. You’re ideally placed to see how things develop. Much better placed than anyone we could bring in. And far less likely to arouse suspicion. It’s your official job to keep in contact with those two lots of boys, isn’t it? And you say you know Drayling.”

  “Not well. Though I may get to know him better if I’m elected to our Social Club. What exactly do you want me to do?”

  Bearstead thought for some time about this. Anthony, who knew how such people worked, suspected that he was framing a directive, which he would later put into writing, to protect himself if his initiative was questioned.

  He said, “Let me put it like this, Mr. Leone. By chance we know that Olaf Firn and Liam are interested in this part of south-east London. They have an operation under way. Firn may, for once, be playing a more active part than usual. What we would very much like to know is the connection, if it exists, between Drayling and these warring groups of boys. All we’re asking you to do is to keep your eyes open. We’re not asking you to do anything heroic.”

  “Thank you,” said Anthony.

  “I’ll give you a number to ring. It’s manned twenty-four hours a day. And if you pick up anything – any tiny scrap of information, however far-fetched or trivial, which might help us – let us have it at once.”

  “Then the way to look at it,” said Anthony, “is that you’ve got two points. Join two points together and you get a straight line. Extend that line in either direction and it may lead you to where you want to go. Am I right?”

  “I can see that you were once a schoolmaster,” said Bearstead. But the smile which accompanied the words was surprisingly friendly.

  7

  It had been on the Wednesday that Max and Jonty, knockabout artists and members of the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police, had made their first visit to Barnard Street. Friday evening found them comfortably established in the first-floor sitting-room over the top of the friendly tobacconist.

  The lights from all the lower-floor windows in Number 54 had long been turned out. The last to go had been the Commission Agent who had hurried away at half-past eight.

  “Off to spend his ill-gottens on a champagne supper,” said Max. He and Jonty were making inroads into a crate of bottled beer supplied by their host. At ten o’clock the light from the top-storey window was still showing. To start with it had been visible between two carelessly drawn curtains. Just before ten o’clock it had blazed out suddenly, at many times its original power, and had then, as suddenly, been cut off, seemingly by some sort of blind or shutter drawn down behind the curtains.

  Only the smallest chink of light was now visible.

  “Looks like it’s time to move,” said Jonty, gulping down the last of the beer in his glass.

  They thanked their host. Their offer to pay for the beer was refused. Max was carrying an old-fashioned carpet-bag which clinked as they walked out into the street and crossed it. When they had climbed to the top floor of Number 54 they stood for quite a while in the darkness of the stair-head, listening. They could hear voices. It seemed that the Photographic Supplies Company was still doing business, but the well-fitting door masked the sound. It was not even possible to make out how many people were talking.

  “Two locks,” said Jonty. “Better tackle the big fellow first.”

  The mortice lock was holding the door so tightly against the jamb that there was, as things stood, no chance of slipping the Yale lock.

  Max took two rings of keys out of his bag, a dozen on each ring. He examined them carefully in the light of Jonty’s torch. They were odd-looking keys, long in the shank but with fewer wards than the normal key and these with their edges filed down smooth. Max tried out a number of them, taking care not to press too hard when he met resistance. Once he felt that the key was going to hold, but at the last moment it slipped.

  “Nearly had her there,” said Jonty softly. “Try the other lot.”

  At the twentieth effort, when he had worked through most of the keys on the second ring, Max felt the gate of the lock lift and move. Unhurriedly he pressed home. This time the key went all the way with a sweet click. Once the mortice lock was open the door gave back a fraction in its frame and Max was able to insert a piece of stiff talc and ease back the tongue of the Yale lock. The door swung open a few inches, then checked. They could see the bright steel links of the chain which held it.

  “Wadder yer know,” said Jonty. “Two locks and a chain. A secretive little creature, Mr. Baa Lamb.” He opened the bag, which Max had deposited carefully on the floor to prevent it clinking, and with equal care extracted a pair of metal shears. They ha
d long handles and stubby blades. Whilst Max held the door ajar he inserted the shears, homing the blades on either side of the chain. Then he exerted the considerable strength of his arms and wrists, the shears closed, and the chain fell into two parts.

  Jonty eased the door open.

  They were looking down an unlighted hallway. There were two doors on either side of it and a door at the end. Light was filtering out from under the bottom of the far door. They could hear more clearly now. Most of the talking seemed to be done by one man with a high-pitched voice.

  “Baa Lamb bleating,” murmured Max.

  They moved forward up the hall, which was uncarpeted, and paused outside the end door. They were close enough now to make out words. The voice said, “I think we’ll have this one with your hand on your hip, Leslie.”

  Max turned the handle cautiously and slid the door open wide enough for both of them to peer in.

  The voice, it was clear, belonged to the man who was standing, with his back to them, alongside a lamp which was focused on a small stage at the other side of the room. On the stage was standing a boy. He was wearing a school cap on the back of his head, a look of horrified surprise on his face and nothing else at all.

  The man registered the look on the boy’s face and swung round. Max felt for the switch, turned on the overhead light and both men moved in.

  There was a moment of complete silence; a tableau formed by four motionless figures.

  Then Max said, “Get your clothes on, you shocking little nit and beat it. If you aren’t clear in three minutes you’ll get a boot up your beautiful bottom.”

  The boy scuttled out.

  The man, who seemed to be recovering a little from the first shock, said, “What are you doing? You’ve no right to be here. These are private premises. Perfectly private.”

  The words were bold, but there was a quaver behind them.

  Jonty said, “Mr. Lamb, I suppose. Mr. Baa Lamb.”

  The white tufts of hair round a bald head gave the name an unpleasing sort of appropriateness.

  “You’ve no right to question me. Who are you? Are you policemen?”

  “Policemen? Certainly not. We’re Bimbo and Bombo, the world-famous knock-about artists. Our act has been applauded by the crowned heads of Yurrup. And now that we’ve been properly introduced, I’ll let you into a secret. We’re experts at duffing people up. And unless you do what you’re told and behave yourself like a proper little lambkin, you’re going to get duffed up like you’ve never been duffed up before. Right, Bimbo?”

  “Right, Bombo.”

  The two men advanced on Lamb, who retreated until the back of his legs hit the edge of the stage and he sat down suddenly.

  The two men towered over him.

  “T—tell me what you want and I’ll see if I can help.”

  The last remnants of bravado were draining out of his voice.

  “That’s nice. First thing, suppose you show us round.”

  “Show us the geography,” suggested Max with a horrific smirk.

  “That’s right. The gee-ography.”

  Lamb got back on to his feet. It was difficult, with the men standing almost on top of him, but he managed it, by sliding to one side.

  “This is the studio.”

  “The Stoodio. Make a note of that, Bimbo.”

  “Dooly noted, Bombo.”

  “There are four other rooms.” Lamb was out in the hall by now. “The two on the left are my private quarters. Do you want to see them?”

  “Do we want to see them, Bimbo?”

  “Later, perhaps.”

  “These other two – I suppose you might call them studios as well.”

  “Two more stoodios. Quite a stoodious place.”

  Both men laughed heartily. Lamb contributed a wan smile.

  The first room was almost unfurnished. There was a trestle table with some electrical gear on it and in the corner, a lot of film equipment, some of it still crated. Jonty noticed that the makers’ names had been filed off the equipment and that the crates had no marks on them. Max was examining the only decorative piece in the room: a large mirror in a metal frame, set into the right-hand wall. There was a switch beside it. When he pressed it the mirror tilted fractionally. It had become a pane of transparent blue glass.

  “Interesting,” said Jonty.

  “Educational,” agreed Max, who had walked over to look at it.

  Through the glass they could see the second room. This was furnished as a simple bedroom. An iron bed, with a mattress and two folded blankets, a chair beside it, a chest of drawers and a hanging-cupboard.

  Max said, “This is where the action takes place?”

  “We haven’t really got round to using it yet.”

  “Mustn’t hurry him,” said Jonty. “Important educational work. I think we’ve seen all we need here. Now we can get on with our real business.” He smiled.

  “Right,” said Max. He had picked up off the table a length of flex with a three-pin plug on one end of it. The other ends of the flex were bare. “This might be useful.” As he swung it round in his hand he, too, was smiling.

  “Made for the job,” agreed Jonty.

  “Considerate having apparatus like this laid out, all ready for us.”

  “Thoughtful.”

  “W—what are you talking about?” said Lamb. A little of his courage had come back while he was showing his unwelcome guests round. Now it was ebbing again. The smiles were upsetting him more than the words.

  “Back to the studio, Bimbo?”

  “More room there. Come along, Lamb.”

  “Lamb to the slaughter.”

  “I wouldn’t say slaughter. Not necessarily slaughter. It all depends how co-operative our Lamb is going to be.”

  They moved out into the hall. The front door was still ajar. Max shut it. He said, “Well, look at this. There’s a bolt, too.”

  He shot the bolt. “Some people never learn, do they? If you want to keep undesirable characters out, one bolt is worth two locks and a chain.”

  “I’ll remember it in future,” said Lamb, trying out a smile.

  “Come on,” said Jonty. “Stop frigging about. We haven’t got all night.”

  Lamb was herded back into the studio. Max placed a chair on the stage and jerked his thumb at it.

  “You want me to sit down?”

  “You’re a good guesser.”

  Lamb perched on the chair. He was blinking in the strong light focused on him.

  “Something I forgot,” said Max. “You wouldn’t by any chance have such a thing as a portable radio? A transistor. Something like that.”

  “There’s one in my bedroom. Would you like me to fetch it?”

  “My friend here can do that.”

  Whilst Jonty was away, Max examined the wainscoting beside the stage, where he discovered a power-point which was being used for a small electric fire. He disconnected the fire and moved it away. Lamb watched him, tried to say something, but was unable to find words.

  Jonty came back carrying a small and battered transistor.

  “It’s not much of a set,” he said, “but it’ll have to do.”

  “W—what do you want it for?”

  Jonty looked surprised. “To make a noise, of course. The louder the better.”

  Max had fitted the plug on the end of the piece of flex into the socket. Now, using a small knife, he was baring the insulation on the wires at the other end.

  Lamb said, desperately, “Can’t you tell me what you want?”

  “What we’ve done,” said Max, “is, we’ve considered your case very carefully and decided on the appropriate treatment.” He spoke like a family doctor. “What we’ll do, is, wire your balls to this flex and turn the power on.”

  “You—you can’t.”

  “He thinks we can’t. Why should he think that, Bimbo?”

  “Very strange. Of course we can. We’re experts. Done it dozens of times.”

  “Who was the last person
we did it to? That old Chinaman, wasn’t it?”

  “Right. And boy, did he scream. Now you know why we need a bit of music. Ready, Bombo?”

  “Ready.”

  Jonty swung round on Mr. Lamb and said, without any trace of his former geniality, “Take your trousers off. Or have ’em took.”

  Lamb said, “Anything you want I’ll do. Really I will. I’m not at all strong. It’s my heart. If you do that—” he looked at the gleaming copper wires that Max was holding—“you’ll kill me.”

  Max said, “We wouldn’t want that, of course.”

  “Why won’t you say what you want?”

  “I’ll tell you.” It was the family doctor speaking again. “What we’ve found, by experience, is that after a subject has had the treatment he doesn’t prevaricate.”

  “He’s more willing to co-operate,” explained Jonty carefully.

  “I’m willing now. Really I am.”

  “Well – just for once – perhaps. We’ll do it your way.”

  Jonty shook his head. Clearly he was a traditionalist who disapproved of changing well-established routines.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s irregular. But we don’t want him corpsing on us.”

  Max disconnected the plug and started to wind up the wire. He said, “All right. Question time. Do you remember a character who came here two nights ago? Tall man with reddish hair and a bald patch?”

  “Yes, I remember him.”

  “Had he got a name?”

  “He called himself Mr. Taylor. People who come here sometimes don’t like to use their real names.”

  “What had you got on him?”

  When Lamb hesitated, Max started uncoiling the wire. This was enough.

  “We had a photograph. One that was taken, without him knowing about it, at our last place. That was in Frith Street.”

  “Through one of those mirror doo-hickies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s have a look at it.”