The End Game (27 page)

Moule seemed to be reading David’s thoughts. He said, “There’s something wrong with you. What’s happening?”

David said, with calculated brutality, “What’s happening is that I’ve had enough. I’m getting out.”

Moule stared at him. Then he said, “What about me?”

“I’m not your father and mother. I’m not your bloody nurse. What about you? What the hell do I care about you?”

“You promised—”

“Anything I promised, I’ve done. And done more than I promised.”

“Yes, yes.” The slave was anxious to propitiate a master who had turned suddenly stern. “You’ve been very good.”

“And I could be better. Look at this, will you?” David had an envelope in his hand. He said, “Hold the torch. I want to count.” He spread a khaki handkerchief on to the straw between them and trickled out on to it first ten, then another ten, then a final ten of the white tablets.

“Thirty,” he said. “Thirty of them. Now say that I don’t keep my promises.”

Moule’s voice was shaking. He said, “Oh, you do. You do. I haven’t quite enough money for all of them—”

“I’m not interested in money,” said David. He was tipping the tablets carefully back into the envelope as he spoke. The last one escaped and rolled into the straw. David shone the torch down, located it and picked it up. He did all this slowly and deliberately.

There was a moment of silence in their tiny bivouac. Then Moule said, framing the words with difficulty, “Please—please tell me what you want.”

“You know what I want.”

“I don’t. Really I don’t.”

“I want those papers. The ones you hid.”

Moule didn’t pretend not to understand him. He was leaning back, his face working. If he doesn’t break now, thought David, he never will. Deliberately he crushed the tablet he was holding and scattered the white powder into the straw.

“One of those goes away every minute until you make your mind up.”

The tortured indecision on Moule’s face was horrible. As David took a second tablet out of the envelope he said, “Stop. Don’t do that. Wait for a moment. You don’t understand. If I tell you and you take the papers, people will know.”

“Know what?”

David turned the tablet over between his fingers.

“Know that I’ve told you.”

“Your name won’t be mentioned.”

“They’ll guess.”

“It’s up to you.”

Moule gave a dry sob. It was like a boy who has been beaten so often that he can cry no more. He said, “All right. I’ll tell you. It was the audit.”

“What audit?”

(Keep him talking.)

“I used to do audits for Mantegna. It meant going out and spending the day—several days—in the office of the firm we were auditing.” Moule had lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. David turned off the torch. Darkness might help the confessional. “When you’d done the same audit for several years, you got to know the chief accountant quite well. It was a sort of joint effort, to get the accounts presented in good order. You weren’t on opposite sides, really. You were on the same side. You understand?”

“I understand,” said David.

“This cashier and I became very friendly. He—well, he liked to take a drop from time to time, and I was a bit that way myself. It was on account of Phyllis.”

“I know about Phyllis. Go on with the cashier.”

“He always had a bottle of Scotch handy. Of course, we used to wait until the junior cashiers had gone to lunch; then he’d pull it out and we’d have a small one, or maybe a couple. One day the Managing Director came in and nearly caught us.” At this point Moule giggled. “I got the bottle into the wastepaper basket, just in time.”

(Don’t be impatient, boy. We’ve got all night in front of us.)

“Well, anyway, the point was, he had a particular place where he kept this bottle. He didn’t want some nosey typist finding it, you see, and reporting him to the boss.”

“Creepy Crawley.”

“What was that?”

“Just a thought. Go on. Tell me. Where did he hide it?”

“There were these lockers, on either side of the fireplace. They were built up on a sort of stand. The wooden piece at the bottom looked solid, but if you got your fingers round one corner—that was on the fireplace side—you could move it out. I thought of this afterwards, you see.”

“After what?”

“Why, after the firm went bust. We were put in by the liquidator. I suppose I was one of the last people to use the place—after everyone else had gone away.”

The truth, the incredible truth, was beginning to dawn on David at last.

He said, in a voice which he tried to keep matter-of-fact, “What was the name of this firm?”

“I told you, didn’t I? Hendrixsons.”

“This place?”

“That’s right. That’s why I used to come back here. I felt I was sort of keeping an eye on the papers.”

“You put those papers under the lockers, in the cashier’s room?”

“I knew they were going to shut it down. All the places round here were being closed down. It seemed a very safe sort of place.”

‘It was an excellent place,” said David. “Oh dear, yes. It was the best place you could possibly have thought of, in the whole wide world. You’ve no idea how excellent.” He had clambered to his feet.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get them.”

“You can’t get in. It’s locked and barred.”

“That’s just the point, my lovely boyo. I
can
get in and I’m going to get in. I’m Father bloody Christmas with a difference. He comes down chimneys, I go up them.”

He had moved the sheet of metal and was starting on his way up the shaft when it happened.

A strong beam of light shone up through the hole in the floor, and a voice—loud, confident, authoritative—bellowed, “Come out of it, all you stinking toe-rags. Come out quick, or we’ll burn you up.”

Smoke was already trickling up between the floorboards.

There was a squealing and a scurrying like a rats’ nest disturbed by terriers, as a dozen frightened tramps rolled from the straw and made for the one exit.

It turned out to be more smoke than fire. Trombo and his assistants had set fire to bales of straw and doused them with water as soon as they were alight. The tramps tumbled, one after another, down the steps and were seized by the men there and pushed up against the inner wall, where they stood blinking under the powerful headlamps of three trucks which were parked in the yard.

Trombo stood in the middle of the open space. He was wearing a long-skirted, belted seaman’s coat, and the rain had smoothed the hair over his curiously rounded head. Irish Mick was standing beside him, examining each of the tramps as they were dragged forward for inspection.

“That’s Percy,” he said. “That’s him.”

“Ah,” said Trombo. “So this is my old friend Mr Moule. And where is his friend Mr Morgan?”

Mick darted up and down the line of tramps and came back, shaking his head. “He’s not here,” he said. “He must be hiding upstairs. He’s there, all right. I saw him come in.”

“Roust him out,” said Trombo. “Take a couple of lamps. This is the only exit.”

Birnie Samuels appeared from behind one of the vans. He was a stout and cheerful Jew. He was carrying a short-handled pitchfork. He said, “This might be useful. We’ll soon dig him out for you.”

He and McVee disappeared up the steps, and they listened to the thumping and bumping as they searched. A few minutes later Samuels reappeared. He said, “No sign of Morgan. It’s a stinking muck heap, and there’s a dead man in one corner.”

“Dead?”

“Big, fat fellow. Been dead some time by the look of him. If anyone else wants to search, they’re welcome.”

No one seemed anxious to volunteer.

“You’re sure he’s not hiding? He’s a slippery customer.”

“He didn’t slip past Monkey and me,” said Birnie. “We turned over every lump of shit and corruption in the place. He must have got out before we came.”

One of the tramps, a wizened man with a high-pitched voice, squeaked out, “Ask Percy. They used to doss together like a pair of poofs.”

“I don’t know that I’m all that interested in Morgan,” said Trombo. “It’s Mr Moule we’ve come looking for. Put him up where we can all see him.”

Moule had collapsed into a squatting position on the floor. Ginger Williams grabbed him by the coat collar and dumped him on top of a packing case. A nail which was sticking out of the wood went into his leg, and he gave a little squeal and was silent again. His eyes were glazed with terror.

“I seem to remember,” said Trombo comfortably, “that you and me have had words before.”

Moule shivered.

“That being so, you know that I’m a man of my word. If I tell you that I’m going to tie you up in one of those straw bales and set fire to it, you know I’ll do it.”

Moule shivered again. Then he said, in his oddly pedantic voice, “There is no need for threats. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”

“I was sure you would. It’s a little matter of some papers—copies of papers, I think they were—that you stole from a friend of mine and hid somewhere. Well?”

“I will show you if you wish. They are not far from here.”

“That’s friendly,” said Trombo.

“It will mean breaking down a door.”

“No problem.”

Moule pointed across the courtyard to the front door of the office block, which was covered by a padlocked metal grill.

“Turn that van, so we can get some light on the job,” shouted Ginger Williams. “Mace, you and Scotty attend to the door.”

Two blows with a sledgehammer dealt with the padlock. The door was a tougher proposition. It took a full minute to demolish it.

Williams said, “We don’t want everyone coming inside.” There were a dozen men in the courtyard, most of them sheltering from the rain in the vans and another lot crowded into the open space under the loft. “Birnie, McVee, Mace and Scotty. Bring those torches with you. The rest—stay out here.”

If Trombo noticed that Williams seemed to be taking over the operation, he gave no sign of annoyance, but followed the men in.

“Where now?” said Williams.

They were in the entrance hall, with the two doors on either side and the small partitioned cubicle at the end.

“The door on the left. The second one,” said Moule.

Williams said, “Birnie, stay outside and keep in touch with the rest of the crowd. Put one of them outside the front door and tell the others to get the vans turned and facing outwards. If we have to scarper, we don’t want to waste any time.”

Birnie Samuels nodded his understanding.

“All right,” said Williams. “Let’s get on with it.”

The rest of them had already moved into the big office room. Three powerful torches lit up the lockers which flanked the fireplace.

Moule went down on his knees in front of the left-hand set, fumbled for a moment and drew away the strip of wood which formed its base. He put in his hand, felt around and drew it out again.

“Well?” said Trombo.

“Could you give me one of the torches? Thank you.”

He held the torch at ground level and knelt to peer in.

“Well?” said Trombo again.

Moule said, “They were here. Someone must have found them. They’re gone.”

“So we see,” said Trombo.

“I swear I put them there.” The panic note in his voice was pitiful. “No one could have got them. The place was locked up. See for yourself.” Moule was still on his knees. The words tumbled out of his mouth, disjointed and almost inaudible.

Williams took the torch out of his shaking hand and shone it down on to the floor in front of the fireplace.

“Someone’s been here, no question,” he said. “Look at those marks in the dust.”

Trombo peered over his shoulder.

“So it would seem.”

“And not long ago.” Williams jerked Moule to his feet. “If you were the only one who knew, you must’ve told someone.” He gave Moule a shake. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“It would seem to be the only possibility,” said Trombo. His voice had thickened. There was a treacly note in it which was more menacing than threats. “Put him on the desk.”

Handling Moule as though he were a child, Williams placed him on the desk, gripping his match-stick arms above the elbows. All the torches were focused on the scarecrow figure.

“Now,” said Trombo gently. “The truth, please.”

Moule opened and shut his mouth, but no sound came out.

Trombo clenched his right hand and hit Moule a savage clout on the left side of his face, a blow hard enough to jerk his head round on his shoulders.

“Think again. You don’t want me to get rough.”

“I didn’t.” There was a pause. Moule’s voice was low, but quite distinct. “I didn’t.”

This time the blow came from Trombo’s left fist, jerking Moule’s head straight again. Then, without pause, from the right and the left and the right. The force of the final blow knocked Moule off the desk, which crashed over with him on to the floor.

“Hold it,” said Williams. He lifted the desk and peered down at the figure sprawled there. “I think you’ve done him.”

The crash of the desk going down had brought Birnie Samuels into the room. For a moment no one had eyes for anything but the bundle of rags on the floor. No one saw the shadow which slid down the hallway outside the open door of the room and vanished up the stairs.

During all this time David had been in the old telephone cubicle at the end of the passage, having dived in there at the last moment for safety as the front door went down. The hatchway had given him a view of what was happening in the office, and he had stood there, impotent to help but unable to move as long as Samuels was outside the door.

He had now only one idea in his head. To get away as fast and as far as he could. He had little doubt that Moule was dead. In his weakened state any one of those blows could have finished him.

He had left the window of the upstairs room open when he came down. He peered out. The rain had thickened again, and a freshening east wind was driving it up river. The night was as black as the far side of hell. He was glad he had reconnoitred the spot by daylight. He could hardly have risked a blind drop.

He lowered himself out of the window, hung on by both hands for a moment, used his knees to push himself slightly away from the wall and let go, flexing his knees and rolling as he landed.