Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

"Black's not very festive," said Willie. "I like red balloons better. But only if I can't 'ave three or four different colours all tied together. They're best of all."

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes widened and she gave a chuckling laugh. "Oh golly, I mean a big balloon. One you go up in."

Willie put a hand to his head with a wincing expression of apology. "Sorry, Lucy, I thought—well, never mind. How did a girl like you get to be a balloonist? When I say a girl like you I don't mean—"

She broke in eagerly. "It's extraordinary that you should say that, Mr Garvin—"

"Willie, please."

"Willie. Because actually it's because I'm a girl like me that I became one. I mean a balloonist." Her manner became apologetic. "It's my glands, I'm afraid. They seem to produce a lot of awfully excitable hormones that make a girl get rather addicted to… well, to chaps, you see."

Willie suppressed a fervent wish that he was not otherwise occupied at this moment, and covered another survey of the room with a kind of eyerolling expression that might have indicated astonishment. "Addicted to chaps? Isn't that good, Lucy?"

"Oh, it's absolutely no good at all if you want to achieve what the Swami Gumarati calls the Golden Plateau of Serenity."

Willie breathed deeply and said, "That sounds fascinating. Is it a sort of yoga?"

"Well, it's more than that, really. I'll lend you Swami Gumarati's book if you like."

"I'd rather 'ave a ride in your balloon, Lucy." A puzzled lift of his head covered another glance round the room. "Wait a minute, though. What's the balloon got to do with your gland troubles?"

"Ballooning sublimates the earthly aspects of our nature, which was my trouble, of course, the earthly aspects. I wrote to the Swami, and he went into a trance and wrote back to say I should take up ballooning. So I did, and it works." She paused, frowning a little. "Well, I think it does."

Willie said, "I sometimes get a bit of that gland trouble myself. Could I phone you sometime so we could meet and 'ave a chat about it?"

"Well…" She pursed her lips doubtfully, "we'd have to be careful where we meet, wouldn't we? I mean, with our glands."

"Ah yes, I'm glad you thought of that Lucy. Somewhere public. Maybe an art gallery or… or the zoo. D'you live in London?"

"Oh yes." She relaxed, smiling. "I've got a flat in Chelsea, and I'm in the phonebook. Lucy Fuller-Jones."

"Well, that's fine. I've got a few things to attend to just at this time, but I'll certainly give you a call."

"Jolly good. I say, there are some rather peculiar people here, aren't there?" She gazed slowly round the room.

"Talking to you, I'd 'ardly noticed," said Willie, and thankfully joined her inspection. Towards the top of the room on Modesty's side two men in clerical collars were speaking with a large, gushing woman. Bluey and 'Grace were moving slowly towards them. One of the clerics was a very big man with a mane of white hair. The other was smaller with a round cherubic face.

Bluey glanced at the group, was clearly not interested in its composition, and passed behind the clerics. 'Grace followed, looking disconsolate, then stopped with a hint of surprise. Even across the room Willie saw the nostrils flare behind the smaller man. 'Grace smiled happily, his gaze moving from Modesty to Willie. Then he lifted his untouched drink and drained the glass before moving on.

Lucy was saying, "… if you'd really like a ride in my balloon, I expect we could arrange something."

Willie beamed at her. "I'd love that. Will you excuse me, Lucy? I've just remembered I promised our generous host that I'd get a few comments from different people for the Prisoner's Friend magazine."

"Oh. Yes, of course. You go ahead."

The gushing lady was leaving the two clerics as Willie moved towards them. Glancing to his right, he saw Modesty and 'Grace leaving together. The man who had been talking to her was still in the same position, propped by one arm against the wall but with head turned and a puzzled air. Bluey ambled by, and without looking at Willie murmured, "She says make sure they stay put for a couple of minutes."

Willie had expected this. She would be fixing a radio bug on any car that 'Grace identified as bearing the scent of the clerics. He collected a fresh drink from a passing waiter and strolled towards his quarry. All around him the buzz of conversation was growing louder and more shrill as liquor loosened tongues. The two men eyed him benignly as he began to move past. He halted, gave them a rueful look, and spoke in one of the cultured voices he could produce so accurately.

" "For they stretch forth their mouth unto heaven, and their tongue goeth through the world." "

They looked at him blankly, and the smaller man said, "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Psalm seventythree, verse nine. I felt it an apt comment on the sound of a large cocktail party, but perhaps the allusion is rather strained."

The big man said, "Ah, I see. Are you in holy orders, sir?"

Willie shook his head regretfully. "I saw the light too late in life, I fear." He extended his hand. "Francis Pennyquick, youth club leader."

The white head was inclined courteously as the man took Willie's hand. "How do you do? My name is Mountjoy, and this is my spiritual confrere, the Reverend Simon Bird."

"A pleasure," said Willie, and shook hands with the man 'Grace had identified.

Bird's cherubic face was innocent and welcoming. "You do important work, Mr Pennyquick. Are you a student of the psalms?"

Willie smiled deprecatingly. "Only in a very amateurish fashion, I assure you." He did not feel it would be fruitful to admit that he knew them by heart as a result of spending six months in a Calcutta gaol in his younger days with only a psalter to read. "You're interested in the Prison Abolition Society, Mr Mountjoy?"

Mountjoy pondered the question. Then, "Obliquely, Mr Pennyquick, obliquely. The first necessity is of course to eliminate crime, thereby obviating the need for prisons. I take it your own efforts are to that intent?"

With long practice in front of a mirror Willie had found that by pulling his chin in, folding his lower lip under his upper lip, curving his mouth in a smile, and causing his head to wobble slightly as he spoke, he could create an appearance of great stupidity. He had been building this effect since first speaking to Mountjoy and Bird, and had given it full rein while Mountjoy was speaking. Now he said, "We youth club leaders are in the front line of that battle, Mr Mountjoy."

Bluey Peters appeared in the doorway, one hand holding a lapel of his jacket, thumb pointing up. Willie looked at his watch and registered surprise. "Good heavens. I had no idea. The time, I mean." He pointed to his watch as if to clarify the matter. "Do excuse me. I promised young Kevin I'd go with him to see his probation officer…" He allowed his words to fade into incoherence, and hurried away.

Mountjoy and Bird watched him go with wellconcealed contempt. Smiling about him, Bird said in a low voice, "Twenty years ago I had a probation officer who was almost as dumb as that dickhead."

Mountjoy said softly, "Don't knock it, Simon. We like dumb people. I'm only sorry the Brits and the Norwegians aren't quite dumb enough to pay up for Hallenberg."

"There's still time," said Bird, "and you never know. They might crack in the last few hours. But I don't think we'll get anything out of this evening's jaunt. Nobody's going to believe in a militant wing of the Prison Abolition Society going in for kidnap and murder."

"I'm aware of that, Simon. But it's at gatherings like this that one meets all kinds of singleissue weirdos who might provide ideas for future use. That Greek woman who buttonholed us is a case in point."