“Don’t be bitter, Harry,” I said. He kneaded his soft brown face again with his huge hairy hands, and as his eyes and nose emerged from the open fingers he smiled a humourless smile.
“And Ferdinand,” I said, “how did he get along with Flackyard?”
“OK. Flackyard is indifferent, as he tends to be around all people. George is just a little too creepy around him for my liking.”
“Have you ever gone into a room and heard any conversations between them that perhaps you weren’t supposed to hear? Any talk of hardware, for instance?”
“Well, thinking back, there were a few times when the talk just stopped when I walked in on them, but I’ve never overheard them actually talking.”
“Never, and that’s all?” I said. “Listen, Harry, we’ll play it your way, if you like.”
“But let me remind you that we’re in a sound proofed room in the middle of the night with only the sea to keep us company. I’d like to think that we could continue our conversation in a gentlemanly manner. Or perhaps you’d prefer that I work you over a little and then string you up on that hook over there and pump your veins full of that shit you’ve been producing, let’s say one hundred percent pure. That should send you on your way to Mars. The choice is yours Harry, you can walk out of here free, or I’ll give you to the local police, and they can carry you out in a black body bag.”
“Just try,” Harry said.
“You’ve got me mixed up with all those nice guys, Harry. I will try.” I said.
There was a short, sharp silence.
“Hey, Ace, I’m no smack head,” said Harry. His tan had disappeared now.
“A hundred per cent pure won’t just send me to Mars, it’ll send me to the undertakers.” He folded his arms tightly.
“Harry, you can be sure I won’t kill you. Not with the first needle anyway.”
“You will survive for the second dose and the others until I decide to hand you over to the authorities. By then you will be so dependent on the stuff, you will beg me to let you have a hit. You’ll talk, Harry, believe me. Look upon it as sales research — hell, it’s probably tax-deductible.”
Harry’s head sank forward and he rocked gently in his seat as he tried to wake out of the nightmare in which I existed. When he continued to speak it was in an impersonal monotone. “George Ferdinand used to work for Flackyard. George had a great respect for him. Even after we had enough money not to worry, George would continue to say ‘sir’ to him. George had contacts all over Europe, and they all liked him. Maybe you find that hard to believe, but it’s true. George had only to whisper about something he wanted done and bingo, it was done. He has always arranged the supplies of the opium, while my end of the business was to process and sell.”
“How did the opium usually arrive?” I asked.
“Always by ship, once a month. The cross channel ferry from Cherbourg to Poole has been our regular mule, if you like, for well over a year. There is a French side to this operation. They would send a diver down at night, while the ferry was in dock, and he’d secure the opium in a specially designed watertight metal case to the hull using magnetic clamps.
“As the port authorities never check the outside of the hull below the water line this has been an extremely safe and effective way of transporting our supplies to the UK. All we had to do was listen on a short wave radio to the shipping talk and when the ferry started her approach into Poole Harbour we would dive from inside the boathouse using a powered underwater sled to get out to the ship quickly. As you are aware, only an expert diver would be able to get under the hull of a moving vessel and remove the metal case that was held on the bilge keel by the magnetic clamps.”
“Who dived at this end, Harry?” I asked quietly.
“Well, at first George did, until that is recently…” He let the words hang in mid air and then went on smugly. “That is until he met up with his old chum Rumple. What a piece of luck, and how easy to get him on board. In fact it was as easy as taking candy from a kid.”
“How many times did Rumple dive for you?” I asked.
“Three times,” Harry said, holding up three fingers.
“Go on.”
“As you can now see, this house has played a vital part in what we did.”
“Once the opium was back here, we would process and distribute it, all from this house. George had contacts with haulage companies all over the place.”
“The drivers would be paid well for carrying in their cab a briefcase. This was full of smack on the way to the cartels up and down the country. It’s as easy as that, Ace. How am I doing?”
“You’re doing OK,” I said. “Your boat; did George ever use that?”
“Sure, he’s a far better sailor than I’ll ever be, he borrowed it whenever he wanted. It was Flackyard borrowing it whenever it suited him that made me sore. I’d never trust the guy alone, I don’t care if he is the local Mr Big, there’s something not right about the guy.”
“Tell me more about Robert Flackyard,” I said.
“Flackyard drives around town in his flash chauffeur driven cars like he was a king. Thinks he owns the place. He has sent George along at night to borrow the boat like he’s doing me a favour. Flackyard the wise guy. One day I get back here; he’s down in the cellar, helping himself to the goodies.”
“‘I’ve gotcha red-handed,’ I say, smiling like I’m joking. ‘My dear Mr Caplin, I’ve never been caught red handed, in my entire Life.’ He says — nonchalant as you like. ‘So who cares?’ I say. ‘I do,’ he says, ‘and I’m the only one,’ and off he drives with my smack in his pocket.”
“He’s in up to his neck with a few politicians both locally and in London.”
“Only last week, there was a group of Japanese business tycoons over. The official reason for their visit was to strengthen trading relations. Hell, they were here to negotiate a narcotics deal with Flackyard, and to sample some of ours,” Harry raised his head and said, “you’re not kidding me about letting me fade away, are you? Because if I’m shooting my mouth off for nothing…”
“No,” I said, “you can talk your way out as far as I’m concerned.”
“Boat and all?” asked Harry.
“Boat and all, just keep talking, Harry,” I said. I decided to try a bluff, to keep the momentum going. “The visitor from London,” I coaxed gently, “don’t forget the visitor from London, Harry.”
“Oh him, pal of George’s,” Harry said. “Smooth talking guy, great sense of fun.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jasper Lockhart,” said Harry, “great sense of fun.”
“Great sense of fun,” I said. Now it was all falling in place. Jasper Lockhart knew George. A messenger, perhaps, or more than likely a courier? It certainly accounted for the new Jaguar convertible. Did Hawkworth tell George what to do or was it the other way round? In either case, why?
I looked around at the brightly-lit cellar: the equipment and the pile of aluminium briefcases stacked against the wall.
“Harry,” I said, “I want George Ferdinand here; get him here now and you can go.”
Harry sucked his cheeks in and snorted a laugh down his nose. “Hell Ace, you can get him down here as easily as I can,” he said. “You don’t have to kick dirt in my face.” He got up slowly and walked across to the large white sink, washed his hands with soap, dried them, put on his Rolex watch and turned to face us. “You did the hero bit already. Now if you don’t mind I’m out of here, gun or no gun.”