Madrigal

by John Gardner

  Seven hundred and the clothes he stood up in, no job, and few prospects. He left the hotel and slouched back up the Strand, trying to work out priorities. Clothes. At least he had to have clothes. He dug into the five hundred pounds and picked up a reasonable suitcase at the first available shop before making his way to Cecil Gee’s in the Charing Cross Road.

  It had been years since Boysie had bought off the peg. He ended up with a formal suit, two pairs of slacks, a sports jacket, six ties, five shirts, three sets of cuff-links and assorted underwear. On the way back to the Strand Palace he lashed out on a couple of sets of pyjamas and one pair of shoes. His total of seven hundred had now dwindled to just over five.

  In the hotel room Boysie rang down for a bottle of scotch, soda, and half a Courvoisier. A jumbo scotch, the radio percolating an assortment of pop, a cigarette between lips, Boysie stretched out on the bed and began to aim his addled mind in the general direction of ways and means.

  *

  Mostyn arrived back at Headquarters to find the sexy receptionist—known in private as Snake Hips—looking like death. Eyes rimmed red from tears. ‘Colonel’—on the verge of breaking down ‘the Chief. Straight away.’

  ‘Mostyn’s stomach pulsed a prediction of some gigantic disaster. ‘What’s up, love?’

  ‘Oh, Colonel Mostyn...’ The wretched doxy disintegrated, tears and sobs.

  Mostyn ran to the lift. The Chief had cracked and taken the coward’s way out, he thought. Instead he found the old sailor happy, awash with whisky, and grinning. ‘Fix it, Mostyn?’

  ‘Boysie?’

  ‘Oakes, yes.’ A small tipple to top up the glass.

  ‘It’s done.’ Mostyn unemotional.

  ‘Special Branch’ve got someone doing a temporary surveillance on him. Just until it blows over.’

  ‘Till what blows over?’ Mostyn’s speech hesitant.

  The Chief reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a cheque, and pushed it over to his Second-in-Command. ‘Treasury’s authorised payment to you. There’s a letter of resignation for your signature, of course.’

  Mostyn glanced at the cheque. Fifty thousand pounds. His skin glowed red. ‘What do you mean, letter of resignation? Why do they want my head? I’ve just done this to Oakes for a pittance. Now it’s me. Why?’

  ‘Oh, not just you, little Mostyn. Far from it. We’re finished. Washed up, disbanded, cut off in our prime. As from midnight, the Department of British Special Security ceases to exist. Our work’s been taken over by the major branches. Disaster, old chap, has struck.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to worry you too much.’

  ‘No,’ said the Chief, all jaunty. ‘They’re makin’ me a peer. House of Lords. Services rendered an’ all that cock.’

  ‘Fireproof.’

  ‘Asbestos, Mostyn. Asbestos. And no real responsibility. There’s joy for you. If you’d sign the letter, please.’

  Mostyn looked at the few typewritten lines. The bulk of his adult life had been given to the Department. Twice he had been severely injured. Several times there had been minor things like a broken leg or wrist. Now it was over. No argument. Mostyn scrawled his signature above the capital letters JAMES GEORGE MOSTYN.

  ‘Good times, Mostyn, good times. Over now. Not sorry. Suggest you get your personal effects out of the office and move off like a doped racehorse. George’s Mafia’ll be movin’ in soon enough.’

  ‘Anyone being retained?’

  ‘Only half a dozen. Can’t tell you who now you’ve resigned. They’re forming a special unit to deal with Communist agitation in industry—manipulation of walk-outs, strikes, that sort of business. Things’re bad in that direction, I gather.’

  ‘I know. We have been working on it, remember?’

  ‘Course. Course. We’ll meet again, old Mostyn. Dinner soon, eh?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Mostyn charity cold.

  ‘Is one thing, think you ought to know about.’ The Chief solemn suddenly.

  ‘What?’ Mostyn past caring.

  ‘There’ve been developments in Wales. Until the day after Oakes turned up, there was an unused film set well off the main road, about five miles from the pub.’

  ‘A film set?’ Urgency.

  ‘Meso-Grabstone-Maul Productions’ve been doin’ a blasted stupid spy film. Set in China. Representation of a prison camp.’

  ‘Then Boysie—’

  ‘Wait. They finished the film weeks ago but didn’t bother to dismantle until now. Hidden away very well. Little airstrip and everything. Local police did a search. That cable, Mostyn, the one from Rabbit. Fake. They found Rabbit this mornin’. On the old film-set site. Buried in a heap of sand and shot to pieces.’

  ‘It really happened then?’

  ‘Looks like it. Special Branch’ll be on to Oakes again, no doubt. Nothin’ to do with us any more, though. Thank God.’

  ‘Christ,’ murmured Mostyn, shaking his head, ‘only happen to Boysie. Nobody else would be fool enough to think he was in China when he was really in Wales.’

  The Chief drummed his fingers on the desk, then perked up. ‘Last drink then, Mostyn.’ You could not tell if the Chief really felt happy or simply covered despair with layers of alcohol.

  ‘No thanks.’ Mostyn stood up and offered his hand in farewell. ‘Good-bye, Chief.’

  ‘Come on, you bloody lubber. Old times’ sake. Drink.’

  ‘No thank you.’ Biting at the words, Mostyn turned to leave the room, then whirled round. ‘I’ve been wanting to say this for years. As the Chief of a security department you would make a bloody good front man for a public lavatory. You’re a drunk, a stupid old buffoon, and a damn great pain in the arse.’

  The Chief rose unsteadily. ‘And I have something to say to you, Mostyn. As my Second-in-Command, you have proved yourself to be a sly, intriguing, bastard son-of-a-deckhand’s syphilitic sister.’

  ‘Thank you, Chief, and good-bye.’ Mostyn walked to the desk and put out his hand. ‘You greasy bugger.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Thank you, Mostyn, and good-bye,’ said the Chief. ‘You unmitigated whore’s godfather.’

  Mostyn turned slowly and left the room, his shoulders drooping slightly.

  The Chief, alone among his pictures of life past, poured himself another drink.

  *

  Around five o’clock Boysie, who had consumed a third of the whisky, made up his mind. Griffin, what had happened to Griffin? Perhaps he could help if the yellow men had not got him. Boysie dialled the number. It rang six or seven times before the receiver clicked up at the other end. Nobody spoke. Sound of breathing.

  Boysie broke the silence. ‘Mr. Griffin?’

  ‘Mr. Griffin’s residence. Who’s calling, please?’ The voice had sepia qualities.

  ‘A friend. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Mr. Griffin’s manservant.’

  Lord rot us, ‘Griffin’s man.’ Bertie Worster and Jeeves already.

  ‘Tell him it’s Mr. Oakes.’

  ‘Mr. Oakes. Very good sir.’

  During the short wait Boysie’s mind sifted Griffin’s situation. A residence. Not a common old garden home but a residence. Before, it was either Griffin himself or some girl who answered the phone. Perhaps partial retirement had brought about a change in Griffin’s status. There had been signs during the last months.

  ‘Mr. Oakes?’ Griffin’s unmistakable voice.

  ‘Griffin.’ The bark of a Doberman. It should really have been a snarl.

  ‘Thank ’eaven yer ’arbour light.’

  Boysie did a dumb act. Irritated. ‘Harbour light?’

  ‘’Arbour light—all right. Been worried to—well, yer know—’

  ‘You’ve been worried? What about me? And what happened to you?’

  ‘They clobbered me. Clobbered me proper. ’Onest, I played it straight. Was taking sight o’ yer door long before the Chinese bint—sorry, Mr. Oakes—before the young lady arrived. Didn’t sleep nor nothin’. Just go’ a bleedin’ great thum
p crost the back o’ me neck. Came to in ’orspital. Yankee Military ’orspital. The goods.’

  ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘Yeah? Yeah, yer right. We should meet. Look, yer never been out my place before. Come an’ ’ave a bite. Bi’ o’ nosh.’

  ‘How do I get to you?’

  ‘Don’t yer worry. I’ll send Rubin wiv the car. Where are yer? ’Ome?’

  ‘No. Strand Palace Hotel. Room 200.’

  ‘Be there in ’arf an hour. Okay?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘’Ave ter take pot luck. As yer find us like.’

  Boysie did not answer.

  ‘See yer then.’

  ‘See you.’

  Twenty minutes later the telephone rang, the hall porter saying that Mr. Oakes’s car was waiting. By the porter’s desk stood a six-foot Jamaican with shoulders to match, stylishly got up in grey livery with a discreet ‘G’ embroidered in gold on his cap. This was a bit much, even for Griffin, but the Jamaican turned out to be the chauffeur. The car was a black Phantom V with all the gear.

  ‘Mr. Griffin says you can help yourself to a drink,’ said Rubin curtly as he opened the door. Boysie settled comfortably in the rear, found the cocktail cabinet, and helped himself to a small brandy.

  They slid off in the direction of Harrow, but within minutes Boysie lost track. Eventually gates and a drive, sweep of lawn to the left, and broad stone steps leading up to the front door. The house was large, exquisitely Georgian, smelling of money. Griffin came out on to the steps to greet him.

  ‘Nice to see yer, Mr. Oakes. Come in, come in.’ And to Rubin, ‘Yer can get the nosh ready now.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘’Ave ter get rid of ’im. Too posh. Never relaxes. Bu’ I ’ate apartheid. Like ’avin’ spades round, so I give ’im the job.’

  The hall was magnificent, like something out of Homes and Gardens but without the pictures being touched up. Griffin led the way into a large room decorated and furnished with the same distinguished touch. One wall was entirely bare but for a quietly lighted ‘Mona Lisa.’

  ‘Wonderful copy,’ said Boysie, going close to the picture.

  ‘Copy?’ Griffin with a cunning grin. ‘You think they’ve got the real one in Paris?’

  Looking around, Boysie saw a number of objets d’art that seemed extraordinarily familiar.

  ‘Sit down, Mr. Oakes. A drink?’

  ‘No. No thanks. Enough already. I’ve lost my flippin’ job.’

  ‘So I ’eard.’

  ‘You heard?’

  ‘Well, Mr. Oakes. You know ’ow it is in our sort o’ business.’

  ‘No, I don’t know how it is.’

  Griffin looked embarrassed. ‘All right, cock. I’ll be fair wiv yer—’ They were interrupted by the door opening and a slim teen-age blonde sneaking into the room.

  ‘Ooh, sorry Griff. Didn’t know—’

  ‘Not now, ’Ortense. I’ll be wiv yer later. Business meetin’. Rubin’ll bring yer somethin’ upstairs. Won’t be late. Promise.’

  ‘All right, dahling, I understand.’ She paused, looking lecherously at Boysie. ‘Who’s your friend?’ The voice was definitely top drawer and the whole aspect dazzling.

  ‘Buzz orf, ’Ortense. See yer later.’

  The girl pouted towards Boysie and withdrew.

  ‘Birds,’ said Griffin, throwing up his hands, ‘death o’ me they’ll be.’

  ‘You’re old enough to be her father.’

  ‘So? She’s old enough to be fathered. She’s real as well. An ’On. Real class there. ’Er old woman’s a lady in ’er own right, then she marries a lord, ’Ortense’s dad, divorces ’im, and goes and marries another lord.’ Griffin smugly. ‘Fella by the name of Mamian or somethin’.’

  ‘Don’t know how you do it,’ said Boysie, exasperated.

  ‘Well, she’s gotta go and all. Been ’ere six months. ’ave ’er if yer like. Little present. Be glad to give ’er away. Exhaustin’ me she is.’

  ‘You were just going to be fair with me.’

  There was an embarrassed pause. ‘Yeah, well, like anyone, I gotta earn me livin’. Point is that Colonel Mostyn’s used me a few times as well.’

  Boysie was on his feet, fists clenched. ‘You mean you were getting paid twice over?’

  ‘Steady on, Mr. Oakes, please. No, not twice over. But I. knew the score. I mean, you was screwin’ Mostyn, weren’t yer, so I didn’t think there was no ’arm. Take larst year, for instance. That job in Switzerland. The Member of Parliament. Mostyn wanted me to do it, but, as yer well know, I had a stinkin’ cold. Even so, when you arsked I came over to do it, didn’t I?’

  ‘Can’t win, can I?’

  ‘Highly unlikely.’ Griffin grave.

  A tap at the door. Rubin, attired in black trousers and white high-collared jacket sporting brass buttons. ‘Dinner is served for you, sir.’ To Griffin, with a bow from the waist. ‘And for your friend.’ No bow for Boysie.

  Crossing the hall, Boysie stopped to admire an exquisite console table. ‘This real as well?’

  ‘Beautiful piece.’ Griffin all sly smiles. ‘Genuine Burgh, mid-eighteenth century. Mate o’ mine picked it up in Christie’s. Auctioneer wasn’t ’arf mad.’

  The dining room looked like a regimental officers’ mess. A long, polished Jacobean table with matching chairs, military prints decorating walls of muted pond-green silk, silver glinting in the light thrown from half-a-dozen magnificent candelabra. Two place settings were laid, one at each end of the table. Boysie seemed a mile apart from Griffin. All conversation had to be projected across the glass gleam of opulence.

  ‘Want to talk business really,’ began Boysie.

  Rubin hovered over a side table.

  Griffin held up his right hand. ‘After we’ve eaten, if yer don’t mind, Mr. Oakes. Never mix business with pleasure. After we’ve eaten.’

  Conversation was difficult at long range, the food excellent—soufflé de homard, duckling rouennais, cassoulet princesse, and a Château La Tour at which Boysie had to do a double-take. An imposso Château La Tour. 1847. It just could not be.

  ‘You surprise me, Mr. Griffin. I didn’t expect...’ Boysie shouted during the duckling.

  ‘You thought it would be a semi with G-Plan furniture, china ducks migratin’ across the walls, and a frozen-food dinner.’ Griffin unperturbed.

  Boysie lowered his eyes.

  Griffin continued. ‘Done very well for meself in me own way. Tried to develop taste. No real income-tax problems in my line. I like a good life. Like yer, Mr. Oakes.’

  After the cassoulet princesse, Griffin suggested coffee and liqueurs in the ‘drarin’ room.’

  When Rubin had left them alone with the percolator and bottle, Griffin leaned back in his armchair. ‘Yer out of a job. Flat broke. And yer wants ’elp.’

  ‘In a nutshell, Mr. Griffin.’

  Pause.

  ‘Well, Mr. Oakes. I ’ave a rule. I never lends money and I never borrows it. But there are other ways. What yer got in the kitty?’

  ‘About five hundred quid.’

  ‘Keep yer in fags for a couple o’ weeks. Yer gotta find a job, that’s for sure. May be able to ’elp with that anon. In the meantime we gotta tide yer over. You’ve played fair wiv me, so I’ll play fair wiv yer. I mean, I can’t see yer goin’ back to life in a bed-sitter nor nothin’ like that.’

  ‘Unthinkable.’ Boysie doing his Noel Coward.

  ‘Yeah. You a gamblin’ man?’ Snap question.

  ‘Not really. The horses you mean?’

  ‘Blimey, no. Never touch the gee-gees, Mr. Oakes. Yer don’t stand an earthly. Only gamble when yer certain to win. And when you’ve won—vamoose. Out quick.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard professional gamblers have to be disciplined. Haven’t really got the temperament myself.’

  ‘Oh well, we can build that in, so to speak. As it were. You played the wheel? Roulette?’

  ‘Two or three times. Total disaster.�
��

  ‘Yeah, well I can fix it so it’s not disaster.’

  ‘How and where?’ asked Boysie, dejectedly lighting a cigarette.

  Griffin gave him a thin smile. Enigmatic. The right hand moved towards the bell push set into the wall nearby.

  Rubin appeared like the Genie of the Lamp. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Get me the time of trains to Manchester tomorra. Quick.’

  Rubin disappeared. Boysie even expected a puff of smoke.

  ‘I don’t lend money,’ Griffin continued, ‘but I feels I owes yer somethin’. I’m goin’ to finance a little gamblin’ session. Make yer a grand anyway. Sometime tomorra yer’ll be travellin’ ter Manchester. Gamblin’s no good ’ere in London. Difficult ter rig. I pay’s yer expenses—train, ’otel—Grand ’otel’s about the best place.’

  ‘I’ve got to go to Manchester?’ Disgust.

  ‘So? Loverley place, Manchester.’

  ‘Venice with drains.’

  ‘Chum, it may not be too ’ot. But it’s a loverley place. Cultural as well. All them new buildings. Old and new mergin’ into a comprehensive ’ole. The Town ’all. Free Trade ’all. The ’Alle Orchestra. The seductive baton of Sir John Barber’s-brolly, City Art Gallery, Woolworth’s. Blimey, Mr. Oakes, it’s Britain’s second city. And the night life. Really swings.’

  ‘Like a metronome do,’ said Boysie with superior insolence.

  Rubin did his Slave-of-the-Lamp piece again, handing Griffin a sheet of paper. The strange, paradoxical murderer studied it for a moment. Rubin had gone. Silently.

  ‘You’ll be travellin’ up on the four o’clock train from Euston tomorra afternoon. Arrive Manchester Piccadilly Station at six-forty-four. Tickets and reservations’ll be at yer ’otel in the mornin’. Book in at the Grand, then ’ang around until just before eleven. At eleven o’clock you ’ave to arrive at the Night Owl Club. Good, ’igh class gamin’ joint orf Market Street. Find it easy enough. When yer go into the gamblin’ room you’ll see a chemin table. On the right there’re three roulette tables. Yer goes ter the middle one, buyin’ one ’undred quid’s worth o’ chips on the way. The croupier will be a tall fellow with blond ’air. Looks a bit of a poof but don’t be fooled. Watch the wheel. After you’ve been there for a few minutes the zero will come up. Then the red nineteen—’