Flashpoint

by Michael Gilbert

The chattering stopped. A big blonde at the end of the line said, “Suppose it is.”

  Her body said twenty-five, but her face, in the unfriendly light of the changing room, said forty.

  “If your name should happen to be Aileen,” said Benz-Fisher with a winning smile, “I should like five minutes conversation with you.”

  “We’re on again in five minutes.”

  “That’s all right,” said Mr Carlotti. “Go along and have a word with the gentleman. He won’t eat you, you know.”

  “It wasn’t eating I was worrying about,” said Aileen.

  “Hurry along with you. You can use the end room.”

  When they were alone Benz-Fisher wasted no time. He said, “You’ve been seeing a lot of a man lately. I don’t know what name he’s using, but I’ll describe him.”

  Aileen said, “OK, I’ve been out with him once or twice. That’s not a crime, is it?”

  Benz-Fisher regarded her thoughtfully. Seen at close quarters and in undress there was something overpowering about Aileen. Eat her? She would have made a meal for six hungry tigers. He visualized six tigers, in a circle, licking their lips, with Aileen in the middle.

  He said, “It’s not a crime to be seen about with a man who’s wanted for questioning. But it might be an indiscretion.”

  “Questioning? Who are you, mister?”

  Benz-Fisher produced a warrant card.

  “A busy. I thought you were, the way Carlo was crawling round you. What do you want?”

  “I want this man’s address. And please don’t pretend you don’t know it.”

  “Suppose I don’t want to tell you. That’s not a crime either. Unless they’ve changed the law.”

  “If you won’t tell me,” said Benz-Fisher, “I shall close this place down. Which I have power to do. It’s broken six out of ten of the regulations. And I shall tell Mr Carlotti why I’m closing it down, and whose fault it is. I don’t think he’d be pleased.”

  “You’re a proper sod, aren’t you,” said Aileen. She said it without rancour.

  “All right. He’s calling himself Fairfax. Major Fairfax. And he’s staying at the Claygate Private Hotel. It’s behind Baron’s Court Underground. At least, that’s where he was last week. Don’t blame me if he’s moved on again.”

  “Who could possibly blame a beautiful girl like you,” said Benz-Fisher.

  Some time after he had left the club, the doorman said to Mr Carlotti, who was, in fact, his son-in-law, “Do you think he really was a whatever he said. An Inspector?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then why didn’t you sling him out?”

  “Because,” said Mr Carlotti, “he had authority of some sort behind him.”

  “What did he want with Aileen?”

  “The address of one of her friends.”

  “I think we had better get rid of that girl.”

  “I have already done so,” said Mr Carlotti.

  7

  Cedric Lyon, the senior Metropolitan Magistrate at the West London Court, looked like an old-fashioned preparatory school headmaster, and treated his mixed clientele of careless motorists, forgetful husbands, pugnacious drinkers, street traders and prostitutes in much the same way that a headmaster would have done. A warning here, a hundred lines there; in extreme cases six of the best.

  He was not a fool. He had read the papers, and had recognized that this was something which could be important. Also he had noted that the press bench, which was usually occupied only by a young man from the Chelsea and Kensington Clarion, was now packed to suffocation with older and much more experienced-looking men.

  He had observed these portents and had determined not to be intimidated.

  Having granted an extension of bail, a further adjournment of eight days in a petty larceny charge and an interim order for the payment of five pounds a week to a deserted mother, he enquired of his clerk whether there were any further applications. The clerk peered at the list in front of him and said, “One further application, your honour, Jonas Killey, appearing in person.”

  Jonas, who had been fidgeting with a large folder of papers, leaped to his feet. Mr Lyon said, “One moment, if you don’t mind,” and to the police sergeant standing at the back of the Court, “Would you mind opening the window, Sergeant? We shall have to tolerate a slight increase in noise, in the interests of hygiene. I have informed the authorities more than once of the intolerable condition of this Court in summer. We have the choice of being asphyxiated or deafened. Yes, Mr Killey?”

  Jonas said, raising his voice to combat the noise of passing traffic, “I would like to start by drawing your attention, your honour, to the history–”

  “That’s all right, Mr Killey. I’ve read the papers. Just make your application.”

  “I’m afraid that the early history of this matter is relevant. I shall have to deal with it.”

  “It’s for me to say what is relevant and what is not relevant. You are applying to the court to issue a summons against William Frederick Dylan, calling on him to answer criminal charges arising out of certain incidents alleged to have taken place more than eight years ago. Those are the only facts in the history of the matter which are relevant. Will you now produce the proofs in support of your application?”

  “I protest most emphatically against this treatment. This is a court of law and I am entitled to be heard fully and fairly.”

  “Are you trying to teach me my duty, Mr Killey?”

  “If it proves necessary, I may have to do that.”

  For a moment, Mr Lyon nearly let himself go. Then experience won a close victory. He saw the pencils of the reporters poised. He visualized the massed ranks of public opinion. He turned on a smile that was entirely artificial, but unexpectedly effective, and said, “Very well, Mr Killey. I’m never too old to learn. You shall proceed at your own pace.”

  It would have been easier if the window had been shut, but Jonas did his best. He quoted passages from Trade Union regulations, and extracts from the accounts of ACAT and MGM. It took a long time, because Mr Lyon made notes in longhand, and anything which coincided with the passage of a lorry or a motorcycle had to be repeated. It was midday before he resumed his seat. For the last few minutes, Mr Lyon had not been taking notes. He had been considering, with great care, exactly what he was going to say.

  He addressed the courtroom rather than Jonas, but he spoke as though he was aware that his words were aimed at a wider audience.

  He said, “In this country, unlike many foreign countries, we have no state prosecuting system. And even the fact that we have seen fit to join the Economic Community of Europe” – Mr Lyon bared his teeth in a grimace which demonstrated his views on the Common Market – “does not mean that we have adopted their judicial system. In this country the citizen is the prosecutor. In most cases the police shoulder the burden for him. In very serious cases the Director of Public Prosecutions may intervene. But the principle remains intact. Any member of the public who considers that a crime has been committed has the right and the duty to prosecute the criminal. I mention these facts to put this application into perspective. I think we’ll have that window shut now.”

  Patrick Mauger, who was wedged between the Express and the Guardian, said, “The old man’s being pretty cagey, isn’t he?”

  “He’s going on record for posterity,” said the Express.

  “And the Court of Appeal,” said The Guardian.

  “However,” said Mr Lyon, “if such a system is to work satisfactorily, if the courts are not to be inundated with summonses, and innocent people are not to stand in daily peril of groundless accusations brought out of spite, certain precautions are necessary. The first and most important of these is that the applicant should satisfy a magistrate that prima facie grounds exist for supposing that some crime has been committed. It is not necessary for him to prove it. Proof will come later. But there must be shown to be solid grounds, backed by acceptable evidence. In this case Mr Killey has based hi
s application on two documents. The first is a photographic copy of a set of accounts of a defunct body called the Aluminium, Copper and Allied Trades Union. He described the accounts as ‘audited’, but this I find questionable. In my view accounts are not audited until they have been inspected and certified by a properly qualified accountant, which is apparently not the case here. The second document is an official copy of the annual return of an existing Trade Union, the Mining and General Metalworkers, who at that date absorbed the smaller Union. There is, as Mr Killey has pointed out, a discrepancy between these documents so far as the Provident Fund is concerned. There could be various explanations for this, the most likely, one might think, being that the Unions would both incur expenses in a transaction of this sort. To this, Mr Killey says ‘no’. He tells us that he was involved in the transaction and knows that no expense fell on the smaller Union. I did not find this convincing. He has produced no documentary evidence in support of it beyond something which he described as a draft agreement, and which I am quite unable to accept. Nor has he given any adequate explanation of why Mr Dylan, the Treasurer of the smaller Union, who was on the point of moving to a much better paid and more important job with the larger Union, should have put a relatively small sum of money in his own pocket. He suggested that Mr Dylan might have been short of money at the time, but since he did not pursue the point, I think he realized that it was mere supposition. To sum the matter up, I find this application based on two documents, one of which, being an unauthenticated copy, would not be admitted in a Court of Law. I cannot find anything here which approaches prima facie evidence of a criminal act and I shall not grant the application.”

  There was a moment of silence, and it was not clear whether Mr Lyon, who was still looking down at his notes, had finished or not. Then he raised his eyes, looked directly at Jonas Killey, and said, “I do not normally find it necessary to add any personal comment on matters which come before me, but in this case, in fairness to the person who has been named, I feel it incumbent on me to add that I think it is a pity that this application should ever have been made.”

  8

  Jonas pushed through the crowd of reporters waiting outside the Court, not rudely, but quite firmly, hailed a passing taxi and was driven back to his office. He was not a sensitive man, but his cheek was still tingling from the slap administered by Mr Lyon.

  Willoughby met him in the outer office, saw from his face that matters had not gone well, and refrained from comment.

  Jonas beckoned him into his own room, and said, “I shall be going up to Sheffield on Monday. I shall probably be away for two days. It could even be three. Is there anything you can’t handle?”

  Together they examined the entries in Jonas’ diary and decided that one client could be put off and the others coped with.

  “There’s only one thing,” said Willoughby. “We’re a bit short of cash in the office account.”

  “Cash for what?”

  “The cleaners are a month adrift. I expect they’ll wait. But the rates have got to be paid.”

  “How much?”

  “Just over two hundred pounds. It was due in March, but we held them off by raising that technical point over the assessment. They’re not going to wait much longer.”

  “The bank will let us have it, won’t they?”

  “I hope so,” said Willoughby. “The last time I ran into the manager he dodged down a side street. I thought that was a bad sign.”

  Jonas was not really listening. His mind was far away. He was gathering supporting evidence, compiling a dossier, tracking down facts, subpoenaing witnesses. The senior judge in the Court of Appeal was saying, “Having listened to the convincing case put forward by the appellant we have no hesitation–”

  “Suppose they won’t,” said Willoughby.

  “Won’t what?”

  “Suppose the bank won’t let us overdraw any further.”

  “You’ll have to do the best you can,” said Jonas impatiently. “You young chaps have got no initiative. Ask Mrs Warburton if she’d be good enough to bring her book in. I must clear up some of these letters before I go.”

  But when Mrs Warburton appeared she had no book. She said, “It’s them again.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You remember those two men who came to see you yesterday. They’re here again. Or one of them is.”

  “I can’t see him.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  She was back in two minutes, looking flustered.

  “He won’t go away.”

  “Really,” said Jonas. “This is ridiculous. Well, if he won’t go away, I suppose he’ll just have to sit there. Now, to the Inspector of Taxes, Richmond District. You’ve got his address and reference. Dear Sir–”

  The door opened a few inches and the pink face of Ben Thomas peeped round it.

  “Terribly sorry to interrupt.”

  “Will you get out?”

  “Won’t take a minute.”

  “If you don’t get out, I shall be forced to summon assistance and have you thrown out.”

  The threat did not seem to worry Ben Thomas a lot. He looked like a man who had been thrown out of a lot of places. He said, “I was in Court this morning. I heard what the beak said to you. I had an idea you weren’t going to take it lying down.”

  “Indeed. Well, you happen to be right about that.”

  Ben insinuated himself further into the room. He said, “If that’s right, I had an idea that might help. Look, this won’t take a second. But it’s rather confidential.”

  Jonas hesitated, and then said, “As long as it’s quick. If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Warburton.”

  Mrs Warburton bristled, but withdrew.

  “I guess you’ll be going up North to collect some of the bits and pieces that old virgin on the bench thought you ought to have. Mind you, I think he was being sticky for the hell of it.”

  “He wasn’t exactly co-operative,” said Jonas. It was refreshing to learn that someone else shared his opinion of Cedric Lyon, even if it was a vulgar little man wearing a made-up bow tie.

  “What I thought was this. The sort of evidence you’re looking for, if it’s anywhere it’s in Todmoor. And round the ASIA smelter. They’re odd sort of people up there. What you might call close. They say the only thing a Yorkshireman will give you free is his opinion of you.”

  “I don’t imagine it’s going to be easy to find what I want, but I think I shall do it.”

  “Right,” said Ben. “And that’s where I might be able to help. Have you got a bit of paper? Then write down this name and address. Edgar Dyson, 109 Cowgate. That’s in Framhill, outside Sheffield. Don’t try ringing him up. Go round and see him, in the evening. He’ll be expecting you. He’s usually home by six, but give him time to have his tea first. Got it?”

  As Ben moved to the door, Jonas said, “Yes. But look here. You haven’t told me anything about him. Who is he? How do I know he’ll see me?”

  “He’s convener of the shop stewards at ASIA,” said Ben. “He’ll see you.”

  Benz-Fisher did not, himself, attend at the West London Magistrates Court. He sent Terence along instead. It was his policy to appear very little in public and he was particularly careful to avoid places where he might encounter old acquaintances from the Bar. Also, he had work to do.

  At twelve o’clock, at the moment when Mr Cedric Lyon was gathering up his notes preparatory to giving judgement, Benz-Fisher was walking down Loftus Road, which is a street of small hotels, guest houses and boarding houses behind Barons Court Underground Station. As he ambled along the pavement in the hot sunshine he pondered over a delicate semantic problem. When does a hotel become a guest house? When does a guest house become a boarding house? It was a question as full of subtleties and nice distinctions as the English class system.

  “It’s a matter of degrees,” he decided.

  “I beg your pardon,” said a scholarly-looking old man who was passing hi
m at that moment.

  “I said, what delightful weather we were having.”

  “I’m not deaf,” said the old man. “You said something about degrees.”

  “Eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit according to the papers.”

  The old man looked at him suspiciously, clacked a fine set of false teeth and went on his way. Benz-Fisher climbed the well-whitened steps of the Claygate Family and Commercial Hotel.

  In the red-and-black-tiled hall a coloured photograph of Queen Mary, encased in pearls, beamed down on a healthy-looking rubber plant in a brass pot. To the right of the rubber plant was the reception desk. In the reception desk sat a woman with something of Queen Mary’s marmoreal dignity.

  She inclined her head towards Benz-Fisher, who bowed fractionally in return, produced a card from his wallet and said, “The syndicate sent me along.”

  “The syndicate?”

  “The syndicate who owns this hotel. And most of the others round here, I gather.”

  “Oh, them.”

  “As you will see, Madam, it is my job to check on bad payers.”

  The manageress studied the card which had been placed on the desk in front of her. It stated that Arthur F Mapledurham was an agent of the Hotel Protection and Credit Managers Association.

  “We have a very faithful clientele,” said the manageress. “Many of them stay with us for months. Some of them even longer. One of my oldest clients, a Mrs Margesson, was buried from here only last Thursday. She had been with us for seven years.”

  “Faithful even unto death,” said Benz-Fisher. The thought appeared to affect him. He removed his bowler hat. “There was one of your guests I was told to look out for. We have him on our books from another occasion. A Major Fairfax.”

  “Ah. Yes. A very pleasant gentleman. We have had a little trouble with him. Nothing serious.”

  “How up-to-date is he?”

  The manageress went through the motions of consulting a ledger on the desk in front of her, but it was clear that she knew the answer.

  “He’s a bit behind,” she agreed.