Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  Her face was flushed now and the breasts seemed to strain against the light white nylon blouse.

  'That would be marvellous. Is there anything I can get you?'

  'Half a bottle of champagne, I think.'

  He sat there staring out of the window, feeling rather tired, but the truth was that he wasn't really in the mood for this concert. What he needed was a holiday. No need to return to London. He would fly to Athens from Helsinki after the concert. Even if there wasn't a direct flight and he had to go via Paris or Munich, he could be in Athens some time during the afternoon. And then Hydra.

  The thought was pleasant and his spirits lifted as the stewardess brought the champagne. As he sipped it slowly, savouring the coldness, he found himself opening Morgan's file and starting to work his way through it again.

  8

  Harvey Jago inspected himself carefully in the bathroom mirror. In the red velvet jacket with the white silk scarf at the throat, the blond hair carefully combed, he made an imposing figure. He still looked like a useful light-heavyweight, good for fifteen rounds any day of the week, which was what he had been in early life - the signs were there in the broken nose, the scar tissue around the eyes. He could have had it straightened, but women liked it. It gave him a kind of rugged geniality, but it was the eyes that indicated the real man. Hard and cruel and pitiless.

  This morning he was far from happy, for the previous evening one of his many business ventures, a house in Belgravia where young ladies in his employ catered to the whims of clients of the highest prestige, had been raided by the police.

  It was not the embarrassment caused to the two peers of the realm and three Members of Parliament who had temporarily found themselves in the hands of the police which worried Jago - that was their lookout. He wasn't even worried about the fines that would have to be paid on behalf of the girls or the loss of the night's takings.

  There was certainly no possibility of his personal involvement. The property was in someone else's name. That was what he kept front men for. No, what annoyed him was the lack of warning from those police officers on the Vice Squad who received handsome, weekly stipends to see that Jago's establishments were left alone. Somebody's head was going to have to roll.

  He walked into the living-room and stood at the window of his penthouse apartment. It gave him a continuing pleasure to look out across Green Park to Buckingham Palace, which was why he'd bought the place. A long way from the back street in Stepney in which he'd been raised.

  Maria, the little Filipino maid, brought coffee on a tray. He waited while she filled his cup and handed it to him.

  'Thanks, love,' he said.

  As she walked away, neat and trim in black dress and stockings, his brother, Arnold, entered. He was ten years younger than Jago, with thinning hair and hollow cheeks, and managed to look undernourished and anxious at the same time. Underneath that surface appearance, he had a brain which operated like a computer in matters of finance.

  'Lovely arse on her, that girl,' Jago said. 'I'd give her a going-over, Arnold, I really would, only you know what I've always said about messing about with the staff.'

  Arnold, who already had an arrangement with Maria which he was terrified his brother would find out about, said, 'Quite right, Harvey.'

  'What's last night going to cost me?'

  'Between thirteen and fifteen grand. I can't be more certain because of the legal end. Some of those girls are three-time losers, Harvey. It could mean the nick. They'll need a top brief and that comes expensive.'

  'Anything it takes, Arnold. Another thing. The Vice Squad. I want to know who let us down and I want to know today.'

  'It's being taken care of,' Arnold said. 'There's a bloke to see you. Name of Morgan.'

  'What's he want?'

  'Wouldn't say, but he told me to give you this.' Arnold handed him a wad of twenty-pound notes with a Midland Bank wrapper still around them. 'Five hundred.'

  Jago held them to his nose. 'God, how I love the smell of this stuff. Okay, Arnold, wheel him in. Let's see what his game is.'

  Morgan wore a polo-neck sweater and hadn't bothered to unbutton his military trenchcoat. Jago poured himself a Scotch and looked him over.

  'Mr. Morgan,' Arnold said and stood by the door.

  'Colonel, actually.'

  Jago made a face. 'So what am I supposed to do, curtsy?' He picked up the five hundred pounds. 'I'm a busy man and all this buys you is limited conversation. Speak your piece or move on.'

  'It's quite simple,' Morgan said. 'The Cohen shooting last week. The gun used was a Mauser 7.63 mm, Model 1932 with the SS bulbous silencer, a weapon of some rarity these days. Your organization supplied two of them to the IRA last year.'

  'Who says so?' Arnold put in.

  Morgan kept his eyes on Jago. 'A man called Brendan Tully. I was with him in Ulster yesterday.'

  'Now look here,' Arnold began, but his brother stilled him with a hand.

  'You're not the law, so what's your angle?'

  'The man who shot Cohen ran my daughter down while making his escape. Killed her. I'd like to find him.'

  'I get it now,' Jago said. 'You think the Mauser he used might have come from the same source as the others?'

  'It would seem reasonable.' Morgan took a second packet of banknotes from his pocket and tossed it on the table. 'Another five hundred there, Mr Jago, so you see, I'm prepared to pay for the information.'

  'It'll cost you,' Jago said.

  'How much?'

  'Another grand.'

  'All right - when?'

  'I don't deal with that end of things myself. I'll need to talk to the guy who does. I should know by tonight, if there is anything to know. I own a club in Chelsea, the Flamingo on Cheyne Walk. I'll see you there around nine.'

  'All right.'

  Morgan turned to the door and Jago said, 'And Colonel Morgan. Don't forget the other thousand.'

  'Of course not, Mr Jago. I keep my word.'

  'Delighted to hear it.'

  'See that you do.'

  Jago said softly, 'Is that a threat, Colonel?'

  'Yes, come to think of it, I suppose it is,' Morgan told him and went out.

  There was silence. Jago said, 'You know something, Arnold? That's the first time anyone's given me the hard word in years and we can't have that, now can we? Bad for business. I'm going to take a personal interest in Colonel Morgan. Very personal. Make sure there's a couple of good lads laid on for tonight. Dustbin men.'

  'Yes, Harvey.'

  Arnold turned to go out and Jago added, 'Another thing, from now on, we stop selling hardware to those Micks across there. They're all puddled, I've told you before. Stick to the Arabs in future.'

  Back at the flat, Morgan put the coffee percolator on and then telephoned Security Factors Ltd. Jock Kelso sounded relieved to hear his voice.

  'You're back then. Thank God for that. Did you see O'Hagan?'

  'Briefly,' Morgan said. 'I'm afraid he's dead, Jock. Car bomb. I was lucky not to go with him.'

  There was a heavy silence, then Kelso said, 'Did you find out what you wanted to know?'

  'Oh, yes, that's why I'm ringing. What can you tell me about the Jago brothers?'

  Kelso said, 'Probably the most important gangsters in London. Even the Mafia walk cautiously around those two. Arnold, the skinny one, is the brains. His elder brother, Harvey, is no fool either. Used to be a prizefighter.'

  'A nasty piece of work. I've met him.'

  'And that's an understatement. Last year an Italian gambler called Pacelli tried to palm loaded dice at one of Jago's gaming clubs. You know what Jago did? Cut off the top joint of each finger on Pacelli's right hand with garden shears. Are you trying to tell me he's the source of the Mausers?'

  'That's the way it looks. I'm seeing him tonight. A place called the Flamingo in Cheyne Walk. Is it respectable?'

  'Strictly top people.'

  'Which means he'll behave himself. Tell me, Jock, how does he make his money?'


  'Gaming clubs, protection, high-class whorehouses.'

  'And that's it?'

  'He does have one other profitable sideline, an associate of mine was involved in. It's not far from Cheyne Walk, near Chelsea Creek. A paint factory called Wetherby and Sons.'

  'And?'

  'It's what's known in the trade as a cut liquor still. What they usually do is hijack a tanker carrying Scotch whisky, or something similar, on the motorway. It's then heavily diluted with water. They have their own bottling plant and all the best labels. Supply clubs all over the country.'

  'And the police - don't they know any of this?'

  'They can never get close and when they do, there's always some front man in between to take the drop. I'd stay clear if I were you, unless you're prepared to go all the way.'

  'Oh, but I am, Jock. I am.'

  Morgan was sitting at his desk cleaning a Smith and Wesson Magnum when the phone rang. It was Kate Riley.

  'You're back,' she said.

  'Yes, last night.'

  'Did you get anywhere?'

  'I'll know that for sure later on tonight. Where are you calling from - Cambridge?'

  'No, I'm in town for a few days, working at the Tavistock Clinic. I've borrowed the apartment of a colleague who's in New York for a month. It's in Kensington. Douro Place.'

  'I'll tell you what,' Morgan said. 'I've got an appointment with the worst villain in London tonight at the Flamingo in Cheyne Walk.'

  'But that's one of the most exclusive nightclubs in town.'

  'So they tell me. You find yourself a pretty frock, comb your hair and I might be persuaded to take you.'

  'You're on,' she said.

  The place was everything they'd said it would be. Soft lights, sweet music, attentive waiters, the ultimate in luxury. Morgan and Kate Riley were obviously expected, were led to a corner table that was one of the best in the house.

  The head waiter snapped a finger and a champagne bucket appeared. 'Mr Jago's compliments, sir. Tonight you are his guests.'

  From his office high above the main restaurant Harvey Jago, resplendent in a black velvet evening suit, watched them through an ornamental grille.

  'I like the look of his bird, Arnold. Real class, there. You can always tell.'

  'What about him, Harvey? He's a colonel and all that, isn't he?'

  'Rubbish,' Jago said. 'I don't know what his story is, but he's off the same length of street as you and me.'

  'Shall I have him up?'

  'Not just yet. Let them enjoy their meal. I mean, it's the dessert that counts, isn't it, Arnold?'

  'What about men?' Morgan asked her.

  'None of your business.'

  'What do you do for a bit of action and passion, then?'

  'Fly,' she said. 'I've had a licence for twelve years now. I'm really rather good.'

  The head waiter came and whispered discreetly in Morgan's ear. He left Kate to finish the champagne and followed the man out and through a door marked Private. There was a flight of carpeted stairs. Arnold waited at the top.

  'This way, Colonel.'

  Morgan went up the stairs and entered the office, which was Jago's pride and joy and had been put together for him by one of the best interior designers in London. Everything was Chinese and some of the art objects had cost him a great deal of money.

  Jago sat behind the desk, smoking a cigar. 'There you are. They looking after you all right down there?'

  'Fine,' Morgan said. 'But my time is as limited as yours, Mr Jago. The information you promised me?'

  'Didn't we say something about another grand, Arnold?' Jago said.

  Morgan produced an envelope from his inside pocket. 'We'll hear what you have to say first. Then you get this.'

  Jago sighed. 'Well, now, that's going to prove rather difficult. You see, I'm afraid we haven't been able to come up with the information you require.'

  'Can't or won't?' Morgan asked.

  'You can amuse yourself on long winter evenings thinking about that one.'

  'And the thousand pounds I paid you earlier today?'

  'My time, old sport, is valuable.' Jago looked at his watch. 'Show the Colonel out, Arnold. I've got things to do.'

  Morgan walked to the door, paused and picked up a large Chinese vase from a lacquer table. 'Early nineteenth-century,' he said. 'Not particularly rare, but nice.'

  He dropped it on the floor where it shattered into a hundred pieces. 'And that, my friend, is just the beginning,' he said and walked out.

  Jago came round the desk on the run. He stood looking down at the broken pieces of the vase, his face working, then turned to his brother.

  'You know what to do and tell them to make it good. If he ever does come out of hospital, I want it to be on sticks.'

  Morgan had parked the Porsche some distance away. Kate Riley had her arm in his as they walked.

  She said, 'So he wouldn't come through?'

  'That's about the size of it.'

  'What are you going to do now?'

  'Persuade him to think again.'

  They turned into the side street where he had left the Porsche.

  Arnold Jago paused on the corner with two men. One of them was small and badly in need of a shave. The other was at least six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face and big hands.

  'Right, Jacko,' Arnold said. 'Make it good.'

  'Leave it to us, Mr Jago.'

  The two men started along the pavement beside the parked cars and Jacko paused, pulled the smaller man to a halt. Morgan and Kate Riley seemed to have completely disappeared.

  He took an anxious step forward. Morgan moved up the steps from the basement area of one of the tall Victorian houses, swung the small man round and kneed him in the groin.

  He went down with a groan and Jacko turned to find Morgan standing on the other side of the writhing body, face clear in the lamplight as Kate Riley came up from the area behind him.

  'Looking for me, are you?'

  Jacko moved in fast. Afterwards, he could never be certain of what had happened. His feet were kicked expertly from beneath him, he landed hard on the wet pavement. As he got up, Morgan seized his right wrist, twisting it round and up, locking the shoulder as in a vice. Jacko gave a cry of agony as the muscle started to tear. Still keeping that terrible hold in position, Morgan ran him head-first into the railings.

  He took Kate Riley by the arm and walked her along the pavement to the Porsche. As he handed her in she said, 'You really believe in going all the way, don't you?'

  'Interesting,' he said as he got in beside her, 'that you're not tearing out your hair over my brutal fascist ways, a nice, virginal, liberal academic like yourself.'

  'They asked for it, those two. They got it,' she said. 'You must have displeased Mr Jago considerably.'

  'I think you could say that,' he said and drove away.

  He stopped outside the house in Douro Place and walked her to the door.

  'Aren't you coming in?' she asked.

  'I've got things to do.'

  'Such as?'

  'Teach Harvey Jago his manners.'

  'Can I help?'

  'Not really. What I intend is by any definition a criminal act. I'd rather you weren't involved in case something goes wrong. I'll be in touch.'

  He went down the steps to the Porsche, before she could argue. She opened the door and went inside. Arnold Jago got out of his car from where he had parked if further along the street. He checked the number of the house, then returned to his car and drove away.

  Ferguson was working alone at his desk in the Cavendish Square flat, the only sound the Glenn Miller Orchestra playing softly on the record player on the table behind him.

  It was his secret vice, listening to the big band sounds of his youth. Not only Miller but great British bands like Lew Stone, Joe Loss with Al Bowlly singing. It took Ferguson right back to the war with warm nostalgia. To 1940, when things had been really bad. But at least you knew where you were - knew just how
far you had to go. Whereas now? The real enemy might actually be sitting on a parliamentary bench. Probably was.

  The telephone, the red one at his left hand, buzzed softly. He checked his watch. It was almost ten o'clock as he lifted the receiver.

  'Say who you are.'

  'Baker, sir.'

  'Working late tonight, Superintendent.'

  'Desk work - you know how it is, sir. I thought you'd like to know Asa Morgan got back from Belfast in one piece. Security noted him passing through Heathrow last night.'

  'But we don't know what he got up to while he was there?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Have you checked with Army Intelligence at Lisburn on O'Hagan?'

  'Yes, but he's dropped out of sight. Hardly surprising with Operation Motorman in full-swing.'

  'And what's Morgan up to tonight?'

  'Seems to have something going for him with Doctor Riley, the psychologist from Cambridge. She's staying at a flat in Douro Place. Morgan picked her up at eight-thirty. They were both dressed for what looked like a big night out.'

  'And where did they go?'

  'I don't know, sir. My man lost them.'

  'How amazing,' Ferguson said. 'Is that what we pay him for, to play the incompetent idiot?'

  'Look, sir, this kind of thing is Morgan's business. He's been at it for years now, you know that. Malaya, Cyprus, Aden, now Ulster. He can smell a tail the moment he steps out of the door. He has an instinct for it. It's the only way he kept alive all those years.'

  'All right, Superintendent, cut the eulogy. What you're really saying is that there's no way he can be followed if he doesn't want to be.'

  'Not unless I put a six-car team on him, sir, with full radio control from Central.'

  'No,' Ferguson said. 'Don't do that. In fact, do nothing. Pull your man off completely. Let's give Asa his head for a day or two. Then we'll see where we're at.'

  He put down the receiver and at the other end, Harry Baker buzzed through on the intercom to the sergeant in the outer office.