A Killer for a Song

by John Gardner

  He frowned, picked up a few sheets of the flimsy notepaper, and stuffed them into his cheeks. It was now Boysie Oakes with a false moustache and padded cheeks, but the gendarme had not really got a good look at him. It was just audacious enough to work. If his nerve held. Strangely, for Boysie, his nerve was managing very well. He had to get out; if he stayed in semi-custody there would be no chance. He had to put himself in a position from whence he could get whoever had killed Mostyn - and, presumably, the others. He would not do that by sitting on his backside being humiliated by Couperose, or interrogated by the coppers.

  He rose and took a long look at himself. It was still not quite right. The moustache tickled and the paper tasted odd in his mouth. He ruffled his hair and assumed a stoop. It might pass. The only way to find out was to go and try it.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and walked firmly into the corridor. The gendarme outside the next room hardly glanced at him. The remainder of the corridor was empty, except for a man at the lift.

  He closed the door and went through a pretence of locking it before walking, in a somewhat shambling stooped gait, towards the lift.

  The uniformed man at the end of the corridor looked at him with interest as he approached. Boysie merely nodded, passing the lift, turning to the right and going down the stairs.

  There was a lot of activity in the foyer, but nobody stopped him, or even seemed to notice him. In a matter of minutes he was out on the pavement and making his way towards the Place Charles De Gaulle.

  After half-a-dozen paces the moustache fell off.

  ***

  Boysie felt a great deal safer once he reached the Champs Élysées. It was a mild night, the traffic was chocked solid and the pavements crowded. Tourists, as easily recognisable as tramps at a garden party, jostled with the evening strollers; men in shirtsleeves gesticulating deep in political argument; couples arm in arm who did the route every night; middle-aged lovers grasping for a final fling; executive white hunters in search of pleasure, and the buoyant young, bejeaned, T-shirted, or decked in their own particular fashions: unquenchable, immortal, though certainly not invisible.

  The cafés were crowded - raked amphitheatres viewing the evening’s ever-changing entertainment. Boysie spat out the paper from his mouth, depositing it in a litter bin, took off his glasses, wanted to nip into the nearest café for a quick double fine, thought better of it, and wondered where the hell he should go now.

  A whore? Hardly. If the police really were going to hold him responsible for Mostyn’s death, they would be asking the whores.

  Then he remembered Zizi Portobello.

  ***

  The hotel was in one of the many side streets behind the Opera. Chiliman knew it well enough for it had a small reputation: half-hotel, half-brothel.

  The room was on the second floor, which pleased Chiliman. Stairs were becoming more difficult these days. He tapped at the door and there was some scrabbling from inside. He tapped again and Gest opened up. He was naked except for a towel around his waist. A girl was lying on the bed, a sheet thrown over her.

  “I wasn’t expecting you.” Gest opened the door wider and Chiliman entered. He could not take his eyes off the girl.

  “Can we ...?”

  “She’s all right. She knows.” Gest was irritated.

  “Well, James?” wheezed Chiliman.

  “There’s been a balls.”

  “How?”

  “Mostyn’s dead, but the other had to be left. A bungle.”

  “Then it had better be unbungled, fast.”

  “They confined him to his room. I think they were going to nail him for it. But he’s out: loose. There’s just been a newsflash.” The television flickered silently in a corner, the sound turned down.

  Chiliman began to laugh. “That’s rich, James. They were the last two. Only those two and it would have been finished.”

  “Well, there’s only one now, and the police are looking for him.”

  “Then you’d better start looking as well. I want him dead, James. You fix it. I want him dead, quickly.”

  “He has to be found first; it’ll take time.”

  “You get it done.”

  “I’ve got a rehearsal in the morning.”

  “I’m not talking about the morning. I want him found as from tonight. Where would you go if you were a lone Englishman on the run in Paris?”

  “He must have contacts.”

  “Find out. I pay you and I expect results. I don’t expect you to spend the night whoring.”

  “I didn’t think time was important.”

  “It is now. Where would you run to?”

  “A safe house.”

  “Quite, but where? We don’t know what facilities he has. Would you try and make it back in his shoes?”

  “No, not unless there was a special route primed for me. He’s got too much running against him. If it was me I’d go for something outlandish, or something long out of my past - a safe house nobody knows: an old friend perhaps.”

  “Well then. There is an old friend. Let’s hope he thinks the same way, but try to cover every contingency.”

  “I’ll try. All hell will be breaking out in London I’d imagine. They’ll be pulling all the stops out.”

  “And putting new ones in.”

  Chiliman smiled as though it was a luxury he could ill afford.

  X - DESCANT

  Additional part, sung (sometimes improvised) above a given melody

  THE Minster’s PPS called just after eight o’clock. The Minister wanted to see him immediately. It meant only one thing, and that worried William Edith. Mostyn was either incapacitated, had resigned, or was dead.

  He dialled the Department number and asked for the Duty Officer, but he was not available. William Edith repeated his name, coming on heavy, but was again told, more firmly this time, that the Duty Officer was not free to take calls.

  He thanked the operator in his soft quiet voice which emphasised the sibilants, went into his bathroom, washed his hands with great care, replacing the soap and nail brush with an exactitude which bordered on obsession.

  Glancing in the mirror he felt the well-known reaction which always baulked his vanity. His face was too fleshy and, to him, the slightly twisted neck muscles always appeared exaggerated. He stayed looking for long enough to ensure that the long, springy and tightly curled hair was neat. Neatness was definitely an obsession.

  There were few who liked William Edith, but he was not in a competition to be the most loved man in the world. He knew that he was disliked, and he did not care very much.

  They did not like his manner, his particular brand of ruthlessness, wayward moodiness or occasional bursts of violent temper; neither did they care for his capacity for prolonged concentration, his single-mindedness, and overt ambitions. They also had stupid reasons for disliking him : his scrupulous memos, files, and organisation; his methodical tidiness and the way in which he dressed - the Ministry and the Department preferred conservative clothes. William Edith owned only one suit, had no taste regarding colour, and his build did not easily lend itself to elegance. Nobody liked senior officers who went around in roll necks or T-shirts and jeans.

  William Edith appeared to many as a little man - he was only five foot six (five foot nine when he wore the ludicrous platform soles) and his many enemies felt that his pettiness was simply a reflection of his small stature. Outwardly, William Edith did not care; inwardly, in the most classified recesses of his mind, he knew there was some truth in the idea.

  He was also mean and only used his spotless red mini when it was essential. Tonight he went by tube, taking the District Line from Hammersmith to Westminster, and walking the rest of the way.

  The Minister wrinkled his nose when they showed Edith into his office - he had never forgotten their first interview, some three years before, when Edith had sported multi-coloured canvas shoes, a shoulder bag and a Mickey Mouse watch.

  “We have a grave situation,�
�� he said, not daring to look up. “Colonel Mostyn was killed in Paris tonight.”

  “I’m sorry.” Edith did not sound sorry.

  “It means that your takeover will now have to be brought forward. Normally there would be no problem. DTS is a very small department these days, not like the old Department of Special Security, but it has inherited problems from the past.”

  “I’m aware of all that, Minister,” there was nothing conciliatory about Edith’s tone. “I have been an integral part of DTS since it was formed.”

  The Minister looked over his glasses. “Yes,” he sounded uncertain, but then he had never been totally in favour of retaining the nucleus of the Department of Special Security to regroup into the Department of Tactical Security - an organisation small and mobile enough to be used for exceptional operations, or to act as a front for other Departments. There were too many problems from the past, too much inner wheeling and dealing, not to mention scheming. “Yes,” he repeated, knowing that William Edith was one of the biggest scheming intrigue-masters in the entire service.

  “Just give me the facts, Minister; and your instructions.”

  “You’re to have full authority, Edith. You’re to takeover and go straight into the field. You know about a man called Oakes?”

  “I know all about Oakes.”

  “Did you know Mostyn had brought him in again?”

  “Yes.”

  “How dangerous is he?”

  “That shouldn’t concern you, Minister. That’s an internal problem. Why?”

  “He’s suspected of killing Mostyn.”

  Edith felt his back stiffen. “Oh?”

  “Gerard Couperose put him under technical arrest.”

  “Idiot.”

  “And he escaped. It makes for a very tricky diplomatic situation.”

  “Have they hushed the Mostyn business?”

  “His death?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Impossible. He was shot in his hotel room. There were Sûreté and Deuxième Bureau people all over. They’ve got a call out for Oakes now.”

  “Shit,” said Edith with little passion.

  “Quite, and now there are newsmen and television people crawling around. It’ll even be on our news tonight.”

  “Top Civil Servant shot in Paris hotel? That sort of thing?”

  “The only way to play it.”

  William Edith shrugged as though he wanted to pass responsibility to someone else.

  “The Department have been briefed,” said the Minister. “They’re expecting you now, and arrangements have been made for you to go to Paris tonight.”

  “It’s all a bit sudden.”

  “Death is like that.” The Minister looked up over his glasses.

  When he got outside, William Edith decided to walk to the DTS office. It would only take ten minutes and he needed that time to collect his thoughts. Despite his ambitions, William Edith had never intended matters to reach this stage. As he walked, his lips moved. Under his breath, he was using some very bad language. “Piss-piss-pissidy-piss,” he chanted.

  ***

  Zizi Portobello was really Griffin’s friend; Boysie had first met her through the good offices of Griffin when on an assignment in Paris. They had remained firm friends ever since. In fact, Boysie thought now, as he headed for the Metro, in all probability Griffin was visiting her: he had said he was going to see a friend, and Zizi was the obvious choice.

  He took the Metro to the Tuileries, for it was near there that the adorable Zizi was quartered in some splendour in a luxury apartment designed to cushion her from the harsher realities of living. She appeared to have a bottomless income which provided her with clothes from the most exclusive couturiers, a Bentley motorcar and many other things which made life just that little bit more pleasant.

  Boysie had his theories about the source of her undisputed wealth, but he had never once even commented upon it. On leaving the Metro station he checked that nobody was tailing him, walking briskly to the block in which Zizi lived.

  Her face lit up, breaking into a wide and unrestrainedly beautiful smile, as she opened the door to his ring.

  “Boyzee,” she screeched. “You are zee limit. I was just having thoughts about you.”

  “Good ones, I hope.” Boysie stepped into the hall.

  “No, Boyzee, thoughts of great worry. You ‘ave been on zee - ’ow you say - zee pox?”

  “The box,” corrected Boysie, who was used to Zizi’s particular brand of colloquial English - he well remembered her once, in a romantic mood, saying that they were “like shits that passed in the night”. It was the only peculiar thing about her: age would not weary Zizi Portobello, nor would her special charm run out. From where Boysie stood, nothing had altered - the upturned nose with slightly flared nostrils, generous mouth and large brown eyes which always appeared to look upon the world with wonder.

  His eyes traversed the rest of her. She was built on lines which had never known austerity. Whoever did the design knew all about pulchritude. It was also possible that, once built, they had thrown away the mould. Stunning was a corny word when used about Zizi Portobello; it was also underestimating the effect. This one was made to drive men wild and make others dissatisfied with their lot-even if their lot happened to be a combination of Raquel Welch, Bardot and Germaine Greer.

  Boysie dragged his mind back from the obvious siding into which his natural sensuality was rapidly shunting him. It was a bumpy ride.

  “They’ve had me on television?” he queried: part pride and part fear.

  Zizi shrugged, gesturing him towards her living room. “Un’appily. The flicks are on your railroad ...”

  “On my track.”

  “Your track, yes. Zey say as ‘ow you ‘ave done somebody up.”

  Boysie followed her, eyes doing a square search of the rounded buttocks, tight inside exceptionally well-cut jeans: if ever there were nursery slopes these were they.

  “Mostyn,” he breathed.

  “Some Eenglish civilian waiter, zee television said.”

  “Civil Servant. They would call Mostyn a Civil Servant.” Boysie reflected that there had been little either civil or servile about Mostyn.

  “Zat ees what I said,” Zizi pouted. “Yes, Moustin, zat was his name. Did you do ‘im oop, Boyzee?”

  “No. Can I have a drink?” He spotted the groaning liquor table by the window. There must have been the makings of a couple of hundred hangovers there.

  “ ‘Elp yourself, I still have some champagne left. You are in zee soup, Boyzee.”

  “Up to my armpits,” he separated several fluid ounces of Remy Martin from its bottle. “Charlie been to see you, Zizi?”

  “Sharlie was ‘ere tonight, Boyzee. ‘Ee left before zee news on the pox.”

  “Box.”

  “But what am I to do for you, my darling? ‘Ow can I ‘elp you to make zee goaway?”

  “First you call Charlie, at the Baltimore.”

  “I tell ‘im you’re ‘ere?”

  “Not straight out you don’t. But you know Charlie well enough. You think you can let him know without actually telling him?”

  “Simple. I can make zee insinuation. I am good with zee insinuations.”

  It took only two minutes. She dialled the Baltimore and asked for Griffin’s room. A strange voice answered in French.

  Boysie had his ear pressed to the receiver, bringing his head into close contact with Zizi. Her hair smelled like summer and long nights in secluded beach hotels, but this did not stop him from gesturing violently for her to cut the call.

  She replaced the instrument and gave a nervous smile. “Zey will think I am a ‘eavy bleeder.”

  “Breather. That was a flick, I wonder what’s happened to Charlie.”

  “It ees not good,” she returned to her chair, picking up the champagne glass once more. “Zey are going to be brushing zee city for you.”

  “Combing,” corrected Boysie absent-mindedly.

  “Eet�
�s good to see you again, but I worry. You should not stay ‘ere in Paris.”

  “They’ll be watching the airports and stations.”

  “On the pox they were setting up road bricks.”

  “Blocks. Yes, they would.”

  She looked at him wide-eyed. “You remember my motor?”

  “Your Bentley? Yes.”

  “There is no chauffeur.”

  “No?”

  “But I still ‘ave the uniform.”

  “He didn’t get to keep it?”

  “He kept little. Pity, ‘ee was a beautiful boy, but I caught ‘im ‘ere,” she pointed dramatically towards the carpet, “Making zee lovings to some poupee.”

  Boysie grinned.

  “I make a scene. Pouf out they go into the street and no messes. ‘Im without zee uniform and ‘er without zee knickers. Zee uniform was expensive; zee knickers were cheap, from Uniprix: I consigned them to zee incinerator.” She made an exasperated face and then exploded with mirth. “Eet was a big drama. Very satisfying. I ‘ave not provided myself with a new chauffeur yet, but I think you would do well, Boyzee. Perhaps I wish to be driven down to zee South tomorrow, they will not be looking for a chauffeur on zee road bricks. You take zee job, yes?”

  “If I get all the usual perks.”

  She came over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Of course, my cherie, zee perks are always ready for you. We ‘ave worked together in zee past.”

  She snuggled close, shifted into third and laid her lips over his. Boysie put her in fourth - with overdrive.

  When they finally broke surface, Zizi sighed: all longing and edged with frustration. “I think you will fit zee uniform very well. But zat is for tomorrow. Tonight I ‘ave to test your driving ability. I ‘ope you ‘ave not deteriorated since last time.”

  Boysie took in air; through his nostrils, deeply. “If anything, I think I’ve improved - old wine, good tunes on old fiddles and all that.”

  Her brow creased, “Wine? Fiddles? I am talking about zee ‘umpings, darling.”