by Eric Brown
Pamela pulled a face. ‘Likely story! He was all over Royce when they met. “Yes, Mr Royce. No, Mr Royce …” I reckon he was on to a good thing with Roycey, I do.’
‘You were about to tell me that Harker introduced Royce to someone.’
‘That’s right. I heard Mr Harker say he’d put Royce in touch with an acquaintance. The chap had a strange name … Ventnor, Vent … Venture? He was foreign, anyway. He came in here once and asked to see Mr Harker – a small, dark little man. An Eyetie, maybe.’
‘Venture …’ Ryland repeated. ‘And that’s all you know about him? No phone number?’
Pamela squinted towards the office, leaned forward and whispered, ‘I think Mr Venture was one of Mr Harker’s dodgy contacts, so he didn’t keep anything like his phone number or address on the record.’
‘You’ve been a star, Pamela,’ Ryland said. He fished a ten-shilling note from his wallet and passed it to the startled girl. ‘Buy yourself a little something, on me.’
‘Why … That’s very kind of you, Mr Ryland.’
He made to go, then paused. ‘And how would you like to come and work as my secretary, one day? I plan to expand my little operation and move into the West End pretty soon, and we’ll need someone with their head screwed on the right way to man the front desk.’
‘Straight up?’ Pamela beamed at him. ‘Be more exciting than this place, I can tell you.’
‘Then I’ll be in touch,’ Ryland said. He gave her a wink and tripped from the gallery.
The sooner Pamela was out of there, the better, he thought. She’d go far, that girl.
He sat in the car for a few minutes, considering what to do next, then drove south. He’d check the address Don had seen Wilson Royce entering on Thursday, and with luck talk to the blonde piece whom Don had glimpsed drawing the curtains soon after Royce’s arrival.
He considered Harker and what he’d learned. Of all the people he met in this line of business, straight and bent, good and bad – and not all the bent were bad, in his opinion, nor the straight good – the likes of Mr Harker struck him as the lowest of the low. He hid his true self behind a veneer of respectability, and expected the world to take him at face value. Well, he’d seen through Harker’s guise to the greedy, scheming con man that lurked beneath.
He turned on to the King’s Road, drove for half a mile, then indicated right and pulled up outside number twenty-two.
He peered up at the three-story Regency town house. Nice, he thought. Mr Royce certainly liked to consort with those in the swim.
He climbed the steps to the front door. He’d expected to find multiple doorbells signifying that the house had been subdivided into separate flats by greedy property developers cashing in on the housing shortage after the war. To his surprise, there was only one bell – a big brass thing in the centre of the red-painted door. He pushed it and waited.
The door opened almost immediately, and a classy blonde in her later twenties, wearing a flaring summer dress and high heels, peered out at him.
‘Not today, thank you,’ she said. She carried a handbag and was clearly on her way out.
‘Beatrice Reynolds?’ he asked.
The woman looked surprised. ‘And you are?’
Ryland showed her his accreditation. ‘I’d like a few words, if I may.’
‘I am in rather a hurry.’
‘This won’t take a minute,’ he said. He’d give Wilson Royce this: he had taste when it came to women. This one was a looker, and no mistake. A slim version of Diana Dors, without the puppy fat, and posh with it.
Beatrice looked at her tiny gold wristwatch. ‘I have a taxi due in two minutes …’
‘Won’t keep you that long,’ Ryland assured her. ‘Don’t even need to go inside.’
‘Very well, what is it? Don’t tell me – Wilson Royce, right?’
‘How did you guess?’ Ryland smiled.
‘What’s the young fool done now?’
‘That’s what I’d like to find out,’ he said. ‘Always getting himself into trouble, is he?’
‘What’s the phrase?’ she said, squinting against the sunlight. ‘“Sailing too close to the wind”? That’s what Wilson does.’
‘Buying and selling, wheeling and dealing?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Paintings and the like?’
‘He’s mentioned selling the occasional piece, yes.’
‘Did he ever tell you about a contact of his, a Mr Venture?’
‘Mr Venture?’ She looked puzzled. ‘Oh, you mean Mr Venturi? His business partner, he calls him. He’s mentioned him in passing.’
‘Mr Venturi …’ Ryland repeated. ‘Do you happen to know his first name? Or anything about him?’
Beatrice frowned. ‘Paolo, Primo? I’m sure it began with a P. And all I know is that Wilson mentioned he was a displaced person, and came to England after the war.’
‘I don’t suppose you have his address?’
‘I’m sorry. I never met the man. Wilson’s just mentioned him once or twice. Oh,’ she said. ‘Do excuse me. Here’s my taxi. Must dash.’
Ryland touched his forelock as she hurried down the steps. ‘Have a pleasant day,’ he called out. ‘And thank you.’
Mr P. Venturi, he thought as he climbed back into his car and drove south to Lewisham. There would be dozens of Venturis in the phone book, no doubt, but at least it was a lead.
Well, he could forget Wilson bloody Royce for the rest of the day and enjoy the match this afternoon. He was cheered by the thought of the new football season, and the hope of a better showing for Millwall than last year’s poor finish. And his boys were fired up for the match, too.
Annie was up to her elbows in soap suds, washing up, when he arrived home.
He crept up behind her, slapped her bottom and kissed the back of her neck.
She jumped. ‘You devil, Ralph!’ she cried, flicking soap at him.
‘Who’d you think it was?’
‘Cary Grant,’ she said. She pointed to the kitchen table ‘Sit down. I’ve made you a sandwich. Corned beef and pickle.’
His eight year-old, Terry, charged into the kitchen, making a hell of a racket with his football rattle. ‘Come on the Lions!’ he cried.
‘Save it for the match, Terry,’ Ryland said, aiming a punt at the boy’s backside. ‘Go on, scarper.’
‘Oh,’ Annie said, drying her hands. ‘Harry from Brixton rang. He says he’s done that key you wanted. He’ll meet you after the match at the Nag’s Head.’
‘Diamond geezer.’ He’d pick up the key later, and first thing Monday morning he’d drive up to Chelsea and have a poke round Wilson Royce’s place.
‘And I don’t want you taking the boys into no pub after the match, Ralph,’ Annie said, pouring two cups of strong tea.
‘I’ll only have a half, and we’ll stand outside, I promise.’
‘Don’t want them turned into boozers,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what’ve you been up to all morning?’
She sat across the table from him and gave him a lovely smile, which lit up her face and made her look ten years younger.
He munched his sandwich and told her all about Mr Harker and his posh gallery.
THIRTEEN
Langham caught up with Pandora and they hurried towards Connaught’s study.
‘I saw Haxby race into the house,’ she said, ‘just after he’d had his audience with Connaught. He was spitting blood. And just now I passed him on the stairs, waving his revolver.’
Ahead, Langham made out the shambling figure of the colonel as he approached the study.
‘Stay here,’ he advised the artist. By now Maria and Charles had caught up with him, and he told them to remain where they were.
‘Was the colonel drunk?’ he asked Pandora.
‘Have you ever seen him sober?’
‘Wonderful.’
He took off, running after the drunken old soldier. He heard Maria calling out to be careful and raised a hand in acknow
ledgement. Haxby hobbled past Connaught’s study and continued on towards the cliff’s edge. Langham, at once relieved that Haxby was not bent on homicide, now feared what he might be contemplating.
He passed the study and ran down the sloping lawn.
‘Colonel!’ he called out.
The old soldier appeared to jump at the summons, though it was hard to tell as his artificial leg gave his gait a perpetual jerkiness. He came to the edge of the cliff and paused, looking frantically right and left.
‘Colonel,’ Langham said. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing, but why not put the pistol down and talk to me?’
The colonel moved a step closer towards the edge and peered down. He stepped forward, and for a terrible second Langham thought he’d pitched himself over the edge.
Only then did he see that Haxby had found the precipitous stairway that dropped down the face of the cliff, and for whatever reason was stumping down towards the jetty.
Langham came to the top step and, nausea rising from his stomach, peered down.
‘Colonel!’
Haxby ignored the call and continued his awkward descent.
Twenty-five feet down the cliff face, the old soldier turned and looked up. He swayed, blinking in the sunlight, then called out, ‘You can’t stop me, Langham. I advise you to …’ He trailed off and continued his descent.
Langham turned to see Maria, Charles and Pandora approach him across the lawn. ‘I thought I told you to—’
‘And have you been shot by the drunkard?’ Maria retorted.
Far below, the colonel had stopped at a point in the stairway that appeared to have crumbled. He was staring at the concrete step as if contemplating the wisdom of going on.
He sat down suddenly, his artificial leg sticking out over the edge, and slumped back against the rock. He looked back up the stairway, and Langham thought he saw desperation on the man’s face.
He lifted the revolver to his temple and held it there.
Langham’s stomach turned.
Against all his instincts, he found himself moving. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, fighting the rising nausea and pushing himself to descend. His every instinct cried at him to lie down.
‘Donald!’ Maria shouted.
He heard Charles reassuring her and called over his shoulder, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’
Down below, the old soldier pressed the barrel of the revolver to his greying temple and screwed his eyes shut.
‘Colonel, please … I can help you.’
He reached out to the uneven cliff face, his legs trembling with every downward step. Far below, waves broke against the base of the cliff. It was a long way down – a hundred feet or more – and his gaze was drawn, against his better judgement, to the pounding surf.
He stopped, dragged in a lungful of sea air, and fought to control the shaking that had seized his entire body. He paused, closed his eyes and felt a little better.
The shriek of a seagull startled him, and he opened his eyes. All he needed now, he thought, was the attention of an angry gull.
On a grassy ledge three feet above him, the bird regarded him with its beady eyes.
The colonel called out, ‘Stay where you are, Langham. I know you’re on his side!’
The fact that the colonel was willing to enter into dialogue gave him hope. ‘I’m on no one’s side, Colonel – least of all Connaught’s.’
He moved again, ignoring the pathetic trembling of his leg muscles, and descended step by painful step.
The old soldier was staring out to sea, the gun barrel still pressed to his temple.
Langham ventured, ‘It’s no way out, you know? Think of what you went through in the war. Did you face the threat of the Nazis just for it to end like this?’
‘You’ve no idea!’ Haxby shouted bitterly.
‘Then tell me,’ Langham said, moving ever closer. ‘Listen to me, Colonel. Whatever you might think, there’s no love lost between Connaught and me. If you want to know the truth, I don’t particularly like the man.’
‘He’s a monster!’ Haxby cried.
He was a dozen steps above the drunken old soldier now, and he was convinced that, had Haxby truly intended to put a bullet through his head, he would have done so already.
If he could only reach Haxby, talk to him and gain his trust …
‘Tell me what happened,’ Langham said.
‘I … like a bloody fool, I obeyed his … his damned summons and went along.’
‘And what did he want?’
The colonel didn’t reply. He tightened his grip on the butt of the revolver and pressed the barrel to his skull with greater determination.
‘Colonel,’ Langham called. ‘We can talk this over. I can help you, but I need to know what Connaught said.’
Haxby turned his head. For a terrible second, Langham thought that he was doing so in order to look into the eyes of another human being as he ended his life: there was a strange, almost fatalistic expression on the man’s face.
Langham pleaded, ‘Colonel, put the gun down, and then we can talk.’
He was just ten feet from Haxby now and getting closer with every step. When he reached him, he’d sit down a little way off, gain his confidence and talk.
He looked up. High above, a line of bobbing heads showed above the ragged line of the cliff edge: Maria, Charles and Pandora had been joined by two others, whose identity Langham could not make out. The sight of the peering heads, dark and rendered featureless against the bright blue sky, struck him as comical.
He turned his attention to Haxby and took another step. Amazingly, his nausea was abating; his heartbeat had slowed and he no longer felt dizzy. He still had the urge to press himself flat against solid earth, well away from the vertiginous drop, but that was an impossibility at the moment …
He was six feet above Haxby and stretched out his right hand so that he might receive the revolver. ‘Give it to me,’ he murmured as he took another couple of steps.
The colonel regarded him with his rheumy eyes. The hand gripping the revolver was shaking. Langham hoped he wouldn’t pull the trigger by mistake.
Slowly, he lowered himself on to a crumbling stone step and sat down.
Surprising him, the colonel said, ‘Would … would you like a drink?’
He was tempted to say that perhaps the last thing they should do now, given the circumstances, was to consume alcohol – but he feared the old man’s reaction to a rebuttal and elected to accept the offer in the spirit of camaraderie.
He nodded. Haxby lowered the gun, placed it in his lap and pulled a small flask from his blazer pocket. Langham exhaled with relief.
The colonel took a swig from the flask and passed it to Langham.
He took the flask and pretended to drink, not allowing any of the brandy to pass his lips, and handed it back to Haxby.
The old soldier took another mouthful, smacked his lips, then said, ‘Known him more than twenty years …’
Langham nodded. ‘How did you meet?’
‘At the Savile Club. Both liked a drop, y’see. Late at night, before the open fire, righting the wrongs of the world. Thought him a decent chap. Sound head on his shoulders. Didn’t know he’d turn out to be a conchie – this was before the war, y’see.’ He took another swig of brandy and passed it to Langham, who again faked taking a mouthful and returned the flask.
‘What happened?’
The colonel blinked; he appeared confused. He took another long drink, belched, and this time did not pass the flask.
Langham considered the revolver sitting precariously in the colonel’s flannel lap. He could easily make a grab for it, but that would merely risk a scuffle and endanger them both. Best to sit tight and talk.
‘What do you mean, “What happened?”’ Haxby asked.
‘Back then,’ Langham said, ‘to make Connaught want to apologize now?’
Haxby shook his head, as if the memory was too painful to relate. His
lips were puce, the same colour as the lattice of broken veins threading his cheeks.
At last he said, ‘Killed a man.’
Langham blinked. ‘Killed a man? You killed a man?’
‘Me?’ The colonel hiccupped. ‘Killed plenty in me time. Jerries, that is. No, no … Connaught. He killed a man.’
‘Connaught?’ Langham said incredulously.
The colonel waved. ‘Killed a man,’ he said, ‘and wanted to apologize to me.’
‘But why?’
Haxby sat back against the rock, nursed the brandy flask and wept. ‘Killed a man dead, he did, and didn’t have the guts to admit as much!’
‘When was this, Colonel?’
‘When? ’Thirty-four, it’d be …’
‘And who did he kill?’
Haxby shook his head. ‘I … I can’t rightly recall who.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘How? How do I know? B’cause I was ruddy well there, on the scene! I was bloody well …’
Then, without warning, the old soldier’s head fell forward and his eyes flickered shut, out for the count. The flask slipped from his grip and hit the ground, and instinctively Langham made a grab for it. He caught the flask before it tumbled over the edge, and felt a sudden – if ridiculous – sense of achievement.
He took the revolver from Haxby’s lap and ensured that the safety catch was fastened. He slipped it into his jacket pocket, alongside the flask, and regarded the unconscious old soldier.
Now here’s a pretty problem, he thought; here I am, perched halfway up the side of a cliff with an unconscious old drunk and a personal fear of heights …
He stood shakily and climbed a dozen steps, then looked up and hissed, ‘Maria!’
She peered down at him. ‘What is happening, Donald?’
‘The colonel’s unconscious. Now listen to me – I need a rope, a long rope. Rouse the butler and rustle one up, would you?’
‘A rope? Oui. I am going now.’
She disappeared, along with the other heads.
Five minutes later – though it seemed much longer to Langham – she appeared bearing a coiled rope and held it up. ‘And now what, Donald?’
He pointed. ‘Tie one end securely to that tree over there and throw the other end down to me.’
