The tea-shop was empty so I pulled out the wallet and opened it. First I counted the money; it was important and I couldn't get far without it. There was a total of £78, mostly in British fivers, which was most welcome. There was also a British driving licence .which was even more welcome. I wanted to be mobile which meant hiring a car, something I couldn't do without producing a driving licence. It was made out in the name of Richard Allen Jones, which sounded phoney on the face of it, although the name could have been genuine. There are a few Joneses around; there must be for die rest of us to keep up with.
There was a letter which made no sense at all because it was written in an unknown language. I tasted the words on my tongue and thought I detected faintly Slavic overtones but I could have been wrong; eastern languages are my strong point. I pondered over it for some time then carefully put it away without becoming any the wiser.
The thin notebook was of more interest because it contained a few addresses scattered through the pages -- some in Ireland, some in England and others in France, Italy and Spain. It gave me a jolt to find the address of Anglo-Scottish Holdings Ltd, in London; Mackintosh's cover was blown wide open.
There were two Irish addresses, one in the Irish Republic at a place called Clonglass in Connemara, and the other in Belfast. Both places were a hell of a long way from Limerick, and Belfast was across the frontier in Northern Ireland. It was thin stuff to work on but it was all I had and it would have to do.
I paid for the tea and asked for, and got, a handful of loose change; then I went to look for a telephone box, which I found difficult until I discovered that the Irish paint them green. I didn't make a call from the first box I found but took a note of the number and then went in search of another from which I put a call through to Anglo-Scottish in London. It was only a few minutes before I heard the voice of Mrs Smith: 'Anglo-Scottish Holdings Limited.' Her voice was warm and friendly, but that might have been an illusion on my part -I hadn't spoken to a woman for a year and a half, apart from the one who doped me.
I said, 'Your telephone might be tapped -- I think it is. Find a safe phone and ring this number as soon as possible.' I gave her the number of the other box and rang off before she could answer.
Ultra-cautious maybe, but I'm still around to prove it's the best method. Besides, if she rang me I wouldn't have to keep stuffing small coins in the slot during what might be a lengthy conversation. I trudged back to the first telephone kiosk and found it occupied, so I sneered at the woman through the glass until she went away, then I went inside and fiddled with the directory while waiting for the ring.' All things considered she was prompt; the bell rang within ten minutes. I picked up the telephone, and said, 'Stannard.'
'What are you doing in Limerick?' Her voice wasn't as warm as it had been.
'What the hell do you think I'm doing?' I said grumpily. 'I want to speak to Mackintosh.'
'He's not available."
'Make him available,' I snapped.
There was a pause. 'He's in hospital,' she said. 'He was in a car accident.'
'Oh! How serious?'
'The doctors don't expect him to live,' she said flatly.
A yawning cavity opened in the pit of my stomach. 'Christ!' I said. 'That's bad. When did it happen?'
'The day before yesterday. It was a hit-and-run.'
Bits of a deadly jigsaw began to fall into place. That was about the time that Fatface Jones had become so certain I wasn't Rearden -- and he'd had Mackintosh's address in his notebook. 'That was no accident,' I said. 'His cover was blown.'
Mrs Smith's voice sharpened. 'Impossible!'
'What's so impossible about it?' I demanded.
'Only the three of us knew.'
'That's not so,' I contradicted. 'I' ve just hammered one of the Scarperers and he had the Anglo-Scottish address written down in a notebook. That's why I thought you might have a tap on your phone.' I took a deep breath. Take very good care of yourself, Mrs Smith.'
I had every reason for saying that, even apart from natural humanity. If Mackintosh died and the Scarperers also killed Mrs Smith then I'd be well and truly up that gum tree. The very best that could happen was that I'd be taken back to gaol to serve the rest of the sentence.
And there would be more. They would nail me for an assault on a prison officer; I had kicked the Chief Screw in the face and caused him to break his leg and they'd put me away for another five years because of that.
With Mackintosh and Mrs Smith gone I wouldn't have a hope of proving anything. Mackintosh's tight security system had just blown up in my face. I had lowered the telephone and a quacking noise came from the ear piece. I raised it again, and said, 'What was that?'
'How could they have known the address?'
That doesn't matter right now,' I said. 'This whole operation has gone sour on us and the best we can do is to cut our losses.'
Her voice sharpened. 'What happened to Slade?'
'He got away,' I said wearily. 'God knows where he is now. Probably stowed away in the hold of a Russian freighter bound for Leningrad. It's a bust, Mrs Smith.'
'Wait a minute,' she said, and there was an abrupt silence which lasted a full five minutes. I became aware of a man standing outside the kiosk tapping his foot impatiently and glaring at me. I gave him the stony stare and turned my back on him.
Mrs Smith came back on the line. 'I can be at Shannon Airport within three hours. Is there anything you need.'
'By God there is,' I said. 'I need money -- lots of it; and a new identity.'
'There's no reason why you shouldn't resume your real identity,' she said. 'I have your suitcase here with your clothing and passport. I'll bring them with me.'
'Stay away from the Anglo-Scottish office,' I warned her. 'And watch out for strange men on your tail. Do you know how to shake surveillance?'
Her voice was cold. 'I wasn't born yesterday. Meet me at Shannon in three hours.'
'That's not on. Airports aren't for men on the run. They're apt to be full of men in my line of business. Don't forget I'm on the run from the police and that Brunskill has just arrived in Ireland.' I turned and looked past the queue that was forming. 'Take a taxi to the St George Hotel -- I'll meet you outside. I might even have a car.'
'All right -- and I'll bring the money. How much do you want?'
'As much as you can lay your hands on conveniently. Can you really make it in three hours?'
'If I'm not held up talking to you,' she said acidly, and rang off.
I put down the telephone and pushed open the door. The first man in the queue said sarcastically, 'And where would it be you'd be telephoning to? Australia?'
'No,' I assured him blandly. 'Peking.' I pushed past him and walked up the street.
II Hiring a car proved to be easy -- the British licence was good enough. A hired car is not notoriously speedy but I managed to get a Cortina 1500 which would be enough to get me out of trouble -- or into it -- reasonably quickly.
I arrived at the St George Hotel early and parked on the other side of the road and about a hundred yards along. Several taxis drew up but no Mrs Smith appeared but finally she arrived and only fifteen minutes late. She stood on the pavement when the taxi departed with two suitcases at her side and the hall porter from the hotel dashed out to succour her. I saw her shake her head and he went back into the hotel, a disappointed man, while she looked uncertainly about her. I let her stew for a while because I was more than curious to see if anyone was taking an undue interest in her.
After ten minutes I came to the conclusion that if I didn't pick her up then someone else would because she looked too damned fetching in stretch pants, open-neck shirt and short jacket, so I entered the traffic stream and swung around to pull up in front of the hotel. I wound down the nearside window, and said. 'Give you a lift, ma'am?'
She leaned down to look into the car, and her green eyes were snapping. 'Where have you been?' she said curtly. 'I've been standing here like a fool. I've already slapped down th
ree passes.'
'It's the Irish,' I said. 'They can't resist a pretty girl. Get in; I'll put the bags into the boot.'
Three minutes later we were rolling on our way out of Limerick and towards Cratloe. I said, 'You made good time. You must have just caught the plane at the right moment.'
She stared ahead through the windscreen. 'I flew in my own plane.'
'Well, well!' I said. The intrepid aviatrix. That might prove useful -- but for what, I don't know.'
'I didn't like something you said on the telephone,' she said.
'What was that?'
'You were talking about cutting losses. I didn't like that at all.'
'I don't like it much,' I said. 'But there are precious few leads to follow and I have no great hopes.'
'Why did you let Slade get away?'
'I didn't,' I said. 'He was taken.'
'There must have been something you could have done."
I glanced sideways at her. 'Would you have relished cutting his throat while he slept?'
She gave me a startled glance. 'Why, I ..." She fell into silence.
I said, 'It's easy criticizing from the sidelines. These Scarperers are efficient -- more efficient than any of us realized. Slade thought they might be a Russian outfit -- Russian subsidized, anyway; possibly Russian trained. One thing is certain; they're no gang of ordinary criminals.'
'You'd better tell me about it,' she said. 'But first tell me where we're going now.'
'I want to have a look at the house in which we were incarcerated. We may be able to pick up something, but I doubt it; the last I heard the boss man was shouting about abandoning the place. Anyway, this is the way it went.'
One thing about Irish roads is that they're traffic free and we made good time, so much so that I was only halfway through my tale of woe by the time I saw the first fire engine. 'This is it,' I said, and pulled off the road well away from the scene of action.
It was a shambles. Mrs Smith took one look at the smoking shell of the house, and said, 'I don't know about the boss abandoning the house, it looks as though it abandoned him. Why should he burn it down?'
'He didn't,' I said immodestly. 'I did.' I stuck my head out of the window and hailed a -passing cyclist coming from the scene of the crime. 'What's happened here?'
The cyclist, a gnarled old man, wobbled across the road and lurched to a halt. 'A wee bit of a fire,' he said, and gave me a gap-toothed grin. 'Reminds me of the Troubles, it does.'
'Anyone hurt?'
'Indeed there was. They found a poor gentleman in the middle of it all -- burnt to a crisp.'
'That's dreadful,' I said.
The old man leaned forward and peered at me. 'A friend of yours, could he be?'
'Oh, no,' I said. 'I was just passing and saw the fire engines.'
'A natural curiosity,' he agreed. 'But there's a mystery going on, there is. There were other men in that house and they've all run away. The Garda are wondering why.'
The garda?'
"The natural enemies of good men,' said the ancient. 'The men in blue.' He pointed up the road. 'In England you call them the police.'
About a hundred yards away was a police car -- they're unmistakable -- with a policeman walking towards it. I glanced at Mrs Smith. 'Should we be on our way, darling? We have to be in Roscommon tonight."
'Roscommon, is it?' said the old man. 'But it's on the wrong road you are.'
'We're calling in to see friends in Ennis,' I said. The man was as sharp as a tack.
'Ah, then it's straight ahead.' He took his hand from the side of the car. 'May you have luck in Ireland -- you and your beautiful lady."
I smiled at him and let out the clutch and we drove slowly past the police car. I looked at the mirror and checked that it showed no inclination to follow before I said, 'If they do a thorough autopsy of that corpse they're likely to find a bullet.'
'Did you kill him?' asked Mrs Smith. Her voice was as cool and level as though she had asked if I had slept well.
'Not me. It was an accident, more-or-less; he shot himself in a scuffle.' I checked the mirror again. 'He was right, you know.'
'Who was?'
'The old man. You are beautiful.' I gave her no time to worry about it but went straight on. 'How's Mackintosh?'
'I telephoned the hospital just before I left London,' she said. 'There was no change.' She turned to me. 'You don't think it was an accident?'
'How did it happen?'
'He was crossing a street in the City late at night. A man found him by the side of the road. Whoever hit him didn't stop.'
'The man Jones knew I wasn't Rearden about the same time,' I said. 'I don't think it was an accident.'
'But how did they know?'
'I didn't tell them so it must have been either you or Mackintosh,' I said.
'It wasn't me,' she said quickly. 'And why should it have been him?' I shrugged and she was silent for a while before she said slowly, 'He's always been a good judge of men but ..." She stopped.
'But what?'
'But there was £40,000 in that Swiss numbered account and you had the number.'
I glanced at her. She was staring straight ahead, her body held rigid, and a pink spot glowed on her cheek. 'That's all we need,' I said. 'So you think I sold out to the Scarperers, is that it?'
'Can you think of any other explanation?'
'Not many,' I admitted. 'Talking about money -- how much did you bring?'
'You're taking this too damned coolly.' Her voice had an edge to it.
I sighed and drew the car to a halt by the roadside. I put my hand beneath my jacket and brought out the gun I had taken from Jones -- butt first. I offered it to her on the palm of my hand. 'If you're so certain I sold out then we may as well get it over with quickly,' I said. 'So take this and let me have it.'
Her face whitened when she first saw the pistol, but now she flushed pink and lowered her eyelids to avoid my gaze. 'I'm sorry,' she said quietly. 'I shouldn't have said that.'
'It's just as well you did,' I said. 'Or you might be still thinking it. There are only the two of us, and if we can't trust each other we'll get nowhere. Now, you're sure you couldn't have let fall even a hint of the operation?'
'I'm positive,' she said.
I put away the gun. 'I didn't,' I said. 'So that leaves Mackintosh.'
'I don't believe it,' she said.
'Who did he see just before this so-called accident?'
She thought about it. 'He saw the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition. They were both worried about the lack of news of Slade. There's an election coming up and the PM thought the Leader of the Opposition should be informed of developments.'
'Or the lack of them,' I said. 'I suppose he might do that -it's not a party issue. Anyone else?'
'Yes; Lord Taggart and Charles Wheeler. Wheeler is a Member of Parliament.'
'I know of Taggart,' I said. 'He was Slade's boss at one time.' The name, Wheeler, rang a faint bell. 'What did he talk to Wheeler about?'
'I don't know,' she said.
'If Mackintosh were to tell anyone of the operation would you expect him to inform you?'
'He never kept anything from me that I know of.' She paused, then said, 'But he had the accident before he could get to me.'
I mulled it over and got nowhere. I sighed, and said, 'I'm damned if I'm going to keep calling you Mrs Smith and neither am I going to call you Lucy. What is your name?'
'All right,' she said resignedly. 'You may call me Alison.'
'What do we do now, Alison?'
She said decisively, 'We check on the Irish addresses you found in Jones's notebook. First, at Clonglass, and then at Belfast if necessary.'
That might not be too easy. The Clonglass reference wasn't as much an address as a mention -- just a scribbled memorandum; "Send Taafe to the House at Clonglass",''We'll try it anyway,' she said. 'It's not far.'
Ill We booked in for the night at a hotel, in Galway, but pushed on immediately
to Clonglass which was about 25 miles further west along the coast. From the bare look of the map there didn't seem to be any likelihood of finding an hotel west of Galway, especially late at night, so we played safe.
Clonglass proved to be a wide place in the road overlooking a small inlet from the main bay. The houses were scattered, each with its thatched roof tied down against the advent of the western gales, and each with its peat stack handy to the door. It didn't look too promising.
I drew the car to a halt. 'What do we do now? I wouldn't know where to start in a place like this.'
She smiled. 'I do,' she said, and got out of the car. An old woman was toiling up the road, swathed in black from head to foot and with a face like a frost-bitten crab apple. Alison hailed her and damned if she didn't proceed to jabber away in a strange language.
As always when one eavesdrops on a conversation in a foreign language it seemed as though they were discussing everything from the current price of potatoes to the state of the war in Viet-Nam and it seemed to go on interminably, but presently Alison stepped back and the old woman resumed her trudge up the road.
I said, 'I didn't know you could speak Irish."
'Oh, yes, I have the Gaelic,' she said casually. 'Come on.'
I fell into step. 'Where are we going?'
'To the place where the gossip is,' she said. 'The local shop.'
The shop was instantly familiar. I had seen many like it in the back-blocks of Australia and the more remote parts of the African veld. It was what I used to call as a child an 'anything shop' selling anything and everything in minute quantities to a small population. This shop had an added attraction; it had a bar.
Alison went into her Irish routine again and the words washed around my ears without penetrating, and then she turned to me, and asked, 'Do you drink whiskey?'
Bagley, Desmond - The Freedom Trap Page 15