by J. G. Sandom
Ellison took another drag and looked away.
“Forget it, Ellison. Don’t start playing about with me now, not when you’re almost home.”
“The shopkeeper.”
“What about him? Does he have it?”
“It’s in my bundle. In the alley.”
Lyman nodded. “All right, let’s take a look.” He moved back toward the door. “Come on, Ellison. Doesn’t the truth make you feel better, getting it off your chest?”
Ellison dropped his cigarette on the floor and stamped it out with his boot.
It took Constable Frazier only a few minutes to fetch a car and drive them back to Fleet Street. The shopkeeper was home recuperating, but his assistant was still there and he watched them sullenly from the rear door of the shop as they poked about in the half-light. Ellison found the bundle without trouble. It had been stuffed into a box marked “cotton wool.” Lyman unraveled it himself, afraid that Ellison might have a knife inside. He dumped it on the alley floor, the pathetic contents spilling out. So little, Lyman thought. A ragged, empty billfold. A comb. A packet of fine tools such as a clockmaker might use. A penknife. And at the bottom of the pile, half concealed, a little three-edged key with the numbers 02 stamped on its bright red plastic head.
“Inspector Lyman,” Frazier shouted from the car.
Lyman picked the key up.
“Inspector, it’s a call from central. Something’s come up.”
Lyman sighed and walked back to the car. Frazier handed him the microphone through the window. “Lyman here,” he said.
“Inspector, this is central. We just received a call from Chief Superintendent Cocksedge. He says you’re to report back here immediately.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“I’m not exactly sure. But apparently it has something to do with a fellow named Marco Scarcella.”
“What about him?”
There was a pause on the radio. Lyman could feel the key in his hand, the three serrated edges pressed against his flesh. “What about Scarcella?” he repeated.
“There was a report. They say he’s broken out of prison. Bribed some guard, it seems. Does that mean anything to you?”
Lyman did not answer. He looked up at the night sky. It had started to rain lightly, and he could see the drops appear out of the darkness far above, falling through the streetlight to the ground.
“Yes,” Lyman said at last. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
Chapter V
LONDON
September 2nd, 1991
LYMAN LOOKED BOTH WAYS BEFORE HE CROSSED THE road and headed for the row of red brick houses near the Golders Green tube station. The neighborhood had changed so much in the last few years. The buildings were no longer middle-aged, with that air of solid self-reliance that pervaded most of London’s nearer suburbs, the stuff of England’s civil servants home from the Raj or Africa for good. Now they sagged and crumbled under newer visions. Now synagogues were violated and the elderly robbed at knifepoint. Only the night before a flat in his own building had been robbed. Lyman had been living in the area for years and yet it was these criminal acts which always brought him closest to the city, as if, like many women Lyman knew, she shared her darker intimacies more easily with strangers.
It had been five days since Marco Scarcella’s escape from Champ Dollon, five days of almost constant coordination with Interpol, and yet the whereabouts of the I Four’s Venerable Master remained a mystery. To make matters worse, in all that time, the lab downstairs had failed to reveal much of anything about the key which Ellison had discovered near Blackfriars Bridge. “Who would have believed me,” the vagabond had said, and indeed, despite the key, the rest of the department had dismissed the story as improbable. Ellison had made it up, they said, to sell it for his freedom. He had built it from the newspaper accounts. And even if a part of it were true, the vagabond had never really seen Pontevecchio throw the key away. He had found it afterward, on the side of the embankment. He had but assumed it was the banker’s.
Despite his colleagues’ lack of confidence, Lyman interviewed a dozen other vagrants to check on Ellison’s report. He reread every file. He pressed and pressed the sentences together until one night, in a sudden fit of temper, he found himself shouting at the Lemur that the only reason he thought Ellison was lying was because he was a Yorkshireman, a simple bricklayer from up-country. “Really, Lyman,” Randall had replied. “Don’t be so sensitive. Perhaps that’s why you think he’s telling you the truth.”
In the end, after days of effort all the lab could say was that it was probably not a safe key, but it might unlock a locker. It was definitely foreign, but it would take another week or so before they could tell him any more. The staff had other pressing matters to attend to. They would get to it eventually. He would just have to wait his turn.
In desperation Lyman ignored the standing orders and pocketed the evidence himself. He knew a locksmith of his own near Hendon, someone who had worked for him before. If anyone could tell him what the key meant, it was Stephen Feldman.
Feldman’s shop was the accumulation of a thousand preconceived depictions, the dreaming of eight years of captive solitude. Lyman had caught him in the epilogue of one of his first London murder cases. Feldman—by chance more than design—had been an accessory to murder, and Lyman had helped reduce his sentence in exchange for an address. The full-time locksmith, part-time burglar had served the years with the desperate single-mindedness of an animal plunging through a bog. He had festooned his cell with imaginary shelves and small machines, the sound of cutting keys, the smell of oil. The years converged, like the sand grains in an hourglass, and on the day of his release, it had been Lyman once again who had told him of the little vacant shop in Hendon.
A bell chimed as Lyman entered the shop. All in all, it was not particularly grand. A narrow counter ran the length of the small room. Behind it, Stephen Feldman was fitting a template key into a lathe. He was hunched over the machine like a kestrel. His bald pate glistened in the light. His long white fingers moved efficiently, clamping the blank key into place against the cutting edge.
“Hello, Stephen,” Lyman said.
The locksmith looked up. “Nigel,” he said. “Sick again or just home early?”
“Working, actually. I need a favor.”
Feldman took a rag out from behind his apron and began to wipe his hands.
“What do you make of this?” said Lyman, as he reached into his coat and removed the little red key.
Feldman dropped the rag onto the counter and took the key from Lyman’s hand. “Looks like a locker key,” he said. “But you don’t often see them with four edges. And there’s a number—oh-two.”
“I thought it had three edges.”
“Well, the flat edge on the back, the fourth one, is a guide. And sixteen pins. Most keys have five to seven. I’d say it fits a Papaiz, a Brazilian lock.”
“Brazilian?”
“That’s where it was made, I’ll wager. But that doesn’t mean the cylinder’s in Brazil. Papaiz locks are shipped all over the world. It could come from anywhere. Where did you get it?”
Lyman frowned. “What about the numbers on the head, and those letters on the stem itself?”
Feldman shook his head. “The letters look like they were stamped. A locksmith’s mark perhaps. Or maybe it’s a company impression. I’d have to look them up.”
“Thanks, Stephen.”
Feldman slipped from behind the counter and disappeared into a small doorway at the rear of the shop. Lyman examined the walls. Almost every inch of space was covered by keys, row upon row, hanging together from spindly metal brackets jutting from the walls. Some gold, some silver, they stood like silent sentinels on parade, awaiting an impression. They were the patient counterparts to doors and boxes still unopened, and suddenly Lyman thought about the labyrinth of corridors and countless portals of the Vatican.
“I know you’ll think I’m daft,” Ellison had said.
“But it looked a little like a vicar’s collar.” There had been enough time for the flight from Rome to London, Lyman knew, to Blackfriars Bridge and back. Archbishop Grabowski, normally a late riser, had been seen in the Via Veneto early on the morning of Pontevecchio’s death. Indeed, the archbishop had been the first official at the Vatican to hear about it. Yet Lyman was suspicious of this ready answer. Each case had its individual rhythm and another image shook his memory, the photograph of Marco Scarcella on his desk, wearing a white polo neck and raincoat.
Had Chief Inspector Hadley been correct? Had Archbishop Grabowski really been so anxious to conceal the Vatican’s association with Banco Fabiano that he had killed Pontevecchio? Or had Scarcella been involved, and why? Why London? Whom had the banker come to meet, and what had he brought to trade for his exoneration, the “wonderful thing” his wife had talked about, the impetus to make the Vatican observe its obligations and cover Fabiano’s enormous debts? His questions, like the uncut keys, led nowhere.
Stephen Feldman emerged from the rear of the shop, shaking his head. “Sorry, mate. I think the letters are a company impression, but I don’t know the name. SAFA, or something like that. Part of it is missing. One thing though. You might try contacting Papaiz directly. Ask them if they have any clients who either make or distribute lockers.”
“Why lockers?”
“It’s just a guess,” Feldman said. “You know. Like at Victoria Station. The numbers would probably be oh-one, oh-two, oh-three and so on. And the bright red color’s for identification.” He handed the key back to Lyman.
“Thanks anyway,” Lyman said.”
Sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“Can I use your telephone?”
Feldman pointed to the rear of the shop. “Is it me you’re speaking to? How about some tea? I was just about to make some.”
Lyman smiled. “I’d love some,” he said, crossing behind the counter.
The rear room was jammed with boxes full of keys, a little wooden desk, and a grimy kitchen area. A circular fluorescent light hummed above. The telephone was on the desk. Lyman picked it up and dialed the station house. There was a little electric fire glowing in one wall and he raised one shoe, then the other, turning them slowly in the air to catch the warmth.
The switchboard answered and he collected all his messages. “Nothing pressing,” the young receptionist replied. “But Superintendent Randall wants to speak with you.”
Lyman heard a series of clicks and then the Lemur’s high, familiar voice. “Lyman, where the hell are you?”
“Following up the key, sir.”
“Where, I said.”
“In Golders Green.”
“At home, or did you stop off on the way?”
Lyman sighed. “I’m asking someone else about that key.”
There was a pause. “Not that again,” Randall said. “Look, I want you to meet me at Dorret’s Wine and Ale at eight o’clock. Chief Superintendent Cocksedge and the home secretary’s liaison will be there, so look smart.”
“Yes, sir,” Lyman said. “I was wondering, sir, if you might have Frazier make a call for me. It’s to a Brazilian lock company named Papaiz.”
“Brazilian. Bloody hell, Lyman. This better be worth it.”
“Do you have a pen, sir?”
“Of course I have a pen.”
“Yes, sir. Would you ask Frazier to see if Papaiz services a firm called SAFA, or something like that. They either make or distribute storage lockers. Brazil should be at least three hours behind us.”
“At least,” the Lemur said. “Very well, I’ll tell him. But be there by eight, Lyman. I’m not making any more excuses for you.”
“Yes, sir. You can count on me. Eight o’clock.”
“And Lyman…”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you take the tube from Hendon Central, you won’t be tempted on the way.”
The Lemur rang off. Lyman heard the click and then the hollow echo of the winding subterranean miles between them. “Sorry about the tea,” he said, as Feldman reappeared. “I can’t stay.”
The first thing Lyman noticed as he made his way across the street to Dorret’s Wine and Ale was the large emblem just above the entrance, a gray horse rearing and the word “Liberty” in a string of letters underneath. It was a new pub with pretensions of old glamour, but it served a fine mixed grill and looked from its imposing vantage point on the Southwark side of the Thames, across the leaden river to the very span of Blackfriars Bridge where Pontevecchio had been found hanging the year before.
The maître d’ led Lyman to a table at the back. Chief Superintendent Cocksedge and the Lemur were already seated. They were chatting with another man who was, Lyman realized, the minister’s liaison, Sir Giles Richards. He was a portly man with strands of sandy hair combed delicately across his head, and gold wire-rimmed glasses.
“Sorry I’m late,” Lyman said, pulling at his coat. “The traffic’s terrible.”
The three men at the table barely glanced up. They were talking about the likelihood of cutbacks in the police department’s budget, given the new austerity measures. Lyman stood beside the only empty seat, wondering if he should just sit down or wait to be formally introduced. Finally the Lemur pointed at the chair. “Ah, Detective Inspector Lyman,” he said, smiling broadly. “I’m glad you could come.”
Lyman dropped his coat across the back of the chair and sat down.
“I don’t believe you know Sir Giles, do you?” Chief Superintendent Cocksedge asked.
Lyman shook his head. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”
The minister’s liaison smiled like a Buddha across the table. They had already ordered and he was busy cutting up a chop. “Cocksedge tells me that you may have found a lead,” he said between bites. “Damn good work, after all this time.”
“Actually,” Cocksedge interjected smoothly, “it may be a bit premature to call it a lead. It may be nothing at all. It may simply be the ravings of a drunkard, for all we know.”
“May be, may be.” Sir Giles put his knife and fork down on his plate. “It may be nothing to you, but it means a great deal to the minister. This Pontevecchio matter is of the utmost importance, gentlemen. I can’t stress that enough. The minister is awfully tired of hearing about conspiracies and mismanagement. Especially now that Scarcella has escaped from Champ Dollon. Trust the Swiss to muck it up. If the last inquest was closed too soon, then by God this one will continue, gentlemen, until all the questions have been answered. Including, Chief Superintendent, the questions raised here by that key of yours.”
“Well, Lyman,” Cocksedge said.
“Sir?” Lyman glanced from face to face.
“The key, man. Show it to Sir Giles.”
Lyman looked to Terry Randall for a sign but he was staring oddly at the chief superintendent. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I don’t have it on me. Standing orders.”
“Yes, of course,” Cocksedge answered peevishly, turning back to face Sir Giles.
Lyman had never seen the chief superintendent act so solicitous before, and it seemed out of place and forced. He was not a natural politician. A silence descended on the table. Lyman noticed Cocksedge had a whiskey. Sir Giles continued to whittle away at his chop and stewed tomatoes. Finally the minister’s liaison laid his knife and fork down on his plate and wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
“Hambro’s, gentlemen,” he pronounced, shaking his head. “Even Hambro’s, whose ties to Italy date back to Queen Victoria, was caught up in this ghastly business. Hambro’s, one of London’s finest merchant banks. My God! In Whitehall they ask me why Pontevecchio had twelve pounds of stones stuffed into his pockets, why he would travel all the way to Blackfriars from his rooms at Chelsea Cloisters just to string himself up. Only yesterday a respected MP from Durham, whom I won’t name, asked me in all seriousness if I didn’t think the banker’s death was a kind of ritual Masonic killing; something to do with his feet washing in the
tide. Do you understand, gentlemen? Things are getting out of hand. I want it settled once and for all. The minister wants it settled.”
“We understand, sir,” Cocksedge said. “Inspector Lyman’s doing everything he can. Aren’t you, Lyman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what about this key, Lyman?” Sir Giles said. “Do you really think this vagabond is telling you the truth?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Why?”
Lyman hesitated for a moment. “Because he didn’t have to tell me anything. It was unnecessary.”
“And the key. Randall tells me it belongs to some locker company in France.”
“What’s that? You found the company?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” the Lemur answered with surprise. “While you were in Golders Green this afternoon, I put a call through to Papaiz. It was a bit of an effort but I managed to get them to look back through their files. Someone actually remembered the SAFAA deal. It seems there was some romance going on between the SAFAA agent and a woman who worked at Papaiz three years ago. They ran off together, to Bahia. Frightfully romantic. That’s why they remembered. SAFAA’s a Parisian firm. They manufacture lockers for coach and railway terminals.”
Lyman leaned back in his chair.
“Sir Giles believes,” said Cocksedge, “that you should follow this lead up personally, Lyman. And I agree, of course.”
Lyman nodded. “As you say, sir.”
“Perhaps,” the Lemur said, “it might be better to hand it over to the local authorities, at least until we know if the key means anything. I’m not entirely convinced it bears upon the case. Lyman would be in completely unfamiliar territory. And remember what happened during the last inquest. The Italians only ended up resenting us.”
“No, let Lyman handle it,” Cocksedge said. “He’s done a damned good job so far. Besides, he’s been to France before, haven’t you, Lyman?”
“Yes, sir. Not for some time though, I’m afraid.”
“That doesn’t matter. It all comes back, I’m told. Besides, it would be damned unfair to pull it away from him now. I mean, it’s his case, after all.”