The Riddle Of The Third Mile (18 page)

‘I don’t know who the bloody hell you think you are, talking to me like that. Let me tell you -’

‘Before you tell me anything, just call in one of your tarts out there, preferably the one with biggest tits, and tell her to bring me a large Scotch, preferably Bell’s. On the house, I suggest -because I’m here to
help
you, lad.’

‘I was going to tell you that I’ve got friends here who’d gladly kick the guts out of the likes of you.’

‘ “Friends”, you say?’

‘Yeah-friends!’

‘If you mean what you say, lad, I don’t honestly think they’re going to thank you very much if you bring
them
into this little business-and get ‘em involved with
me.’

‘They’re one helluva sight tougher than you, mate!’

‘Oh no! You’ve got it all wrong, lad. And one little thing. You can curse and swear as much as you like with me, but you must never call me “mate” again! Is that understood? I’ve told you who I am, and I shan’t be telling you again.’

The manager swallowed hard. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve got a van full of squaddies outside. Is that it?’

Morse allowed a vague smile to form at the corners of his mouth. ‘No, that’s not it. I’m here completely on my own-and, what’s more no one else knows I’m here at all. Well, let’s be honest,
almost
no one. And if we get along, you and me, I shan’t even tell anyone that I’ve been here, either. No need really, is there?’

The manager was biting down hard on the nail of his left index finger, and Morse pressed home his obvious advantage.

‘Let me give you a bit of advice. You’re not a crook-you’r not in the same league as most of the murderous morons I deal with every day. And, even if you were, I wouldn’t need a posse of police to go around protecting
me.
You know why, lad?”
Morse broke off for a few seconds, before focusing his eyes with almost manic ferocity upon the youngish man seated opposite him. Then he shook his head almost sorrowfully. ‘No, you don’t know why, do you? So let me tell you. It’s because the archangels look after me, lad-always have done. And most especially when I’m pursuing my present calling as the protector of Law and eternal Justice!’ Morse managed to give each of these mighty personages a capital letter; and pompous as he sounded, he also sounded very frightening.

Certainly, this was the impact upon the manager, for he appeared now to have little faith that he would be likely to emerge victorious from any conflict with the archangelic trio. He walked to the door, and sounded suddenly resigned as he asked “Racquel” to fetch two double Scotches; whilst, for a rather frightened Morse, the prospect of finding himself dead or dying in a Soho side-street was gradually receding.

The manager’s story was brief.

The club was registered in the name of Soho Enterprises Limited, although he had never himself met anyone (or so he thought) directly from this syndicate. Business was transacted through a soberly dressed intermediary-a Mr Schwenck- who periodically visited the bar to look around, and who collected takings and paid all salaries. About three weeks or so ago (he couldn’t remember exactly), Mr Schwenck had announced that a certain Mr William would very soon be calling; that the said Mr William would make his requests known, and that no questions were to be asked. In fact, the bearded Mr William had requested very little, spurning equally the offers of hospitality from the bar and from the bra-less hostesses. He had taken away a projector and two reels of pornographic film, and announced that he would be back the following morning. And he had been, bringing with him a small blue card (given to the manager) and a cassette of some piano music (given to the girl behind the bar). Thereafter he had stood quietly at the bar, reading a paperback and drinking half a glass of lime-juice. Another man (so the manager had been informed) would probably be coming in that morning; and at some point this newcomer would be directed to the office where he was to be given the blue card, plus an address. That was all.

The young man appeared not overtly dishonest (albeit distinctly uncomfortable) as he told his little tale; and Morse found himself believing him.

‘How much in it for you?’ he asked,

‘Nothing. I’m only-’

‘Couple of hundred?’

‘I told you-’

‘Five hundred?’

‘What? Just for-?’

‘Forget it, lad! What was on the card?’

‘Nothing really. It was just one of those cards that-that let you into places.’

‘Which place?’

‘I-I don’t remember.’

‘You didn’t write it down?’

‘No. I remembered it.’

‘You’ve got a good memory?’

‘Good enough.’

‘But you just said you
can’t
remember.’

‘I can’t. It was a good while ago now.’

‘When exactly was it?’

‘I can’t-’

‘Friday? Friday 11th July?’

‘Could have been.’

‘Did you get your projector and stuff back all right?’

‘Course I did.’

‘The next day?’

‘Yes-er-I think it was the next day.’

For the first time Morse felt convinced that the man was lying. But why (Morse asked himself) should the man have lied to him on
that
particular point?

‘About that address. Was it a number in Cambridge Way by any chance?’

Morse noted the dart of recognition in the manager’s eyes, and was about to repeat his question when the telephone rang. The manager pounced on the receiver, clamping it closely to his right ear.

‘Yes’ (Morse could hear nothing of the caller’s voice) ‘yes’ (a quick, involuntary look across at Morse) ‘yes’ (unease, quite certainly, in the manager’s eyes) ‘all right’ (sudden relief in the manager’s face?).

Morse’s hand flashed across the table and snatched the receiver, but he heard only the dull, quiet purr of the dialling tone.

‘Only the wife, Inspector. She wants me to take five pounds of potatoes home. Run out, she says. You know how these women are.’

Something had happened, Morse knew that. The young manager had got a shot of confidence from somewhere, and Morse began to wonder whether his patrons, Michael, Raphael and Gabriel, might not, after all, be called upon to fight his cause. He heard the door open quietly behind him-but not to admit the roundly bosomed Racquel with a further double Scotch. In the doorway stood a diminutive Chinaman of about thirty years of age, his brown arms under the white, short-sleeved shirt as sleek and sinewy as the limbs of a Derby favourite in the Epsom paddock. It seemed to Morse a little humiliating to be cowed into instant submission by such a hominid; but Morse was. He rose to his feet, averted his gaze – the twin slits of horizontal hostility in the Chinaman’s face, thanked the manager civilly for his co-operation, rueing the fact that he was himself now far too decrepit even to enlist in the kung-fu classes advertised weekly in the
Oxford Times.
But the Chinaman guided him gently back to his chair; and it was more than half an hour (a period, however, of unmolested confinement before Morse was allowed to leave the Topless Bar, whence he emerged into the upper world just after 1 p.m., deeply and gratefully inhaling the foul fumes of the cars that circled Piccadilly Circus, and crossing carefully to its west side, where he had a wait of only two minutes outside the Cafe” Royal before a taxi pulled up in front of him.

‘Where to, guv?’

Morse told him, infinitely preferring “guv” to “mate”.

Morse had been sitting for over half an hour, pondering these and other things, when the extraordinary thought crossed his mind that he was in the middle of a park in the middle of opening hours with a pub only fifty yards away on the corner of the square. Yet somehow he sensed that events were gathering pace, and he walked past the Duke of Cambridge, went up the steps of Number 29, and rang the bell once more. This tune he was in luck, for after a couple of minutes the great black door was opened.

‘Yis, guv?”

He was a mournful-looking man in his mid-sixties, sweating slightly, wearing a beige-coloured working overall, carrying a caretakker’s long-handled floor-mop, and fiddling with the controls of a stringed, National Health hearing-aid.

Morse explained who he was and, upon producing his identification, was reluctantly admitted across the threshold, man (announcing himself as Hoskins- pronounced ‘oskins) informed Morse that he had been the porter in the flats for over a year now: 8.45 a.m. to 4.30 p.m., Tuesdays to Fridays, his job consisting mainly of keeping an eye on the porperties and doing a bit of general cleaning during working hours. ‘Nice little job, guv.’

‘Still some flats for sale, I see?’

‘No-not nah. Both of ‘em sold. Should ‘a’ taken the notice darn, really-still, it’s good for business, I s’pose.’

‘Both
of them sold?’

‘Yis, guv. One of ‘em’s a gent from Oxford-bought it a coupla months back, ‘e did.’

‘And the other one?’

‘Few days ago. Some foreign gent, I think it is.’

‘The one from Oxford-that’s Mr Westerby, isn’t it?’

‘You know ‘im, then?’

‘Is he in?’

‘No. I ‘aven’t seen ‘im since ‘e came to look rarnd, like.’ The man hesitsted. ‘Nuffin wrong, is there?’

‘Everything’s wrong, Mr Hoskins, I’m afraid. You’d better show me round his flat, if you will.’

Rather laboriously the man led the way up the stairs to the first floor, produced a key from his overall pocket, and opened the door across from the landing with the apprehension of a man who expects to cast his eye upon a carpet swimming with carnage. But the pale-grey carpeting in the small (and otherwise completely unfurnished) ante-room provided evidence only of a recent, immaculate hoovering.

‘Main room’s through there, guv.’

Inside this second room, half a dozen pieces of heavy, mahogany furniture stood at their temporary sites around the walls, whilst the floor space was more than half covered by oblong wooden crates, several piled on top of others-crates each labelled neatly with the name and new address of a G. O. Westerby, Esq., MA; crates which Morse had recognized immediately, especially the one, already opened, which had contained the head of Gerardus Mercator (now standing on the | mantelpiece).

‘Mr Westerby already been here?’

‘Not seen ‘im guv. But o’ course, ‘e might “a” come later – after I was off. Looks like it, don’t it?’

Morse nodded, looking aimlessly around the room, and then trying the two fitted wardrobes, both of which were unlocked, empty, dusty. And Morse frowned, knowing that somewhere something was wrong. He pointed back to the ante-room. ‘Did you hoover the carpet in there?’

The man’s face (Morse could have sworn it) had paled a few degrees. ‘No-I just, as I said, look after the general cleaning, like-stairs and that sort o’ thing.’

But Morse sensed that the man was lying, and found no difficulty in guessing why: a caretaker in a block of flats like this… half a dozen wealthy and undomesticated men… a few nice little backhanders now and again just to dust and to clean… Yes, Morse could imagine the picture all right; and it might well be that a caretaker in such a block of fiats would know rather more about one or two things than he was prepared to admit. Yet Morse was singularly unsuccessful in eliciting even the slightest piece of information, and he changed the course of his questioning.

‘Did
you
show Mr Westerby round here?’

‘No, chap from the agents, it was-young fellow.’

‘Always the same young fellow, is it?’

‘Pardon, sir?’ \

‘You say they’ve just sold the other flat?’

‘Ah I see. No, I wasn’t ‘ere then.’

‘It’s not Mr Gilbert himself, is it-this young fellow you mention?’

‘I wouldn’t know-1 never met ‘im personally, like.’

‘I see.’ Again Morse sensed that the man was holding something back, and again he aimed blindly in the dark. ‘You know when Mr Westerby called again… when was it, about a week, ten days ago?’

‘I told you, sir. I only saw ‘im the once-the day ‘e looked round the place.’

‘I see.’ But Morse saw nothing, apart from the fact that far from hitting any bull’s-eye he’d probably missed the target altogether. Without any clear purpose he proceeded to look into the small kitchen, and then into the bathroom; but the only thing that mildly registered in his mind was that the parquet flooring in each was sparklingly clean, and he felt quite convinced now that Hoskins (almost certainly in contravention of his contract) was working a very profitable little fiddle for himself with his mop and his cleansing-fluid.

So it was that slowly and disconsolately Morse followed what he now saw as the marginally devious little caretaker down the broad staircase towards the front door. And at that point, had it not been for one fortuitous occurrence, perhaps the simple yet quite astounding truth of the present case might never have beached upon the shores of light. For Morse had heard a lift descending, and now he saw a dark-skinned, grey-suited man emerge from the side of the entrance-hall.

‘Arteraoon, sir,’ said Hoskins, touching some imaginary lock on his balding pate.

The affluent-looking Arab was walking in the opposite direction from the front door, and as he watched him Morse whispered to his companion: ‘Where’s
he
going?’

‘There’s a back entrance ‘ere, guv…’

But Morse hardly heard, for the Arab himself had looked over his shoulder, and was in turn looking back towards Morse with a puzzled, vaguely worried frown.

‘Who’s he?’ asked Morse very quietly.

‘ ‘e lives on the-’

But again Morse was not listening, for his thoughts- were travelling via the unsuspected lift towards the higher storeys. ‘He finishes work early, doesn’t he?’