Алистер Маклин - Prime Target

‘Ginny’s holding one of those embarrassing wake affairs, with drinks and finger food.’

‘I suppose I could call briefly and pay my respects.’

‘She’ll appreciate that,’ Chadwick said, standing back from the car. ‘After you.’

The three of them settled in the back seat. For a couple of minutes they travelled in silence. Philpott made a show of catching his breath, the other two tried to look casual as they stared out of the windows, exchanging occasional glances. Finally, when Philpott appeared to be in control of his breathing, Chadwick pressed a button in the armrest and closed the glass partition behind the driver.

‘So, Mister, ah…’

‘Beamish,’ Philpott said, ‘Derek Beamish.’

Chadwick introduced Emerett Pearce. When the handshaking was over Chadwick sat back, folding his hands on the hummock of his belly.

‘Can I ask you straight away, Mr Beamish, how you come to know who I am.’

‘I know you by repute,’ Philpott said. ‘Your land-dealing strategies have many imitators in Europe. I’m sure you know that.’

Chadwick smiled. ‘I’d heard.’

‘And of course your monograph on small company structures, Survival Through Strength, is a landmark in business writing.’

‘It’s good of you to say so.’ Chadwick had relaxed visibly. ‘And what business are you in, Mr Beamish?’

‘Oh…’ Philpott made a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m on the boards of a few companies in England and over here. I have a reasonably useful fund of experience, and a range of contacts I gained from my years in politics. I put these at the disposal of the companies I serve.’

‘Politics?’ Chadwick sounded the word cautiously. ‘You mean you were a professional politician?’

‘A Member of Parliament, yes.’

Chadwick and Pearce looked impressed.

‘Might I ask,’ Pearce said, ‘what party you were in?’

‘Oh, the Conservatives. I’ve been a Conservative all my life. Although I have to say the party’s slide leftward in recent years has saddened me.’ Philpott smiled sourly. ‘I nearly didn’t vote at all, last election.’

‘I take it you knew Harold Gibson?’

‘Again, by repute. We had interests in common, shall we say. His views on certain social issues touched my own at many points.’

‘He was a fine man,’ Emerett Pearce said. ‘And I don’t just say that because he was a business partner of Don’s and mine. Harold Gibson had vision, and he had the courage to turn his insights into realities.’

‘He will be missed,’ Philpott said.

‘So.’ Chadwick jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘The guy back there with the camera, who is he?’

Now Philpott looked as if he had been asked something distasteful. ‘His name is Jonah Tait,’ he said. ‘He’s a journalist and publisher from New York.’

‘What kind of publisher?’

‘Books and a magazine or two. Something of a crank, some might say, but he undoubtedly has a following.’

The car turned smoothly into a long rising driveway. The chauffeur dropped the speed and manoeuvred past a group of cars parked irregularly at the front of a large pink-and-white house. Chadwick pressed his button again and the screen moved back.

‘Put it over by the trees,’ he told the driver. ‘I don’t want any of these hot-rodders putting marks on the paintwork.’

They got out and followed another group of new arrivals into the house. In a long reception room with a sky-blue carpet, upwards of seventy people were standing in small clusters, murmuring and nodding and helping themselves to food and drink from a table running the length of the room. Waiters moved soundlessly among the guests taking empty glasses and providing replacements.

Philpott approached the widow, who was regally ensconced in a huge chair at the farthest corner of the room, surrounded by several other weepy-eyed women.

‘Mrs Gibson.’ Philpott approached with folded hands, his eyes sorrowful. ‘My name is Derek Beamish, you have no reason to know who I am. I won’t intrude any further on your grief than to say how sorry I am for your loss.’

Ginny thanked him in a whisper. She reached out and touched his hand. He closed his other hand over hers, then withdrew and found a drink. Chadwick and Pearce were beside him before he took the second sip.

‘You were saying,’ Chadwick said, ‘about the journalist…’

‘Jonah Tait.’

‘He’s doing something on Harold’s death?’

‘Well.’ Philpott frowned. ‘I gather he plans to produce a book, no less. An exposé. He wants to use the murder as the basis for an examination of Mr Gibson’s way of life, his business practices, his relationships with other businessmen, and his financial connections with certain organizations unsympathetic to the Jew and other irritant minorities. Mr Tait has said his book will offer society a remedy to the likes of Harold Gibson.’

‘Remedy.’ Pearce seemed to stiffen at that. He leaned forward so he could look straight at Philpott. ‘How remedy? What’s he advocating?’

‘The usual dreary socialist panaceas, inflated with topical hot air.’

‘But you believe he’s dangerous, even so?’

‘Dangerous enough, because, as I say, he has followers. And I wouldn’t underestimate his ability to argue or make a point. He is a rather gifted man, in a crowd-pleasing way.’

‘You’re surely not an admirer of his?’ Pearce said.

‘Quite the opposite. But it pays to have a balanced evaluation of the enemy. He’s currently setting up a campaign. A friend of mine heard him discuss it at a reception in New York only last week.’ Philpott looked across the room for a moment. ‘I’ll be frank with you. Jonah Tait’s campaign is partly the reason I came to Texas.’

‘Did you know he’d be at the cemetery?’ Chadwick said.

‘I didn’t expect to see him, no, but it didn’t surprise me, either.’

‘Why did you warn me not to tangle with him?’

‘He has a knack of making a legitimate confrontation turn into a racist attack.’

‘So what’s this campaign?’

‘He believes in the heavy advance sell. He’ll go back to New York with whatever he can pick up here. When he has manipulated his material to serve his arguments, he’ll use it to promote his forthcoming book.’

‘Dangerous, indeed,’ Pearce said.

For a minute the three men stood tasting their drinks, looking at each other.

Chadwick finally spoke. ‘Tell us more about this, Mr Beamish.’

‘Whatever I can.’

‘And while you’re at it, maybe you’ll explain why your interest in Tait’s project has brought you to Texas.’

‘I’ll be glad to,’ Philpott said. ‘But please, call me Derek. It’s always Derek to my friends.’

Whitlock rapped twice on the hotel room door and Philpott let him in.

‘You weren’t seen?’

‘I’m disappointed you have to ask.’ Whitlock took off his sunglasses. ‘I’ve been all over the hotel, in and out of shops, I even had a Coke in the bar. No one followed me. How did it go at the wake?’

‘Wheels are turning.’

They sat down in easy chairs at opposite sides of the marble-topped coffee table. Whitlock took a sheaf of papers from his pocket and put them down.

‘When I got back from the cemetery this afternoon,’ Whitlock said, ‘there was e-mail waiting. Two items. One was a report from Sabrina via your secretary, who doesn’t seem to know where you are.’

‘I told my staff they should route any important communiqués directly to you. To make sure they did, I left no address for myself.’ Philpott swirled his drink. ‘Of course you may choose to read that as an admission that I don’t want to handle any more responsibility than I can avoid.’