Charlie Muffin U.S.A. Page 5

  ‘It’s going very well,’ said Terrilli. He was always careful not to appear too enthusiastic, because his was the planning and the forethought which made everything so successful and enthusiasm might indicate conceit.

  ‘Because it’s so well organised,’ said Patridge, always the more sycophantic of the two.

  ‘If there’s no other business,’ Terrilli cut in, ‘I have an appointment.’

  The accountant and Santano looked up, curious at the abruptness.

  ‘I’m going to New York,’ added Terrilli.

  ‘Business?’ asked Santano, irritated that he had not been either warned or consulted.

  ‘Yes,’ said Terrilli. ‘I’m going to look at some stamps, too. Be away for a couple of days.’

  The Terrilli Industries executive jet was making its arrival down the slip runway to the private section of La Guardia Airport by the time Charlie Muffin got back to his room at the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan. He was a little stiff-legged from the amount of whisky he had consumed, but otherwise unaffected. He’d paced the third and fourth drinks, so that he and Pendlebury had been level pegging, and in the end it had been the American who suffered more. Charlie took off his jacket and shoes, lying back upon the bed, carefully moving his toes and examining the feet that seemed to have so much trouble being made comfortable. Pendlebury was a piss-assed security man, nothing more, he told himself. Why was it then that he still felt unsure?

  The telephone rang jarringly in the room, making him jump and shattering his reflections.

  ‘Guess who?’ said a bright, female voice and for several moments Charlie lay with the telephone in his hand, trying to identify it.

  ‘Who?’ he asked, defeated.

  There was a mew of feigned disappointment.

  ‘Clarissa,’ said the voice. ‘Clarissa Willoughby. I could hardly believe my luck when Rupert told me you’d be in New York at the same time.’

  ‘You’re here?’ said Charlie vacuously.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And guess what?’

  ‘What?’ said Charlie. She’d love the quiz games with which American television was littered.

  ‘We’re staying at the same hotel. I’m just two floors above you. Isn’t that terrific?’

  ‘Terrific,’ agreed Charlie. He wondered if she’d detected the absence of enthusiasm. She would have ensured the hotel reservation, he guessed, realising why he hadn’t been able to stay at the Waldorf.

  Suddenly Charlie’s mind wasn’t on the conversation with the underwriter’s wife. He knew why Pendlebury made him uneasy and the realisation increased his uncertainty. Looking at Pendlebury had been like looking at a mirror-image of himself.

  ‘Why aren’t you talking to me?’ complained Clarissa.

  ‘I just had a thought,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Was it important?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘I hope not.’

  5

  Charlie stood anonymously but carefully positioned against the wall of the exhibition room, reflecting how future anthropologists would categorise the animal functions displayed at twentieth-century cocktail parties and receptions.

  The ritualistic behaviour was always so similar, whatever the occasion. When he had still been held in esteem by the Intelligence Service, under the control of Sir Archibald Willoughby, Charlie had attended British Embassy receptions all over the world. There had been Queen’s birthdays and State independences and National holidays or Presidents and premiers wanting to show off, and apart from some fancy uniforms, the occasional undrinkable local drink and perhaps a wider smattering of foreign languages, the opening night of the Romanov and Zarrins Collections was identical to any of them.

  There was the usual crush around the canapés and pursuit of the champagne trays (‘the feeding instinct’) and a lot of bare female flesh being thrust beneath the appreciative eyes of the males who, because they were only into their second glass of wine and therefore more inhibited than their ancestors, were feigning no interest (‘the mating instinct’).

  And then there were Pendlebury and Pendlebury’s men and the hotel security people and a contingent from the New York City Police Department and himself. The ‘hunting instinct’, he supposed. Looking for the prey.

  ‘Watch the watchers.’

  Charlie smiled at the recollection of the phrase. It had been one of the earliest dictums from Sir Archibald who, despite never having operated in the field, knew more about tradecraft than any man Charlie had ever encountered, and was therefore someone whose advice Charlie respected, despite his dislike of rules.

  Charlie decided that just as those Embassy occasions could have overlapped with this, so could something of his previous training. Pendlebury had told him of the police co-operation, which meant he had been allowed access to the files on people likely to attempt a robbery. So he stood against the wall watching Pendlebury, who stood in the middle of the room, watching everyone who entered. Charlie saw that Pendlebury wasn’t drinking. Neither was Charlie. Neither was he relying entirely upon a rule, even though it had been established by someone whom he had respected so highly. The stamps were displayed in enclosed glass cabinets arranged in a rectangle in the centre of the room and Charlie had positioned himself at the head, so that any activity that took place around the exhibits was as clear to him as any communication that might come from Pendlebury.

  Charlie estimated that there were no more than a hundred people genuinely interested in the stamps. About twenty had produced their philatelic credentials and were now being personally escorted around the stands, each assigned one of Pendlebury’s men, with permission to unlock the cases and examine the essays or frames more closely. And quite near him was a group of men whom Charlie had identified as White Russian émigrés. They had already made two circuits of the display cases, but in a manner different from the philatelists. They had looked reverently at the stamps, rarely talking to each other, in apparent awe of something which had once belonged to a man they revered. Charlie wondered why none of them was completely intact; two wore eye patches, one moved awkwardly, unbalanced by a missing left arm, and two limped, one obviously supported by a false leg. As Charlie watched, the men took champagne from a passing tray and seemed to assemble in a formal circle, as if an official toast were being drunk. Charlie decided he would have liked to have talked to them; they looked as if they had been fucked about a lot, like he had.

  The organising committee, headed by Senator Cosgrove, was near the door. Tonight the man was accompanied by his wife. Sally, remembered Charlie, from the disdained introduction he’d been granted thirty minutes earlier. He could easily understand why Clarissa Willoughby and Sally Cosgrove were friends. The American socialite butterflied from person to person and group to group, almost with a professional mannequin’s awareness of any passing camera, bestowing greetings and gushing kisses. She’d seemed appalled at the possibility of Charlie appearing with her in any photograph, removing herself from his presence as soon as possible. That had pleased Charlie, but for different reasons.

  Charlie was aware of Pendlebury moving and became attentive, realising the man was coming towards him. Pendlebury walked in such a way that the entrance was never obscured from his view; the man was very professional, Charlie decided.

  ‘So far, so good,’ he said.

  ‘Hardly expected a smash and grab, did you?’ said Charlie.

  ‘If this is the sort of interest they can expect, the charity should make a lot of money,’ predicted Pendlebury.

  ‘The food and drink is free,’ Charlie reminded him.

  ‘Cynical bastard,’ said Pendlebury, amused. Throughout the conversation, he remained looking at the door.

  ‘Never believed the Seven Dwarfs took Snow White in just to keep house, did you?’ said Charlie.

  ‘The senator’s enjoying himself,’ said Pendlebury.

  ‘So’s his wife.’

  ‘Nice piece of ass,’ judged Pendlebury. ‘Used to be a cocktail waitress in Beverly Hill
s.’

  ‘That’s what I like about America,’ said Charlie. ‘True democracy.’

  ‘Take an Old Fashioned from her any time,’ said Pendlebury.

  ‘Doubt if you’d get the offer,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No,’ agreed Pendlebury regretfully. ‘You’re probably right.’

  Momentarily, the American looked into the room, to where a security man was having difficulty closing a display case besides which a philatelist stood still. The lock finally clicked and Pendlebury sighed.

  ‘That’s a stupid idea,’ said Charlie. ‘The cases shouldn’t be opened in the middle of a function like this.’

  ‘Organisers probably felt it necessary.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Charlie. ‘I want it stopped.’

  ‘Organisers won’t like it,’ warned Pendlebury. ‘Neither will the senator.’

  ‘They haven’t got to.’

  There was a sudden flurry by the door and Charlie followed Pendlebury’s look. Clarissa Willoughby was arriving, surrounded by a group of people. They all wore evening dress. The woman paused just inside the room, staring around. From a distance, Charlie decided, she looked remarkably attractive. She still wore her hair in a bubbled style, which he didn’t like, but she had discarded the feather-effect dress. She wore a simple black tube, supported over her shoulder by a single strap, the only jewellery a diamond pin high on the shoulder. She was big-busted, Charlie saw appreciatively. He’d always been a tit man.

  Sally Cosgrove surged forward, arms outstretched, and there was much kissing and hugging to the accompaniment of camera flashes.

  Over the American woman’s shoulder, Clarissa Willoughby saw him and when she had detached herself from the greeting embrace, she waved. Charlie gestured back, wondering why he felt self-conscious.

  ‘You know her?’ asked Pendlebury.

  Charlie smiled at the astonishment in the other man’s voice.

  ‘Slightly.’

  ‘I’d like to know her a lot better than that,’ said Pendlebury.

  ‘A lot of people probably do,’ guessed Charlie.

  Led by the senator’s wife, Clarissa and her group moved further into the room, making a pretence of interest in the exhibits.

  Had Charlie not been following their progress, which brought his head around so that Pendlebury was directly in front of him, he might have missed the other man’s reaction. As it was, Charlie was unsure whether there had been a change. He had expected a tightening within the man, if there were any recognition, but instead Pendlebury seemed very slightly to relax. Charlie turned within seconds of discerning the American’s attitude. There were four people in the doorway, apparently arriving separately. There was a masculine looking woman, in a severe black trouser suit and carrying a long cigarette holder, an immaculately dressed, slightly greying man with a deep suntan, and a husband and wife, who were immediately recognised by Cosgrove and some of the charity officials just inside the room, and snatched further in for greeting.

  ‘Recognise somebody?’ demanded Charlie.

  Pendlebury shook his head. ‘Wish I had.’

  Charlie looked back to the door. The four had moved into the room now and were lost in the crowd.

  A waiter passed near by and Pendlebury gestured with an expertise that came from long hours in bar-rooms.

  ‘Champagne?’ he invited. ‘French, not Californian.’

  ‘Gives me wind,’ replied Charlie.

  The American sipped his wine, looking directly at Charlie and smiling. ‘One glass won’t hurt,’ he said. He looked beyond Charlie to the display cases.

  ‘The reception will be over soon,’ said Charlie. ‘I can wait.’

  ‘Afraid I shan’t be able to join you tonight,’ apologised Pendlebury. ‘Got an appointment.’

  Charlie shrugged, not having expected the man’s company. He heard familiar voices and turned towards Clarissa Willoughby. She was advancing slightly ahead of her party, smiling.

  ‘Darling!’ she cried. ‘I’ve been telling everyone what a simply fascinating man you are.’

  By her side Sally Cosgrove stood uncertainly. Then recognising in a sideways look the trouser-suited woman who had been in the group to which Pendlebury seemed to react, she waved, welcoming the excuse to leave Clarissa’s presence while she spoke to the staff.

  ‘Hello,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Fran, John, Pandora and Giles,’ recited Clarissa, sweeping her hand back but not looking at them. ‘And you’ve already met Sally. We’re all going to the Four Seasons.’

  ‘Have fun,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No, darling. You too. I want you to come.’

  ‘Too busy,’ replied Charlie.

  ‘Nonsense. It’s all going to be over soon. You’ve no excuse.’

  Pendlebury had moved away and was watching the performance with an amused smile upon his face.

  Clarissa shook her head.

  ‘We’re not leaving the room without you,’ she said, in her little-girl-petulant voice: ‘I insist.’

  Charlie sighed. It had happened before, just like the funny way people looked at him. He’d never enjoyed it, not even the screwing bit, and that hadn’t always been the eventual reward.

  ‘We’ll call back to the hotel so you can change,’ she said, looking down at him.

  ‘I’ll go as I am,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s traditional for jesters to wear peculiar clothes.’

  There was an aircraft in permanent readiness for him at La Guardia, but Pendlebury was held up by traffic on the Triboro Bridge, so it took him almost three hours to reach Washington. Warburger was too excited by what had happened to be annoyed at the delay.

  ‘Well!’ he said, repeating the demand of which Bowler had become sickened during the wait. ‘Well! Is it going to work or isn’t it?’

  ‘He came,’ admitted Pendlebury.

  From his desk the Director took up the copies of photographs which had been taken during the Romanov reception and wired down from New York ahead of Pendlebury’s arrival. Pendlebury had brought the video film which they had just sat through in its entirety.

  ‘He came!’ repeated Warburger. ‘Just like I said he would. He wants them. I can almost feel the tingle in his hands, needing to touch them and know they’re his.’

  Pendlebury accepted the proffered still photographs. Every one showed Terrilli standing with the same concentration over a display case.

  ‘That’s all he did,’ said Pendlebury, as if confirmation were necessary. ‘Just spent an hour going from display to display, hardly ever looking up.’

  ‘He’s a junkie and we’ve got the fix,’ insisted the Director.

  ‘It certainly looks like it,’ conceded Bowler. ‘I never expected he would fly all the way from Florida. It clinches it for me.’

  ‘What about the Englishman?’ demanded Warburger.

  ‘I think he’s smart,’ said Pendlebury thoughtfully. ‘Appears not to be, but I think it’s an act.’

  ‘Is he going to be a problem?’ asked Bowler.

  Pendlebury hesitated. Then he said, ‘Not if I handle it carefully enough.’

  ‘Don’t make a mistake, will you?’ said Warburger seriously.

  ‘No,’ promised Pendlebury.

  ‘If he becomes a nuisance, it could be resolved,’ said the Director.

  ‘I know,’ said Pendlebury. ‘But there’s no reason, not yet.’

  ‘Let’s just keep our options open,’ said Bowler.

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ said Pendlebury.

  ‘Be sure you are,’ said Warburger.

  At least the meal and the wine had been good, thought Charlie. He felt as if he were in one of those television advertisements promoting analgesics for teachers who get migraine attacks from the incessant chattering of children. Charlie decided he must be getting older than he had fully realised. Because there was no harm and because he knew he had a function to fulfil, to earn the dinner, Charlie had told them about the liner fire in Hong Kong and how he had been allowed to travel to
Peking by the Chinese authorities for proof that it had been caused by the Hong Kong Chinese owner and not by communist agents. It had been easy to omit the part played by the fervent C.I.A. man from whose death Charlie had stood aside because to have intervened would have disclosed his true identity and revived the pursuit by both American and British Intelligence Services which had already cost him the death of his wife.

  The other men at the table had grown irritated, jealous of the interest the women had shown in the account and convincing themselves it was exaggerated. Whenever they’d expressed disbelief, Clarissa, who knew little of the circumstances, had assured them as if she had been personally involved that Charlie was telling the absolute truth.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you he was absolutely fantastic!’ she kept repeating.

  Had he been a dog, Charlie thought, he’d have been expected to wag his tail. Perhaps he still would.

  They had finished their meal when, his hand cupped as if proposing a Masonic handshake, the man whom Charlie had identified as Giles reached across the table towards him.

  ‘Want some?’ he invited.

  Twice during the evening he and the girl with him, Fran, had snorted from the silver file of cocaine.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Frightened?’ demanded the man, imagining a chance to deflate the obvious admiration of the women around the table.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘It rots your nose.’

  ‘Smoking gives you lung cancer,’ cut in the other man, John.

  ‘I don’t smoke either,’ said Charlie.

  ‘And screwing gives you the clap,’ said Fran, joining in the game.