Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘I can move my fingers,’ said the Italian, as Solomatin entered. ‘It hurts but I can do it.’

‘I told you it was only bruising.’

‘Everything ready?’

Solomatin nodded. ‘It’s time to make the call.’

Charlie moved about the hotel room without direction, experiencing a loneliness he hadn’t felt for a long time. He started opening and closing cupboards and doors. At the back of a shirt drawer was a pair of Clarissa’s tights. For a moment he ran the material through his fingers, and then he dumped them in the waste bin. It was right that he should have told her to go. He just hadn’t expected it to be like this.

Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, automatically removing his shoes and massaging his feet. He snatched out for the telephone when it rang, smiling in anticipation of her voice; then he recognized Billington.

‘I’ve been given a meeting place,’ said the ambassador. ‘And instructions.’

‘I didn’t get the impression that the ambassador was particularly pleased,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘He said today was impossible so I’ve arranged it for tomorrow.’

‘Does he know I’m with you?’

‘Yes,’ said the Permanent Under Secretary. ‘What about Walsingham?’

‘Circumstantially it looks strong.’

‘Good enough to ship him home?’

‘Possibly. But I’m going to leave him where he is. If he’s the one, he’ll panic to his control.’

‘What if he doesn’t?’

‘We keep on looking.’

The surveillance was more inept than before. They used an unmarked police car again but it was away from the designated parking area – parked over yellow lines, showing it could ignore official restrictions. The same small man in the blue suit was in the passenger seat when Charlie passed. Pricks, he thought.

At the top of the Spanish Steps the Via Sistina balloons out and there is a taxi rank. Charlie asked for the Piazza Navona, because it was the first place that occurred to him. The police car pulled out to position itself with only one vehicle between them. The congestion that Charlie wanted began almost as soon as the taxi started down the Via della Mercede. At the junction with del Corso it became so heavy they had to stop completely. Charlie took a crumpled wad of lire from his pocket, looked at the meter and counted out double, to avoid any delaying argument. The taxi turned left onto del Corso. Traffic was freer, but there was still a tailback. The block was perfect: just beyond Tritone, with no side roads to allow the following driver to turn, Charlie gestured the taxi to the side of the road, and pressed the money into the driver’s hand.

‘I’ll walk,’ he said.

Charlie was back level with the police car before they properly realized what had happened. He walked smartly past, and from a window reflection in the Via del Tritone Charlie saw that the small man had got out and was actually running from the police car, which was still pointing in the wrong direction with the driver gesturing and shouting, in a vain attempt to clear a path for a U-turn.

Charlie’s feet hurt, slowing him down. He stared about him for the right taxi arrangement. He let the first one go, because there was another close behind which the policeman could have taken. He was almost at the Crispi turning before he saw what he wanted, a vacant cab with only private vehicles behind. Charlie waited until it was practically level, then flagged it down. It was satisfying to watch the frustrated policeman run forward as if he half intended to stop the car, then gaze wildly around for a taxi of his own.

Charlie guessed Moro would trace the cab through the registration so he went all the way to the railway terminus rather than switch to another vehicle. He entered the station through one door, came out through another and picked up a third taxi which dropped him at the Borghese Gardens.

Traffic wasped around the piazza in front of him and Charlie decided against attempting to dodge his way through it. Instead he followed an old lady’s example and used the crossing.

He liked Rome. It might be frayed at the edges, but it had style. Something that was missing from Harry’s Bar. Charlie enjoyed beer in straight glasses in pubs without jukeboxes. Harry’s Bar didn’t have the jukeboxes, but it had pretensions that were deafening. It boasted chrome and mahogany and barmen who spoke eight languages. It was featured in all the guidebooks and a number of novels as the epitome of chic and was always crowded with people looking for the famous, who never came because people stood around looking for them.

Charlie made for the half-moon bar and saw that the stool stipulated for his identification was occupied. He ordered a whisky and took it to one of the minute tables against the wall. It was thirty minutes beyond the meeting time before Charlie was able to get the stool he wanted, reaching it a half-buttock ahead of a woman with a large hat and a poodle with a diamante collar. She waited for Charlie to be gallant and then turned away tutting noisily. Charlie ordered another Scotch. With a better view of the bar, he tried to pick out his contact.

The woman with the poodle found a seat opposite him at the far curve of the bar. She looked at Charlie with positive hostility. Charlie smiled. Up yours, he thought.

Charlie had expected the approach to come from the direction of the door or the lounge beyond, the most crowded part, but it didn’t. He got an impression of someone behind him and turned to see the man at his left shoulder. The Gucci crest was on the shoes, belt and watch strap. The raw silk trousers were black and bum tight, worn with a shirt in contrasting white. It was silk and open at the neck, with several buttons undone to show a hairy chest cushioning a heavy gold medallion. A fawn jacket, worn the way that had always intrigued Charlie from those baffling Fellini films, was draped casually around his shoulders. But here there was a practical purpose: the jacket almost concealed a sling that supported a well-bandaged hand.

Seeing Charlie’s look, the man said, ‘It’s inconvenient.’

‘Particularly if a policeman sees it.’

The Italian shook his head. ‘My fingerprints are on record, not palm impressions.’ He was wiry and hard-bodied, with eyes that darted constantly. ‘I burned the clothes, too,’ he said. He nodded to the table. ‘Let’s sit away from the bar.’

Charlie followed, carrying his drink. If the man’s fingerprints were on file, it wouldn’t be hard to get a positive identification from criminal records when he went through the photographic files with Moro.

‘I’m glad you came by yourself,’ said the man. The English was accented but good. The cologne was very strong.

‘You have the jewellery?’ said Charlie.

‘I might be able to arrange its return.’

Gangster-movie dialogue, thought Charlie. ‘Good,’ he said.

‘There would be some expense.’

‘How much?’

‘Twenty-five per cent.’

‘That’s a lot.’

‘Half a million is better for you than a full payout,’ said the man.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘It is.’

‘Sterling, of course.’

‘I want complete recovery.’

‘How long will it take to arrange the finance?’ asked the Italian.

‘A day.’

‘Tomorrow then?’

‘Should be possible.’

‘I’d like it to be tomorrow.’

Charlie intended to have the money numbered before he paid it over. That would make it useless and traceable. Moro could get his conviction. And Billington could recover his jewellery. Whether or not he made them available for any court exhibit would be a matter between him and the police. Willoughby wouldn’t have any remaining liability. Better still, he wouldn’t suffer any loss, because eventually the five hundred thousand would be returned. Everything would be tidied up nicely. Everything except Clarissa.