To Run a Little Faster

by John Gardner

  Inside there was a short tiled hall leading to a staircase and lift. On one wall a row of letter boxes bore visiting cards set in little brass frames. Number eight was not printed but handwritten. JAMES FYFFE it said in violet ink. There was no sound from within the building, nor from the door which almost certainly led to the concierge’s quarters. The lift was down, a small affair with a large mirror above a leather seat and a frame bearing advertisements for garages and pensions next to the control panel. Apartment eight was on the third floor. I pulled the gates closed, and pressed the button. A little light went on and the machinery whirred in a business-like manner. One always felt that the Swiss threatened their machinery with dire consequences if it allowed itself to operate at a less than efficient level. The Swiss expected well-oiled wheels whether it be their watches, cuckoo clocks, banks, railways or lifts.

  The lift stopped, and a minute later I stood in front of a heavy oak door with the figure eight above the bell-push, and yet another little brass frame bearing a handwritten card.

  I pressed the bell. Somewhere far away behind the door a buzzer sounded. Then a door slammed. I craned my ears. There were voices far away. Jane Patterson called out, close by, in German. The door had been locked; you could hear the key turning.

  She did not recognize me at first, her face changing from suspicious interest, almost in slow motion, to fear and then anger.

  One hand came up to slam the door, but I already had a foot well in.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said. It was apparent that she did not want me to stay.

  ‘I think I’d better come in.’ Stupid of me, but I felt no fear. It was as though I had not taken stock of the possible danger.

  ‘I shall call the police.’

  ‘So shall I if you don’t let me in.’

  ‘Why?’ A hopeless low moan. ‘Who do you want to see?’

  I bluffed like a blind man, claiming twenty-twenty vision. ‘I’d better see Mr. Hensman, don’t you think?’

  For a second I thought she was going to hit me. I even flinched slightly. Then she stepped back into the small hallway and began to laugh: a high nervous whinny. I walked in, and a voice from one of the rooms to the right called out, ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘You’re rumbled,’ she shouted. ‘It’s the Press, come to interview Mr. Hensman.’

  ‘Really?’ He stood in the doorway and it was not Hensman. I knew the face, but could not put a name to it for a moment.

  ‘You’d better step in here,’ he said, well-spoken, a voice that did not match the face.

  I was inclined to do as he suggested, mainly because of the wicked little automatic pistol he was pointing at just about the spot where my last cup of coffee was starting to settle down.

  As I passed into the room the face and name both merged in my mind.

  ‘Oscar Miller,’ I said aloud.

  Chapter Five

  ‘You’re sharp,’ he said unpleasantly.

  ‘And you’re wanted.’ I tried to smile but it was as though my mouth had been given some kind of dental anaesthetic.

  He grasped me by the shoulder from behind, turned me around and pushed lightly. I tottered back, ending up in a hard, padded chair.

  ‘You’ve found me, then, haven’t you,’ he snarled.

  My throat felt as though it had been sprayed with fine chalk, and the muzzle of his pistol still pointed steadily at my stomach.

  ‘There are people who know I’ve come here. They know she’s here. If I don’t go back to them within the hour, they’ll come looking.’ I blurted it out in a long stream.

  He made a grunting noise, as though my news irritated him.

  Jane Patterson stepped forward. ‘Maybe,’ she sounded as if she was pleading, ‘maybe he can help. Fleet Street wields a lot of power. This is the one who tried to pass himself off as a taxi driver. Simon Darrell.’

  ‘They’ve got me on toast. This time they’ll lock me up and forget where they’ve put me. They have me bang to rights over the Midland and Provincial job anyway. With our friends dealing the cards nobody can help. Certainly not Fleet Street.’

  ‘Try me,’ I heard myself say. ‘If you have some relatively innocent connection with the Hensman business, maybe I can do the story without bringing you into it.’

  ‘Break the law for me, would you?’

  He was really a most unpleasant-looking piece of work, tall and muscular with a face you expected to see staring out from a wanted poster. The well modulated voice struck a strange and paradoxical note. I remembered that he had come from a good upper middle-class family and had been educated at a minor public school — Etcham Grange, I think it was. Bells started to ring, and I saw the first glint of daylight in an otherwise sombre picture.

  ‘Of course. You were at school with Hensman.’

  The MP’s career had been pointedly and painstakingly spelled out by every newspaper in the Street.

  ‘That’s right, old sport. You’ve got it. I played Brown to his Flashman.’

  ‘At least tell him. We’ve nothing to lose.’ Jane Patterson was at his elbow. ‘You must see that you can’t get away with more violence now. Use him, Oscar.’

  A clock chimed from another room, and a squall of rain splattered noisily against the window.

  ‘At least tell him,’ she repeated.

  ‘Where’s Hensman?’ I asked.

  Jane Patterson answered, her head moving with small negative jerks, ‘We don’t know. Nobody knows. Unless…’

  ‘Unless I’m not telling you the truth, eh?’ Miller leered. He suddenly seemed to make up his mind. ‘Okay. You want a story, then maybe I’ll give you one, but I doubt if you’ll be able to use it, and you may not even believe it.’

  He must have been very sure of himself, because his hand relaxed on the pistol. There seemed to be a general easing of tension then and I asked if I could have a cigarette. He nodded and sat down in a large easy chair.

  The room was cluttered, over furnished with a very English three-piece suite, chintz-covered and gaudy, clashing with heavy, more traditional continental stuff. There were a lot of pictures: in particular, a big gilded frame over the whorled mantel (which would never surround a real leaping fire) containing an English garden done in tired oils.

  He saw me looking at it. ‘None of this is my stuff.’ He sounded ashamed, as though it would have been wrong for him to carry memories of his country to this hideout in the heart of Europe’s capitalist wealth. ‘Job-lotted, the whole shooting match.’

  ‘I thought it looked a nice garden.’ Wondering who had so carefully sat constructing roses and pansies, shrubs and borders on a canvas lawn.

  He grunted again. Jane Patterson had disappeared and cups rattled somewhere on the other side of the door. There was hope for her yet. She was almost certainly being very English. Everything stops for tea. I’d heard Henry Hall playing the song on the wireless not so long ago. I began to hum the silly tune.

  ‘There’s no point saying much about the Mayfair job,’ Oscar Miller still toyed with the pistol. ‘I should imagine my dear friends have grassed the whole lot to the bogies by now. I was what they call the brains — or what you in Fleet Street call the brains. We were after the stuff in the safe deposits, of course. That’s where the real loot is in banks, and I knew all about the manager being able to open them up without the customer.’ He sounded matter of fact, like someone reminiscing, a talk on the BBC National Programme. ‘There was a good haul as well. The fencing was arranged, of course, though I was left with the odds and ends. Funny how they don’t like hanging on to stocks and bits of paper. Short-sighted of them. But I hadn’t bargained for one thing.’

  Miss Patterson came in with a tray all laid out as though for tea on the vicarage lawn: silver service, bone china cups. All that was missing was the cucumber sandwiches.

  ‘You’ll have to take my word for it, Darrell, because I’m not bringing that piece of paper out again until I know I’m safe. It’s my one hope for a pardon.’
<
br />   I nodded as though I knew what he was talking about.

  ‘Don’t know which deposit box it came from, of course, but it was there, and overlooked by everybody. A little black book. The kind you keep tart’s telephone numbers in.’

  Jane Patterson frowned as she poured the tea through a little silver strainer. It was all very proper and she obviously didn’t like Miller. The look on her face would have been similar if the milk had been off.

  ‘Inside there were three names. Each name had a number and a series of dates. Against each date was a sum of money. You don’t have to be a detective to make that add up. What would you say?’

  ‘I’d say three numbered accounts over here, and the amounts paid in on certain dates.’

  ‘And I’d say you were right. Three blokes storing it away against the evil day. Which cannot be far off, wouldn’t you say?’

  Miss Patterson passed over a cup of tea and the sugar basin.

  ‘Well,’ Miller hardly paused for breath. ‘I started to think about it, and it seemed logical that if one person kept a record of three men’s secret numbered accounts he was doing it for one of two reasons. Either he was putting on a little black, or he was the paymaster. So I’ll take the tale a shade further. The payments started in the summer of 1936. All three have had exactly the same amount of cash paid to them. It is in excess of thirty thousand pounds each. So someone is paying these three gentlemen — because they are gentlemen, make no mistake about that — a great deal of money. Already there’s an investment of over ninety thousand pounds. Do you want the names?’

  ‘I don’t think we can complete the jigsaw without them.’

  ‘Quite right. Sir Charles Ramsey. Mr. William Nettlefold. Sir Hubert Trim. Know any of them?’

  ‘Sir Charles Ramsey’s something at the War Office.’ He nodded. ‘The others?’

  The names were familiar, but I couldn’t really place them.

  ‘I’ll shorten the odds then. All three are highly-placed civil servants. They are our masters. The power behind the throne. Each has the ear of his Minister, and lord knows how much of the government’s policy is formulated by them. Ramsey, as you say, at the War House; Nettlefold at the Home Office, and Trim at the Foreign Office.’ He sipped his tea and pulled a wry face. ‘Well, I’ve lived most of my life on the wrong side of the law and I say each to his own trade, but when you put two and two together the answer is a nasty smell on the political landscape.’

  ‘It didn’t stop you though, did it?’ from Jane Patterson.

  For a moment he became almost parsonic. ‘A lot of money, my dear. A lot of temptation.’

  It was one hades of a story, but Guy would have to have proof, while the legal brains would be hard put to keep Miller out of it.

  ‘I should think my editor would make a substantial offer for the notebook ...’ I began.

  Miller laughed. ‘I’ll say he would. No, my friend, that notebook is my passport to some kind of freedom, I’ve already tried to make money on it.’

  ‘And nearly got killed in the process.’ Jane Patterson clattered a cup.

  He gave three quick little nods, as though he would rather forget about it. ‘True. Oscar, I said, you have the book. They have the cash.’

  ‘You tried some blackmail.’

  ‘It was business. I had something to sell. I thought one of them at least would want to buy.’

  ‘And they didn’t?’

  ‘Oh, they did — or at least Sir Charles Ramsey did. He’s got a place down in Surrey, near Frensham Ponds. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when I put it to him on the telephone. We settled it there and then. Price, where the money was to be picked up, everything. Very military. Map reference where I was to collect the loot. Signals: flashing torch. I told him that there would be no second chance. Very brave man, Sir Charles. I didn’t go myself, of course, and didn’t put the relevant pages in the brief case either. You ever hear of William Edward Beech — Copper we used to call him?’

  I think I actually stood up. I knew of Beech. I had been at his inquest. He was the poor devil who was killed on the battle range near Aldershot.

  ‘You sent Beech?’

  ‘I’d have paid off Charles Ramsey. It was a gentleman’s agreement.’

  ‘Then why the devil didn’t you send the notebook to the police, or a newspaper. I know how Beech died.’

  ‘It was difficult. I was in a tricky position, you know.’

  ‘You were still greedy,’ said the girl.

  ‘And a little of that. I’m not really much of a one for politics, so I asked advice from an old friend. Michael Hensman.’

  ‘And he went missing.’

  ‘He saw what you haven’t seen. He saw the book.’

  ‘And Miss Patterson?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I’ve seen it as well. It’s true enough.’

  ‘And she frightens easily. Like I do. Who’s really going to look into these kinds of allegations made against men with the power of Ramsey or Nettlefold or Trim? Think about it, Darrell. Ramsey had my man shot down by the army. Murdered by British Tommies. It’s a tight one. Even for an old villain like myself.’

  ‘Did Mrs. Hensman know?’

  The girl answered. ‘She knew something was the matter. I don’t think he told her the facts.’

  ‘And he disappeared: just like that?’

  ‘He promised to do what he could to help me,’ drawled Miller. ‘Old times’ sake. He knew I was frightened. In a funny way I think he was sorry for me. He could see we were holding a stick of dynamite. I gave him this address and cleared out.’

  ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t tip the police.’

  Jane Patterson laughed. ‘I think that’s the last thing he would have done. Michael is nice but ineffective. He didn’t want trouble. The police?’ She said it derisively with a short laugh. ‘If Ramsey could have a blackmailer shot down in cold blood, what could Nettlefold have done? How many policemen has he got in his pocket?’

  ‘But it’s conspiracy. A plot.’

  ‘Then you make it stick, old son.’ Oscar Miller was getting tense again. ‘What’re you going to do? Turn me in? Do that and see how long you’ll last. They put Copper under because they thought he knew. Michael Hensman’s gone missing. Jane here’s going in fear of her life. You’re the only other person who knows. Bring it out in the open and see what kind of medal they give you — a .303 bullet. It’s conspiracy all right, but how deep? And conspiracy to what?’

  I thought about it. Three highly-placed civil servants receiving large sums of money. From whom and for what?

  ‘And why are you here?’ I asked the girl.

  ‘Because I was concerned for Michael. I thought it was just possible that he’d cut and run. He was in a state. I thought he might have come here.’

  ‘Did he do anything about the information?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes, yes, I think so. I think he talked to Nettlefold. There were indications in some of the questions Fox asked me.’

  ‘You told him nothing?’

  ‘He could see I was terrified, but no, I kept quiet.’

  ‘Stupid fool,’ said Miller quietly. ‘Of all the stupid things to do, talking to Nettlefold. I warned him.’

  I had to tell them about the bowler-hatted snoop. ‘I think you might have been followed here,’ I said as quickly as I could get it out, looking straight at the Patterson girl.

  ‘Oh God,’ groaned Miller.

  ‘They were watching me in London.’ She looked anxious. ‘But I shook them off. I took great care.’

  ‘What were they like, the ones watching you in London?’

  ‘The usual. Big men. Dark overcoats. Trilby hats.’

  I stood up and Miller’s hand reflexed, lifting the pistol. ‘Put it down. That won’t do you any good.’ Crossing to the window I looked down into the street. He was there, the man in the bowler, and he had got himself an umbrella; pacing up and down as though waiting for someone. ‘Look for yourself.’ I
went back to my chair.

  When I raised my eyes they had both turned from the window. I thought Jane Patterson was going to cry.

  ‘Is there a back entrance to this place?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ll have thought of that.’ Miller paced up and down in front of the false fireplace. Looking at him now it was hard to remember that he had directed a cunning and vicious bank robbery. He looked capable of it, but somehow the droop of his shoulders and the wildness in his eye signalled a man on the way down. He turned suddenly to face us. ‘If I have to fight my way out, I will.’ He brandished the pistol. ‘I’ll kill if need be.’

  ‘You have somewhere to go? A place you can run to?’

  Logic and cool planning were the things he needed, talents he had obviously brought to his criminal activities. I sensed they were cracking now and I had no desire to be caught in the fall of debris from his nerves.

  Miller frowned. ‘I might use you as a hostage.’

  Jane Patterson took a pace towards the door and Miller’s pistol came up again. ‘And you,’ he said, the menace in his voice reflected for a second in his eyes.

  ‘There is another way,’ I had to sound reasonable.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s just possible I could get him drawn off. It would give you a chance to run.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Tell me how.’

  I had to show most of my hand, so I told him about Bruno. ‘It’s possible we could make it hot for a few minutes. Enough time for us to get away. Most journalists have police contacts. But if I try it you’ll have to do something in return.’

  ‘A bargain.’

  ‘A large bargain. If you get caught, they’ll be looking for the notebook. At the moment I don’t think they know I’m here — whoever they are. Give me the book and I’ll give you my word that I’ll try and deal for your freedom. I won’t use the evidence unless it becomes absolutely necessary.’ It was a gamble and at first I didn’t think it was going to pay off. The frustrated silence rubbed like sandpaper on my nerves. ‘I would also suggest that you split up. Go in different directions.’

  ‘If we get away, how do I contact you? How do I make certain you can keep your end of the deal?’ Oscar was showing interest.