Blame The Dead

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.'

Seven

I knew, I'd have to wait until past ten before I could catch Oscar at his office, so I spent a little time field-stripping the P38. Jack Morris and Mr David Fenwick could wait; neither was likely to be good news. The gun wasn't new – I think they still make them – so it probably was a war souvenir. It didn't smell as if it had been fired recently, and when I pulled it through with a strip of torn handkerchief I got only dust, so it hadn't been cleaned recently, either. Still,"I'm not a ballistics man.

I got through to Oscar at ten past.

'You're still out of prison?' he asked cheerfully.

'More or less. Have you sent a man to France yet?'

'No. Actually, I'm going myself at lunchtime.'

'Good. Find out from the police what sort of pistol fired the shot; they haven't said in the papers.'

'Will they know?'

'They've got a cartridge case. They can tell from the extractor and firing-pin marks.'

'Ummm…' He sounded doubtful. 'Well, I'll try and work the conversation around to it. But didn't I tell you to lay off the detective stuff?'

'Just curious. By the way – Paul Mockby isn't one of your clients, is he?'

'No.'

'But you know who I mean?'

'He's in Fenwick's syndicate. Probably the richest.'

'You wouldn't have been talking to him recently?'

'I haven't. I don't say he hasn't talked to somebody here. In fact-'

'He sent a couple of amateur tough guys around to convert me. He thought I had a little something belonging to somebody else.'

'I see. And you thought… You ought to read the French papers. Le Monde had a rather good description of you. Including a brown paper package you were carrying which you said was a present for a friend in Paris.' He paused to let me digest that, then added dryly, 'Oddly enough, Iam doing my best to protect your interests. Somebody has to. And I told you to stay away from home.'

'Thanks, Oscar. Give my love to theinspecteur.'Another angle folded up flat – though this time I was glad of it. It was about time for a drive down to Kingscutt – except for that call from a David Fenwick. It nagged me. He was probably offering to horsewhip me on the steps of my club if my club could afford steps and he could afford a horsewhip, but still…