“Ah. Glad you ask. Well, I’ve tweaked a few noses in the past. Particularly in Ireland. Lots of possibilities there. And elsewhere of course. Thank God for your man Murphy. He warned me just in the nick of time. How long has he been working for you? He’s a good chap. Thinks on his feet. Rhonda found him a delight.”
So the stranger had a name. Murphy.
“Call me back tomorrow,” snapped Max.
The Colonel paused and then asked, “Do I sense you are as much in the dark as I am?”
“Let’s just say there are a few unexpected complications,” replied Max. “How did you leave it with him?”
“Murphy?”
“Yes.”
“He headed for Heathrow with the cash. I told him where to park the car. I’ll pick it up later. Have you heard from him?”
“Not yet,” said Max, trying to control his confusion. “You say you gave him the cash?”
“As per the instructions. Any problem with that?”
“No,” said Max.
“How was Rhonda?”
“Worried. I told her you’d be fine. Why didn’t you call her yourself?”
“A truck in the Mews. I’m sure your fellow told you about it. Telecom be damned. Surveillance if you ask me. Phone taps. Didn’t want to take the chance.”
Max hung up and sat down on the sofa.
Who the fuck was Murphy? The shit-faced asshole had put the charm on the usually astute Mrs. Villiers and fucked off with one and a half million dollars.
Nino appeared in the door with a plate of scrambled eggs and some heavily buttered toast.
“Here,” he said, and set it down on the table. “Get this into you.”
“What the hell are you doing?” said Max. “You know what the doctor says about…”
“Forget the doctor,” said Nino, handing him a fork and napkin. “You need protein. You need—”
“Okay, okay! Enough with the lecture,” said Max. “Go get Enzo and bring him here.”
Nino nodded and left. Max ate slowly and then wiped the plate clean with the last bit of toast. By the time he heard his brother coming up the stairs he had made a pot of coffee and was getting out the mugs.
“In the kitchen,” he called out.
Enzo came straight to the point. “Now what the hell is going on?”
Max poured out the coffee and added cream and sugar for his brother. Moving into the main room, they sat down at the table.
“As you told me in the car, Rocco intended to make the hit on the Colonel look like it was politically motivated. For that reason he set it up with a man on a motorcycle, similar to attacks in Northern Ireland. Great plan until someone turned up to warn Villiers at the last minute. To make matters worse, the hit man, one Eddie Ryan, was pretty seriously hurt by Villiers backing up his car.”
“Where is he now?”
“Ryan?”
Enzo nodded.
“He’s in a hospital. Don’t worry. Rocco’s taking care of him.”
“Who was it who warned the Colonel?” asked Enzo.
“Someone by the name of Murphy. Mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Villiers called. Told me he gave Murphy the money.”
“What!”
“The Colonel obviously assumed Murphy was sent by us to pick it up.”
Enzo remained silent as Max continued. “Then I had a call from a Rhonda Villiers, who is clearly concerned for her husband’s safety. Odd thing is, this Murphy seems to have hit it off with both of them.”
There was a long, significant pause.
“Good coffee,” said Enzo finally.
“Thanks,” said Max.
“That’s a lot of shit hitting a big fucking fan,” said Enzo.
Max put his cup down. “Maybe not,” he replied. “Think about it. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Well,” said Enzo, “Villiers is not gonna incriminate himself. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“You’re right there,” said Max. “If he opens it he’ll be breaking rocks until he’s old and gray.”
“And nothing has happened over there to change things here.”
“Not that I know of.”
Enzo shrugged. “Well then, with Ryan out of the way we have containment.”
Max leaned back in his chair. “Up to a point, yes. We still have to deal with Villiers when he surfaces. Right now I see no reason to change anything here. I’m meeting with Ramon Rivas tomorrow as planned.”
“Sal know about all this?”
“No. But he soon will. I’m curious to see what he’ll say we should do.”
“About Murphy?”
Max said bitterly, “Murphy, whoever the fuck he is, has enough of our cash to keep him happy for a very long time. The bastard also knows the money belongs to people who do not have his interests at heart. Unless he’s a complete idiot, Mr. Murphy is long gone.”
“Wait a minute!” said Enzo loudly. “You’re gonna let him keep it? Shouldn’t we…?”
“What do you suggest I do? Send in the Marines? Don’t get me wrong, little brother; if I could, I would. And anyway, he’s three thousand miles away.”
Enzo raised his hands in the air. “So what do you want from me?”
“I want you to have everything ready so we can make the transition when we hear from Rodrigo. We need to show the Colombians we are efficient and reliable.”
“You got it,” said Enzo. “Anything else?”
“No,” replied Max.
Enzo gave another resigned shrug and went out the way he came in. Max went into the bedroom, kicked off his shoes and lay down. Talking to Enzo had made him feel better. Now it was time to back off and consciously relax. Follow the doctor’s orders.
29
Harry’s martini was cool and dry and he ordered a feast that began with local brook trout served on a bed of watercress. This was followed by a rack of lamb, normally prepared for two, cooked rare and accompanied with a selection of homegrown vegetables and an expensive bottle of Château Margaux. For dessert he threw all caution to the wind, choosing the triple-layer chocolate cake with clotted cream.
What dominated his thoughts throughout dinner was not the food and wine but the money. If he made the wrong decision it could haunt him for the rest of his days.
Sated, he walked unsteadily back to his room. After a brief shower, he slipped naked beneath the covers and had a wildly erotic dream that involved a well-appointed gym, clotted cream, and Colleen O’Herlihy wearing lacy white panties.
The bells of a church awakened him at eight in the morning. As the last sounds reverberated over the rooftops there was an imperceptible tap on the door. Harry lifted up his head from the soft white pillow and saw a maid flitting across the room.
“Good morning, sir,” she whispered as she set a tray down on the table. As she drew back the curtains, sunlight flooded in. Without another word she vanished as silently as she had arrived.
Harry stretched like a contented cat, pulled back the covers, swung his legs to the floor and ambled across to the table. Cup of tea in hand, he watched as a white-hulled yacht on the river below sent ripples of reflected light across the white ceiling above him. In the thick green ivy right outside his window, little brown birds twittered and fluttered.
To see if there was anything about the attempted murder of Colonel Villiers, he opened The Telegraph and scanned the columns. At the foot of page 4 was a short paragraph headed “A Mysterious Shooting in Kensington.”
It reported on an incident that had taken place at approximately eight thirty the previous morning. A suspect was in custody, but the motive for the shooting was not yet known. The investigation was being pursued actively.
Well, that gave him a little breathing room. For the moment he was safe. What was more, no one knew where he was.
The battered brown suitcase in the corner of the room was too conspicuous to be carried everywhere. Nor could the cash be easily put in a bank. He had to find so
me remote place where he could hide it but still have access.
He showered and dressed, took out a bundle of the bills and closed up the case. Down in the lobby he gave a friendly wave to the woman behind the desk.
“Lovely day,” she said with a smile.
“Yes indeed,” Harry replied.
In the center of town at Barclays Bank he changed two thousand of the dollars into pounds sterling. The Queen stared imperiously up at him from the pile of fifties. Her royal gaze gave him but a momentary pause. The bills were folded over and put in an inside pocket. The bulge they made felt reassuring.
Back in the sunshine he came upon Davidson’s Luggage Emporium. A polyester suit came forward rubbing his hands.
“Hi there,” said Harry.
“Ah, from America, are we?” said the salesman.
Harry nodded.
“Ah! You’ve come at the right moment, sir. We have a shop-wide thirty percent sale in effect.”
“I am only after a suitcase. The zipper on my old one is broken.”
“Ah, sir,” the man replied with a sly smile. “You would save money if you was to buy two. May I suggest these?”
To avoid further conversation, Harry agreed and paid cash, arranging for two Tumi cases to be delivered right away to his hotel. As he left, a funeral procession motored past. The hearse contained a black coffin heavily trimmed in brass. The whole interior was festooned with brightly colored flowers. All were on their way to the local cemetery for the internment. The burial.
Here was the solution! He could bury the case! Taunton was surrounded by countryside. Somewhere out there was the perfect spot for temporary underground storage.
A workman, with cloth cap held respectfully in hand, stood beside him at the curbside watching the funeral go by.
“Excuse me,” said Harry. “Could you tell me where there’s a hardware store?”
“Hardware store?” said the man with a slightly puzzled expression.
“Yes,” replied Harry.
“Oh! You mean ‘ironmongers.’” He pointed directly across the road. “Over there.”
In Bletchley’s Emporium, a short salesman in a brown apron produced every conceivable form of gardening implement. Harry chose a small black shovel. To this he added a flashlight and a roll of duct tape. As the case might have to be buried in damp earth he asked for a roll of big Baggies.
“Baggies, sir?” The man’s gray eyebrows rose.
“Garbage bags,” said Harry.
“Garbage, sir?” They rose higher.
“Yes. Big plastic garbage bags.”
The penny dropped. So did his eyebrows. “Oh! You mean bin liners! How many do you require?”
“Er … well, one would be fine if it’s big enough.”
“Well sir, the Council usually supplies those but I should have a spare one here somewhere.” The little man rummaged beneath the counter. “Yes, here we are, sir.”
Harry flinched. It looked exactly like a body bag.
A stationery store in the high street provided him with a local survey map. Farther down, he was able to rent a compact car from West Country Motors. After a brief look at the map, he drove to the end of town and headed for the hills. Almost immediately the road narrowed. On either side grew high hedgerows. For a couple of miles the car climbed steadily upwards until he came upon a quaint little village. A signpost identified it as Buckland St. Mary. The weather-beaten church looked down on thatched cottages and the local post office doubled as the general store.
Up a steep hill in about half a mile, a dirt track on the left led to a small group of trees that stood in a hollow. Harry stopped the car and got out. High above him a lark was singing in the sky. Mixed with the birdsong was the rhythmic sound of an axe chopping wood. It came from a thatched farmhouse three fields away. A thin spiral of smoke rose from the weathered brick chimney. No other buildings could be seen in the immediate vicinity.
Harry walked along the bumpy track and down into the hollow. The ground beneath his feet was soft and pliant. An ideal spot to inter the suitcase. Sitting back in the car, he took out the map, carefully marked where he was and drove back to town.
He spent the remainder of the day resting. When darkness finally began to descend, he wrapped the case in the body bag and sealed it securely with the gray tape. At one o’clock in the morning, he carried it out of the hotel by a rear door and made his way to where he had parked the car. The silence of the night was scarcely broken by the soft padding of his shoes on the sidewalk. Scudding clouds crossed the moon and a fresh westerly wind now rattled the leaves in the trees. An owl hooted in the distance.
Nothing passed him in either direction during his drive up the hill. He was alone in the world. Nevertheless, he switched off the lights for the last few hundred yards and parked on the verge at the entrance to the track. Carrying his gear to the center of the hollow, he turned on the flashlight and propped it against a rock.
There were three trees larger than the others. Using them for a rough triangulation, he picked a center point. Kneeling down, he sliced out the first piece of turf. As he cut the second, a dog outside the farmhouse began to bark. Harry stopped digging and the dog stopped barking. Harry waited a full minute. As soon as the shovel hit the ground again the dog broke into a stream of staccato yelps. Moments later a door was opened and a yellow rectangle of light burst across the fields. An irate male voice shouted, “Come here, Betsy, damn it! Get inside!” Moments later a door slammed, extinguishing the light. Peace returned to the farmhouse and the hollow.
As noiselessly as he could, Harry moved the rest of the sod and scraped out the earth beneath. The clouds above cast weird shadows that slithered along the ground. Harry felt like one of the gravediggers in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. “‘Is she to be buried in Christian burial that willfully seeks her own salvation?’” he muttered, and dropped the plastic package into the hole. Shoveling in the loose dirt he tamped it down with his feet. The only thing left was to replace the turf. He knelt down and picked up a clump of grass.
A voice behind him continued to quote, “‘Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest.’”
Before he turned around, Harry knew who was behind him. He also had a hunch he would be looking at the Browning automatic. He was right about that too.
“After I left you with the car,” said Colonel Villiers, “I realized I’d accepted who you said you were, principally because you saved my life. As you know, that’s not something a chap takes lightly. But on reflection, I also realized I really hadn’t a clue as to who you really were. So I called Max on the hotline. I got the distinct impression he’d never heard of you.”
“How the hell did you find me?” asked Harry in panic.
“Wasn’t easy, old boy. But you Yanks are so predictable the way you never leave home without it.”
Harry was perplexed.
“American Express, old boy” came the explanation. “I have friends in high places. Friends who obligingly kept an eye on your account. At Paddington Station you used it to buy a ticket to Taunton.”
Damn! The bloody ticket. In his hurry to catch the train he had used his credit card without giving it a second thought.
“When I got down here I located you in the first hotel I inquired. Saw you from the garden enjoying your fancy dinner. Next day I followed you at a discreet distance. I wondered what you were up to when you went into Bletchley’s. Now that I’ve found out, I don’t think I approve.”
Harry closed his eyes and his body drooped. “How did you get here? I didn’t hear you—”
“You drove me, old boy,” said the Colonel. “I’ve been lying in the back of your car ever since you parked it on the street. Not a lot of room on the damn floor for a big chap like me. Bloody cramped, in fact, but it served the purpose.”
Giving Harry a nudge he pointed to the shovel. “Be a good fellow and dig. And while you’re at it you can tell me who you really are and who you’re working for.”
Harry scraped frantically at the earth with his fingers. In an attempt to convince Villiers of his innocence he told him the truth. All of it.
When he had finished, Villiers was skeptical. “You say you overheard a conversation?”
“Yes. Outside a Chinese restaurant.”
“Who was having this conversation?” asked Villiers.
“I don’t know. I needed to take a leak and when the people inside told me the place was closed, I went out back and pissed against the wall. Above me there was an open window. Through that I heard them talking.”
“How fascinating. And what exactly do you do when you’re not urinating against the walls of restaurants?”
“I’m an actor.”
“On the stage or on the television?”
“Both. And films of course … and I’ve done audiobooks…”
“Audiobooks? Oh, we like those. What was your last one?”
“Passion and Power!” Harry shouted trying to wake the farmhouse. “A novel by Stan Benedict.”
“I must remember to buy it. It would be fascinating to listen to your voice when it’s not quite so agitated.” He gave a sardonic grin. “Although, somewhat macabre, don’t you think?”
Harry unearthed the case and dragged the heavy package out of the hole. Villiers slid the safety catch off the automatic and put the hard metal against Harry’s head.
“My apologies, Mister Murphy,” he said flatly. “Or whoever you are. I’m afraid I don’t have any more time to waste.”
Contrary to popular belief, Harry didn’t relive his whole life story. He felt angry and sad. As sad as it was possible for a man to feel. And he felt stupid that he had allowed his time on earth to end like this. His mother and father were right. Honesty is the best policy. Harry had tried to be smart and this was the pathetic result. He also knew the bullet wouldn’t hurt as his brain wouldn’t have time to register the pain. A split second and his life would end. With his eyes closed he thought about the little brown birds in the ivy outside his room. The gun made a hollow thud and he did indeed feel no pain. Only a heavy weight falling against his legs. When he opened his eyes Villiers had collapsed at his feet. Framed in the moon above was the figure of a man holding a thick wooden stick.
Once a Crooked Man Page 11
