Horse Under Water Read online

  ‘I’ll come in,’ I said, and entered. Da Cunha made no protest. I said, ‘One of my friends is dead.’

  ‘Really,’ said da Cunha calmly, but the oil lamp he was holding gave a little jump.

  ‘Died under water,’ I said.

  ‘Drowned,’ said da Cunha.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, ‘but I would settle for that on the death certificate if it means a quiet funeral.’ Da Cunha nodded but made no move.

  ‘You are asking me to help you in some way?’

  ‘I’m telling you to help, in my way.’

  He said, ‘That attitude won’t get you very far.’ He sounded just like Dawlish.

  I said, ‘I’ve got a piece of paper in my pocket. Inside it is a lock of Senhor Fernandes Tomas’s hair.’

  Da Cunha hadn’t flinched.

  ‘When London put it under a microscope, they will find that Fernie’s black hair is ginger hair that has been dyed. Because ginger hair and blue eyes is about as English as you can get and far too conspicuous on a Portuguese. My subsequent orders might well concern you. Meanwhile a murdered corpse can cause you as much trouble as it can cause me, and I don’t think Mr Smith can help you.’

  ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I shall arrange for a death certificate immediately. Do you wish to bring it … him … er … here?’

  ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘You have an unused empty grave.’ Da Cunha moved his mouth around and finally said, ‘Very well.’

  31 From a friend

  I came into London with my flaps well down. Giorgio had been murdered under the water. Joe had been blown to shreds. I had been only a few yards away at each event. Not that I thought that either had been unsuccessful attempts to finger me, but diligence brings more agents to pensionable age than bravery ever did. I decided to make a few inquiries on my own private grapevine, even if it did mean ignoring all the department’s rules of procedure.

  The icy wind carved up the Cromwell Road faster than the stockbrokers’ Jags, and a cosmonaut on a 600-c.c. motor cycle came roaring past seeking cooperation in an act of suicide. I checked into one of those hotels near the West London air terminal. It was all chintz and dusty flowers. I wrote the name of Howard Craske into the register. The desk man asked for my passport.

  ‘Did I cross the frontier?’ I asked.

  He took me up to a room on the third floor back. It had an antique gas-meter that looked hungry. I fed it some one-franc pieces. It liked them. The gas fire gave a sibilant hiss. I put on dry socks, raised my body temperature enough to get me back amongst the living, then went round the corner to the phone box. I had already decided to let a few hours pass before contacting Dawlish. I dialled a Bayswater number. The phone made the noises associated with making a phone call in England. It buzzed, clicked and purred; it had more tones than a chromatic scale. After two or three tries it even rang at the other end.

  ‘Can I speak to Mr Davenport?’ I said. He was my first ear to the ground.

  ‘This phone is hot,’ said the voice at the other end, ‘and you are even hotter. Leave town.’ He hung up. He wasn’t a laconic man, but a tapped phone* affects some people that way. I rang another man who had an ear to the ground. This time I was a little more circumspect. I waited for Austin Butterworth to speak first. He spoke, then I said, ‘Hello, Austin.’

  ‘I recognize the voice of my old mate …’ said Austin.

  ‘You do,’ I said before he could blab it across the phone.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Austin; am I?’ I heard him laugh like an engaged tone.

  ‘Don’t let’s talk over this,’ he said. He knew a thing or two about telephones.

  ‘What about Leds in half an hour?’

  ‘O.K.,’ I said.

  Leds is a dark-brown café near Old Compton Street. To enter it, you fight your way through Continental newspapers and movie magazines. Inside it’s like an Aldermaston March mixing with the Chelsea Arts Ball. I heard someone saying ‘… and thank you for a really lovely party.’ It was mid-afternoon.

  ‘Small black,’ I said. Austin’s skull shone through his thinning hair over a copy of Corriere della Sera.

  ‘Hello, Ossie,’ I said. He didn’t look up. The girl behind the counter gave me the coffee and I bought some cigarettes and matches. She gave me my change; only then did Ossie murmur, ‘Bring a tail?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. I had forgotten Ossie’s mania. His years in prison had left him with a skilful technique in rolling cigarettes thinner than matchsticks, a mania about being followed and a lifelong aversion to porridge.

  ‘Come right to the back so I can see who comes in.’ We moved towards the rear and sat down at one of the glass-topped tables.

  ‘Did you go round the block a couple of times to make sure?’

  ‘Relax, Ossie.’

  ‘You have to have rules,’ said Ossie, ‘only the mugs don’t have rules and they get caught.’

  ‘Rules,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know that you were an advocate of rules.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ossie, ‘rules, you have got to know what to do in any situation, so that you can do it before you even think about it.’

  ‘Sounds like something the chief screw at the Scrubs told you. What sort of rules, Ossie?’

  ‘Depends. Like always jump off the high side of a sinking ship. That’s a good rule, if you need it.’

  I said, ‘But I’m not expecting to be on a sinking ship in the near future.’

  ‘Oh no?’ said Ossie. He leaned forward. ‘Well, I wouldn’t be too sure about that, my old mate.’ He gave me a Gilbert and Sullivan conspiratorial wink.

  ‘What are you hearing then, Ossie?’ I always found it difficult to believe that Ossie was a man who could keep a secret. He was such a transparent old rogue. But he had as many secrets as any man in London.* Ossie was the archetype professional burglar.

  I ordered another small black for Ossie and myself.

  ‘What am I hearing?’ said Ossie, repeating my question. ‘Well, I keep hearing about you all over.’

  ‘Where, for instance?’

  ‘Well, I am not free to reveal the source of my information as they say at the Yard, but I am able to state without no fear of contradiction that you are a hot potato as far as a certain gent is concerned.’

  He paused, and I didn’t press him as he is a man who hates to be hurried. I waited. He said, ‘Little birdies ’ave it that you are hard on the track of a big bundle of a certain sort of merchandise as you and me once took a free sample of out of a high quality Chubb in Zürich.’

  It’s important to know when to be cagey and when to admit the truth. I nodded. Ossie was pleased to be right. He went on, ‘If you was a gent making banging machinery for the government, machinery of all shapes and sizes, from the little ones that start the hundred yards free-style at Wembley to the big sort that features on the artwork of Civil Defence recruiting literature …’ He looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘And if you signed yourself a nice banging-machine contract that was big enough to give Birmingham City Council a smog problem for the next two years, and then suddenly you found that these Portuguese gents who had signed the perforated side of the contract were planning to pay you in Monopoly money: you’d be right cut up, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘If the Monopoly money came out of an old boat, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, mate,’ said Ossie. ‘The bloke getting it out of the boat for the Portuguese blighters would suddenly become a spare benedick at a wedding. If you get my meaning.’

  I got his meaning.

  Ossie said, ‘I wouldn’t like to be quoted as to who finds you superfluous to requirements, but I wouldn’t like to look his name up in a big telephone directory if I didn’t know the initial.’

  Ossie had confirmed what I suspected. At this stage I still had nothing with which to confront Mr Smith, but I knew where to find his stooge.

  I left Ossie and
walked along Compton and Brewer through Sackville Street to Piccadilly, and dropped in for a drink in the Ritz bar. Ivor Butcher was there. He’s always there.

  ‘Hi there, feller,’ he said.

  We dealt with him when we had to, but always one had the feeling that he was likely to pinch something off your desk if you took your eyes off him for a minute. He came across to me before the waiter could even take my order.

  ‘Come downstairs, feller,’ he said, ‘it’s quieter down there.’ He had an accent like an announcer on Radio Luxembourg. Professional instinct prevailed over personal feeling. I accompanied him to the bar downstairs, where he insisted on giving me one of those sweet gin concoctions instead of sherry. He was wearing a Shepperton B-picture raincoat with the collar turned up at the back and kept one hand in his pocket as though any moment he might say ‘reach for de sky youse guys’. He usually produced in me a feeling of merriment, but I was far from merry today.

  ‘Nice vacation in Portugal?’ He was always fishing around for stub ends of information that he could peddle. He squeezed a sector of lemon into his drink, gnawed at the yellow pulp and sucked the rind.

  I said, ‘What are you looking so happy about – did you just inherit Central Registry?’

  ‘Say, that’s rich,’ he said, giving a brief laugh. He popped a cherry into his bright mouth. He had the pretty face of a rock singer; long shiny hair swept backwards over his head and struck his collar, while an artful wave fell forward across his forehead. ‘You are looking great,’ he said. Ivor Butcher was a congenital liar – he told lies outside working hours.

  Forms of address among men who work together vary. There’s the ‘sir’ or rank prefix by ones who don’t wish to pursue their relationship, the nickname used to conceal affection or at least respect, the Christian names of friends and the surname form of address among men who think they are still at college. Only men like Ivor Butcher are called by their full name.

  ‘What are you doing this afternoon? Wanna take a little ride down into Berkshire with me? I just bought myself a little country place, make a foursome, heh? Couple o’ cute girls. Back in time for the late show at Murray’s Club.’

  ‘You are living it up,’ I said, ‘you’ve come quite a distance since 1956.’*

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘got me an E-type Jag: Cambridge blue – wire wheels – it’s a gas.’

  At the next table sat advertising executives with not enough chin and too much cuff. They were buying drinks with a generosity that an expense account brings. They prodded and discussed their product in low respectful tones. Sliced, sterilized and Cellophane-wrapped; a loaf. They talked about it like it was a cure for cancer.

  I sipped the cocktail and offered Ivor Butcher the geranium-coloured cherry from it. ‘Mighty nice of you,’ he said. He munched the cherry and spoke simultaneously. ‘Could sell you a morsel of military dope you’d like I reckon.’

  ‘The phone number of the War Museum?’

  ‘Can it, Mac,’ he said, ‘this is real Zen stuff.’

  ‘Zo,’ I said.

  He gave a one-decibel laugh and looked around furtively. ‘Cost you a grand.’

  ‘Just give me the sales talk,’ I said, ‘we’ll get to the estimates later.’

  ‘I get a call from a certain party in Maidenhead. This guy’s a real high-class B & E man.† I’ve got all the B & E boys on my payroll. Anythin’ they see unusual I get it pronto. Dig?’

  ‘Dig.’

  ‘This villain is doing a nice Cabinet Minister’s home, also in Maidenhead, when he flips through the desk and finds a nice leather desk diary. Knowing I’m a collector he passes it across to me for half a grand. What I’m peddling to you is one page …’

  I signalled to the waiter over Ivor Butcher’s shoulder and it amused me to see him spin round like the Special Branch boys were just about to lift him out of his coat.

  I said, ‘A Tio Pepe and another of whatever this gentleman is drinking, with two pieces of lemon and at least three cherries.’

  Ivor Butcher smiled in relief and embarrassment.

  He said, ‘Gee, for a minute …’

  ‘Yes, quite.’

  At the next table one of the ad-men said, ‘… but great copy slicewise.’

  ‘What do you think, then?’ Ivor Butcher ran his tongue round his mouth to dislodge the particles of lemon and cherry.

  ‘I didn’t realize you did a bit of “black” on the side,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve got to live, haven’t we, pal?’ He would bleed an old-age pensioner or a set of hydraulic brakes with the same smiling self-righteousness.

  ‘Want a second opinion?’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t told you what’s on the page yet.’

  ‘You are going to tell and trust, are you?’ It didn’t seem like him.

  ‘Naw. Just the first and last word.’

  ‘O.K. One-two-three-go.’

  ‘Word the first is “Venev”; word the last “W.O.O.C.(P)”. Haw, thought that would make you stand up and sing “Rule Britannia”, pal.’ He sucked his teeth.

  ‘I don’t get the “Venev”.’

  ‘V.N.V.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t kid me, pal; Portuguese underground.’

  ‘We haven’t even got a file on it.’ I pretended to think deeply. ‘There’s a man called Jerry Hoskyn in the U.S. State Department. More their kind of thing, I’d say.’

  ‘It’s got your department right on the same page.’

  ‘Don’t shout at me,’ I said irritably, ‘I didn’t write it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ivor Butcher somewhat subdued. ‘I was just trying to wise you up.’

  ‘And very nice of you, but no sale.’

  The drinks came. In Ivor Butcher’s sugar-frosted glass were four bright-dyed cherries. Two wafers of lemon clung to the edge. He was radiant.

  ‘I didn’t think they’d bring them,’ he said in a breathless voice, and to tell you the truth, nor did I.

  I said, ‘How big is it?’ He raised his eyes to me and only with difficulty remembered what we had been talking about. ‘How big?’ I said again.

  ‘The diary? – this big.’ He measured about four inches by five with his fingers.

  ‘How thick?’

  ‘Half an inch.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like a grand’s worth to anyone I know.’

  ‘Garn, I’m only selling one page for a grand.’

  ‘You are nuts,’ I said.

  ‘What you give me then?’

  ‘Not a thing. I told you we have no file and I haven’t the authority to open one.’

  Ivor Butcher speared the cherries with a cocktail stick after chasing them around the bright yellow drink.

  ‘Bring it to my place about seven. I’ll have Dixon, the F.O.’s Portugal expert, with me. But I tell you now, I don’t think there’s a chance that they’ll want it. Even if they do it will be with normal vouchered funds, so don’t pay any supertax in advance.’

  The ad-man at the next table said, ‘But bread isn’t a luxury!’

  Mr Henry Smith, the world-famous Cabinet Minister, lived in Maidenhead. Either Mr Ivor Butcher was double-crossing his boss or I was being set up.

  When I got back to the hotel, the plastic flowers were heavy with the day’s soot and the desk man was working his dentures over with an orange stick. I remembered the name I had given him. ‘Craske,’ I said. He reached back without looking, unhooked my room key and cracked it down on the desk-top without a pause in his dental hygiene curriculum.

  ‘Visitor waiting for you,’ he said with a heavy Central-European accent. He stabbed the frayed orange stick upward. ‘In your room.’

  I leaned forward till my face was closer to his. His razor had missed a section of face. ‘Do you always let strangers into your guests’ rooms?’ I asked.

  He removed the orange stick from his face – without haste. ‘Ya, when I think they aren’t likely to complain to the Hotel Proprietors’ Association I do.’

&
nbsp; I picked up my key and began to ascend the stairs. ‘Ya,’ I heard him say again.

  I went up to the third. The light was on in my room. I switched off the hall light, put my ear to the door and heard nothing. I put the key in the door and turned it quickly. I flung the door open wide and moved through it stooped.

  A man can go through his whole life making sure there is no light behind him when he enters a darkened room, unscrewing the base plate of a strange phone before using it, and checking the wiring before conducting a confidential conversation. All his life he can do these things and then on one occasion it is all worth while. However, this was not to be that occasion for me.

  Spread-eagled full length on the rose-patterned Terylene bedspread was the seventeen-stone weight of ‘Tinkle Bell’. A large and not clean grey felt hat was parked over his face.

  32 For this game

  ‘It’s only me.’ The words came muffled by the crown of the hat and the sentence ended in a chesty cough. All Tinkle Bell’s sentences ended in a cough. A hand removed the hat from his face and an atomic cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling.

  I straightened up, feeling a little foolish.

  ‘What did you do to the doorman?’ I asked.

  ‘I showed him an old warrant card I hung on to from the war years.’ Tinkle Bell stood up and produced a half-bottle of Teachers from his coat pocket. He poured a drink, using the two plastic glasses from the sink.

  ‘Mud in your eye,’ said Tinkle.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  By ingenious articulation of the finger joints he was able to smoke and drink virtually simultaneously. He coughed, smoked and drank for a few minutes.

  ‘Surprised I found you?’ he coughed. ‘Astute, eh?’ Some more coughing. ‘Not really, y’know. Albufeira phoned this morning with a message. It wasn’t difficult to sort through the plane passenger lists. You’ve used Craske once before, about a year ago.’ He coughed again. ‘Perhaps you’re getting a bit old for this game.’

  ‘We all are, Tinkle,’ I said, ‘we all are.’ Tinkle nodded and continued to cough and drink.

  ‘The old man would like to see you tomorrow morning, “10 a.m. if possible”, he said.’