Once a Crooked Man (29 page)

“There,” he said pointing. “I slept right fucking there! Okay? My head was there and my feet was there. Okay? Are you satisfied now?”

Harry looked around. The space was dry and comparatively secure. What had once been the inner door to the rest of the building was nailed tight shut. The narrow hole in the wall was the only way in and out.

“I'll take it,” he said. “Here's the first month's rent.” The man snatched the other half of the fifty and scrambled away.

Harry followed him outside. Folding up the roomiest cardboard box he could find, he dragged it back through the hole and set it up in the corner. Retrieving the bag with his belongings from the cart, he pushed it into the far end of the box. As he did this his stomach rumbled. Five minutes later at an all-night delicatessen on Ninth Avenue he bought a bacon-egg roll, some cookies and a large cup of coffee and took them back to his new home. The bag made a comfortable rest for his head. Stretching out his legs he ate his breakfast to the sounds of Mozart on his little radio. As he ate the cookies he was reminded of the last time he had tea with the Colonel's wife in London. Later perhaps he would call Rhonda Villiers and tell her where her husband had been taken into custody. It might be productive to put the cat among the pigeons back where it all began.

But where and how to begin in New York?

The contact number Lizzie had given him would allow him to call Max and make threats, but what would be the point? It could endanger Lizzie all the more. The taxi repair garage? If he could locate it he could follow the people who came in and out. No good. That would take too much time.

The label on the box of groceries had told him the
Gazelle
was berthed at the Port Imperial Marina, which was on the other side of the river in New Jersey. If his memory was right it was directly across from his present accommodation. He could go over to the Marina, locate the boat and keep an eye on it until someone came. Again, what was the point? He hadn't the means to follow the boat and it could be days before anyone turned up.

What would they do in the movies? What would George Clooney or the indestructible Harrison Ford do in his place?

Simple. They would blow the boat to bits.

Harry had once played an assistant district attorney on a miniseries. With all the car chases, shootings and pyrotechnics, the special effects department was strained to the limit. Marcel “More Smoke” Forestière was considered one of the best in the business.

A scene in one episode called for a limousine to be blown up on a railway bridge as a train passed beneath. Five cameras were set up to get several diverse points of view. Setting up the shot took all morning and part of the afternoon. Finally the old Mercedes was winched across the bridge on a cable with two lifelike dummies in the front seats. As it reached the center span Marcel hit the switch. Later that evening he admitted to Harry that he made a mistake in his calculations and multiplied when he should have divided. The detonation was so powerful that the huge car rose up high into the sky, spewing smoke and flame but disappearing out of view of all the cameras. All five had been locked off and none of the operators could react fast enough to release the wheels to allow them to tilt up. Fortunately, no one was hurt and the paint department was able to make the Mercedes look like new. Three hours later, the second explosion worked to perfection.

Harry chuckled to himself. If he could blow the boat up at its moorings EB would come running like a gazelle! With any luck Harry could follow the dapper little man when he left the Marina.

Before departing for the Jersey shore Harry put on socks, shoes and a clean shirt, zippered all his valuables into his Windbreaker pockets and slipped it on. With the plastic bag tucked in a dark corner he slid out into the alley and replaced the sheet of metal over the hole.

At the NY Waterway terminal he bought a round-trip ticket to New Jersey and stepped aboard. Standing in the stern of the ferry he watched as New York receded beyond the churning white wake. A little upriver he could just make out the forest of pilings sticking out of the water that had recently saved his life.

The Port Imperial Marina was a short walk from the ferry terminal. Access was through a narrow gate at the far end of a short concrete bridge. At the entrance two security guards kept watch from a small shed. A little way past this was the Marina office and store. The whole dockyard was protected by a chain-link fence.

On the far side was a repair and storage facility. Everywhere Harry looked there were square floodlights on the top of high poles, so it would not be easy to get to the target unobserved. But on the downriver side of the boatyard he came across a section of wall that had crumbled with age. At night it would be in shadow and the river was only a few yards from the other side. Harry ran his eyes down the lines of boats tied up on either side of the jetties. Almost immediately he spotted the
Gazelle
and saw that the distance from the shore to the boat was easily swimmable.

Where could he get plastic explosive, a detonator and a timing device that would allow him to swim clear before it went off? The answer was he couldn't. So what else could he do? Set the boat on fire? Gasoline and matches were readily available and easy to transport. But he might set himself on fire or the blaze could spread to adjoining boats. Harry had no desire to punish the innocent.

Could he sink it?

The hulls of most modern boats are made of some form of fiberglass. Plastic laid over a nylon web of sorts. All it would take would be a few holes below the waterline. A portable drill would do the job nicely and the latest models made very little noise.

The ferry was about to return to Manhattan. Harry ran back and jumped aboard. On the return crossing he made his way inside, and settling down on the wooden seat, he congratulated himself on his creative brilliance.

 

51

The morning when someone had tried to assassinate her husband, Rhonda Villiers had prepared his breakfast and had just put on the kettle when she heard the staccato sounds of the bullets. Running rapidly up the stairs to the bedroom window she was just in time to see Murphy clamber into the Jaguar before Charles pinned the leather-clad motorcyclist to the wall. As the man's weapon hit the ground and the bullets flew she ducked to avoid being hit.

It was not unusual for Charles to disappear for short periods of time. But when they grew longer he always managed to get in touch and reassure her of his health and safety. This time he hadn't called and she had become worried that he might have been wounded.

When the phone on the kitchen wall rang she hurried over and took down the receiver, assuming it would be her husband.

But it wasn't.

“Mr. Murphy, what a pleasant surprise! How good to hear your voice. I'm glad you called. I'm a little worried about Charles. I haven't heard from him. Do you know where he might be? Oh, really. Yes, yes, of course. Just a moment.”

She pulled out a notepad from a drawer and rummaged around until she found a pen. Once ready she said, “Yes, Mister Murphy. I'm ready. Taunton.” She wrote on the pad. “Yes. I have that. Who? Sapinsky. Yes. And Carswell, Elizabeth. When was that? I see. Yes I most certainly will. Thank you. I will see what I can do.”

Moments later Directory Enquiries gave her the number of Taunton Police Station and she added it to her notes. Before calling she decided it would be prudent to consider everything she had just heard and why Murphy had chosen this particular moment to call her. The gas popped as she put on the kettle. Once the tea was made she settled herself on the living room sofa.

Her basic problem was whether a call to the authorities would help or hinder Charles. Rhonda had a great mistrust of anything that involved the government, both local and national.

Perhaps this would be a good time to ask her father. He always gave her good advice. In fact, he had never failed her. Not once. Bless his heart. Not since that devastating day at Ainsley House Boarding School for Girls when she had been summoned from class and sent up to the see Miss Weatherly.

The headmistress had stood stiffly behind her desk and given an awkward cough before she spoke. “I'm sorry, Evans, but I have some bad news. Your father has died. Quite suddenly, I am told. The funeral will be on Saturday. I've arranged for a taxi to take you to the station so you can catch the next train to London.”

Rhonda Evans had fainted on the parquet floor. Matron was summoned and told to cope.

Two days later Rhonda watched as her father's casket was lowered into the cold ground of Highgate Cemetery. The young girl, still in her school uniform, waited until everyone had left and then knelt down on the fake grass that covered the mound of dirt.

“It's me,” she whispered. “I only have a moment. I know who they are. I promise I will see that they pay for what they did. No matter how long it takes. I have to go back to school now, Daddy. I'll visit soon. I promise. I love you, Daddy.”

Gareth Evans had been a gentle soul, unlike his father before him. Rhonda's grandfather was a Sergeant Major in the Welsh Guards and constantly lectured his son on honor and military tradition. He naturally assumed the boy would follow him into the army. When young Gareth became a chartered surveyor and joined a small architectural firm in Hampstead, communication between them ceased. They met only once when Gareth married his secretary, Elsie.

The newlyweds set up home in a tree-lined street in the suburbs of Golders Green in North London, where they raised first daughter Rhonda and then son Julian. When both children grew up and left home, Gareth and Elsie moved to a mews cottage in Kensington.

For a while all was well but when the British economy went through one of its cyclical downturns cutbacks became necessary at the firm and he was laid off. It wasn't long before he was unable to cover his expenses. One day he was summoned to the local Inland Revenue office and informed that he had overlooked the matter of his tax return. A humiliating meeting precipitated an audit of the previous four years and several negligible amounts were brought into question. But by the time the government added four years of penalty and interest the total owed was considerable.

Gareth Evans had neither the funds to pay nor an income from which he could make an offer of installments. One month later an officious letter dropped with a thud through the front-door mail slot:

Unless the above matter is settled to our satisfaction, we shall be required to take measures that may result in a further fine, legal action and possible confinement.

In other words, dishonor and disgrace.

Gareth dropped the letter to the floor and went to the cupboard beneath the stairs. Opening an old metal trunk, he pulled out his father's service revolver and a box of .455 shells. For a moment he thumbed through old uniforms, shirts, ties and socks, all neatly folded. In the bottom he even found a pair of boots with the toecaps so shiny he could see his reflection.

Rhonda's mother found her husband in a pool of blood on the floor of the living room, the revolver in one hand, the boots in the other. Fragments of his skull, hair and brain were scattered across the photographs, banners, plaques and trophies. The distraught woman put the house on the market, but before anyone could make an offer she dropped dead on the same floor. Autopsy revealed a cerebral aneurysm.

For the second time in a month Rhonda Evans walked behind a casket in Highgate Cemetery. Once again she hovered until everyone had left and then crouched down. “Hello, Daddy,” she said. “I'm sorry about Mum. But isn't it wonderful! This means I'll inherit the house! I'm going to have the whole place to myself now! It's a little run-down, but a good cleanup and some paint and wallpaper will soon take care of that. I called Julian and he said he never wanted to see it ever again, so it's all mine! Oh, and you'll be pleased to know he's been made manager of the bank. Think of it! Little Julian a bank manager!”

Brother Julian dropped in unexpectedly one day on his way back from a college reunion in Bristol. He had come for some sisterly advice. At the reunion he had met an American investment broker who was looking for a way to launder money. If Julian agreed to help he would receive a percentage. Although he was now in a position of power his remuneration remained low. Rhonda was the only person he could talk to and she quickly encouraged him to accept. This was the second element to her plan. The final one came three days after her brother returned to the Channel Islands.

Rhonda became the receptionist in a doctor's office in Harley Street. A tall and distinguished man walked into the office for his annual checkup. From his file she learned he was a Colonel who worked for Her Majesty's Diplomatic Service.

The following morning she called in sick with the flu and for two days followed the Colonel wherever he went. On the second day she accidentally bumped into him in Selfridges. To her surprise, he remembered her and suggested afternoon tea.

Once he was hooked the rest was simple and by the end of summer she had reeled him in. On the first of October she became Mrs. Charles Jeremy Villiers. She waited for several months before asking him if he would be willing to carry a little package in his diplomatic pouch for her. “I know I shouldn't ask you to do this, darling, but it will make me very happy.” The Colonel had saved little from his army pay and was easily persuaded. After several of these trips, she fully confided in him and he became a willing accomplice. Rhonda called Julian and gave him the good news. She then arranged for his American broker to have the cash delivered directly to her in Kensington, where she would keep it safe until Charles was able to take it to the Channel Islands.

From each shipment she took out a few notes and hid them away. One day she would need them. One day they would come in very useful, when she had planned exactly how she would avenge her father's death.