Blame The Dead

I nodded and sat down.

He said, 'I think I'll have the Parma ham and a grilled sole. Have you been home yet?'

'No. I stayed in a hotel near the airport.'

He smiled approvingly. 'Stick to hotels for a few days; the newspapers'll be sniffing around. You sounded a bit of a mystery man in those stories this morning – they'll want to know more.'

'Theywant to know? – hell, so do I.'

The waiter came, disapproved of Oscar's suit, and took our order. Oscar graciously permitted me to order a bottle of expensive hock.

Then he asked, 'Whydid you run away? Or why didn't you run away earlier?'

'He didn't die until just before the cops got there -1 had to stay that long. Then, sooner or later, they'd have searched me properly – and they'd have found my pistol licences.That would have interested them strangely. And soon they'll be poking down the drains in that area: standard procedure, looking for the murder gun. They'll find a Walther PP – unfired. After that, they've got to start asking nasty questions.'

'And you think you'd have cracked?'

'And told them what?1 don't know anything. Now-'

Then I had to stop while the wine and our first courses arrived. Oscar got in the first word afterwards: 'And you want to know if you can be extradited?'

I swallowed a mouthful of soup. 'My guess is not, but what d'you think?'

'What can they pin on you?'

'They'll be pretty sure I was carrying a gun without a French licence. They might try something about the car – stealing it, or messing up evidence or something. And there're plenty of French laws about hindering the police.'

He shook his head briskly. 'That doesn't mean anything to a British court. No – I think you're fireproof. They'll be hoping something comes up that proves you did it, but they won't do anything until then. Mind, you'd better not take a French holiday this year.'

'You want me to pay forthat advice?'

'Well, I'll give you some that's really worth paying for: give up these bodyguard jobs. Stick to security advising – you're building up a nice little business there. You get your name in the papers on this sort of nonsense and you're going to lose your other clients.'

'You bloody hypocrite. Who got me this job?'

'I just put him in touch with you; nobody forced you to take it. You're a big boy now.'

I pushed away my soup and poured some more wine; if I was paying for it, I was going to get my share. 'Have you heard from the Arras police at all?'

He shook his head. 'Vice versa. We rang them this morning -after all, he was our client; one of us will be going over in a day or so. But all we want really is proof of his death and doing what we can about his possessions – getting that car back eventually, the criminal side's entirely a French matter.'

'So, officially, nobody over here's going to be concerned about who killed him or why.'

Ìsuppose that's true…' He cocked his head suspiciously. 'Are you getting a crusading spirit about this, Jim? You're not a trained detective: stay out of it.'

'Christ – the man pretty near died in my arms. You can't expect me to just walk away.'

'An unfortunate choice of phrase,' he said dryly, 'since what you did was run. Well-' Then he had to wait while they showed us the soles, grilled whole, just to prove they hadn't stolen any bits for the cat, took them aside and filleted them, finally let us get at them.

Oscar started, 'To be honest-'

'I love hearing lawyers say that.'

He looked sharp, then smiled. 'I honestly don't know what it was all about. Probably I didn't want to – solicitors sometimes don't. But I can tell you as much as the evening papers'll have about him.'

'It's a start.'

'He was a professional underwriter to a marine-insurance syndicate at Lloyd's.'

'What exactly does that mean?'

'He sat in Lloyd's all day and insured ships. Or a few per cent of any one. On behalf of his syndicate.'

'He didn't act particularly rich.'

'The professionals in Lloyd's – underwriters and brokers -don't have to be. Usually aren't – it's a salaried job. The real money comes from the members, and some of them never go near the place. And he was married. One son.'

'Where did he live?"

'Stay away from his family, Jim.'

'Look, mate -1 saw himdie. Surely his wife-'

'I doubt it. She might even think you helped get him killed.'

I might even think so myself. Suddenly I wasn't so hungry. I sat back and watched his small, neat hands dissecting the fish with watchmaking precision.

After a time, I asked, 'Is that all?'

'What did he tell you himself?'

'Just that he had a package to deliver, that the other people might turn rough. So he might need guarding. I should have asked more – but hell, he came from you.'

He nodded. 'I don't really know any more than that.'

'But you know a lot more background. You must have known him fairly well for him to be able to ask you about a bodyguard. Particularly for you to recommend one.'

He bent his head gently, acknowledging this. But he didn't say anything.

So I said, 'You don't feel like hiring me yourself to find out what it was about?'

'On behalf of his estate? Thank you, we can plunder it without any of your help. And you're still not a detective; you couldn't find the ground with your feet. So don't try.'

'All right. But I'll tell you one thing you don't know: I've got the package he was going to deliver.'

He went very still, staring at me. After a while, he said, 'Then you know what it was all about.'

'Maybe.'

His voice was cold now. 'That would make a nice, simple charge – stealing.'

I grinned back. 'If anybody could prove it had existed, and that I took it. Anyway, you said the criminal side was a French affair.'

He stared at me a while longer, then laid down his knife and fork and beckoned up the waiter. And took out his wallet.

'I thought I was buying this.'

He shook his head. 'One day, we're going to make a lot of money out of you, Jim. You're going to be up on a charge – a big one. Murder, probably. And since we're going to lose it, we'll be able to stick you for every penny you've got. Meantime, I'll pay for the lunch.'

It was my turn to feel a little cold. I watched as he checked down the bill, calculated the exact tip, counted his change. He was a lawyer, all right.

He looked back at me. 'Do you want to turn that package over tome?"

'If you tell me the rest.'

'We might start proceedings about it. I'll have to consult my partners.'

'You'll have to specify what you're suing for.'

'I think,' he said slowly, 'that you might be bluffing.'

'Maybe.'

Maybe. I'd unwrapped the package, of course – I wasn't carrying it through Customs without knowing what it was. And maybe the estate of the late Martin Fenwick, Esq. really would suffer for the lack of a brand-new copy of the Bertie Bear Colouring Book.

Three

Lloyd's is a big place, modern without much looking it, done in nursery-building block style: a curved bit and then a straight bit, a few arched windows and then some square ones, a little of everything plus little towers on top and maybe ketchup besides. I'd never been in it before – and it didn't look as if I were going to get in now. As I came up to the main entrance, a glassed-in lobby at the corner of Lime Street, I was pounced on by a tall type who'd wandered off an old huntin' print: black topper, red coat and all.