Paper Money (21 page)

would have been to find a fast stretch of road and put his foot down.

However, he would prefer that they did not know they had lost him, just

like this morning.

It would not be difficult.

He crossed the river and entered the West End.

As he picked his way through the traffic he wondered about the Old

Bill's motives in following him around. It was partly a simple case of

making a nuisance of themselves, he was sure. What did the briefs call

it? Harassment. They figured that if they tailed him long enough he

would get impatient or careless and do something stupid. But that was

only the justification: the real motive probably lay in Scotland Yard

politics. Perhaps the Assistant Commissioner (Crime) had threatened to

take the Tony Cox firm away from C1 and give it to the Flying Squad, so

C1 had laid on the surveillance in order to be able to say they were

doing something.

So long as they did not get all serious about it, Tony did not mind.

They had got serious once, a few years ago. At that time Tony's firm had

been under the eagle eye of the CID at West End Central. Tony had had a

close understanding with the detective-inspector working on his case.

One week the DI had refused his usual money, and warned Tony that the

game was over. The only way Tony had been able to square it had been to

sacrifice some of his soldiers. He and the DI had set up five

middle-management villains on extortion charges. The five had gone to

jail, the Press had praised the CID for breaking the gang's hold on

London, and business had gone on as usual. Sadly, that DIlater went down

himself, for planting cannabis on a student: a sorry end to-a promising

career, Tony felt.

He pulled into a multi story car park in Soho.

He paused at the entry, spending a long time taking his ticket from the

machine, and watched the blue Morris in his mirrors. One of the

detectives jumped out of the car and ran across the road to cover the

pedestrian exit. The other found a parking space on a meter a few yards

away--a position from which he could see cars coming out. Tony nodded,

satisfied.

He drove up to the first floor and stopped the Rolls beside the office.

inside he found a young man he did not know.

He said: "I'm Tony Cox. I want you to park mine and get me one of your

long-stay motors-one that's not likely to be picked up today."

The man frowned. He had frizzy, untidy hair and oilstained jeans with

frayed bottoms. He said:

"I can't do that, mate."

Tony tapped his foot impatiently. "I don't like saying things twice,

son. I'm Tony Cox."

The young man laughed. He stood up, putting down a comic, and said: "I

don't care who you are, you--"

Tony hit him in the stomach. His large fist landed with a soft thump.

It was like punching a feather pillow. The attendant doubled over,

moaning and gasping. for air.

"I'm short of time, boy," Tony said.

The "office door opened. "What's going on?" An older man in a baseball

cap entered. "Oh, it's you, Tony. Having trouble?"

"Where have you been--smoking in the bog?" Tony said harshly. "I want a

car that can't be traced to me, and I'm in a hurry."

"No problem," the older man said. He took a bunch of keys from a hook in

the asbestos wall.

"Got a nice Granada, in here for a fortnight. Threeliter automatic, a

nice bronze color--"

"I don't give a toss what color it is." Tony took the keys.

"Over there." The man pointed. "I'll park yours."

Tony went out of the office and got into the Granada. He put on the

safety belt and pulled away. He paused beside his own car, which the man

in the cap was now sitting in.

"What's your name?" Tony said.

"I'm Davy Brewster, Tony."

"All right, Davy Brewster." Tony reached for his wallet and took out two

ten-pound notes.

"Make sure the kid keeps his mouth shut, okay?"

"No problem. Thanks very much." Davy took the money.

Tony pulled away. As he drove, he put on sunglasses and his cloth cap.

When he emerged into the street, the blue Morris was away to his right.

He put his right elbow on the window ledge, covering his face, and

steered with his left hand.

The second detective, on Tony's left, had his back to the road so that

he could see the pedestrian exit. The man was pretending to look in the

window of a religious bookshop.

Tony looked in his mirror as he accelerated away.

Neither of them had seen him.

"Easy," Tony said aloud. He drove south.

The car was quite pleasant, with automatic gears and power-assisted

steering. It had a tape deck.

Tony sorted through the cassettes, found a Beatles album, and put it on.

Then he lit a cigar.

In less thin an hour he would be at the farm, counting the money.

Felix Laski had been well worth cultivating, Tony thought. They had met

in the restaurant of one of Tony's clubs. The Cox casinos served the

best food in London. They had to. Tony's motto was: if you serve

peanuts, you get monkeys for customers. He wanted rich people in his

gambling clubs, not yobboes asking for draft bitter and five-penny

chips. He did not like fancy food himself, but on the night he met Laski

he was eating a vast, rare T-bone steak at a table near the financier's.

The chef was pinched from Prunier's. Tony did not know what he did to

the steaks, but the result was sensational. The tall, elegant man at the

next table had caught his eye: a fine-looking man for his age. He was

with a young girl whom Tony instantly marked as a tart.

Tony had finished his steak, and was into a mountain of trifle, when the

accident happened. The waiter was serving Laski with canellom and

somehow a half-full bottle of claret got knocked over. The tart squealed

and jumped out of the way, and a few drops of wine spattered Laski's

brilliant white shirt.

Tony acted immediately. He stood up, dropping his napkin on the table,

and summoned three waiters and the maitre d'hotel. He spoke first to the

waiter who had caused the mess. "Go and get changed. Pick up your cards

on Friday." He turned to the others. "Bernardo, a cloth.

Giuliani, another bottle of wine. Monsieur Charles, another table and no

bill for this gentleman." Finally he spoke to the diners. "I'm the

proprietor, Tony Cox. Please have your dinner on the house, with my

apologies, and I hope you'll have the most expensive dishes on the menu,

beginning with a bottle of Dom Perignon."

Laski spoke then. "These things can't be helped."

His voice was deep and faintly accented. "But it is nice to have such a

generous, old-fashioned apology." He smiled.

"It missed my dress," the tart said. Her accent confirmed Tony's guess

about her profession: she came from the same part of London as he did.

The maitre d'hotel said: "M'sieur Cox, the house is full. There is no

other table."

Tony pointed to his own table. "What's wrong with that one? Clear it,

quickly." "Please don't," Laski said. "We wouldn't like to deprive you."

"I insist."

"Then, please join us."

Tony looked at them both. The tart obviously didn't like the idea. Was

the gent just being polite, or did he mean it? Well, Tony had almost

finished, so if it didn't work out he could leave the table quite soon.

"I don't want to intrude-"

"You won't be," Laski said. "And you can tell me how to win at

roulette." "Right-oh," Tony said.

He stayed with them all evening. He and Laski got on famously, and it

was made clear early on that what the girl thought did not count. Tony

told stories of villainy in the world of gambling clubs, and Laski

matched him, anecdote for anecdote, with tales of Stock Exchange sharp

practice.

It transpired that Laski was not a gambler, but that he liked to bring

people to the club. When they went into the casino he bought fifty

pounds worth of chips and gave them all to the girl The evening ended

when Laski, by now quite drunk said: "I suppose I should take her home

and screw her."

After that they met several times--never by arrangement-in the club, and

always ended up getting drunk together. After a while Tony let the other

man know that he was gay, and Laski did nothing about it, from which

Tony concluded that the financier was a tolerant heterosexual.

It pleased Tony to know that he could befriend someone of Laski's class.

The scene in the restaurant was the easiest bit, and it was well

rehearsed: the grand gestures, the posture of command, the heavy

courtesy, and a conscious moderating of his accent. But to maintain the

acquaintance with someone as brainy, as rich, and as used to moving in

near-aristocratic circles as Laski was, seemed quite an achievement.

It was Laski who made the first move toward a deeper relationship. They

had been bragging-drunk in the early hours of a Sunday morning, and

Laski had been talking about the power of money. "Given -enough money,"

he said, "I can find out anything in the City-right down to the

combination of the lock on the vault in the Bank of England." Tony said:

"Sex is better."

"What do you mean?"

"Sex is a better weapon. I can find out anything in London, using sex."

Now that I doubt," said Laski, whose sexual urges were well under

control.

Tony shrugged. "All right. Challenge me."

That was when Laski made his move. "The development license for the

Shield oil field. Find out who's got it-before the government makes the

announcement."

Tony saw the gleam in the financier's eye, and guessed that the whole

conversation had been planned. "Why don't you ask me something

difficult?" he countered. "Politicians and civil servants are much too

easy." "It will do," Laski smiled.

"Okay. But I've got to challenge you, too."

Laski's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

Tony said the first thing that came into his head. "Find out the

schedule for deliveries of used notes to the currency destruction plant

of the Bank of England."

"It won't even cost me money," Laski said confidently.

And that was how it had started. Tony grinned as he drove the Ford

through South London. He did not know how Laski had managed to keep his

half of the bargain; but Tony's side had been a doddle. Who has the

information we want? The Minister. What's he like? The next thing to a

virgin--a faithful husband. Is he getting his oats from the wife? Not

much. Will he fall for the oldest trick in the game? Like a dream.

The tape ended, and he turned it over. He wondered how much money had

been in the currency van--a hundred grand? Maybe even a quarter of a

million. Much more than that, would be embarrassing. You couldn't walk

into Bardays Bank with sacks full of used fivers without arousing

suspicion. About a hundred and fifty grand would be ideal. Five gees for

each of the boys, a few more for expenses, and about fifty thousand

surreptitiously added to the takings of various legitimate businesses

tonight. Gambling clubs were very useful for concealing illicit income.

The boys knew what to do with five grand. Pay off a few debts, buy a

secondhand car, put a few hundred in each of two or three bank accounts,

give the wife a new coat, lend the mother-in-law a couple of bob, spend

a night in the pub, and bang, it was all gone. But give them twenty

thousand and they started to get silly ideas. When unemployed laborers

and freelance odd-job men were heard to talk about villas in the South

of France, the law began to get suspicious.

Tony grinned at himself. I should worry about having too much money, he

thought. Problems of success are the kind I like. Don't count your

chicks before you've laid them, Jacko sometimes said. The van might be

full of worn out halfpennies for melting down. Now that would be a

chuckle.

He was nearly there. He started to whistle.

Felix Laski sat in his office, watching a television screen and tearing

a buff envelope into narrow strips. The closed-circuit TV was the modern

equivalent of the tickertape; and Laski felt like the worried broker in

an old movie about the 1929 crash. The set continuously screened market

news and price movements in equities, commodities, and currency. There