A Killer for a Song Page 8

  “I’d like you back in an hour.” Mostyn did not look at him as he said it.

  “To tell me about Clambake?”

  “Possibly. One hour, Oakesie. Right?”

  “Right,” said Boysie, turning towards the door.

  He was the last to leave. Outside, the corridor was empty except for Lyric who stood in front of her door, at the far end, nearest the lift, juggling the key.

  Boysie; never one to pass up an opportunity, grinned and set off towards her, trying to look casual but loping at speed none the less.

  “You really going to have a bath?” he asked as he came close.

  “Unless you’ve got other ideas.”

  He could not tell whether it was an invitation or a pinch of sarcasm. It was a sign of his encroaching middle age: he just could not distinguish anymore. Twice in the past year he had been put in embarrassing situations by wrongly interpreting young women’s reactions.

  “Food?” he tried tentatively.

  “What a super idea. Can you give me a couple of minutes?”

  Boysie looked at his watch. “Which two would you like?”

  “Idiot. Come in and wait for me.”

  Lyric’s room was better than either his or. Mostyn’s. More feminine, somehow. The French knew about these matters, Boysie thought.

  “I can’t offer you anything.” Another hint in her eyes?

  “Don’t worry, we can get a drink before we eat.”

  “I won’t keep you a minute.” She made for the bathroom with Boysie’s eyes leeched to the long thoroughbred legs.

  Come to think of it, he mused, in the last year he had about as much of a sex life as a flasher in Iceland. Miss Lyric Lavenham stirred old desires and it was a comfort to know that they were still there.

  She emerged from the bathroom a couple of minutes later. In that space of time Boysie had gone through a whole fantasy seduction sequence which left him feeling slightly ashamed. He also realised that he was about to leave the hotel without any protection, apart from the French agents mentioned by Couperose.

  “My turn to be difficult,” he said brightly. “Must dash back to my room for a second. Can you hang on?”

  She nodded, going to the wardrobe and taking out a suede coat, military in cut and the colour of crushed raspberries.

  Boysie hurried down the corridor, unlocked his room and moved rapidly, unlocking his case, checking out the Baby Browning, slapping the magazine in place, snapping back the slide in the standard loading operation and slipping the catch to safety. He transferred the weapon to his hip pocket, patted his hair and returned to Lyric’s room.

  She was standing by the door, waiting.

  “You know this part of town?”

  “Not really,” Boysie took her elbow, “but there’s bound to be a reasonable restaurant to hand. I don’t fancy staying in the hotel, unless of course ...”

  “No, it looks like we’ll be trapped in here for long enough on this trip anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  They found a small restaurant down the Avenue Kleber, towards the Place Charles De Gaulle, and ate pâté, escalopes de veau à la jardiniere and flan aux abricots à l’alsacienne. During the meal they shared a bottle of Château-du-Breuil and talked easily.

  “I’m sorry about Bob,” Boysie said towards the beginning of the veal. “I didn’t know him well, but ...”

  “But he was like most people in this business. A cold, hard bastard.” She said it with a fond smile and without venom.

  “Yes,” the wind dropping from his sails. “And how long have you been in the business?”

  Lyric laughed. “Not long. But long enough.”

  “Am I allowed to ask what you do?”

  “Mainly courier work. I haven’t graduated to the wheedling-secrets-out-of-visiting-diplomats brigade yet.”

  “Nor do you want to.” Boysie had met some of those superannuated whores.

  She pouted. “It’s a tough game, if they tell me to do that, then I suppose I’ll do it. Do you feel good about your side?”

  “I haven’t worked my side for a long while. I’ve been out, retired, grazing for years now.”

  “Does that help you to sleep easy?”

  “I rarely sleep easy. What would you know anyway?”

  “I’m told you used to slay people - on purpose.”

  Boysie shrugged. “Don’t believe all you hear.”

  “You don’t look like a standard heavy.”

  Boysie chewed on his meat and grinned. “You don’t look like a standard courier. Tell me something, who recruited you?”

  “Colonel Mostyn.”

  “When?”

  “A couple of years ago.”

  Boysie chewed some more. “Funny that, he’s supposed to have been out for about the same time as me-except for one minor excursion back. Watch yourself, Lyric, Mostyn’s pure hustler.”

  You could never keep track of Mostyn, Boysie pondered. He was supposed to have been out of the service for a long time, except for the Air Apparent thing. Slippery as a soaped streaker, that was Mostyn.

  “And you’re a body-maker.”

  “A discoverer as well.”

  “We’re all that - all bodies just waiting to be discovered.”

  “Lyric Lavenham, home-spun philosophies to order.”

  Towards the end of the apricot tart, she said, “Bob once said you were more lady-killer than hit man. True or false?”

  “Depends on the ladies. Besides, that was a long time ago. I’ve changed, and your brother didn’t know me very well.”

  “It’s getting late,” Lyric looked at her watch. They had taken nearly two-and-a-half hours over dinner.

  “Oh Jesus,” it was a low and anxious moan.

  “What?”

  “Bloody Mostyn. He wanted me back in an hour.”

  “He frightens you, doesn’t he?”

  “Too right the little sod frightens me. Lyric, I have to go.”

  She gave a pout. “Will you be with him for long?”

  “No idea.” Boysie was making frantic motions towards the waiter and fumbling with a fistful of francs. “Why?”

  “I thought we could have a drink. At my place. Coffee, if you like.”

  The world brightened. Wagner at his most strident played in Boysie’s head and there was a large pyrotechnic display going on, making fast for the loins. It was the best invitation he had received in weeks. The Wagner turned into the theme from some super sloppy epic, all swooping strings and tremolos. “I’d love to do that. Can I just see what the little shi ... devil wants and then check back with you?”

  “Great. I presume they have room service.”

  “If not, I’ll stand in.”

  Boysie walked her back to her room. At the door she laid a hand lightly on his arm, reached up and kissed him on the corner of the mouth, whispering, “See you soon.”

  “Hallo,” thought Boysie. For a second, he felt definitely old. “Quick as I can.”

  He knew that he was leering, but his step had a decided spring as he traced his way down the passage towards Mostyn’s door. Just before reaching it, he did a little hopping dance step.

  There was no immediate reply when he knocked, so he knocked again. Without warning the door jerked open, almost pulling Boysie inside.

  The room was dim, only one lamp burning, but he could make out Mostyn by the window standing absolutely still. He did not recover his balance, a fist helping him forward and onto the floor.

  Things seemed to be happening very slowly. He saw Mostyn move and heard him call, “Boysie, for Chrissake look ...”

  As that was going on he was reaching for his hip pocket, but someone was holding his neck, another hand going for the hip pocket. Mostyn was catapulting across the room. The Baby Browning was out, but not in his hand. Then the loud explosions - two of them blanketing his right ear.

  A second before, Mostyn had been leaping towards him, now the body was moving to the right, but with little motive force, as tho
ugh he was crumpling. There was a thud as he hit the floor and rolled over. Then a jagged blind of pain behind Boysie’s ear. He knew his right hand was clawing for something, and, through the dimness, he had found it, the butt of his Baby Browning. Then he heard, a long way off, a muffled curse and a door closing.

  Shaking his head, Boysie found himself, still in semi-darkness, on his hands and knees, his gun clutched in his right hand, the smell of powder around him and the stinging ring, from the shots, in his ear. Shouts and a hammering on the door.

  Then the lights came on and all hell broke loose as Couperose dragged him to his feet.

  IX - SWAN SONG

  Collection published after composer’s death

  To begin with, Boysie was convinced it was a con. Couperose was calling him names, the automatic had been ripped from his hand and the room seemed full of strange faces.

  On the floor lay what looked like a pathetic bundle of clothes, only he recognised, all too well, the short grey tight curls on top of the head. The bundle of clothes was James George Mostyn, and the spreading pool around him was blood. That was no con, Boysie had seen blood too often before.

  There were two men kneeling over Mostyn. They turned him onto his back and the head lolled to one side, mouth open. One of the men looked up at Couperose and shook his head.

  “So you’ve killed him, like the others,” Couperose said quietly.

  “What d’you mean, killed? I didn’t kill anybody. Anyway, that’s Mostyn. You don’t kill Mostyn.”

  He could not believe it, too much of his past was tied up with Mostyn, too many horrific moments, a lot of good things as well. Christ, who was there now if Mostyn had gone? It couldn’t be.

  But, in the confusion, Boysie began to perceive that it was so. That James George Mostyn, one time Second-in-Command of the Department of Special Security, was dead. The lolling grey face, looking its age now, was as lifeless as the eyes staring up from it.

  He was in shock, that would be it. But why the handcuffs. That was something he could not comprehend.

  “Look,” his voice sounded strange. “Look, what the hell’s wrong. Why ...?”

  “Come on, Oakes. It’s useless to bluff now. We caught you red-handed.” Couperose seemed to be a mixture of smugness and anger, his accent more pronounced.

  “Red-handed my arse. What?” Boysie tried to gesture. “Me? You must be out of your skull. Mostyn’s been my control for years. Jesus, it’s like losing one’s ... I don’t know how to ...”

  “You hated his guts. You made no secret of that. Anyway, it’s cut and dried.”

  “It’s not bloody cut and dried.” Boysie attempted to explain what had happened, but even he could hear how implausible it sounded. “There was someone else here when I knocked. Jesus, Couperose, I’d only just left Lyric. I’ve been with her all evening. I was late back and I was going to have coffee with her as soon as I’d seen Mostyn. I wouldn’t be fool enough to start loosing off guns in here.”

  Couperose considered the matter for a second or two. “We shall see,” he said enigmatically.

  “Well, for crying out loud, get these bleeding things off.” Boysie motioned with his hands.

  There were some quite heavy French plainclothes men in the room and one of them began talking to Couperose. The Intelligence man let off a string of French which Boysie did not even try to follow. He could not take his eyes from what they were doing to Mostyn’s corpse: wrapping it in plastic. He felt suddenly very sick and lonely. There was nobody, nothing, upon which he could vent his natural rage: no focal point for the blame, for the bad things that happened. He had never realised how dependent he was on the oily Mostyn. The late oily Mostyn.

  The heavy French copper departed.

  “We’re checking on Lyric,” said Couperose, the implication being that he was concerned for the girl’s wellbeing: an attitude that began to irritate Boysie.

  “Are you going to get these sodding bracelets off?”

  Couperose gave an exaggerated shrug. “How can I?”

  “Perhaps you could conjure up Houdini’s shade to give me lessons. Just unlock the bloody things: I’m warning you, Gerard, much more of this pissing about and you’re going to find yourself in the merde.”

  Couperose remained composed. “Just keep quiet and nothing drastic will happen to you.”

  They were putting Mostyn’s body onto a stretcher. As one of the officers opened the door for its last exit, the plainclothes man returned, engaging Couperose in another Gallic flurry during which Couperose shot interested glances towards Boysie.

  At last the chatter finished and Couperose came over. “It seems that Lyric bears out your story,” he did not look entirely convinced. “She heard the shots only minutes after you left her. She also says that she heard someone running down the corridor.” Reluctantly he was unlocking the cuffs. “This does not mean you will not be charged. You happen to be the prime suspect, and when my superior gets here you will be properly interrogated. You will keep yourself in readiness. You will go to your room - which we have searched - and remain there, under guard. There is much to do.”

  Boysie opened his mouth to complain and then shut it again. Tightly. There was no point in rousing further antagonism. He needed time to think.

  Couperose motioned towards the door. Outside, a uniformed gendarme waited. Boysie went quietly down the corridor to his room, and the gendarme opened the door for him, closing it firmly once Boysie was inside. There was no sound of a key turning so Boysie dropped to his knees and squinted through the keyhole. The gendarme stood outside. Only a major disaster would budge that one.

  He straightened up. There were too many lights on, even with the curtains closed. He still had the horrors of some unseen sniper potting at his shadow. Quickly he snapped off all the lights, leaving only the bathroom illuminated, the door open. He pulled a chair into the angle of the bathroom door for cover and sat down. Think logically, he told himself. If you think logically you’ll find a way. His eyes strayed across the room resting on the telephone. Griffin. Of course, if he was back, Griffin would create a diversion. Keeping low and away from the window, he edged over to the bed and telephone.

  There was no dialling tone, only a high-pitched whine. Couperose was also thinking logically.

  Boysie tried to put himself in Couperose’s position. It did not take long to come to conclusions about that. As far as Boysie was concerned, Couperose had him and a circumstantial case against him. If Couperose was master-minding the security he had failed miserably, and the Frenchman’s first concern would be his own beefy neck. Boysie had marked Gerard Couperose as a heavy from the start: he would not care a two-penny belch about Boysie’s neck.

  So, what was the conclusion? The conclusion, Boysie, my lad, he told himself, is that you have got to get the hell out. Once out you will, possibly, draw the fire of whoever had the drop on the Puebla team. He did not let his mind linger on the question of drawing fire. If he allowed that, fear would swamp him. Get out, he thought. Run. But how, and to where?

  If it was a television series he could feign illness: the gendarme would dash in, loosen his collar, and in a flash, Boysie would overpower him, change clothes and walk out calmly. But this was for real and Boysie knew, with horrible clarity, it would go wrong from the start if he tried that way. He could not tunnel out. It is almost impossible to tunnel your way out from the fifth floor of a Paris hotel. Start a fire? The way things were going he would get himself charred in the process. Hide and confuse them? He looked around vacantly. There was nowhere to hide-except perhaps the wardrobe where he might just do a passable impression of a suit. He would not fit in the chest of drawers. There was the bathroom and ... He stopped. There was a way. A connecting door between this and the next room, secured with a slide bolt on his side. Boysie thought about the layout for a moment. The door would lead straight into the room next to the one which Mostyn had occupied.

  He went over and tried the slide bolt. It was obviously not often use
d and proved stiff. Eventually it gave and Boysie gingerly opened the door, peering into the adjoining room. It was empty, the bed made up, but no sign of habitation: no suitcases, no clothes.

  He moved fast, grabbing his spare suit, the dark grey one he had bought with his first week’s salary from SEAT, a clean shirt and tie from the wardrobe, changing behind the bathroom door.

  He checked his pockets for passport, his British currency and the fifty pounds or so which he had in francs. He also slid his small leather-cased manicure set into the hip pocket of his trousers, shrugged on his overcoat and went over to the connecting door, gently eased it open again and slipped into the adjoining room.

  Boysie closed the door behind him, sliding the bolt, duplicated on the empty side, into place. If they came into his room now there would be a few seconds’ confusion before they worked out which way he had gone. Now he had to get from this room, downstairs to the foyer and out into the streets. If he got that far, where then? Take it one step at a time, he told himself.

  The gendarme who had put him into his own room would be only a few paces away if Boysie emerged from this one. But to the gendarme he was a man wearing a dark suit. Boysie now wore grey, and a collar and tie instead of the roll neck. What he needed was another face.

  Sitting in front of the dressing table, Boysie took out his manicure set, removed the nail scissors and carefully cut a sizeable lock of hair from his thinning scalp.

  Putting the set back into his pocket, he began to work at the tuft of hair, manipulating it until it became the passable shape of a drooping moustache.

  On the dressing table there was the usual hotel folder containing sheets of notepaper, envelopes and postcards. Carefully moistening a finger, Boysie dabbed it onto the adhesive backing of one of the envelopes, transferring the now tacky gum to his upper lip. He did this half-a-dozen times, until the lip was unpleasantly sticky. Then he held the false moustache in place and pressed. After a few seconds the hair seemed to have set against the skin. He put on his sunglasses and looked at himself. It was Boysie Oakes in a false moustache and sunglasses. Unmistakable.