Once a Crooked Man (14 page)

As he suspected, the cabinet was a cleverly disguised minibar. Harry seized the half bottle of Moët champagne and eased off the cork.

Once he had poured it into the glass, he opened the case from Villiers, set it on the floor in front of the armchair and sat down. Gazing at the bundles of money, he savored the cool champagne and the limitless possibilities that could now present themselves to him.

 

28

Life was suddenly very complicated. Max leaned heavily against the wall by the phone taking deep breaths. Goddam it! His whole plan had been compromised. And by a total fucking stranger. Some shithead not only knew his plan but also had managed to warn the Colonel. But how? Beside himself, only four people knew the plan: Rocco and Eddie, Sal and Enzo. And Enzo hadn't been told anything until the very last minute.

The decision to tell Rocco to get rid of Eddie Ryan could have been a mistake. Ryan could have been the one who had talked. Max had never met the man. Nor would he. Not until judgment day when he'd be arraigned with all the others who had been killed. That would be some crazy lineup.

Nino was waiting in the car.

Max waved at him. “Follow me,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “I need to walk.”

“The hell you do,” his driver said getting out and opening the rear door. “You look like a ghost. I'm taking you home. After you have some coffee and something to eat you can walk your ass off.”

“Not home, Nino,” said Max. “Take me to the club.”

“Now you're talking.”

They drove up into the garage behind Mazaras just after six. Max was hitting the buttons on the back-door keypad when his phone bleeped. He read the screen and muttered, “Shit!”

He ran up the stairs to his office. Taking a phone from the drawer, he dialed a series of numbers and held it to his ear.

“I am sure you have heard the latest by now,” said Rhonda Villiers, clearly suppressing her anger. “One attempt has been made on my husband's life and I see no reason to believe that there will not be another. As soon as you know anything about this attack I would appreciate a call.”

“Don't worry. I'll get back to you. Soon as I can,” said Max.

As he ended the connection his own phone bleeped again and so he repeated the procedure. This time it was Villiers himself.

“Is this a secure line?” he asked brusquely. “Or should I call back? Use a different phone?”

“It's okay,” replied Max evenly. “I just spoke with your wife. She told me you have a problem.”

“What the blazes is going on, Max? I picked up at the drop-off as usual, then I got the message from Rocco, but it did not contain instructions to expect enemy gunfire.” He chuckled. “I must admit it was rather exciting in a way. Great to hear the snap, crackle and pop of the MAC-10.”

“Who do you suppose was behind it?” asked Max.

“Ah. Glad you ask. Well, I've tweaked a few noses in the past. Particularly in Ireland. Lots of possibilities there. And elsewhere of course. Thank God for your man Murphy. He warned me just in the nick of time. How long has he been working for you? He's a good chap. Thinks on his feet. Rhonda found him a delight.”

So the stranger had a name. Murphy.

“Call me back tomorrow,” snapped Max.

The Colonel paused and then asked, “Do I sense you are as much in the dark as I am?”

“Let's just say there are a few unexpected complications,” replied Max. “How did you leave it with him?”

“Murphy?”

“Yes.”

“He headed for Heathrow with the cash. I told him where to park the car. I'll pick it up later. Have you heard from him?”

“Not yet,” said Max, trying to control his confusion. “You say you gave him the cash?”

“As per the instructions. Any problem with that?”

“No,” said Max.

“How was Rhonda?”

“Worried. I told her you'd be fine. Why didn't you call her yourself?”

“A truck in the Mews. I'm sure your fellow told you about it. Telecom be damned. Surveillance if you ask me. Phone taps. Didn't want to take the chance.”

Max hung up and sat down on the sofa.

Who the fuck was Murphy? The shit-faced asshole had put the charm on the usually astute Mrs. Villiers and fucked off with one and a half million dollars.

Nino appeared in the door with a plate of scrambled eggs and some heavily buttered toast.

“Here,” he said, and set it down on the table. “Get this into you.”

“What the hell are you doing?” said Max. “You know what the doctor says about…”

“Forget the doctor,” said Nino, handing him a fork and napkin. “You need protein. You need—”

“Okay, okay! Enough with the lecture,” said Max. “Go get Enzo and bring him here.”

Nino nodded and left. Max ate slowly and then wiped the plate clean with the last bit of toast. By the time he heard his brother coming up the stairs he had made a pot of coffee and was getting out the mugs.

“In the kitchen,” he called out.

Enzo came straight to the point. “Now what the hell is going on?”

Max poured out the coffee and added cream and sugar for his brother. Moving into the main room, they sat down at the table.

“As you told me in the car, Rocco intended to make the hit on the Colonel look like it was politically motivated. For that reason he set it up with a man on a motorcycle, similar to attacks in Northern Ireland. Great plan until someone turned up to warn Villiers at the last minute. To make matters worse, the hit man, one Eddie Ryan, was pretty seriously hurt by Villiers backing up his car.”

“Where is he now?”

“Ryan?”

Enzo nodded.

“He's in a hospital. Don't worry. Rocco's taking care of him.”

“Who was it who warned the Colonel?” asked Enzo.

“Someone by the name of Murphy. Mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Villiers called. Told me he gave Murphy the money.”

“What!”

“The Colonel obviously assumed Murphy was sent by us to pick it up.”

Enzo remained silent as Max continued. “Then I had a call from a Rhonda Villiers, who is clearly concerned for her husband's safety. Odd thing is, this Murphy seems to have hit it off with both of them.”

There was a long, significant pause.

“Good coffee,” said Enzo finally.

“Thanks,” said Max.

“That's a lot of shit hitting a big fucking fan,” said Enzo.

Max put his cup down. “Maybe not,” he replied. “Think about it. What's the worst that can happen?”

“Well,” said Enzo, “Villiers is not gonna incriminate himself. He'll keep his mouth shut.”

“You're right there,” said Max. “If he opens it he'll be breaking rocks until he's old and gray.”

“And nothing has happened over there to change things here.”

“Not that I know of.”

Enzo shrugged. “Well then, with Ryan out of the way we have containment.”

Max leaned back in his chair. “Up to a point, yes. We still have to deal with Villiers when he surfaces. Right now I see no reason to change anything here. I'm meeting with Ramon Rivas tomorrow as planned.”

“Sal know about all this?”

“No. But he soon will. I'm curious to see what he'll say we should do.”

“About Murphy?”

Max said bitterly, “Murphy, whoever the fuck he is, has enough of our cash to keep him happy for a very long time. The bastard also knows the money belongs to people who do not have his interests at heart. Unless he's a complete idiot, Mr. Murphy is long gone.”

“Wait a minute!” said Enzo loudly. “You're gonna let him keep it? Shouldn't we…?”

“What do you suggest I do? Send in the Marines? Don't get me wrong, little brother; if I could, I would. And anyway, he's three thousand miles away.”

Enzo raised his hands in the air. “So what do you want from me?”

“I want you to have everything ready so we can make the transition when we hear from Rodrigo. We need to show the Colombians we are efficient and reliable.”

“You got it,” said Enzo. “Anything else?”

“No,” replied Max.

Enzo gave another resigned shrug and went out the way he came in. Max went into the bedroom, kicked off his shoes and lay down. Talking to Enzo had made him feel better. Now it was time to back off and consciously relax. Follow the doctor's orders.

 

29

Harry's martini was cool and dry and he ordered a feast that began with local brook trout served on a bed of watercress. This was followed by a rack of lamb, normally prepared for two, cooked rare and accompanied with a selection of homegrown vegetables and an expensive bottle of Château Margaux. For dessert he threw all caution to the wind, choosing the triple-layer chocolate cake with clotted cream.

What dominated his thoughts throughout dinner was not the food and wine but the money. If he made the wrong decision it could haunt him for the rest of his days.

Sated, he walked unsteadily back to his room. After a brief shower, he slipped naked beneath the covers and had a wildly erotic dream that involved a well-appointed gym, clotted cream, and Colleen O'Herlihy wearing lacy white panties.

The bells of a church awakened him at eight in the morning. As the last sounds reverberated over the rooftops there was an imperceptible tap on the door. Harry lifted up his head from the soft white pillow and saw a maid flitting across the room.

“Good morning, sir,” she whispered as she set a tray down on the table. As she drew back the curtains, sunlight flooded in. Without another word she vanished as silently as she had arrived.

Harry stretched like a contented cat, pulled back the covers, swung his legs to the floor and ambled across to the table. Cup of tea in hand, he watched as a white-hulled yacht on the river below sent ripples of reflected light across the white ceiling above him. In the thick green ivy right outside his window, little brown birds twittered and fluttered.

To see if there was anything about the attempted murder of Colonel Villiers, he opened
The Telegraph
and scanned the columns. At the foot of page 4 was a short paragraph headed “A Mysterious Shooting in Kensington.”

It reported on an incident that had taken place at approximately eight thirty the previous morning. A suspect was in custody, but the motive for the shooting was not yet known. The investigation was being pursued actively.

Well, that gave him a little breathing room. For the moment he was safe. What was more, no one knew where he was.

The battered brown suitcase in the corner of the room was too conspicuous to be carried everywhere. Nor could the cash be easily put in a bank. He had to find some remote place where he could hide it but still have access.

He showered and dressed, took out a bundle of the bills and closed up the case. Down in the lobby he gave a friendly wave to the woman behind the desk.

“Lovely day,” she said with a smile.

“Yes indeed,” Harry replied.

In the center of town at Barclays Bank he changed two thousand of the dollars into pounds sterling. The Queen stared imperiously up at him from the pile of fifties. Her royal gaze gave him but a momentary pause. The bills were folded over and put in an inside pocket. The bulge they made felt reassuring.

Back in the sunshine he came upon Davidson's Luggage Emporium. A polyester suit came forward rubbing his hands.

“Hi there,” said Harry.

“Ah, from America, are we?” said the salesman.

Harry nodded.

“Ah! You've come at the right moment, sir. We have a shop-wide thirty percent sale in effect.”

“I am only after a suitcase. The zipper on my old one is broken.”

“Ah, sir,” the man replied with a sly smile. “You would save money if you was to buy two. May I suggest these?”

To avoid further conversation, Harry agreed and paid cash, arranging for two Tumi cases to be delivered right away to his hotel. As he left, a funeral procession motored past. The hearse contained a black coffin heavily trimmed in brass. The whole interior was festooned with brightly colored flowers. All were on their way to the local cemetery for the internment. The burial.

Here was the solution! He could bury the case! Taunton was surrounded by countryside. Somewhere out there was the perfect spot for temporary underground storage.

A workman, with cloth cap held respectfully in hand, stood beside him at the curbside watching the funeral go by.

“Excuse me,” said Harry. “Could you tell me where there's a hardware store?”

“Hardware store?” said the man with a slightly puzzled expression.

“Yes,” replied Harry.

“Oh! You mean ‘ironmongers.'” He pointed directly across the road. “Over there.”

In Bletchley's Emporium, a short salesman in a brown apron produced every conceivable form of gardening implement. Harry chose a small black shovel. To this he added a flashlight and a roll of duct tape. As the case might have to be buried in damp earth he asked for a roll of big Baggies.

“Baggies, sir?” The man's gray eyebrows rose.

“Garbage bags,” said Harry.

“Garbage, sir?” They rose higher.

“Yes. Big plastic garbage bags.”

The penny dropped. So did his eyebrows. “Oh! You mean bin liners! How many do you require?”

“Er … well, one would be fine if it's big enough.”

“Well sir, the Council usually supplies those but I should have a spare one here somewhere.” The little man rummaged beneath the counter. “Yes, here we are, sir.”

Harry flinched. It looked exactly like a body bag.

A stationery store in the high street provided him with a local survey map. Farther down, he was able to rent a compact car from West Country Motors. After a brief look at the map, he drove to the end of town and headed for the hills. Almost immediately the road narrowed. On either side grew high hedgerows. For a couple of miles the car climbed steadily upwards until he came upon a quaint little village. A signpost identified it as Buckland St. Mary. The weather-beaten church looked down on thatched cottages and the local post office doubled as the general store.