Waking Caliban

by Mike Cartlidge

  “I’ve already told you. I’m not prepared to let it drop.”

  “That’s up to you. Look, I have to consult with Charles Sturt about this” – Sturt was the agency’s CEO – “and I need to call Ernst Bakst as well. I’ll ring both of them tonight and call you again in the morning.”

  He rang off and I slipped the phone into my pocket, feeling illogically bad-tempered. A pair of elderly Australian tourists were blocking the sidewalk and having an argument about which way you went to get to this new Globe theatre they’d built. I paused long enough to tell them they were in the wrong town and, in answer to their next request, pointed in the direction of London.

  By the time I reached the Almoner’s Arms, the rain was getting harder and dusk was turning the trees by the river into alien statues on a darkening plain. I rode the creaking lift up to my room. Locking the door behind me, I swallowed a couple of the painkillers that the police doctor had given me, washing them down with the contents of a mini-bottle of scotch from the fridge. Then I retrieved the copy of the supposed Shakespeare document from where I’d left it in the dresser and sat on the bed, trying to work out what to do next. Other than making attempts to find out more about the document, I couldn’t think of too many fresh avenues of enquiry. If I could find the man Roden had met in the pub garden, that first day in Stratford, he might give me a few new directions. Other than hanging around pubs at lunchtime, though, I couldn’t see any way I could start to trace that one.

  I felt ineffective. Things started to slide and I recognized the presence of the old black wolf, circling just beyond my line of sight. My mind started to dredge up all the mistakes I’d made in my life, the sorry track record of shattered career and family ties that had brought me to this dead-or-alive dump of a hotel. I thought about getting out of the room, even if it was just to go to the hotel bar. I was just reaching for another mini-bottle of scotch to help my thought processes when my mobile rang.

  I answered and heard a woman’s voice whisper my name. It was a moment before the voice registered. “Miranda?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” Her voice was low and husky.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I had a call from the police. They had some terrible news.”

  “About Robert?”

  She sobbed. “I still can’t believe it. They told me he’d been killed.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “My God, what on earth happened?”

  “A man with a large gun took exception to us. I guess the police told you. He shot Dr Roden.”

  “Yes,” she said. There was a pause but I left her to it and eventually I heard her sigh. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Are you all right?”

  “I’m going to have a small scar on my arm. It’s nothing serious.”

  “Thank God for that,” she said. “This gunman. Would you…”

  “He wore a mask. I’d only recognize him from his general appearance.”

  “I’m so relieved to hear you’re all right. Whatever Robert was involved in, I’d hate to think of someone else being killed because of it.”

  “Someone else has been killed,” I pointed out. “Two good men.”

  “I’m sorry. And one of them was your friend. It’s just too awful.”

  I poured the scotch into a chipped tumbler and sipped, relishing the warmth of the spirit as it hit my stomach. “Why did you call, Miranda?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess my nearest family is in the States and I don’t have close friends here. I had to talk to someone and you just seemed like-”

  “That’s very flattering given that we’ve only met once,” I interrupted. “So what do you really want?”

  There was another pause. “I guess, after I left you last night, you decided you’d check up on me, huh?” Her tone was suddenly brisk, as though she’d pressed a switch and gone from timid widow to all-action businesswoman. Even over the phone, it was an abrupt change of persona.

  “It was this morning,” I said. “And I really only found out by chance.”

  “What happened?”

  “I called Roden’s university and asked a few questions.”

  “And they told you…”

  “Robert Roden’s wife died two years ago. And she was called Elizabeth.”

  “I never liked the name Elizabeth. It’s just too damn Tudor.” Her accent had become more west coast, as though she’d dropped the New England tones along with her former character.

  “You’d have had trouble passing for her anyway. She was in her late forties and I doubt she had blond hair.”

  “Mousy gray, I bet, going on what her husband was like. Hair and personality alike, probably.”

  “You did meet Dr Roden, then?”

  “We had some professional dealings. The guy was a real charmer, huh? Not to speak ill of the dead…” She was quiet for a moment and I waited her out. “I guess I underestimated you. I’m sorry, OK?”

  “You’re forgiven,” I said evenly. “Now why don’t you tell me who you really are and what you’re doing poking around in this mess?”

  “If I tell you, are you going to believe me this time?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So there’s no point explaining that I’m actually a US Treasury agent on the track of some international antiquity smugglers?”

  “Not much,” I said. “But please don’t let that stop you if you want to give it a try.”

  “It might have been fun but I guess I’ll pass. You wouldn’t go for me being a private detective, either? Or, like, a Scotland Yard operative in deep cover?”

  “Again…”

  “OK, enough already. Look, just don’t blow me off, OK? Our interests coincide and there’s no reason why we can’t help each other.”

  “I think you’re still being a tad ambitious in the credibility stakes.”

  “Jeez, Hastings, what made you such a suspicious bastard?”

  “When I was twenty-three I found out Father Christmas wasn’t real. Things went downhill from there.”

  “I figured it was a childhood thing. Listen, we need to talk. Will you at least give me a hearing?”

  I thought for a moment. I was, after all, still short of bright ideas about what I should do next and I was willing to bet that Miranda knew more than she was letting on. “I’m happy to talk. Are you in the Stratford area?”

  “I’m in London,” she said. “I can get there in the morning. Unless you’re planning to come back to these parts?”

  “I’m planning to stay a while longer in Stratford,” I said. “I did think I might drive back to town tonight, though. There’s a couple of things I need to do.”

  “Come over and see me. I’ll tell you who I really am. And I’ll give you Absinthe and aspirin to make you feel better.”

  “Can I bring my portable lie detector?”

  “That’s not very friendly, Hastings.”

  I started to sip at the scotch again and then, thinking about the reality of driving to London and back, put the glass down. “OK, Miranda, tell me where and when.”

  ***

  I hurried out to the parked Toyota and started the drive back to London. Once I’d made the motorway, I favored my injured shoulder by moving into the middle lane and cruising along with one hand on the wheel. A couple of hours later, I made it through the night-time streets to Madame George’s and parked the car in the alleyway behind the house. Up in my third-floor room, I gathered together a few clothes, including a jacket to replace the one that had been damaged in Stratford, and checked the state of the bandages that the police doctor had applied to my shoulder. There was a small spot of dried blood on the white of the dressing but no seepage, which I took as an encouraging sign. I changed my shirt, trying to keep my injured arm straight, and then, from a carefully-hidden slot behind my wardrobe, collected a rust-stained key.

  George was in the salon as I made my way downstairs. She saw me and flounced over, showing off her latest acquisition, a
n enormous, wide-brimmed hat that featured layers of imitation red roses, piled almost a foot high on top of its bright blue foundations. Her dress was purple taffeta pulled tight around her Rubenesque figure. “Darling,” she said, running her hand over the hat’s crown, “do you think it’s me?”

  I smiled. “I certainly don’t think it’s anyone else.”

  “It couldn’t be! I’d notice!” She giggled and hugged me, recoiling in alarm just as she had a few days ago as I winced from the pain of the caress. I explained that I’d hurt my arm and it was nothing to worry about but she fussed about me anyway, offering me everything from sympathy to fifty-year-old Scotch. I declined it all with thanks and told her I had to leave. As I hurried back to the car, she stood waving on her back doorstep, wiping a histrionic tear from the corner of her eye like Lillian Gish in an old silent movie.

  Victoria Station is one of the few places remaining in London that still has a left luggage office. The small suitcase was just as I’d left it, a couple of years earlier. It contained several items that I’d figured might come in handy on a rainy day, including two thousand pounds in cash and various items of documentation. These included a false EU passport that I’d acquired during a job I did for the agency some time back, when it had seemed likely that I’d need to do some clandestine traveling between Britain and South America. In the end, the passport hadn’t been needed, but I’d kept it anyway: it contained my photo but was in the name of Peter Millard, a washing machine salesman from Manchester. I gave it a quick look to check that it was still well within its expiry date and then returned it to the case.

  The suitcase also held two pistols, a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 and a compact Glock 26, both well-oiled and wrapped in plastic, with various holsters and a supply of ammunition. I selected the Smith and Wesson. Given the choice, I always prefer revolvers. They have the disadvantage of holding fewer rounds than most modern automatics but they’re less likely to jam, especially if subjected to harsh treatment. I’d had this one since my service days, having confiscated it from a suspected terrorist in Kosovo. It was the sort of weapon that would take any amount of punishment and still come back for more. In consideration to my bruised shoulder, I selected a holster that could be secured at the back of my waist and helped myself to a dozen rounds of ammo, sliding everything into a carrier bag so that it wouldn’t be seen by any of the few passers-by.

  ***

  The address Miranda had given me was across Grosvenor Square from the US embassy. I parked the car and paused for a moment, looking up at a broad, five-story apartment block. I lent forward and, carefully, attached the holster containing the Smith and Wesson to the back of my belt. Then I climbed out and walked around to the entrance, careful that the tail of my jacket covered the firearm.

  I looked up the name she’d given me on the directory by the front door and pressed the button beside it. There was no reply from the speaker above the list of names but, after a few seconds, I heard the click of the door as she buzzed me in. I walked inside, closing the door behind me, and looked around. The entrance lobby was wide with a high ceiling and lined with expensive-looking wallpaper. A pair of leather armchairs crouched beside a heavy oak table and a plush red carpet led to a set of elevator doors. The place was deserted and quiet, with not even the sound of an occasional passing car to disturb the silence.

  I walked over and pressed the button and the doors of one of the lifts opened immediately. The lift looked like an antique but, unlike its distant relative in the Almoner’s Arms, its mechanism was as smooth as a politician’s promise. After it had delivered me to the third floor, I walked slowly down a long corridor, making sure my jacket was loose enough to allow me to reach the gun quickly if I needed it. The corridor, however, was as empty of people as the lobby. I spotted a surveillance camera on the far wall and did my best impression of an innocent stroller until I found apartment number 36.

  She opened the door moments after I tapped my knuckles against it. She’d discarded the demure dress along with the persona of Mrs Roden and was wearing a chiffon dress, yellow and flimsy around her slim figure. She was barefoot and her blond hair was carefully tussled. The impact she’d had on me when I’d seen her at Madame George’s returned like a rapid python around my chest but I was ready and I kept my expression poker-straight. She held the door wide and stood back so that I could see into the apartment. As far as I could tell, she was alone. I glanced at the crack between the door and the frame to make sure there was no-one behind it and then stepped forward. She walked towards the center of the room and turned to face me.

  “You look like you need a drink. I really do have some Absinthe, if you want to live dangerously.”

  “Just coffee,” I told her.

  She grinned. “What’s the matter? Don’t trust yourself with strong drink when you’re alone in my irresistible presence?”

  “I’m driving back to Stratford tonight.”

  “OK, so it’s coffee. You’re in luck, as it happens. I just brewed some.” She walked through a door into the kitchen and busied herself at a bench. The drapes in the lounge were open. I could see the trees in the square, their branches contrasting zones of light and shadow in the glare of the street lights, and the American eagle hunched like a dark, winged gargoyle on the roof of the embassy. The apartment’s furnishings were elegant but somehow neutral, dominated by a tan-colored leather suite arranged around a coffee table and a thick-piled rug. A sideboard held a display of old china, Royal Doulton and Wedgwood, all deliberately placed. There were two doors apart from the one to the kitchen, the first leading to a decent-sized bathroom and the second to the apartment’s only bedroom. There were no photographs on display, no pictures apart from bland watercolors in discreet silver frames. Everything was as neat and tidy as a show home in a new housing complex and I wondered what it said about Miranda and her way of life.

  “Yes, it’s just the two of us,” Miranda said. She walked back into the lounge and placed mugs of coffee on the table. It struck me again how she’d changed since the last time I’d seen her, just like an actress who’d dropped one role and moved on to another. The part she was playing now was more Beverley Hills than Boston. I wondered what her real accent was like. Was she even really American? “You’ll have to take my word that the place isn’t bugged,” she went on. “Or, you can check, I guess, if you’ve got one of those gizmos that sniffs out unwanted electronics.”

  “I seem to have left it in the car.”

  “Well, you could pull all the plaster from the walls.”

  “Would you expect me to put it back?”

  “Unless you want a decorator’s bill.” She sat in one of the leather chairs and gestured to me to sit opposite her. I picked up the mug she’d placed in front of me and sipped at the coffee.

  “It’s a nice apartment,” I said.

  “Mayfair’s the only place to be if you have to be in London.”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  She pouted and something about her expression snagged me, just as it had when I’d first seen her, at Madame George’s. Again, I had that impression that she had singular powers of concentration and that, when you held her attention, she locked onto you like a cruise missile on a Baghdad minaret. Even before she smiled, her mouth turned up slightly at the corners, as if she was amused and inscrutable, all at once. “What makes you think it isn’t mine?”

  “It doesn’t match your personality.”

  “Which personality? The grieving widow? I’m real sorry about that, by the way. It was stupid. I just thought it would avoid complications and-”

  “You’d be able to con me.”

  “Well, yeah. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” She grinned again and stretched like a lazy panther, her hands tensing, palms upwards, on her outstretched arms. My pulse rate blipped again and I gave myself a mental shake: the only woman who’d had anything like this effect on me had been my wife, and that had been a long time ago.

  “So the apartmen
t really belongs to someone you know?” I asked. “Or are you just an amazingly calm burglar?”

  She pouted. “Burglary’s so gauche. The pad belongs to a friend of mine. I have an apartment in New York but I spend a lot of time in Britain. My friend spends a lot of time in the States so we do a swap. I get to use the apartment most times I’m here.”

  “This friend’s a ‘he’?”

  “No, it’s a ‘she’. But thanks for asking.”

  “I was just curious.”

  She raised one eyebrow, still smiling, suddenly more Madison Avenue than Rodeo Drive. “I bet you were jealous.”

  I ignored that remark and any suggestion that there may have been some truth in it. “So, we’ve established that you’re not a grieving widow, an international super-agent or Batwoman in mufti. So can we start with just who you are?”

  “If you insist on being so pedantic. My first name really is Miranda. My second name is Smart.”

  “Miranda Smart. A Shakespearean first name-.”

  “From ‘The Tempest’. It’s like poetry when I hear it on your lips.”

  “And,” I said dryly, “a second name that so suits your character.”

  “People are always commenting on that.”

  “And, Miranda Smart, your occupation is?”

  She picked up a small china figurine of a ballerina from the table, peering for a moment at the intricacy of its design. “I guess you’d have to say I’m self-employed. I deal in antiquities.”

  “Which explains your interest in Robert Roden and his business.”

  “Sure. Listen, one of the things I do is act as a broker between people who want to sell items and people who want to buy them. A lot of these people don’t want to go through traditional sales channels, like auction houses.”

  “Because they’re too shy to be seen in public?” I said.

  She tossed the figurine from hand to hand. Something caught my eye and I looked towards the window and saw a large moth swoop in from the dark to flutter against the glass. When I turned back towards her, she was looking at me with her head tilted sideways, as though we were co-conspirators in some vast practical joke. “Let’s say my clients are private people.”