Here Comes Charlie M cm-2

by Brian Freemantle

  Law was nodding, disclosing nothing. Hardiman was busily writing in the notebook.

  ‘Isn’t that rather expensive?’ asked the superintendent, ending the pause.

  ‘Expensive?’ asked Charlie. His voice almost broke, showing anxiety. Had the money been there, they would have challenged him immediately, he knew. He felt the first bubble of hope.

  ‘Hiring a safe deposit box for the sort of stuff most people keep in a cupboard drawer?’ enlarged the detective.

  Charlie forced the smile.

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I’m the sort of person who likes to know everything is safe … so I put it in a bank because I thought there was less chance of a robbery than here, in the house.’

  ‘Ironic,’ agreed Law.

  But it wasn’t agreement, guessed Charlie. There was still doubt.

  The superintendent emptied his glass and shook his head in refusal when Charlie gestured towards the bottle.

  ‘You wouldn’t mind if I checked with your insurance companies about the policies?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Charlie. ‘The Sun Life of Canada and the Royal Assurance.’

  Hardiman noted the names.

  ‘Hope I haven’t caused difficulties,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Difficulties?’ queried Law.

  ‘By not bothering to contact the bank … you seemed to attach some importance to it.’

  ‘It appeared odd,’ allowed Law.

  ‘And I was just trying to be helpful,’ repeated Charlie.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Law paused, then demanded again: ‘There was nothing more than the policies, documents concerning this house and the small amount of money?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Charlie assured him. The insurance had been Edith’s idea, he remembered; being normal, she’d called it.

  Both men were staring at him, he realised. A silence settled into the room. Charlie stayed perched on the edge of the armchair, curbing any indication of nervousness.

  ‘Then you’re lucky,’ said Law, at last.

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘The policies weren’t even taken … so you won’t have to bother with duplicates.’

  Charlie nodded. He’d got away with it, he thought. The realisation swept through him. The two detectives still didn’t seem completely satisfied.

  ‘That’s very fortunate,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Law. ‘Very fortunate.’

  ‘The money’s gone, I suppose?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the superintendent. ‘All five hundred pounds of it’

  Again the policeman waited, letting the sarcasm settle. So it was the smallness of the amount they couldn’t accept. Another mistake, like the artificial attitude.

  ‘So I’m lucky all the way around,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Sir?’ questioned the superintendent.

  That it was only?500,’ expanded Charlie. ‘It’s enough, but not as much as the other people seem to have lost.’

  ‘No, sir,’ accepted Law. There was still doubt, Charlie gauged.

  ‘You say you travel a great deal, sir?’ pressed Law.

  ‘I have a home in Switzerland as well as here,’ said Charlie. ‘I move between the two very frequently.’

  ‘That must be nice,’ said Law.

  He managed always to convey the impression that he expected more from any sentence, decided Charlie. It was an interesting technique.

  ‘It is,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘How long do you plan to be here this time, sir?’ asked the superintendent.

  Charlie delayed answering, guessing some point to the question.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘A week … maybe two … depends on business.’

  ‘What business?’

  The query was abrupt again, cutting across Charlie’s generalisation.

  Charlie grew cautious again, recognising the danger.

  ‘Investment,’ he said. ‘Finance … that sort of thing.’

  Both detectives stared, waiting for more.

  When he didn’t continue, Law prompted: ‘You’re a financier?’

  ‘My passport describes me as a clerk. But I suppose financier is a better description,’ smiled Charlie.

  ‘Any particular firm?’

  ‘Predominantly Willoughby, Price and Rowledge,’ responded Charlie easily. ‘I deal with Mr Willoughby.’

  ‘A financier,’ picked up the superintendent. ‘Yet you only kept?500 in a safe deposit box?’

  ‘Exactly,’ retorted Charlie. ‘Money that isn’t working for you is dead … useless. No one who’s interested in making money leaves it lying around in safe deposit boxes.’

  ‘And you are interested in making money, sir?’ asked Law, unperturbed.

  ‘Isn’t everyone?’ asked Charlie.

  Law didn’t reply immediately, appearing to consider the question.

  ‘And where will you be going, after one or two weeks?’ he demanded, changing direction.

  ‘Back to Switzerland,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You could let us have an address, of course?’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Charlie. ‘But why should you need it?’

  The superintendent smiled apologetically.

  ‘Never know, sir. Things come up that you can’t anticipate. Always handy to be able to contact people.’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘And I’d like a formal statement,’ continued Law. ‘Could you come to the station tomorrow?’

  Charlie hesitated, a busy man remembering other appointments.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said, at last.

  ‘We’d appreciate that,’ said Law.

  The approach had changed, realised Charlie.

  ‘Naturally I’ll come.’

  ‘You know,’ said Law, extending the apparent friendliness. ‘Of all the people we’ve interviewed, you’re probably the most fortunate.’

  ‘How’s that, superintendent?’

  ‘Apart from the money … and as you say, that’s not a great deal … you’ve lost practically nothing.’

  ‘Except my faith in the safety of British banks,’ suggested Charlie, trying to lighten the mood.

  Law didn’t smile.

  ‘In every other box there was more money … jewellery … stuff like that Really you are very lucky,’ insisted the superintendent.

  ‘Very lucky,’ concurred Charlie.

  Law looked hopeful, as if expecting Charlie to say more.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ asked Charlie. He shouldn’t seem too eager to end the meeting, he knew. But equally it would be a mistake to abandon the attitude with which he’d begun the encounter, wrong though he now knew it to be. It was the sort of change Law would recognise.

  The superintendent gazed directly at him. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Not at the moment, sir. Just make the statement, tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And let us know if you’re thinking of going anywhere,’ the detective continued.

  Charlie allowed just the right amount of time to elapse.

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘And perhaps tomorrow you could let my sergeant have the Swiss address?’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Law, standing. Immediately Hardiman followed.

  ‘Good night, sir,’ said Law.

  ‘Good night, superintendent. Don’t hesitate to contact me if I can do anything further to help.’

  ‘Oh we won’t, sir,’ Law assured him. ‘We won’t hesitate for a moment.’

  Charlie stood at the doorway until he saw them enter their car and then returned to the lounge. He’d just got away with it, he judged, pouring himself a second whisky.

  But only just. Not good enough, in fact. He’d lost his edge, in two years. So he’d better find it again, bloody quickly.

  ‘Otherwise, Charlie, your bollocks are going to be on the hook,’ he warned himself.<
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  He looked curiously at the whisky, putting the glass down untouched.

  ‘And that’s how they got there last time,’ he added into the empty room.

  For several minutes the policemen sat silently in the car. The lights of Palace Pier were appearing on the left before Law spoke.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Hardiman.

  ‘Cocky,’ replied the sergeant, immediately. He’d been waiting for the question.

  ‘But involved?’

  Hardiman shook his head.

  ‘Would you rent a box to discover the layout practically next door to your own house? And having pulled off a million-pound robbery, risk coming back and being questioned, even if you had been that stupid in the first place?’

  Law moved his head, in agreement.

  ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘They’re big points in his favour.’

  The car entered the town, pulling away from the sea-front.

  ‘There was something though, wasn’t there?’ said Hardiman.

  Law smiled at the other man’s reservations.

  ‘Couldn’t lose the feeling that he was used to interrogation … didn’t have the uncertainty that most people have … the natural nervousness that causes them to make silly mistakes,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Yet he was nervous,’ expanded Hardiman.

  ‘Know something else that struck me as odd?’ continued Law.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For a financier, he was a scruffy bastard.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘Still, don’t they say that only the truly rich can afford to dress like tramps?’

  ‘And can you really believe,’ went on the superintendent, ignoring the sergeant’s remark, ‘that a financier with a house like he’s got here and who openly admits to another home in Switzerland would only have five hundred quid in a safe deposit box?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Hardiman, as the car entered the police station compound. ‘But he’s not the first one we’ve encountered on this job who’s lied about the amount. That’s just tax avoidance, surely?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Law. He started to get out of the car, then turned back into the vehicle, towards the other man.

  ‘Let’s just keep an eye on him,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to waste any men on full-time observation, but I want some sort of check kept.’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Hardiman. ‘Who knows what we might come up with?’

  ‘Who knows?’ echoed the superintendent.

  Despite a friendship that stretched back more than two decades, there had been few meetings with Berenkov since his repatriation to Moscow from British imprisonment, General Valery Kalenin accepted. Too few, in fact. He enjoyed the company of the burly, flamboyant Georgian. The K.G.B. chief smiled across the table, offering the bottle.

  Berenkov took the wine, topping up his glass.

  ‘French is still best,’ he said, professionally. ‘More body.’

  During his twenty years in London, Berenkov had developed the cover as a wine importer, which had allowed him frequent trips to Europe for contact meetings, into an enormously successful business.

  ‘Not the sort of remark a loyal Russian should make,’ said Kalenin, in mock rebuke. ‘You’ll have to get used to Russian products from now on.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult,’ said Berenkov, sincerely.

  Kalenin pushed aside the remains of the meal he had cooked for them both in his bachelor apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospect. Berenkov had enjoyed the food, the other Russian knew.

  ‘Glad to be back?’ Kalenin asked, caught by the tone in the man’s voice.

  Berenkov nodded.

  ‘I’d had enough,’ he admitted. ‘My nerve was beginning to go.’

  Kalenin nodded. Now Berenkov could lead a pampered life in the Russian capital, he thought, teaching at the spy college to justify the large salary to which he was entitled after the success of such a long operational life, spending the week-ends at the dacha and the vacations in the sunshine of Sochi.

  ‘You did very well,’ Kalenin praised him. ‘You were one of the best.’

  Berenkov smiled at the flattery, sipping his wine.

  ‘But I got caught in the end,’ he said. ‘There was someone better than me.’

  ‘Law of averages,’ said Kalenin. Should he tell Berenkov? he wondered. The man had developed a strong feeling for Charlie Muffin, he knew. A friendship, almost.

  ‘Charlie has been trapped,’ he announced bluntly, making the decision.

  Berenkov stared down into his wine, his head moving slowly, a man getting confirmation of long-expected bad news.

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  Kalenin gestured vaguely.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But from the amount of leakage it’s obvious the British want it recognised they intend creating an example out of him.’

  ‘Charlie would have expected it, of course,’ said Berenkov distantly.

  Kalenin said nothing.

  The former spymaster looked up at him.

  ‘No chance of your intervening, I suppose? To give him any help?’

  Kalenin frowned at the suggestion.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, in genuine surprise. ‘Why ever should I?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ accepted Berenkov. ‘Stupid of me to have mentioned it.’

  ‘He’s still alive, apparently,’ volunteered Kalenin. ‘It’s not at all clear what they are going to do.’

  ‘Charlie was Very good,’ said Berenkov. ‘Very good indeed.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘He was.’

  ‘Poor Charlie,’ said Berenkov.

  ‘More wine?’ invited Kalenin.

  ‘Thank you.’

  FOURTEEN

  Perhaps, thought Wilberforce, arranging the money on the desk for everyone to see had been too theatrical. Onslow Smith was openly smirking, he saw, annoyed. That would stop, soon enough. The time had passed when people laughed at George Wilberforce; and from today they would begin to realise it.

  ‘Just over two hundred thousand dollars,’ said the British Director, indicating the money. ‘About half of what was stolen from you … and no affidavits that might have caused problems.’

  ‘So now we kill him,’ Ruttgers interrupted impatiently.

  ‘No,’ said Wilberforce simply.

  For several moments there was no sound from any of the men in the room. It was Sir Henry Cuthbertson who broke the silence.

  ‘What do you mean, no?’ he demanded. ‘We’ve achieved what we set out to do. Let’s get the whole stupid business over.’

  ‘No,’ repeated Wilberforce. ‘There are other things to do first.’

  ‘Director,’ said Onslow Smith, trying with obvious difficulty to control himself, ‘this affair began with the intention of correcting past problems. We’ve put ourselves in a position of being able to do so. Let’s not risk making any more.’

  ‘I intend teaching the Russians a lesson,’ announced Wilberforce.

  ‘You’re going to do what?’

  Onslow Smith’s control snapped and he looked at the other Director in horror. The damned man was on an ego trip, he realised.

  ‘For almost two years they’ve mocked and laughed … I’ve been ridiculed. Now I’m going to balance the whole thing.’

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ said Onslow Smith urgently. He stood up, nervously pacing the room. ‘We agreed, not a month ago, that what we were attempting to do was dangerous …’

  He looked intently at the Briton for reaction. Wilberforce nodded.

  ‘But it worked,’ continued Smith. ‘Charlie Muffin is now back in England. We can do anything we like with him. So now we just complete the operation as planned and invite no more problems.’

  ‘There will be no problems,’ insisted Wilberforce, quietly. They were all very scared, he decided.

  ‘With Charlie Muffin, there’s always risk,’ said Braley breathily, risking the impertinence. Surreptitiously he slipped an asthma pill beneath his tongue.


  ‘How do you intend teaching the Russians a lesson?’ asked Cuthbertson.

  From the rack on his desk, Wilberforce selected a pipe and began revolving it between his fingers. Sometimes, he thought, he felt like a kindergarten teacher trying to instil elementary common sense. It would be pleasant hearing them apologise for their reluctance in a few days’ time.

  ‘I’ve already seen to it that the Russians know we’ve located the man,’ he admitted.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ blurted Onslow Smith, exasperated. Already, he thought, it might be too late.

  Wilberforce shook his head sadly at the reaction.

  ‘And tonight, for a little while at least, we are going to borrow the Faberge collection that has just arrived from Russia for exhibition here.’

  ‘You’re going to do what?’

  Onslow Smith appeared in a permanent state of shocked surprise.

  ‘Take the Faberge collection,’ repeated Wilberforce.

  ‘The Russians will go mad,’ predicted Braley.

  ‘Of course they will,’ agreed Wilberforce. ‘That is exactly what I intend they should do: And what will they find, when we leak the hint about one of the insurers of the collection? What we found, by elementary surveillance and checking the company accounts after the churchyard encounter with Rupert Willoughby — that their precious Charlie Muffin is a silent partner in the firm.’

  ‘It’s lunacy,’ said Smith, fighting against the anger. ‘Absolute and utter lunacy.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ insisted Wilberforce. ‘It is as guaranteed against fault as the method I devised to get Charlie Muffin back to England.’

  ‘But we can’t go around stealing jewellery,’ protested Cuthbertson.

  ‘And I’m not interested in settling imagined grievances with Russia. It’s over, for Christ’s sake. It has been, for years,’ said Smith.

  ‘Not with me, it hasn’t,’ said Wilberforce. He turned to the former Director. ‘And I’ve no intention that we should permanently steal it. The Faberge collection is priceless, right?’

  Cuthbertson nodded, doubtfully.

  ‘But valueless to any thief,’ continued Wilberforce. ‘He’d never be able to fence it.’

  ‘So why steal it in the first place?’ asked Ruttgers.

  ‘For the same reason that such identifiable jewellery is always stolen,’ explained Wilberforce. ‘Not to sell or to break up. Merely to negotiate, through intermediaries, its sale back to the insurers who would otherwise be faced with an enormous settlement.’