A Fine Night for Dying pc-6 Page 2

  IT was almost two months since Chavasse had visited the house in St. John’s Wood, and returning was like coming home again after a long absence. Not so strange, perhaps, when one considered the kind of life he had led for the twelve years he had been an agent of the Bureau, the little-known section of British Intelligence that handled the sort of business no one else seemed to know what to do with.

  He went up the steps and pressed the bell beside the brass plate that carried the legend BROWN amp; CO-IMPORTERS amp; EXPORTERS. The door was opened almost immediately by a tall graying man in a blue serge uniform, who positively beamed a welcome.

  “Good to have you back, Mr. Chavasse. You’re nice and brown.”

  “Glad to be back, George.”

  “Mr. Mallory’s been asking for you, sir. Miss Frazer’s been phoning down every few minutes.”

  “Nothing new in that, George.”

  Chavasse went up the curving Regency staircase quickly. Nothing changed. Not a thing. It was just like it had always been. Lengthy periods in which damn-all happened, and then something broke through to the surface, and the day needed twenty-seven hours.

  When he went into the small outer office at the end of the narrow corridor, Jean Frazer was seated at her desk. She glanced up and removed her heavy library spectacles with a smile that was always a shade warmer for Chavasse than anyone else.

  “Paul, you’re looking fine. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

  She came round the desk, a small hippy woman of thirty or so, but attractive enough in her own way. Chavasse took her hands and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I never did get around to giving you that evening out at the Saddle Room. It’s been on my conscience.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it has.” There was a look of skepticism on her face. “You got my message?”

  “My flight was delayed, but the messenger was waiting when I got to the flat. I didn’t even have time to unpack. I’ve been to St. Bede’s and had a look at the corpus delicti or whatever they call it. Most unpleasant. He’d been in the sea rather a long time. Bleached a whiter shade of pale, by the way, which seemed extraordinary considering what you told me about him.”

  “Spare me the details.” She flicked the intercom. “Paul Chavasse is here, Mr. Mallory.”

  “Send him in.”

  The voice was remote and dry and might have been from another world-a world that Chavasse had almost forgotten during his two months’ convalescence. A tiny flicker of excitement moved coldly in his stomach as he opened the door and went in.

  MALLORY hadn’t changed in the slightest. The same gray flannel suit from the same very eminent tailor; the same tie from the right school; not an iron-gray hair out of place; the same frosty, remote glance over the top of the spectacles. He couldn’t even manage a smile.

  “Hello, Paul, nice to see you,” he said, as if he didn’t mean a word of it. “How’s the leg?”

  “Fine now, sir.”

  “No permanent effects?”

  “It aches a little in damp weather but they tell me that will wear off after a while.”

  “You’re lucky you’ve still got two legs to walk around on. Magnum bullets can be nasty things. How was Alderney?”

  Chavasse’s English mother lived in retirement on that most delightful of all the Channel Islands, and he had spent his convalescence in her capable hands. It occurred to him, with a sense of wonder, that on the previous day at this time he had been picnicking on the white sands of Telegraph Bay; cold chicken and salad and a bottle of liebfraumilch frosted from the fridge and wrapped in a damp towel, strictly against the rules, but the only way to drink it.

  He sighed. “Nice, sir. Very nice.”

  Mallory got straight down to business. “You’ve seen the body at St. Bede’s?”

  Chavasse nodded. “Any idea who he was?”

  Mallory reached for a file and opened it. “A West Indian named Harvey Preston from Jamaica.”

  “And how did you manage to find that out?”

  “His fingerprints were on record.”

  Chavasse shrugged. “His fingers were swollen like bananas when I saw him.”

  “Oh, the lab boys have a technique for dealing with that sort of problem. They take a section of skin and shrink it to normal size with the use of chemicals. They arrive at a reasonable facsimile.”

  “Somebody went to a lot of trouble over the body of an unknown man washed up after six weeks. Why?”

  “In the first place, it didn’t happen in quite that way. He was brought up off the bottom in the trawl net of a fishing boat out of Brixham, with about seventy pounds of chain wrapped around him.”

  “Murdered, presumably?”

  “Death by drowning.”

  “A nasty way to go.”

  Mallory passed a photo across. “That’s him, taken at his trial at the Bailey in 1967.”

  “What was he up for?”

  “Robbing a gambling club in Birmingham. The Crown lost, by the way. He was acquitted for lack of evidence. Witnesses failed to come forward, and so on. The usual story.”

  “He must have had a lot of pull.”

  Mallory helped himself to one of his Turkish cigarettes and leaned back in his seat. “Harvey Preston arrived in England in 1938 when he was twenty and joined the Royal Army Service Corps during the Munich crisis. His mother and father followed a few months later with his younger sister, and Preston fixed them up with a small house in Brixton. He was stationed at Aldershot with a transport regiment as a truck driver. His mother gave birth to another son, who they named Darcy, on the third day of the war in September 1939. A week later, Harvey’s regiment was posted to France. During the big retreat, when the panzers broke through in 1940, his unit was badly knocked about and he was shot twice in the right leg. He made it out through Dunkirk and back to England, but was so badly lamed by his wounds that he was discharged with a pension.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “At first he drove an ambulance, but then he underwent the kind of personal tragedy so common during the London Blitz. The house in Brixton got a direct hit during a raid and the only survivor was his young brother. From then on, things seem to have taken a different turn.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Take your pick. Black market, prostitution. After the war, he ran a number of illegal gaming clubs and became something of a power in the underworld. Moved into organized crime about 1959. The police were certain he was behind a very efficient hijacking organization, but could never prove anything. There were several payroll robberies as well, and he was very definitely involved in drug trafficking.”

  “Quite a character. What happened after his acquittal last year? Was he deported?”

  Mallory shook his head. “He’d been here too long for that. But the Yard really turned the heat on. He lost his gaming license for a start, which put him out of the casino business. It seems they breathed down his neck so hard that he hardly dared stir from his house. It was the money from the Birmingham casino robbery they were after. Even if he couldn’t be tried again, they could stop him from spending it.”

  “Was he married?”

  “No, lived on his own. A different girl a night by all accounts, right up to the end.”

  “What about the brother, the one who survived the bombing?”

  “Young Darcy?” Mallory actually grinned. “Funny thing happened there. Harvey kept the boy with him. Sent him to St. Paul’s as a day boy. Must have been an extraordinary life for him. Mixing with the sons of the upper crust during the day and the worst villains in London by night. He decided to go in for the law, of all things. Passed his bar finals three years ago. Cleared off to Jamaica after Harvey’s trial.”

  “And what did Harvey do?”

  “Left the country on a plane to Rome two months ago. They just about took him to pieces at the airport, but there wasn’t a thing on him. They had to let him go.”

  “Where did he go from Rome?”

  “Interpol
had him followed to Naples, where he dropped out of sight.”

  “To reemerge two months later in the bottom of a fishing net off the English coast. Intriguing. What do you think he was playing at?”

  “I should have thought that was obvious.” Mallory shrugged. “He was trying to get into the country illegally. As long as the police didn’t know he was here, he could recover his money at leisure and leave by the same way he came, whatever that was.”

  Chavasse was beginning to see a little light. “Someone put him over the side in the Channel, that’s what you’re suggesting?”

  “Something like that. There’s a lot of money in this passage-by-night business since the Commonwealth Immigration Act. Pakistanis, Indians, West Indians, Australians-anyone who can’t get a visa in the usual way. There’s good money in it.”

  “There was a case in the paper the other day,” Chavasse said. “The navy stopped an old launch off Felixstowe and found thirty-two Pakistanis on board. That’s a fair night’s work for someone.”

  “Amateurs,” Mallory said. “Most of them don’t stand a chance. It’s the professionals who’re getting away with it, the people with the organization. There’s a pipeline running all the way through from Naples. The Italian police have been doing some checking and they’ve come up with an interesting report on a boat called the Anya that makes the Naples-Marseilles run regularly under a Panamanian registration.”

  Chavasse reached for the file, turned it round and went through the photos it contained. There were several of Harvey Preston taken through the years, one on the steps of the Old Bailey after his trial, an arm around the shoulders of his young brother. Chavasse leafed through the reports, then glanced up.

  “This is police work. Where do we come in?”

  “The Special Branch at Scotland Yard has asked us to help. They feel this job requires the kind of talents more appropriate to one of our operatives.”

  “The last time they asked for help, it involved me spending six months in three of the worst jails in Britain,” Chavasse said, “plus the fact that I nearly got my leg blown off. Why can’t they do their own dirty work?”

  “We’ve worked out a suitable background for you,” Mallory said impassively. “Use your own name, no reason not to. Australian citizen of French extraction. Wanted in Sydney for armed robbery.” He pushed a folder across. “Everything you need is in there, including a newspaper clipping confirming your criminal background. Naturally you’re willing to pay any price to get into Britain, and no questions asked.”

  Chavasse felt, as usual, as if some great sea was washing over him. “When do I go?”

  “There’s a three-thirty flight to Rome. You should make it with a quarter of an hour to spare if you leave now. You’ll find a suitcase waiting for you outside. I had one brought over. A good thing you didn’t have time to unpack.” He stood up and held out his hand. “The best of luck, Paul. Keep in touch in the usual way.”

  Mallory sat down, replaced his glasses and reached for a file. Chavasse picked up his folder, turned and went out. He was chuckling when he closed the door.

  “What’s so funny?” Jean Frazer demanded.

  He leaned across her desk and chucked her under the chin. “Prettiest looking Sheila I’ve clapped eyes on since I left Sydney,” he said, in a very fair Australian twang.

  She stared at him in amazement. “Are you mad?”

  He picked up his suitcase and laughed. “I must be, Jean. I really must be,” he said, and went out.

  CHAPTER 3

  Naples

  The woman was an Indian and very young-no more than sixteen, if Chavasse was any judge. She had a pale, flawless complexion and sad brown eyes that were set off to perfection by her scarlet sari. Chavasse had seen her only once during the two-day voyage from Naples and presumed they were bound for the same eventual destination.

  He was leaning against the rail when she came along the deck. She nodded a trifle uncertainly and knocked on the door of the captain’s cabin. It opened after a moment or so, and Skiros appeared. He was stripped to the waist and badly needed a shave, but he smiled ingratiatingly, managing to look even more repulsive than usual, and stepped to one side.

  The girl hesitated fractionally, then moved in. Skiros glanced across at Chavasse, winked and closed the door, which didn’t look too good for Miss India. Chavasse shrugged. It was no skin off his nose. He had other things to think about. He lit a cigarette and moved toward the stern of the old steamer.

  PAVLO Skiros had been born of indeterminate parentage in Constantinople forty-seven years earlier. There was some Greek in him, a little Turk and quite a lot of Russian, and he was a disgrace to all three countries. He had followed the sea all his life, and yet his right to a master’s ticket was uncertain, to say the least. But he possessed other, darker qualities in abundance that suited the owners of the Anya perfectly.

  He sat on the edge of the table in his small cluttered cabin and scratched his left armpit, lust in his soul when he looked at the girl.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, in English.

  “My money,” she told him. “You said you would return it when we reached port.”

  “All in good time, my dear. We dock in half an hour and you’ll have to keep out of the way until the customs men have finished.”

  “There will be trouble?” she asked, in alarm.

  He shook his head. “No trouble, I promise you. It is all arranged. You’ll be on your way within a couple of hours.”

  He got up and moved close enough for her to smell him. “You’ve nothing to worry about. I’ll handle everything personally.”

  He put a hand on her arm and she drew back slightly. “Thank you-thank you very much. I will go and change now. I don’t suppose a sari would be very practical on the Marseilles waterfront at night.”

  She opened the door and paused, looking toward Chavasse. “Who is that man?”

  “Just a passenger-an Australian.”

  “I see.” She appeared to hesitate. “Is he another like myself?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He wiped sweat from his face with the back of a hand. “You’d better go to your cabin now and stay there. I’ll come for you later when everything is quiet.”

  She smiled again, looking younger than ever. “Thank you. You’ve no idea what this means to me.”

  The door closed behind her. Skiros stood staring at it blankly for a moment, then reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table and a dirty tin mug. As he drank, he thought about the girl and what he would do with her when things were nice and quiet and they were alone. The expression on his face was not pleasant.

  They entered Marseilles on the evening tide and it was already dark when they docked. Chavasse had gone down to his cabin earlier and lay on the bunk, smoking and staring up at the ceiling, on which the peeling paint made a series of interesting patterns.

  But then the whole boat left a great deal to be desired. The food was barely edible, the blankets dirty and the general appearance of the crew, from Skiros down, was pretty grim.

  Using the information obtained by the Italian police, Chavasse had approached Skiros in a certain cafe on the Naples waterfront, flashing a roll of fivers that had set the good captain’s eyes gleaming. Chavasse had not used the criminal background part of his story; he had preferred to allow Skiros to discover that for himself. He had simply posed as an Australian anxious to get into the Old Country and denied a visa, and Skiros had swallowed the story. For the money, Chavasse would be taken to Marseilles, landed illegally and sent on his way to people who would see him safely across the Channel.

  Once on board, he had deliberately left his wallet around, minus his bankroll, but containing, amongst other things, the clipping from the Sydney Morning Herald that spoke of the police search for Paul Chavasse, wanted for questioning in connection with a series of armed robberies. There was even a photo, to make certain, and the bait must have been taken, for the cabin had been searched-Chavasse had ways
of knowing about things like that.

  He was surprised he had gotten this far without some attempt to relieve him of his cash and drop him overboard, for Skiros looked like the kind of man who would have cheerfully sold his sister in the marketplace on very reasonable terms.

  Chavasse had slept with the door double-bolted each night and his Smith amp; Wesson handy under the pillow. He took it out now, checking each round carefully. As he replaced it in the special holster that fitted snugly against the small of his back, there was a knock at the door, and Melos, the walleyed Cypriot first mate, looked in.

  “Captain Skiros is ready for you now.”

  “Good on you, sport.” Chavasse picked up a black trench coat and reached for his suitcase. “It’s me for the open road.”

  Outside it was raining and he followed Melos along the slippery deck to the captain’s cabin. Skiros was seated at his table, eating his evening meal, when they went in.

  “So, Mr. Chavasse, we arrive safely?”

  “Looks like it, sport,” Chavasse said cheerfully. “Let’s see now, I gave you five hundred in Naples. That’s another five I owe you.”

  He produced the roll of fivers and counted a hundred out on the table. Skiros gathered them up. “Nice to do business with you.”

  “Where do I go from here?” Chavasse demanded.

  “There is no watchman on this dock. No one will stop you when you pass through the gate. Catch the nine-thirty express for Paris. Wait at the bookstall on the platform at the other end, and you will be approached by a man who will ask you if you are his cousin Charles from Marseilles. Everything is arranged from then on.”

  “That’s it then.” Chavasse still kept the bonhomie going as he pulled on his trench coat and picked up the suitcase. “Didn’t I see an Indian girl about the place?”

  “What about her?” Skiros demanded, his smile fading.

  “Nothing special. Just thought she might be on the same kick as me.”

  “You are mistaken.” Skiros got to his feet, wiped his mustache and held out his hand. “I would not delay, if I were you. You’ve just got time to catch that train.”