Amber Nine Read online

  ‘Things? What sorts of things?’

  ‘Oh. People she had met. In those last six months in England she had become ... Oh, I don’t know. Anti. Always criticising.’

  ‘She was only twenty-three.’

  ‘I’m only twenty-five.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Karen had changed. Mixing with odd people. I can’t explain. We didn’t meet any of them. She told me things.’

  ‘You went back to Germany. She stayed in England and disappeared.’

  Petronella bit her lip, hard. ‘Yes. Last year. Mother had a breakdown. Then three weeks ago I had a letter from her. From Karen.’

  ‘You’ve got it?’

  ‘No, I burned it. It didn’t really tell me anything. Except that she was alive and frightened.’

  ‘Why burn it?’

  ‘I was so ... I don’t know. I had to destroy it. Then I decided to come over and try to find her. The postmark was Bellinzona. I had some holiday due and I was already booked to go to London—for my Father. I was going to plan my search from there. Then the news came—while I was in London.’

  ‘So you flew straight out.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I do know she was killed. Karen was killed. Murdered. It wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘And what about Penton?’ Feeling very pleased about the way in which he slipped the question in, all unexpected. Petronella looked at him as though he was speaking Annamese.

  ‘Penton?’

  ‘Penton. William Francis Penton, Member of Parliament. And don’t say you’ve never heard of him because you were talking to him under a willow outside this hotel last night. I saw you.’

  Recognition. ‘I thought I knew his face. Pompous little man. Made a pass at me.’ She grinned for the first time since Boysie had found her. ‘Come to that, so did you.’

  It looked genuine enough. Boysie decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘And these?’ He jingled the medallions together.

  ‘The Hippogriffins.’

  ‘Hippo ...?’

  ‘Griffins.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you said.’ Boysie was curiously shocked.

  ‘Isn’t it a gear name? Daddy saw them in the Burlington Arcade before we left London.’ She went solemn again. ‘He bought them for us. For Karen and me.’

  She was getting tearful again.

  ‘So that’s what a Hippogrffin looks like. I’ve always wondered.’

  She swallowed. The tears remained unspilled.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should be hard shouldn’t I? That’s what we’re supposed to be. The modern generation. Hard as ten-minute eggs. You don’t know what a Hippogriffin is, do you?’

  ‘It’s an animal with a horse’s body and an eagle’s head.’

  ‘Brilliant. The Hippogriffin was dreamed up by old Ariosto as a symbol of fantasy.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Boysie, brows wrinkled. Things were getting more and more complicated. Kadjawaji, which meant Redland were nudging away somewhere in the background; the Wheater girl with her amber nine trouble—whatever that was—and the message for her Pa; Penton hanging around; Klara Thirel and her academy; Griffin getting awkward. He could manage without old Ariosto.

  ‘Hippo Griffin,’ said Boysie, making it apply to Griffin. Sounding very vulgar. He threw the medallion on to the bed. Petronella picked it up, holding it in the palm of her hand, caressing it with her thumb.

  ‘You feeling all right now?’

  She wrinkled her nose and smiled. ‘I must look terrible. Sorry I jumped to conclusions.’

  ‘That’s OK. Those friends of Karen’s. And the letter.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell me about them?’

  ‘It’s hard. There wasn’t anything you could put your finger on. She just started changing. When we first got back to London she never stopped saying how wonderful everything was. Then there was this, sort of slow change. She wasn’t happy any more. Went off by herself. Jeered at things. Talked about being progressive.’

  ‘Political?’

  Petronella looked as if she was trying to fight her way through a gale. ‘Mm, not really, yet I suppose there were political things. Yes, she was a member of CND. That’s political, isn’t it?’

  ‘I should have thought so. And the letter?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What was in it? What did she say?’

  ‘It was like, as though she was drunk. Or drugged. She said she was sorry for any pain she caused. That she had gone away to help with something she believed in. To be alone with others who felt the same way. Then she found she had gone too far. It was a frightening letter. They were following her, she said.’

  ‘Who were following her?’

  ‘Just “they.” No details. All jumbled.’

  ‘Look, love.’ Hesitant, trying to be mentally nimble. ‘I think we may be on to something important. I want you to go to your room, lock the door and don’t let anyone in until I get back. I won’t be long. Will you do that?’

  ‘I’m on this floor. Along the passage. 480. Yes.’ She stood up and pushed a hand through her rusty hair. ‘Can I keep this?’ The medallion and chain still twined round her fingers.

  ‘For the time being. May need it later.’ Boysie crossed to the door. She came to him.

  ‘You will help, Boysie, won’t you? You’ll get the bastards who killed Karen?’ Putting a hand on his shoulder, pulling him towards her. Her cheek was damp. ‘Please help me.’ The words individually stressed coming from the back of her throat. Her lips sticky just below his ear. Boysie could not even help himself. He did not stand a chance.

  ‘Don’t you worry. It’ll be all right.’ His nervous system was declaring total war on his basic instincts. In spite of the dwarf and his lot, or Penton, Griffin, Mostyn, Klara, Lynne Wheater or old uncle amber nine and all, he would start things rolling because here was a gorgeous girl whose figure made you think of hay lofts on long Sunday afternoons and whose legs went up and up for ever.

  ‘I’ll wait in my room. Don’t be long.’ She was out of the door, her make-up still smudged where the tears had run.

  ‘Oh gawd,’ thought Boysie. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

  The pay-phone was about five hundred yards from the hotel, near the pier where the steamers chugged out to slide across the lake on tourist excursions. After some language difficulty Boysie got the Department of Justice. After even more language difficulty he got Gatti who was civil but firm. Of course they had made enquiries at Il Portone. No one there had ever heard of the girl Schport. Thank you and good morning, Mr Oakes.

  He got through to the continental exchange and reversed the call to the Bayswater number. It took twenty minutes. Two cigarettes. The girl at the other end sounded clean and hygenic. Efficient, Marks and Spencer skirt and blouse with the grey forced out and the white forced in.

  ‘It’s Roger here. My uncle in?’

  ‘Hallo.’ Gushing. ‘How are you? Hang on I’ll see if he’s around.’ The girl knew her stuff. Boysie idly started to count. ‘21 ... 22 ... 23 ... 24.’ Click. That would be the transfer from Bayswater to Mostyn’s Whitehall Office.

  ‘Hallo. Roger?’

  ‘Uncle James?’

  ‘Yes. How’s the weather over there?’

  ‘Fine. Winds light and variable.’ It was bloody silly, but that was his identification.

  ‘Have a good trip?’

  ‘Not too bad. Bumped into an old friend. Little dark fellow. Can’t remember his name, but you know him. Could have been quite a circus on the train.’

  ‘Like that, eh?’

  Boysie pictured him, sitting back at that big desk. The tape turned on at the same time as his sarcastic smile.

  ‘Met someone else this morning. Don’t think you know her. Qirl called Lynne Wheater. Look here, I wonder if you could do me a favour? She wants someone to ring her father in Wimbledon. Colonel Wheater at Wimbledon ...
’ For a horrible moment Boysie’s mind went dead. Was it 32697 or 32679. He threw in his lot with the law of averages. ‘At Wimbledon 32697. Says she’s got that amber nine trouble again.’

  ‘Oh yes. Lucky meeting her.’

  Will you do that for me, uncle?’

  ‘Of course, old boy.’

  ‘She’s out here at a finishing school—II Portone. I think that’s the name, have to check it. Met her principal. Woman called Klara Thirel.’

  ‘Cyril?’

  ‘No. At least I don’t think so. Only introduced to her. Think it was a TH. Might be good place for the girls. I’m getting an invitation to visit anyway, so I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Well don’t commit me to anything. Fees at those places are damned high. No harm in looking. Don’t handle the goods too much though, Roger.’

  ‘As if I would.’

  ‘What about our business associate?’

  ‘We’re planning a meeting very soon. There’s been some fun and games down here by the way. Girl drowned. Her sister’s staying at my hotel. Step-sister that is. Name of Whitching. Father’s in the RAF. Wonder if you’ve ever come across him.’

  ‘Name rings a bell. Not the Wing Commander Whitching attached to the education people in Berlin is he?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Glad you’re enjoying yourself. When do you plan to come back.’

  ‘Don’t know yet. I’ll call you when I’ve fixed that other deal. When I’ve seen the man.’

  ‘All right, old son. Nice to have heard from you. Nothing else is there?’

  ‘Don’t think so. See you.’

  ‘Look after yourself.’

  *

  The ambulance passed him—peep-parping and winking its light—heading in the direction of the hotel, just after he left the phone booth. He could see a large knot of people, signifying an accident, right outside the hotel. The road was blocked. By the time Boysie arrived and pushed his way through the crowd they were just loading the stretcher into the ambulance. The thing on the stretcher was covered with a white sheet through which large patches of bright red had begun to seep. There was blood smeared across the road, close by the pavement. A lot of blood. Boysie looked away, rapidly. He felt a little dizzy, his guts doing a dozen old-fashioned waltz steps. There was no sign of the vehicles involved.

  Fighting his way to the main doors, Boysie found himself face to face with a worried-looking St Peter.

  ‘What on earth’s happened?’

  ‘Oh, terrible Mr Oakes. A guest. Terrible.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An accident. A guest has fallen from his balcony. On the top floor. The sixth floor. An old and valued guest.’

  ‘Lord.’

  ‘No, not a Lord. Worse Mr Oakes. A statesman. A country-man of yours. Mr Penton. Mr William Penton. Killed. Horrible.’

  Safely back in his room, Boysie asked for the Muralo. Then Mr Goldblat. He was not in his room so they had to page him. At last Griffin’s voice came on the line.

  ‘‘Ullo.’

  ‘Hallo, it’s me.’

  ‘Hallo then, got over your tantrums?’

  ‘I was just calling to thank you.’

  ‘Thank me? What the ‘ell for?’

  ‘Doing as I asked. For getting it over so quickly.’

  ‘What the bloody ‘ell you rabbitin’ on about?’

  ‘The bit of business we had. Thank you for doing it so neatly.’

  ‘Doing it? Haven’t done a bleedin’ thing.’

  ‘Well someone has.’ Boysie, thrown by the blood downstairs, felt light-headed. There was a pause. Like after you throw a grenade.

  ‘The bleedin’ nerve. You’d better get down ‘ere and quick, mate. If you bin gettin’ someone to undercut me I’ll want to know why. Cor damn me. I’ll be waitin’ for yer. In the bar.’ The line dropped dead, and Boysie clung to the table. He wanted to cry.

  ‘Hippo-blasted-Griffin.’ He said loudly. As though in answer there was a discreet knocking at the door.

  The caller was a small flunkey bearing a salver upon which rested two white envelopes.

  ‘Herr Oakes. Messages for you.’ He grinned inanely. Boysie fumbled for the odd franc.

  The first envelope was typewritten—as was the letter it contained:

  Dear Mr Oakes,

  It was pleasant to have met you this morning. I have been talking to Lynne and she feels a great deal happier about staying with us here at the school.

  I have told her that you might be coming to visit us and have a look at our methods. She seemed happy at the prospect. I wonder if you would care to dine with me in my private apartment tonight at about seven-thirty. If you are free, just come along. It will be quite informal.

  Yours in anticipation, Klara Thirel.

  The signature was bold, slightly mannish, undecorated. The notepaper bore the address, II Portone, Brissago, Lago Maggiore, Ticino, Switzerland, in a blue 18 point Bembo Italic.

  ‘Come into me parlour,’ said Boysie quietly, ruminating on the possibilities of an evening with Klara. He looked at the other envelope. It was marked By Hand with his name written in a calligraphic snarl. The note had all the urgent dash of melodrama.

  Please—I must see you. Can you be at the Madonna del Sasso at four? I will wait for an hour. Very important. Please —Lynne Wheater.

  ‘It’s a circus,’ murmured Boysie. ‘A three-ringed spangled circus.’ Petronella upstairs; the comfortable Klara making spiderine noises from her lakeside lair, and now Lynne. ‘The clowns or the acrobats. You pays your money.’ He picked up the telephone. Downstairs St Peter was quick on the switchboard.

  ‘What’s the Madonna del Sasso?’ asked Boysie.

  ‘Ah,’ said St Peter, clearing his throat for the guide-book bit. ‘The Madonna del Sasso is our sixteenth century sanctuary and place of pilgrimage erected on a crag behind and above the town. It is there in 1480 that the Madonna appeared to Brother Bartolomeo de’Ivrea ...’

  ‘Yes. But how do I get there?’ The spiritual life of Brother Bartolomeo held no appeal for Boysie.

  ‘There are two ways—up or down. By funicular from the Via Ramogna, near the station. Or along the Via Sasso and from there up the Via Dolorosa—it is a steep winding cobbled pathway marked by the Stations of the Cross. A favourite expedition is to go up by funicular and down by the path. It is very beautiful, Mr Oakes. The trees. The mountain greenery.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Boysie asked to put through to 480. Petronella seemed content to wait in her room for another half-an-hour. There was the promise of luncheon at the end of her vigil. Boysie did not mention Penton.

  Griffin was sitting at one of the little tables cluttering the main bar of the Muralo. He looked dejected and about to blast-off into tipsiness.

  ‘Hallo. Shall we move on to the terrace?’

  Griffin looked up. Reproachful. ‘What you bloody playin’ at then?’

  ‘I’m not playing at anything. And keep your voice down.’ Boysie propelled Griffin out on to the almost unoccupied terrace, and ordered a couple of Campari sodas. Griffin not speaking, looking sullenly at Boysie until the waiter had gone.

  ‘Someone’s done ‘im then. Someone’s done my bloke.’

  ‘Either that or a fortuitous accident.’

  ‘Fortuitous.’ Griffin, pursing his lips and slewing them to the right as though tasting the word. ‘Fortuitous. Such as?’

  ‘Such as falling off a balcony.’

  ‘Ah.’ Griffin took a swig at his drink. ‘Careless. Very careless and shoddy work. Who done it?’

  ‘How the hell do I know. It could have been an accident. I’ve said.’

  ‘Sound likely?’

  ‘No, of course it doesn’t.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well then I’d like ...’

  ‘To know who done—did—it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So would I.’

  ‘You sure you don’t?’

  ‘Of c
ourse I’m sure.’

  ‘I mean it would be unethical and I’d ‘ave to take steps. If you’d employed anyone else after contracting me.’

  ‘Litigation already,’ sighed Boysie.

  ‘Don’t try and come the big words with me, Mr Oakes. I’m a plain bloke.’

  ‘All right. All right. No I did not hire anyone else. Don’t be so touchy. I wouldn’t bring you all the way out here and then use some local talent. People like you don’t grow on trees. I mean one doesn’t find you lot hanging around ...’

  ‘I’m not in favour of it meself.’

  ‘No. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yea. But I still wants me money.’

  ‘You’ll get it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind findin’ out who did it either.’

  ‘I’m staying on to make a few enquiries.’

  ‘Bit o’ sleuthin’ eh? You got a bird down here?’

  ‘Certainly not. Well not exactly.’

  ‘Ah. It’ll be interesting to see what yer goin’ to dig up. I wants me poppy and I’ll be ‘ere when you find out who took over the job. Got any ideas?’

  ‘A couple. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon, and I’m going out to a finishing school tonight.’

  ‘Could run one o’ them meself. Finishin’ school.’ Griffin had turned jokey. ‘Birds’ finishin’ school?’ With interest.

  ‘Out of your class, old Griffin.’ Boysie all Mostynian. ‘Mad discipline, health and all that. Probably dead dull. You know, folk-weave nut cutlets and yoghurt injections.’

  Boysie slipped away while Griffin was trying to work it out.

  Back at the Palmira he despatched a cable to Mostyn at the Bayswater address. It read:

  CUSTOMER SATISFIED STOP HOPE TO EXTEND BUSINESS STOP ROGER

  *

  Petronella was sitting patiently in her room when Boysi arrived. She looked happier, her face re-cosmeticised, her body partially covered by a striking little number in blue slubbed silk.