Shadowplay

by Norman Hartley

  Branston settled himself into a corner and looked Seagull over once more. ‘Well, young lady, nice to meet you. Sorry about this business. Damned sorry. John said you wanted to see me. Can’t do much to help, I’m afraid. Hands are tied. Anyway, lunch first. May as well make ourselves comfortable.’

  ‘I think we’d better talk,’ Seagull said. ‘I’d like to get this over with.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘Yes, of course, my dear. But let’s have some drinks at least.’ Branston summoned George and when we all had glasses, Branston turned back to Seagull.

  ‘Now, my dear, what do you want to tell me?’

  It was an invitation for a confession and I could see Branston waiting with wet-lipped anticipation.

  ‘It’s the photograph,’ she said. ‘John told you it was a fake. It wasn’t taken at the party. Nothing happened at the party remotely resembling that.’

  Branston coughed and I could see he was preparing to enjoy himself.

  ‘You say nothing like that happened.’

  ‘No. Nothing at all.’

  ‘But there was some’—he coughed again—’sexual activity?’

  ‘What happened there is no concern to anyone who wasn’t present.’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite true, my dear. The photo does rather make it a bit public.’

  ‘The photo is a fake,’ Seagull said.

  ‘So you say, my dear…’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘Lord Branston, I said the photo was faked. If you’d stop staring at my tits for just a minute, you’d be able to concentrate better.’

  Branston hesitated. The change in Seagull’s tone was unmistakable, but I could see he wasn’t sure whether she was losing her temper out of fear. He looked at her carefully and her eyes told him to be careful.

  ‘Lord Branston, how would you like it if your private life was exposed to the board of World News?’

  ‘My dear, that isn’t the point. And anyway, I’m afraid no one would find the private life of an old fogey like me very interesting,’ he added with a smirk.

  ‘Not at all,’ Seagull said. ‘I found it fascinating.’ Branston looked startled, but Seagull went on calmly. ‘I thought it was only fair. You seemed determined to take an interest in what I do in my leisure time. I returned the compliment, especially after what you left behind at World News.’

  Jennifer opened the large brown envelope Simon had provided and pulled out a magazine. It was a copy of Spanker’s Choice. On the cover was a picture of an elderly man, sprawled improbably over the knee of a woman wearing high boots, black briefs, and a narrow mask. She was holding a heart-shaped paddle poised over his buttocks, apparently waiting for a fifty-year-old schoolgirl in a straw hat and gym slip to finish taking down his trousers.

  ‘Good God, what’s that?’ Branston said.

  ‘A friend of mine in World News said you left it behind by mistake last time you were over there. She asked me to return it.’

  Branston turned angrily on me.

  ‘Railton, this is preposterous,’ he said. ‘You put her up to this. I’ve never even looked at a magazine like that. It’s disgusting. Abominable.’

  ‘Yes, of course, there could have been a mistake,’ I said. ‘The affidavit makes that quite clear.’

  ‘Affidavit? What affidavit?’

  Seagull slipped her hand into the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was the photocopy of an affidavit, dictated by Pike and signed by a girl friend of Cox’s who worked in World News. It said, in the ponderous, labored language of affidavits, that she had found the magazine and believed it could belong to Lord Branston, as it had been found in an office he had been using.

  Branston read it and his face turned purple. ‘Railton, this is libelous, criminally libelous. It wouldn’t stand up for one second.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not on its own, but it does seem to fit in with a few other things in that envelope.’

  Seagull dipped her hand in again. This time, it was a photocopy of a document, under the heading of West Central Police Station. It was a formal complaint, filed by a woman identified as Mrs. Mary Whitstable, alleging that 419 Soho Square contained apartments which were used for practices of a sadomasochistic nature. The complaint was set out neatly, on a Metropolitan Police form, and countersigned by the detective constable who had typed it and the desk sergeant who had accepted it.

  Seagull passed over a pile of photographs, showing Branston entering a building on which the plaque reading 419 Soho Square was clearly visible.

  ‘Dammit, that’s where my mother lives,’ Branston roared. ‘How dare you suggest…’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ she said calmly. ‘This just happened to come to my attention, that’s all. Along with these.’

  She took more photographs from the envelope and pushed them across to Branston. This was the piece de resistance, the culmination of Rinaldo Simoni’s years of experience in the sleaziest end of the world’s photographic trade.

  They were all photographs of Branston, taken, as I well knew, on his innocent walk home from the Braganza on the previous evening. But the backgrounds had all been doctored. Instead of strolling down Frith Street, on his way to call on his mother, Branston had been resituated in virtually every fetish shop in Soho. In one he seemed to be staring directly at a blown-up picture of a woman being whipped by a masked black slave master. In another he was passing through a narrow doorway in a fetish movie house under pictures of a man tied naked to a tree trunk with women dressed in assorted rubber garments dancing around it.

  Branston looked at the pictures, then at Seagull, flushing a deep shade of scarlet.

  Seagull continued to stare at him, apparently unconcerned by the photographs. Then she smiled. ‘My private life begins to look almost innocent, don’t you think, my lord?’

  Branston started to splutter, but I broke in quickly.

  ‘Howard,’ I said, ‘let’s get this over with quickly. This isn’t blackmail. You can have all the photographs. It’s just a joke. But it has a very serious edge. Half an hour ago, you were preparing to crucify me. For the sake of a seat on some bloody operatic board, you were prepared to help end my career, while sitting on your fat arse and passing around photos of me you knew damned well were phony.

  ‘Well, Howard, I’m afraid I’m a very difficult man to fuck over, and I’d be obliged if you’d remember that.

  ‘Vote against me by all means, when the matter comes to discussion. But vote on the issues. And if you have the nerve to maintain that evidence of this kind can’t be faked, I’ll make you the laughingstock of London. The man who did this will be happy to tell the tale. And I doubt if you’ll walk into a club in London to your dying day without hearing it. Now, Howard, I’m off to see Paul. Do you still want to come?’

  Branston sat back in the settle and I thought for a moment that we might have pushed him too far—a heart attack wasn’t on the schedule—but Branston managed to pull himself together. Still looking at Seagull, he started putting the photographs and documents back into the envelope. ‘No, Railton,’ he said, ‘I won’t be coming down.’

  ‘Can I take it you’re prepared to wait ten days before this matter comes to issue?’

  ‘Yes, damn you.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’m grateful. I think you’ll find that by then it will all be settled anyway.’

  As we left the Red Lion, George came hurrying over.

  ‘What’s up, guv? Don’t you want any lunch?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not this time. But you might be able to sell a couple of reviving glasses to the gentleman in the back room.’

  It was a splendid moment. Another hurdle cleared. Now all that was missing was the phone call from Jopling.

  It was still only half-past two, and we drove quickly to the Shabby Poacher, a pub about a mile up the road, and ordered drinks and a sandwich just before closing time.

  From the garden at the back, there was a view all the way down t
he valley and I saw that some kind of campsite seemed to be set up in one of the fields near Roland’s Hollow. I asked the landlord and he said, ‘It’s the MND people. They were getting a bit touchy, so the police fixed them up with a campsite. They’ve got singers down there and grub from Boxhill Farm. I wouldn’t be surprised if the coppers didn’t turn a blind eye if the Jug and Hoops stayed open a bit late.’

  ‘Only in England,’ I said. ‘Thank God we still have a few police around with a bit of imagination who can think beyond water cannon and riot shields.’

  I sat with Seagull in the garden for half an hour after the bar had closed, drowsing in the shade and talking about the old days in Hampstead. But as half-past three approached—the time of my call to Jopling—I could feel my anticipation growing.

  Finally, I was going to come to grips with Paul Sellinger.

  I made the call from a box in the grounds of the pub and had Marge call me back as soon as she had made the link to Jopling.

  When Jopling came on the line, I said, ‘Well, are we set? Is Jacob ready to lower the boom?’

  There was a moment of silence, then I heard Jopling’s voice, worried and angry, even through the transatlantic static.

  ‘It didn’t work,’ he said. ‘Jacob won’t act. The Family’s closing ranks. They’re flying to London for talks with Paul. I think they may even have left already.’

  I listened for fifteen minutes as Jopling gave me the details, and when he’d finished, I knew the fight was a long way from being over.

  When I put down the receiver, I found another coin and dialed the number of Samman’s. The meeting had to go on. I was determined not to run away from it, but when the receiver was picked up, the butler’s voice came on the line.

  ‘Mr. Sellinger left a message for you, sir. He’s afraid he’s had to postpone the meeting. I’m not sure when he’ll be back, sir. I believe he’s gone to Heathrow.’

  23

  That night, I again slept in the World News Building. This time, I wasn’t concerned with avoiding Nancy or Seagull; I simply wanted to be alone to rest and to think. Cox stayed with me, but I hardly saw him. At first, he dozed on a couch in my secretary’s office, but when he realized that I’d gone into what he always called my trance, he found a pillow and some blankets, settled in his own office, and slept soundly.

  I slept too, but only for the four hours I needed in order to stay alert. For the rest of the night, I quietly reviewed everything that had happened since the affair began. Then I thought about the showdown and tried to put myself into Paul Sellinger’s head, to look at myself through his eyes and try to decide how he would close in for the kill. Jopling had called again before leaving New York, and this time the message had been even clearer: the Sellingers weren’t coming to London to defend Paul. They were coming to get me.

  At about four o’clock, I started to write. I prepared two memoranda, one for Cox and one for Jopling, writing in clear longhand so there could be no dispute about their authenticity, then I made photocopies and locked them in the safe.

  At five o’clock, I called Ryder on his emergency number and told him I wanted to see Nancy. I knew she would be awake; this was her best time of day and I remembered how she used to love to wander through the gardens at Samman’s, listening to the dawn chorus and taking note of which beds needed weeding or which plants needed attention.

  We met at the American Embassy. She could not come to the World News building and Ryder would not let even me know the location of the safe house, so we talked, finally, just after six o’clock, in an office that smelled of old leather and pipe smoke, looking out over the treetops of Grosvenor Square.

  When I told her how I wanted her to help me, she said, ‘John, I do still love you. I’m sure you realize that. But you’re still asking a lot.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But it’s a weapon I need. The fight’s going to be very bloody.’

  ‘When will it begin?’

  ‘Tomorrow. They’ll want to see me today, but I won’t agree. It’ll be tomorrow.’

  ‘That gives me a little time to think.’

  ‘No. I need to know now whether I can count on you.’

  Nancy smiled. ‘I’m not used to dealing with you in your executive incarnation. You’re very direct.’

  ‘It’s better.’

  ‘Then I’ll try to be direct too,’ Nancy said. ‘Yes. I’ll help you. I’ll try to do what you ask. I just hope I’ll have the courage to go through with it when the time comes.’

  I made a move to touch her arm, but she drew it gently away.

  ‘Better not. Stay in your executive incarnation.’ She smiled. ‘By the way, I was going to offer to help with something else. It seems pretty small stuff now, compared with what you had in mind.’

  ‘Every little bit helps,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bob told me about the guest list for the party, the one you got from Wint. Are you doing anything with it?’

  ‘It’s pretty hopeless. We’re trying to find someone who knows how the hell Louise Allenby really did die. There’s not much chance. Kent Allenby’s had private investigators on it. They found the man who took her to the party. He was clean. What we really need is the man who left the party with her.’

  ‘Are you sure it was a man?’ Nancy said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think if you look very closely at Louise’s private life, you’ll find she was AC-DC. You’ll have to look really closely, though.

  It’s not well-known. In fact, it’s not even gossiped about. But I think it’s true.’

  Nancy paused. ‘I asked Bob to show me the guest list. I know a few of them. There’s one woman on there who might just be Louise’s type. The list calls her Campbell, Beth Campbell. I knew her at school in New England. Campbell’s her maiden name, but as far as I know she’s still married to Johnny Corcoram, the sugar millionaire.’

  ‘Would she talk to you?’

  ‘She won’t want to.’ Nancy grinned. ‘We loathed each other at school. Spent most of our time pulling each other’s hair in the locker room. But I’ll try.’

  ‘And the others too,’ I said. ‘Anyone. I can use any tiny bit of ammunition.’ I hesitated. ‘Jennifer is going to go through the list this morning, with Jim. You wouldn’t consider working with her?’

  ‘Why the hell not? I’ve often thought I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘In other circumstances, you could easily have been friends.’

  ‘We may be yet.’ Nancy laughed. ‘The question is where do we meet. Her safe house or mine, as we say in spook country.’

  ‘Fix it with Bob. But Nan, no risks. I need your help, but if Paul finds out where you are, he’ll come after you.’

  ‘Bob will take care of me.’ Nancy smiled. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t exchange any girlish confidences with your Seagull.’

  Before I left the Embassy, Ryder asked to see me alone and we talked in another, more spacious office along the hall. The Stars and Stripes on the mahogany stand in the corner had been dismantled for cleaning; it had been draped over the table and it looked as though someone were preparing for a burial.

  ‘We’ve got surveillance on Samman’s,’ Bob said. ‘They’re all there. Jacob, Robert, and Paul. Only about six support staff. By Sellinger standards, they practically sneaked into London’. They usually need a floor of the Connaught just for their PR men. They’ve put the word out that it’s strictly a private visit. Usually, they expect the ambassador to start jumping the minute their plane lands. This time, they haven’t even contacted him.’

  Ryder paused.

  ‘I don’t mind telling you, he’s not sorry. And the director is cowering on the sidelines too. John, old buddy, I’ll level with you. My people are putting you up at bat. The Company’s made what it calls contingency plans, but no one wants to be the first kid on the block to take the axe to the Sellingers. Around Washington, their people and the President’s are intertwined like old lovers. On the Hill. Everywhere.�
��

  ‘Terrific.’ I gestured down at the flag. ‘Even if you’re going to throw me to the fucking wolves, there was no need to start preparing for the body.’

  Ryder laughed. ‘It’s not that bad. We’ll move if we have to.’

  ‘But you mean you’d rather I did the dirty work.’

  ‘Yeah, sort of.’

  ‘I don’t suppose your surveillance people have fixed up any audio by any chance?’

  Ryder shook his head.

  ‘We’ve tried. Total jamming. The Sellinger Corporation’s developed its own anti-bugging systems. Just for Defense Industries.’

  ‘You’ve finished sweeping my shop at least?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re clean.’

  ‘Then we’re off,’ I said. ‘But I just have a few little tricks to organize first. I’ve decided it’s time we started playing by Sellinger rules.’

  When I got back to the office, it was already eight o’clock. Cox had shaved and changed and looked more rested than I’d seen him in days. I called him into my office and handed him one of the envelopes I’d prepared during the night.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Instructions,’ I said. ‘Very detailed instructions.’

  Cox looked up. ‘You don’t usually spell things out in writing. What’s the matter? Am I losing my grip?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘This is different. This is to cover you. Anything you do from here on in is strictly on my responsibility.’

  ‘You mean when they come to take me away, I clutch the envelope, click my heels, and scream, ‘But I voss only obeying orders!’’

  ‘Something like that. In the envelope there’s a list of six names. I want you to find out which of them’s available. I only need one. Maybe two of them at most. I want you to make sure they’re in London by tomorrow morning if they’re not already here. If you’ve any preferences on the list, feel free. You’re the one who’ll be working with them. With the list is a memorandum setting out what I’m authorizing you to tell them. But not till I give you the word.’

  Cox opened the envelope and glanced at the names.