Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

"Yeah. You an' Willie did. It all worked out okay." He turned from her and stood with hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking out at the night sky with forlorn eyes. "It worked out just fine."

Twelve hours later John Beckworth, OBE, was standing by the big fireplace in the lounge of his Pall Mall club, glancing at the Financial Times and expecting that at any moment a steward would tell him he was wanted on the phone. The caller would be Brigadier Sumner, who by now would have received a report from The Dark Angels.

Looking up from the newspaper he saw that a fellow member had risen from a nearby armchair, a member with whom he had only slight acquaintance. Beckworth nodded a greeting and said, "Morning, Tarrant. How's the Civil Service these days?"

"Oh, hoping to please, I think," said Tarrant.

"Glad to hear it." Beckworth frowned and stared past Tarrant with some annoyance. "Good God, there's a chap come into the club wearing a rollneck shirt under his jacket. Doesn't he know the rules?"

Tarrant said, "He's not a member. He's Chief Detective Inspector Finn, and he's with me, here on business."

Beckworth stood very still for a moment or two, then laid the newspaper down on a coffeetable. "Well… I'll let you get on with it."

Tarrant said quietly, "I'm afraid it's to your address, Beckworth. One of the Dark Angels is dead, the other two are in custody having talked. Sumner, Timmins and Mrs Welling were picked up an hour ago."

"Ah, I see." Beckworth stood in deep thought for a few moments, then managed a wry smile. "I sometimes wondered precisely what your job was, Tarrant. I'd be greatly obliged if we could go to the Secretary's office and then leave before your chap actually arrests me."

Tarrant's eyebrows lifted in query, and Beckworth went on anxiously, "I simply want to settle my bill and hand in my formal resignation. Better for the club that way, surely?"

At ten o'clock next morning Willie Garvin came into the penthouse kitchen where Weng was making bread. "Let's 'ave Miss Blaise's orange juice, Weng," he said.

The houseboy looked surprised. "But she told us she would sleep till noon and to hell with it. She is restoring herself, Mr Garvin."

"I know." Willie waved a sheet of paper. "But this just came through on the fax. It's from Mr Chavasse. Take a look." There was nothing exceptional about his showing it to Weng, who handled all Modesty's affairs during any of her absences from home, which were sometimes quite long.

After fifteen seconds Weng blinked once then handed back the paper. Rolling the dough he had kneaded into a ball he wrapped it in plastic and put it in the freezer. "I will have her orange juice ready in a moment, Mr Garvin."

She roused when Willie tapped on her door and entered. "Hallo, Willie love. What is it?" She knew the time was well before the hour she had set herself to wake.

He handed her the orange juice as she sat up. "Tell you in a minute, Princess. How's the shoulder?"

She wore no nightdress, and looked down at the neat stitches put in by a police surgeon in the small hours of the day before, following the night of The Dark Angels. "It's fine," she said. "I'll be ready for a workout with you in a week."

He waited until she had drunk the orange juice and set down the glass, then he said, "Gus has gone."

She stared. "Gone? You mean left?"

"Vanished. No note, nothing. Must 'ave slipped out before Weng was up. Weng told me when I came for breakfast, but I didn't see any point in waking you up."

"No. But…" she shook her head, bewildered, "it's out of character, Willie. Gus is so… courteous."

"That's what I thought too, Princess, and maybe he is, but d'you remember Danny Chavasse rang you from Boston soon after he got there, and you told him old Gus turned out to be Howard A. Keyes, supermarket tycoon?" She nodded, and he handed her the sheet of paper, "Well, this fax just came through from Danny in Miami."

The fax read:

I suppose it takes one to know one. Your friend Gus is a doublephoney. When he said "Jumpin' Jehoshaphat" twice in ten minutes I felt I was watching an old Bpicture western. Didn 't mention any doubts then because it didn 't seem important, but when I rang from Boston you told me about Howard A. Keyes, so now I'm faxing you to say if Howard tries to sell you a gold brick, don't buy it. I 'II be on Paxero's yacht with my good friend Julie Boscombe when it sails tomorrow, and meantime I've been mixing with some of the top tycoons in the US of A. They assure me there ain 't no such person as Howard A. Keyes, owner of a vast supermarket chain and bits of Texas. The story fed to selected newspapers and magazines was a wellorganised ploy. My rich friends suspect connivance by more than one government, which I find puzzling, but there it is. Anyway, the Breguet is wonderful. You shouldn 't have, but thank you.

Love, Danny

She laid the paper down on her lap and said, "Tarrant."

Willie nodded. "Who else? He set up that roadside fracas with noble old Gus standing by to do his stuff."

"Which is why he rang to find out which route I'd be taking."

"Adrian and Tarquin were phonies too. Tarrant's people. I like their choice of names though, Princess."

She had been sitting tightlipped, but now she suddenly grinned at him. "Yes. You can't help admiring the old bastard, Willie. It was brilliant. He hadn't got a lead on these dubious accidents the computers came up with, so he set up a stalking horse as bait, namely Gus. Then he suckered me into the game with Gus turning up as my defender, which meant getting you in on it because he knew that's how it would be. And we did the job for him."

Willie was happy to see her eyes sparkling with amusement. He said, "Crafty old sod. I wonder who Gus is?"

"Yes, that's a question. But whoever he is he's got guts, Willie. He's no chicken, but he was there with us when The Dark Angels came down out of the sky to kill him, and that took cold nerve." She thought for a moment. "I wonder why he's run away?" She picked up the bedside phone. "Let's see what Tarrant has to say."

She dialled and gave her name to the switchboard operator, but it was Tarrant's assistant, Fraser, who came on the line. "Sorry, Modesty, he's out of the office. Left for Heathrow ten minutes ago. Anything I can do?"

"I don't think so, thanks, Jack. Is he going abroad?"

"No, just seeing a VIP off."

"Like Mr Keyes, the phoney tycoon?"

There were several seconds of silence, then Fraser sighed and said, "I won't ask how you found out. Tarrant's in mourning over conning you, but I'm not. We had lives to save, and we don't have people like you on our books to call on."

"Excuses, excuses. All right, Jack. Tell him I'll call tomorrow. Take care."

She put down the phone, threw off the bedclothes and made for the bathroom. "Two can play at withholding information, and I don't want him calling Tarrant to warn him. We're going to Heathrow, Willie. They have ten minutes start, but I'll be out of the shower in three and dressed by the time you've brought the Jensen round to the front, so we won't be far behind. Let's go."

Sir Gerald Tarrant and Howard A. Keyes sat with coffee at a table in the cafe area of London Airport's main concourse. They had been speaking occasionally but had now lapsed into an unhappy silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

A Cockney voice nearby said, "D'you mind if we join you?" Both men froze, then turned to see Willie Garvin with two coffees on a tray, Modesty Blaise beside him. They rose, their faces filled with dismay and apprehension.

She was in slacks and a thin rollneck sweater, wearing not a scrap of makeup, her hair loose and tied back with a small piece of ribbon. She seemed smaller now than either of them remembered, and they found it hard to conceive that this was the same girl who had fought the power of The Dark Angels for them only two nights ago, fought to the death for them. It made the sick pain they already felt even harder to bear.