The Python Project

by Victor Canning

  He had a good platform voice when he wanted, full of the deepest insincerity, but it got me out of the room and the door closed behind me.

  I stopped in the hall and took out the memo leaf. It didn’t need any scientific treatment to decipher it. It read:

  Manston arrives Idris 19.45 hrs. Arrange car.

  At that moment there could have been a harem of naked houris arranging flowers in the hall and I wouldn’t have noticed them. No wonder my secretary upstairs had itchy pants and a distant manner, no wonder Captain Asab had had me picked up on the road in from the King Idris Airport, and no wonder there was a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach and the adrenalin pump going full bore somewhere in my throat—because Bill Dawson just had to be what I had begun to suspect he must be. Once they had names like Pelham, Grenville, Perceval and Rockingham, but this is the age of the common man and in have come the Browns, the Smiths and the Dawsons to fill the high places.

  I shoved the paper back into my pocket and went half-tranced out of the place. As the sea air and sunshine hit me I was telling myself that a couple of half-baked dreamy incompetents like Pelegrina and Freeman could never have dared to try and pull off something like this. Dream about it, yes. Why not, there’s no law against dreams. But to try it on—and, by God, it had to be that they had . . . ! Well, they weren’t even in the fourth division league for that kind of thing. In my time I’d met a few who could have tried it, even got away with it—but not those two, not unless they had all this time been hiding their real talent and brilliance.

  I lit a cigarette at the bottom of the Embassy steps. For ten seconds I wondered what to do, during the next thirty I slowly came to the decision to pack up and go home, and then in the next ten I changed my mind. I couldn’t go home. And leave all this? Not bloody likely. This was what the doctor had ordered for my flagging body and mind. And, anyway, leaving out health reasons, there might be other things in it . . . like money, like women, like kudos, like being one jump ahead of everyone else, like an M.B.E. at the end of it . . . and like, quite possibly, a sticky end. Rex Carver, R.I.P. But what the hell, I told myself—duck a challenge and the dust settles thick on your shoulders like dandruff.

  At my side, a real voice with a touch of Italian accent said, ‘You really like, Mr Carver, that we give you a lift to the Uaddan?’

  It was my young apprentice tail, grinning.

  ‘Why not,’ I said. ‘My legs feel a bit weak at the moment.’

  Obligingly they brought the Simca up to the kerb for me.

  *

  They rang from the reception desk and she told them to send me up. It was a little suite on the second floor overlooking the sea. She came through from the bedroom wearing a cream silk dress that showed a lot of bare brown arm. She just stood and looked me over and I did the same for her.

  She said, ‘Is this business or pleasure?’

  ‘Business first.’

  She said, ‘The drinks are over there. Mine is lime juice and soda water and four lumps of ice.’

  I went over to a side-table and began mixing. She dropped into a little chair by the window, crossed her legs neatly and looked a picture with the sun taking the whole of one side of her body.

  I said, ‘What do I call you? Not La Piroletta or Miss Pelegrina.’

  ‘So long as it is business just avoid it.’

  I handed her her drink and sat down opposite her holding a gin and tonic.

  I said, ‘I want your help.’

  ‘If I can. Is it this bracelet business?’

  She held up her left arm; the gold python bands slid over the warm brown skin.

  ‘Only indirectly. I want to know your real feeling for your father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I think he’s heading for big trouble. May already be in it.’

  ‘That describes his life.’

  ‘You like to see him in trouble?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact I am reasonably fond of him. But that doesn’t stop me also being fed up with him. In the past I often helped him with money. But now—no more.’

  ‘Has he tried to touch you recently?’

  ‘Touch? Oh, you mean borrow money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She shook her head. ‘He knows better.’

  ‘What is his financial position?’

  ‘Rocky. He’s been up and he’s been down in his life. At the moment he’s down. Mostly he’s been in shipping or property development. There was a time when he was doing quite well. But it passed. What is he trying to do now that he shouldn’t?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He still owns a steam yacht, doesn’t he?’

  ‘La Sunata. Yes. But he’s probably carrying some loan on it.’

  ‘What about property?’

  ‘He’s not involved in any development scheme that I know about.’

  I stood up and wandered round the room. A little wander often helps the thoughts. My back to her, I said, ‘If he wanted to drop out of the public eye for a while where do you think he would go?’

  ‘You mean if he wanted to hide?’

  ‘Something like that. For instance, would he take off in La Sunata for a cruise?’

  Her laugh brought me round to face her.

  ‘That’s the last thing he would do. He hates the sea. He’s always sick.’

  ‘Then where would he go? Does he own a house, villa or cottage anywhere? Particularly on this side of the Mediterranean.’

  She frowned. ‘Why should I help you to find my father if he’s in trouble?’

  ‘God knows. I suppose, in a way, because I’d like to help him if it isn’t too late.’

  ‘Is this something to do with Freeman too?’

  ‘I think so. I think the two of them dreamed up something which is right outside their class. Miles outside. If I can get to your father I might be able to straighten things out for him.’

  ‘Why on earth should you? You don’t care a damn for him.’

  ‘True. But I’ve often straightened things out for people I don’t like.’

  ‘On the chance that it will show a profit?’ She was looking at me shrewdly. Whichever way she looked, it was good.

  ‘Yes. Why not? Good deeds are always chalked up on the credit side either in a bank book down here or in the golden one above.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me exactly what it is that is worrying you about my father.’

  ‘I can’t because I don’t know anything definite. But you tell me where I can get in touch with him—and I promise to do all I can to help him.’

  She stood up and shook her head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I have to think about it.’

  ‘That means you do know where he might be?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Then I’d advise you not to be too long making up your mind to tell me.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. But one has to be sure—no?’

  ‘Oh, yes, one has to be sure—particularly in dealing with people like me.’

  She stood close to me and smiled. I really was concerned about her father, even though I guessed he was a dreamy, half-baked crook. In my book he was just pathetic. I couldn’t help warm generous feelings for that type because they were all victims, reaching for the moon, eyes heavenward, and bound to walk straight over the edge of a cliff sooner or later. I put my hand on her brown arm. It felt good. Man is an ambivalent creature. I worried about her father with a small part of my mind, and at the same time wanted her with a larger part, and with the part left over hoped that if any credit was to come my way it would be in cash and not a citation in any golden book.

  She raised her face a little and put her lips on mine. Gently, no fuss, nothing passionate beyond my arms going comfortably round her. Then she stepped back and said, ‘My friends, real friends, call me Letta. And let’s face it, there are bloody few of them because I have high standards.’

  ‘What rating do you think I’ll get?’

  ‘Come
and see me after the last show tonight and I’ll have it sorted out. You—and my father. All right?’

  I nodded, and she went to the door and opened it for me. I gave her a big smile and went. But only twelve paces down the carpeted corridor. Then I turned round and went back to her door. I squatted down and put my eye to the keyhole. Accurate character reading is a must in my business. Letta was no girl for letting grass grow under her feet. If she wasn’t sure of somebody—me, for instance—she took her time, determined to make no mistake. But if she was sure of a thing she got on with it. She was getting on with it now. She was standing by the window table, leafing through a small notebook. She put it down and picked up the telephone. She was about to speak into it when she paused and looked straight towards the room door. She began to lower the receiver to its rest.

  I moved fast, down the corridor and around the corner, to get out of the way of the little bit of her character that I had overlooked, that she had read mine more accurately than I had read hers. I kept going fast—knowing she would open the door and reassure herself that I wasn’t eavesdropping—until I reached the hotel hallway. To one side of the reception desk there was a girl at the switchboard. Just beyond was a glass case full of Arab leather goods, silver brooches and bangles and fifth-rate water colours. I stood and examined the exhibits and almost immediately the exchange buzzer went. The girl plugged in a lead. I listened to her speaking. It was brief and in Italian and I didn’t get much of it, certainly not the number of the call that Signorina Pelegrina was booking. But I got the exchange. It was Bizerta. Well, that was enough. All I had to do now was to get a look at her address book. There couldn’t be many Bizerta numbers in it. In fact, when I did come to examine it there was only one.

  Outside, I declined a lift from the apprentice tail and walked back to my hotel for lunch. The first course was some fish with cotton-wool flesh full of needle-sharp bones and then a dish of mutton and rice to apply as an inner poultice to a lacerated stomach. Afterwards I lay on my bed for a couple of hours to recover and at the same time went over the tangle of Pelegrina-Freeman loose ends to see if I could sort the mess out. I didn’t have a great deal of success. That Bill Dawson had to be what I suspected him to be was reasonably certain. That Pelegrina was trying to pull off a deal far too big for him was also reasonably certain. In doing this with Freeman it could be that Freeman had either become a casualty or the body I had been shown was not Freeman’s but a gruesome red herring to make everyone think that Freeman was out of the picture for good. Jane Judd would establish this for me. After all, a wife ought to know whether her husband had an abdominal scar or not, and Jane had been warned not to believe anything she heard about Freeman. Yes, Freeman could be trying to set up his future life neat and tidy and without complications. As usual he wasn’t being very efficient about it. Neither Manston nor Captain Asab would accept a water-sodden passport as proof of identity.

  But the aspect that puzzled me most was the Paulet and Robert Duchêne angle. Just where did they feature in this, and what did they think they were going to get out of me? Or had thought they were going to get? I didn’t know and I worried about it right through until it was time to have a drink before dinner.

  I’d got through my first whisky and soda when the reception clerk brought me my reply from Gloriana. The cable read:

  Embassy arranging all details my brother. Your services no longer required. Appreciate efforts by you to date. G.S.

  Well, it was nice to be appreciated.

  Halfway through my second drink Wilkins arrived. I bought her a Dubonnet and she handed me Jane Judd’s reply which was:

  M.F. abdominal scar right-hand side. Why? Judd.

  Well, it might be some time before I could answer her ‘Why?’ All I knew at the moment was that it was a typical piece of Freeman carelessness to think he could get away with a slap-dash substitute for himself.

  ‘What about Dawson?’ I asked Wilkins.

  ‘You were right. Olaf and I are leaving for Cairo tomorrow in the late afternoon. I suggest you get a plane back to London.’

  ‘What did Olaf find out about the yacht, La Sunata?’

  ‘It was in harbour here two weeks ago and then went up the coast as far as Bizerta. A week ago it went across to Naples and is now on charter doing a trip along the French coast.’

  ‘It went just as far as Bizerta, did it? Interesting.’

  ‘Are you going to London?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can look after myself.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Examine the records—they prove it.’

  ‘You’ve been lucky, that’s all. What do you think has happened to Bill Dawson?’

  I gave her a smile over my whisky and shook my head. ‘You’re not asking me that? Not my Wilkins? You know what’s happened to him, don’t you?’

  ‘He’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘Yes. By an incompetent couple who’ll never get away with it the moment people like Manston—’

  ‘Manston? Don’t tell me—’

  ‘I do tell you. What did you expect? This is his line of country. State security. No headlines. Just quiet blue murder the moment he and his crowd get their hands on Freeman or Pelegrina.’

  ‘Or you—if you interfere. You fool.’

  ‘I’m not interfering. I just want the missing piece of the jigsaw and then I can sell it to Manston. He’ll be grateful and pay.’

  She just looked at me and shook her head.

  *

  I was late getting down to the Uaddan that evening for the simple reason that I didn’t want to take Letta out to dinner with a great rip in the front of my shirt. I had to come back to my hotel to change it.

  The thing happened neatly, smoothly and was almost successful. One thing for sure was that I was taken completely off my guard.

  It was a fine night, ablaze with stars. The lights of the shipping in the harbour and the great curve of esplanade lights lining the long waterfront reflected in the black sea, all made up a picture which pleased me and put me in a good mood. I like the sea and I like bright lights. The air was warm and I walked along happily, thinking about Letta and now and again getting a whiff of my own after-shave lotion and feeling that life was full of promise. The wide roadway was bathed now and then with the headlights of passing cars. A couple of Arab women passed me on the pavement. One was carrying a hand transistor set and the voices of the Beatles bounced into the night with a happy, hearty vitality. The world was good and I was in it. Four seconds later I was nearly out of it.

  He came up the pavement towards me and I paid no attention. To me he was just a man in a suit, padding along enjoying the night air like myself. When he was level with me, he turned suddenly in to me and his right arm went up. I just caught the flicker of reflected light on steel and then his hand was coming down at me fast. Miggs would have given me nought out of ten for my reaction. But then a happy man is the easiest and most unsuspecting target in the world for a fast knife man. He obviously expected some fast reaction from me—somebody somewhere had given me a good build-up, briefing him about what to expect. Maybe that saved me, for he swung, expecting me to step back fast and making allowance for it. His hand came down, allowance made for my three—or four-inch swing back, and when I didn’t move he made a rapid adjustment of angle and the knife caught the edge of my collar and ripped downwards, slashing through the loose hang of my shirt front. By some miracle the blade didn’t even touch my skin. But he didn’t waste time moaning over his first botched effort. The hand swung again and this time I did move. I threw myself sideways, slipped, and went to the ground in the shadow of one of the esplanade trees. He came for me and side-stepped the swing of my right foot as I tried to take him off his feet. For a moment I saw his brown face, serious, intent on his work, not at all perturbed by the fact that there were a dozen people within two hundred yards’ call, a workman’s face, dedicated, content no
doubt with the knowledge that for this sudden call to night work, he was getting double rates, and a bonus for success.

  He would have got it too, except for my apprentice tail whom I had not even bothered to look for when I left the hotel. A.T. appeared out of the ground like a genie, not waiting for any lamp-rubbing call from me. Suddenly he was there, between me, the man and the knife. I heard a grunt, the clatter of the knife dropping to the pavement and then, as I got to my feet, I saw the man running, away from the lights up a side-street. A.T. stood and watched me to my feet.

  I took a deep breath and said, ‘Thanks.’

  A.T. just smiled.

  I said, ‘Was it anyone you knew?’

  He shook his head.

  I looked down at my shirt. Not even Mrs Meld was going to be able to do anything for it. It was good, heavy silk, hand-made, one of my recent luxuries. I went back to the hotel and changed the shirt. When I came out the black Simca was parked in the hotel forecourt. A.T. stood by it, talking to the driver. Seeing me, he just held the back door open. I got in and said, ‘The Uaddan.’

  A.T. got in by the driver, turned to me and said, ‘You were dreaming?’

  I nodded.

  He shook his head disapprovingly at me. It was the same kind of shake I had had a little while before from Wilkins.

  CHAPTER 7

  Of Pythons and Vintage Sardines

  First there was Manston. I met him in the gaming room of the hotel. The cabaret in the dining room had just finished when I arrived and Letta sent me a message that she would be with me in half an hour. I wandered into the casino, watched some oil men playing blackjack, hung around the roulette tables for a bit, and then went over and began to feed coins into a fruit machine. The gaming room could have been anywhere in the world. All I knew at that moment was that I felt a little out of it. I was suffering. Mostly from anger with myself at being caught off guard. I was puzzled, too, trying to decide who would want to put me away and why. The only person who had tried it before was Pelegrina. If this were another of his efforts, and the quick improvisation suggested it, then I couldn’t help telling myself that he must have discovered that I was in Tripoli through Letta. It was going to be interesting to hear what she had to say. But first of all I had to hear what Manston had to say.