I'd asked to be woken at six but forgotten that by Internationa] Standard Hotel Time that was twenty to seven. I swore a bit, jammed on a few clothes, and decided I could shave when I came back for breakfast. I was outside my own flat just before seven.
It was just light – maybe too light for me, although that part of London doesn't get moving early. The sky had cleared to a pale cold blue and the windscreen of my blue Escort GT was solidly iced up. I got quickly into the driving seat and did my reconnaissance from there.
After a few minutes I was pretty sure nobody else was sitting and watching from a car, so it looked as if the day shift hadn't arrived. The only strange car I could spot – though that doesn't mean much in that area – was a maroon Jag XJ6. But it was iced up as badly as mine, and I didn't think reporters drove XJ6s. I was beginning to be tempted.
So far, I'd seen nothing moving except a lorry, one postoffice van, the newsboy who delivers to my flat, and an old boy in British Rail uniform. And yesterday's shirt was gritty on my back, and I could pick up another coat and stop being the man in blue-grey sheepskin, and… It would take less than five minutes, wouldn't it?
It's a new building with no real entrance hall and certainly nowhere to sit down there, so nobody could be waiting… I zipped through the glass doors and into a lift and up to the third floor. Again, no real corridor and nowhere to wait around. I was in through my door; dark, so I must have drawn the curtains before I left.
Then there was a creak and two dark figures stood up and one of them said,'Come on in, Card. We've got things to talk about.'
A torch flashed on, straight in my eyes, and after that there just wasn't anything I could do. Hands came out of the darkness and explored my clothes carefully, but didn't take anything.
A second voice said quietly, 'He's safe.'
The torch flicked away and pointed at a deep, low chair. 'Sit in that one, Card. Nice and relaxed.'
I sat; in that chair, there was no way of doing anything sudden. But just in case I needed any further persuading, the torch shone briefly on the gun the first man had in his other hand. A Walther P38. A very nice automatic, that; supposed to be the standard German Army pistol in the last war, though they still used plenty of Lugers, too. Almost certainly nine-millimetre.
The torch came back on to me. 'So now you know,' the first voice said calmly. He was still just a dark shape to me, even when I wasn't being dazzled, but the voice sounded like a big man; not too young, and not too yobbovitch, but not a Cholmondleigh of Chatterley, neither.
'What can I do for you gentlemen?' I asked.
The second voice chuckled; the first said, 'That's nice. Cooperative. You brought something back from France. It doesn't belong to you. We'll take it.'
'Is it yours?'
'That isn't the point. It isn't yours.'
'Keep your voice down,' I warned. 'These new blocks are built of cardboard.' Which actually wasn't true for my building; I just wanted to get him to do something I told him to. Psychological, you know.
And his voice became a hoarse whisper. 'Just tell me where it is.'
'What are we talking about? ' I whispered back.
'You know bloody well. Where is it?'
'You can search me.'
'Stop buggering about!' So he had some idea of the size of thing he was after.
'Sorry I haven't got any children's books to keep you happy.'
It was a chance. If he really was a Bertie Bear fan, then I couldn't play ignorant any longer. But if he wasn't…
He wasn't. The torch Cook three quick steps and something smashed on to my cheek. I couldn't even fall out of that chair, but it rocked with me.
'I said to stop buggering about. Now where is it?'
My eyeballs spun slowly to a stop. I touched my cheek, expecting to find it laid open; hell, I expected to find my head missing. Then I realised he'd used his hand, not the gun. It had still felt like Krupp steel.
The second voice whispered urgently. 'Keep it quiet!'
'The hell with that. Where is it?'
'I gave it back to the syndicate. Belongs to them.'
Clang. It was the other cheek this time, but his backhand was just as good as his forehand.
'For God's sake!' the second voice said. 'He's got it in a hotel or some bird's pad."
The torch took a pace back. 'You're not tough,' the first voice said quietly. 'You're cheap. For a hundred quid you'll carry a gun without a licence. And come the first shot you're on the next boat home to Mummy. You're just a mug.'
'I gave it to that big fat sod down at the office.'
'Mr Mockby? Mug.'
The torch moved in. I pressed back in my chair and kicked upwards. I must have got his thigh, though I wasn't aiming for quite that. He overbalanced and his hand swiped the back of the chair. His face fell on my knees. I banged both fists on the back of his neck, grabbed his hair and threw him aside, and tried to spill over the other side of the chair. Then the second one jumped me.
The chair spilled then, all right. One of my feet caught a small table and lamp. Add the two of us hitting the floor at the same time, and you had a crash like the delivery of a year's coals in hell. The noise froze him for a moment, and I got my feet back from under him and kicked him a few times more or less in the ribs. He made oofing noises and rolled away.
I grabbed the torch off the floor, got on my feet, and flicked it across the two of them. The big one was down on his knees and forehead like a Muslim at prayer, rubbing the back of his neck. The other was just getting up. The light stopped him; the sound of the doorbell bloody well petrified him.
'Come in!' I yelled. Then I pulled back the window curtains and dumped the torch on the sofa.
A muffled voice called, 'It's locked!'
'Stay there! I'll be with you!' I got my first good look at the second voice: youngish, narrow-faced, long black hair, smart leather jacket.
I said, 'The rest we do with eye-witnesses. It's your decision.'
He just stayed crouched against the end of the sofa. I circled round the other man. He was big, all right, and about my own age or a bit more. He wore a rough tweed sports jacket with one pocket weighed down to the floor; I took the Walther out of it and began to feel more at home in my own home.
Then I backed off to the door and asked, 'Who is it?'
'It's Mr Norton. Is that Mr Card? '
'Yes.' The snoopy old bastard who lived one floor down.
'You're back, then?'
'Yes.'
'I heard a crash…'
'I'm sorry, Mr Norton. Knocked over a table in the dark. I'm not really awake.'
'It isn't good enough, Mr Card. At this time in the morning.'
'I know, Mr Norton. I'm sorry.'
'Some people are still trying to sleep.'
'I know. I'm sorry.'
Pause. Then, 'I may have to speak to Miss O'Brien about it.'
'I hope not, Mr Norton.'
'And those stories about you in the papers, and the reporters coming round…'
'You don't want to believe everything you read in the papers, Mr Norton. Anyway, I'm going away again in a minute.'
Pause. You could just about hear the clockwork running down.
'Well, it isn't good enough.'
'I'm sorry, Mr Norton.'
Pause. 'Well…' Tick… tick… tick. He shuffled away. I leaned back against the door. Even a punch-up is less exhausting than some things.
Back in the living-room, the young one was on his feet, looking a bit uncertain, and the big one in a chair, still rubbing his neck and breathing in grunts. I showed him the gun.
'It isn't loaded,' he growled.
Keeping it pointed, I worked the slide a couple of times -and damn me, it wasn't. I went quickly through into the bedroom and took the commando knife from the bedside table drawer. The drawer was already open, and when I looked around, they'd really worked the place over. Well, of course they would have done. Blast. I checked my cuff-links box and the drawer of personal papers and they were all right. At least I don't keep any guns in the flat, except the antiques, and they were still on the living-room wall. And in my business you don't keep files at home.
I went back and showed them the knife. 'I'm good with these things, too. Now both of you get out.'
The big one stood up slowly and a bit shakily. 'What about the gun?'
'I'll keep it as a souvenir.'
He glowered at it in my hand. His face had a blunt, ruddy look, like a man who spends time out of doors. I'd have liked to know more about him; if the gun had been loaded, or if there'd been just him, I'd've gone through his wallet. But not with just a knife against the two of them.
He still seemed uncertain. I said, 'Breaking and entering witha. firearm. Look, mate – I'm giving you the next five years of your life. I should take it.'
He took it – but still reluctantly. The other one wasn't so reluctant, though he remembered to pick up the torch as he went.
I watched them from the front window. They went to the big maroon Jag just down the road, and while they were scraping the windscreen clear of frost I remembered my binoculars. Then they drove off – the big one at the wheel – I got the number.
And right then, I was ready to join Mr Norton in catching up on some rest. But I still had the power of the press to worry about. I spent five minutes picking my clothes off the bedroom floor and throwing some of them into a suitcase. As a second thought, I added the drawerful of personal papers, address book, and so on. Then I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water around my face. Both cheeks had a red tinge that might need some explaining back at the hotel.
As I went out, I checked the door latch and told myself for the hundredth time to get a lock of my own put in. A hell of a security adviser I was who couldn't keep a couple of amateurs out of his own flat. Oh, well. I know doctors who still smoke.
I'd half expected them to wait around the corner and try to tail me, but no maroon Jag followed. Maybe they felt too defeated, maybe they didn't realise I would be getting out again myself. Anyway, I picked' up a bunch of morning papers in England's Lane and was back with my Genuine British Breakfast by eight.
On the whole, the news was better than the breakfast. The Arras cops had turned up traces of two other Britons who'd spent an hour in a caféthere just before Fenwick and I arrived, but hadn't stayed the night in town. In the meantime they still wanted a nice friendly chat with Monsieur Card, so would he please come forward, being assured he was not under suspicion…
Ho ho ho, yes mate, and up you, too. I'd come forward when and if I'd got a little bargaining power in my hand, and not until. The story of the two Britons was probably true, but for. the moment it didn't matter if it wasn't: it still turned down the heat under me. And already the attitude to me in the papers was changing subtly; from being important because I was a Mystery Man, I was beginning to sound unimportant because, after twenty-four hours of looking, they hadn't found either me or much about me. We find out the news; if we can't find it out, it can't be news – right?
Right.
After breakfast, I started monopolising one of the hotel's two telephone lines (they hadn't even asked about my cheek; anyhow, to them my name wasn't Card). First I rang my answering service; there was a mass of messages from newspapers that they insisted on reading to me; one saying ring Jack Morris at his Federal number; another from a Mr David Fenwick (brother? cousin?) leaving a number, please ring back; finally one from a client I'd been helping on office security saying, in effect, don't ring back. And he wouldn't be the last. The price of James Card slipped badly as first results of his Continental venture were released yesterday…
Would I have been better off in Arras jail?
I'd rather expected Mockby to live out of town and maybe he had a country place as well, but meanwhile there he was in the phone book occupying an obviously desirable residence in The Bishop's Avenue. There's nothing but desirable residences up there, as long as you can stand the street name being mentioned in half the fraud cases that come to trial.
I got a female voice, wife or housekeeper – they still have housekeepers in those parts – which suited me better than Mockby himself. I said quickly, 'Sergeant Harris, Kentish Town police. We've found an abandoned car. Are you the owners of a maroon Jaguar XJ6, licence number…' I read it off.
She sounded puzzled. 'Well… yes, that's one of Mr Mockby's cars, I think, but I'm sure it's back here. It was out most of the night, I know, but – would you like me to go and check?' Housekeeper, all right.
'Never mind, madam, it looks as if there's been an error.'
'Would you like to speak to Mr Mockby himself?'
What could I lose? He couldn't thump me by phone.
He came on, big, brawny, and brave. 'Paul Mockby here. What is it?'
'Good morning, sir. Are you the owner of a Walther P-thirty-eight automatic pistol, nine-millimetre?'
T… what? I thought it was about the car?'
'Just answer the question, please, sir.' Let the bastard sweat a bit; he could spare the weight.
'What?… I… why do you want… what's it to do with me?'
'Hello, Mockers, old boy, James Card here – remember?'
There was a long pause while he climbed back into several layers of self-confidence. Then he said grimly, 'Impersonating a police officer now, boy? I could have you for that.'
'What about your boys? Impersonating burglars, KGB interrogators, and carrying an unlicensed gun. War souvenir, was it?'
'You can't prove anything,' he said quickly.
'I might. My flat's still a mess, I can identify both them and the car, your housekeeper'll say it was out all night. And for my money, the young one'll talk. You're an accessory before the fact, old chum.'
After a while, he asked, 'I'd better talk to you.'
'You are already. This is close enough.'
'What are you going to do, then?'
'You'regoing to tell me what I got mixed up in.'
After another long time, he said just, 'No.'
That really shook me. 'Chum, you're taking a big risk.'
'Perhaps. But I don't think you're the sort that goes crying to the police. And I'm a pretty good judge of men – you have to be, to make money the way I do. Anyway, I call you. Play cards.'
It was my turn to add a little silence to the proceedings. Finally, 'That thing your little lads were after – it's in the bank. So don't try anything like that again. And if I'd been wearing a gun, we might not have been able to keep the police out of it.
'I'll buy it off you. I'll do that. And a good price.'
'As far as I'm concerned, it's Fenwick's.'
'Fenwick's dead. That belongs to the syndicate.'
'I'll think about it.'
'And I still want to talk to you. We might be able to do a little business.'
'We'll talk – when I've got something more to say. And I'm choosy about whom I do business with.'
He chuckled – Mr Big again, riding tall in the saddle. 'That's no way to make a fortune.'
'No, but it helps keep you out of jail.' I hung up.
Hell. That had been a gold mine full of iron pyrites. The bastardhad been right about me and the police – though my performance in Arras had given him a preview. Even so, he'd still been taking a risk. Or perhaps choosing between two risks.
I picked up Bertie Bear for the umpteenth time and stared at him. He was beginning to look like Paul Mockby except with fur.
'I don't see it, but somebody certainly loves you.'