Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (18 page)

‘Circumstantially it looks strong.’

‘Good enough to ship him home?’

‘Possibly. But I’m going to leave him where he is. If he’s the one, he’ll panic to his control.’

‘What if he doesn’t?’

‘We keep on looking.’

20

The surveillance was more inept than before. They used an unmarked police car again but it was away from the designated parking area – parked over yellow lines, showing it could ignore official restrictions. The same small man in the blue suit was in the passenger seat when Charlie passed. Pricks, he thought.

At the top of the Spanish Steps the Via Sistina balloons out and there is a taxi rank. Charlie asked for the Piazza Navona, because it was the first place that occurred to him. The police car pulled out to position itself with only one vehicle between them. The congestion that Charlie wanted began almost as soon as the taxi started down the Via della Mercede. At the junction with del Corso it became so heavy they had to stop completely. Charlie took a crumpled wad of lire from his pocket, looked at the meter and counted out double, to avoid any delaying argument. The taxi turned left onto del Corso. Traffic was freer, but there was still a tailback. The block was perfect: just beyond Tritone, with no side roads to allow the following driver to turn, Charlie gestured the taxi to the side of the road, and pressed the money into the driver’s hand.

‘I’ll walk,’ he said.

Charlie was back level with the police car before they properly realized what had happened. He walked smartly past, and from a window reflection in the Via del Tritone Charlie saw that the small man had got out and was actually running from the police car, which was still pointing in the wrong direction with the driver gesturing and shouting, in a vain attempt to clear a path for a U-turn.

Charlie’s feet hurt, slowing him down. He stared about him for the right taxi arrangement. He let the first one go, because there was another close behind which the policeman could have taken. He was almost at the Crispi turning before he saw what he wanted, a vacant cab with only private vehicles behind. Charlie waited until it was practically level, then flagged it down. It was satisfying to watch the frustrated policeman run forward as if he half intended to stop the car, then gaze wildly around for a taxi of his own.

Charlie guessed Moro would trace the cab through the registration so he went all the way to the railway terminus rather than switch to another vehicle. He entered the station through one door, came out through another and picked up a third taxi which dropped him at the Borghese Gardens.

Traffic wasped around the piazza in front of him and Charlie decided against attempting to dodge his way through it. Instead he followed an old lady’s example and used the crossing.

He liked Rome. It might be frayed at the edges, but it had style. Something that was missing from Harry’s Bar. Charlie enjoyed beer in straight glasses in pubs without jukeboxes. Harry’s Bar didn’t have the jukeboxes, but it had pretensions that were deafening. It boasted chrome and mahogany and barmen who spoke eight languages. It was featured in all the guidebooks and a number of novels as the epitome of chic and was always crowded with people looking for the famous, who never came because people stood around looking for them.

Charlie made for the half-moon bar and saw that the stool stipulated for his identification was occupied. He ordered a whisky and took it to one of the minute tables against the wall. It was thirty minutes beyond the meeting time before Charlie was able to get the stool he wanted, reaching it a half-buttock ahead of a woman with a large hat and a poodle with a diamanté collar. She waited for Charlie to be gallant and then turned away tutting noisily. Charlie ordered another Scotch. With a better view of the bar, he tried to pick out his contact.

The woman with the poodle found a seat opposite him at the far curve of the bar. She looked at Charlie with positive hostility. Charlie smiled. Up yours, he thought.

Charlie had expected the approach to come from the direction of the door or the lounge beyond, the most crowded part, but it didn’t. He got an impression of someone behind him and turned to see the man at his left shoulder. The Gucci crest was on the shoes, belt and watch strap. The raw silk trousers were black and bum tight, worn with a shirt in contrasting white. It was silk and open at the neck, with several buttons undone to show a hairy chest cushioning a heavy gold medallion. A fawn jacket, worn the way that had always intrigued Charlie from those baffling Fellini films, was draped casually around his shoulders. But here there was a practical purpose: the jacket almost concealed a sling that supported a well-bandaged hand.

Seeing Charlie’s look, the man said, ‘It’s inconvenient.’

‘Particularly if a policeman sees it.’

The Italian shook his head. ‘My fingerprints are on record, not palm impressions.’ He was wiry and hard-bodied, with eyes that darted constantly. ‘I burned the clothes, too,’ he said. He nodded to the table. ‘Let’s sit away from the bar.’

Charlie followed, carrying his drink. If the man’s fingerprints were on file, it wouldn’t be hard to get a positive identification from criminal records when he went through the photographic files with Moro.

‘I’m glad you came by yourself,’ said the man. The English was accented but good. The cologne was very strong.

‘You have the jewellery?’ said Charlie.

‘I might be able to arrange its return.’

Gangster-movie dialogue, thought Charlie. ‘Good,’ he said.

‘There would be some expense.’

‘How much?’

‘Twenty-five per cent.’

‘That’s a lot.’

‘Half a million is better for you than a full payout,’ said the man.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘It is.’

‘Sterling, of course.’

‘I want complete recovery.’

‘How long will it take to arrange the finance?’ asked the Italian.

‘A day.’

‘Tomorrow then?’

‘Should be possible.’

‘I’d like it to be tomorrow.’

Charlie intended to have the money numbered before he paid it over. That would make it useless and traceable. Moro could get his conviction. And Billington could recover his jewellery. Whether or not he made them available for any court exhibit would be a matter between him and the police. Willoughby wouldn’t have any remaining liability. Better still, he wouldn’t suffer any loss, because eventually the five hundred thousand would be returned. Everything would be tidied up nicely. Everything except Clarissa.

‘Where shall we meet?’ said Charlie.

‘Further down this street at the corner of the Via Ludovisi there’s a public telephone kiosk. Be there at noon. You’ll be called and told what to do.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Charlie.

‘Be by yourself. You’ll be watched all the time. If there’s any sign of a policeman, it’s off.’

‘I’ll be alone,’ said Charlie.

‘Until tomorrow then.’ The Italian shrugged the jacket closer around his shoulders to keep the sling under cover and made an elegant exit from the bar. Probably danced a hell of a tango, thought Charlie. He didn’t hurry to leave, holding the glass before him in both hands and staring down into the amber liquid. Everything had gone according to plan. But it just didn’t feel right. It was a nagging, persistent uncertainty, like a stone in his shoe. Unable to resolve it, he beckoned the barman, paid and left the bar.

Outside, the street was thick with people, cars and noise. Charlie threaded his way down the Via Veneto, marking the telephone that had been identified. Moro would have reacted to his evasion by now and would be concentrating upon the hotel as the only known contact point. So he couldn’t go back immediately. Charlie chose a post office with an overseas telephone section. There was no line congestion, so Charlie was connected at once. Willoughby’s anxiety was obvious.

‘Thank God,’ he said.

‘Keep praying until I’ve bought it back,’ said Charlie.

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred thousand. In sterling.’

Willoughby’s sigh of relief was audible.

‘Is that going to be possible?’ Charlie decided against telling the underwriter how he intended to recover the buy-back money.

‘Just about,’ said Willoughby. ‘I’m indebted to you, Charlie. Where do you want it sent?’

‘The main Bank of Rome.’

‘It should be there first thing tomorrow.’

Which would give him sufficient time to record the numbers.

‘Charlie,’ blurted the underwriter.

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘Just sorry,’ said Willoughby, breaking the connection.

Charlie queued patiently to pay for the call. If there were an apology, it should have been his to the underwriter, he thought.

As he walked back to the Grand Ville up the gently sloping streets, Charlie determined to keep Walsingham out of it at this stage, wanting to restrict his contact with the embassy to the minimum. About fifty yards from the hotel, Charlie saw the car with the boot antennae move and knew they’d seen him. It accelerated too fast and stopped too quickly, so there was a screech of brakes and people turned.

The man in the blue suit had the door open before the car stopped.

‘Get in,’ he said. His shoes were still stained with horse piss.

Inspector Moro was quite calm, which increased the sense of menace. He lounged back from the crowded desk, eyes fixed on the ceiling and talking in a consciously controlled voice. His jacket was rucked up from his shoulders, heightening the skin-shedding appearance.

‘I warned you,’ he said. ‘I warned you and you ignored me.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You dodged from a taxi in the Via del Corso to another that took you to the railway terminal,’ said Moro. ‘There you immediately got into a third car which took you to the top of the Via Veneto. We traced you that far.’

‘I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t.’

The reply seemed to confuse the inspector. ‘I told you there were to be no arrangements without my being involved. You ignored me. Who did you meet?’

‘No one.’

‘Don’t treat me like a fool.’ Moro’s voice rose for the first time.

‘Don’t treat me like a criminal.’

‘What!’

‘I agreed to do nothing without telling you first,’ said Charlie. ‘It was an undertaking I intended to keep. Having given my word, I don’t expect to be pursued everywhere I go.’

‘Are you saying you evaded my people as some sort of stupid protest?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘And to prove their ineffectiveness.’ It didn’t sound as good as he’d hoped it would; in fact it sounded bloody awful.

‘
I
decide how to run an investigation: whether or not to impose surveillance,’ said Moro.

‘If you weren’t going to trust me there was little purpose in our agreeing to an arrangement in the first place.’

The policeman had not expected attack and was finding it difficult to adjust. ‘I meant it,’ he said. ‘About what I would do if you tried anything independently.’

‘I never doubted you for a second.’ Now was the moment to change his mind, to admit everything and go with Moro through the records until they got a name. If he did that, the entrapment would never work; not the sort the police would attempt. Charlie said nothing.

‘Did you have a meeting with anyone today?’ repeated the policeman.

‘No.’ Now he was committed.

‘If I find that to be a lie, then you’re guilty of impeding a police investigation.’

‘I know that.’

‘I want to know anything, the moment it happens,’ said Moro.

‘You said that before,’ reminded Charlie.

‘This time, believe me.’

Sir Alistair Wilson replaced the telephone after Harkness’s London call and turned back into the communal suite towards Naire-Hamilton and Jackson.

‘That’s interesting,’ he said.

‘What is?’ demanded the Permanent Under Secretary.

‘Richard Semingford has written to Foreign Office personnel asking about pension entitlement and the size of the sum that’s commutable in the event of his leaving.’

21

Italian banks open at eight thirty in the morning. Charlie was ready early, wanting as much time as possible to list the currency numbers. Today there was no vehicle with the familiar aerial. As he walked by the Medici Hotel, a man who had been studying the tariff pushed slightly too quickly through the swing doors and Charlie smiled at the hurried avoidance. He was curious to see how they’d follow his taxi. The mobile cover was better. They’d positioned cars at intervals along the street, so that the contact would be taken up not with a vehicle pulling out in obvious pursuit but emerging first in front and then letting the taxi overtake. It was the black Lancia, decided Charlie. The driver wore a cap, as if he were the chauffeur, and the observer rode in the back reading a newspaper, but holding it in such a way that his view of the taxi wasn’t obscured. Charlie knew there wouldn’t be any second chance, if anything went wrong.

At the Bank of Rome an assistant manager took him to a deputy manager and the deputy manager took him to the manager. Charlie produced his accreditation from Rupert Willoughby and the manager confirmed that the money draft had been received the previous night. Charlie stipulated cash rather than a letter of credit and asked for the numbers to be run through a computer for record. The manager allowed a brief expression of irritation and summoned back the deputy manager. Together they went to the basement and the notes were distributed between two programmers. It took two hours to complete the list. Charlie ascended to the manager’s office, calculating that by now Moro would have the exterior of the building under siege.

‘Thank you for your assistance,’ said Charlie.

Believing Charlie wanted the numbers recorded against loss, the manager said, ‘A letter of credit would have been simpler.’

‘I’m afraid my client insists upon cash.’

‘Of course,’ said the manager, eager to terminate the meeting.

‘But I accept the danger,’ said Charlie. ‘I wonder if I can impose upon you a little more?’

The manager frowned.

‘This is a large sum of money,’ said Charlie, hefting the case as if the man needed proof. ‘Despite the precaution with the listing, I’m still nervous of carrying it unguarded.’