Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  Once in the pub he heads for the back corner where he usually finds Mr Knapp. The booth is empty so he walks over to the bar to ask if anyone’s seen the boss. There’s only a young girl on duty and she doesn’t seem to know anything, let alone how to pull a pint. Paul asks her for a drink, either milk or sarsaparilla. After struggling with the bottle opener she reaches over to him and places a bottle of Sioux City on a small folded napkin in front of him. This is something he’s never seen anyone do in a pub.

  He smiles and turns around, puts his elbows on the bar top, one foot behind him on the footrest. Drinks a few gulps. Looks at the front door, where the giant man has stuck his head in, as if to check. Paul finishes the bottle and puts it down hard on the bar top. He’s in a hurry, he thinks, he needs to leave as soon as he has seen Mr Knapp. Turning back to the pub he catches a man’s eye and feels the blood drain from his face.

  ‘Paul, would you come over here?’

  Paul manages to croak, ‘Mr Morton. Pleasure.’

  ‘Come closer, sit,’ the big man implores. He moves his fingers over a silver rosary, eyes half-closed. He sits in a booth opposite where Mr Knapp usually does his business. In a blind corner of the pub.

  ‘Thank you. I was just looking for Mr Knapp. I’m due to pick up a number.’

  ‘I know. But we have other worries now.’

  ‘Where is Mr Knapp?’ Paul says once he’s sitting down.

  ‘He’s here somewhere. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I should go. Do you have the number? I wouldn’t want to be late for Ilya.’

  ‘Which brings us exactly to where I wanted this conversation to be going,’ Mr Morton says. ‘Good. That saves us time.’

  Now Mr Knapp comes out of the bathroom, tugging at his trousers. Paul sees that he too is very surprised by the presence of Mr Morton. Quickly recovering, Mr Knapp smiles and comes rushing over.

  ‘Mr Knapp, would you join us please?’ Mr Morton says pleasantly. As if they were just three mates meeting up for a pint.

  ‘Sure,’ Mr Knapp says, his voice faltering slightly. ‘What are you fellows drinking?’

  ‘Well as you might know I’m partial to Cointreau, and this man here I believe likes his drinks soft and sugary. And American by the looks of the label. I’m sure he’ll have another. I find this influence from the States tedious myself.’

  Mr Knapp walks over to the bar and starts berating the girl who is soon in tears, but manages to pour a large glass of the orange drink, open a bottle and find a clean glass for Mr Knapp’s beer. Her tears drop on the little napkins she has been busy folding.

  Not being used to bartending Mr Knapp has to go twice for the three drinks. Once he’s seated next to Paul, Mr Morton beams at them both. He smooths his tie and takes a long slow sip of his drink. He smacks his lips, nods, exhales. All while the two men opposite him – one giant, one small – hold their breath.

  ‘I don’t usually come to this part of town. I don’t mind it, it’s nice enough with the water and all, but I prefer being home. I prefer my own turf. That’s maybe what happens when you get a bit older. When you get a bit wiser.’

  ‘We could have come to you,’ Mr Knapp offers, while Paul stays as still and quiet as he possibly can.

  ‘Be quiet when I’m talking,’ Mr Morton says, then takes another sip. ‘Now, I came here to inform you of something. There are to be no more deliveries to Captain Sergei Ilyashenko Petrovich, or Ilya as you know him. Knew him. He died this morning, in tragic circumstances. The first train to Manchester this morning had to be cancelled. They told me they found his head almost fifty yards from the body. It must have gotten stuck on something I suppose. Other than that he was spread out over the tracks for about a hundred yards. There were bits of him stuck to the engine that they had to get specialist cleaners to remove. I believe they used high-pressure hoses, a bit like the fire department. Fascinating really.’

  Mr Morton takes off his hat and inspects it. Not finding any faults he slowly returns it to his head. He touches it ever so gently three times to make sure it’s sitting right. ‘If it hadn’t been for the uniform he was wearing no one would have been able to identify him. As it was, he was in full regalia, all his medals and the ceremonial sable present and correct. The sable was clean. If I know, knew, him right, it had mostly been used to guillotine bottles of champagne. The police had to get both his wives out to look at him. What was left of him. The women must have had quite a surprise. First seeing him. Then meeting each other for the first time. Turns out they were not aware of each other. I mean, the scene must have been hilarious.’ Mr Morton laughs for a while, then gets a handkerchief out of his top pocket and wipes his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Then he continues, ‘Mr Knapp, could you stand me another drink, I seem to have forgotten my wallet today.

  Mr Knapp shouts for the girl behind the bar, then swears at her under his breath. Both Paul and Mr Knapp keep as quiet as they can, while Mr Morton continues, ‘Apparently Ilya was a decorated war hero. The medals he sported must have weighed almost a pound.’

  Their drinks arrive, but something is wrong with Mr Morton’s glass he says and he pours the drink out on the floor asking the girl to get him a new one. Then he says, ‘Now you might be asking yourselves why I’m here. I’ll tell you, it’s partly a social visit. This is a family company in a way, just that we’re not related. I want to see who does what and make sure that the standards are kept up, but also that people are happy. So Paul are you happy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Mr Knapp? You?’

  ‘Yes sir, I’m happy.

  ‘Mr Knapp, I think we have known each other long enough. Drop the ‘sir’, it doesn’t become you. You were once a proud man. You once had dreams for this place. Now it’s a bit downtrodden. You’ve even got children working the bar for you. Which I don’t object to per se. It’s just when they’re incompetent it’s a bit embarrassing.’ Mr Morton looks up on the walls, inspects a corner, then says, ‘Maybe a lick of paint would do the place good. I like white. I will send a team of painters over sometime next week. They won’t be too expensive.’ He nods to himself, then says, ‘And I’ll find someone to replace that girl.’

  ‘Don’t feel you have to Mr Morton,’ Mr Knapp says.

  ‘I don’t feel like I have to do anything, but I want to do you a favour. I want this place to be more profitable as much as you do.’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘Now, one person we know who’s not happy is Ilya. He was unhappy for a while before he died. That’s what neighbours and wives are telling the police now. Partly because it is true, partly because I’ve asked them to. Suicide is never easy on the family. Especially not for men with a past in the army. They have such a strong sense of pride you know.’

  The girl is back, although it doesn’t seem like Mr Morton notices her. He appears content with his drink.

  ‘I also happen to know that Ilya was very unhappy right before he so sadly passed away,’ he continues. ‘The moments before, he was delirious. When asked he kept saying the numbers were wrong. That this had never happened to him before. He wasn’t to blame. He had done nothing wrong. He deserved a second chance. These kinds of things are hard to hear. Especially when they are coming from a man who used to look death straight in the eye on the battlefield.’

  Mr Morton gulps down the rest of his drink in one go, then reaches for Mr Knapp’s beer without breaking his stride, ‘Now, I have decided to conduct my own investigation. The police in this city can be painfully slow sometime. And between you and me: Thank heaven for that.’

  Mr Morton turns to look both men straight in the eye. Then he smiles and makes a man with his two fingers. Walks it to the edge of the table, jumps off. Pretends to cry. Then lets out a loud cackle. He falls suddenly silent and turns to Paul, ‘How did he seem to you when you delivered the numbers last week Paul? It seems you were one of the last people from my organisation, apart from me an
d Drago, to see him.’

  ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He wasn’t in when I got to his place.’

  ‘That’s highly irregular. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Were you late? Pray to God you weren’t late, Paul.’

  ‘No I wasn’t. In fact I was early. That must be it. I was early, I found a new shortcut. I don’t know the name of the street, but it was quite neat really, I could show you sometime Mr Morton, I must have shaved a couple of minutes of the time from here to there.’

  ‘I’m not interested in cycling, you know that.’

  Paul goes on, ‘Maybe he had a prior engagement, you said yourself he had two wives. That must take some seeing to. He could have been in a meeting or something, maybe he was in the bathroom just like Mr Knapp here when I came in. Maybe I just missed him.’

  ‘So who did you give the envelope to?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if Mr Knapp has told you, but there were no envelopes.’

  ‘No envelopes? That’s not how I want to run my business. Lucky I came here to check. It seems standards are slipping. We will talk more about this later Mr Knapp, yes we will.’

  Mr Knapp looks pale and shoots Paul a look of disgust, but Paul, happy to have diverted the questions for a moment, pretends he doesn’t see.

  ‘So who did you give the number, the number not in an envelope, to?’

  ‘Well, whenever I have been there in the past there has always been the same man, this maître d’. I asked where Ilya was, and the man said he wasn’t in, but that he would happily give the slip to him whenever he did come in.’

  ‘That seems correct, from what we’ve been able to put together. My problem now is that we can’t find this employee of Ilya. This is unusual. That, to me, suggests the two of them had an agreement of some sort. It also suggests that this other individual might know more than he should about our line of work.’

  Paul hesitates a second. Then, wanting to push the subject as far from himself as possible, ventures ‘I’m not sure if I saw this correctly, but as I was leaving I’m pretty sure the maître d’ copied down the numbers.’ Mr Morton’s face goes purple. Paul still doesn’t know what the numbers are for, but decides not to ask. Mr Knapp might or might not know. Paul can’t tell, but he looks petrified, wringing his hands. He hasn’t even got his beer to hold onto. Mr Morton is sipping on it.

  ‘You realise this would never have happened if you had put the slip in a sealed envelope? This is serious Mr Knapp. Very serious business,’ Mr Morton says, then clears his throat and puts his hands square on the table top, ‘So, in short, you Mr Knapp, gave Paul the right number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not in an envelope?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see. And you said goodbye to Paul who cycled across town, extra fast due to some new shortcut, to Ilya’s place, with this piece of paper. And he gave it to the now disappeared man?’

  Both men nod.

  ‘So the fact that Ilya ended up owing me a considerable sum of money, a debt which has now been transferred to his remaining family, and in effect been cut in half, as the dirty old boy had two wives, is down to either the secretary or Ilya himself tampering?’ Again both men nod.

  ‘Good. Well, I’m glad we cleared that up. It’s just as I suspected. Apart from some minor details. I’m also glad there won’t be any more delays to the Manchester train, because I know the two of them wouldn’t dare lie to me.’

  Mr Morton drains the beer and stands up. He’s huffing and pulling his suit jacket down over his stomach. The buttons are all strained, but luckily they remain in place.

  ‘Thank you Mr Knapp. I owe you a drink,’ he says, squeezing out of the booth. ‘I’ll be in touch in regards to future numbers Mr Knapp,’ he says, ‘and of course subsequent pickups.’ Mr Morton starts to waddle out of the pub, then half turns to the men, ‘Paul come here. Walk with me.’

  Paul jogs up to him and Mr Morton says, ‘Actually I’ve been wanting to see you about something entirely different, but I’ve got a prior engagement I have to honour.’ Paul nods and Mr Morton continues past the doorman, ‘Can you come by my office? The one over the pub, not the other. Just ask any bartender. I can’t be bothered with the stairs today in all honesty. Eleven o’clock tonight suit you?’

  Without waiting for an answer Mr Morton turns around and starts berating his driver for not having the engine running, or the door open. He settles in the back seat sofa of his white and chrome Packard Big Eight. Mr Morton nods for Paul to close the car door. Then he nods to the driver and the car sets off. A fat Caesar on his way to quash barbarians in all known corners of his empire.

  Without a word to either Mr Knapp or the ox man, Paul walks to his bike and sets off. Later, in the coffeehouse, he can’t remember anything of the journey there. Sitting down with a pint of milk he feels unsteady, like an hour-old foal.

  Luckily Stanley is there, and he tells Paul that Miriam is in her flat just across the road. Stanley must have thought Paul had come to meet her. He tells Paul that Miriam was just over for a quick chat, a half-pint of milk, full cream. Paul buys a cheese and onion sandwich as well as some other things, and stands outside in the sun feeling the shivers slowly leave him. As much as they will for now, which is far from very much. Then he sees Miriam in one of the windows, walking back and forwards, slowly taking off her earrings. One seems to have become tangled in her hair, and it looks like she’s singing.

  Chapter 25

  Miriam opens the door and immediately looks over her shoulder. Not the kiss and cuddle he was expecting. Or needs.

  ‘Paul? What are you doing here? Come in quickly.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Are you busy? Should I go?’

  ‘Yes you should go. But now that you’re here come inside. Hurry.’

  He bends his head and scuttles in, and she quickly closes the door behind him.

  ‘Did anyone see you?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Thinking is not the same as knowing Paul. Sometimes you drive me crazy.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She stalks into the kitchen and starts banging pots and pans. All she achieves is spilling a bottle of milk and then, after he’s mopped it up, she puts on the kettle. He sits on a kitchen chair, looking at his hands. The little bag of presents he bought underneath the table. She leans back against the wall, her hands behind her, her face turned to him, inquisitive. Waiting for the water to boil.

  ‘I’m sorry. OK. You look pale, have you eaten properly?’ she says.

  Paul clears his throat unnecessarily and says, ‘I just had a funny morning. A little run-in with a Mr Knapp.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s a bookie over on Nine Elms Lane. I pick up messages from him a couple of times a week, nothing more. But today Mr Morton was there and he wasn’t pleased.’

  Miriam pales, lifts the boiling kettle off the hob with a shaky hand. Then she speaks in a hushed voice, ‘Why? Tell me you haven’t done something wrong. Or something stupid?’

  ‘No, no. It wasn’t that. It was about one of the people I deliver to. A Russian man who killed himself over a debt to Mr Morton. Nothing to do with me really, only I was the last of Mr Morton’s employees to see him. Only I never saw him.’

  ‘And did you tell all this to Mr Morton?’ she asks.

  ‘I told him what had happened, yes.’

  ‘And he seemed fine with that?’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough to know how he seemed, but he was happy enough when he left.’

  She thinks for a second, then nods and comes over to him. Puts a hand on his shoulder. Her foot brushing the bag under the table.

  ‘What’s in this?’ she asks.

  ‘Just some scones, some chocolates. These little white hearts with sprinkles.’

  ‘From across the road?’


  ‘Yes, Stanley told me they were very nice. That a lot of girls come in for them. Or at least that a lot of men come in to buy them for women.’

  ‘So someone saw you come in here?’

  ‘He told me you were home. But I mean he’s harmless.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You have to be more careful. I’m not in any safer a position than Ilya.’

  ‘You know about him?’

  ‘Of course I do. I saw how upset Mr Morton was when he found out how much money he had lost. It wasn’t pretty. I just didn’t know that you were involved.’

  ‘I’m not involved.’

  ‘You are. We all are. Everyone is.’

  ‘I don’t want to be.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  The kettle whistles and she makes them a pot of tea so strong he thinks she’s trying to punish him. The only smile he seems to be able to get out of her is when she tastes one of the little chocolates. But then again, that’s maybe more Stanley’s smile than his. ‘Mr Morton asked me to come back later in the evening,’ Paul says as she refills his teacup. He really doesn’t want any more tea, but feels it would be rude to decline.

  ‘That’s not good.’

  ‘It might just be about the cycling. You know I’ve been doing these competitions for him. Special evenings.’

  ‘But usually he wouldn’t ask you. He would deal with Silas wouldn’t he?’

  ‘So far yes. But I don’t think Silas likes these things, the competitions.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘No, but I don’t have the luxury of a choice. Some things I’m just told to do.’

  He reaches for the milk. Miriam sits back. Looking content for the first time since he showed up at the door. She reaches for him, puts her hands on his forearms, and looks him in the eye.

  ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been drawn into this whole mess.’

  ‘But I’ve been drawn in with you.’

  There’s silence for a moment. ‘Come here you big oaf.’

  He forces himself to return her smile. ‘No, you come here.’

  She stands up, brushes some scone crumbs off her skirt and walks around the table to him. Sits on his lap and puts one hand in his hair.