They wouldn’t suspect him... really. Not after a good solid British-type investigation had been made. Nobody who knew how closely knit American and British undercover operations are would imagine that an American agent would rub out a British one. Particularly not at the level on which both of them operated. And there’d be other questions. Motive. The missing murder weapon. The open rear window. The mysterious fourth party (me). No, they’d clear him, all right.
But there’d be this funny shadow. He wouldn’t be able to bring me up in his defense. He wouldn’t be able to explain away everything. And there’d always be that strange doubt hanging over it all. There’d be rumors behind Basil’s back, rumors that he hadn’t told everything he knew, and perhaps, just perhaps, that meteoric rise of his would develop a hitch in it somewhere, someplace along the way to the higher State Department levels, or the Cabinet, or the Senate, or wherever people in his social circle are programmed to end up. Perhaps, then, he’d get sidetracked for a hitch or so. He’d sit on a back burner for a while like any other poor simp who hadn’t had his background or advantages, and maybe — just maybe — he’d begin to wonder how things had come to this sort of pass.
Maybe Basil Morse, sooner or later, would grow up. And maybe he’d come around to the realization that all the other people in the world were not necessarily the Pawns, and that he and his kind were not necessarily the Players.
Maybe. But I wasn’t going to offer odds on it.
I picked up the phone and made a couple more calls. Anonymous tips for the Crown Colony cops, with a built-in time lag in each tip, enough to allow me to clear out and be on my way out of Hong Kong by the time they arrived. I called the Kowloon cops and sent them to Wanchai, across the Straits. Then I called the Victoria cops and told them about the dead men over here in Tsim Sha Tsui. Then I wiped the receiver clean. And I went out the back way and down to the street, came around the block to Nathan Road, and hailed a passing cab. “Kai Tak Airport,” I said.
I was going home.
Chapter Fifteen
The airport cab, coming in from Dulles, pulled up on Connecticut Avenue just above Bialek’s bookstore, “Hey,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“You said Dupont Circle,” the driver said. “If you’ve gone and changed your mind all you’ve gotta do is tell me about it. Meanwhile, while you’re sittin’ there dreamin’, I got a livin’ to make, buddy. I don’t mind lettin’ this meter run, but...” He let it hang. His eyes in the rear view mirror were bored and skeptical.
“Sorry about that,” I said. I’d had a lot of things on my mind on the way back, and I hadn’t had much sleep in the past week. I must have just popped it out, Dupont Circle, force of habit. Well, I thought, as good one place as another. My digs were within walking distance, and it made a convenient reference point. “Here,” I said, and slipped him three bills. Getting out of the car, I wished there were some way of bending over, when you had a couple of cracked ribs, without feeling like a Tinkertoy figure who’d been run over by a truck.
“Nick.”
That wasn’t all the voice was saying, coming toward me. It was just all that I could pick out of a constant mutter with its own built-in static. The red-bearded face and the slightly potty body, stuffed into a suit so disreputable even David Hawk wouldn’t have worn it, were nothing particularly distinctive, but I’d have known that lurching gait and nonstop chatter anywhere. It had to be Robert Franks.
Well, listen to a little of it:
“...got a message for you the other day, and whoever she was, she sounded interesting. I stuck the note under the door of your office, anyhow, after hours. I wonder if she’s got a friend. Like to snag the lady and perhaps some little thing she might be pals with and come on out this weekend? Boy, You’re looking rocky today. Want to go grab a cup of coffee? I’ve got a minute or two. On my way over to Interior. Big hassle over Indian fishing rights. Tell you all about it later. Sure I can’t interest you, huh? They...”
“Bob,” I said, “slow down, huh? What was it you said just now?”
“When? Uh... well, the Indians want...”
“No,” I said. “The part about sticking a message under the door. The door of my office.”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes. Well, you know, Ed Quinlan’s out of town this month, and I’ve been using his office and phone... well, until they turned it off. My base of operations, you know. When he gets back I’ve got a consultancy job...”
“Who’s Ed Quinlan?”
“He’s got the office three doors down from yours. No, I guess it’s two now, isn’t it? Almost forgot about that. Anyhow, Ed’s place is the office next to the john. Better Beekeeping magazine, it says on the door, only there aren’t any magazines there and the typewriter doesn’t work. I’ve been wondering just what the place is a front for. Ed never comes to work, and his wife is always calling... well, she used to and...”
“Say, Bob, hang on, would you? I’ve got to go find out something. Look, I’ll call you, soon, okay?”
He smiled his lopsided smile. “Won’t do any good. I haven’t paid that phone bill either.” But he waved me off in his cordial, offhand manner, and was doing the speed limit by the time he hit the crosswalk, muttering to himself, lips pursed, his red eyebrows going up and down.
I was moving too: opening the door of the old building and pounding up the stairs, one hand on that achey rib cage. It wouldn’t be the first time Bob had inadvertently slipped me something important. He had this way of getting around Washington and keeping his eyes and ears open, and I’d have bet he had enough odd information stashed away in that brilliantly disorganized head of his to make or break half of the bigwigs on the Hill. But this? If only he knew what he was talking about this time. I reached the right landing, pushed through the door, chugged down the hall, and tried the fourth knob.
Nothing. The sign on the door said Joel Eigen, Custom Jewelry. Mr. Eigen wasn’t in.
I stood there for a minute, thinking about what Bob Franks had said. Three doors down from yours. No, it’s two now, isn’t it? Almost forgot about that... Of course, the question was, forgot about what? I stepped back and checked the doors: the men’s loo, the Better Beekeeping thing he’d mentioned, the storage room, and the office of...
Of Maytag Corp.: Regional Sales Office...
I let my breath out. Then I moved over one door and tried the knob.
It wasn’t a work day. It shouldn’t have opened.
It did open.
There behind the desk sat David Hawk in his usual grizzly-bear-at-bay attitude in his usual dog’s-blanket suit, savaging one of those ghastly cigars with those strong back teeth of his. He was looking up at me with eyes that held neither irritation nor surprise. He jerked his head at the open door. “Nick. Come on in. Where’ve you been?”
I sat down, a little uneasily... and I told him.
He listened, asking a question now and then in monosyllables and grunts, with a poker face Nick the Greek would have been proud of. When Will Lockwood came on the scene, he betrayed surprise. Just once. One eyebrow went up a millimeter, no more. That was a big reaction. The cigar took one hell of a beating, though.
At the end of my story, Hawk finally realized the stogie had had it. He took it out of his mouth, still unlit, gave it a dirty look for letting him down, and dumped it in the wastebasket. Then he looked at me, the poker face in place again.