Cargo of Eagles (23 page)

THE RETIRED ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER
was remarkably pleased with himself. He sat beside Mr Campion whom he had just joined as they drove sedately through the secondary streets which lie between Islington and Walston and gave directions on the route with appropriate pride.

‘Turn left at the next launderette opposite the Bingo Hall, then right at the Home Bonus Self Service and take the left hand fork at Honest Bob Eachways betting shop. Not your sort of area, my lad, but you'd be surprised at what goes on if you lift the lid. This is Ramsden Lane where an old woman called Mother Carey kept a snake farm. The whole house was full of 'em, cobras, pythons, boa constructors, everything you've ever seen in a zoo. She walked off one fine summer morning and never came back. The sanitary people got on to it in the end and they had the devil's own job to clear the place because the creatures had got under the floor boards, into the roof and into every cupboard and wainscote. The last thing she did before she vanished was to set them free and it was six weeks before the matter was even reported.

‘Ron the Rajah lived two doors up, just above the Chinese Expresso. A very good forger, specialising in foreign currency and doing his business with coloured people. He did five years for his trouble and died a rich man.

‘The hole in the ground is where the old Imperial used to be. Almost the last of the Halls apart from Collins. They found out too late that it ought to have been preserved as a national memorial to the good old days but they kept the pub next door. That's where we're going.'

‘The Cap and Bells?'

‘That's it. A Victorian masterpiece, so they say Four different bars—and a couple of cubby holes where you poke your face through little glass windows to ask for your drink, though why that should make it respectable I don't know. Pull up further along beside the radio shop.'

The Private Saloon of the big red brick hostelry was a small, eminently correct cubicle, upholstered in red leather and decorated with cut glass advertisements for long forgotten brands of spirits: McNab's Dew of Kirkcudbright and Auld Laird Malt Special.

At this early hour on Sunday evening it was a quiet family place where elderly couples sat together gossiping placidly. Time appeared to be standing still and the newcomers were observed without comment. The sound of children drifted in from the street for the doors were open to the warm city air.

‘Better settle for a long one,' muttered Oates. ‘We may have quite a wait ahead of us. This is going to cost you a packet. Time and a half and all expenses, you said.'

‘I feared as much,' said his companion. ‘How many men did you have on it?'

Oates smiled reminiscently. ‘After it occurred to you that I might still be useful,' he said, ‘I had six—all ex-officers from Foxy Foster's bureau. You wouldn't know him but he used to be a Super in S Branch. Then I added two old pals from Records and a couple of women who retired years ago to get married. Quite a team if you include me as the brains of the act. You know, Albert, I've enjoyed this enquiry—it was quite a challenge. We old 'uns can still teach the boys a thing or two—especially when it's a money-no-object job. You can't ask men to comb every pub on a list of two or three hundred and not take a drink. If you do they'll be rumbled straight away. That's the advantage a private firm like Fosters has over the regulars.'

‘That, and of course brilliant direction from a real expert.'

The old man snorted. ‘It was just putting all the available evidence together and it was precious thin on the ground let
me tell you. Man of sixty odd, woman forty fivish, possibly a pro in her time, a woman who could have been dressing “old fashioned”. Apparently because of modern styles women of that class sometimes do—it puts older men at their ease, gives them confidence that they are not going to be snubbed or made to look like silly old goats. Then again, this disappearance was prearranged, very carefully planned indeed by someone who had taken a lot of trouble to think it out. I think you'll find that our man has a well established identity—probably in the name of someone who's dead or gone overseas, so that he has all his health cards stamped and in order. That gave us a woman with a genuine background, probably quite a respectable one, a woman who very likely owns a small car—Teague must have gone by car when he disappeared—someone who prepared the way by announcing that her brother or uncle or cousin was going to join her from up North or wherever you please, so there's no surprise locally and very little gossip when the new lodger appears. It narrows the field quite a bit.'

He eyed Campion respectfully over his half finished pint. ‘Your idea helped, of course, but it was still the leg work that produced the result.'

‘Skipper?'

‘That was a long shot of yours, but it paid off. Yes, he's called the Skipper, because he talks about boats, just as you said. I haven't seen him myself, mark you, but the identification is pretty positive. Sergeant Openshaw, one of Foxy's men, found him. The woman's name is Medway, by the way, Mrs Rita Medway, and her new brother in-law calls himself Connor which suggests that he bought his papers from an Irishman. It's pretty nearly exactly what we expected.'

He sighed. ‘That's the end of the trail as far as I'm concerned. A pity. I enjoyed what there was of it. I'll just stay to see you make your contact. You wouldn't care to take me . . .'

Mr Campion shook his head regretfully. ‘If he spotted you he'd recognise an old enemy and he'd get me confused with the
police, which is the last thing I want. My chat with him has got to be friendly or it defeats its own purpose. You did say your man thought he was a regular here?'

‘Most evenings, he said. They have a couple of doubles, a bit of a chat with the governor and a few old cronies and go off early. It doesn't sound like Teague, I admit, but our chap is quite certain. He smokes like a gaolbird, too—keeps the fag end turned into the palm of his hand, which is a habit you find difficult to break after twenty years.'

The main saloon with its ornate Victorian carving, formal plastered ceiling and gleaming cut glass panels was beginning to fill. The little bar in which they stood was protected from prying eyes by a grille of square decorative glass windows moving on swivels so that an order could be given in complete privacy from the general public and the drink pushed discreetly beneath the barrier. It provided a perfect screen for an observer and presently Oates who had been keeping one eye on an opening caught his companion's arm.

‘They've just come in,' he said. ‘The woman in the green scarf. That's Teague with her all right.' He stood aside to let Campion move closer. ‘I think you're in for a shock.'

The first impression of the man in the blue reefer suit which no longer fitted him was that he was nearer seventy than sixty. He was standing beside the bar and as the landlord produced two glasses he carried them very slowly to one of the small tables against the upholstered wall benches where a woman was waiting. A black beret hid most of his forehead but the stiff hair beneath it was white and there was a trimmed stubble around his mouth which was nearly a beard.

Steel-rimmed government spectacles with a strong magnification gave his eyes the appearance of staring blankly and he blinked continually as if he found the light too strong. Only the genuine flash of very white teeth gave an indication that there had once been strength and ruthlessness where only their ghosts remained.

The woman in the scarf beside him, a bravely unfading
blonde with unfashionably red lips, sat erect, emphasising her companion's stoop, defiantly protective, her eyes flickering cautiously over the customers.

Mr Campion shook himself.

‘Not a good advertisement for our prison system,' he murmured. ‘But it goes deeper than that, I think. He looks to me like a chap who's given up, retired, lost interest in life. He could also be afraid. The fact that he's torn up his ticket and changed his name could explain that, of course, but he certainly looks like a non-starter to me. What do you think?'

The ex-A.C. shrugged his shoulders.

‘A long term does that to men sometimes. No one's proud of it, but it happens. Go round and have your word with him. You know, I think I'll wait and keep an eye on you, just in case.'

Mr Campion left his companion and made an unobtrusive approach to the table in the further bar. He drew up a chair apparently by chance with the merest inference of an apology at the intrusion and sat for some time sipping whisky without interest in the two who were facing him. Finally he leaned across and spoke directly.

‘Skipper Connor?'

Suspicion chased by anger flashed across the woman's face and she placed a thin hand with blood red fingernails over the man's wrist.

‘We don't know you. What's your game?'

Mr Campion turned to her. ‘It's Mrs Medway, isn't it? I'm not a policeman, not even a friend from the past. I think you could describe me as a negotiator—a man with a proposition. I'm prepared to pay for the information I need. The sum I had in mind is very large.'

A sudden impish smile flickered across the man's mouth and for an instant it was possible to glimpse the charm and the force which had withered. The spark faded as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving the face cold and expressionless.

‘You're wrong, you know. You're dead wrong. I've nothing to sell.'

‘Leave him alone, you bastard,' said the woman. ‘We don't like your sort. If you won't go then we will.' She stood up. ‘We'll go now.'

‘Not for a minute.' Mr Campion's tone was unemotional. ‘Skipper, I'm talking about the barge
Blossom
. One question. One answer. A small fortune in any form you like and no strings attached.'

The man in the beret sighed. He was looking at Campion as if he saw him from a distance.

‘The barge
Blossom
,' he repeated slowly. ‘Do you know, mister, that for twenty years people have been asking me about that God-forsaken hulk? Men in nice suits, men in suits they'd only just changed into because they wanted to pretend they weren't officials, screws, con men, big timers, water rats, the whole crew. I've seen the inside of every interview room from the Moor to Parkhurst, from the Governor's cabin to a cell that looked and stank like the heads in a Greek tramp. Always the same question.'

‘And always the same answer?'

‘Too bloody true, mister. Always the same answer. I never saw the
Blossom
in my life so far as I know and I certainly never sailed her. Why do you think I'm hiding like a rat with a pack of yard dogs sniffing after me? Because I never want to hear the blasted name again.'

‘You could name a price. No string attached.'

‘Not for a Chinese harem or the Crown Jewels. I don't know a goddam thing, and that's for free. Ask Rita and she'll tell you.'

Mr Campion turned towards her. ‘For ten thousand pounds?' he murmured. ‘It's a lot of money, I would have thought.'

The woman drew a deep breath, closing her eyes and leaning hard against the shining leather.

‘He doesn't know a thing,' she muttered. ‘He's just a
damned old fool without the price of a light to his name.'

Gradually her tension slackened and she put up a hand to primp her hair. A smile which was sly and confiding crept across her mouth showing teeth which were smeared with lipstick.

‘You've lost your bet, dear. They all have. Now sing for your supper and get us a couple of drinks. Sid knows what we want.'

Mr Campion returned to the smaller bar feeling old and melancholy. The elderly couples had disappeared and Oates was sitting in a corner by himself, his deplorable grey felt hat on the table beside a glass of overbright port. He looked up as the thin man came in and the wrinkles in his forehead were quizzical.

‘You did yourself no good? I was afraid of that. Teague's got old and tired like the rest of us. He'll go no more aroving as the song says. Did he tell you that?'

‘Just about. In almost as many words. Were you watching the proceedings?'

‘I kept half an eye on you.'

‘And the other? Something is amusing you. Never laugh at a comrade's downfall. It's a punishable offence in the Navy and considered very bad taste even in the police force.'

Oates raised his glass and sipped it thoughtfully as if he was considering whether to share a private joke.

‘I couldn't resist it.' he said at length. ‘It's sheer habit I suppose—idle curiosity now. But I recognised the landlord of this joint. He's Sid Lowenstein, a man who's had a bit of wife trouble in his time. You can hear him quarrelling with the present one now—she's the fifth—without straining your ears. Just as a matter of private interest I eliminated a suspect in the case of the death of Hector Askew down at Saltey.'

‘Teague?'

The older man nodded. ‘Teague of the silver bullet. Sid's a very reliable witness, especially in a matter which doesn't concern him. Askew was killed on a Saturday just over a fortnight ago. On that day Teague, or the Skipper as he calls him, and
his girl friend were here just after half past five. He remembers it because he does a little bookmaking on the side and they'd won quite a packet on the Kempton meeting—twelve quid to be exact. It puts him out of the running. If you want to know my opinion and I admit you haven't asked for it. I'll tell you.'

‘Go ahead, by all means.'

‘It's straightforward logic when you consider the facts. Someone who knows Master Teague's handwriting is forging his signature, copying his style, just to lead you on a wild goose chase. It explains why that mysterious wallet of his turned up so conveniently, for one thing. Has that occurred to you?'

Mr Campion sighed. ‘It has now,' he said. ‘In fact it's been occurring to me for some time. So don't demobilise your forces just yet. There's some unfinished business to be handled if you're still in the old war horse mood. Teague may be a busted flush—he was pretty convincing—but the woman knows something, or she thinks she does. Can you find out
all
about her, how she's living, who pays the rent and who her visitors are? She isn't the fairy godmother type so someone has invested money in keeping that poor old pirate out of the limelight.'