A Killer for a Song Page 6

  “Yes,” Lavenham appeared lost in thought. “Yes, I have. I suppose you’re right.”

  Silence, apart from some music a long way off and filtered noises from the street.

  “How did you get in?” Boysie repeated the question.

  Lavenham returned to consciousness. “Me? I was at the end of an army contract, trying to make up my mind whether to sign on for another term. They asked me if I fancied DPI and I thought I might give it a whirl, so they began vetting.” He paused.

  “Where?” inserted Boysie.

  “Berlin. It was uncanny. People used to turn up uninvited and talk about things I had forgotten long ago. I felt as though they’d pinned some kind of notice on my back, like at school, you know ...”

  “Kick me.” Boysie chuckled, nodding.

  “That’s it. Then, one morning Mostyn arrived. Don’t ask me how he knew, simply waltzed into my office and said he’d heard about the DPI vetting and thought he might be able to offer me a better deal.”

  “That’s his style. Mostyn likes poaching: very handy with the gaff.”

  Lavenham sighed. “Yes. It got a mite hairy.”

  “DPI gamekeepers?”

  “They ran me all over the place. You know the routine.”

  “Know it? I’ve been part of it.”

  “In desperation I said yes to Mostyn and everything changed. Red carpet. A special aircraft laid on.”

  “England, home and beauty.”

  “England. Not home, though. Rather the GPO.”

  The GPO Executive Training Centre, a Hampshire manor house with extensive grounds, was cover for the Department Prep School. Everyone disappeared there from time to time: it was where you learned the theory and how to handle the hardwear. Later they took you to Whitehall to learn the politics on the ground. In Hampshire they bled you of any preconceived political ideals.

  “We all share that experience.”

  “It’s a job. Somebody has to do it.”

  Boysie leered like a shark. “Then don’t beef if you have to wait outside my room all night.”

  Lavenham was a nice enough bloke, Boysie thought. Under different circumstances they would have got along well enough, but not on this one when he was playing both ends against the middle: and certainly not at this time of night. He was tired and needed rest. God knew if Griffin would get his message, via the chambermaid’s honeydew thighs, or if he would be able to read between the lines, or even get to the right hotel in the right town at the right time, let alone the right rooms. If he did not, then Boysie would be left holding the baby. Tomorrow might prove exceeding dodgy.

  “You want me out?” asked Lavenham.

  “When you’ve finished your drink. No hurry, but I want to get some Egyptian PT.”

  Lavenham chuckled. “Bash the old charpoy, what?”

  “Right,” said Boysie, brightly, and with a certain amount of determination.

  Before getting into bed, Boysie checked out the Luger, made sure the thing was loaded, screwed the silencer in place and slipped the piece into his bedside drawer. He then had one last go at setting his mind at rest regarding Griffin. The hotel switchboard had him linked into the Bamer switchboard in no time, but they could raise no response from Griffin’s room. They were courteous enough, and even asked if he would like them to page Mr. Goodlife, but Boysie decided that was pushing things a little far. For all he knew, Mostyn could be dining at the Bamer.

  When exhaustion at last banished consciousness, Boysie dreamed vividly and in technicolour. Six very fat Mexican waiters were approaching him, each holding a leg of chicken in a menacing fashion. The legs of chicken were equipped with silencers and the whole affair was being watched by Mostyn and Griffin. When they got near to him, the waiters pressed the triggers on their legs of chicken and squirted Boysie with sauce.

  He woke in a sweat and with stomach ache which, in turn, led to uncontrollable diarrhoea.

  VII - DISCORD

  Opposite to concord jarring chord, thus requiring a resolution to another chord

  Herbie Goldfinch was at the wheel with Boysie sitting next to him while Mostyn lounged in the back, flanked by the Frenchman, Grenot, and the American, Smith. Outside the comfort of the air-conditioned convertible, it was searingly hot and clear. Nobody spoke much, and Lavenham, who had seen them off from the hotel, appeared to be relieved at their departure.

  Boysie had been introduced to Grenot and Smith only ten minutes before they were due to leave, and neither the Frenchman, nor the tall ugly American seemed impressed: rather they regarded Boysie with some distaste.

  As for Boysie, he was too depressed to be concerned by Grenot and Smith’s lack of enthusiasm, for he ached with that kind of gloom which always follows in the wake of an acute disorder of the bowels. The raw vacuum had yet to adjust and he was uncertain about the possibilities of ever actually consuming food again.

  Throughout the seventy-five mile journey there was little conversation, only matters of importance and a brief exchange between Mostyn and the two in the back, with Mostyn explaining tactics.

  “Just as long as we get them out,” commented Smith after listening to Mostyn’s careful situation analysis.

  “I do not care ‘ow it is done,” the Frenchman said firmly. “What matters is that it has to be done and seen to be done.”

  “No sweat,” Mostyn appeared to be at ease. “We’re very experienced in these matters and it’s only got to be seen once we’ve got ‘em safely back to Paris.”

  Boysie glanced into the mirror on the passenger side and saw an infuriating smile playing around Mostyn’s pinguid lips. Sod him, thought Boysie, sod the sodding perisher. Oakes, my lad, you’re being set up. If anyone carries the can for this nest of bees it is not going to be Mostyn, wily bastard that he is: the shit will undoubtedly land on Brian Ian-Boysie-Oakes.

  It took a little under two hours to complete their journey, with only four stops at gasoline stations - not for gasoline, but at Boysie’s urgent request in order to avail himself of the conveniences provided. As an operative for the Department of Special Security, Boysie reflected, he would make a damned good compost heap.

  By mid-afternoon they pulled in among the oblong houses of the old colonial city of Puebla, and, within half-an-hour, Boysie was settled into his room at the Palace - nicely appointed, clean and neat with, he noted straight away, a double bed.

  It did not come as a surprise to discover that he was the only member of the party billeted at the Palace, which was only a block away from La Mansion where Pinkney and Defoe were snug in rooms sixty and sixty-one.

  There was nothing to do but sit and wait. After all, Boysie considered, nobody was going anywhere without him. He stretched out on the bed, the Luger within reach, and drifted into an uneasy doze.

  He woke with a start, wondering how long the tapping at the door had been going on. The sun was flushing blood red through the window blind and his watch showed five-thirty. Holding the Luger behind his right thigh, Boysie made the door in four easy strides. Mostyn was on the other side, looking petulant.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Oakes? I’ve been knocking for five minutes.”

  Boysie held the door open to let his small superior pass into the room.

  “I’m bloody worn out,” he said wearily. “You know what’s wrong with me, I’ve been up half the night - a touch of Montezuma’s revenge.”

  Mostyn eyed him up and down, after the manner of the headwaiter of the Savoy Grill greeting a drunken tramp.

  “You’ll have to put Montezuma in his place, you’re on at five tomorrow morning.” He slumped into a chair. “Think you’ll wake up in time for that episode?”

  “Nothing a couple of brandies won’t cure.” He nodded towards a small drinks cabinet, complete with refrigerator, in the corner by the balcony window.

  “Lay off the booze,” Mostyn clipped sharply. “I don’t want you raving drunk running around this town. The law here can be very mean.”

  “Five
o’clock in the morning,” sighed Boysie. “Will you have your goons out of sight by then?”

  “They’ll be tucked away in their beddie-byes. I call them off at four-thirty. Martin and Nick Holborn,” Mostyn added vaguely.

  “As long as they keep out of my way.”

  “We go in, theoretically, at eight,” Mostyn paused for a bleak smile. “At about eight-five we return to break the bad news to our continental and transatlantic cousins.”

  Mostyn went on, showing Boysie the street plan and how to get to La Mansion. It appeared that some small bribery had taken place and there would be nobody in the lobby around five o’clock; there would, however, be a pass key lying on the reception counter.

  “Don’t cock it up, lad, will you?” was Mostyn’s parting shot.

  Boysie swallowed hard. If Griffin was there it would not be cocked up. If he did not make it, then Boysie would have to screw up his own courage, a feat of some acrobatic proportions when it concerned taking action in cold blood.

  He sighed, feeling the anxiety creatures mingling with the indiscreet microbes which were going through their death throes in his guts. Sitting on the bed once more, Boysie pondered over the advisability of taking any nourishment before embarking into the unknown, his active imagination clicking through the permutations: if he ate and the bowels were operating on a chain reaction system, there could be serious repercussions. If Griffin, for instance, did not turn up, there would be hell to pay: whoever heard of an assassin unable to complete a hit because, at the crucial moment, his sphincter let him down? It just did not happen. Yet, Boysie was well aware that his stomach was empty and some of the pain was now due to hunger.

  He stretched out again, feeling sleepy once more, a not unnatural reaction in the circumstances: it was as though his body was placing his mind in a Too Difficult tray.

  The room was in almost complete darkness when he woke the second time, and the tapping was now of a different nature: not the urgent raps of Mostyn, but a more gentle, hesitant knock.

  Boysie repeated his previous actions, on this occasion blundering into a chair in the semi-darkness and barking his shin.

  A girl stood at the door. Tall, slender, her face too angular to be called beautiful, but with blue clear eyes and fair hair worn almost to her shoulders. There was a hint of Arpege in the air, drifting between them, and he did not imagine the mocking glint in her eyes.

  “Can I come in?” the voice pleasant and low.

  “Depends. Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “We’ve met before. Don’t you ever spare an eye for the hired help?”

  It figured. She was one of the many receptionists at the Whitehall office. He recognised her now, and the symptoms which built inside him. Strictly speaking, operatives were forced to give the secretarial staff a wide berth, a situation which always made those cool languorous ladies more desirable. You always want what you cannot have, as Boysie knew to his cost.

  He stepped back, holding the door open for her. She came in, with the steady, almost haughty, stride you could see any day in the upper echelon Department offices, or accompanying captains of power to their Rolls-Royces in the City. Boysie sneered inside. He knew the type: out of reach, but only just - very frustrating.

  She wore striking light blue cool silk ending just above the knee, tight at the waist and no slack across the bust.

  “What’re you doing out in the field? Number Two got some correspondence to dictate or something?”

  A tic in the rear of his head because this could be the promised nookie, and if it was, then Mostyn was definitely up to no good.

  “I’m being given a chance to work out of the office.”

  She went straight across to the same easy chair in which Mostyn had sat, arranging herself with some grace, crossing her legs and letting the hemline ride up.

  “Welcome to the club. What can I do for you?”

  “You can give me a drink, first. Our mutual friend and master has banned me from his company and suggested that you might like someone to talk with. Are you under house arrest or something?”

  The question was so blatantly innocuous that Boysie felt irritated.

  “You know bloody well I’m not,” he snapped.

  “Drink, then. Gin,” she said with a whisper of a smile.

  “Tonic?”

  “Please.”

  Boysie fixed the drinks, pouring himself a liberal brandy from some bottle he did not recognise.

  “It’s unforgivable, I know, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “I don’t suppose you ever knew it: terribly pedestrian - Joan, would you believe Joan Palmer?”

  “The Berkshire Palmers?” Boysie raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  This time there was not even a twinkle. “Wiltshire actually,” flat.

  Joan Palmer obviously took her lineage seriously: another bad sign, because Mostyn was also stuffy about things like that. Right background, right breeding, right clubs. All most important to people like Mostyn and, presumably, the Palmer girl.

  Boysie sipped at the brandy. It burned horribly, hitting the wounded stomach like phosphorous, making him gasp slightly.

  “Are you all right?”

  Boysie nodded, tight-lipped. “The Aztecs are waging a minor skirmish with my stomach. Mopping up operations, that’s all.”

  “That should kill anything,” she inclined her head towards the brandy.

  “I think they probably use it as a cleansing fluid.” Boysie took another sip. It did not hurt so much this time. “So, you’re learning how to operate in the field.”

  “I’m learning how to wait in hotel rooms and not ask awkward questions.”

  “That’s what I said. You want to eat?”

  “I’ve eaten. You?”

  “Not wise.”

  “What do you suggest then, Snap? Happy Families?”

  “Happy Families is always good for a laugh, only I haven’t brought my cards. Anyway I’m short on Mr. Snoop and Spy and Mrs. Hump the ...”

  “Enough,” she raised a hand, mock shock on her face.

  They fenced on for about an hour, talking in circles, avoiding life at the Department and the current operation, about which, Boysie suspected, she knew far too much. It was mainly Mummy, Daddy and schooldays stuff - how she had coped with this crush developed in the sixth form for some actor (“All my friends had pictures of film stars on their lockers, I felt very superior because he was a classical actor. I think the nuns approved.”)

  Another couple of brandies and Boysie’s stomach was anaesthetised. The alcohol was putting him on: being alone, at night, in an hotel room with a woman, helped.

  At last he said, “Mind if I lie down for a while?”

  “You want me to leave you alone?”

  “Threat or promise?”

  “I’d like to stay. It’s been a lonely trip.”

  “Then stay,” the pause was minimal. “Lie down and rest as well if you like.” Cheeky.

  He did not seriously expect the reaction, even though Mostyn had made the vague promise. She smiled, stood up, crossed to the door and locked it. Then she began to undress.

  The underwear was pretty and expensive, but not erotic - none of your Soho fake whore stuff on sale for the randy housewife. Nor was she as angular, stripped, as she appeared fully dressed, the flesh being allocated in neat and rounded proportions: the stomach flat, taut as a bongo head; breasts without a hint of sag, and no hard protrusion of hip bones at the terminal concave of her waist; the thighs were slender with no heaviness, their junction marked by a minimum soft light down which did not fuzz or bush.

  She came to him slowly, her hand reaching for the switch on the big bedside lamp.

  “Prudish?” Boysie asked with a grin.

  “I concentrate better in the dark,” she breathed.

  “Very old fashioned.”

  “Mmmm, I know,” she nestled close, starting to unbutton his shirt, her fingers like a set of vibrators. “In my experience it’
s a good variation; all my friends want to prove things in the light.”

  She paid a lot of attention to his nipples, like a man might work on a woman. Boysie wondered, fragmentarily, if she was AC/DC. If that was her particular thing, she was certainly extremely well balanced. Three times, in spite of Boysie’s recent indisposition and he could not deny that the potency was mainly her doing: San Francisco 1906; Mont Pelée 1929; and a mild tremor somewhere or other, probably in the Ionian Islands.

  ***

  The thunderhead was about four miles to the west of Puebla. It broke, with all its attendant drama, at around four in the morning. Boysie did not hear it, and the thunder was only a distant rumble when Joan Palmer gently woke him at four-thirty.

  “It’s time you were getting ready, Boysie. Time to go.” His vision was bleared, the light bright in his eyes; somewhere nearby there was the tinkle of china.

  “Coffee, Boysie. You’ve got time for coffee. It’s four-thirty.”

  Gold-flecked wallpaper. He raised himself on one elbow, catching sight of the pair of paintings above the big bedside lamp: reproductions, bold pieces by some modern Mexican artist.

  She was holding out the cup of coffee, hair hanging over one side of her face, tousled. She had put her panties back on. Modesty? Boysie wondered. Then his stomach turned over as he realised what he had to do in the next half hour or so.

  “It’s pouring with rain,” she told him. That accounted for the hiss and drip of which he was vaguely aware. He rubbed his eyes again and took the coffee, looking round the room. His clothes had been neatly folded on one of the chairs. He squinted at his watch, realising that he would have to move fast. If Griffin ... but then he did not dare to think about Griffin.

  They did not speak much as Boysie dressed, slipped into the lightweight raincoat and checked the Luger in the bathroom.

  Joan Palmer lay on the bed, sipping coffee and looking solemn.

  “You’ll wait ‘till I get back?”