The lobby itself was tall, narrow, marble, with a bunch of flags on a war memorial at one end and revolving glass doors at the other. Beyond them was a big three-storey-high room which was obviously the Sanctum. A steady flow of men – no women at all – in sober dark suits flowed in and out and around the doors.
A waiter – this one in a blue coat – got up from a desk in the middle and said, 'Yes, sir?'
I told him what I wanted and my name, and he said doubtfully, 'I'll ring the box, sir, but if there's nobodyexpecting you…' But he picked up the desk phone. Then, halfway through dialling, he remembered. 'But Mr Fenwick's dead, sir.'
I nodded. 'I wouldn't be here if he wasn't.'
He mumbled quickly and secretively into the receiver, then looked up. 'They say they don't know you, sir, and they're very busy just now.'
'Tell 'em I'm a nuclear submarine in disguise looking for life insurance.'
He told them something – but not that – and put the phone down. 'Perhaps if you wrote a letter, sir…' as soothing as cough syrup.
I turned away, then back. 'Just suppose I had been a shipowner, asking about insurance…'
He shook his head without looking up. 'You wouldn't be, sir. It all has to be done through Lloyd's brokers.'
'Monopolist.'
'You could complain to the Monopolies Commission – sir.'
And I was out in the cold again.
After that, it was fairly easy. Lloyd's has three other entrances, and something over 6,000 members, and by now I had some idea of the style: you just walked in, not saying good afternoon nor nothing to nobody. Luckily I'd had my dark-blue pinstripe in the Arras luggage; it was definitely monopolist wear, that season.
Inside, I found myself opposite a row of lifts and rode one up three storeys just to get well behind the lines. Then found the stairs and started walking down; at the second floor I came out on to a wide gallery running all around the big room itself, and paused to regroup myself.
It was a vast, shapeless place full of the bustle and chatter of an Italian railway station. The floor was dotted with dozens of big double-sided old desks – the underwriters'
'boxes', I suppose – that looked tatty and third-hand against the hygienic cream marble walls and square green pillars. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of men were moving, standing, sitting, and maybe even knowing what they were doing, but to me it looked as organised as the last minutes of the Titanic. Somewhere in that lot were Fenwick's business friends and neighbours, but where did I start?
I started by getting rid of my sheepskin coat, nobody else had outdoor clothes on. The gallery was also full of underwriting boxes, and a few had the odd hat or umbrella dumped around, so I quietly added mine. Then down to the main floor.
Once there, the only thing to do was look preoccupied and keep moving. I did a complete circuit of the room, past the rows of boxes and a dais where somebody was steadily broadcasting a list of names by loudspeaker, past the enshrined ship's bell – the Lutinebeli, I imagine, off the old treasure ship. Weren't they supposed to ring it every time a ship went down? Well, they didn't, and in a moment I could see why: a thirty-foot-long notice board covered with pink and yellow sheets listing boats lost, damaged, or missing in the last few days. I'd never have believed it; the bottom of the sea was getting double-parked vertically, and ringing the bell for that lot would be a full-time job. But nobody seemed to be caring but me, so I moved on quickly.
This wasn't getting me anywhere. I stopped, looked around, and latched on to a chubby-cheeked, fluffy-haired twenty-year-old. Putting the parade ground back in my voice, I growled, 'Remind me which the devil's Fenwick's box. Always get lost when I come in here, blast it.'
He should have called in the Mounties, but I'd guessed right about this place: the fact that I was in the right suit, twice his age, and actuallyhere outweighed any doubts about whether Ishould be here.
'I think it's three-eighty-something, sir – but I'll just check for you.' He scurried off and back. 'Yes, sir, it's three-eighty-seven. But you know he…"
'I wouldn't have had to come if he hadn't, dammit. Thank you, boy.' And I stumped off.
Each box had a number on its side, so after that it was just a matter of reconnaissance and planning my approach. The box itself was one of the smallest I'd seen, not much longer than an ordinary desk and split lengthways by a bank of pigeon-holes.
A lad about the same age as the one who'd given me the number was taking down thick metal-bound book files from the pigeon-holes and passing them to a large, worried-looking man next to him on the bench. A slim, elderly, elegant man was standing by, looking down.
The big man looked up as I arrived and said sharpish, 'Sorry, but we're not doing any business today.'
'My name's Card, James Card.'
'Fine, but we're still not…'
Then the lad whispered to him and I caught '… one in France, sir, who…'
The man said, 'My God, you?' and got up at a remarkable speed for his size and age – he must have been about fifty and not much less around the turn.
For a time he just stared at me and I stared back and the world of marine insurance babbled busily on around us. He looked as if he'd grown from a chubby baby to a big fat man just by inflating: he still had the neat little features, the big blue eyes, the fat hands, the wispy hair – though it was white by now. But he was hard with it; he stood a clear three inches taller than me and if he punched his weight I hoped he'd pick on somebody his own size.
Then he pushed along the bench – the boy scuttling out of his way – until he towered over me face down to face. 'Well, I'm damned if I expected to see you here. Come to give your pay back?'
I didn't say anything.
He said, 'You didn't do much of a job last night, did you?'
I went on staring at the nice dark-blue silk suit, the tailored shirt, the obviously expensive silk tie, the gold watch-chain and cuff links. All a bit richer, more individual than the clothing I'd seen here so far.
'Not very talkative, are you?' he barked.
'We haven't been introduced.'
He snorted. 'I'm Paul Mockby' – as if he expected me to recognise it.
I just nodded; it didn't seem like an occasion for shaking hands. He swung back to the bench and grabbed handfuls of papers. 'Come upstairs and tell me about it.'
The elderly party at the far end of the box said vaguely, 'I'll leave it to you, then, Paul. You'll let me know?'
'I'll let everybody know.' Mockby jerked his head at me and steamed off across the floor at a Rifle Brigade pace.
I followed him back into a lift, up to the fourth floor, and down a corridor that seemed very quiet after the big room. We turned in through a glass-panelled door labelled just M. J. fen-wick and there wasn't any nonsense about letting visitors go first or closing the door after them.
It was a surprisingly small, sparse room. Just one small desk, three simple hard-backed chairs, a glass-fronted bookcase, and a couple of Canaletto prints on the walls. And another door, leading off to the side.
Behind the desk was a small mousy-blonde girl who didn't look as if she'd been doing anything but stare into space. Mockby evicted her by throwing down a five-pound note and snapping, 'Hop out and get me five Bolivars. You know the size.'
She hopped and he dumped himself behind the desk, lita. cigar the size of a copper's truncheon, and said, 'Well?'
'Funny. It doesn't seem the sort of place to handle hundreds of thousands of premiums.'
'Lloyd's doesn't need a front. Can undercut the big companies simply because we keep our overheads down. Under five per cent. Now – what happened?'
I sat down; I could have fossilised before he invited me to. 'He got shot from cover.'