Peter Corris - O'Fear

‘Very,’ I said.

‘Mr Brown says we should be polite. What’s your business?’

‘I’ll be polite too. Please tell Mr Brown I want to talk to him about Barnes Todd.’

He made a note on a pad and then his big fingers with their blunt, broken but very clean nails punched buttons on the intercom system. I heard an American voice respond: ‘Yes, Wayne.’

Wayne? I thought. With luck, his surname.

‘A Mr Hardy here, Mr Brown. A private… investigator. He says he wants to talk to you about Todd Barnes.’

‘Barnes Todd,’ I said.

Wayne corrected himself. ‘Barnes Todd.’

There was a pause. Then the American voice again: ‘Show him in, Wayne.’

Wayne pointed to a door which had an exit sign over it.

‘Exit?’ I said.

‘A joke of Mr Brown’s. Just go through, Mr Hardy.’ I was three steps towards the door before he added, ‘Nice to meet you.’ At least he didn’t say anything about spending a pleasant twenty-four hours.

The room was as functional as the space outside. Big desk, a couple of chairs, low table, bookshelves and filing cabinets. Papers, maps and blueprints were spread or stacked on every surface. Marshall Brown was standing behind his desk; he didn’t wear a string tie or a jacket with piping on it, or cowboy boots. He wore a white shirt, dark tie and trousers and he was as bald as an egg. He was about five foot six, ten or more years older than me, and the pale skin on his face sagged around his jawline. He gave me a quick, moist handshake.

‘Sit down, Mr Hardy.’ His voice was high and light. I’m no expert on American accents. Southern, Hickie had said. Well, he certainly wasn’t from Boston or New York.

I sat, and he looked at me for a full half minute.

‘I think I’m a pretty fair judge of a man,’ he said, ‘if you say you’re a private eye, I’d be inclined to believe you. But I’d check up before I told you anything.’

I put my licence folder on the desk. ‘What would you do before you gave me any money?’

His laugh was a high whinnying sound. He glanced at the licence and pushed it. ‘I’d double-check. You mentioned Barnes Todd.

‘You knew he was dead?’

‘Yeah. I should’ve sent a wreath, but…’he waved his hand at the paperwork.

‘It was “no flowers”, anyway.’

‘Uh huh. Well?’

I hesitated, playing the part of a plain man searching for the right words. ‘I was in Korea with Barnes,’ I said. ‘Me and a few others thought we’d like to chip in for some kind of memorial. You know, a plaque or something like that.’

‘Is that so? How’s his widow feel about it?’

It was a God-will-strike-you-dead kind of question. And if God wouldn’t, Felicia would. ‘She’s agreeable. You were in Korea, weren’t you, Mr Brown?’

‘US Infantry. Second division.’ There was a snap in the words and his jaw seemed to tighten. ‘How about you?’

‘Sergeant, A Company, Third Battalion.’

‘I was a captain, most of the time.’

‘Barnes was…’

‘One of the toughest soldiers I ever saw. It was a bloody terrible war. Best forgotten.’

‘Can you forget it?’

His eyes moved around the room without focusing, as if he wasn’t seeing the furniture and the blueprints but something else-paddy fields, burning tanks, panic-stricken men about to die? ‘No, I sure can’t,’ he said quietly.

‘Did you and Barnes talk much about Korea?’

‘Yeah. We talked. But about business, mainly.’ He undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. Flesh bulged. ‘I guess I could make a contribution. It’s the least I can do.’

‘What d’you mean?’

He looked at his watch. ‘I usually work for another hour, but what the hell. Got anything you need to do just now, Mr Hardy?’

He seemed to be two people-the flabby, harassed businessman and the steely cold warrior. Both could be dangerous and I felt very unsure about him. ‘I’m free for a while,’ I said cautiously.

He got up and walked across the room; his jacket hung on a key sticking out of a filing cabinet. He freed the jacket, turned the key in the lock and put. it in his pocket. ‘Let me take you somewhere.’

We went out through the foyer and Brown made a sign to Wayne with his fist and forefinger. Wayne nodded.

‘What’s that mean?’ I said.

‘Dozer driver stuff. Means cut off the motor.’

We left the building and got into Brown’s Volvo, which was parked in a slot labelled ‘the boss’.

Brown snapped his seat belt on. ‘Safest car on the market. What d’you drive?’

‘A Falcon.’

He didn’t comment. He drove out through a boom gate at the back of the big yard. Shadows were spreading across the cranes and other equipment, which were painted dark green and looked like prehistoric monsters immobilised by a climatic change. Brown drove aggressively but well. I wondered whether he had a gun in the car, the way I did in mine. Great help it was to me there. If he had headed for the river or anything that looked like a dumping ground, I suppose I would have got ready to jump him or jump out, but he didn’t. He worked his way across to Newtown and parked in a side street near St Stephen’s church.

It was after six o’clock, but King Street was still crowded and the shops were open. I hadn’t seen a paper or heard a radio for days and had lost track of the week. It was Thursday-late-night shopping. The road was full of cars crawling along and spewing fumes, but no one seemed to mind. If you can’t take car fumes, you don’t live or shop in Newtown. Brown was a quick walker; his purposefulness cut a path through the strolling shoppers and I recalled reading somewhere that this was a characteristic of successful Americans-purposefulness. I was finding it irritating.

‘Where the hell are we going?’

‘You’ll see.

Brown cut across the path of a woman pushing a laden shopping trolley and pushed open a door. I followed him into a long, dark room. Some soft music was playing and, as my eyes adjusted to the concealed lighting, I saw several low tables with cushions laid out geometrically around them.

Brown’s nostrils flared. ‘Smell that.’

I sniffed. I could smell seafood, spices, sesame seeds, chilli.

‘This is the best Korean restaurant south of Seoul,’ Brown said.

A waiter came out of the nether darkness and, after a lot of hand-shaking and bowing and Korean palaver, we sat on cushions with our legs under us or under the table. The dishes started to arrive and Brown identified them for me. Ku-jeol-pan came in a box with compartments that held fish, meat and vegetables and small pancakes; kimche was a very hot pickled cabbage; nakgibokeum was braised octopus with spicy sauce. Brown ate quickly but delicately; I picked along in his wake. We drank Korean beer from green bottles.

‘Barnes and me came here all the time,’ Brown said. ‘We’d eat this great food and get high on the beer and talk about old times.’

‘The war?’

‘Sure. What else?’

‘Bob Mulholland told me about an accident you had when you were clay shooting with Barnes.’

Brown gulped beer and speared up some kimche. He chewed it with relish. A few strands of the stuff had nearly taken the lining off my mouth. ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Damn careless. But there was no harm done. Were you at the Han?’

I didn’t answer. I was still unsure of him, but getting surer. A few more customers had arrived and soft conversation blended with the clink of bowls and glasses. The waiter brought more beer.

‘They bring it till you tell them to stop,’ Brown said.

I drank some beer and told him that the closest I’d ever been to Korea was Malaya. I told him Bob Mulholland’s story about the US captain and his threat to Barnes.