by Len Deighton
'It's me. Ferdy. I'm in my car.' 'I've had this one fitted in the bed — pretty wild, eh?' 'Yes, I know. I'm awfully sorry but I've got to talk with you. Will you come down and open the front door?' 'And it couldn't wait until morning?' I asked. 'Don't be a pig,' said Marjorie. 'Go down and let him in.' She yawned and pulled the bedclothes up over her face. I couldn't blame her, she seldom had the luxury of seeing me turned out in the middle of the night.
'It's life and death.'
'It had better be,' I said, and hung up.
'You talk to him as though he's a child,' said Marjorie. 'He's much older than you are.'
'He's older, richer and better-looking. And he smokes.'
'You haven't started again? I'm proud of you, darling. It's nearly two months isn't it?'
'Sixty-one days, five hours, and thirty-two minutes.'
'It's not even fifty days.'
'Must you ruin my best lines?' I shook the token box of matches on my bedside table and put it back unused. There wasn't a pack in the house or I might have succumbed. I'd even refused the cigars at Ferdy's. It was sometimes difficult net to feel very proud of myself. I pulled on some clothes: evening-dress trousers and a turtle-neck sweater. 'I'll talk with him in the sitting-room,' I said, switching off the bedside lights.
There was no answer. Marjorie had acquired the knack of instant sleep. I yawned.
I let Ferdy in and sat him down in the sitting-room. There was last night's cocoa in the saucepan. I lit a flame under it and set up cups in the kitchen so that I had an excuse for waking up in easy stages. Ferdy paced the sitting-room carpet in enough agitation to make his hands shake as he lit the inevitable cigar.
'Just don't offer me one,' I said.
He stirred the cocoa dutifully but did. not even sip it 'Now perhaps you will believe me,' he said. He fixed me with a beady stare but revised his opening each time his opened his mouth. 'I don't know where to begin,' he said.
'For God's sake, sit down, Ferdy.'
He was wearing his impresario's overcoat: black loden with a collar of curly astrakhan. Ten years ago it would have been old-fashioned. He sat down and slipped it back off his shoulders in a matronly gesture. 'This is a rum district.'
'It's a lousy neighbourhood,' I agreed. He looked round the dust-covered room, at the wad of paper that levelled the clock, the stains on the sofa, the burned carpet and the books that all had bargain prices pencilled on the flyleaf. 'You could do better than this over my way.'
'I was thinking that, Ferdy. Why don't you legally adopt me?'
'You don't know what happened tonight.'
'Schlegel kicked Boudin?'
'What? Oh, I see.' He scowled and then gave a perfunctory smile to acknowledge that it was a joke. 'They've attacked poor old Tolly.'
'Who?'
'Toliver. Ben Toliver the M.P. You were with him tonight'
'Who attacked him?'
'It's a long story, Patrick.'
'We've got all night,' I yawned.
'The bloody Russians attacked him. That's who.'
'You'd better start at the beginning.'
'The phone went tonight just before you left. Toliver was followed. He has a phone in his car so he called me on his way back. When you'd gone, I took Teresa's car and went to meet him.
'You sound pretty bloody calm about it. Why didn't you phone the police?'
'Yes, I've started at the wrong place. I should have told you that Toliver works for the Secret Service… now, don't pull a face. I'm telling the absolute truth, and you can ask anyone…'
'What do you mean, I can ask anyone? How the hell would anyone know?'
'Anyone who is anyone knows,' said Ferdy primly.
'O.K., Ferdy, that puts me down. But this no one remains unconvinced.'
'Just for a moment suspend your hatred of Toliver…'
'I don't hate Toliver… It's just his teeth."
'Yes, you do, and I understand why you do:, but if you really knew him, you'd like him.'
'On account of him being in the Secret Service.'
'Do you want me to tell you?'
'I'm not desperate about it, Ferdy. I was asleep when all this car-telephoning started.'
'Forget the car-telephoning,' said Ferdy. 'I know that irritates you, too.'
'For God's sake get on with it.' From the next room Marjorie shouted for us to make less noise. I whispered, 'Toliver runs the Secret Service and was being followed while he phoned you from his Bentley. Let's move on to where you arrived. What sort of car was following him?'
'It wasn't exactly a car,' said Ferdy doubtfully. 'It was an enormous eight-wheeled lorry. I know you won't believe me but I saw it.'
'And he was in the Bentley? He could do a ton in that Job without putting his foot on the floor.'
'At first there was an old Humber Estate behind him. He realized that it was following him, so he slowed right down trying to make it overtake. It was then that the big tea-ton job overtook both cars. He was sandwiched. The lorry was doing fifty or more; while the Humber pushed him close, the lorry swung out to prevent him overtaking.'
'Nice fellows.'
The Humber was hitting the back bumper. Tolly was scared stiff.'
'You could hear him on the phone?'
"Yes, he'd put it on the seat but he was shouting. Then the truck slammed on the brakes. It was a wonder that they didn't kill Tolly.'
'They weren't trying to do that.'
'How can you be so sure?'
'I can't be sure, Ferdy, but people who'd go to all that trouble and expense… well, it would be easier to make it a fatal accident than a non-fatal one.'
'Tolly always has his seat belt on.'
'Where were you all this time?'
'I came up behind the Plumber right at the end. They were too busy to notice.'
'What happened when they stopped?'
'I stopped too, well ahead, and ran back. They still didn't see me. They had opened the doors of Tolly's car and were trying to drag him out.'
'He was fighting them?'
'No,' said Ferdy. 'Tolly was unconscious, He still is. That's why I came to you. If Tolly had been well enough I would have asked him what to do. They were speaking Russian. You think I'm joking but they were speaking good Russian: regional accents of some sort but only slight. They were townspeople — some Polish vowels in there somewhere — forced to guess I might say Lvov.'
'Never mind the Professor Higgins stuff, Ferdy. What happened then?'
'Yes, I should have told you. The ten-tonner clipped the Bentley close as he pulled ahead trying to make him stop. Ripped Tolly's offside wing off… shook Tolly, I should think.'
'It would gain anyone's attention.'
'A police car came past just after we all stopped. They thought it was an accident. The whole side of the Bentley was dented and torn… the wing bent back. No one could have missed seeing it.'
'And what did the Russians do when the police arrived?'
'So now you're beginning to see they are Russians — good.'
'What did they do?'
'You know what they do — licences, insurance, breathalyser tests.'
'But Toliver was unconscious.'
They let me take him home. The others were all with the police when I left. I pretended that I'd arrived at the same time as the police. None of them realized I knew what it was all about.'
'Drink your cocoa.'
I know you think I treat him badly, but I knew Ferdy Foxwell of old. I'm telling you, we could well be talking about a perfectly normal traffic shunt: two drivers with powerful scouse accents arguing with a drunken Toliver who'd nearly killed them going through a red light.
'I got the registration numbers both for the Albion lorry and the Humber Estate. Will you find out about it? And see what the police did with the Russians?'
'I'll do what I can.'
Tomorrow?'
'Very well.'
'And, Patrick. You must remember that Toliver really is working for the B
ritish Secret Service.'
'What difference will that make?'
'What I mean is… don't let your prejudice mislead you.'
'Look, Ferdy. Toliver is a drunk. They kicked him out of that Cabinet Office job he had, because he was a drunk. And they have put up with some very drunk people in the past.'
'He's still an M.P.,' said Ferdy.
'The chances of him remaining one after the next election are very slim. But the point I was going to make was that Toliver was a member of the Party back in 'forty-five and 'forty-six. He'd never be considered for a high security clearance, let alone a job in the Service.'
'How do you know? About him being a communist, I mean.'
I'd read it in Toliver's file many years ago but I could hardly tell Ferdy that. 'It's an open secret. Ask anyone.'
He smiled. 'He was at Oxford a year ahead of me, another college, but our paths crossed now and again. He had a rough time there. His father gave him only a very tiny allowance. We all had cars and a little spending money but poor old Tolly did some lousy job in the evenings to make ends meet. Never saw him at parties. The trouble was that he wasn't all that bright. Of course, it's no crime being average, no crime at all, but it meant he had to get his nose into the books whenever he wasn't: washing dishes or whatever he did. It's enough to make anyone join the communists, isn't it?'
'You're breaking my heart. What about the poor bastards who didn't even get as far as grammar school. And some of them a lot more intelligent than Toliver at his brightest and most sober.'
'You don't like him, I know. It's difficult to see the situation when there are personal feelings involved.'
'Ferdy, you're in no position to pronounce judgment on people who are less than bright. Or those who let personal feelings warp their judgment. Toliver is not a part of any intelligence service and I'll bet everything I own on that.'
'Do you still want the registration number?'
'O.K. But just get it clear in your mind that Toliver is nothing to do with the British Secret Service and that these men were not Russians. Or at least not Russian spies.'
'Then who were they?'
'I don't know who they were, Ferdy. Maybe they were claret salesmen or a delegation of well-wishers from the Good Food Guide. But they were not Russian spies. Now do me a favour, and go home and forget it.'
'But you'll check the registration?'
'I'll check the registration.'
'I'd go, but with the tacgame Schlegel would — '
' — kill you with his bare hands. You're right.'
'You think it's funny, but did it occur to you that Schlegel might be behind this whole thing?'
'Because he crossed swords with Toliver tonight? If that's enough reason, why couldn't I be behind the whole thing?'
'I had to take a chance on someone,' said Ferdy, and I realized that he had given that possibility a lot of thought.
'I'll send a message to Schlegel that I'll be late.'
Ferdy bit his lip at the thought of it. 'He won't like it.'
'No, but I won't be around to hear, you will.'
Outside, the traffic lights had changed: a sports car with a broken silencer accelerated past a milk truck that rattled noisily as it went over a newly repaired patch in the road.
'I'd never get used to that traffic all night,' said Ferdy.
'We can't all live in two acres of Campden Hill, Ferdy,' I said. 'It would get so damned crowded.'
'Oh dear. No offence. I just mean, I don't know how you ever get to sleep.'
'No? Well buzz off and I'll let you know.'
'Yes, right-ho. Was there anything else then?'
That's what I like about the Foxwells of the world — was there anything else then, as if he'd already done me one favour.
Chapter Ten
The actions of the civil power will not be included in the TACWARGAME.
RULES. 'TACWARGAME'. STUDIES CENTRE. LONDON
The new security badges that Schlegel had arranged for us seemed a suitable device for impressing detective-sergeants of the Met. I pushed mine across the debris-laden desk of Sergeant Davis. He read it, one word at a time, looking for spelling mistakes, tried to prise the plastic facing off it, put some tension on the safety pin fixed to the back and bowed it between his fingers. Having passed the forensic tests it was tossed back onto the desk. It slipped down between files marked 'Life Saving (Cadets)' and 'Community Relations'. He watched mo as I fished it out and put it back in my pocket.
'So?' he said. 'So?' As if he'd found on it some affront: an insulting anagram or a sneer on the mouth of my identity photo.
'So nothing,' I said, but he was unappeased. He pushed aside heaps of dead paperwork, reshuffling bits of it almost without noticing. The Bentley.' He found a sheet of paper and read from it. 'Two forty-five ack-emma?' He was that Mud of policeman. Not only ack-emma, but skull-close haircut, and shoes polished on the sole.
'That's it.'
'And you are acting…?'
'For the driver — Toliver.'
'Unconscious.'
'Yes.'
He read his papers carefully and looked up. 'All that…' he screwed up his face trying to think of a word. 'All that… spy-now-pay-later, credit cards…' he flicked a finger at my pocket where I'd put the card. 'That cuts no ice with me. Nor does it being a Bentley.' He waved a hand, to tell me he hadn't finished. 'I'll tell you as much as I'd tell the kid on the local rag. No more, no less.'
A policewoman came into the room. She brought two mugs of tepid tea. His mug had a coloured photo of the Queen, mine had Peter Rabbit. 'Thanks, Mary.' He shuffled the papers again, hiding behind them coyly, like a flirtatious Edwardian opera-goer. 'Container lorry in collision with green Bentley…' He stopped reading and looked up. 'There's no mystery story. Traffic signals, hydraulic brakes, car driving too close — it happens a dozen times a day, and night.'
'You are not making it a police job?'
He looked at his watch. 'You people really earn your money, don't you. It's only ten past eight. I thought coppers and burglars were the only people up this early.'
'Are you?'
His voice rose a fraction. 'A police job? How could we? The breathalyser was O.K., licence, insurance, hours on duty, all. O.K. The lorry was halted at the red light, the damage to the Bentley was the offside front wing. Front wing speaks for itself, doesn't it? If your boss Toliver sent you down here to save his no-claim bonus he's unlucky, forget it.'
'Toliver is unconscious.
That's right, I forgot. Well, the answer's still the same.' He read a little more from his script and broke it down into baby-talk for me. 'The constable took the names of the lorry drivers but you can tell your boss he's wasting his time. The court will always take the policemen's evidence in a case like this, and they'll say your boy was following too close. If there was a careless driving charge to be made, he'd get it.'
'This could be more serious than just a traffic accident,' I said.
He whistled softly — to feign amazement. 'Are you trying to tell us something, Mr Armstrong?' The way he said 'us', it meant the police forces of the Western world.
'I'm trying to ask you something.'
'And I'm not getting it. Yes, I'm very dense this early on a Thursday morning.'
'But this is Tuesday.'
'No, it's not, it's… ah, I thought, you'd turn out to be a comedian.'
'Sergeant, a ten-ton truck stopping hard in front of a car would be a good way of killing a man, wouldn't it?'
'It would be a risky way of killing a man, Mr Armstrong, for a number of reasons. Motive, for a start: a fatality like that attracts enough paperwork for the connection to be noticed. Hell, we get enough allegations from strangers in collision.' He grabbed his thumb to tell me that was his first reason. 'I won't mention the traffic lights again but I will remind you that your boss is not dead…'
'He's not my boss.'
'Whoever he is, he's not dead. That's what proves it wasn't some maniac tryin
g to kill him. They must have put the brakes on carefully enough or he would have been buried somewhere inside the mesh of the lorry's differential. So don't tell me murder.'
Davis had mentioned the same flaw in Ferdy's allegation that I'd seen. There was no arguing it. Attempted murder was a possibility but a damned slim one. 'There was a Humber Estate just behind him.'
'Yes a whole procession of people driving up and down… Half the bloody world drives round London all night, didn't you know that? Beats me why they don't want to go home and get some sleep, but there they are every night. Anyway, all this lot arrived too late to see anything.'
'Did they?'
'What am I supposed to do, give them the water torture?'
'But if anything new turns up, you'll phone me?'
'O.K., Philip Marlowe, leave your name and phone number with the desk sergeant.'
'You are going to make it a traffic statistic, come what may, aren't you?' I said.
He looked through all his pockets for a cigarette but I failed to respond to my cue. Finally he had to walk across the room and get his own packet from his raincoat. He didn't offer them. He took one out and lit it carefully, held up his gold-plated Dunhill and snapped the top closed at arm's length. Then he sat down and almost smiled. 'We have a witness, that's why, Mr Armstrong. Fair enough? Can I get on with my work now?'
'What witness?'
'There was a lady in the car with Toliver. She signed a statement for us before the doctor gave her a sedative, It was an accident-no panic, no murder, just one of those traf Sc statistics you mentioned.'
'Who?'
He took out a little black book. 'Miss Sara Shaw, The Terrine du Chef — a French restaurant, sounds like, eh? You go and put your foot in her door but watch out that she doesn't send for the police.' He smiled. 'Put your foot in it but don't put your foot in it, if you see what I mean.'
I got to my feet and waved goodbye. 'You didn't finish your tea,' he said.
He'd pulled that damned witness out of Ids helmet and now he was very pleased with himself. I said, 'Can I have the names and addresses of the lorry drivers?'
'Now, you know I'm not supposed to do that,' but he turned the sheets of paper over to find it. Then he twisted the page round so that it faced my side of the desk and got up and walked away so that I could read it.
