by Ralph Dennis
“You have that contact still or did you duel over my honor?”
Mac grinned. “I might have convinced him.”
Hall took the slip of paper from his pocket. On it was written the name of the ninja boy and the address on Tedworth Square.
Mac took the paper and stared at it. “Winford Boyle? A Winford Boyle doesn’t sound like he belongs on Tedworth.”
“A young fellow,” Hall said. “He tried to ninja me in the guest room over the Madison Hill.”
“Tried? Where’s he now?”
“If nobody claimed him, he’s in Potter’s Field by now.”
“You don’t look bruised.”
“He didn’t get close enough.”
Mac folded the paper and placed it in his jacket pocket. “You American types have all the fun these days.”
“It wasn’t all the fun you think it was.”
“Spoken just the way John Wayne would have.”
“Another?” Hall nodded at the barmaid.
“This drink needs company,” Mac said.
Hall waved at the barmaid. She brought the drinks and smiled at Mac. Mac watched her walk away. “This is the last one,” he said. “She’s beginning to look good to me.”
The Harker flat in London was on Walton Place, directly behind Harrods. While Hall waited to hear from Mac, he walked around Knightsbridge like a tourist. He had dinner at a place on Beauchamp Place and later stopped in at the Grove pub down the street for a pint. It was cold and drafty in the Grove and too crowded near the fireplace. Hall stood near one of the portable heaters and drank his bitter and listened to the voices and thought, it is a long trip for a pint if this whole matter becomes a dead end.
He had a good night of sleep, though his body clock was still confused. He was sitting over coffee and buttered toast when the flat buzzer sounded.
It was Mac. “You got some coffee for a man who’s been out freezing his buns on your business?”
Hall poured coffee in the living room and added more toast and jam for Mac. Mac shucked his topcoat and sat down at the coffee table. “Tracy doesn’t believe you’re in town. She thinks I’ve taken up with a tart while she’s in the country.”
“Give me her number and I’ll call,” Hall said.
Mac scribbled the phone number and passed it across the table. “But it’s not really necessary. It keeps a woman off balance to think another woman might want what she’s got to herself.”
Hall placed the number beside the phone. “Find anything, Mac?”
Mac wedged a piece of toast in his mouth and dug a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket. “It seems our boys have been looking for this one ourselves. He was on his way to being a bad one and we wanted to stop him before he got there.” Mac placed the notebook on the table and licked butter and jam from his fingers. “It could be you got this information because my contact considers you’ve done us a favor.” Mac opened the pad. “His real name was Winford Baines. Born in Belfast and learned some of his rough trade on the streets there. He dropped out of sight four years ago. He’d been implicated in the fire-bombing of a British Army truck. Two dead. He was still on a list they keep over there. There was some indication that he’d decided that, while he believed in freedom and all that, he felt he could make a good living at what he’d been learning as a hobby.” Mac chewed another wedge of toast while Hall refilled his coffee cup. “There was a rumor, about the time the Shah fell, that Baines was involved in the killing of one of the Shah’s cousins over on Belgave Square. Remember that one? Something out of a James Cagney roaring twenties film? Shotguns blazing away from a car when the Shah’s cousin and his bodyguards came out of his flat. That one and maybe two or three other jobs. A jealous older type who didn’t like the fact his young wife was seeing a French playboy. Exit the playboy. A disenchanted Hungarian diplomat who was edging toward your boys. Done with a blade in a crowded underground near the Sloane Square station. By the time people discovered the Hungarian wasn’t having a heart attack or a stroke the killer was long gone.”
“Three jobs in four years? It doesn’t sound like steady work.”
Mac grinned. “Those are the ones they’re fairly certain they can tie him to. He’s no Carlos but he takes his work seriously. They may be a few other jobs we haven’t heard about.”
“That the whole package?” Hall watched Mac close the notebook.
Mac shook his head. “The address on Tedworth. What did you notice about Boyle or Baines?”
“Young. Like a boy.”
“That’s it. The address on Tedworth. The flat is owned by an old poof named Lester. Raymond Lester. You know what a poof is?”
“Homosexual,” Hall said.
“Our boys were over in the area last night asking questions of the neighbors. It seems that Raymond Lester had a young nephew living with him the last three or so years.”
“What does Lester do?”
“Newspaperman. Says he’s a writer. Must have inherited some money years back.” Mac pulled back the cuff on his right arm. He checked his watch. “I made an assumption you might have some false identification with you. Something that ties you to the American Embassy.”
“I do.” There was an I.D. card that he’d used once on a courier trip from Washington to London. It was, he thought, still in the locked drawer with the traveler’s checks and the cash. He went into the bedroom, unlocked the drawer and returned with the identification folder.
“A man with I Branch has an appointment with Lester for half-ten. I arranged it so you could come along. Might be you’d only want to listen. On the other hand, you might slip in a question if one comes to you.”
At ten exactly, the door buzzer sounded. The man from I Branch was waiting outside with his car and driver.
John Tobin was short and barrel-chested. He wore a dark suit, a tweed hat and a trench coat. A bulldog pipe was clenched so tightly in his teeth that it seemed a part of his costume.
The driver took them by a roundabout way from Knightsbridge to King’s Road. Mac sat on one side of Tobin and Hall on the other. A slow, dull rain, as slick as oil, coated the windshield.
Tobin spoke with the pipe in the center of his mouth. “I understand, Mr. Hall, that we have you to thank for the bit of business in Washington.”
“The boy got fancy for some reason,” Hall said.
Tobin looked at Mac. Mac nodded his head toward Hall.
“I think he was expanding his repertoire. He was trying with a short killing sword.”
“Lucky for you.” Tobin sucked at his dry pipe. “He was better than most with a handgun.”
They reached King’s load. A mile or so down the Road and the driver turned onto Smith Street. Directly ahead, in the distance was the Royal Hospital, the home for retired military men. One block down Smith the driver took a right and then a left and they were on Tedworth Square. A small fenced-in garden was in the center of the square. The car passed the garden and took another right. To the left, on one of the round blue markers on a building front, was MARK TWAIN, AMERICAN HUMORIST, LIVED HERE 1896-97.
The driver pulled to the curb and braked.
“This one,” Tobin said. “We’re early.”
It was a row of newly renovated flats. A bow window was on the flat at the first level. White curtains covered the inside of the window. As Hall stepped from the car, he saw a face and a movement beyond the glass and the gauze. Then the curtain fluttered and the face was gone.
Raymond Lester reminded Hall of Rivers. An older, feeble and effeminate Rivers. The thin, sickly chest and the matchstick arms. The difference was that there wasn’t a mean bone in Lester. In fact, all the fires seemed to have died in him. He looked to be about a hundred and fifty pounds of cold ashes.
John Tobin began the questioning. He’d introduced Mac as his associate and Hall was, he said, a representative of the American government. According to him, Hall was there because Lester’s nephew had died a violent death in Washington and the United States wa
nted to know exactly what Winford Boyle was doing in that country.
At the proper moment, Hall took the I.D. folder from his pocket and held it toward Lester. From the way Lester’s eyes glazed over and flickered the Embassy identification might as well have been a gas credit card.
“He was on holiday,” Lester said.
“This time of the year?” Tobin asked.
“He said … said … there was a special fare.”
“He was not there on business?” Tobin turned to the side and warmed his hands in the glow of coals in the fireplace.
“He was unemployed.”
“Odd.” Tobin turned. He rubbed a warmed hand across his brow. “His account at Barclay’s shows a rather healthy balance.”
“He had … independent means.”
Tobin lifted an eyebrow at Lester. The question was there.
“From an aunt’s estate, I believe,” Lester said.
“Would you have her name and the name of the solicitor who handled the estate?” Tobin took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and poised a pen over it.
“I … don’t remember.”
“You know, I assume, that your nephew died while attempting to commit a violent crime?”
It was as if iced water had been poured over Raymond Lester’s head. The shock tore at him. From his position at the side of Lester, Hall realized that this moment had been planned. Lester had only been told that Boyle had died a violent death. He had not, it seems, been told any of the circumstances of the death.
“A violent crime?” Lester’s hands came together and fumbled, as if he couldn’t quite get the fingers laced together.
“He attempted to kill a minor American government official,” Tobin said.
“I don’t believe …” It was the last gasp, the final defiance.
Mac rubbed a hand over his face and looked down at the coals in the grate.
“Mr. Boyle was not exactly kin, was he?” Tobin said.
“He was … a close friend. A young man who needed help.”
“And there was no income from an aunt’s estate?”
Lester shook his head.
“Do you know where he received his income?”
“He refused to tell me. I asked him a number of times.”
“Did that make you suspicious?”
“I was apprehensive,” Lester said.
“If we make the assumption that Mr. Boyle was, to some extent, involved in some kind of shady business, how was contact made with him? By mail, in person, by telephone?”
“He received mail here at the flat and he had his own telephone in his room.”
“Did he have visitors?”
Lester shook his head. “Not that I’d know about. But, then, three afternoons-a-week I’m on the Strand with the magazine I edit.”
“Which magazine is that?”
“Actually, it’s a journal,” Lester said. “Nature’s Way. It concerns itself with health food.”
“Did Boyle travel often?”
“Once-a-month. Or every two months. He was away a week or ten days each time.”
Tobin shifted his feet slightly, until he was facing Hall. “The gentleman from the States may have a question or two to ask of you.”
“Did Mr. Boyle have any close friends that he saw often?”
Raymond Lester shook his head.
“A pub where he was a regular?”
“Not that I know about.” Lester reached in his jacket pocket and brought out a package of Weights. He lit one. “We had a drink now and then at The Queen’s Head.”
“Did Mr. Boyle talk about his work?”
“He was close about his business. If he had any business at all. I have trouble believing that he did.”
“How did you meet Mr. Boyle?”
“If I can remember correctly it was at the pub I mentioned earlier. The Queen’s Head.”
At the end of the interview, Tobin asked if they could look at Winford Boyle’s room and his things. Lester said that he was willing to allow Tobin to look about but he wasn’t going to make a circus of the matter. The other two, he said indicating Mac and Hall, would have to wait in the living room or the car outside.
Mac said, “I could use a breath of air,” and he and Hall said their good days to Raymond Lester and moved outside to wait.
“I know the pub,” Mac said. They stood on the walk and smoked. “In my continuing quest to have at least one pint in every pub in London, I wandered in there by mistake one night. It’s a poof bar.”
“A place where Boyle might make his contacts?”
“I doubt it,” Mac said.
It was ten minutes before Tobin came from the flat. He motioned Mac and Hall into the car. The driver pulled away from the curb and headed for Flood Street. Tobin said, “One matter might interest you, Mr. Hall.”
Hall leaned forward.
“I found a wad of receipts on the bureau, from a trip Boyle or Baines or whatever his name was took recently to Ireland. Round trip by train to and from Fishguard. The ferry to Ireland. A rental car waiting for him there. A receipt for a room where he stayed one night. At the Keep in Kinsale.
“The Keep?”
“I think it’s a restored castle there,” Mac said.
“Or part of a castle,” Tobin said. “I’ve seen it in the tourist books.”
“You think it might have been a meeting of some kind? Where he made contact?”
Tobin smiled. “Or another boyfriend,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
Mac, when he realized Hall actually was considering following the cold fox trail to Kinsale, offered to drive him to Fishguard. There Hall could take the ferry to Ireland. It was a tempting offer, a chance to spend a few more hours with a good friend, but Hall resisted until he returned to his flat and put in a call to Kent.
Tracy answered at once. “Willie, is that really you?”
“In the jetlag flesh.”
“Is Mac with you?”
“Mac?” Hall turned and looked at Mac who was seated on the sofa, his long legs crossed, and a wide grin on his face. “I haven’t seen a thing of him. Is it true he’s got himself a London tart? A Swedish girl over on Park Lane?”
Mac chuckled.
“Honestly …” Tracy sputtered. “When are you two going to grow up?”
“I hear she’s a beauty. All of seventeen and with long blonde hair.”
“Where did you hear about her?” Tracy sounded serious all of a sudden.
“The old boy network. It’s the talk of London.”
“Let me speak to Mac, Willie.”
“When and if I see Mac …”
“Willie …”
Hall turned and held the receiver toward Mac. “Well, what do you know? Mac just walked in. He looks tired and a bit tipsy.”
Mac took the receiver and said, “Hello, sweetheart.”
Hall entered the kitchen and got two cans of Swan from the refrigerator. He remained there for a time, sipping his beer for the can, giving them time to get the best or the worst of it over. He found two glasses and carried them and the cans of beer into the living room. Mac was cooing into the phone. “Here’s the troublemaker.” Mac passed the receiver to Hall and took the full can of beer and the glass and sat on the sofa.
“When are we going to see you, Willie?”
“I’ve got to make the crossing to Ireland. Either tonight or in the morning.”
“Tell her I’m considering making the journey with you,” Mac said.
“You’re not,” Hall said.
“I need a vacation. I’m working too bloody hard at this retirement job.”
“You tell her.”
Hall uncoiled a length of extension cord and passed the phone to Mac. Mac took a huge swallow of Swan and said, “Look, love, Willie’s in a bit of a scramble. I think it might be dangerous, him there alone the way he is.” He listened for half a minute or so, nodding. “That’s hardly true. The two of us can take on the whole Russian army
and you know it. And here’s another convincing argument. If anything happens to Willie, who’s going to be godfather to our firstborn?”
“Firstborn?” Hall opened his eyes wide.
Mac winked.
“Is that why Tracy’s in the country?”
Mac nodded. “Two days at the most,” he said into the phone. “And I’ll bring you back a lovely present. Waterford glass? A bit of lace?” A hesitation and then Mac laughed. “Of course, I’m trying to bribe you.”
Hall sipped the Swan.
“And I’m certainly not interested in any Irish girls. Have you seen what passes for an Irish girl in Ireland? All the real beauties moved to London.” He listened, nodding. “I’ll call you when we arrive and let you know we’re fine. Take care of the two of you.”
Mac placed the receiver on the hook and let out a long hiss of breath.
“Your firstborn?”
“I meant to tell you but it must have slipped my mind.”
“At your age, Mac?”
“The blood line tells,” Mac said.
The train arrived at Fishguard near sundown and was shunted onto a track near the ferry pier. Both Mac and Hall had packed for light travel. They lined up and passed through the customs shed within twenty minutes of leaving the train. Below them, as they stood on the main deck, dozens of cars were driven into the belly of the ferry.
Mac found the bar on his first try. “By the good smell of it,” he explained. Hall stood aside and watched Mac wedge himself into a space at the crowded bar. He brought back doubles of Irish. They were sipping those, warming themselves after the passage through the customs shed, when they felt the shudder and the ferry moved away from the pier.
“You have your sea legs, Willie?”
Hall lifted his eyes from his drink and looked across the room. A thick-chested man with graying hair, wearing a belted tan trench coat, his back to the bar, was staring at Hall. Their eyes caught and the man turned away.
“Something …?” Mac looked across toward the bar.
Hall shook his head. “I don’t know about my sea legs.”
