Десмонд Бэгли - The Spoilers

Warren stirred in his chair. ‘Why this sudden interest?’

‘Because I’ve decided to do something about it,’ said Hellier. He laughed briefly at the expression on Warren’s face. ‘No, I haven’t gone mad; neither do I have delusions of grandeur. You pointed out the problem yourself. What the devil’s the good of patching up these damned idiots if they can walk out and pick up a fresh supply on the nearest corner? Cutting off the illegal supply would make your own job a lot easier.’

‘For God’s sake!’ exploded Warren. ‘There are hundreds of policemen of all nationalities working on this. What makes you think you can do any better?’

Hellier levelled a finger at him. ‘Because you have information which for reasons of your own — quite ethical reasons, I am sure — you will not pass on to the police.’

‘And which I will pass on to you — is that it?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Hellier. ‘You can keep it to yourself if you wish.’ He stabbed a finger towards Warren again. ‘You see, you are going to do something about it.’

‘Now I know you’re crazy,’ said Warren in disgust. ‘Hellier, I think you’ve been knocked off balance; you’re set on some weird kind of expiation and you’re trying to drag me into it.’ His lips twisted. ‘It’s known as shutting the stable door after the horse has gone, and I want no part of it.’

Unperturbedly, Hellier lit another cigarette, and Warren suddenly said, ‘You smoke too much.’

‘You’re the second doctor to tell me that within a fortnight.’

Hellier waved his hand. ‘You see, you can’t help being a doctor, even now. At our last meeting you said something else — “I’m a doctor who just makes ends meet”.’ He laughed. ‘You’re right; I know your bank balance to a penny. But suppose you had virtually unlimited funds, and suppose you coupled those funds with the information I’m certain you have and which, incidentally, you don’t deny having. What then?’

Warren spoke without thinking. ‘It’s too big for one man.’

‘Who said anything about one man? Pick your own team,’ said Hellier expansively,

Warren stared at him. ‘I believe you mean all this,’ he said in wonder.

‘I might be in the business of spinning fairy tales for other people,’ said Hellier soberly. ‘But I don’t spin them for myself. I mean every word of it.’

Warren knew he had been right; Hellier had been pushed off balance by the death of his daughter. He judged that Hellier had always been a single-minded man, and now he had veered off course and had set his sights on a new objective. And he would be a hard man to stop.

‘I don’t think you know what’s involved,’ he said.

‘I don’t care what’s involved,’ said Hellier flatly. ‘I want to hit these bastards. I want blood.’

‘Whose blood — mine?’ asked Warren cynically. ‘You’ve picked the wrong man. I don’t think the man exists, anyway. You need a combination of St George and James Bond. I’m a doctor, not a gang-buster.’

‘You’re a man with the knowledge and qualifications I need,’ said Hellier intensely. He saw he was on the edge of losing Warren, and said more calmly, ‘Don’t make a snap decision now, Doctor; just think it over.’ His voice sharpened. ‘And pay a thought to ethics.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now what about a bite to eat?’

Warren left Hellier’s flat comfortable in stomach but uneasy in mind. As he walked up Jermyn Street towards Piccadilly Circus he thought of all the aspects of the odd proposition Hellier had put to him. There was no doubt that Hellier meant it, but he did not know what he was getting into — not by half; in the vicious world of the drug trade no quarter was given — the stakes were too high.

He pushed his way through the brawling crowds of Piccadilly Circus and turned off into Soho. Presently he stopped outside a pub, looked at his watch, and then went in. It was crowded but someone companionably made room for him at a corner of the bar and he ordered a Scotch and, with the glass in his hand, looked about the room. Sitting at a table on the other side were three of his boys. He looked at them speculatively and judged they had had their shots not long before; they were at ease and conversation between them flowed freely. One of them looked up and waved and he raised his hand in greeting.

In order to get to his patients, to acquire their unwilling trust, Warren had lived with them and had, at last, become accepted. It was an uphill battle to get them to use clean needles and sterile water; too many of them had not the slightest idea of medical hygiene. He lived in their halfworld on the fringes of crime where even the Soho prostitutes took a high moral tone and considered that the addicts lowered the gentility of the neighbourhood. It was enough to make a man laugh — or cry.

Warren made no moral judgments. To him it was a social and medical problem. He was not immediately concerned with the fundamental instability in a man which led him to take heroin; all he knew was that when the man was hooked he was hooked for good. At that stage there was no point in recrimination because it solved nothing. There was a sick man to be helped, and Warren helped him, fighting society at large, the police and even the addict himself.

It was in this pub, and in places like it, that he had heard the three hard facts and the thousand rumours which constituted the core of the special knowledge which Hellier was trying to get from him. To mix with addicts was to mix with criminals. At first they had been close-mouthed when he was around, but later, when they discovered that his lips were equally tight, they spoke more freely. They knew who — and what — he was, but they accepted it, although to a few he was just another ‘flaming do-gooder’ who ought to keep his long nose out of other people’s affairs. But generally he had become accepted.

He turned back to the bar and contemplated his glass. Nick Warren — do-it-yourself Bond! he thought. Hellier is incredible! The trouble with Hellier was that he did not know the magnitude of what he had set out to do. Millionaire though he was, the prizes offered in the drug trade would make even Hellier appear poverty-stricken, and with money like that at stake men do not hesitate to kill.

A heavy hand smote him on the back and he choked over his drink. ‘Hello, Doc; drowning your sorrows?’

Warren turned. ‘Hello, Andy. Have a drink.’

‘Most kind,’ said Andrew Tozier. ‘But allow me.’ He pulled out a wallet and peeled a note from the fat wad.

‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ said Warren drily. ‘You’re still unemployed.’ He caught the eye of the barman and ordered two whiskies.

‘Aye,’ said Tozier, putting away his wallet. ‘The world’s becoming too bloody quiet for my liking.’

‘You can’t be reading the newspapers,’ observed Warren.

‘The Russians are acting up again and Vietnam was still going full blast the last I heard.’

‘But those are the big boys,’ said Tozier. ‘There’s no room for a small-scale enterprise like mine. It’s the same everywhere — the big firms put the squeeze on us little chaps.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers!’

Warren regarded him with sudden interest. Major Andrew Tozier; profession — mercenary soldier. A killer for hire. Andy would not shoot anyone indiscriminately — that would be murder. But he was quite prepared to be employed by a new government to whip into line a regiment of half-trained black soldiers and lead them into action. He was a walking symptom of a schizophrenic world.

‘Cheers!’ said Warren absently. His mind was racing with mad thoughts.

Tozier jerked his head towards the door. ‘Your consulting-room is filling up, Doc.’ Warren looked over and saw four young men just entering; three were his patients but the fourth he did not know. ‘I don’t know how you stand those cheap bastards,’ said Tozier.