'Oh, no, of course. Well, I'll see what I can do – you know?'
Getting determination into Willie was like fitting shoes on to a snake. And you can try for only so long.
I sighed and said, 'I'll keep in touch. Any idea about boats to Bergen at this time of year?'
He tried to explain about aeroplanes and I tried to explain about aspects of aeroplanes I didn't like, such as getting searched and having a pistol found on you, particularly since some goon had hijacked a plane on a Scandinavian flight only last week and they'd still be hopping, skipping, and jumping about it. Perhaps he didn't get the exact point, but at least he recalled that the Bergen Line ran an overnight service from Newcastle on various days including possibly Monday. 'Do you know Norway?' he added.
'Never been there,' though it was about the one NATO country I hadn't managed to visit in the Army.
'Try the Norge hotel. And their buffet lunches.'
Then he gave me his number – out in Berkshire – and assured me his mother would take any messages if he wasn't around (somehow I'd already decided Willie wasn't married, although he'd never quite said so) and we rang off.
I mixed one last Scotch and soda before taking the mind-bursting decision about what to eat for dinner, and drifted over to the window. The faithful green Morris 1300 was still there, glinting faintly in the street lighting. I wondered if he liked ocean travel.
Fifteen
As it turned out, he did.
Probably I could have shaken him on the way to King's Cross that Monday morning, but now I was curious about how far he'd go. So I just called a taxi and he stuck behind it all the way to the station. I couldn't be sure he'd caught the train because I still didn't know what he looked like. I'd know soon enough, though. I settled down with a small guide-book on Norwegian mountains, morals, and prices. All seemed high.
Sunday I'd spent drip-drying my shirt collection, writing to David to tell him when I expected to have some news, and leaving a message at Dave Tanner's – they were big enough to keep a twenty-four-hour phone watch – saying Sorry but have to go to Norway. The Norway bit was pure swank: I just didn't want him thinking of me as small-time and priced to match.
At about noon I went along to the buffet car and drank a beer that came at blood temperature and gnawed on a sausage roll that looked as if it were travelling on a season ticket. Then I just leaned against the counter and stared at the steamed-up window, which was an improvement on what you can see without the steam on that line. Peterborough, Grantham, Retford, Darlington – that's no Golden Road, and Newcastle itself isn't Samarkand when you get there.
I took my time getting off and into the taxi queue, which was the one place where my shadow – if he'd caught the train – justhad to be the bloke right behind me. What I got was smallish, middle-aged, with a blunt reddish face, thin hair, and no interest in me at all. His clothes were just clothes: a thin overcoat in grey check, a mud-coloured suit, a solid old briefcase.
I didn't give him any help by shouting out, 'Bergen Line Terminal' to my driver or anything like that: I waited and saw. And the next taxi stayed right behind us all the way out of town – I hadn't realised how far the docks were – so he must have had more luck with the driver than I ever do. The few times I've had to say, 'Follow that car,' they always tell me I've been watching too much TV.
But we were alone by the time we reached the terminal -though that was likely on purpose, by then.
I got a first-class cabin without any trouble, but boarding didn't start until three o'clock. So I roosted in the terminal bar and caught up with the day's newspapers. At half past two my new-found friend came in, carrying a second-hand (I guessed) suitcase. So he'd been doing a little telephoning and shopping; he couldn't have been authorised in advance to catch boats to anywhere, even if he had the sense always to carry his passport.
The ship was the Jupiter, a nice enough modern job a bit bigger than the cross-Channel steamers. My cabin was on the inside – no port-hole – and that apart. it was just a cabin with a bed and dressing-table and tiny bathroom, exactly what was needed and as memorable as a slice of bread and butter when you happen to need that.
I did a little unpacking and then went for a general snoop -carrying Bertie Bear in a big envelope. I'd brought it along just to see if it was the size of thing Steen meant, but now it might have a second use.
We sailed at five o'clock and when we were ten feet from the shore they opened the bar. The ship was far from full, and about half the other passengers seemed to be a ballet company: all tight trousers and thick sweaters and heavy make-up and voices that could strip paint at fifteen paces.
After half an hour my new friend came in and bought a beer and I started my Bertie Bear act. It involved just leaving the envelope where somebody like the barman would need to move it, then snatching it away before he could lay a finger on it. I did this twice, then felt I was risking overplaying the scene, so I just hugged it to me like an autographed copy of the Bible.
I played the same game at dinner, but after that the timing got tricky. On the boat, he didn't have to follow me around; in fact, he could have stayed in his cabin the whole voyage and not lost me – if that was all he wanted. I hoped he wanted a little more by now, but I couldn't always tell just where he was. Anyhow, after dinner I spent half an hour in my cabin, then went along to another, smaller, bar by the swimming pool just at the end of my corridor. Bertie stayed under my pillow.
I nibbled my way through two Scotches and was ordering the third when he caught up with me again. He paused, smiled at the barman, gave the place a careful look – just as if he were merely exploring – and headed down my corridor.
I let him have a minute and a half.
The cabin doors don't lock except from the inside. I tried mine – gently, gently – and it was locked. I waited; he daren't stay long. And I prayed the corridor would be empty when he came up for air.
It was. He was back inside against the far wall and with the door locked again before he could say a word, though maybe that was because he had the derringer's two barrels up against his teeth.
I held him pinned there for a moment, then counted, 'And one, and two, and three…' and pulled back the hammer. His face went dead white and he started to shiver. I reached into his inside pocket and started tossing stuff down on to the bed.
'Who are you working for?' I asked pleasantly.
'I got to sit down,' he croaked.
'Who are you working for? '
'I shall be sick.'
'Be sick. Who are you working for?'
By now I had all the paperwork from all his pockets. He wasn't armed, unless you count a small penknife, and he wasn't going to kick or swing at me. His arms and legs were quite busy enough just trembling.
'Who are you working for?'
"Herb Harris.'
'Ah. And who'she working for?'
He just folded up. On the way down he grabbed a chair and got most of himself into it, then hung there, panting.
I backed off and sorted through his belongings. His name was Arthur Draper and his passport just said 'salesman', but he had calling cards and a phone-credit card for the Harris Enquiry Agency. He hadn't stolen anything of mine, not that I could find.
Me and the gun sat and watched him. Gradually his breathing slowed down, he got a bit of colour back, and his trembling faded into nervous fiddling movements with his hands. The moment had gone, now – the loss of identity and will that goes with capture and makes it the best time for interrogation. If I reached him now, it would have to be another way.
'Where did you park the green thirteen hundred?' I asked.
He just looked at me emptily, and his hands plucked at his jacket.
'Should take more care of a hired car,' I told him. 'Herb won't like it. Who are you working for, by the way?'