Ian thought maybe the stuff had been hidden in one of the machines they'd left behind.
"Use your loaf," his brother told him. "If that were true, why would he be after us? Wait a minute, though…"
And he went back, counting the machines. There was one missing. The brothers looked at one another, headed for Tony's car. At Malc's mother's house, Malc had just plumbed the machine in. The old twin-tub was out on the front path, waiting to be junked. Malc's mother was rubbing her hands over the front of her new washer-dryer, telling the neighbours who'd gathered in the kitchen what a good laddie her son was.
"Saved up and bought it as a surprise."
Even Ian knew that they were in real trouble now. Everyone in town would get to hear about the new washing-machine… and word would most definitely travel.
They took Malc outside, explained the situation to him. He went back indoors and maneuvered the machine out of its cubbyhole, explaining that he'd forgotten to remove the transit bolts. His hands were trembling so much, he kept dropping the screwdriver. But at last he had the back of the machine off and started handing brown-paper packages to Tony and Ian. Tony explained to the neighbours that they were weights, to stop the machine slipping and sliding when it was in the back of the lorry.
"Like bricks?" one neighbour asked, and when he agreed with her, sweat pouring down his face, she added a further question. "Why cover bricks in brown paper?"
Tony, beyond explanations, put his head in his hands and wept.
* * *
The detective brings back two beakers of coffee, one for himself, one for Ian. He's been checking up, using the computer, making a couple of phone calls. Ian sits ready to tell him the last of it.
"We couldn't just hand the stuff back, had to think of a way to do it. So we drove up to Dundee, night before last. Steady Eddie has a nightclub. We put the stuff in one of the skips at the back of the club, then phoned the club and told them where they could find it. Thing is, the club gets its rubbish collected privately, and the company works at night. So that night, the skip got emptied. Well, that wouldn't have mattered, only… only it was me made the call… and there were two numbers in the phone book. Instead of the office, I'd got through to the public phone on the wall beside the bar. It must have been some punter who answered. I just said my piece then hung up. I don't know… maybe they nipped outside and got the stuff for themselves. Maybe they didn't hear me, or thought I was drunk or something.…" His voice is choking; he's close to tears.
"Mr. Hart didn't get the stuff?" the detective guesses. Ian nods agreement. "And now your brother and Malc have gone missing?"
"Eddie got them. He must have done."
"And you want us to protect you?"
"Witness relocation: You can do that, can't you? I mean, there's a price on my head now. You've
got
to!"
The detective nods. "We can do it," he says. "But what exactly is it you're a witness to? There's no record of a lorry being hijacked. Nobody's reported such a loss. You don't seem to have any evidence linking Mr. Hart to anything illegal— much much as I'd love it if you did." The detective draws his chair closer. "It wasn't a slump that led to you losing your job, Ian. It was threatening your foreman. He didn't like your attitude, and you started spinning him some story about having a brother who's a terrorist, and who'd stick a bomb under his car. You scared the poor man half to death, until he found out the truth. See, I've got all of that in the files, Ian. What I don't have is anything about washing-machines, drugs wrapped in brown paper, or missing persons."
Ian leaps from his seat, begins pacing the room. "You could send a team out to the dump. If the drugs are there, they'll find them. Or… or go to the lockups, the washing machines will still be there… unless Steady Eddie's taken them. I wouldn't put it past him. Don't you see? I'm the only one left who can testify against him!"
The detective is on his feet now, too. "I think it's time you were off, son. I'll see you as far as the door."
"I need protection!"
The detective comes up to him again. Their faces are inches apart.
"Get your brother the terrorist to protect you. His name's… Billy, isn't it? Only you can't do that, can you? Because you haven't got a brother called Billy. Or a brother called Tony, if it comes to that." The detective pauses. "You haven't got
anybody
, Ian. You're a nobody. These stories of yours… that's all they are, stories. Come on now, it's time you were home. Your mum will be worrying."
"She got a new washing machine last week," Ian says softly. "The man who delivered it, he said sorry for being so late. He'd been stopped at a checkpoint."
It is quiet in the interview room. Quiet for a long time, until Ian begins weeping, weeping for the brother he's just lost again.
Peter Lovesey
The Perfectionist
PETER LOVESEY
won a mystery novel writing contest in 1969 and has never looked back. The numerous awards and distinctions heaped upon his work continue to accrue, his latest being the Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement from the Crime Writers Association. He has balanced his love of historical England (both his Prince of Wales and his Sgt. Cribb–Constable Thackery series) with a more dispassionate, harsher eye for his own times as seen in several novels, including his latest, and many, many outstanding short stories. As in "The Perfectionist," which first appeared in issue 4 of
The Strand Magazine
.
The Perfectionist
Peter Lovesey
T
he invitation dropped on the doormat of The Laurels along with a bank statement and a
Guide Dogs for the Blind
appeal. It was in a cream-coloured envelope made from thick, expensive-looking paper. Duncan left it to open after the others. His custom was to leave the most promising letters while he worked steadily through the others, using a paper knife that cut the envelopes tidily. Eventually he took out a gold-edged card with his name inscribed in the centre in fine italic script. It read:
The most perfect club in the world has the good sense to invite
Mr. Duncan Drif
fi
eld
a proven perfectionist to be an honoured guest at its biannual dinner Friday, January 31st, 7:30 for 8 pm
Contact will be made later
He was wary. This could be an elaborate marketing ploy. In the past he'd been invited— by motor dealers and furniture retailers— to parties that had turned out to be sales pitches, nothing more. Just because no product or company was mentioned, he wasn't going to be taken in. He read the invitation through several times. It has to be said, he liked the designation "a proven perfectionist." Couldn't fault their research. He was a Virgo— orderly, a striver for perfection. To see this written down as if he'd already achieved the ideal was especially pleasing. And to see his name in such elegant script was another fine touch.
Yet it troubled him that the club was not named. Nor was there an address, nor any mention of where the function was to be held. Being a thorough and cautious man, he would normally have looked these things up before deciding what to do about the invitation.
The phone call came about 8:30 the next evening. A voice that didn't need to announce it had been to a very good school spoke his name.
"Yes?"
"You received an invitation to the dinner on January 31st, I trust?"
"Which invitation was that?" Duncan said as if he received invitations by every post.
"A gold-edged card naming you a proven perfectionist. May we take it that you will accept?"
"Who are you, exactly?"
"A group of like-minded people. We know you'll fit in."
"Is there some mystery about it? I don't wish to join the Freemasons."
"We're not Freemasons, Mr. Driffield."
"How did you get my name?"
"It was put to the committee. You were the outstanding candidate."
"Really?" He glowed inwardly before his level-headedness returned.
"Is there any obligation?"
"You mean are we trying to sell something? Absolutely not."
"I don't have to make a speech?"
"We don't go in for speeches. It isn't like that at all. We'll do everything possible to welcome you and make you feel relaxed. Transport is provided."
"Are you willing to tell me your name?"
"Of course. It's David Hopkins. I do hope you're going to say yes."
Why not, he thought. "All right, Mr. Hopkins."
"Excellent. I'm sure if I ask you to be ready at 6:30 that as a proven perfectionist, you will be— to the minute. In case you were wondering, it's a dinner jacket and black tie affair. I'll come for you myself. The drive takes nearly an hour at that time of day, I'm afraid. And it's Dr. Hopkins actually, but please call me David."
After the call, Duncan, in his systematic way, tried to track down David Hopkins in the phone directory and the Medical Register. He found three people by that name and called them on the phone, but their voices had nothing like the honeyed tone of the David Hopkins he had spoken to.
He wondered who had put his name forward. Someone must have. It would be interesting to see if he recognised David Hopkins.
He did not. Precisely on time, on the last Friday in January, Dr. David Hopkins arrived— a slim, dark man in his forties, of average height. They shook hands.
"Is there anything I can bring? A bottle of whisky?"
"No. You're our guest, Duncan."
He liked the look of David. He felt that an uncommonly special evening was in prospect.
They walked out to the car— a large black Daimler, chauffeur-driven.
"We can enjoy the wine with a clear conscience," David explained, "but I would be dishonest if I led you to think that was the only reason we are being driven."
When they were both inside, David leaned across and pulled down a blind. There was one on each window and across the partition between the driver and themselves. Duncan couldn't see out at all. "This is in your interest."
"Why is that?"
"We ask our guests to be good enough to respect the privacy of the club. If you don't know where we meet, you can't upset anyone."
"I see. Now that we're alone, and I'm committed to coming, can you tell me some more?"
"A little. We're all of your cast of mind, actually."
"Perfectionists?"
He smiled. "That's one of our attributes."
"I wondered why I was asked. Do I know any of the members?"
"I doubt it."
"Then how…"
"Your crowning achievement."
Duncan tried to think which achievement could have come to their notice. He'd had an unremarkable career in the civil service. Sang a bit with a local choir. Once won first prize for his sweet peas in the town flower show, but he'd given up growing them now. He could think of nothing of enough merit to interest this high-powered club.
"How many members are there?"
"Fewer than we would like. Not many meet the criteria."
"So how many is that?"
"Currently, five."
"Oh— as few as that?"
"We're small and exclusive."
"I can't think why you invited me."
"It will become clear."
More questions from Duncan elicited little else, except that club had been in existence for over a hundred years. He assumed— but had the tact not to ask— that he would be invited to join if the members approved of him that evening. How he wished he was one of those people with a fund of funny stories. He feared he was dull company.
In just under the hour, the car came to a halt and the chauffeur opened the door. Duncan glanced about him as he stepped out, wanting to get some sense of where he was. It was dark, of course, but they were clearly in a London square— with street lights, a park in the centre, and plane trees at intervals in front of the houses. He couldn't put a name to it. The houses were terraced, and Georgian, just as they are in almost every other London square.
"Straight up the steps," said David. "The door is open."
They went in, through a hallway with mirrors, brightly lit by a crystal chandelier. The dazzling effect, after the dim lighting in the car, made him blink. David took Duncan's coat and handed it to a manservant and then opened a door.
"Gentlemen," he said. "May I present our guest, Mr. Duncan Driffield."
It was a smallish anteroom, and four men stood waiting with glasses of wine. Two looked quite elderly, the others about forty or so. One of the younger men was wearing a kilt.
The one who was probably the senior member extended a bony hand. "Joe Franks. I'm president, through a process of elimination."
