The Long Glasgow Kiss (18 page)

‘I’m a private eye. Like yourself …’ Devereaux smiled collegially at me. ‘I’m here on a private investigation. Criminal, but private.’

‘Okay … so what can I do for you?’ I asked. I realized we were all still standing. ‘Sorry … please sit down, Mr Devereaux.’

‘Like I said, call me Dex … Thanks.’ Ferguson and the American sat down on the leather sofa. I took a bottle of Canadian rye and three glasses out of a cupboard.

‘I take it you guys aren’t so on duty that you can’t have a drink?’

‘Speaking personally, I’m never that much on duty,’ said Devereaux. He took the whisky and sipped it. ‘Mmmm, nice …’ he purred approvingly. ‘I thought you guys only ever drink Scotch.’

‘I’m not a Scotch kinda guy,’ I said, and sat in the armchair opposite. Devereaux eyed my apartment, his eyes ranging casually across the furniture, the bottles on the sideboard, the books on the bookshelves. But it was the same apparent casualness of a pro-golfer preparing for a swing.

‘You’ve got a lot of books,’ he said turning back to me. ‘You got any Hemingway?’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘No Hemingway. Just like I’ve got no blended Scotch. So what
is
it I can do for you, Mr Devereaux?’

‘Please …
Dex
. As for what you can do for us … you mentioned John Largo to Detective Ferguson here, I believe.’

‘I asked him if he knew him or anything about him.’

‘And what do
you
know about John Largo?’ Devereaux turned his eyes from me while he sipped the whisky.

‘All I know about Largo is his first name is John, and I only know that because Jock here inadvertently told me. And now I know that he’s some kind of really big fish, because someone is prepared to fly a twenty-dollar-an-hour private detective across the Atlantic on his account. And that, I’m afraid, is all I know. Other than someone who was a friend of someone who has gone missing knows him. And now he’s gone missing himself.’

‘Paul Costello. I told you about his father,’ Jock Ferguson explained to Devereaux, who nodded almost impatiently, but with his smile still in place. There was something about the exchange that told me all about the hierarchy of this relationship. This may have been Ferguson’s town, but Devereaux was calling all the shots on this case. Whoever Largo was, whatever he was into, it was big.

‘Who’s the friend of Costello who’s gone missing?’ Devereaux asked, and took another sip of whisky. Again, question and action both done with professional casualness.

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr Devereaux,’ I said, returning his smile. ‘Client confidentiality. My client doesn’t want the police involved.’

‘You’re Canadian?’ asked Devereaux.

‘Yep. New Brunswick. Saint John.’

‘That’s practically Maine. I’m from Vermont.’

‘Really? That’s practically Quebec.’

Devereaux laughed. ‘You’re not wrong there. D’yah know we’ve got the highest percentage of French Americans in the States. Higher even than Louisiana. That’s where my name comes from.’ He laughed. ‘Vermont–French, I mean, not Louisiana.’

‘Yes. I did know that, as a matter of fact. Like you say, New England’s just over the border from Saint John. And New Brunswick is bi-lingual.’

‘Ah, yes …’ Devereaux gave a sigh of exaggerated satisfaction at our exchange. I got the feeling that the hands-across-the-water act was about to come to an abrupt end. ‘You know, Mr Lennox, it really would be a big help to us if you could see your way to telling us who your client is.’

‘Can’t do it, Mr Devereaux. As an enquiry agent yourself, you should know that. But that’s the only thing I can’t do. I’ll help you in any way I can. Who is John Largo?’

Devereaux looked into his glass. Jock Ferguson hadn’t touched his whisky. When Devereaux looked up, he was still smiling, but the thermostat had been turned right down.

‘You can’t expect us to trust you, Mr Lennox, if you don’t trust us. Let’s be honest, I’ve seen Detective Ferguson’s colleagues at work. The police here seem mighty interested in Mr Largo too. If you were taken in for withholding evidence, then it could be a long and painful process.’

‘I don’t give up my clients,
Dex
. Not for a beating, not for cash, and most definitely not because of threats.’ I stood up. ‘I think you gentlemen should go.’

Devereaux held up appeasing palms. ‘Okay, okay … take it easy, colleague. Truth is, I can’t tell you too much about Largo. But you’re right, he’s a big fish. And he’s here, somewhere in Glasgow. I’ve heard all about your Three Kings … some half-assed Jock Cosa Nostra crap. Let me tell you … sorry, I can’t keep calling you Mr Lennox – what’s your Christian name?’

‘Just call me Lennox. Everybody else does.’

‘Let me tell you, Lennox, John Largo could snuff out all Three Kings in the bat of an eye. The difference between Largo and the Three Kings is the difference between shark and pond scum. The shark doesn’t know or care that the pond scum’s there, but he could destroy its universe with a flick of his tail. From what we know about him, John Largo is a step beyond being a criminal. He practically constitutes a threat to the security of the United States. A particularly dangerous, clever and well-resourced threat.’

‘So what is he doing in Glasgow?’

‘He’s spent the last five years setting up an operation that spans the whole damn world. He’s put together different elements in different countries, like links in a chain, until the chain reaches here.’

‘Let me guess … this is only the
second
last link in the chain? That’s why you’re here.’

Devereaux’s grin widened. He turned to Ferguson. ‘You know, you were right, Jock. He
is
a smart cookie.’ He turned back to me. ‘Yeah. Your family came from here, right? I mean, you’re of Scottish descent?’

‘That’s right. My folks shipped out from Port Glasgow.’

‘Yeah. Along with hundreds of thousands … millions of others. Russians, Jews, Germans, Poles … they all came through this port, along with the native Scots who immigrated to Canada and the US. This is one of the big departure points, Lennox, like Marseille or Naples or Rotterdam. Not just for people. Largo has something he wants to get to the States and he has people in New York waiting for it to arrive. People who have the
infrastructure
to make the most of Largo’s commercial opportunity.’

I sipped my whisky and nodded. ‘Let me guess, these
people
didn’t leave for the US from Glasgow. More like Palermo and Naples.’

‘Like I say, you’re a smart cookie, Lennox. I hope you’re smart enough to see the bigger picture. And it’s a very big picture.’

‘How do I know that you’ve not been sent over here by our spaghetti-eating New Americans?’ I said.

Devereaux gave a laugh that I didn’t like. ‘Detective Ferguson can vouch for me. And if that’s not good enough for you, you can call Superintendent McNab. The City of Glasgow Police are being very supportive.’

‘That’s sure big-hearted of them,’ I said.

There was a pause more pregnant than a Gorbals girl after a weekend in Largs.

‘Okay … Here’s the thing,’ I sighed, and said in my best okay-you-got-me-I’m-going-to-give-you-the-goods tone. ‘My client is a public figure. Like I told Jock, I’m investigating a missing person. And the person who’s gone missing is a relative of my client. A close relative. I went around to his apartment and Paul Costello lets himself in with a key. Costello thinks I’m a cop. When I tell him I’m not he asks me if Largo sent me. We end up having a bit of a heated discussion. I ask him who Largo is and he brushes me off, says Largo’s someone he owes money to. That’s it. All of it. Then a few days later Costello’s pop calls me in and I go through everything I’ve just told you. Then he tells me Paul’s gone missing.’

‘Just like your client’s relative?’ Jock Ferguson took his first sip of whisky.

‘That doesn’t mean it’s connected.’

‘What about this Bobby Kirkcaldy?’ asked Devereaux. ‘Jock here said you’re involved in some kind of case with him and it was when you were asking him about Kirkcaldy that you mentioned Largo.’

I waved my hand vaguely in the air. ‘No … that’s not connected in any way. It was just while I was talking to Jock that I thought I’d ask if he’d heard of this Largo. By the way, I have been asking all over town about Largo. No one has heard of him.’

‘That’s no surprise,’ said Devereaux. ‘Like I told you, Largo works on a different level.’

‘My point is, could we be talking about two different Largos? Like I said, I didn’t even have a first name for him until Jock mentioned it. Maybe it’s not John Largo at all.’

‘It could be,’ said Devereaux. ‘But we know he’s here in Glasgow and your mention of him is the only lead we’ve had in months.’

‘Aw, for God’s sake, Lennox …’ Ferguson suddenly vented his frustration. ‘Just tell us who your client is. All we have to do is go around and talk to Jimmy Costello and he’ll tell us.’

‘Then you’ll have got it from him and not from me. And I wouldn’t be so sure about Costello as a source of information.’ I sighed. ‘Look, I’ve told you all I can, which is about all there is to tell. So why not end the Mexican stand-off and you tell me what you know about Largo and what it is he’s involved in and I tell you if it fits with anything else that’s been happening?’

Devereaux stood up and put the straw trilby over his perfect, level lawn of hair. ‘Maybe we will. Thanks for your time, Lennox. Next time the drinks are on me,’ he said with his customary good-natured grin. Which was why I couldn’t work out why it sounded to me like a threat.

Ten minutes after they had left there was another knock on the door. Opening it revealed the figure of Fiona White. She was wearing a pale pink shirtwaister dress with capped sleeves. She was also wearing a disapproving look. It was an ensemble I’d become accustomed to.

‘Please, Mrs White, come in …’ I offered, knowing that she wouldn’t. She never did. Her pale green eyes glittered coldly but I noticed that she’d put on fresh lipstick before coming up.

‘Mr Lennox, I’ve told you how I feel about policemen coming to the door. After the last time you were arrested …’

I stopped her with a held-up palm, as if I were halting traffic. ‘Listen, Mrs White, you’re right that one of the gentlemen who called was indeed a policeman. But I’m sure you noticed that one of them was American. He’s in the same line of business as I am.’ I paused to let this impressive fact sink in: I was operating on the international stage. I looked at her face. It had sunk, without trace. ‘They didn’t come here to arrest me or question me, Mrs White. They came here as colleagues, to ask my opinion on a case. And as regards the last incident … I thought we were clear on that. A misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that you, yourself, were instrumental in clearing up.’

She looked at me coldly. I really, really wanted to warm her up, to find the last, faint ember of muliebrity and breathe on it until it caught fire again. And I think she knew it.

‘Well, I’d be obliged if you did not conduct business from this house.’

‘Detective Inspector Ferguson is a friend of mine, Mrs White. His visits to me are as much social as business. And, as you are aware, I don’t have a habit of having guests of
any
kind here.’ It was the truth. I never brought women there, and I had done all I could to keep this place separate from everything else that went on in my life. A refuge, almost. I sighed. ‘Please come in and have a seat, Mrs White. I’d like to talk to you about a couple of things.’

‘Oh?’ Something even colder and harder fell like a shutter across her eyes.

I seasoned my smile with a little impatience and indicated the sofa. Fiona White somehow managed to fill her acceptance brim full with resentment and marched past me. She didn’t sit on the sofa but in the armchair, perched on its edge in a stiff-shouldered posture that was no ease and all temporariness.

‘What is it you want to talk to me about?’

‘I’ve lived here for two years, Mrs White, and I’ve paid the rent regularly and without delay. Including the six months last year when I was out of the country. I don’t make noise; I don’t drink myself stupid and sing the ballads of ol’ Ireland into the wee small hours; I don’t bring young ladies up to look at my etchings. All in all, I consider myself to be a pretty model tenant.’

Fiona White looked at me silently with the same flinty defiance. If I had been expecting confirmation of my credentials as a tenant, it was not forthcoming.

‘It’s just that I get the impression that I somehow disappoint you as a tenant,’ I continued. ‘That you somehow wish that you hadn’t accepted me for the tenancy. If that’s the case, Mrs White, then tell me now and I’ll take it as notice to quit.’

‘It is entirely up to you whether you stay or go, Mr Lennox,’ she said, a hint of fire now behind the ice. ‘I really don’t know what you expect me to say. It sounds to me like it’s
you
who disapprove of
me
as a landlady. I apologize if my manner offends you. If that is the case, by all means you are free to leave.’

‘I don’t
want
to go, Mrs White, but I want to feel free to have the occasional caller, or for you to take the odd telephone message for me, without being made to feel that it is a huge imposition for you. Listen, I understand that you would not have chosen to divide your house up and let in a lodger. But you have and I’m here. And if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. I’m not to blame for the circumstances that made this flat available.’ I stood up and went over to the sideboard. I took the same bottle of whisky and poured myself a glass. There was a bottle of Williams and Humbert Walnut Brown Sherry on the sideboard and, without asking first, I poured a glass for Mrs White and handed it to her. For a moment she looked as if she was going to shake her head. Instead she took the glass from me wordlessly.

‘If you want to stay, then stay,’ she said. ‘But don’t expect me to issue you with a merit badge just because you fulfil your contractual obligations as a tenant.’

She took a sip of the sherry. I could have been imagining it, but I thought I detected something easing in the rigid shoulders.