The only signs of life in the lane were the lighted windows of the Carpenter’s Arms. Simon pushed open the door of the public bar and entered like a regular, without looking around, ambling directly to the counter.
The interior was as unattractive as the red-tiled Victorian facade. The floor was covered with cracked linoleum and bordered with half a dozen heavy iron tables with marble tops the size of butchers’ slabs, surrounded by hard wooden chairs. The wallpaper was so nicotine-stained that it was almost impossible to discern a pattern, and the decorations consisted chiefly of old photographs of coach outings and fixture lists for the darts team. The air was rank with the smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke. The handful of patrons looked up torpidly as the door opened, but seeing nothing remarkable about the newcomer, returned to their talk or their cribbage.
The Saint leant on the bar and ordered a half pint of best bitter. Only when the required measure had been dispensed and paid for did he appear to take an interest in his surroundings. The man he had come to meet was sitting alone at the far end of the room, and Simon allowed a couple of minutes to elapse before strolling across to join him.
Harry-the-Nose stood out against the seediness of his background like a carnival poster. He was a small, dapper figure who might even have been described as elegant if the check of his cut-price suit had been a trifle less dazzling, his tie a less conflicting array of stripes, or his socks a more harmonious hue. A synthetic diamond the size of a bottle cap sparkled from the centre of his tie, while a heavy gold signet ring weighted the little finger of the small meticulously manicured hand that held his whisky glass. His thinning hair was carefully brushed over the bald top of his head and kept in place by a glossy coating of pomade.
Members of what is popularly called the underworld have a tradition that is otherwise usually found only in barrack rooms and school playgrounds: a legal name is rarely considered sufficient by itself to identify its owner, and some graphic auxiliary is adopted or conferred. The most apparent reason for Harry’s particular cognomen was his outstanding facial feature, a nasal organ of such prominence that it cast the lower part of his face into permanent shadow. An even less flattering connotation of the sobriquet was his insatiable propensity for prying into other people’s business and acquiring information which could be available to interested parties at a price.
Harry-the-Nose knew and accepted the title his peers had bestowed on him, but it was not wise to mention it in his presence. If he had ever heard of Cyrano de Bergerac he would have felt an immediate kinship, for his sensitivity also had caused him to fight duels in honour of the offending appendage, although instead of flashing rapiers at dawn he preferred a dark alley at midnight and a length of bicycle chain.
The Saint had collected Harry many years ago as part of his routine practice of making the acquaintance of anyone who might some day prove useful. Harry had demonstrated his worth on a number of occasions; and a bond had developed between them which, if it was not exactly welded by affection, was at least held together by mutual profitability.
Harry-the-Nose was valuable to the Saint because among his activities was the supply of tools for others to finish the job. When Mr. Public reads in his morning paper that a gang of bank robbers died in an ambulance or that a man escaped from custody with the aid of a capsule of knockout gas, he marvels at the criminals’ cunning but rarely stops to wonder how they obtain the necessary equipment. It was Harry’s boast that he knew where to get anything from a driver’s licence to a diving-bell, with no questions asked, and the Saint had no reason to doubt him. Harry’s expertise was in constant demand, and there was rarely anything happening about which he did not know something.
The Saint sat down and took a pull at the liquid in his tankard, which tasted as if it might have been watered down with a mixture of liver salts and cold tea.
“Well, Harry,” he prompted, “what’s the feeling?”
“Greasy,” was the laconic reply. “Know what I mean?”
“Not exactly, but I can guess.”
“These wogs are a funny lot,” Harry opined. “Close knit, like, and dangerous. Talk their own lingo and don’t mix. Nobody wants to deal with ’em. Unreliable.”
“So what have you managed to find out?”
“Sammy Parton’s doing the passport and visa. The order was placed by a twist, but it sounds like the one you’re after.”
The Saint nodded.
“It makes sense. Go on.”
“That’s about it, Mr. Templar. There was a bint last week who was asking around about getting a shooter. Somebody had told her where to go, but the lads didn’t want to know. Too risky.”
“And the other three I mentioned?”
“Ain’t heard nothing about ’em. Sorry.”
“That’s okay, Harry,” said the Saint. “Now listen, I’ve got another job for you...”
He outlined his commission, and then repeated the main points to make sure they had registered.
“Could be done,” Harry said eventually, rubbing his salient feature reflectively. “But it’ll cost you.”
The Saint took a cigaret pack from his coat pocket and put it down beside his now empty tankard.
“There’s the fifty quid I promised you, and another fifty on account. Don’t worry, I’ll see you through if the going gets rough.”
He rose and walked away, leaving the cigaret package on the table for Harry-the-Nose to casually transfer to his own pocket before he reached the door.
6
Simon threw his hat and coat into the back of the car before sliding in behind the wheel and relaying the conversation to Leila. She was less than impressed.
“But how does that help us?”
He had already started the engine and turned the car around, heading back towards the main road.
“First,” he informed her patiently, “we know the identity of the man who’s forging the passport. Therefore he may be able to tell us where to find Hakim. Second, we know that he probably isn’t armed. Third, Masrouf and his merry men have not been sniffing around, and so we have this particular field to ourselves. It’s not sensational, but it’s not bad for starters.”
“And now we are going to this Parton man?”
“Correct. You catch on fast.”
She scowled at his irony before turning her head away and concentrating on her own thoughts.
He was glad of the silence as it relieved him of the responsibility of projecting a confidence that he was far from feeling. He had obtained all the information he had hoped for from Harry, but he was all too conscious of how little it really was. There were so many loose ends that the slightest mishap could unravel the plan he was weaving.
Now he was zigzagging west and north towards Islington, drawing on a knowledge of London’s unsystematic streets unmatched except by professional taxi drivers. Presently he braked in front of a grubby stationers’ shop a couple of miles from the Carpenter’s Arms as only a crow could have flown it, and was pleased to see that a light was burning in the flat above.
Leila looked at the shuttered shop window.
“This is Parton’s?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door and was about to climb out but she caught his arm.
“You are not leaving me behind again,” she said.
For a moment the Saint hesitated. He knew she was a trained agent accustomed to violence and danger, yet he found it hard not to be protective. He realised that he was still hopelessly fettered to certain old-fashioned attitudes, and forced himself to remember that the times had changed and were never going to change back again. The mere fact that the girl beside him was a genuine army captain was a symptom that would have made Sir Galahad writhe in his armour.