Understrike (7 page)

“
I’ve got to call someone first,” said Boysie, remembering Siedler and rooting in the bedside drawer for the envelope with the two telephone numbers. “And I don’t know whether I really should go out.”

“
Why the heck not?”

“
Those two characters . .”

“
If they’re still waiting for you, you’ll be a darned sight safer out in a crowd than sitting up here alone.”

“
I wasn’t thinking about being alone,” said Boysie, finding the envelope. “I was considering a nice quiet dinner for two. Up here. You know, the soft lights and sweet music thing.”

Chicory
smiled—warm and comfortable: “Nothing I’d like better, honey, but I have a rule. Stupid, but it’s the only one I’ve ever made and the only one I’ve ever managed to keep in the whole of my long low adult life.”

“
Oh? Rules are made to be broken. What is it anyway?”

“
Simple. I don’t—on first dates. And really, Boysie, this is a first date. You’re cute, I like you a lot, and you and I both know darned well what’s going to happen if we have dinner up here. Sure, it’ll happen anyway—maybe in Oklahoma City, maybe out in San Diego. It’ll happen, we both knew that soon as we saw one another. Chemistry. But I’m not going to break my little old rule; and you don’t want to spoil my record, do you, hon?” She got up and moved over to him.

Before
he had time to answer, Chicory had coiled her arms round his neck and their lips were tethered together—open wide, fluttering, sucking the breath from each other’s lungs while their tongues spliced in intricate patterns between their teeth. At last she pushed him gently away.

“
You make your call, Boysie honey.” She was speaking softly, scant-breathed. “The sooner we’re out of here, the more sure I am of not breaking my rule.” At the bathroom door, she murmured: “Sometime soon, Boysie. That’s for sure. Sometime very soon.”

It
took five minutes to locate Joe Siedler who was full of apologies after Boysie told his story.

“
Boysie pal, we wouldn’t have had this happen for anything. But I guess your man was right—something hanging over from the past. I’m goin’ to make sure though. I’m going to make certain that you stay in one piece. You wanna go out? Sure. I’ll have one a the boys look after you, at a distance of course. Now don’t you worry ‘bout a thing Boysie buddy, we’ll take good care of you, and I’ll be over personally, but personally, first thing in the morning just to make sure you get outa town with no bother. OK? Now you have yourself a real swell time. And don’t worry, we’ll be watching out for you. Real good.”

Boysie
and Chicory dined in the Rainbow Room of the RCA Building: in a restaurant which looked as unreal as a movie set. Even the air seemed to have been impregnated with luxury—sprayed from hygenic cans. They sat at a table window, from which they could see out over Manhattan to the Hudson—a great fairyland of tiny lights and flickering neon; a huge, rising castellation pricked through with bright oblongs, twinkling in lines up to the sky; bulwarks of midnight-blue against the deep pearl of the night.

With
Lobster Remoulade, Roast Long Island Duckling, and a splendid Strawberry Shortcake inside them, they took the chrome-lined elevator back to earth (Boysie had been frightened enough going up. Going down—with the drop of about fifty storeys before the brakes came on—was purgatory. But Chicory revelled in the whole business). For two hours they wandered through the streets of New York—Times Square, with its brash glare, noise, music and hukster atmosphere—the huge
Camel
ad puffing smoke from the painted cardboard man’s gaping mouth; then along the Great White Way, where the Broadway babies don’t say goodnight until it’s early morning.

The
streets began to empty—sad wisps of steam, rising from the covers of the city’s piped heating system, wavering as a yellow cab growled past or a prowl car hovered along the kerb. On Fifth Avenue, with their reflections dancing in the high mirrors of plate glass, they touched hands and held on tight, walking inches from the spangled jewels and chic dresses safe in the display windows: silent, lonely, unwanted until the regiments took to the streets and offices and department stores and the city came alive again.

They
said goodnight and kissed outside the plushiest store, Saks, on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 50th Street. Boysie felt like a seventeen-year-old. But, to be fair, that was how he always felt when a new and sensual female clawed her way into his easy heart. At a few yards distance—across the road, on the steps of St Patrick’s Cathedral—a United States Internal Security officer called Bremoy, who had the worried look of a man on the verge of his first ulcer, watched the kiss and, under his breath, snarled something about “Bastard top agents and their whores.”

Bremoy
was unaware that he too was being observed. In the shadow of the fifteen-foot bronze Atlas which decorates the forecourt of the International Building, across the intersection from St Patrick’s, a young man stood biting his nails—his eyes darting between Bremoy and the osculating couple. The skin on the young man’s face was taut to the bone. It was a face like a skull.

*

Having first looked, with routine care, under the bed, in the bathroom, behind the shower curtain and in the wardrobe, Boysie locked the door. Stripping off his jacket and shirt, he ambled back to the bathroom; popped the plug into place and began to run warm water into the tub. “Love is a Many Splendoured Thing,” sang Boysie in a quavering and fraction off-key tenor. Returning to the bedroom he undressed to his jockey briefs, and was about to make the journey back to the bathroom, when a thought slid slyly into his mind. Picking up his discarded trousers he fumbled for the small set of keys left carelessly in a pocket. Finding them, he pulled the tan Revelation from the wardrobe, unlocked it and unzipped the special compartment built into the lid. Slipping his hand into the cavity, Boysie pulled out the small pearl-handled automatic pistol and checked its mechanism. It was a pistol which could in no circumstances be regarded as heavy artillery—a Saur & Sohn Type IA adapted for .22 ammunition—but it always gave him that smug feeling of satisfaction; an added sense of superiority and power. He carried it quite illegally; and, while Mostyn would have had a dozen fits—in variegated colours—had he known that Boysie even possessed such a weapon, its psychological value paid off dividends of colossal proportions. The pistol was loaded. The safety catch on. Boysie smiled and carried the gun into the bathroom. He would keep it handy, he resolved, for the rest of this American jaunt.

*

Cirio was tall with full undulating grey hair which seemed to set a standard colour to his personality. By birth he was Italian, though it was many years since he had seen the terraced vineyards around his family’s home near Castel San Pietro. By trade he was a restaurateur: owner and manager of the
Club
Fondante
—
a
medium-class nightspot in the East 70s. By profession, Cirio was a Communist.

Cirio
sat at his desk in the back room office at the
Club
Fondante
, the long square-tipped nails of his right-hand fingers drumming an agitated tattoo on the stained woodwork. To his left, the strong-arm boys who had called on Boysie earlier that evening were seated side by side. The one with the scar below his eye was quietly picking his teeth with his free hand—the right arm hung interestingly in a sling; the other merely looked into space, as though locked in some private, and ghoulish, nightmare.

Across
the desk from Cirio, a man in his late thirties was engrossed in lighting a cigar. He was a person who radiated authority—expensive authority, and, as he drew on his cigar, he looked up at Cirio with steel-grey eyes which cut into the Italian like an oxyacetylene lamp burning into soft metal.

“
You are a lot of goddam prissy bastards,” announced the steel-eyed man with feeling.

“
Look, Ritzy, the boys did their best. We’re sorry, but it just couldn’t be helped.”

“
Damn broad turned up and started screaming her lousy little head off,” muttered the hood with the scar.

“
Their best ain’t enough. They gotta do better than their best.” Ritzy spoke with the chill of a deep freeze—outside, at the North Pole. “Now, I suppose, you bums expect me to get ya out of the mess.”

Cirio
did not answer. Ritzy spoke again: “Look, howdya think I feel? This organisation is expected ta carry out assault operations. That’s its function—its purpose. We’re all paid good money—good American dollars—because we’re supposed to be professional men. We’re supposed to be proficient. Get me? Ya do know what proficient means?” Once more nobody spoke. “I got six assault groups working under me in this city alone. And I choose you boys ‘cause I reckon you’re the best in the business. What are the contractors goin’ ta say ta me when they find that we loused up the deal? Waddam I goin’ to say to them? Goddam it, Cirio…”

The
telephone burred out its alarm. Cirio spoke into the mouthpiece:

“
Yea? ... He is? ... OK, just stay there and watch ... Good boy, you’re doin’ a swell job.”

Ritzy
looked questioningly.

“
Young Skull Face,” said Cirio. “The subject’s returned to his hotel. Said goodnight to the broad outside Saks. Necking like crazy the kid says.”

“
Sexy bastards, the English!” spat Ritzy. “OK. We can’t get him outa there. So he’s gotta be eliminated. So there’ll have ta be an accident. I wanted t’avoid it but ... Gimme that phone.” He thought for a moment, then began to stab at the dial. They could hear the signal burping at the other end, then a voice answered. Ritzy leaned back in his chair: “That you, Dim? ... Ritzy ... How ya bin? ... Look, Dim, ya remember ya fixed me up with a little pet way back, when was it? Oh, couple of years back ... Yea, that’s it, boy, you remember good ... You got another of them things? ... Huhn hu ... Huhn hu ... Yea, that’s it. OK, I’ll collect it personally myself ... And Dim, I’ll need your help tucking it away. Same like last time.” He laughed and, after an exchange of what passed among Ritzy’s friends for courtesies, put the phone down and turned back to Cirio. “Now, you’re goin’ ta learn something. I’m goin’ ta show youse guys a real professional job. A real live circus act. And our friend in the New Weston Hotel just ain’t goin’ ta know what hit him. You got the list of the guy’s closest friends comin’ out on the boat?” Cirio nodded.

“
Yea, there was one in particular.” continued Ritzy. “Babe with a fancy English name…”

Once
more they were interrupted by the telephone. “OK, bring him right up,” said Cirio, after listening to the brief message. Then, looking at Ritzy: “He’s arrived.”

When
the visitor was shown into the room, the two hoodlums stopped picking and staring. Their mouths dropped open.

“
But, that’s the guy ...” said one.

“
That’s him. The guy we was supposed to . .”

“
Come in, friend. Welcome to the United States.” Ritzy and Cirio had risen to their feet. “No, gentlemen,” said Ritzy. “This is not the guy. This one is ... Well, like a duplicate: a twin soul.”

Vladimir
Solev, tired and a mite nervous, smiled at his new companions. The left side of his mouth turned up more sharply than ever. The likeness to Boysie Oakes was staggering.

3 —  ... AND LEAVE THE DRIVING TO US

The door of the bus slid open. The driver was smiling down at a young couple waiting to greet their aunt, or mother, or whoever she was. The elderly lady appeared in the doorway, looking fresh and neat. A porter—flashing a twenty-five-cent beam—stepped forward to help her down. The young couple embraced the lady, who seemed to be the incarnation of all nice American aunts and mothers, commenting on how well and refreshed she looked.

“
Oh, but it’s great travelling Greyhound!” enthused the elderly lady.

A
quartet of songsters started up the jingle: “Go
Greyhound
... And leave the driving to us.” The television screen cut to the next commercial.

“
And that’s how we go, Boysie honey,” purred Chicory, sitting curled in an armchair, clasping her glass of Old Hickory to her glorious left breast. “They say the first hundred miles are the worst. No, it’ll be great. With you it’ll be great.”

Boysie
folded a pair of denim beach slacks, and placed them tenderly on top of the clothes already stacked into the Revelation. That completed his packing. He turned and gave the girl a long, sizzling look. Chicory was all set for the journey, claret skin-tight stretch pants and a plain white light sweater appeared to be the only clothes she was wearing. At any rate, one could detect no ridge or bump of undergarments. Pondering on the possibility of there being none at all, Boysie strolled into the bathroom and went through his routine check of the automatic pistol—his third since the affair with the two heavies on the previous evening—slipping it back into the patent holster stitched inside the hip pocket of his charcoal casual slacks.

It
was exactly ten-thirty when he returned to the bedroom to snap the Revelation shut. They had an hour and a half to go before the bus was due to leave the Port Authority Bus Terminal to carry them West over the slaving miles of hot road. Boysie swallowed the last of his drink and decided that now was the time to put in a little more work on softening up the ornamental Miss Triplehouse. Since her arrival—on the pre-arranged dot of ten—he had noticed, with pleasure, the warmth of her look—her eyes following him around the room as he packed his suitcase; that longing gaze of adoration which so flatters men, and is one of woman’s most cunning ruses in the game of seduction. Now, he moved towards her, settling on the corner of the armchair, one hand sliding across her back to knead her left shoulder. Chicory lifted her face, closed her eyes, and allowed her mouth to open slightly, ready to receive his. Boysie bent closer: “It’s our second date, isn’t it, lovey?” His voice trembling on the edge of excitement.

“
Yes,” she whispered.

“
And we’ve got all of an hour before we need leave.”

“
Huhn-hu?”

Their
lips touched, and Joe Siedler started a friendly tattoo on the door. “Blast,” emoted Boysie, who had forgotten Siedler’s promise to come over and see them safely off the premises.

Sielder
was as boisterous as ever, and genuinely appreciative when he set eyes on Chicory. “Geez, you British sure know how to pick ‘em,” he gushed. “Wish I were riding down to San Diego with a honey like you, honey. Hey, Boysie pal, while you’re down there, do me a favour, look up the head bartender at the
Bali
Hai
. Name o’ Bruno. A real nut. But real. Old Buddy o’ mine.”

Joe
in his fulsome way was determined to see that Boysie’s last hours in New York were pleasant, and that the couple were moved on and out of his territory without any difficulties.

“
I got Avallon and the automobile downstairs waitin’ for youse. And a couple of the boys are outside in the lobby justa make sure,” he said, smiling proudly at this display of efficiency.

“
Yes, I saw them on my way in,” said Chicory. “Got Cop stamped all over them in red ink, and two darned great bulges in their jackets. Worried me.”

“
Aw, hell! It shows, doesn’t it? I keep telling the Organisation they want people like me. Inconspicuous people.” Siedler in his wild check jacket was about as inconspicuous as a harlot at a harvest festival.

“
It’s the same with our police,” said Boysie dryly. “Damn great boots, and they all wear the same kind of raincoat.”

A
puzzled look crept over Chicory’s face: “Boysie? Why are the cops playing guardian angel to you?” There was an embarrassed pause.

“
Oh well, you know ... When you’re negotiating a big government contract ... and after that silly spot of bother last night.” Boysie tailed off lamely. The pause continued for the count of ten.

“
How about a little drink before I put you on that bus,” said Siedler, realising that he had made some kind of a boo-boo, changing the subject rapidly, and producing another bottle of Old Hickory which he had been clutching ostentatiously behind his back. “How about that? Hickory for Chicory.” He caught sight of the TV screen. “And man do I go for Yogi Bear. Just look at that.” Siedler went off into gusts of mirth as the popular bear once more outwitted the ranger at Jellystone Park. He stood for a full minute, oblivious to everything else, transfixed by the antics of the cartoon characters. Beysie finally detached the bottle from a limp hand and carted it over to the dressing table.

He
was about to pour the drinks when a bell boy arrived bearing an unexpected gift. The parcel was for Boysie—large, oblong, flat and beautifully packaged.

“
Christmas already?” said Siedler as Boysie placed the interesting object on the table.

“
Who the hell’s sending parcels to me here?” Boysie felt an initial intuitive nip of danger. Siedler was behind him.

“
Wait a minute, boy. Careful with that thing. You can never tell—specially if someone’s gunning for you. Better let me get it down to headquarters. You know, after last night’s caper. They’ll get the Bomb Squad on to it.”

“
There’s a card on top,” said the observant Chicory.

Boysie
removed the envelope from beneath its cellotape binding, slit it open and took out a square, gilt-edged card. The writing was in that round, characterless hand much favoured by the upper-bracket girls’ schools along the Roedean and Cheltenham circuit.

Got
your
address
from
the
Cunard
people
, it read.
Hope
this
reaches
you
before
you
leave
New
York
.
A
little
gift
for
making
me
so
happy
.
With
my
love
ever
.
Priscilla
.

“
Gosh,” burbled Boysie. “How jolly nice of her. Wonder what she’s sent?”

“
Who’s Priscilla?” said Chicory in a voice betraying the green-eyed monster which lurks in the hot recesses of every woman’s brain.

“
Oh, just a girl I met on the boat. Nobody important.” Boysie threw it off with an inexpert touch of nonchalance.

“
Hu!” She tossed her head and went over to study the view from the window as Boysie scrabbled with the outer wrapping.

“
You’re sure it’s OK?” asked Siedler, facing Boysie over the parcel.

“
This is all right. Girl on the boat. Hundred percenter. Jolly nice of her to have bothered.” Boysie preened like a birthday boy. The wrapping was off now, revealing an elegant long box, crested with the name of one of New York’s swankiest stores for men. He struggled to remove the lid—fingers all thumbs.

“
Here, let me help you with that.” Siedler pulled up on his side of the box, disclosing a first layer of tissue paper.

Boysie
and Siedler must have both realised the dreadful mistake at the same moment—just as the lid came free. Joe Siedler’s hand was outstretched over the tissue. He stood no chance. The tissue stirred and crackled, then seemed to burst upwards like an opening flower. The long, thin body flashed out from its paper retreat and streaked with lightning speed and grace, fastening its dripping little mouth hard on to Sielder’s wrist. He gave a shriek of terror. Boysie took a half step back then stopped, fascinated, screwed to the floor, hands paralysed with horror. Chicory turned and began to scream, a forearm thrown across her face as though in defence. The revolting, deadly fangs of the eight-foot black mamba had closed tightly and were relentlessly pumping venom into Siedler’s bloodstream. For a moment he did not move, his eyes dilated, all senses fixed on the hot pulse of pain and awful crawling sensation. Then, with an almost listless downward jerk of the arm, Siedler shook the brute free and fell back on the bed, moaning and clutching his arm. The snake flicked its soft green-black body —sending the box flying—rolled on to the floor with a slithery thump, then seemed to leap forward, its length whipping out so that the tail almost touched Chicory’s feet by the window. The snake’s tiny eyes gleamed above the darting tongue. For a second it seemed to be making up its mind which way to turn; then, head slightly raised, it made an effortless rise on to the bed and began to glide like an arrow towards Boysie.

The
mamba is one of the world’s most dangerous and aggressive snakes. It is also one of the fastest. In Africa they tell stories about good runners being overtaken by a mamba on the hunt. Boysie felt the hair on his neck stand erect. But the nervous, inbred instinct for self-preservation, and those few seconds which Siedler had taken to throw the snake from his wrist, gave Boysie just enough time to go through a standard reaction. The little pearl-handled pistol was out. He experienced that terrifying flip-roll of his stomach and saw the blurred head of the nauseating creature speeding over the bed coming straight for him.

His
third shot caught the snake in the head—the other two went thudding into the bed, close to where Siedler lay moaning. A fourth bullet entered the middle of the reptile’s pliable body. It reared up, then dropped writhing and lashing in a death fury to the floor. Boysie, trembling with terror, hung on to the table. Chicory was screaming. At that moment the door crashed open and the two policemen slammed into the room, their M1911/A automatics at the ready.

*

The groaning had stopped, and Chicory’s hysteria was now reduced to a whisper. One of the men was talking urgently into the telephone. The other, who had been applying a makeshift tourniquet to Siedler’s arm, suddenly raised himself from the stooping position over the bed. A choking sound came from Siedler’s throat. Boysie saw him twitch twice, and watched the white bubble of foam come slavering from his lips. Siedler took two great gulps of air, then seemed to deflate, his head falling loosely on to the pillow.

“
Joe’s not goin’ to need the antivenom, nor a doctor,” said the cop to his colleague. “Musta been the shock, or his heart. Poison wouldn’t have worked that quick.”

The
other man went on talking into the telephone. Boysie looked down at the still, ashen figure of Joe Siedler. He felt numb and his bowels had turned watery. Through the confused and shocked thoughts, jumbled in his mind, Boysie reflected that he was a natural Jonah: a magnet for violence: a carrier of death. This kind of thing had happened before. He remembered a villa in Southern France, and a young girl’s body spurting its lifeblood over the bonnet of a car, and the corpses of nearly thirty people whose deaths he had caused—one way or another—since the day when smooth Mostyn had offered him a post with the Department of British Special Security. Now, the gay, friendly Joe Siedler, whom he had met only a few hours before, lay dead; two tiny swelling punctures in his wrist.

“
He’s not ...?” Chicory looked up, her dark eyes ringed with the puff of tears.

Boysie
nodded and went over to her. She clutched his hand, her fingers moving against his in the nervous caress of fear.

“
Who are you?” she asked, frightened and low.

“
Boysie Oakes,” he whispered. “A bloody leper.”

“
OK, there ain’t much more you can do here.” The policeman had put down the telephone. “We’ve gotta get you on your way, fast as we can. The lady would like to freshen up a bit first?”

Chicory
nodded and went slowly, trembling, to the bathroom.

“
Joe was a great guy,” said the other cop.

“
A great-hearted guy,” said his colleague. “Mr Oakes, I guess we ought to get a few details straightened out.”

Boysie
answered their questions about the arrival of the parcel, the character and connections of Miss Priscilla Braddock-Fairchild, and the actual events which had filled the room with half a minute of terror. Together, they examined the box in which the horrific gift had arrived. It was lined with a kind of protective foil—which retained unpleasant traces of the former occupant. The reptile had been coiled securely, obviously by an expert, between a series of forked prongs set in a spiral at the bottom of the box. The lid contained similar prongs. The snake—which they had pushed carefully into a corner and covered with a sheet—had, presumably, been drugged and fitted snugly into its lair, where it had lain, immobile, until the dope had worn off and the lid was lifted to free it to the attack.