Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘I don’t see your point,’ said Billington.

‘Let’s try something else then,’ said Charlie. ‘When I talked to Fantani, he made a remark about there being no danger of his being arrested, because police had fingerprints, not palm prints. And that he had destroyed the jacket, so there would be no fibre tracings.’

Billington gave an exaggerated shrug.

‘No information was publicly released about a palm print being found at the villa,’ said Charlie. ‘Or of cloth fibres. But I told you, after I’d talked to Inspector Moro.’

Billington’s eyes pebbled in abrupt realization, colour flooding his face. He jerked around to Naire-Hamilton and Wilson and said, ‘Of all the…! Are you allowing this man to cross-examine me, as if I’m involved in some way in a robbery of my own property!’

‘You’re a cautious man,’ persisted Charlie. ‘Everyone kept telling me that when I first went to the villa. And you obviously are. I’ve never seen so many alarms. So why didn’t you put away the jewellery your wife had worn that night? That’s what a properly cautious man would have done; unless he didn’t want to risk premature discovery.’

‘I want this stopped!’ demanded Billington.

‘And in the end it was premature,’ said Charlie. ‘Your wife told me what happened, because she was in the dressing room. About your saying, “Oh! My God!” immediately you opened the safe. But you couldn’t have seen anything immediately you opened the safe, could you? All the jewellery was kept in cases, which had to be opened. Your wife mentioned that too. “When we opened the cases, everything was gone,” she said.’

Billington was holding himself stiffly in the chair. He stared fixedly at Charlie. ‘Finish,’ he said. ‘I want you to finish.’

‘There’s only one more thing,’ said Charlie. ‘On the day of the robbery I talked a lot of quasi-legal rubbish, making it up as I went along, to persuade you to agree to a settlement idea. And you didn’t challenge me. But you’re a lawyer with an Oxford degree. So you would have known I was talking nonsense.’

Billington rose to his feet, standing with his back to Charlie and looking down at Naire-Hamilton and Wilson. ‘From the start,’ he said, only just managing the evenness to his voice, ‘your behaviour has been appalling. I have permitted it because of the circumstances that were explained to me, making every excuse and every allowance. But this I will not excuse. Today I am going to request the Foreign Secretary to recall me to London. There I shall demand a full inquiry. Even to have considered asking me to confront these demented ramblings of a known traitor, to imagine any need for me to explain myself, is scandalous.’

‘Sit down,’ said Wilson.

Jill Walsingham came like a sleepwalker into the room. Solicitously Wilson helped her into a chair and nodded towards Jackson. The supervisor appeared with a water glass and put it by her on the recording table. She was going through the deadening period of shock, when the senses retreat.

‘This won’t take long,’ assured Wilson.

‘I want to know what’s going on!’ insisted Billington from the facing chair.

‘You will,’ said Wilson. ‘I promise you will.’ He looked back to the woman. ‘You told me you were frightened, after I found out about the Communist association in Australia?’

Jill Walsingham kept her eyes fixed just above their heads, seeing and hearing nothing.

‘Mrs Walsingham,’ said Wilson sharply.

She shuddered, concentrating upon him. ‘After I challenged you about Australia you were frightened?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was silly.’

‘Why was it silly?’

‘Because it didn’t mean anything. We told you why it didn’t mean anything, but you didn’t believe us.’

‘Tell me what you decided to do,’ asked Wilson softly.

‘To be careful,’ she said at once.

‘Why would you need to be careful?’

‘Because you were trying to trap us.’

‘I demand to know what’s going on!’ interrupted Billington. ‘This, is obscene.’

‘Shut up,’ said Wilson irritably.

‘There’ll be an account for this.’

Wilson ignored the ambassador. ‘Were you careful?’ he said.

She nodded, like a child anxious to please. ‘Henry was very good, you know. He studied at the electronic surveillance establishment at Cheltenham.’

‘How were you careful?’ encouraged Wilson.

‘Any contact,’ she said. ‘Particularly on the telephone.’

Wilson turned to the ambassador, who was sitting rigid in his chair.

‘Tell me about the telephone calls on the night your husband died,’ said the director.

‘Henry wasn’t back from the embassy. A man called for him and I told him to ring back.’

‘Who was the man?’

‘He said he was from the insurance company.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘No.’

Wilson nodded and the operator of the recording apparatus depressed a button. Into the room came the sound of Charlie Muffin’s voice, during his questioning of the ambassador. ‘… On the day of the robbery, I talked a lot of quasi-legal rubbish, making it up as I went along…’ Wilson flicked his hand and the man stopped the tape.

‘Is that the voice?’

‘It sounds like it.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I told Henry when he got back from the embassy. He said it was important: that an arrangement was being set up to recover the jewellery and he would be involved. The second telephone call came after about ten minutes.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Henry said it was the insurance man: a name like Mutton or Mullen or something.’

‘What was the point of the conversation?’

‘A meeting,’ said the woman. ‘Henry had to go to the Via Salaria, where the jewellery was to be bought back.’

‘Was there a time given?’

‘Eight forty-five.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘We had plenty of time; it wasn’t even seven. We decided to eat first.’

‘Did you?’

She shook her head. ‘There was another call, changing the time. Henry had to be there at eight.’

‘Was it the insurance man again?’

She frowned at the question. ‘No,’ she said, turning into the room. She pointed to Billington, ‘Him.’

‘This is incredible!’ erupted the ambassador. ‘I’ll have your jobs for this.’

‘Did you answer the telephone?’

‘No. Henry did.’

‘So how do you know it was the ambassador?’

‘He said so at once.’

‘You’re listening to the words of a spy’s wife,’ said Billington, his voice stretched. ‘A known Communist.’

Wilson gave another instruction to the technician alongside. Charlie Muffin’s disembodied voice filled the room.

‘ Make it eight forty-five.’

‘ Where?’

‘ 35 Via Salaria: centre door. I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘ What about the ambassador?’

‘ Tell him.’

‘ What about the police?’

‘ I’ll tell them when it’s over: it could all be a hoax.’

Jill Walsingham began to sob, her fat body trembling with emotion. She put a handkerchief to her face, mumbling through it. ‘I’m sorry… very sorry…’

Walsingham’s voice came over her apology. ‘ You don’t really believe that, do you?’

‘ I’d be wasting everybody’s bloody time if I didn’t.’

‘ Good luck.’

‘ Yeah.’

‘I want to say something.’ said Billington. ‘I want…’

‘I told you to be quiet,’ said Wilson.

There was a brief smear of static on the tape, then the sound of a telephone being dialled. Billington’s voice came at once onto the line. The intonation of respect was obvious. ‘ The Via Solaria,’ said the security man’s voice, ‘ Eight forty-five.’