The Smoke, page 16
“That’s right,” he said, “old Huguenot family; Protestants that fled France during the middle of the seventeenth century, and started all over again in the East End—well, Spitalfields, actually.”
I appreciated the history lesson, but not the smoke he was blowing. “Don’t try telling me you were born within the sound of Bow Bells, sunshine, because I wouldn’t believe you.”
“No, it was Big Ben. I was born at St. Thomas’. I wonder what that makes me?” He smiled, a pleasant, trusting smile. He was good at it, but we both knew it was time to get on.
“It makes you a Londoner born and bred, just like me. What a bleedin’ coincidence. Now, where’s Ray?”
“He’s okay, in fact, I think he’s really rather enjoying himself. But why don’t you come and see for yourself. We have a temporary place in Regent Street. We could pop down there now if you like. It’s far less formal than our Millbank office, and much more convenient.”
If he was trying to rock me back on my heels again, he all but succeeded. And just where the hell, I wondered, was all this leading to? I knew for sure he hadn’t been waiting in the street all by himself; there had to be others around somewhere. Like Messima’s mob, most police departments tended to run in packs. I couldn’t see anyone obvious, but the hairs on the back of my neck and the back of my hands were waving about like long grass on the side of a hill. And in a London street I’d known all my life, I started to feel very lonely, very lonely indeed. There were buses and cars and taxis, and scores of people, and even one or two coppers in uniform and the odd, very obvious, American tourist. But the world had suddenly turned upside down, and I felt as if I was about to follow a white rabbit down into a very dark and murky little hole.
We walked on in silence, but the strain must’ve got to him, because after suggesting we should wait until later to discuss Ray, he started chatting on amiably about some of the shows currently playing the West End. Funny that. I remember asking myself why on earth he’d think I’d give a toss about the theatre, but despite my misgivings I slowly found myself becoming more and more involved. I couldn’t help myself, honest, he might’ve been a bright bugger, but I tell you he knew bugger all about the theatre. I mean, he thought Donald Wolfit was God’s gift to acting. Curse more like it. Don’t get me wrong, I was still guarded, but I thought, Well, two can play at this game. The little prickles were still there, running up and down my spine, but it didn’t feel like I was getting my collar felt, really it didn’t.
During one of our many chats, Ray had told me there were only ever two kinds of anything. And I’d asked him whether he was being serious, and he’d answered yes and no, but it depended. And when MI5 stepped out of the shadows and into both our lives, Ray once again proved to be dead right, because with them it was always a case of yes and no, and maybe.
There were the hard boys and the softly, softly boys; the difference being you always knew where you were with the hard cases. With them, as with backstreet fighters anywhere, you just had to learn how to ride the punches and know that if you were still alive to talk about it afterwards, the damage you suffered always looked far worse than it was. The ones you had to really keep an eye open for were the honey-tongued boys; the gentlemen with a fresh carnation in their lapels, tailor-made knuckledusters hidden under their immaculately brushed black bowlers, and a well-honed sword stick held safe within the folds of their perfectly rolled Swaine and Adeney umbrellas. Those blokes could have you going more ways than Sunday in a minute flat, and still knock you into the middle of next week at the drop of a hat.
Halfway down Regent Street, on the right-hand side just before the road begins its long curve down towards Piccadilly, there was a posh, export-only, crystal glass and porcelain china shop. And just beyond that, still at street level, were the double-wooden doors that led to a small wood-paneled entrance foyer for several businesses that had their offices on the floors above. I took a quick look at the business nameplates painted in gold letters on a large wooden board. There were six floors, in all: a distributor of this, an exporter of that, as well as firms dealing with electronics, insurance, and travel. There was even a theatrical booking agency. And my eyebrows lifted a little at finding that. There was also a commissionaire in a faded uniform, who did nothing more than look at us over his glasses and clean his ear with his little pinkie. He’d obviously had a really hard day.
We stood waiting for the lift, which seemed to take ages and ages. It must’ve been made by the same people who make the buses, as there’s never one around when you want one. Finally, we got in and I saw Bosanquet press the button for the fourth floor. It was right about then that two men in belted raincoats and wide-brim hats got into the lift behind us. They didn’t talk, they hardly looked at one another, but they both proceeded to study the wood paneling as if they were international timber experts. I noticed they didn’t press any buttons. It was just as well, too, because at the very last moment, just before the lift doors closed, a bloke wearing brown overalls barged in carrying a large, flat parcel. By the size of it and the way it was wrapped, it could’ve been a big gilt picture frame or mirror.
“’Ere, ‘old on,” he said. “This is bloomin’ heavy, this is. Don’t want to have to carry this up all those bloomin’ stairs, now do I? Thanks for holding the lift, gents. Very kind of you.”
There was a little bit of shuffling and bumping before everyone got comfortable, but we all pretended not to take any notice. Someone even apologised for having his foot trodden on. All I know is, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t my foot.
“Would one of you gents mind pushing the button for the fifth floor, only me hands are full. Ta. Lovely weather we’re havin’ for this time of year. Oops, sorry, was that your foot? It’s so bleedin’ hard to keep your balance in these things.”
Of course, the foot that time was mine. I’d half expected it; it’s an old trick. Get your mind feeling out the pain in one of your extremities and you’re immediately less sensitive everywhere else. They’d also worked it so I was pressed into a corner. No one spoke, but there was a good deal of coughing and throat-clearing going on all of a sudden. The lift was slower than a Scotsman reaching for his purse, but we got where we were supposed to be going in the end.
“Ah, fourth floor. That must be for you gents, it’s not me.”
I wondered how I’d managed to get through life without helpful Charlie round my feet at all times. Bosanquet, my new friend, smiled sickly and nodded his acknowledgement of the serf without once looking at him directly. I played along with the charade. “Excuse me, excuse me, please.” I was acidly polite and the raincoats duly parted in front of me like the Red Sea, but we all knew I knew I’d been given an expert going-over. Not even the dips that work the market could’ve done a better job. If I’d had a gun or a knife or a cosh on me it would’ve already been lifted. And if I’d suddenly flipped my lid and gone berserk, they’d have simply pressed and confined me into the corner with the big, flat parcel in less time than it took to blink. The lift doors closed on the bloke in the overalls going on about something he’d only been telling his missus that morning. I thought he was overplaying it a bit, but I appreciated the performance; a good actor doesn’t step out of his character till he’s well past the sightlines. I didn’t doubt that they’d soon be reporting I was clean, and that I presented no threat whatsoever, to whoever was in charge upstairs.
The fourth floor tuned out to be the offices of Universal Insurance Company, Limited. Bosanquet hadn’t said a word since we’d entered the building, but I didn’t mind, I still had some thinking to do. So while he talked to the receptionist, I just sat on one of the modern-looking couches in the foyer and tried to look completely at ease.
“They won’t keep us waiting more than a tick. Mind if I smoke?” His mission almost done, he was back to his jolly old self.
“You go ahead,” I said, “I’ve given it up for Lent.” “Really? Oh. No, no of course not, a joke.” It wasn’t that he was nervous or anything, but this was the intermission before Act Two and he was filling in the time. I wondered what they were stage-managing for me, but why ruin the play by trying to read on ahead? If Ray was here, then the very least I could do was wait until curtain-up.
“If you’ll come this way, please.”
It was a different girl from the one in reception, but they both looked like they’d gone to all the right finishing schools. Posh skirt around an office usually points to corridors of influence and power. I took it as another sign that I should be on my best behaviour. She led us along a linoleum-covered corridor, the pock-pock of her high heels echoing the faint clack-clacking of the typewriters. Bosanquet walked behind me, still amiable, though silent again, as silent as the shadows that moved behind all the frosted-glass panels in the newly painted office doors.
We were led into a large windowless room. The lighting was subdued, and the place quiet, apart from the slow, deliberate ticking of a clock. A long mahogany table with a dozen chairs spaced at perfect intervals suggested we were in a meeting room of sorts. I noticed there were two other doors into the room, one at each end of the opposite wall. To the left, the far wall was completely curtained in dark green velvet, but I could see no gilt-framed pictures, no mirrors, and no posters to remind me that “careless talk costs lives.” As a stage set it wasn’t very original, but I supposed it would do.
Bosanquet closed the door and quietly locked us in. So, with no quick exit, stage-left, possible through that door, and not knowing what in hell was behind the other two doors, I sat down at the table and twiddled my thumbs. Then I found myself cleaning my ear with one of my little pinkies. “It must be catching,” I murmured, and I was still half-smiling when one of the doors opened and a tall, very distinguished-looking gent swept in.
“It’s Jethro, isn’t it? So good of you to come, it would’ve got us all off on the wrong foot if we’d had to arrest you. Let me introduce myself. My name’s Walsingham.”
He was fiftyish. Ronald Colman played by Stewart Granger. Dapper, but physical, and perfect casting for a Guards’ colonel in full dress uniform, or in the mufti he was wearing then. But even his plain clothes were on their best behaviour: mid-grey Savile Row suit, crisp white Turnbull and Asser shirt, old-school tie. I couldn’t see his shoes, but I didn’t really have to, they’d have been handmade just like the rest of him. He and Bosanquet were a right pair; same model, different year.
He had a narrow, well-chiseled face lit by a pair of startlingly blue eyes and marked by a strong, uncompromising mouth. His immaculately trimmed and brushed salt-and-pepper hair and moustache would’ve made George Trumper himself proud. He looked taller than me and Bosanquet, but it might’ve just been the way he carried himself. He moved well, but there was no stiff parade-ground manner about him, even though he looked as if he’d been used to command for most of his life. Everything about him was designed to instill instant respect, and I must admit that even I started to come to attention. But I still didn’t trust him beyond that. Fair’s fair; I’d been round the block a few times myself.
“You’ve met Bosanquet.” It was a statement, not a question. “All you need to know is that he’s something to do with Special Branch who’s been seconded to me. And, me? I’m somebody quite high up in Military Intelligence.”
I cleared my throat as if I was impressed. I was. This was double serious stuff. I’d definitely have to mind my p’s and q’s.
He sat down and looked straight at me. And I looked straight back at him.
“Normally, Jethro, we’d play around the houses for weeks and months, even years sometimes, before we openly approached someone such as yourself. But it seems that you’ve popped up right in the middle of something rather sticky and caused us all a bit of a problem. I know it’s unorthodox to be talking to you like this, but we have to continue to move as expeditiously as we can to find an acceptable solution.”
I was content to let him rabbit on, but I kept my guard up; I mean, I didn’t come across a word like “expeditiously” very often, even in the theatre, so I was definitely intrigued. I guessed it had to be something to do with those buggerin’ books I’d nicked from the Embassy. First Browno doing Ray’s place over; now, all this. What next? But I knew they’d get round to telling me as soon as they were good and ready.
“Firstly, I wonder awfully whether you’d mind signing this?”
He pushed a printed document exactly halfway across the table towards me. I looked at it and let it sit there. It might still be there if Bosanquet hadn’t reached forward and placed it directly in front of me. I looked down at it. It was a copy of the Official Secrets Act.
“It’s the Official Secrets Act. We have to ask you to sign it before we can proceed any further.”
Bosanquet produced a fountain pen, unscrewed the top, and carefully laid it on the table in front of me. I just let it sit there. It was a nice pen, Chinese red lacquer, a Parker, and I’d have had it off him in a trice at any other time. I studied it minutely, quite ignoring the document. It was as good a time as any to try a diversionary tactic.
“Where’s Ray? This Bosanquet chap said he was here, and that’s the only reason that I’ve come. I just want to see that he’s alright.”
“And so you shall, my dear boy, so you shall. In fact, he’s in the very next room at this moment. But, before you see him, I really must ask you to sign the document.”
Walsingham turned his troops to face me and began marshalling them, ready for an outflanking maneuver. I quickly regrouped, all the time wondering what the punishment was for robbing a foreign embassy if you threw in an accidental death for good measure.
“What if I don’t sign? I mean, this is ridiculous; I don’t have any secrets worth having. I’d know if I did, surely?”
Walsingham looked disappointed. I think he’d expected a more concerted counter-attack, rather than me sending out a skirmish line.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Jethro. Willingly or not, you are in possession of information important to the security of this country, and to the Defence of the Realm. And that’s already more than enough reason for you to be here. And Mr. Karmin, as well.”
I shuffled in my chair and avoided looking at either of them. It was then Walsingham brought up his first battery of big guns.
“I could, of course, throw different subsections of the Official Secrets Act at you: failure to answer questions, failure to co-operate with the proper authorities, that sort of thing. I could even use the act against you, whether you sign it or not, simply to determine whether anything that might otherwise be covered by it has already been contravened. And ignorance of the law, old chap, is no defence.”
I swallowed what felt like my tongue, and he galloped on.
“Furthermore, as it also applies retroactively, if we can prove you’d met Raymond Karmin on at least two occasions since the incident at the Embassy, we could even throw a ‘conspiracy to contravene the Official Secrets Act’ at you. All a trifle heavy-handed I admit, but needs must.”
He nodded, reassuring, reasonable, resolute, while I tried to get something out—a sound, anything—but nothing happened.
“Suffice to say that if you don’t sign the document I can assure you that you won’t be seeing Mr. Karmin, or anyone else for that matter, for a very long time.”
I blinked, lit the blue touch paper and fired back. But the powder was wet, and even I felt it was more flash than bang. “But that’s not how English law works, is it? Whatever you charge me with, I’m presumed innocent until such time as I can be proven guilty.”
Even to my ears it sounded no better than the pathetic whinings of a barracks-room lawyer. But you’ve got to have a go, haven’t you? If I’d had any petards handy I’d have hoisted them, but I didn’t, so before he could get anything in edgewise I threw up the only thing I had left.
“I’ve got a feeling there’s a darned sight more you want from me, Mr. Walsingham, sir, than just my moniker on some dotted line. And whatever the hell it is, if you could’ve already swept in and snatched it up, you’d have done so.”
But even then he didn’t go in for the kill, he simply turned to Bosanquet and said, “Ask for tea to be sent in, will you, Simon. It looks as if we’re going to be in here for a little while. And then be a good chap and signal them next door that we’re ready to draw back the curtain.”
He turned round to face me; open, trustworthy, calm. “I’m afraid we can’t run to a single malt, Jethro, we’re right out of The Glenlivet at the moment. Would a cup of tea be acceptable?”
You could’ve knocked me down with a feather, let alone a tea-urn; he seemed to know more about me than would be good for me. Bosanquet executed a smart about-turn and left the room by the same door Walsingham had used. Walsingham merely steepled his fingers.
“Jethro, if I tell you that Mr. Karmin has already signed the Official Secrets Act, would that make a difference?”
“It might,” I said, wondering what the hell they’d threatened Ray with, “but then again, it might not.”
I tell you, I’m nothing if not a terror when I’m aroused.
16
A LOOK BEHIND THE CURTAIN
I didn’t know what to expect when they drew back the veil. And I heard Ray before I saw him. He sounded a bit tinny at first, but I knew it was him alright; once you’d heard his evil-sounding cackle it stayed with you forever. And I think it was that sound of him laughing that shocked me the most. I mean, the sound of a punch up the bracket or the crump of a telephone directory on top of the head was the very least of what I had in mind; the everyday stuff that comes with ‘helping the police with their enquiries,’ from Limehouse to Scotland Yard. But it was nothing like that.
The lights dimmed and the heavy green velvet curtain swished back to reveal Ray in a room that was more like a posh sitting room or study than an office. There was a nice coal fire going in the grate, a rare enough sight in itself; old leather couches and chairs; antique side tables and lamps; walls filled with bookcases filled with books with good bindings; pictures on the walls, no Stubbs admittedly, but nothing too shabby. There was probably an Oriental carpet on the floor, I don’t know, I couldn’t see. But if Ray had been wearing a quilted smoking jacket and searching for tobacco in the toe of an old Persian slipper, I don’t think I could’ve been more surprised. It put you in mind of a club down Pall Mall, and it wouldn’t have been amiss in the Albany, but it certainly wasn’t what you’d expect to find over a shop in Regent Street.
