by Colin Murray
I followed dutifully, and Sergeant Metcalf came scurrying along behind.
‘Be so kind as to pour us two brandies and soda, Sergeant Metcalf,’ Jenkins said as the good sergeant fussed with the key.
‘Very good, sir,’ Metcalf said, opening the door to a dark, wood-panelled, musty room that reeked of stale cigar smoke. He flicked a switch and a globe set in the centre of the ceiling gave off a sickly, yellowish light.
Jenkins sat at a small table in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, carefully folding his raincoat and placing it next him. He perched his hat – a rather natty homburg – on top. I plonked myself down opposite him. The chair was, indeed, as bone-jarringly unpleasant to sit on as I’d suspected. I heard the swish of soda as it gushed into a glass and then Metcalf appeared with a tray.
‘I would be very grateful, Sergeant,’ Jenkins said, without looking at him and absent-mindedly signing the chit on the tray, ‘if you would make sure that I’m not disturbed.’ He didn’t add ‘this time’, but we all knew it wasn’t necessary, and Metcalf, duly rebuked, left, only marginally comforted by the five bob clinking in his pocket. It would take a crisp ten-shilling note to get past him the next time.
‘I was told that you are a resourceful man, Mr Gérard,’ Jenkins said, picking up his brandy. ‘But I didn’t think you’d find me quite as quickly as you have.’
‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ I said.
He raised his impressively unruly eyebrows.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘who told you about me?’
He twitched the thin, insincere, politician’s smile at me again. ‘A mutual acquaintance,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘I’m afraid that I don’t have long,’ he said, taking a packet of Dunhill cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his jacket and putting it on the table, ‘but I will explain as much to you as I’m going to, and then I’m going to ask you, politely, to step away from the situation that we all seem to find ourselves in.’ He paused and fiddled with the Dunhills without taking one out of the pack. ‘And I should make it clear that when I say “ask”, I don’t really mean that.’
We both drank deeply.
‘You clearly have no idea what’s going on,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
I was tempted to lay claim to some knowledge just to dent his self-esteem briefly, but I shook my head lamely instead.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘and I have no intention of enlightening you. I’m just going to tell you that the boy you’ve been asking about is mixed up in some pretty sticky business, involving all sorts of unsavoury people. I’m not saying that we’ve got everything under control, but we do know what we’re doing, and you galumphing around is not going to help matters. You are muddying the waters in what is a very sensitive case for us. There’s a lot of discreet surveillance involved, and we can’t have you drawing attention to us. Do I make myself clear?’
I didn’t see how I was drawing attention to whoever he represented, but I nodded my agreement. A certain tension left him, and he looked almost relieved. He nearly gave me a genuine smile.
‘Good,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and visibly relaxing. He finished his brandy and regarded me benignly. ‘We won’t be ungrateful for your cooperation, and we can always make use of someone like you. Let me know where we can contact you.’
And he’d been doing so well. I’d been completely convinced: the St James’s club and the patrician manner had whispered Intelligence and Secret Service at me. But now I wasn’t so sure.
‘You can get hold of me via Hoxton Films,’ I said. ‘The Wardour Street office.’
‘Good,’ he purred again and stood up. ‘Now, if you’ll forgive me . . .’
I stood up too. ‘Thank you for your time,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I appreciate you taking the trouble.’
‘Not at all,’ he said and ushered me out of the room.
Charlie and the Rolls were just where he’d said they’d be – in St James’s Street, outside Berry Bros and Rudd, facing the palace.
The wide, elegant street seemed eerily deserted and quiet, and I was conscience of my footfall echoing unnaturally loudly in the warm and slightly humid night air. It was just a lull in the traffic, of course, but the silence seemed vaguely threatening, and I turned around to see if there was anyone behind me. There wasn’t, but, almost lost in the shadowy gloom of the corner of the little cul-de-sac I’d just left, the imposing, dark figure of Jenkins, now wearing his hat and coat, was watching me.
EIGHT
Charlie kept apologizing for only having the time to drive me to Tottenham Court Road Underground Station. He also told me why he’d wanted to see me on Friday. He was sure that Daphne wanted Les to sack him, and he asked me to put in a good word for him.
I was only half listening, but I promised I’d speak to Les. My mind was on other things.
When he dropped me off on the corner of Oxford Street and Charing Cross Road, I was a little relieved, especially when he said that he was glad we’d had a chance to talk as he couldn’t make it on Friday for a pint after all. Les wanted him all day, Good Friday or not, and Charlie didn’t think it was in his best interests to argue the toss.
As he pulled away and drove along Oxford Street, a twinge of guilt had me feeling a little wretched. I didn’t know what Les was planning but, clearly, Charlie was worried, and I should have been more sympathetic. I was fond of the old bugger. He’d always done right by me. I decided to make good my promise to him at the first opportunity. He deserved better from me than casual indifference.
I suddenly remembered someone else who deserved better and abandoned my plans to head for home.
As I walked back down Charing Cross Road, bleak visions of Richard Ellis’s body mingled uneasily with memories of the war.
My only two, official, encounters with Military Intelligence had not gone well. They hadn’t ended in tears exactly, but that was only because soldiers don’t cry in front of officers, even in frustration. Officers don’t respond well to any hint of intelligence, free-will or passion, and even the newest of recruits knows better than to upset them.
The first occasion had degenerated into a straightforward shouting match with a pig-ignorant major with a clipped moustache, clipped accent and, as far as I could make out, a seriously clipped brain. He had briefed me on a new set of objectives. He had then told me exactly how my team was going to proceed. I told him, politely, that I didn’t have a team, the team was Robert’s, and Robert had his own set of objectives. He looked me up and down, told me that I was a disgrace to the uniform (which I wasn’t wearing, and nor was he for that matter) and repeated his instructions. I told him what I’d told him before, enunciating it slowly and clearly. He accused me of being insolent, and I suggested that he didn’t know his arse from his elbow. A short silence was followed by his announcement that he was putting me on a charge. I told him he could stick his charge up his elbow. For some reason, this failed to amuse him. He told me that orders were orders and I couldn’t pick and choose. Then he put me on another charge and we started shouting.
The charges never materialized because he didn’t make it back to London. I never did discover whether the Germans got him or if one of the other groups he had treated with the same arrogance and tactlessness he had shown to ours was a bit less forgiving than we’d been. When Big Luc, Robert’s lieutenant, had told me that he would not be bothering us again, as he was drinking pink gins with all the other red-faced colonials in the afterlife, I didn’t ask what had happened to him. I didn’t want to be burdened with the knowledge.
Funnily enough, I still remember his name: Major Griffiths. I suppose that’s because he taught me some important lessons. The first was that, when dealing with any branch of the military, dumb insolence is more effective than any other kind. And the second was that the intelligence in Military Intelligence is not always as apparent as the military. The final thing I learnt from the skirmish is that Military Intelligence tells you what to do: it doesn’t try to bribe you with the prospect of future empl
oyment. And neither does Special Branch. If they want you to work for them, they tell you.
I would hope that the personnel are more suave these days than Griffiths, but the message that Jenkins, had he been in Military Intelligence or Special Branch, would have wished to impart would have been very simple. Stay out. Or else.
I was still brooding when I turned into Old Compton Street, and the gloomy, musty staircase and landing of the Imperial Club did nothing for my wilted joie de vivre.
The place had that quiet, expectant air of somewhere that expected things to happen later when I stood at the entrance and fumbled for my membership card. Connie yawned languidly and asked after Jerry – at least I assumed it was Jerry, although I suppose the description ‘gorgeous little tart’ could have fitted Ghislaine. I told her I’d bring Jerry along next time. She didn’t look convinced. I wasn’t sure if she thought there was unlikely to be a next time or that I was keeping Jerry to myself.
Roger the barman wasn’t quite in splendid isolation, but it was close. There were two men knocking billiard balls about in the further room. The satisfyingly restful click as one ball kissed another hovered in the air. And there was one, slightly seedy gent, almost lost in the shadows at the back of the room, sipping gin, who looked up optimistically when I entered, but resumed his slumped posture and air of disappointed resignation as soon as he registered that I was as careworn and nearly as old as he. Only his eyes showed any animation as he glanced furtively at the door.
The place looked decidedly dusty and down-at-heel.
Roger bustled over as soon as I reached the bar. He leaned over the counter, looked around as furtively as the old queer in the shadows and pursed his lips. ‘Got a message for you,’ he whispered in a stage whisper that could have been heard in the Talk of the Town and pushed a card across the counter.
I read it quickly and then slipped it into my pocket. At least one of the worries nagging at me was no longer a problem.
‘I’ve got a message for you as well,’ I said. ‘Expect a visit from Scotland Yard’s finest.’ And I told him about Richard Ellis, as economically and with as little detail as possible. I didn’t describe how he’d died.
He looked thoughtful, but didn’t ask any questions.
‘The message,’ I said, ‘when was it left?’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘fifteen, twenty minutes ago. She was waiting on the pavement outside when I popped out for a breath.’
‘You can’t point me at a decent fish and chip shop, can you?’ I said.
‘Round here? The nearest decent one I know is in Notting Hill. Geal’s.’
‘Missed my dinner,’ I said.
He looked around again, making sure no one was taking any interest.
‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a couple of pork pies in the back. For emergencies. You can have one of those, if you like. And some pickled onions.’
‘Roger,’ I said, ‘you’re a life-saver.’
‘Here to serve,’ he said and went off into his little store room.
‘If you could find a halfway decent glass of Burgundy to go with it,’ I called after him, ‘I’d be in your debt for ever.’
‘I said I was here to serve,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t say I could work bloody miracles.’
However, he reappeared a minute or two later, carrying a plate with a pie on it in one hand and a bottle in the other.
‘Never let it be said that Roger disappoints,’ he said. ‘It’s not Burgundy. Well, I don’t think it is. But it is wine.’
Warm Riesling has never been my idea of heaven, but it did an adequate job of washing the dry, tasteless pie down and taking the sting out of the pickled onion.
I reached into my pocket after I’d wolfed the little meal down.
Roger shook his head. ‘On the house,’ he said dismissively.
After a couple of seconds, I realized I’d probably just eaten his supper.
‘That’s very decent of you,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I owe you.’
‘No you don’t,’ he said, busying himself behind the bar and not looking at me. ‘Thanks for the warning about our friends in blue. I appreciate it.’ Then he did look up. ‘A word to the wise,’ he said. ‘Steer clear of David Cavendish.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said. I’d forgotten all about him. ‘What’s his quarrel with me?’
‘Who knows?’ Roger said. ‘But he’s a vicious little so-and-so. I’d give him a wide berth.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I will. Who is he, anyway?’
Roger shrugged. ‘Works in the theatre, I think,’ he said. ‘Management or something.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ I said.
Ghislaine, as she’d said in her note, was in the French, sat at the bar, talking to a young boy I immediately recognized.
He was nowhere near as solemn as he appeared in the photograph, and he was a lot more good-looking. Charming, too, if Ghislaine’s response to him was anything to go by. She was leaning very close to him, and she touched his arm from time to time. I stood by the door and watched them through the crowd for a few seconds.
Ghislaine smiled when I bustled my way through and put my hand gently on her shoulder.
‘Antoine, this is Jon. He came to your house this afternoon, looking for you. I didn’t know where you were, so we came to find you,’ she said. She was beaming and animated. There was something intoxicating about the company. She picked up her cigarette from the ashtray on the bar and drew on it languidly with her eyes half-closed against the thin curl of smoke that trickled out of her mouth and drifted slowly upwards to the yellowing ceiling. It irritated my eyes on the way.
‘I got your note at the Imperial Club,’ I said.
‘I thought you would be here, or there,’ she said with a smug, self-congratulatory look at Jon.
He stood up and offered his hand. I shook it. A scrupulously polite young man.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Roger told a friend of mine you were looking for me. He said something about my sister . . .’ And well spoken too.
‘She’s worried about you,’ I said, looking towards Gaston behind the bar. He nodded that I was next in line.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘Just a little holiday in the Smoke.’ He indicated that I should take his bar stool and sit. A very courteous young man.
I sat just as Gaston came over. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I introduced Ghislaine, then ordered a glass of the Beaujolais-Villages that he recommended. Ghislaine was drinking Sauvignon Blanc, and Jon thick, soupy, French cidre. I said nothing until our drinks had been delivered and paid for.
‘So, Jon,’ I said, raising my glass, ‘which friend told you I was looking for you?’
‘A college chum,’ he said. ‘Dick Ellis.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘when did you see him?’
‘This afternoon.’
I nodded. A scrupulously polite, well spoken, courteous young man who didn’t always tell the truth.
I sipped my wine. Gaston was right. It was excellent.
‘Anyway,’ Jon said, ‘you can tell my sister that I’m fine.’
I smiled. ‘Tell you what: I’ll pick you up tomorrow, and we’ll visit her on the set. You can reassure her that you’re all right. And everyone’s happy.’
A little flicker of irritation crossed his pretty face, but he controlled it and smiled. ‘I’m not sure that I can make it tomorrow,’ he said. He clicked his fingers as if inspiration had just struck. ‘I know. Perhaps you can do something for me. I’d be very grateful.’ He favoured me with his most charming smile, reached into his pocket and took out a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He offered it to me. ‘Take this to her, and she’ll give you something for me. I’ll meet you in here at seven tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘You can give it to me then.’ His hand containing the little packet moved closer to me.
The bar was filling up, and I looked around carefully. Ghislaine was still smoking, but she was looking puzzled. Sh
e probably thought that she knew me well enough to recognize that I was not taken with this young man. She probably thought that I was jealous of his good looks and easy manner. She wasn’t entirely wrong.
‘What’s in the package, Jon?’ I said.
But he wasn’t listening to me. He was looking over my shoulder. He quickly leaned down towards me and dropped the package in my lap. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Here. Seven.’ And then he turned away, pushed his way through the untidy throng of drinkers and was out of the door before I could respond.
Ghislaine looked even more puzzled and a little angry. ‘What did you say to him?’ she said in French.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, picking up the packet and slipping it into my pocket. I looked around again at the boisterous crowd in the pub and wondered who had frightened the boy. Then something occurred to me. ‘Ghislaine,’ I said, ‘Jerry told me that you left with two people this afternoon. Who was the other one?’
‘A woman,’ she said.
‘Does she have a name?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I remember thinking that she is more rouge than rosé.’ She giggled girlishly.
And then a large, meaty hand landed on my shoulder.
‘Mr Gérard, fancy meeting you here. And just who is your charming companion?’
The accent was unmistakable, the pronunciation of my name impeccable, and a nasty little shiver rippled across my shoulders.
Jenkins towered over Ghislaine and was beaming at her like a lecherous old uncle about to try his luck with one of the bridesmaids at a family wedding. ‘My dear, pray allow me to buy you a drink. And a beauty such as yours demands champagne.’
Ghislaine appeared bemused and looked at me for some explanation. I didn’t have one.
‘Mr Jenkins,’ I said, ‘Ghislaine Rieux.’
‘Enchanted, my dear,’ he said, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.
Ghislaine gave him a faint, slightly sickly smile and reclaimed her hand as quickly as possible.
Jenkins rather grandly ordered a bottle of champagne – ‘The widow, I think’ – and four glasses, and I was suddenly aware of a small, tough-looking man at his side.
