Dead Secret

by Alan Williams

  He banged out his pipe in the hearth and stood up. ‘Keep in touch, laddie. I’ll be thinking of you.’ He insisted on seeing Hawn to the front door: but no suspicious cars waited in the lane.

  Hawn drove back carefully, and checked in his mirror every few seconds: but this time there was nothing to arouse his suspicions. His street behind Notting Hill Gate was quiet in the late summer evening.

  His flat was still double-locked and empty. Anna had been due home nearly an hour ago. She was a punctual girl — sometimes irritatingly so — and was never late without warning him in advance. He realized that she might have tried to ring him that afternoon, and had got no reply; he had not given her Mac’s number and had stayed longer than he had expected.

  He had a hot bath, to freshen up and sweat some of the malt out of his system; then lay down on the bed, still wrapped in a damp towel, and fell asleep. The names of Doktor Mönch and a wrestling drug peddler called Salak had receded into a haze of alcohol and pipe smoke: the memories of an old man who lived alone, growing tomatoes.

  It was more than an hour later when he woke. He heard the lock turn, then footsteps. Anna stood in the main room in her monk’s habit, holding her satchel-like bag. ‘Tom.’ She looked at him defiantly; she was rather white. ‘They’ve stolen my string bag. The one with my books and notes in it.’

  He blinked at her. ‘Who have?’

  ‘You tell me.’ She went over and poured herself a drink. ‘It was while I was in the library. They went to the old man who looks after the coats and personal belongings. They said it was a bomb scare and they wanted to look at all bags and parcels. They took mine, to examine it. He said he couldn’t stop them.’

  ‘Who were they? I mean, what did they look like?’

  ‘He said they were well-dressed, well-spoken. Might have been police, but he didn’t think they were ordinary police. Special Branch, or Terrorist Squad, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you told the police?’

  ‘Yes. They just asked me a lot of silly questions.’

  ‘What was in the bag, Anna?’

  ‘Oh God. Practically everything. I mean, most of my notes brought up to date. All the petroleum import and export figures for the neutrals during the whole war, against the same for oil exporting countries for the same period, month by month. Sounds pretty simple, but it’s been a bloody headache. At least a month’s work up the spout. But that’s not the point. I know where to begin again — but so do they. They know exactly what I’m on to, and how far I’ve got.’

  Hawn told her about the three cars following him to Mac’s that afternoon. She listened impassively, then went into the bathroom and returned almost at once.

  ‘Tom, someone’s been in the flat. They’ve turned it over — thoroughly.’

  ‘How do you know? It looks all right to me.’

  ‘My toilet things — they’ve been moved. Not much, but enough.’ She went quickly over to her desk on which were arranged tidy piles of books with paper markers in them, documents, photostats, the rest of her typewritten notes. ‘They’ve been through these, too.’

  Hawn went to the bookcase. He had a large collection of books, amassed since his student days, and he took pride in arranging them in selected categories. He noticed almost immediately that among his hardcover editions of Orwell’s Collected Essays and Letters, Volumes I and II were in the wrong order. ‘Funny sort of break-in. The locks haven’t been broken — no damage, nothing taken, that I can see. Usually they piss on the carpets.’

  ‘Tom, when did you get back?’

  ‘Over an hour ago.’

  ‘And when did you leave here?’

  ‘After lunch.’

  ‘They must have been watching the flat, then. But who? Not the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘ABCO.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She drank some whisky very fast. ‘You don’t mean they’ve got on to us this soon?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so — until what’s happened this afternoon. At least, I’d have expected them to hold their hand a little longer. And what about the stuff on your desk? I haven’t read any of it yet.’

  ‘Mostly German fuel reserves and their commerce with Rumania. All very technical, and some of it quite useful.’

  ‘These boys this afternoon were technical. They knew how to pick two security locks, and they also knew what they were looking for. Sweden — Turkey — Rumania — Switzerland — and comparative oil import figures for all of them. Anna, all this might just be a roundabout way of scaring us off. Now, you tidy up, then we’ll go and have dinner.’

  He was still partly sceptical, but still not discounting a hidden ‘mike’ or the latest in the ‘dirty tricks’ department. He waited until they were out in the street, before making his proposition. ‘Tomorrow I’m wiring Pol for business expenses, and we’ll take a little holiday in Spain. How are you fixed with the LSE?’

  ‘I’ve got two weeks’ holiday.’

  ‘Then we’ll be spending them in an obscure little town in the middle of the Castilian Plain. A town called Soria.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Hawn sent the wire that night to Pol’s PO number in Annecy, then booked two open return tickets for himself and Anna, and for his old Citroën, on the Southampton ferry to Le Havre — which would be almost deserted at this season, and would give him plenty of scope to see if they were being followed.

  There were also two other things to be done. First, in the morning, he rang New Scotland Yard and asked for extension 429 — Chief Superintendent Muncaster, a man with whom he had long been on close professional terms. Muncaster was in conference, but someone said he would ring back. From Hawn’s experience of police work, that might mean any time before midnight. He decided to fill in the time with a trip south of the river, to Wandsworth.

  Hamilton Motors were in a cul-de-sac behind a railway bridge. From the outside the place looked as respectable as any establishment can with a forecourt full of freshly painted second-hand cars for sale. A notice over the door announced that they also dealt in hired cars.

  Hawn picked his way through pools of oily mud to a door marked OFFICE — WALK IN, WHEN OPEN. It was open. A youth with long plaited hair, in stained overalls, sat reading Melody Maker. A transistor bellowed, unseen. There was a cluttered desk, one telephone, several chairs arranged along the wall. Hawn glanced back round the car park, but saw no sign of the three Fords which had followed him yesterday.

  He pushed his way in and shouted at the youth above the music: ‘Where’s the boss?’

  The youth called over his shoulder, ‘Bunnie — business!’ — then returned to his magazine.

  An inner door opened and a youngish man with small flat features and curly blond hair came in. He wore a white shirt with blue stripes and his worsted jacket had too much padding in the shoulders. In his breast pocket was a blue silk handkerchief that matched his blue socks. He smiled at Hawn, with teeth the same colour as his hair. ‘Morning, sir. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I understand you had three cars out on hire yesterday — two blue Escorts and a yellow Cortina. I’d just like to know who took them out.’

  The man’s smile persisted; he looked tough and relaxed. ‘Our records are confidential — unless you’ve got a warrant.’

  Hawn showed his Press card. ‘It’s all right — I don’t want to look through your VAT fiddles. I just want to know the name of the man, or men, who hired those three cars from you yesterday.’ He handed him a list of the three registration numbers.

  The blond man looked at them. ‘You say you’re a reporter? For what?’

  Hawn took out his Scotland Yard Press pass, with two ten-pound notes folded inside. The man looked at them as though they were a couple of postcards; then still holding them, he turned to the youth in overalls and said, ‘Go on, Jerry, scram. You’ve got that Merc to get ready by this evening.’

  When the door had closed, he put the two notes in his pocket and handed Ha
wn back his pass. ‘You’re lucky I run this place. Otherwise I could get myself into a load of trouble.’ He shook his curly head. ‘Ah, you never know who’s going to make trouble for you these days. I’m asked to do a special turn for someone — three cars in good condition hired for one day, full comprehensive insurance — five hundred paid in readies, but no licences. Now, I don’t believe in miracles, Mr Hawn, but Christ — if this happened to me every day I’d be a bleeding millionaire.’

  Hawn looked at him. ‘And that’s all you know?’

  ‘Scout’s honour. Why should I lie? I could say it was a delegation from the Liberal Party and you wouldn’t know no better.’

  ‘Three cars, one obviously equipped with UHF, all hired together, and presumably returned together, and you don’t know anything about it?’

  The man shifted his feet slightly apart, but otherwise made no movement. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret of the trade, Mr Hawn. I specialize in second-hand jobs. Now I know a bit about the Press — I know that when someone gives you a good tip-off, you don’t reveal the source. Same with me. I’m discreet. If a bloke comes to me and wants three cars, for a good fee, I don’t ask for his birth certificate.’

  ‘I’d like you to be my source,’ said Hawn, ‘in total confidence. The people who came to you yesterday were pros. They were as good at a relay tail-job as the police. The only mistake they made was that I spotted them. You still don’t want to tell me who they are?’

  The man stood with padded shoulders squared, hands curling at his sides. ‘I think you’d better go, Mr Hawn.’

  Hawn took out a third ten-pound note. ‘Not until I’ve seen your books.’

  ‘Sorry, chum, my books aren’t in order.’

  Hawn still held out the note, but the man made no attempt to take it.

  ‘Christ, you must have money to burn, mate. Am I going to feature in the Sunday Mirror or something?’

  ‘This is private, confidential.’

  ‘Like fuck it is.’

  ‘I just want to look at the three cars that tailed me yesterday. Any objections?’

  ‘I have. They’re all out on hire. Besides, I don’t like snoopers. Now put your money away and get out of here.’

  ‘I think you’re getting me confused with the police,’ Hawn said. ‘There might be something in this for you. Who do I ask for if I ring?’

  ‘Bunnie.’

  ‘See you at the Playboy Club,’ Hawn said, and opened the door.

  The blond man watched him into his Citroën DS. He had plenty of time to memorize the number; and in his mirror Hawn saw him return to his office and lift the telephone.

  Chief Superintendent Muncaster phoned back just after lunch. Hawn, without mentioning his theories or the extent of his investigations, told him straight out about the three events of yesterday afternoon.

  Muncaster was a sly, taciturn man who never used a syllable that was not necessary. ‘Three cars from a garage in Wandsworth? And the owner won’t talk?’

  ‘Only that he was paid over the odds and they didn’t identify themselves. What about the business at the LSE and the “break-in” last night at my flat?’

  ‘What’s your girl’s name?’ Hawn told him. ‘Did she describe the two men?’

  ‘Vaguely. Professionals.’

  ‘You say your flat was gone over, only because she has a nose for these things, and because two of your books were in the wrong order? That’s not evidence, Hawn. Nor are three Fords in London traffic. Still, I’ll look into it. Call you back.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I’m ready.’ He hung up.

  Early that evening Norman French rang, calling from a pay phone. His voice was faint but betrayed that ingratiating self-confidence of one who does not expect to be refused. ‘Tom, I’ve booked a table for us both at the Trattoo. Tonight, eight o’clock. I think you’ll be interested.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘I’d prefer to discuss it at dinner. Just the two of us.’

  ‘Eight o’clock, the Trattoo.’

  Anna had still not returned; Hawn left her a note to say he’d be late and that she was not to keep dinner for him.

  Just after eight he parked his car near the restaurant in Abingdon Road. French had not arrived. The table he had booked was in the far corner downstairs, under an umbrella of potted plants. It was the most secluded spot in the restaurant. French was a fastidious man, and a careful one.

  By nine o’clock he had still not appeared. Hawn allowed himself a fourth drink. By 9.30 he rang the Eden House Hotel. It was some time before the landlady answered. Hawn gave his name, then — remembering just in time French’s alias — asked for Mr Hudson. The landlady informed him that Mr Hudson had already retired, and did not wish to be disturbed.

  ‘But I was supposed to meet him for dinner tonight — he invited me himself. For eight o’clock. I’d be very grateful if you went up and told him I’m still waiting.’

  ‘Mr Hudson has retired,’ she repeated.

  ‘Would you kindly go up and ask Mr Hudson to come to the phone?’

  After a long pause she said. ‘Mr Hudson must be asleep.’ Then: ‘Are you one of the gentlemen who called earlier?’

  ‘What gentlemen?’

  ‘I’m afraid we do not discuss Mr Hudson’s personal affairs with strangers.’ She terminated the conversation.

  Hawn had a plate of spaghetti, half a bottle of wine, then drove round to Sussex Gardens. He suspected that the woman was covering up for French, who had obviously had a more important visitor, and had no scruples about dumping Hawn without even the courtesy of a telephone call.

  He arrived at the hotel shortly before ten. It was one of those gloomy terrace mansions which had been given a skimpy cosmetic of cream paint and its name in red neon script, to attract second-class tourists and foreign students. There was a permeating smell of damp earth, old cooking and the ancient grime of Paddington Station.

  The landlady was unhelpful. She repeated that Mr Hudson did not wish to be disturbed. Hawn became aggressive. Ten o’clock was too early for a man to go to bed, unless he had female company. Certainly Mr Hudson had no female company! she retorted. In which case, Hawn required to see him immediately.

  She tried the house phone, then put it down, shaking her head. Hawn said, ‘If you can’t take me up and open the door, I’ll call the police.’ She led him up.

  The room was on the third floor. It was unlocked: a small room, cheaply partitioned, with a basin, TV, a side table with an electric kettle, sachets of sugar and instant coffee; also a Baby Belling cooker which had recently been used.

  French was in bed. The bedclothes had been pulled down to his waist and his feet stuck out at the end. The pillow was soaked thick and wet, like a huge skinned liver sausage. His head, with its short furry-black hair, was propped up against the pillow. In his left hand was a half-smoked cigarette which had slightly singed the sheet. There was still a red pinch at the top of his nose, left by his tinted glasses which lay on the bedside table, next to his cigarettes. His eyes showed like dull fish slits.

  In his throat was a long wide gap, drained and glistening pink, and Hawn could see the severed vocal chords sprouting up like rings of spaghetti. Having recently enjoyed a good first course, he vomited it into the wastepaper basket.

  The landlady was screaming.

  Then he went and washed his face in the basin and looked round to see if French had had any drink. A half bottle of gin lay behind his shoe cleaning equipment. Hawn drank most of it, while the woman went on screaming. Then he went downstairs and dialled 999, called the Yard and asked for Muncaster, urgent.

  CHAPTER 10

  The police arrived in two Pandas and a Jaguar. There were too many of them. They kept starting to ask Hawn questions, then being interrupted when a call came through. Hawn’s fingerprints were on the inside and outside door handles, round the basin, possibly on the wastepaper basket.

  The slow, pedantic ritual began. Thirty-five minutes later,
when the photographers and forensic men had arrived, Muncaster appeared.

  The Chief Superintendent had a long nose and very little hair. His manner was quiet but abrupt. ‘All right, Hawn, you found the body. That makes you a witness. Now, there’s a little pub up the road called The Falcon. It’s about closing time, but I know the manager. Then you can tell me what you’re doing in Sussex Gardens.’

  The last customers had left half-an-hour ago and the barman had finished washing the glasses and locked up. Hawn had told his story from Venice to his 999 call, omitting nothing.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Cyril Muncaster sat drawing wet rings on the table top. ‘Hawn, there’s one thing that good policemen and good journalists have in common. We deal in facts. Not theories, fantasies. Facts. Evidence. Proof.’

  ‘You’ve already got those two sneak-thieves yesterday at the L.S.E. And what about the hired cars?’

  ‘We’ve given Mr “Bunnie” Regan a rap over the knuckles for that. But he won’t go down for murder. He rented the cars to a foreigner — strong accent, thought he was German. We’re circulating a description, but it might fit half the male master-race.’ He sipped the dregs of his glass. ‘Now you say that you last saw French alive three days ago, and you hadn’t seen him before that for nearly two years? You say he gave you some useful info, about ABCO? And you paid him for it?’

  Hawn said nothing.

  ‘But you’ve absolutely no idea what French wanted to talk to you about this evening? And don’t hold out on me, or my God I’ll make your life so bloody miserable you’ll want to emigrate.’

  ‘I only know he said it was something important — something he couldn’t talk about over the phone. What about those two guests he had earlier? They’re the obvious ones, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a good description of them from the lady downstairs. Smartly dressed — again, foreigners. She wasn’t sure about the accent. They were obviously known to French — he was probably expecting them. You noticed that he was smoking a cigarette when they killed him? No sign of a struggle. Messy, but it had the advantage of cutting the vocal chords so quickly that there wouldn’t have been time for him to scream. Then they went through the room. The forensic boys have got a lot of sets of prints, but I doubt we’ll have them on record. Foreigners, professionals — you know.’