Brian Freemantle - The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin

‘Sure,’ agreed Jones. ‘You told me.’

Charlie waited, but the American didn’t continue. The man was letting the silence build up, trying to disturb him as he had attempted with the pointless meandering around the suite.

Remembering the way the encounter had been forced upon him, to become annoyed would be entirely natural, realised Charlie, just in time.

‘Right,’ he said positively, standing up. ‘If there’s nothing more with which I can help you at the moment…’

‘If you’re quite sure there isn’t?’ interrupted Jones, making his most direct approach since they had begun talking.

‘And I have a funeral to arrange,’ continued Charlie, refusing to respond to the innuendo.

Once more Jones stood, accepting his dismissal.

‘Kind of you to let me barge in like this.’

‘No trouble at all,’ said Charlie.

‘We’ll keep in touch.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m at the Peninsula.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Damned clever of you, seeing the flaw in Johnson’s case,’ reiterated Jones, shaking his head in feigned admiration and wanting to prolong the meeting as much as possible.

Now it was Charlie’s turn to use silence.

‘I’ll get along then,’ said Jones finally.

‘Yes,’ Charlie encouraged him.

Charlie stood unmoving for several moments after the door had closed behind the American. Then he went to the bar. The bottle vibrated against the glass edge as he splashed the whisky out, drank it in one gulp, then poured a second.

Good, he judged. But good enough? There was no way he could be sure. Certainly Jones had been pressing until the very end. But it would be wrong to read too much into that. It was basic procedure: the sort of persistence he would have shown himself in the same circumstances.

He paused at the thought. As frightened as he had been, there had been something enervating about the confrontation. Perhaps the feeling of a matador facing an insufficiently weakened bull and knowing it could kill him. Charlie snorted, disgusted with himself. That was melodramatic bullshit, he thought; the sort of posturing of which he knew he had been guilty in the past.

He was not fighting bulls. He was fighting for his life. Again.

He wanted to run. The awareness came suddenly, surprising him. He was no more prepared to die now than he had been on the East Berlin border or during the pursuit by the Americans or the British or during any of the missions upon which he’d been sent by the underwriter’s father.

A man who relied so much upon instinct, Charlie recognised his determination to survive as the strongest force within him.

So how could he survive? Certainly not by running. That would provide whatever confirmation Jones needed and start the chase all over again. Resolve everything quickly then. Far quicker than Willoughby was demanding. But how, against Johnson’s official refusal to reopen the case?

‘You’re fucked, Charlie,’ he told himself. ‘Without even being kissed.’

He booked the call to London, stared at his glass considering another drink and then rejected the idea. It never helped.

Willoughby’s response was immediate. The man must spend all his time waiting by the telephone.

‘Nelson’s dead,’ announced Charlie, quietening a flurry of questions from the underwriter.

‘Oh God,’ said Willoughby.

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

It took Charlie only a few moments to tell the underwriter. Hardly long enough, he thought. A man’s life, dismissed in a minute or two.

‘And Johnson still won’t help?’ demanded Willoughby, when Charlie had finished.

‘Not upon anything. And to be fair to the man, I don’t suppose there’s any logical, police reason why he should.’

‘But you said…’

‘That I didn’t have any proof,’ Charlie reminded him. If Harvey Jones instituted any investigation in London, Willoughby would collapse, thought Charlie again.

‘I haven’t much more time,’ said the underwriter, defeat etched into his voice. ‘I’ll have to make an announcement soon.’

Perhaps neither of us has got much more time, thought Charlie.

‘I realise that,’ he said.

‘What about Nelson trying to prove the girl’s story,’ said Willoughby desperately. ‘That’s a motive. Cause enough for some sort of police investigation. That and the premium…?’

‘But there’s no evidence of what Nelson was trying to do… apart from my word. Death was by drowning. And he’d been drinking.’

‘So there’s still nothing with which we can dispute the writs?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I was very hopeful.’

‘I warned you not to be.’

‘It just seemed so good…’

The broker’s death registered fully for the first time.

‘Poor Robert,’ said Willoughby. ‘Christ, what a disaster.’

‘There’s something else,’ said Charlie.

He had to warn Willoughby of the danger of Harvey Jones, he knew.

Charlie had expected alarm but it was more hopeless resignation in the underwriter’s voice when he had finished telling of the American’s visit.

‘You could be wrong,’ said Willoughby. ‘He really could be employed by the maritime agency.’

‘No chance,’ said Charlie, refusing Willoughby any false reassurance, despite his awareness of the man’s need. ‘I’ve spent all my life seeing people like Harvey Jones for what they really are.’

‘And he suspects you?’

‘Of course not. At the moment he’s just curious.’

‘But why?’

‘He’s trained to spot inconsistencies. And he saw it straight away in the official account, just like I did. It’s only natural he should wonder about someone who thinks like he does.’

‘What the hell are we going to do, Charlie?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Get out,’ insisted Willoughby suddenly. ‘The only thing you can do is run.’

‘I’ve already thought of that,’ admitted Charlie. ‘It would be the worst thing I could do.’

‘What then?’

The idea was only half formed in Charlie’s mind, but at least it indicated some intention.

‘I think it’s time that I saw Lucky Lu.’

‘I’m not sure that’s strictly legal, now that he’s issued writs.’

It probably wasn’t, thought Charlie. But being strictly legal had never been a consideration in the past.

‘We don’t have time to worry about legal niceties,’ said Charlie.

‘Be careful then. Be bloody careful.’

Charlie hesitated at the words.

‘I will,’ he promised. Or dead, he thought.

It would have helped, decided Harvey Jones, had he had someone with whom he could have discussed the meeting. But the instructions had been explicit. So he had to reach a judgment by himself. The man was unusual, certainly. But was he any more than that? The apparent awareness of interrogation techniques was intriguing. But there were many sorts of people who might have experience of that. Lawyers, for instance. And insurance investigators would have had a lot of contact with the law. A smart lawyer would have spotted the inconsistency about the Chinese dockyard workers, too. Or again, someone who spent a lot of time involved with them.

Specially chosen: to prove himself. That’s what the deputy director had said.

And he didn’t want to prove himself an idiot by suggesting British Intelligence were in some way interested, with a cover as good as his own.

He’d wait, he decided. Until he was sure. And only when he was convinced would he cable Langley and get them to run a check in London, so that there could be some official instruction for them to work together. Ridiculous to operate separately, after all.

Jones smoothed the robe around him, looking across to where his suit hung crisp and fresh after its return from the hotel valet.