Once a Crooked Man (19 page)

Life at the academy presented little challenge and Lizzie was top of her class in every subject. With a combination of street smarts and good looks, she moved fast through the ranks of the force. Her ultimate goal was to work as a plainclothes officer. Lizzie achieved it in record time.

 

33

In the morning sunshine, a steady trail of blue smoke drifted from the side window of a vintage gray Renault that stood directly in front of the Parthenon Express.

At first, Harry didn't recognize the woman in the front seat who sat reading
The Guardian
and sipping coffee from an oversize paper cup. As he came closer he was surprised to see Detective Sergeant Carswell in a crisp white blouse and a dark blue skirt, beige stockings, sensible shoes and jacket. As he opened the passenger door she gave him a welcome smile.

“How was the drive?” she inquired brightly folding the newspaper.

“Uneventful,” he replied, “I am glad to say.”

Easing his luggage into the backseat, he sank in beside her. Lizzie took a last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out.

“No problem at the garage?” she asked with a slight cough.

“No. All very James Bond,” he replied.

“You want to get some coffee?”

“No thanks. I'm fine.”

Her deep blue eyes gazed at him as if assessing her next move. Then she spoke. “Do you think you have the makings of a smuggler, Harry?”

“What?” he said, surprised and not a little confused.

She nodded her head towards the suitcase. “If you had to get that lot back into America without anyone knowing, do you think you could do it? You see, Ivan and I have had a little chat. We've decided we definitely would like you to help us. As I told you, we've had a pretty lousy few weeks. We think if you was to get involved it could make a difference.”

Harry wanted to exercise caution, but the plot was becoming interesting. “Tell me more,” he said.

“We'd like you to play a part, Harry,” she said confidentially. “You should be good at that. Someone very frightened who did something very stupid.”

She was asking him to perform. If he was about to negotiate a deal maybe it was time to call his agent.

“Whoever owns that suitcase knows about you from Villiers,” she continued. “He probably told them you have something to do with show business, so it would make sense for you to be a bit thick.”

“Thick enough to want to give up over a million dollars?”

“Yes.”

Some deal.

“In the Police Academy they taught us that fear is a great motivator. A lot of people do a lot of dumb things when they're scared.”

“‘I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,'” quoted Harry.

“What?”

“It's a line from
Romeo and Juliet,
” he explained. “Go on.”

“Villiers came to his senses. Gave us his contact's number. We want you to call it.”

“From here?”

“No. In the States. You call from somewhere in Manhattan. Ivan thinks if you got on the phone and pleaded with them to take the money back they might listen.” She leaned over and laid a hand on his arm. “I'll understand if you want to walk away, Harry. It's just that … well … this seems to be such a great opportunity. We just might find out who these sods are and where they're getting their cash.”

“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “You're suggesting I go back to New York, make a phone call to a bunch of villains who will kill me if they find out who I am? Am I alone in this venture or will you be providing some sort of support?”

“Of course we will!” she exclaimed. “I'll be right there with you and before we do anything I'll arrange for an American backup team. Trust me, you'll be perfectly safe.”

“How long do I have to think about all this?”

“You could go for a little walkabout if you want,” she said. “Think it over for a couple of minutes. I'll wait here.”

“What makes you think my calling them will make a difference?”

“You're the real thing, Harry. You're believable. We think it's well worth the try.”

“You really think I could do it?”

“All we have to do is make one connection! A name, an address, anything that could take us to the next step.”

“But why the hurry?”

“You got to sound genuine. If you're scared you wouldn't wait.”

“All I do is make a phone call? That's it.”

Lizzie withdrew her hand from his arm. “Well, to be honest, there is a slight possibility you might have to do a follow-up.”

“Follow-up!?”

“It's very unlikely. These people are highly skilled at covering their tracks. Most of them don't have driver's licenses, Social Security numbers or anything that would give them an identity. When it comes to communication they use burn phones, pagers and beepers that are registered to anonymous or fictitious names. I know it's a long shot, but it's all we got.” She paused momentarily. “Of course my boss will have to approve all this. He's the one who will make all the arrangements with New York.”

Harry shook his head. “I'm sorry, but it's a crazy idea. No one would give back all that money. It doesn't make sense.”

“You would have to make it all make sense,” she said with conviction.

Harry had always had a rule when it came to work. He should take the first firm offer that came to him regardless of the possibility or promise of other jobs. But this was madness. He was about to join a fringe amateur dramatic society performing Kafka. With any luck the final outcome would be a bad review and not an obituary.

“When you said I was part of your team I didn't expect to be so actively involved. I'm not equipped to handle anything dangerous.”

“That's my job, Harry. To keep you safe and away from anything unexpected.”

“You're sure I'll be okay?”

“Yeah. Absolutely. You can rely on it.”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Okay,” he said, “in that case I'll do it.”

“Great!”

Lizzie drained her coffee and threw the paper cup over her shoulder and onto the floor. She started up the engine and let out the hand brake. With a squeal from the tires the Renault headed north.

“Where are we going?” asked Harry, looking for a seat belt.

“Broadcasting House,” she said. “My boss is giving a talk on the radio and he'll be there until one o'clock.”

“What's he like?” asked Harry, giving up the search.

“He's from the old school. Likes to micro-manage. A pretty decent sort actually.”

“What happens if he gives me the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval?”

“You get to show me New York.”

“Now that I would enjoy,” said Harry.

At B.H., a landmark circular concrete edifice at the top of Regent Street and the original home of the BBC, a uniformed page met them in the lobby and assisted them through security. Once down two flights of stairs and along a curved corridor with pale green walls, he ushered them into a small control room. An engineer in shirtsleeves sat at the console. Behind the double glass partition a stocky man in a blue suit could be seen seated in front of the microphone. On a hook on the wall behind him hung his raincoat, a neatly rolled umbrella and a Fedora. He waved to Lizzie.

“Wait here,” she said, and pushed through the pair of connecting doors.

Harry watched them mime through the partition. They greeted each other with smiles. The man listened and Lizzie talked. Then she listened as he spoke. A question-and-answer session began and Lizzie became more and more animated, pacing up and down and using her hands and arms for emphasis. Harry could sense her mounting frustration.

At that moment the engineer decided to check a microphone and slid the control open.

Her boss was talking. “All we need is a good cover story, my dear. Shouldn't be an insurmountable problem…” The control slid closed and the engineer rose from his seat and walked past Harry into the studio. As the heavy door swung open he heard Lizzie say, “Why can't we make an approach under Section Two-Oh-Six or Two-Oh-Seven?”

“Perhaps,” came the reply. “Perhaps. Definitely worth consideration. But if something goes terribly…” The door swung shut, cutting off the sound.

Two minutes later Lizzie came out to the control room.

“Trouble?” asked Harry.

She shook her head. “Basically he likes the idea. His problem is the American obsession with privacy. But he thinks he can deal with that. Might take a little time, that's all.”

Lizzie's boss came out of the studio. “Thank you, Duncan,” he said to the engineer. “Be a good chap and pop off to the canteen for a nice cup of tea. I'd like five minutes alone with these two if you don't mind.” Duncan picked up his jacket and left.

The elderly man gave Harry a firm handshake. As he moved, his clothes smelled as if he had been close to a wood fire.

“I understand you're a thespian, Mr. Murphy,” he began. “Might I have seen your work?”

“It's possible, but most of what I've done has been in the States,” replied Harry.

“Great admiration for you chaps the way you learn all those lines. How you do it is beyond me.” He indicated they should both sit and settled himself in the chair at the console.

“It's highly commendable when citizens such as yourself are motivated to assist the authorities. I can assure you that your efforts are greatly appreciated. But I think you should know that what you are about to do falls outside standard operating procedures. We're stepping out on a limb, so to speak, and if the bough happens to break we won't be in the best of positions to stop your hitting the ground. Could be a little painful.”

Pleased at his own metaphor, he smiled. Harry felt as if he was in a time warp. It was 1944 and he was about to be dropped into France.

“Electronic eavesdropping devices are extraordinarily sophisticated nowadays,” the little man continued. “Once you make contact you should assume that you are being overheard no matter where you are. Detective Carswell will indicate when it's clear to talk shop. She will also be using a cover that we've used effectively in the past, the overseas representative of a package tour company researching restaurants and hotels. It allows her to poke around without arousing suspicion. You, Mr. Murphy, will be working with a different sort of cast and director, and knowing how Detective Carswell operates, I wish you the best of British luck!”

He turned his attention to Lizzie. “I'm going to make a phone call or two. Call in a few favors. Go directly through my office. Tell Freddy to give the matter his personal attention. He has pretty good connections, so it shouldn't take him too long to deal with protocol and the necessary finance. If it becomes necessary I'll make a couple of calls to expedite matters. Meanwhile you both should work out your cover. Make sure you know your relationship to each other and act accordingly. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to wax eloquent on the subject of the
Apis Mellifera
.”

Without saying another word he returned to the studio.

As Harry and Lizzie walked back along the corridor he asked, “What the hell is
Apis Mellifera
?”

“The common honey bee,” she replied. “The Commander is an authority on beekeeping.”

“Aha! That accounts for the smell of smoke.”

“What smell?” she asked with a frown.

“Woodsy smell of burning. You burn rolled-up newspaper to keep the bees calm when you handle them.”

“How do you know about that?” she asked.

“Played a homicidal beekeeper once,” he replied. “Amazing what you can learn in show business.”

When they returned to the Renault, a horrendous medieval contraption had been padlocked to the rear offside wheel with a threatening sticker pasted to the passenger window. Lizzie had neglected to buy and affix a parking ticket to the windshield. The parking space was now permanently blocked. Lizzie climbed into the driver's seat, put the key in the ignition and turned the radio to loud pop music. She lit another cigarette and let out a dense cloud of smoke that curled up the windshield. Harry wound down his window.

From the glove compartment she produced a cellphone and a small notebook. Handing him the phone, she wrote down three telephone numbers. Below those she scribbled an odd series of numbers and letters.

“Keep this with you,” she instructed. “The first number is if you get into trouble. Don't use it unless it's a real emergency. The second is my direct number. The third is the airline. Call them and make two Business Class reservations to New York on the first flight that leaves tomorrow.”

“Do I use our own names?”

“Yes, Harry. We are operating in the real world. We use our real names.”

Her finger tapped the fourth line. “If you have any problem with the reservation, give them that as a priority code. They'll know what to do. Leave the mobile on all the time. I'll call you as soon as I have any news.”

“What do I do until then?”

“Find yourself somewhere to stay and decide how you would smuggle one million, five hundred thousand dollars into the United States of America. Shouldn't be too hard a problem for a smart man like you.” She took the key from the ignition and got out. “Remember, when you meet me at the check-in counter we're supposed to be good friends. Make like you're glad to see me.”

“What do we do about your car?” said Harry.

“The fuzz'll tow it away. It'll be a fucking sight safer with them than outside my flat.” Dashing across the street, she flagged down a passing cab. As she climbed in and shut the door, she blew him a kiss.

Harry closed the windows and retrieved the cases. With them safely stowed in another cab he told the driver to go to South Kensington where there would be several suitable places for him to stay the night.