The Loo Sanction (6 page)

“They? Who are they?”

“I don't know.”

“But you have some idea?”

“It could be CII. An American intelligence organization I used to work for. Years ago.”

“Doing what?”

He glanced at her. How could he tell her he had been an assassin? Or even, to split moral hairs, a counterassassin? He returned to watching the doorway across the street.

“But why would they want to implicate you in . . . in that terrible business back there?”

“They have devious, perverted minds. Impossible to know what they're up to. Chances are they want me to work for them again.”

“I don't understand.”

“Drink your coffee.”

“I don't want it.”

They returned to silence and to their own thoughts. And after a time the impulse to speak came to both at once.

“Do you know what was the worst . . . Pardon? You were saying?”

“Look, Maggie, I'm very sorry . . . Excuse me . . . The worst what?”

“Sorry . . . No, you go ahead.”

“Sorry . . . I was just going to say the obvious, love. I'm terribly sorry you're implicated in this.”

“Am I? Really implicated, Jonathan?”

He shook his head. “No, no. Not really. I'll get you clear of it. Don't worry.”

“And what about you?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“True.” She searched his eyes. “Too well, really.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, that's what I was going to say before. When I think about it, the worst part of the whole thing was your reaction. So brisk. Professional. As though you were used to this sort of business. You were terribly calm.”

“Not really. I was scared and confused. That's why I had to take that unit of light meditation.”

“On the bed?”

“Yes.”

“And you can sort yourself out just like that? In a few minutes?”

“I can now. After years of practice.”

She considered that for a moment. “There must have been some terrible things in your life, for you to have to develop—”

“There! There they are!”

She followed his eyes to the hotel entrance. Through gaps in the traffic, she saw two men emerge and stand on the pavement, looking up and down the street. One of them was dressed oddly in flared trendy trousers, cowboy boots, and a longish, tight plaid sports jacket. The collar of his aloha shirt was folded over the jacket collar in the style of twenty-five years ago, and a bulky camera dangled from around his neck. The other man was tall and powerfully built. His bullet-shaped head was shaved, and there were deep folds of skin halfway up the back of his neck. He wore a thick turtleneck sweater under a tweed jacket, and gave the impression of a prizefighter, save for his large, mirror-faced sunglasses.

Aloha Shirt said something to Bullet Head. From his expression, he was angry. Bullet Head barked back, clearly not willing to take the blame. They looked again up and down the street, then Aloha made a signal with his hand, and a dark Bentley pulled up to the curb. They got in, Bullet in front, Aloha alone in back. The Bentley pulled into the traffic, bullying its way into the flow on the strength of its prestige.

Maggie looked at Jonathan, who was studying the faces of the other passersby in front of the hotel. “That's all,” he said to himself. “Just the two.”

“How do you know—”

He held up his hand. “Just a moment.” He watched the street narrowly until, in about three minutes, the Bentley passed again, slowing down as it went by the hotel entrance, the men within leaning forward to examine it carefully. Then the car sought the center lane and drove off.

“OK. They won't be back. Not for a few hours, anyway. But they've undoubtedly left someone inside.”

“How do you know they were the ones?”

“Instinct. They have the look of the weird types you find in espionage. And their subsequent behavior nailed it.”

“Espionage? What on earth is going on, Jonathan?”

He shook his head slowly. “I honestly don't know.”

“Have you done something?”

“No.” He felt anger and bitterness rise inside him. “I think it's something they want me to do.”

“What sort of thing?”

He changed the subject curtly. “Tell me, how would you describe the boss one. The one with the camera and the gaudy shirt?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. An American, I suppose. A tourist?”

“Not a tourist. Even in his excitement, he checked the traffic from right to left. As though he were used to driving on the left. Americans check it from left to right.”

“But the cowboy boots?”

“Yes. But the trousers were of British cut.”

“He did look odd, come to think of it. Like an American. But like an American in old movies.”

“Exactly my impression.”

“What does that tell you?” She leaned forward conspiratorially.

Jonathan smiled at her, suddenly amused by the tone of their conversation. “Nothing, really. Drink your coffee.”

She shook her head.

He withdrew into himself for several minutes, his brow furrowed, his eyes focused through the patterned wall he was staring at. Unit by unit he put together the flow of his necessary actions for the rest of the day. Then he took a deep breath and resettled his attention on Maggie. “OK, listen.” He drew his wallet from his jacket pocket. Folded in it were his checkbook, several sheets of writing paper, stamps, and envelopes, all of which he had collected in his tour of the penthouse flat. “I'll be damned!” He had also drawn out the envelope containing money the Renaissance man had given him for his ad hoc appraisal of the Marini
Horse.
He had completely forgotten about it. So he wasn't working all that lucidly after all. His reactions had rusted in the years since he had quit this kind of business forever. He opened the envelope and counted the money: ten fifty-pound notes. Good. He wouldn't have to use a check after all. “Here,” he said, passing two hundred pounds over the table, “take this.”

She moved her hand away from the notes, as though to avoid contaminating contact. “I don't need it.”

“Of course you need it. You don't have a room. You don't have any money. And you can't go back to MacTaint's.”

“Why not?”

“They'll have someone watching it. This thing is pretty carefully put together. They must have been on me most of the night. I don't too often sleep up there. I usually stay in my Mayfair flat.”

“If you hadn't met me . . .”

“Nonsense. If they really wanted to get to me, they'd have done it sooner or later.”

“Something occurs to me, Jonathan. How did they get in?”

“Oh, any number of ways. Picked the lock. Used a key. And there are a lot of keys around. I told you about that drunk actress.”

“Still, it must have been difficult. Carrying that poor man.”

“He was alive when they brought him in. They shot him there in the bathroom. No blood in the hall. He was heavily doped up.”

“But still, how did they get him up to your flat.”

He shook his head. While they had waited for the elevator to bring them down from his apartment, he had noticed a folding wheelchair against the wall. That, together with the Casper mask stuffed behind his toilet, told him that they'd brought the poor son of a bitch there as a Guy Fawkes dummy. Jonathan saw no reason to share this grisly detail with Maggie.

“Here, take the money.”

“No, really . . .”

“Take it.”

Her hand shook as she accepted the folded notes.

“I know, dear. And I'm sorry. It's really a piece of bad luck that you got mixed up in this. But you'll be all right. They're not after you.”

Tears appeared in her eyes, as much in reaction to the stress and fear as anything else. She didn't apologize for them, nor did she try to blink them away. “But they are after
you
. And I'm afraid for you.” She pulled herself together by the technique of assuming a broad Irish accent. “I've grown rather fond of you, don't you know?”

“I've grown fond of you too, madam. Maybe after I've sorted this thing out . . .”

“Yes. Let's do try.”

“Will you have some coffee now?”

She nodded and sniffed back the last of the tears.

He ordered more coffee and some croissants, and they didn't speak until after the waiter had brought them and departed. She drank her coffee and broke up a croissant, but she didn't eat it. She pushed her plate aside and asked, “Will you be able to let me know how you're getting on?”

“That wouldn't be wise. For you, Maggie. Anyway, I won't know where you're staying. And I don't want to.”

“Oh, but I'd feel dreadful not knowing if you were all right.”

“All right. Look, tomorrow afternoon I will be giving a lecture at the Royal Institute of Art. You can attend. That way you'll be able to see me and you'll know I'm all right. If it looks as though we can meet afterward, I'll end the discussion by saying that I hope to have an opportunity to pursue some of these matters with interested individuals in private. And about an hour later, I'll meet you right here. OK?”

She frowned, confused. “You intend to go ahead with this lecture?”

“Oh yes. With all my social engagements. In this sort of game, they win if they can completely disrupt my life. That would force me either to come to terms with them, or to go on hiding forever. I'm reasonably safe in the open, in public places. You notice that they didn't bring the police with them just now. The big trick will be getting to and from the lecture, and keeping out of sight in the meanwhile. But I've been trained in this sort of game. So don't worry.”

“What kind of advice is that?”

He smiled. “Well, don't worry too much anyway.”

“Do you really think you can avoid them forever?”

“No. Not forever. But I'll get a chance to think. And I'll try to pick my own ground for meeting them.”

“What are you going to do now? After I leave you?”

“I have to arrange some mechanical things. I don't have clothes. I don't have a place to stay. Once I've settled that, I suppose I'll go to the movies.”

“Go to the movies?”

“Best place to lose yourself for a few hours. One of those porno houses where you can rent a raincoat.”

“Rent a raincoat?”

“Never mind.”

“What are you going to do about that man . . . we found? You can't just leave him there.”

“I can't do anything else. Anyway, unless I miss my guess, he won't be there in an hour. They don't want the police in on this if they can help it. I wouldn't be much use to them in prison. No, they were supposed to walk in on me and get hard evidence. A photograph or something. Then they'd have the leverage to force me to work for them. But something went wrong—what, I don't know. Maybe we woke up too early and got out too fast. They'll have to drop back and think up something else. And I'm hoping that will take them a little while.”

She shuddered. “I'm sorry. I try not to think of him . . . the man in your loo . . . but every once in a while the image of him—”

Jonathan looked up at her suddenly. “In my loo?”

“Yes. In your bathroom. What is it?”

“The man said a word just before he died. A name, I thought. I thought he said Lew, as in Lewis. Or Lou as in Louise. But he could have meant loo as in bathroom.”

“What would that mean?”

Jonathan shook his head. “I haven't the slightest idea.”

         

Just before they parted, after they had gone back over the arrangements for meeting after the Royal Institute lecture, Maggie made an observation that had occurred to Jonathan as well. “It's an odd feeling. The change of tone between this morning and the bantering in the restaurant last night. I can't help this curious sensation that we have known one another for years and years. In just a few hours we've been through laughter, and love, and all this trouble. It's an odd feeling.”

“I admire the way you've braced up under this.”

“Ah, well, you see, I've had practice. The troubles in Belfast got very close to me. The soul develops calluses very quickly. That's the real terror of violence: a body gets used to it.”

“True.” Indeed, he had surprised himself with the speed with which he had swung into the patterns and routines of a kind of existence he had thought was far behind him. “I'll see you soon, Maggie.”

“Yes. Soon.”

         

He stood in the red public telephone box and memorized the numbers of two railroad hotels.

“Great Eastern Hotel?” The operator's voice had the singsong of rote.

He pushed the twopence in. “Reservations, please.”

At the Great Eastern, he reserved a room under the name Greg Eastman. Then he called the Charing Cross Hotel and reserved a room under the name Charles Crosley. Railroad hotels were the kind he needed. Quiet, middle class, very large, and used to transients. He would actually stay at the Great Eastern, where a lift could bring him directly from the Underground station into the lobby, making it unnecessary to go onto the open street. His reservation at the Charing Cross was only for a pickup of clothes.

Next he called his tailor on Conduit Street.

“Ah, yes. Dr. Hemlock. May we be of service?”

“I need two suits, Matthew.”

“Of course, sir. Shall we make an appointment for a fitting?”

“I haven't time for that. You have my paper there.”

“Quite so, sir.”

“I need the suits this evening.”

“
This
evening? Impossible, Dr. Hemlock.”

“No, it isn't. You carry Bruno Piattellis, don't you? Pull a couple off the racks, and have one of your tailors alter them to my paper. Conservative in color, not too trendy in cut. You could do it in three or four hours, if you put two men on it.”