Once a Crooked Man (9 page)

“
Colonel
Villiers,” she corrected with emphasis. “I'm afraid he's out of the country. Won't be back until Thursday morning at eight thirty. Would you care to leave a message?”

“No. Thank you. No, I don't think so. It can wait,” said Harry and he quickly replaced the receiver.

 

19

Detective Sergeant Ivan Sapinsky was pouring himself an espresso from his old and well-used thermos. In his haste to press the record button when the overseas call came through to number 4 Kensington Mews, he almost knocked over the little metal cup.

The police officer was surrounded by a highly sophisticated level of electronic eavesdropping devices. If the cup had gone over, it would have been an extremely expensive accident. However, Ivan managed to catch it in mid-tip. Only a few drops of the dark liquid spilled on his overalls. To make absolutely certain that nothing had been damaged, he played over the conversation he had just recorded and then pressed more buttons.

Three swallows later a telephone number appeared on one of the screens in front of him. Next to it was a name: “Murphy, H. P.,” and a New York phone number.

 

20

The beer in Harry's hand grew warm as the implications of what he was doing percolated down through his head. This wasn't a script for a movie. It was fact, not fiction. An actual Colonel Villiers lived in London. Someone was going to try to knock him off. Once he was a corpse on the ground no one would come along and help him up. He'd be dead meat. And so would Harry if he stuck his nose in. Real murderers don't leave clues. The person who killed them both would never be caught. Harry would suffer an anonymous death in a foreign country. Only a fool would get himself involved.

Then his cellphone rang in the living room. Once again it was Richie.

“Hello there, sport,” he said cheerily. “Sorry about the play, but we just got some good news. You have a booking at Nutmeg at nine
A.M.
tomorrow for Mueller's Mayonnaise.”

“Wow! That's great!” exclaimed Harry.

“They loved your reading. When you get there, ask for BJ.” And he hung up. Richie was a man of few words.

It was a sign! The recording fee would cover the flight and hotel and the residual payments would cover any additional expenses. He would drop by the Mews and knock on the door. If trouble arose he could always improvise. Harry had played dozens of shady characters and with so much firsthand experience he would know exactly what to say and do. Once he had done his duty he would relax for a while. Go sightseeing. Visit a few of his favorite restaurants. Take in a couple of shows.

Maybe he would pop over to Paris for a naughty weekend. Or Copenhagen. Copenhagen was naughtier. And if the whole thing turned out to be a hoax, he would simply have enjoyed a memorable vacation and would be able to come home with a whole new perspective on life.

Aware that time was of the essence, he went online and found several last-minute low-fare options to Heathrow. He chose a flight out of Kennedy on American Airlines.

The next morning the commercial turned out to be an animated cartoon. Harry's enthusiastic reading of “Mueller's Mayo. It's in the bag!” had thrilled the client as it was perfect for the talking sandwich that leapt in and out of a kid's lunchbox. Soon after noon everyone had convinced themselves they had the definitive reading of the cute little voice.

Harry left extra time for the taxi ride to Kennedy Airport in an effort to avoid the rush-hour exodus from the city. As always, the Van Wyck was a parking lot. But check-in and security went relatively smoothly and he was able to get himself a bite to eat before it was time to board. At the gate he was delighted to find that due to overbooking he had been upgraded. This was clearly a sign that he had made the right decision to go and warn Colonel Villiers.

The seat in Business Class had a series of levers that would angle the head, body and feet to any desired position. A touch-screen television and Bose headphones were provided for the inflight entertainment. As Harry sipped from the little plastic glass of champagne, he amused himself by reading the safety pamphlet telling what he should do if this massive plane came down unexpectedly in the Atlantic.

“Good evening,” said a voice, soft and low.

Harry looked up.

Settling into the seat next to him was a woman with deep violet eyes. Elizabeth Taylor eyes. She wore a smart suit and a Hermès scarf. The current issue of
Vanity Fair
poked out from her carry-on.

“Good evening,” he said, marveling at his good fortune.

Harry took a moment to check out the other passengers in the cabin. Could one of them be on his way to eliminate the Colonel? And need a hired killer necessarily be a male? There had been several movies in the last few years with diabolical women assassins. Would she, or he, be traveling in Business? The more successful could certainly afford the comforts of First, but Economy would be the most anonymous. Then Harry reminded himself that what he was doing was not fiction but reality. He should stick to facts.

Before takeoff, seat belts were fastened, the empty glasses were collected and everyone was made aware of the necessary safety instructions. The cabin gave a slight shudder, and right on schedule the big jet was pushed back from the gate and slowly trundled over the bumpy concrete like an elephant. But as the wheels left the runway the great jet flew into the air like an eagle.

About twenty minutes later the Captain's voice over the intercom announced they had reached their cruising altitude. Harry's companion pushed the scarf from her head and said, “Excuse me.”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Do you know what time we land at Heathrow?” She had an odd accent that Harry couldn't place.

“About nine thirty,” he answered.

She smiled her thanks revealing teeth that were toothpaste commercial material. She stretched out her hand. “Marisa Vargas.” Her hand was strong and cool.

“Harry Murphy.”

The flight attendant appeared with tablecloths and they both pulled out their trays.

“Are you traveling on business?” Marisa asked, dropping the magazine at her feet.

Harry took an instant to ponder the question. The last thing he wanted to talk about was show business. He was sipping champagne next to a drop-dead gorgeous woman en route to Europe. It was unlikely they would ever meet again. Here was an opportunity for a little fabrication. What could he be? Then he remembered, like the Blues Brothers, he was on a “mission from God.”

“I'm in law enforcement,” he said confidentially.

“Really?” The dusky way she replied gave him goose bumps. “INTERPOL?”

“Well, not exactly,” he said, and added, “I'm with an agency that deals with a select number of cases that are out of the normal areas of police investigative work.”

“Really?” She was impressed. “Drugs?”

“Computer crime mostly.”

Harry was on a roll.

“The criminal mind has become smart and sophisticated. It's tough to catch them these days.”

“Is what you do dangerous?” she asked.

He gave a slight shrug and smoothed out his tablecloth. “It's a living.”

As he had waited to board the flight Harry had passed the time reading an article in
The Week
describing the deplorable foreign-policy decisions of the current administration. All through dinner he talked fluidly about his work as an undercover operative, using plots and dialogue from scripts he'd done in the past. Two more glasses of champagne and two of Sangiovese oiled his willing tongue. Marisa was a good listener. The creative fiction only ended when the overhead lights were darkened. The efforts of the last two days and the flickering images on the screen in front of him combined to lull Harry into a deep sleep.

“Mister Murphy.”

He opened his eyes to see a tray with a glass of orange juice. A polyester blanket had been draped over him in the night and he felt hot and clammy. First light streamed in through the uncovered windows. The seat across from him was empty. “You were dead to the world,” the flight attendant said smiling. “We'll be serving our continental breakfast in just a moment.”

Harry drained the glass in one gulp. His companion reappeared carrying a small leather case. Her hair was held back with a gold clip. Harry grabbed the complimentary kit from the seat pocket and lurched to the toilet. Inside, he slid the bolt to Occupied and the lights blinked on. Unzipping his fly, he relieved the considerable pressure on his bladder and pushed the little lever. A swirl of blue water flushed the toilet with a loud thud. When he returned to his seat Marisa was now wearing the Bose noise-canceling headphones and reading
Vanity Fair
.

The captain throttled back as he began the descent into Heathrow. The landing was smooth and they soon pulled up at the ramp.

Once off the big jet Harry walked as fast as he could through the tunnels in the terminal as he knew from past experience that seconds could make a difference in the time he would have to wait in the immigration hall. Unfortunately, a Dreamliner had disgorged hordes of passengers who not only didn't speak English, but also carried sheaves of papers that needed careful checking and loud stamping. Harry shuffled along in the line.

It took him another ten minutes to find his suitcases at Carousel 4 in the baggage claim. For some unexplained reason they had been taken off the conveyor belt and placed on the floor with luggage from a flight from Miami. The smaller of his two bags had sprung open to reveal his freshly laundered shirts and underwear. He shoved everything back in, closed it up and wheeled his trolley under the octagonal green sign marked: Nothing to Declare.

A customs official motioned him to stop and indicated he should place his bags on the counter.

“Had an accident, have you?” he said and pointed at the broken zip.

Harry shook his head. “The catch is broken.”

“Open it.”

Harry unzipped the lid and lifted it back.

“On business are you, sir?”

All his life, Harry's parents had lectured him on the need for conformity. In matters of paying taxes, obeying the law and passing through Customs, he was taught to respect authority. Antisocial behavior was the swift route to eternal damnation. The cells of Harry's brain were filled with residual religious guilt. Fear of consequences kept his feet firmly on the straight and narrow.

Nevertheless he thought it prudent to avoid the real reason for his trip. “On vacation,” he answered casually.

The man gave the case a perfunctory search and then nodded that he was free to go and turned back to his colleagues. Once again Harry stuffed everything back in and trundled his way around the corner of the wall that separated the customs area from the free world. Harry headed for Cook's and changed two hundred dollars into sterling.

The Heathrow subway station was at the end of an exceedingly long passageway. At the ticket booth, Harry bought a runaround ticket. Once inside the compact carriage he felt as if he were traveling in a toy train. Outside the window, the narrow streets, the shops, the little houses, the back gardens and parks of suburbia all flashed by, bringing back a kaleidoscope of memories from earlier visits.

On those trips, Harry had stayed at a small hotel not far from the Portobello Market that was popular with actors, writers and musicians. It was stylish and expensive, but the company always paid the bill. But a reservation had to be made well in advance. This time, with such short notice, a room wasn't available, so it had been necessary to look elsewhere. Larry Parker, his accountant, could always be relied on to come up with a bargain. He had made a suggestion. Harry had called and booked a single.

The walk from the subway station to the hotel took him less than ten minutes. Once checked in, he took a cramped little elevator to his floor.

The layout of the diminutive space under the eaves was most ingenious. On the right-hand wall was a wooden bunk. Built into it were two drawers for storage. Beyond the bed were a narrow closet, a folding canvas chair and a table with kettle, plate, cup and saucer. The tiny minibar was attached to the wall at eye level. The TV was on a bracket perched high above the end of the bed. The control lay on the little pillow.

The left wall housed the bathroom unit that was entered through a sliding door. The basin folded up to reveal the toilet. To take a shower, it was necessary to sit on the toilet and hold the little plastic spray. This was also used to fill the basin for washing and shaving. Folding this back up sent the dirty water down into the toilet.

Daylight came into this snugly decorated cell from a window high up in the end wall. Harry comforted himself with the fact that it wasn't barred.

Like many men, Harry liked to spread out in a state of orderly untidiness. Some of his clothes went into the drawers beneath the bed. The rest he piled where he could. Once undressed, he edged his way into the little bathroom and sat down on the toilet. With shower in hand he turned on the water. The light spray sprinkled over his hair. As it ran down over his face he closed his eyes and tried to recall the voice of the woman who had answered the phone. Who could she be? Mrs. Villiers? Or perhaps a maid? Someone who worked for the Colonel? A relative?

Although the pressure was pathetic, a great deal of water leaked out of the unit. Harry dried himself off and mopped up the floor as best he could.

Once dressed, he retrieved the S—Z telephone directory from under a pile of shirts on the window ledge and ran his finger down the columns until he found:
Villiers CJ 4 Kensington Mews.

On his way past the front desk, he did his best to explain to the smiling gentleman from Pakistan why he needed new towels. In spite of all the friendly nodding, Harry had no idea whether the man had actually understood what he was saying. Leaving the hotel, he walked to the end of the street and flagged down a passing cab. When they arrived at Kensington Mews, Harry paid the fare and stood for a while on the pavement to get his bearings.