No,’ Erica said.
‘Oh, yes. Hardy is being sensible; that’s something else he’s known for.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve been doing some work on me.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. It didn’t take long and there wasn’t anything subtle to find out.’
He wasn’t trying to bait me, he was just stating the facts as he saw them. He was a man who dealt in facts. I was dealing with a few myself, trying to think of some way to head off this hostage strategy. This time Grey did seem to read my mind. He raised his voice while keeping the gun steady.
‘Come on, you two. We’re leaving!’
Flabby came into the room and gave me a look that suggested he hadn’t forgiven me for the battering I gave him in the car park. Peroni strolled in with a glass of wine in his hand. He took a sip and then emptied the almost full glass on the carpet. The gesture marked him as the one who’d done over the house before. His face was creased in a smile showing his bad teeth and the fact that he enjoyed this sort of work. He tossed the wine glass in the fireplace where it broke. Erica jumped, and Peroni’s grin widened until it changed into a wince of pain. He put his hand up to touch the puffiness around his jaw where it had slammed into the side of my car.
‘You don’t look so tough now,’ he said.
‘I was angry at the time.’
‘Aren’t you angry now?’ He stepped up close and thrust his face forward so that I could smell his bad breath. He slapped me hard with his right hand; I rode back a bit, but the slap stung.
‘I want a free go,’ Flabby said.
I could feel blood from where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ I said. You’re too slow. I could cripple you while you were shaping up.’ I jerked my head at Grey. ‘It’s really the other way around-he needs me more than he needs you.’
‘True,’ Grey said crisply. ‘Miss Fong is coming with us.’ He went to the hallway door and gestured with his gun. We trooped into the hall and Grey looked at Erica’s bag. ‘Handy. We’ll take that along. You can leave the liquor and cigarettes though. I’m a teetotaller myself.’
Erica looked desperately at me. I tried to look determined and resolute which is easier to do when you’re not the one being carted away.
‘Leave her the creature comforts, Grey. The smart hijackers keep the hostages happy.’ I lifted the bag, zipped it up and handed it to Erica. ‘Play along, love. He’s more bark than bite. I’ll do everything I can. How do I reach you, Grey?’
‘You have an answering service?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll leave messages, give you telephone numbers and instructions. You’d better take this seriously, Hardy.’
‘I do. And you better understand that I’m not the only friend Miss Fong has in the world. There are some Chinese around who’ll eat these two and you as well if anything happens to her. If you let Peroni touch her you can say goodbye to your balls and his.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ He nodded to Peroni who opened the door and they backed towards it so that I was facing two guns.
‘Leave the Colt,’ I said. ‘I might need it.’
Flabby looked reluctant, but Grey’s sharp nod made him set it down just inside the door.
‘Your car is disabled, Hardy. Stay where you are for a minute or two and think. Do the work you’re supposed to be so good at. There’s no reason for your little friend to come to any harm.’
Erica’s face was a mask of anger and fear; Peroni and Flabby went out and Grey followed, still keeping his little flat gun ready. He slammed the door. I stood in the hall and listened to car doors open and close. A well-tuned engine started and a car purred away.
I stood there for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes. The cat came in and rubbed itself against my leg which meant that it wanted food. I opened the front door and looked at the Falcon parked across the road. It had no obvious list, so the disablement was probably mechanical. They’d closed the gate; Grey would probably have wiped his feet on the mat if I’d had one.
Under stress we revert to the old patterns. I re-plugged the phone and rang Grant Evans, gave him a description of Grey, and asked him to check it through as many computers as he could.
‘He said he wasn’t from Sydney,’ I said.
‘Lots of people aren’t, you don’t seem to grasp that. Getting sticky is it, Cliff?’
‘It’ll do.’ I considered telling Grant about Erica and decided against it; if I needed a policeman on hand I had Frank Parker. Grant knew better than to pump me for more information.
‘I’ll get back to you if anything comes through. Anything else I can do?’
‘Yeah. Keep a job as bottle washer open at the vineyard. I think that might be the kind of work I’m fit for.’
The idea that had come to me while Grey was accusing me of extra knowledge was simply that if Mountain was writing again, he might get in touch with his agent. It wasn’t much of an idea but it was something. The other one or two writers I knew phoned their agents almost every day as if they expected them to wipe their noses and smooth life’s stormy passage. Mountain seemed to make his own rules, but there was a chance he might conform in his way.
I phoned the Brent Carstairs Agency and at the mention of Mountain’s name I was put through at wire-melting speed to a Mr Lambert.
‘L’mb’t here, y’s?’
A New Zealander, hardly a vowel to his name. ‘My name is Hardy, Mr Lambert. I’d like to talk to you about Bill Mountain. I’d say from the way they put me through to you that you’d be interested.’
‘Most certainly, Mr Hardy. Where is he?’
‘Hold on, why the interest? When I phoned a week ago some girl told me he was on holiday; she sounded as if she was just about on holiday herself. Why’s everyone so keen now?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that,’ he said sharply.
‘You’d better discuss it. If you want to find him with all his typing fingers still attached, I’m your best bet.’
‘I can’t take that on faith. Who are you, exactly?’
‘I’m a private detective, exactly. I also know Mountain slightly. I also know that he’s writing again.’
Mr Lambert said: ‘Mmm.’ If you wanted caution he was your boy.
‘I’ll give you a sample. He’s been to Marseilles and Nice recently, very recently. He’s got inside a very dirty world that ninety-nine per cent of writers just read about in the papers. He’s in danger. Do we talk?’
‘Yes. Can you come to my office at once, please?’
The last literary agent I’d talked to had wanted me to follow his client day and night and report on her doings. He’d been careful not to touch anything I touched, and he had never once said please. The way Mr Lambert sounded, he might even say thank you.
The Falcon hadn’t been disabled at all, another of the light, classy touches of Mr Grey, like returning my gun. I drove to Paddington through traffic that was light and good-tempered, unlike myself. I was feeling sour and under pressure-hostage-taking was one fashion I could do without. The agency was in one of those cute, twisting little thoroughfares off Oxford Street that are always one way in the direction you don’t want. I worked my way to the right end and back up the street to park as close as I could. The street featured tall terraces with nose-in-the-air iron lace and fences with all the spear tops intact. There were offices that used to be houses and houses that used to be shops.
The agency office presented a lot of timber and lead-light glass to the street as if it was pretending to be an English pub. I pushed open the stripped and varnished timber door and walked into a carpeted space that was all soft lights and good taste. It looked more like an upmarket bookshop than an office; the walls were lined with the best-sellers and instant remainders of Brent Carstairs clients. There was a rogues’ gallery of writers’ photographs with a heavy emphasis on those who had won awards and those whose works had made it to the large and small screens.
The only worker in sight was sitting at a desk in the deep bay window at the front of the place. She was wearing a severe grey suit, a white blouse and pearls. She lifted her head from the typescript she was reading and gave me a wintery smile.
‘Yes?’
‘Hardy,’ I said, ‘but not the writer. No plays, no poems, no novellas. I had an essay on shoe cleaning published in my school magazine, but that was a long time ago.’
‘You’re a humorist.’
‘I wanted to see if I could make you smile.’
‘You failed.’
‘I’m a detective, here to see Mr Lambert. Smile at that.’
She didn’t, but she did react. ‘Oh, yes. About the Mountain manuscript; please go through there. Mr Lambert’s waiting.’
She pointed a long, thin, grey arm at the apparently blank wall at the end of the room but I didn’t obey. I leaned close down to her, not expecting any perfume and not getting any. ‘Manuscript?’ I said.
‘Oh, God, I’m talking out of turn. Please see Mr Lambert. He’ll explain everything.’
I straightened up and peered at the wall. ‘I’ve been waiting all my life for someone who could explain everything.’
‘Please!’
Two pleases was urgent stuff from the likes of her; I followed her stabbing finger, and after walking across a few thousand dollars’ worth of carpet paid for by the authors whose books I passed, I found a door discreetly hidden in the wall. I knocked and Lambert called out: ‘Come in!’ as if I was David Williamson come to sign up for life. He was half way across his office towards the door by the time I got it open. His hand came out so fast I nearly ducked and countered.
‘Mr Hardy, come in, come in.’ We shook hands and he practically donated his to me. He stuck his head through the open door and asked the woman behind the desk to bring us some coffee. Lambert’s office was a smaller version of the other room: bearded faces gazed out from dust jackets, review headlines announced biting wit and experimental irony.
Lambert was a medium-sized man with a thick waist and lank hair that was greying and thinning as if there was a race on to make him either white or bald. He didn’t help matters by wearing a spotted bow tie and a patterned vest that had food and drink stains on it. He ushered me into a chair, scooted behind his desk and plopped his glasses down in front of him. The lenses were heavily smudged.
‘Your phone call intrigued me, Mr Hardy, I must say.’
‘So I see. What’s the name of the woman outside?’
‘Maud.’
‘I’d never have guessed that. She’s very jumpy, and so are you.’
To prove he wasn’t jumpy he picked up his glasses and put them on. Then he took them off again. Before he could demonstrate any more sang froid. Maud came in with a silver tray on which sat china cups and bowls and a big pot of coffee. As she was pouring, I recalled that I’d had mainly whisky for dinner and no breakfast.
‘Would you have a biscuit or anything about?’ I said. ‘I haven’t eaten in quite a while.’ I took a thirsty slurp of the coffee. It always impresses people to tell them you haven’t eaten; it makes you look busier than them. Lambert reacted as if he would’ve sent out for steak and eggs.
‘I’m quite sure we’d have something. Could you see to it, Maud?’
Maud said she would, and I drained my cup and poured another, adding sugar and stirring. Lambert sipped his and waited. He used a napkin to wipe his glasses and only succeeded in spreading the goo around. Maud trotted back in with a plate of ginger nuts and I had two dipped and up to the mouth before she reached the door
I got the biscuits down before I started talking. ‘Bill Mountain’s writing again; he’s sent you something that’s got you all excited-a novel?’
He nodded, then he shook his head. ‘A synopsis,’ he breathed, ‘an absolutely brilliant outline of a sure-fire best seller. Amazing!’
I reached across the desk for the pot and Lambert took his bum off the seat to push it towards me; he’d have given me the pot and the tray if I’d asked for them.
‘You seem surprised that he could write a book,’ I said.
Lambert sipped his milky coffee and spilled some biscuit crumbs down his vest. ‘I thought he was washed up except for TV writing, and he seemed to be losing his grip on that-missing deadlines, messing around with the characters. He’s a terrible drinker.’
‘Was,’ I said. ‘He’s stopped.’
‘I know.’
‘How d’you know? I found out from his sister in Melbourne a couple of days ago. The news couldn’t be all over Sydney yet.’
He looked at me, and suddenly jerked his head half around. I realised that he’d done it before; it was a nervous mannerism, but it made it look as if he was afraid someone was going to grab him and send him back to New Zealand. He didn’t look particularly smart, but he was good at keeping his mouth shut. Another swallow of coffee and the penny dropped.
‘I get it. He talks about drying-out in the synopsis. The book’s autobiographical.’
He nodded.
‘Jesus, does a man get killed up in the mountains? Does the hero buy smack in Marseilles’?’
More nods.
‘This is important, Mr Lambert. If you have any way of contacting him you must tell me. His life’s in danger.’ Nothing changed in Lambert’s expression and I realised that it was like telling someone about a film they’d already seen. ‘You know that.’
He put some more fingerprints on the lenses of his glasses. ‘The protagonist speculates about the retribution that awaits him-compelling stuff.’
‘How does it end?’
He lay back in his chair. His head tilted and I could see the dark bags of sleep debt under his eyes. He pulled at the silly bow tie and it came undone untidily down the front of his shirt.
‘Wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?’ he said.
‘I gave it up.’
‘So did I, years ago when I first came here. I was so glad to be here. I felt 1 could do without, them and I did, until now. I don’t know how it ends-the synopsis doesn’t end. He runs the story on to about… I’m guessing here, five chapters from the end? It’s a masterly piece of work… I’ve read thousands… I could get, a quarter of a million advance from a top publisher, maybe more.’
Apparently I was expected to be impressed by the sum of money. I was. I gave the sort of nod you give to a quarter of a million bucks.
‘All right, Mr Hardy, I’ve put you in the picture. What’s your interest?’
‘I was hired by the owner of the used car firm.’
It was as if we were speaking in a code, mutually mastered. ‘I see.’
‘I’ve met some people connected with the organisation behind the car thefts.’
‘Rough?’
‘Pretty rough. The honours are all their way at the moment.’ I realised that I couldn’t tell Lambert too much, couldn’t tell him, for example, that I’d sell his writer in a flash to get Erica back.
‘Mountain describes them as killers; is he exaggerating?’
I thought about it. ‘Does he describe himself as a killer?’
‘The protagonist kills a man in self-defence.’
‘Uh huh, well, I don’t know of anyone they’ve killed. There’re two men in a bad way in hospital who offended them, and they’d have done the same or worse to me if it had turned out that way. They certainly intend to kill Mountain.’ I threw that in to keep Lambert on his toes-I assumed that a synopsis is worthless. I knew that dead men don’t write novels.
‘If you think you can prevent that I’ll be happy to co-operate in any way. Funds are not a problem.’
‘I’m trying. Why haven’t you gone to the police?’
‘The outline came in the post with a note in which Mountain said he would cease to be my client if I called the police into the matter at any point. Literary agents have no contracts with their clients, you know. It’s a gentleman’s arrangement, cancellable by either party, at any time.’
‘That right? Sounds a bit like my work. You’re on ten per cent, are you?’
‘Dearly earned, believe me.’
‘Okay. Well, I’ll have to see the note and the outline, of course, and I’ll take some more coffee if you’ve got it.’
He jerked his head over his shoulder and fiddled with his glasses.
‘No more coffee?’
‘Of course there’s more coffee. It’s letting you see the synopsis…’
‘Anything to help-your very words.’
‘I don’t want it shown about. A lot of the impact would depend on the novelty, the element of surprise…’
‘You’re beginning to worry me, Mr Lambert. I wouldn’t send the thing to Random House. All I want is to find Mountain; I have to see what he’s written. That’s flat!’
‘I don’t know.’
He looked so perturbed that I had to soften the blow a little. ‘Would you like me to say that we’ve got a gentleman’s agreement that I’ll keep the thing totally confidential?”
‘That would help.’
He nodded. I stacked the cups on the tray, picked it up and went to the door. Maud had put a chair within earshot of the door and was doing some filing with the antennae fully extended. She started when I opened the door.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Everybody’s interested. Could you let us have some more coffee, please?’
She took the tray and headed towards wherever they kept the Andronicus. Lambert had got up from his desk and was turning a key in a filing cabinet lock. He pulled out a drawer, extracted a manila folder and slid it across the desk towards me. I’d expected him to make more of a ritual of it. I opened the folder and found a stack of A4 size photocopy sheets. I closed the cover.
‘This is a photocopy, I want to see the original.’
‘Why?’
I leaned forward and whispered. ‘Because there might be something written on the backs of the sheets.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’ Back to the filing cabinet, out with the key, twiddle, twiddle, scrape and another folder appeared. The typeface was the same as on Erica’s card and there were probably signs of the same ‘fist’ and the identical displacement of the ‘e’ if you cared for those sorts of things. I looked at the backs of the sheets, but there was nothing on them. I hadn’t expected anything, but you never know. Lambert had stood, hovering, with his hands out, and I gave the folder back.
‘Thanks. I’d like to see the note, too.’
Maud came in with the coffee and I smiled at her. She looked at me in awe and I realised that it was because I was holding a copy of it in my hands. I smiled at her and she smiled back. All I needed was something worth a quarter of a million and she was a pushover.
Lambert watched her walk out and passed me the note. It was brief and simple; I asked Lambert for a copy of it and he dug one out. We both swilled down a cup of coffee. I tapped the edges of the paper straight in the folder and got up.
Lambert looked alarmed. ‘Ah,’ he said. The head flicked left.
‘Yes?’
‘Aren’t you going to read it now? It’s not long. Tell me what you think…?’
‘Haven’t you read any books? I need a blonde, a bottle and a dark room.’
He shook his head and sighed.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Lambert, look on the bright side.’ I moved to the door.
‘And what’s that?’
‘You’ve got other clients.’
I heard his groan through the closed door.