John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

“How about picking up a bunch of your people? I can charge them with enough to sew them up for years.”

He shook his head. “Not necessary. You don’t realize how the British Army rates out here. They wouldn’t dare try anything with me. Besides, I have this.” He slid the butt of a heavy automatic partway out of his tunic pocket and then let it drop back. “Any time you feel well enough to go...”

We were in a taxi headed for the January Club within a matter of minutes. As we pulled up in front, he said, “Now let me handle it. Don’t talk.”

We walked in, and again the boy was expressionless. Peter asked for O’Dell and was told that he could be found in the cocktail room. Peter walked ahead and I limped after him. I hadn’t seen the cocktail room before. It was in the rear of the building, beyond the dining room. It opened out into the garden. O’Dell was sitting hunched at a table near the open doors. He looked up with a wry smile when we walked in.

There were three extra chairs at his table. We were far enough from the bar so that low voices couldn’t be heard by the bartender.

“You’re off games, O’Dell,” Peter said as we sat down.

“Just a little joke, Peter. Afraid this American beggar might take it too seriously.”

“It’s more than that. You’re going to have to do a lot of talking. You’re all tied together. You and Van Hosen, Conny, Wend. Conny’s death and the death of the boy who used to be on the door. It’s all got to be explained.”

“Not by me, son. I’m just a bystander. Don’t know a thing.”

I interrupted. “One thing you should have known, O’Deil, is that I’m too stubborn to talk, no matter what you tried to do. You should have seen that.”

O’Deil looked at Peter, his mouth sullen. “Then what’s the bloody use of bringing—” I was looking at him. I saw his eyes widen. I turned toward Peter just as the heavy automatic banged. The noise of the shot was deafening in the still room. There was a crash of glassware from the direction of the bar.

I looked back at O’Deil. The slug had caught him flush in the center of his upper lip, turning his mouth into a bloody hole. I could see bits of his shattered teeth. He seemed to clutch the edge of the table for a second, then his eyes seemed to look far beyond us. He bent slowly over to the left and his huge body thumped onto the floor, overturning both his chair and the table. We got up. Peter looked older and very tired.

He turned to me and saw the question in my eyes. “Couldn’t take a chance, Garry. Saw him tighten up and knew he was going to try something.” I recalled the immense size and vitality of the man. Once under way, he would have been hard to stop. When the table had gone over, O’Dell’s drink had crashed to the floor. The spattering liquid had spotted Peter’s trousers. He slid the automatic back into the side pocket of his tunic and took out his handkerchief. He bent over and carefully blotted the spots. Attracted by the noise of the shot, half a dozen servants had hurried into the cocktail lounge. They stood ten feet away and gazed with wide eyes at the dead hulk of the retired planter.

The head boy stepped forward and said, “Kaymark master wishes me to call the police?”

“No, Ratmani. I’ll do it.” He turned to me. “Better stay by the body while I use the telephone. The boys might take his money if we both stayed away long enough.”

I upended the fallen chair as he strolled out. I pulled it over to one side and sat where I could see the corpse without having to turn my head. The room was very still. The man was dead, and yet there were small movements from the corpse — the crackle of starched whites as the body settled, the rumble of gases in the abdomen. Fresh corpses will sometimes give the impression of life, but after a few minutes they seem to settle more flatly against the floor, they take on that distinctive “sack of wheat” look which is unmistakable. Then they become substances instead of persons. A few dollars’ worth of chemicals that the clothes no longer fit. One by one the other servants backed out until only the head boy and the bartender were left. I ordered a double scotch. I felt uneasy. How many deaths? Christoff, Constance, the doorboy, O’Dell. It began to look as though there would be no one left to give me the proof of Christoff’s innocence. Wend and Van Hosen and the men who had been playing bridge.

Kaymark, the familiar man with the long white face, and three uniformed policemen came in as I was watching the door.

Peter was in the middle of a sentence. “... and I’ll turn my report in to my colonel. He’ll authorize a true copy to be sent to you. Purely a technicality, covered by our existing operating regulations. You understand.”

They stood by the body of O’Dell. I stood up. The white-faced man rubbed his chin. He turned to me. “And you were also sitting at the table? Can you give me a report?”

Peter interrupted. “Just a minute, Saxon. Let me send his in with mine with a copy to you later. Army business, you know.”

Saxon sighed. “Nothing else to do, I guess. You and your friend can go any time, lieutenant.”

“Wait a minute there,” I interrupted. “How about a charge of abduction or something? How about those other men that—”

“Hold it, Garry,” Peter demanded, his voice loud and sharp. “We’ll take care of that also.”

Saxon raised his thin black eyebrows. “Suppose you let me know about it now, Mr. Garry.”

“You don’t have to answer him, Garry,” Peter said quietly.

I looked from one to the other. Peter had a faint smile hidden around the corners of his mouth.

“I’d better follow the lieutenant’s advice. I’ll put it in the report.” Again the police official sighed. I looked back as we walked out and saw him stooping over the body.

As soon as we were far enough away, Peter said plaintively, “Damn it, Garry, you don’t want those beggars in on it. They’d foul it up for you. You’d never find out the truth once they got their heavy hands on it.”

I stopped walking and fished out a cigarette. He paused and waited for me. “Look, Peter. While you were phoning I was sitting in there thinking. I’ve got enough now so that I’m convinced in my own mind that Dan wasn’t out of line. And I think I’ve got enough to convince his wife and his people. What more do I need? Maybe I ought to give the whole thing up and go back to the States. Come on over to my hotel and let’s talk it over.”

He agreed, but added, “We’ll have to make it short. I’ve got to get that report in.”

I didn’t have much to say to him as we rode back to the Galle Face in the taxi. I was too busy with my own plans and problems.

We went up to my room, and I dug a bottle of brandy out of the suitcase. There were two glasses in the bathroom. I made two strong drinks and handed him one. I sat on the bed and he sat in the chair, his back to the windows, his elbows almost touching the high bureau.

“You’ve thought over what I said, Peter.”

“Yes, but I thought you wanted to stay around and prove that Christoff wasn’t to blame. I thought you wanted it to go on the records.”

“I did, but what are the odds? I’m more certain, yes, but what proof have I got? How do I know I’m going to get any more proof? How do I know I won’t be killed in the process myself? That crack O’Dell made about a Co-Prosperity Sphere sort of got me. I’m tangling with something big. It’s like an iceberg — I’ve only seen the little part that’s out of water.”

He sipped his drink and looked thoughtful. I marveled again at the long curled lashes. At last he said, “Maybe you’re right. At least I could carry on here, and once we break it up, I could arrange to have Christoff cleared officially. I’m sure we’ll break it up in time, whatever it is.”