O'Donnell, Peter - Modesty Blaise 12 - Cobra Trap, page 16
Dr Ramsey lowered his voice. “And Pike’s crying,” he said with delight. “She’s broken the bastard.”
Modesty and Willie looked at each other in astonishment, then at Dr Ramsey. Willie said, “Well, I’m sure that will help speed up our friend’s recovery.”
“And we can tell him tonight,” said Modesty. “He’s staying with us. Thank you very much, doctor.”
At noon next day Inspector Brook was in his office with Inspector Harry Lomax watching the tape and listening to the sounds for the third time running. When Brook turned the TV off Lomax wiped his eyes and said, “It’s my best day since I joined the force, Brookie. Tell her if she ever wants to murder someone she can come and do it on my patch for free. What in God’s name is a glaikit tattiebogle?”
Brook said, “According to Willie it translates as a clumsy scarecrow, but it’s much more scathing than that in the vernacular. A Glaswegian called Jock Miller ran her transport section for The Network, and Willie says she picked it up from him.”
“Well, give ‘em my very best,” said Lomax. He nodded towards the screen. “But I can’t tell my boys who they really are?”
“No way, Harry. That was Jamie and Jeannie McNally, who came and went, nobody knows where from or to. Wasn’t it bloody marvellous, though?”
Lomax grinned. “Pike’s deader than if they’d killed him. He won’t dare show his face in the East End again. Look, can I have copies of that tape? I could push them around a few pubs on my patch where they’ll love seeing Pike getting duffed up. Could do us a bit of good.”
“I’ll ask her,” said Brook, “but if she says no, that’s final, Harry.”
Lomax lifted a hand. “It’s final. I owe her more than that.” He hesitated. “Any chance of meeting her?”
Brook looked doubtful. “She doesn’t like a lot of attention, or thanks either. I can’t go to her and say my old mate Harry Lomax is dying to meet her. But… well, if ever something crops up, a window of opportunity as they say, I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks. But don’t forget.” Lomax got to his feet and stood gazing at the blank screen thoughtfully. “You can tell her one thing, though. She’ll know it, but tell her anyway. Whoever the big boys behind Pike are, they won’t have to guess who Jamie and Jeannie were. By now they’ll know exactly what happened, and they’ll know those two were Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin. Nobody can disguise style, Brookie, and what happened at The Black Horse reeks of their style.”
*
It was ten days later when Modesty rang Willie at The Treadmill. He was working out solo in his combat room behind the pub, and her call was put through to him there.
” ‘Allo, Princess, what’s new? Has it been confirmed about Dinah’s baby?”
“Yes, and I’m so pleased for them after what happened last time.”
“Me too. We’ll stand guard this time, no messing. You still getting calls from Old Alex?”
“Three last week. He says everybody’s very kind, but there’s no hint of his memory coming back and I don’t think he’s happy.”
“Fishes out of water usually aren’t.”
“I know. But listen, Willie, I’ve rung because something pretty weird happened an hour ago. I had a call from Sir Angus McBeal.”
“What?”
“Yes, what indeed.”
McBeal was a very rich man, a director of a number of companies. His activities were closely watched by the City, for if McBeal decided that a particular investment was a Good Thing then the City was inclined to follow. What was known to perhaps only three other people in the world beside Modesty and Willie was that Sir Angus McBeal was also one of the four directors of Salamander Four, probably the world’s most formidable criminal group outside the Mafia.
There had been a time when Salamander Four accepted a contract for the obscene killing of the Colliers from a client seeking leverage over Modesty and Willie. It was a Dead Man’s Handle contract, unstoppable even though the client had been killed. Modesty had confronted McBeal and told him that his life would be forfeit if the Colliers were harmed, also the lives of his three European codirectors, Chard, Gesner and Pereda. The same applied, she had said, if any attempt were made to dispose of her or Willie Garvin, pointing out that she and Willie were highly experienced in not getting killed, while McBeal and his colleagues were not.
McBeal had never admitted his connection with Salamander Four, but the contract had been cancelled and the fifty thousandpound fee sent to Modesty for the Colliers as confirmation that it was no longer running. That was over a year ago. Now, out of the blue, McBeal had made contact and Willie was amazed.
“It couldn’t ‘ave been for a social chat, Princess. What did he want?”
“I don’t know yet. Well, I know he wants to meet me, with you present if you and I so wish. He wants me to name a day and time next week, but I needn’t tell him the place until just before we meet. The only thing he asks is that a telephone be available.”
There was a long silence. At last Willie said, “Weird isn’t the word. When you said he wanted to meet you I started thinking he aimed to set you up for a hit, but he’s covered that by letting you fix the time and name the place at short notice.”
“Right. So what can he have to say to us?”
“Beats me, Princess, but we’d better find out.”
“I have the same feeling. I thought of making it noon next Tuesday if you’re free then. He lives in Belgrave Square, so I can ring him there half an hour before and tell him to come to the penthouse. He might anticipate that, but I can’t see that it matters. We’ll be watching him, and anyway he’s no hitman, he’s a headoffice man.”
Willie said, “Tuesday’s fine. All right if I come up Monday evening?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Come to dinner.”
“Thanks, Princess. See you then.”
At noon precisely, five days later, Weng took a call from the porter in reception and was told that Sir Angus McBeal had arrived to see Miss Blaise by appointment. He was alone. “As arranged,” Weng reported, “Hudson informed me that Sir Angus was carrying only his hat, umbrella, and a small document case. I have said he was to be sent up.”
Modesty and Willie were in the penthouse drawingroom. She said, “All right, Weng. Show him in, then lurk in the kitchen. The intercom’s on so you’ll hear whatever’s said.”
When McBeal arrived in the foyer he gave hat and umbrella to Weng but retained the slim document case. Modesty and Willie were standing when he entered the drawingroom. She thought he had aged since she had last seen him a year ago. He still wore the oldfashioned boardroom uniform of dark suit and wing collar, but it seemed to hang looser on him. His thin grey hair was thinner, his long neck more scrawny, and he looked ten years older than a man in his fifties and in normal health should look.
Modesty said, “Good morning, Sir Angus. This is a surprising visit.”
“These are surprising times, Miss Blaise,” he said in the rather highpitched voice she remembered. “I have come here to thank you and to do you a service.”
“To thank me? I can’t imagine for what.”
“It would be quite impossible for you to do so, Miss Blaise, but I shall be happy to explain. May I sit down?”
She gestured towards an armchair and seated herself on the chesterfield, facing him across a coffee table. He gave her a stiff little bow and moved to the chair. Once he was seated, Willie settled himself beside her on the chesterfield. McBeal cleared his throat and said, “I have discovered that you were the person who recently found Lord Sayle living as a peasant on a farm in the Pyrenees, having suffered total amnesia following the occasion when the aircraft he was piloting crashed in France in 1943.”
McBeal paused, looking over his glasses at her as if giving her the opportunity to comment, but she simply looked at him impassively. After a moment or two he went on, “Yes, I know your name was never mentioned in the newspapers, but I happen to know that you were in that area at that time and I suspect that Alexander Sayle or another resident of the farm had some hand in your escape from slow death in a cave.”
She felt Willie go stiff beside her, and fought to prevent the abrupt shock of McBeal’s last words showing in her face or bodylanguage. Her voice was mellow as she spoke. “Are you saying that was a Salamander Four contract?”
McBeal nodded. “Yes. An inhouse operation. There was no client. I hope you will believe that I protested most strongly and was outvoted.”
She looked at Willie, who said, “We might need convincing.”
“I hope,” said McBeal, “to satisfy you on that score later. For the moment may I say that a considerable schism has developed between my colleagues and me. They have never forgiven the loss of face suffered when forced to cancel the Collier contract and pay the contract price to the Colliers as proof of cancellation.”
Modesty said, “You took a different view?”
“Certainly. I have dealt with you face to face, Miss Blaise, they have not. I am less given to emotional reaction than are my colleagues. I pressed the view that you were no threat to us, that if we left you and any friend of yours alone, then you would leave us alone. This did not suffice for them. Hence, after a prudent delay, the contract for your slow death, for the execution of which we engaged a South American team of three who had very good references. They are comparatively new on the criminal scene. Have you heard of Las Sombras?”
She looked at Willie, who shook his head. “The Shadows?” she said. “No, but we’ll certainly take note of the name.”
“You need not trouble to do so, Miss Blaise. They died shortly after we heard of your safe return. We do not usually terminate subcontractors, but in this instance it was necessary to avoid any possibility of your tracing, through them, the participation of Salamander Four in the enterprise.”
Willie Garvin sat with a look of polite interest, trying to conceal the fact that he was struggling to collect his scattered wits. Here was this man, a principal of the most successful criminal group outside America for the past twenty years, sitting before a woman they had tried to kill, and retailing the manner of the event as if presenting a report on the halfyear results to a company boardroom.
Modesty said quietly, “Do you remember what I said we would do about Salamander Four if any attempt was made to kill either of us?”
“I do indeed, and vividly, Miss Blaise. You said you would kill us, the four principals, to prevent any further attempt, and I believed you. It was a very rational proposition.”
“Be advised that it still holds, Sir Angus.”
McBeal looked at his watch. “As to that, I shall shortly offer an alternative I hope you will find acceptable and may even deem a substantial service. Meanwhile may I proceed to the other purpose of my visit?”
“The other-? Oh, to thank me for something. Yes, I’d be most interested to hear about that.”
“It refers to my opening remarks concerning your discovery of Lord Sayle, believed killed in action over fifty years ago.” McBeal began to unzip the document case on his lap and Willie reached under his jacket to where twin knives were sheathed, but when McBeal’s hand emerged it held only a bundle of a dozen or so letters, the paper on which they were written now yellowing with age. He laid them on the table before Modesty, and when he spoke his voice had changed. The words came hesitantly, as if he were shaken by emotion.
“These letters were sent to my mother during the war,” he said. “Her name was Elaine McBeal, and she died when I was five. Her parents brought me up. They are long dead, and I have no other family.”
Utterly bewildered and now making no attempt to hide it, Modesty said, “You wish me to read them?”
“At least one or two, if you please. All of them if you so wish.”
She picked up the top letter. It was dated September 1942 and bore the letterhead of Sayle Manor, Fenstone Green, Kent. A touch of prescience sent a shiver of strange anticipation through her. She drew a deep breath and began to read. The letter was only two short pages, and in it the writer hoped that he and Elaine would be able to make their leave coincide next time round, and that Elaine would spend at least part of it with him at the manor. There was more, for it was a very loving letter.
She read it carefully, passed it to Willie and picked up the next. It was, she supposed, a typical wartime letter subject to censorship, giving nothing away and consisting only of small personal hopes and news. She heard Willie mutter Jesus! and waited for him to finish both letters before she spoke.
“I won’t read any more, Sir Angus. These are love letters written to Elaine McBeal, serving in the Women’s Royal Air Force, by Flight Lieutenant the Honourable Alexander Sayle.”
“Who was my father,” said McBeal.
Incredibly, there were tears in his eyes now. He swallowed, and made an effort to keep his voice steady as he went on, “I am illegitimate, of course. He went missing six months before I was born. I was in my late teens before my grandparents told me what had happened and gave me the letters. My mother never told him she was pregnant. They said she feared he would think she was trying to force him into marriage. But this is why I have come to thank you, Miss Blaise, for finding my father.”
There was a silence while she tried to unravel her tangled thoughts, to understand his motive, to find the right questions. At last she said, “I didn’t find your father, Sir Angus. He found me, and saved my life.”
“You were the instrument of his being found, Miss Blaise. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
She said tentatively, “Have you come to me because you wish to see him? Do you feel you have some right of inheritance-?”
“No!” For the first time they saw passion in his cold eyes. “No, no, no! He must never know that I exist. He would be so ashamed of me if he… if he knew the truth about his son.”
Willie rubbed his eyes with finger and thumb, wondering if he were dreaming. Modesty made a helpless gesture and said, “I’m at a loss, Sir Angus. For long years you’ve remembered your father as a hero who died for his country. Why should the discovery that he’s alive make you… let’s say, take a different view of yourself?”
He looked through her with blank eyes for long seconds, and at last he said in a small voice, “So hard to explain, even to myself. But because he is alive he could… form an opinion of me. An opinion that fills me with shame. I can only say that it has changed everything for me.”
Head bowed, he gazed down at the floor in silence for a few moments, then suddenly sat up straight and looked at his watch. His voice was flat and businesslike again as he said, “May we revert to your own situation now, please?”
Modesty gathered up the letters and handed them to him. “In what respect?”
“I said a short time ago that I would provide an alternative to the ultimatum you so rightly presented to Salamander Four and which they ignored.”
“They? You exclude yourself?”
“As I have said, I was the sole objector.” Again McBeal looked at his watch. “At this moment my three colleagues are gathered at a house in a somewhat remote part of Sussex that we use for board meetings in this country. Shortly before arriving here I telephoned them to say that I was being delayed by traffic and would be about thirty minutes late in joining them. They will now be expecting me shortly.” He took a mobile phone from his pocket, dialled a number, listened for a moment and said into the phone, “Stand by.”
Still holding the mobile, he glanced towards a side table and said, “I would like to use your telephone now, and I see you have an amplifier. May I switch that on for you to hear?”
Modesty said, “Go ahead.”
McBeal rose and picked up the phone. He dialled a number and switched on the amplifier. After two rings a deep voice said, “Yes?”
“Hallo, Chard. I’ll be with you in a few minutes. Are Gesner and Pereda there?”
“We are all here waiting for you,” said the voice impatiently. “What the devil are you thinking of, using names on an open line?”
McBeal said, “One moment please.” He put the mobile phone to his lips and said, “Now.”
The deep voice was speaking. “Hallo? Are you there? Hallo-?” The line went dead.
McBeal switched off the amplifier, cradled the phone and listened on his mobile. After a few seconds he said, “That is very satisfactory. I will put through the balance of the agreed sum as arranged.” He switched off, put the mobile in his pocket and returned to his chair.
Modesty said slowly, “What exactly have you done?”
McBeal took off his spectacles and began to clean them on a small square of cloth. “I have retired,” he said. “I have retired from alternative business. Salamander Four has ceased to exist.”
She came to her feet, staring. “The house in Sussex-?”
There has been an explosion caused by escaping gas accumulating in a cellar,” said McBeal patiently. “It was arranged and triggered by an expert who observed the effect from a safe distance and just reported to me that the whole house has collapsed and is burning. I believe this will save you a great deal of trouble and danger, Miss Blaise, and I hope you will be convinced that I personally am no threat to you or to Mr Garvin.”
She looked at Willie, who had risen with her, and it was the first time he had ever seen her openmouthed. With an effort she collected herself and turned back to McBeal. “Christ!” she said. “What would your father think of that little effort?”
He blinked at her sadly and put his spectacles on. “They were very bad, dangerous men. I think that for your sake my father might well approve.”
She turned away and walked to the big picture window, thinking, Yes. Old Alex just might. Willie Garvin was wandering aimlessly around the room, trying to stop feeling disorientated. McBeal sat looking fondly at one of the letters. After a while Modesty said, “Well… you’ve said your thankyou and you’ve done us a service, which is what you came for, Sir Angus. Is there anything else?”
