Friends in Low Places

by Simon Raven

  “ - And he didn’t want Morrison at any price. And now what? He’s not exactly howling with enthusiasm for Morrison, but he’s indicated very firmly that he would prefer him to Lloyd-James. Why the change?”

  “You’re nearer these things than I am,” said Percival smugly, “but as I understand the story, his future son-in-law has been giving him a few straight tips.”

  “But he doesn’t like young Llewyllyn, so why does he listen? It’s common knowledge he was against the engagement.”

  “But he’s letting it go on. Wedding in June, they tell me. And whether he likes Llewyllyn or not, he knows a clever man when he sees one.”

  “Llewyllyn’s just a common scribbler.”

  “Or a distinguished contemporary writer. It depends how you look at it. But why,” said Percival, picking up a pack and shuffling it for the twentieth time, “are you so put out? What does it matter to you which of ’em gets in?”

  “I want my seat to go to the man I want it to go to,” said Dixon mulishly. “Lloyd-James is a gentleman. He’s in the correct tradition for this part of the world.”

  “Apparently others are beginning to doubt that. Anyway, Morrison’s a gentleman too.”'

  “Damned trouble-maker. Barrack-room lawyer.”

  “Well,” said Percival, “as I’ve told you before, we in Bishop’s Cross don’t take orders from Edwin Turbot. So you needn’t be afraid that his change of mind will affect Lloyd-James’s chances. Such as they are.”

  “And as I’ve told you before,” said Dixon with rising petulance, “Edwin Turbot has more ways of putting the screw on you and your selection committee than you might think. You just wait and see . . . . Which reminds me: when does the committee make its final choice?”

  “End of July,” said Percival, “before everyone disappears. Which leaves plenty of time, I grant you, for Edwin Turbot to try his hand for what it’s worth. Or anyone else who fancies his cards.”

  He nodded courteously towards the blue, familiar Quantocks, then turned his eyes on his old friend and began to deal.

  “So there I was,” said Mark Lewson to Max de Freville, “getting nowhere at all really, when Lyki picked up a morning paper and read about a bomb outrage in Paris. Algerian job.”

  “And so?”

  “And so there was a list of people whom the bomb had done for. And right at the top was the son of the Minister from whom des Moulins stole the letter. You know, the boy who carried it back from Israel and whom Lyki was so anxious to protect.”

  “So now one of his strongest reasons for hanging on to it was gone.”

  “Right.”

  So Stratis Lykiadopoulos had taken Mark Lewson up to his mysterious room, from which he had debarred him hitherto because it contained a miniature shrine, complete with cross and icons, and was not to be profaned by the activities associated with Mark. Now, however, the shrine had been dismantled for carriage over to the Lido and in any case the business on hand did not amount to desecration. It was the business of making a seemly farewell.

  “He told me, in the nicest possible way, that since he was moving to the Lido in a day or so to start his bank, it was time to hand me my cards. He was wondering what to give me as a parting present, he said, and he’d decided that as I seemed so interested in it he’d give me des Moulins’ letter. It was a gift which would suit my character and the character of our friendship. Now that the Minister’s son was dead he could dispose of it with a good conscience; and in many ways he’d be relieved to get rid of it. He added a word of warning: if people continued to pester him about it, he’d tell them who had it, and in the event of his being believed I could look out for trouble. In sum, he was telling me politely, ‘You’re a crook, and you’ve been paid off, and to hell with you’.”

  “No more talk of the letter being a historical document?”

  “No. But you know what I think? I think he reckons I’m in such a hurry to cash in that the whole thing will explode into headlines. Which would now suit his book very well: the boy’s dead, everyone else deserves anything that’s coming to him, the letter itself would be preserved and appreciated at its proper value, and all the cloak and dagger boys would leave him in peace. He’s using me as a kind of bomb disposal outfit. Cunning old Lyki ... But cunning. You just guess where he’d hidden that bloody letter.”

  Max shrugged.

  “In one of the eikons? Or the cross?”

  “Not bad, but not up to his standard. It worked like this....”

  For the last time, Lykiadopoulos and Mark had set out for the Gaming Rooms on the Lido. There Lykiadopoulos had gone to the Caisse and signed a cheque for five plaques, each of them worth 5,000,000 lire.

  “He explained to me that there were only these five worth that amount kept in the place. They weren’t used often - only for big games in the high season - and naturally enough they were always cashed in immediately after use. People might leave the Casino with the odd chip for five or ten thousand, but no one was going to lug one of these great bastards off with him . . .”

  So there were the five plaques, always in the safest of keeping, always available, save possibly for an hour or so during an unusually high game, on demand and payment. On this occasion Lykiadopoulos had retired with Mark to his private speed boat, where he used a small screwdriver to unfasten tiny screws at the four comers of each of the plaques. When this was done, the plaques split open into two sections, so moulded that when fastened together they left a hollow space between them of ten inches long by four inches wide by one-sixteenth of an inch high - just room enough to contain one of the five folded sheets which comprised the purloined letter.

  “So he removed the five sheets and passed them over, then screwed the plaques together again, took them to the Caisse and got his cheque back, and that was it. Rather neat, don’t you think?”

  “Typical Greek elaboration, and not even foolproof. They might have decided on a new issue of counters and scrapped the old lot without his knowing.”

  “But they hadn’t, had they?”

  “You’ve got the letter with you?”

  Mark tapped his breast pocket.

  “Documentary dynamite. Any use to you?”

  “No. I told you. I want you to handle it. I’m only interested in what happens next. . . . But I’d like to check it through.”

  “Touching costs extra, darling,” Mark lisped.

  Max nodded assent and Mark passed him the letter. When he had read it through, Max said:

  “Much as I thought. It’s all there.”

  “Isn’t it though? So now you’re satisfied, dearie, it’s time for a little arithmetic.”

  “Very simple arithmetic. You were sent fifty when you first reached Venice. For reports since then, plus the privilege of reading this letter, I’ll pay you another seventy-five.”

  “Very detailed reports. I was rather hoping for a hundred. Remember all those little extra bits ... like that scene with Burke Lawrence and the model girl.”

  “What’s that to me?”

  But nevertheless there was hunger in his eyes.

  “Nothing just yet,” said Mark carefully, noting the hungry look and drawing his own conclusions. “But unless I’m mistaken there’s something very odd going on there.”

  “Burke Lawrence,” mused Max. “Conceited little man in advertising, with pretensions to know about cinema. Right?”

  “Right. And Penelope Holbrook, the girl he was with, she was married to Jude Holbrook, who let her divorce him about the time he disappeared, something over two years ago. Jude wanted to marry our nice chum in Menton, Angela Tuck, but she walked out on him at the last minute.”

  “So she’s told me,” said Max stiffly. “I gather there was good reason.”

  “The very best. Jude was always a nasty little man, and just about then he was busy blackmailing half London to help with some shifty business deal he wanted to put through. When all this blew up, it was too much for old Angie. She’d just inherited some money, so sh
e told Jude his fortune and pulled out.”

  ‘‘You seem very well informed. What happened to Jude Holbrook?”

  “No one really knows. On top of everything else his little son died suddenly of meningitis, so his business partner, Donald Salinger, gave out that Jude had had a nervous breakdown and gone on a long holiday. After a bit ‘Salinger & Holbrook’, their printing firm, quietly became plain ‘Salinger’, and no one’s heard of Jude from that day to this. It’s thought that Donald bought him out, in which case he won’t be short of money.”

  “And this slut he was married to. You say she gets alimony?”

  “Paid through lawyers, Burke said. She’s heard no more from Jude than anyone else.”

  “And what about her modelling?”

  “She was quite near the top,” Mark said, “about five years ago. But too many late nights out and about put an end to that. So now, as I told you, she just tags around with Burke, nagging him to find her work she doesn’t need and for which she’s no longer suited.”

  “You also said she used to be his mistress.”

  “That was way back, before she got her divorce. Not any longer, as far as I could tell. But she’s got some hold on him which amounts to considerably more. That’s what interests me. Those two have something in common far more . . . serieux . . . than bogus festivals in Venice.”

  “All right,” said Max. “You find out what it is and you won’t be the loser. I’d be glad to hear something of Jude Holbrook, too. From what Angela says, he was a thrusting little chap, and I can’t think we’ve seen the last of him.”

  He went over to a desk, unlocked a drawer, and took out a sheaf of five pound notes.

  “Now,” he said, “back to more immediate concerns. There’s a hundred pounds here. Let’s say seventy-five for services rendered, and the extra pony to see you on your way to dispose of that letter.”

  “But what am I to do with it?”

  “Find out who’s willing to pay what for it and why, and let me know. That was the plan from the start.”

  “I know. But when it comes to it ... I mean, I can’t just waltz up to No. 10 and say, ‘Prime Minister, dear, I’ve got something here which might amuse you’.”

  “You’ll find a way,” said Max, “because you stand to make money. And don’t just flog it for the first offer. Interest as many people as possible and let them compete in the bidding.” “I’m beginning to feel like Lyki. I don’t want to wind up on a slab.”

  “Then you should choose more conventional ways of getting your bread. One hint I will give you. If there’s one man in England who’ll be interested in suppressing that letter, both for his own sake and the government’s, it’ll be that egregious major-domo of the conservative party, Sir Edwin Turbot. It so happens that I’m in correspondence with his younger daughter, Isobel. You’ll find her co-operative ... in more ways than one, very likely. You could make a start there.”

  “What about the press?”

  “That would be wasteful. With the press everything - even this - is here today and dead tomorrow. The highest bids will come from people whose interest is abiding. People like Sir Edwin, who want the letter to suppress it. Or those who want it to apply pressure by threat. Find someone like that, and you could make yourself comfortable, very comfortable indeed, Mark, for the rest of your natural life.”

  “What little was left of it, dear,” said Mark, “but thank you for the tip.”

  When Mark left Max de Freville, he had already made three decisions.

  First, he would certainly go to see Isobel Turbot, because Max made her sound amusing, something might come of it, and the whole Turbot set-up, so English and rural, seemed reassuringly tame. The contents of the letter revealed that Sir Edwin had that to answer for which, whatever his motives, would cause many to call him archfiend; but one thing you could be sure of - he wouldn’t stick a knife in your ribs while you were his guest, or even while you weren’t.

  Secondly, however, before he went to see Isobel Turbot or anyone else, he would seek advice from his old friend, Jonathan Gamp. For while Mark was a scoundrel of some experience, this experience was all hand to mouth, superficial. He was, truth to tell, little more than a second-rate con-man, and an amateur one at that. To get perspective in depth in the present affair he must consult someone of more powerful and objective insights into grand chicanery, and who better than Jonathan, who was both connoisseur and scholar in this field?

  Thirdly, most firm decision of all, he was not going to stick his neck out for the amusement of Max de Freville. It would be silly to let his property go for a song, and it would certainly be sensible, as Max had suggested, to stir up a little competitive interest; but the first offer that was “anything like” he was going to grab with both hands, and then clear off for a well earned rest on the loot.

  When Max de Freville was left alone, he too had already come to three decisions, or perhaps “judgments” would be an apter word:

  First, that Mark, despite his undoubted luck in winning the letter, was a moderate performer now batting right out of his league.

  Secondly, however, that this was a good thing, as it might lend the subsequent intrigues that kind of ineptness and even absurdity which gave scandal its true relish. That highly placed people should be detected in evil was much to Max; that they should be laid open to ridicule at the same time was much more.

  And thirdly, almost as an afterthought, he blessed the moment when he had thought of bringing Mark together with Isobel Turbot. In that combination lay endless possibilities both dangerous and comic.

  What Max failed to take account of was that Mark had an acute sense of self-preservation (an attribute which is often very strong in second-rate performers and does much to explain their mediocrity) and that this, when it came to making a settlement, would more than outweigh his vanity and greed. What Max also failed to take account of, and what had been obvious to Mark, was that the former was not far removed from insanity (“barking”, as Mark later expressed it to Jonathan Gamp). For what had at first been an amusing interest, to counteract his boredom and disgust at making easy money from fools, had now become an obsesssion. Max had reached the stage at which he must know more and ever more, when information, about small people now as well as great, was the staple of his existence, when he yearned to be privy to the secrets of the entire human race. Max, in short, was playing God. Had he been able, he would have constructed his own little universe, that he might sit and brood on every movement of his creatures. As it was, omniscience of this world was his end, and his resources, even his resources, were feeling the strain. His accountant, the day before, had had some cautionary things to say to him. His reserves were depleted, some of the oldest of the clients at his chemmy tables were taking shameless advantage of the long credit he allowed them, the payments to his many informants now amounted to several thousand a month. ‘What do you pay them for, Mr. de Freville?’ ‘Assistance.’ ‘All I can say, sir, is that you must do with less.’ But how could he? For Max de Freville was hooked; he had allowed a whimsical pastime to grow into an imperious necessity which was devouring both his substance and his soul.

  In Menton, Angela Tuck mixed herself a stiff brandy and soda, looked at the American sailor slumped on the bed, and wondered how to get him back to Nice before he was missed from his ship.

  In Venice, Burke Lawrence said to Penelope Holbrook:

  “I think we’ve done all we can here for the time being. May as well blow tomorrow.”

  “Blow?”

  “Army slang for shove off.”

  “I never knew you were in the Army.”

  “Everyone my age was. How quickly people forget.”

  “The money,” said Penelope. “Has Salvadori paid you the money?”

  “I’ve arranged for it to be credited in London. In case you get another of your gambling yens before we leave.”

  “That wasn’t a gambling yen. It was temper.”

  “It worked out just as expens
ive.”

  “And what about the festival?” she said. “That’s what you’re meant to be here for.”

  “That’s in good shape. They can manage without me.”

  “And the next . . . the next assignment?”

  “Salvadori will let me know. Stockholm, he thinks. In a month or six weeks.”

  “As long as that?”

  “Sales technique, love,” Burke Lawrence said: “in this trade it pays to keep the customer waiting.”

  Two days later, in her flat off Curzon Street, Maisie opened the parcel which Burke Lawrence had just delivered. Carefully she counted the little tins, then locked them up in a drawer. She didn’t understand it very well, but it was wonderful the difference a sniff or two made to some of her customers. Apparently it made what usually took ten seconds go on - or seem to go on - for more than a minute. Very odd. Perhaps Fielding . . . when he came that afternoon? No, she decided: he was a thoroughly nice boy and she didn’t want him getting nasty habits. Besides, it was very expensive, and Fielding ought to be saving as much as he could just now. Strange boy; keen enough, yet always so gentle and polite; such a pity about his face.

  She looked at her watch and decided there was just time for a toasted tea-cake and a cup of Earl Grey.

  In his room at the Cavalry Club, Fielding Gray finished the first book review (of the memoirs of a retired West End locksmith) which he had been asked to do by Somerset Lloyd-James. The book had no literary merit whatever, but he supposed the economics of the lock trade must be of interest to Somerset’s readers. In any case, it was no business of his to quarrel with such work as he was given, and he had done his best in his short piece to ensure that Somerset would be satisfied and give him more. In other ways as well his new career had got off to quite a promising start; for Gregory Stern, who had read his two novels surprisingly fast, had asked him to come in next week and discuss them.

  For all that, he thought, he could not go on living in the Cavalry Club much longer. Quite-apart from the expense, the setting, however agreeable, was wrong for a man of letters and encouraged him in certain modes of thought and behaviour which he felt he must now eschew; for an instinct told him that they were incompatible with humility, and that humility, a disposition to expect only the worst, was essential in an aspirant artist of any kind. This led to the question of whether or not the humility would be genuine in his case, and how far, if it were merely assumed (to deceive the gods, so to speak) it could still be efficacious; but this question he deferred for later thought. The immediate point was that he must find suitable and economic digs for a bachelor called to his new station in life. Perhaps Somerset, who had always had a turn for economy, would be able to help.