The End Game (29 page)

Unconsciousness came at last.

With the first drowned glimpses of morning, Len Mullion might have been observed, had there been eyes watching him, walking along Byland Street at the back of Rotherhithe Park. He plodded along with the steady deliberation of a man making his way to an unloved, early work shift.

Halfway down the street there was a wicket gate, not available to the public, used by the park keepers. Len had the key ready in his hand, opened the gate, slipped inside and relocked it. A moment later he was out of sight behind a bank of laurels. A cautious advance from here brought him to a point where he could see the central stretch of grass. There was still not much light in the sky, but enough for him to see the refuse basket lying on its back on the grass.

Len breathed a sigh of relief. So David had made it. He’d never doubted that he would. Corner a crafty Welshman? You might as well try to pick up a blob of mercury in your fingers. He made his way back, through the shrubbery, to the pavilion tucked away in the northwest corner of the park. A second key opened the door. There was a telephone inside. Len dialled the number of Flanders Lane Police Station.

Morrissey took the call. He had been sitting for the best part of six hours beside the telephone and was so stiff that he nearly fell out of his chair when he got up to answer it. He listened carefully, said, “Stay where you are, Len. I’ll ring you back in five minutes.” Kicked Sergeant Brannigan, who was snoring on the floor beside him, and said, “Wake up. We’re off.” He was already dialling another number.

It rang for some seconds before it was answered. Morrissey said, “You all asleep at that end?”

“Sorry, Superintendent,” said a brisk voice. “Actually, I was shaving.”

“Well, when you’ve cleaned your teeth and brushed your hair, suppose you get moving. Operation Dawn Raid is on. I want all the men on those lists pulled in. All except Trombo. For questioning in connection with a breaking and entering in the docks area. No charges yet. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“And send a car to Rotherhithe Park. The back entrance in Byland Street. I’ll have it open for you. There’s a man to pick up. Bring him straight back here. I need his story before the questioning starts. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Andrew Holmes was worried.

He had noticed lately that his secretary was getting tired and had been thinking that a holiday, backed by a large bonus, might be the right medicine. Now, for two days, she had looked more than tired. She had done her work well enough, but the signs of strain had been too marked even for an unobservant man to miss; and Andrew Holmes was far from unobservant.

However, he had got something for her that morning which might cheer her up. He said, “Blackett just telephoned. He wants to look at the Planetarium papers. He knew you’d done a lot of work on them and suggested that you brought the file down yourself.”

“A suggestion?” said Susan sharply. “Or an instruction?”

Holmes looked surprised. “A bit of both, I suppose. Do you mind? I thought you’d like a trip this beautiful morning. He’s sending his car for you.”

The rain had stopped, and a bland autumn sun was apologising for the past.

“Now? Right away?”

“Immediately after lunch, he suggested. Is there something wrong?”

“Not really.”

“Play your cards right and you’ll end up working for him. Then you really will be at the top of the ladder. Not that I want to lose you. Don’t think that. You’ve been absolutely splendid.”

“Is there somewhere I could telephone, without the call going through the switchboard?”

“There’s one outside line. It’s in the cashier’s office. Ted’s away this morning. If you want to use that you won’t be disturbed.”

Susan said, “Thank you, Andrew,” and went out. It was the first time she had used his Christian name. Holmes looked after her thoughtfully.

When she came back five minutes later the change was extraordinary. She looked her own self again. He said, “I gather the news was good.”

“Very good.”

“Then I’ll give Blackett a ring and tell him to expect you.”

“Blackett?” said Susan. She sounded almost as though she had forgotten about him. “Oh, yes. That’ll be quite all right now.”

Morrissey finished reading the five sheets of official blue paper, shuffled them together, stapled them in the top left-hand corner, took off his glasses and said to Sergeant Brannigan, “Now, I think we might pay a visit to Mr Trombo.”

“Just you and me?”

“What do you suggest? A squadron of Sherman tanks?” Morrissey was in a high good humour.

“I just wondered.”

“You could have a car standing by if you’re feeling nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” said Brannigan indignantly.

“There’ll be no trouble. These boys are only dangerous after dark. We’ll take Bob Wrangle with us and leave him outside in the car.”

When they reached the shop in Burminster Street and had pushed open the door, they sensed the thunder in the air. The polished brown boys behind the polished brown counters looked up and looked down again and said nothing.

“Mr Trombo at home?” said Brannigan.

One of them jerked his head towards the room at the far end of the shop. The two policemen stumped up the open space between the counters, and Morrissey opened the door without knocking.

Trombo was sitting behind the table. Morrissey strode across, stopped just short of collision point and said, “Get up.” When Trombo didn’t move, he bent his head forward and roared at him. “On your feet, you yellow monkey.”

Trombo got up slowly. The two men were so close that their noses were only inches apart.

“Just giving you a bit of practice,” said Morrissey. “The next time someone tells you to stand up it’ll be the judge at the Bailey, and you’d better jump up quicker than that, or he’ll add another year to the fifteen he’s giving you, just to teach you manners.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You know bloody well what I’m talking about. Shut that door, would you, Sergeant. I’m talking about you standing trial for the murder of Dennis Robert Moule. Killing the poor old sod by hitting him on the head. Left, right.” Morrissey swung his great fists, missing Trombo by a fraction each time. “Then another right and a left and a right. Not a great boxer, Dennis. Not good at blocking head punches. Particularly when his arms were being held.”

Trombo said nothing.

Morrissey backed away slowly and parked himself on the edge of the table. He said in a more relaxed voice, “Don’t think I’m bluffing. I’ve got it in black and white, signed on the dotted line, from that oaf Williams. He was in what you might call a ringside seat at this demonstration of fisticuffs.”

“Evidence from a man like that. Given to save his own skin.” There was a hint of relief in Trombo’s voice. “You won’t get any court to convict on that.”

“Right,” said Morrissey. “But he won’t be the only witness. McVee. Mace. Scotty. They were all there. When they heard Williams had sung, they all sang too. In unison.”

“Men with criminal records, who’ll say anything the police teach them to say. You’re going to need more than that to put me down.”

“The same massive thought had occurred to me,” said Morrissey genially. “So I’ll let you in on another little secret. Do you remember that cubbyhole at the end of the passage? Samuels was standing outside it, until he heard Moule hit the floor and had to poke his nose in, to see what was going on. That was when the man who had been in that cubbyhole got out. Having seen everything that happened, through the shutter. He was a police officer, name of Morgan. You spent the rest of the evening trying to catch him, but you didn’t, did you?” Morrissey was smiling broadly now. He seemed to be visualising the scene. “So we can have it all explained to the court. Every move made by everyone in that room. Every word spoken. And all corroborated by a police officer handily placed in the next room. You’re dead meat, Trombo. Dead and stinking. Fifteen years! You’ll be lucky if you don’t get life. Not to be let out in less than thirty years. That’s the dose they’re handing out now.”

Trombo said nothing. He seemed unable to speak or move.

“However, like I said once before, you’re a lucky man. You must have been born under a lucky star. Because maybe—I only say maybe—you won’t be charged at all.”

The pink end of Trombo’s tongue came out and was passed over his lips.

“To tell you the truth and between these four walls, I’m not all that interested in Moule, poor old sod. He was on the way out. This winter or next he’d have gone. Not that I’m going to repeat that in court, so don’t start banking on it.” Morrissey’s grin was ferocious. “There’s a man I’m a lot more interested in than you or Moule. I’ve been after him for a long, long time. You help me to land Blackett, and everything else is forgiven and forgotten.”

“You mean—?”

“I mean just this. You give me the truth about what happened to Arnie Wiseman, and I’ll give you an indemnity for any part you had in it.”

“Arnie?” said Trombo thoughtfully.

“The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. How much Blackett paid you to do it, where you put him, all the details. Because now we’ve got those papers we know
why
Blackett wanted him out of the way. You give us the story, you get the usual indemnity and we forget all about your part in it.”

There was a long silence.

At last Trombo said, “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“I always keep my word,” said Morrissey. “That’s how I get results. Right, Sergeant?”

“Right,” said Sergeant Brannigan.

There was another long pause. Then Trombo said, “Very well,” and sat down.

“In your own handwriting,” said Morrissey.

“Before we discuss the Planetarium,” said Blackett smoothly, “there was one other matter I wanted to deal with.”

They were alone in the drawing room at Virginia Water. It was a lovely room and impersonal as a stage set.

Susan said, “I was so certain that you didn’t want to discuss the Planetarium that I didn’t even bother to bring the papers with me.”

If Blackett was surprised, there was little sign of it in his face, only an additional hardness in his voice. He said, “Then we can get straight to the point. I’ve known for some time that you had been planted in my organisation. I thought at first that you were an agent of the Inland Revenue. Your background and training suggested it as a possibility. In my frequent brushes with that Department, they seemed to suffer from not knowing half as much about my business as I did. It would have been sensible to install one of their own people to investigate it from the inside.”

“And when did you decide that I wasn’t a tax inspector?” Susan’s voice was coolly amused.

“When I unearthed your connection with—how do I describe Morgan?—your boyfriend.”

“I think he is a little old for boyfriend,” said Susan gravely. “Gentleman friend might be more appropriate.”

Blackett looked up. There was something in Susan’s manner that puzzled him. He said, more sharply, “After that it was an obvious precaution to have your telephone tapped and to have one of your intimate and touching telephone conversations recorded.”

“I hope you found it entertaining.”

“Enlightening more than entertaining. It wasn’t a very difficult code, was it?”

“It depends which one we were using. We had two or three different codes. Sometimes it was the second word in every sentence. Sometimes it depended on numbers.”

“Let me remind you. In the case I had in mind, Morgan started by saying, ‘For the last
six
weeks—’ After that it was the sixth word each time he spoke. Right?”

“I expect that was it,” said Susan politely.

“And what an interesting message it was. Short and to the point.
Animal in sight. Give me three weeks.
The animal being, one assumes, a down-at-heel ex-accountant called Moule.”

“That would seem to be a logical interpretation,” said Susan cautiously. Blackett’s smooth tone was slipping. Prod him. He was soon going to blow his top. “If you thought so little of our efforts,” she said, “why did you let them worry you?”

“I wasn’t worried. Puzzled, rather. I couldn’t imagine why the police—give them their due, they are professionals—should have handed over this job to a pair of amateurs with the adolescent mentality which one associates with Boy Scouts and Girl Guides.”

“David a Boy Scout?” said Susan. “In shorts and a shirt covered with badges for woodcraft and cookery. I find it hard to visualise. But tell me, if what he was doing didn’t worry you, why did you try to stop him?”

“I don’t like the word
try,”
said Blackett. His breath was coming more quickly. “If I have to abate a nuisance, I take appropriate steps. I abate it.”

“So he hasn’t heard yet,” thought Susan.

“If people annoy me, I punish them appropriately.”

“Like when Phil Edmunds pulled your leg about your Guards’ tie, and you did your best to ruin him.”

There was a moment of silence. Susan could hear a motor mower puttering at the far end of the lawn. Then Blackett said, “Who told you about that? Would it have been young Harmond? I always thought he was soft on you. I think it must have been him. Not very wise. I shall have to punish him.”

Susan said, “Don’t be so infantile.” Blackett stared at her. “You’re behaving like a nasty little boy who pulls his sister’s hair and breaks her toys because she’s got the better of him in an argument.”

Blackett’s face had gone deep scarlet. “I don’t suppose anyone’s talked to him like that in the last thirty years,” thought Susan. “One more crack and he
will
pull your hair.” She said, “What are you going to do? Call in Harald and tell him to beat me up? He’s a nice boy, and I doubt if he’d do it.”

When Blackett spoke, his voice was so thick with spite and venom that the words could hardly force their way through. He said, “Certainly not. That would be stupid. And I’m not stupid. But you’ll find that I’ve a lot of good friends. Not nice people, perhaps, but effective. In five or six months, or maybe longer than that, when your friends in the police have relaxed their efforts to guard you, you might come home one evening and find everything in your flat destroyed. Broken, defiled, stamped into pieces, burnt with acid. Or perhaps you might be walking home at night. Things happen to girls who walk home at night. And when I read about it in the papers next morning perhaps I should be sorry for you.”