Once a Crooked Man (13 page)

Eddie was wheeled along a slightly longer corridor to a second bank of elevators. Rocco followed a few paces behind. These doors opened immediately and they all trooped aboard. Rocco stood at the back. The orderly selected a floor and turned inquiringly to face him.

“Same,” he answered.

Up they went to the operating room floor. The gurney was pushed out and over against the wall.

“Wait here,” said the orderly to the policeman, and he disappeared through a pair of double doors with frosted windows.

Rocco walked away and turned right. The first door on his left was a storage closet piled with supplies. Quickly tearing open a box of gauze pads, he used his lighter to set them on fire, made a small pile of paper towels next to the door and placed the now blazing box on top.

With the door slightly ajar he ambled back. The cop was still waiting beside the prostrate Eddie. Rocco pushed the down button for a fast getaway. Once more his fingers clasped the knife.

The orderly came back through the doors.

“Why don't you go wait in the Doctors' Annex?” he suggested to the policeman, and pointed down the corridor. “Last door on the left. I'll give you a call when they're done with him.”

“Thanks, mate. Don't mind if I do.”

The policeman walked away. The orderly took hold of the gurney and turned it to face the operating room. Wisps of smoke came drifting through the air.

“Blimey! What we got 'ere?” he said to Rocco, and hurried around the corner to investigate.

Rocco pulled out the knife and drew it from its sheath. With a sharp descending blow he pushed it through the sheet and into Eddie's abdomen. In one swift downward move, followed by a thrust upwards behind the heart and a circular twist of the blade, Eddie's aorta was sliced into pieces. Blood pulsed out, flooding his abdominal cavity. Numbed by trauma and medication, the body on the gurney didn't even flinch. Rocco took the towel from his pocket, wrapped it around the knife, pulled it out and tucked it back in his pocket. It would be several minutes before anyone would notice anything amiss. Not until much later would they discover what had been done. Rocco chuckled at the thought of the subsequent autopsy and the puzzled look on the pathologist's face.

The elevator opened behind Rocco and he backed in. The third-floor corridor took him to the emergency stairs. As he ran down them two by two, he removed the ID holder and retrieved his driver's license. Slipping off the coat, he rolled it and the knife into a bundle under his arm, tossed the clipboard into a corner, donned the dark glasses and extended the white cane. Out on the second floor he slowly tapped his way along towards the first bank of elevators. A kindly nurse pushed the ground-floor button for him and guided him out. She then insisted she hold his arm until he was safely out into the street.

As he stood at the pedestrian crossing, another Good Samaritan, an elderly lady with white hair, stepped forward and escorted him across. Three blocks from the hospital and before he returned to his car, Rocco slid the coat and knife into the bottom of a convenient Dumpster. The glasses and folding cane followed. The rubber gloves, which now contained his sweat and DNA, were the last to be stripped off and stuffed into his hip pocket. These had to be carefully disposed of far away from the scene of the crime.

 

27

It is so easy to carry two suitcases and so awkward to carry three. Harry stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel trying to solve this problem. No matter what combination he tried, the cases were either too heavy or too big. A throat cleared itself behind him and Harry turned. The Pakistani was standing there with an even larger smile.

“Are you in need of assisting, sir?” he asked.

“No!” Harry gripped the case of cash firmly. “I can manage, thank you.”

The man was politely insistent. “I would be happy to accompany you to your transportation, sir. I am not busy at this time of the day and you appear to be having more suitcases than you are having arms.”

The logic was irrefutable so Harry relented. “Okay. You're right. Thank you.”

The two men made their way in silence to the Escort. Harry opened up the car. The Pakistani packed the cases in the trunk. Harry propped Villiers's case in the front passenger seat and secured it tightly with the seat belt. He handed over five pounds and the man bowed slightly and left.

Harry got in behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. Then he remembered his A to Z London Guide was in one of the bags in the trunk. Climbing out, he retrieved the little book and then had to repack. This was more exercise than he'd endured in a long time.

No matter how many times he drove on the left he found the mental adjustment unnerving. The guide showed that the journey to Myrtle Avenue necessitated navigation across a spiderweb of streets. None of them was straight. As he pulled away from the curb he muttered a brief prayer to the dangling Saint Christopher medallion and did his best to concentrate on the road in front of him.

As he drove along, however, the images and sounds of the last few hours ran through his head, particularly the conversations with Villiers. Especially intriguing was when the Colonel had said, “It's all yours now.”

He had three options. He could go to the police and tell them everything. He could return to number 4 and give the cash to Mrs. Villiers. Or he could take a little time to think.

Harry knew the consequences of involving the police. The paperwork alone would take days and the investigation would drag on endlessly and he'd probably have to stick around until they told him he could leave. His violent encounter with the Colonel would likely end up in the press and that would be an end to his anonymity. If he wanted to live, it might be in his best interests to return the money before they came looking for him. Not to mention the Colonel who had a howitzer tucked into his belt and seemed to relish the prospect of using it.

On the other hand, Harry had accomplished his mission and saved a man's life. Next to him on the passenger seat was well over a million dollars in cash. Should he keep it as payment for services rendered? Possibly. On the negative side of that equation, suitcases of cash usually meant drugs. Drugs involved money laundering. That meant the big time. That meant big trouble.

Clearly, if he made the wrong decision he would kick himself for the rest of his life. A little thought was called for, and preferably in a calm, safe, remote spot.

After all, a million dollars could buy a great deal of pleasure. He could get himself an RV and travel the country, an Airstream pulled by a Ford 150. Or a boat big enough to cruise the Caribbean. He could put a down payment on a Jimmy Buffet–style beach house in the Florida Keys. Perhaps he could …

Harry made a turn to the right and found himself facing four lanes of oncoming traffic. He stopped, made a two-point turn and sped across to where he should have been in the first place. With all thoughts of the money out of his head, he gripped the wheel firmly and managed to arrive at his destination in one piece.

Myrtle Avenue was a quiet suburban street lined with parked cars and garbage cans. At one end was a space beneath a tree and he pulled in. With the towel he wiped the steering wheel, got out and did the same to the paintwork and door handles. With the cases on the pavement, he carefully locked the little car and put the keys in his coat pocket, determining to throw them away in a more discreet spot. Fashioning his belt into a sling to carry one of his cases, he slowly made his way to the subway station. To keep his pants from falling down he had to stick out his stomach.

The illuminated sign on the platform indicated that the train on his left went to Heathrow Airport and the one on his right to central London. Which one should he take? He paused. Somewhere out there was a secluded English country town where he could hole up and give himself time to think. The subway map on the wall showed him that he was not far from the Main Line station that served the West Country. Down there were lots of little villages that would be surrounded by fields full of sheep and cows.

Ten minutes later in the huge vaulted terminus of Paddington Station he stared up at the departure board. The Exeter Line looked rural and remote. He procured a trolley and wheeled the suitcases over to the ticket window. With a First Class ticket to a town called Taunton safely tucked in his pocket, he made his way to the platform. In the carriage he chose a seat facing front. The case of cash and his raincoat went on the overhead shelf. The others on the luggage rack just outside the automatic door.

A father and mother and their two children took over the table across the aisle. From their conversation Harry gleaned they were on their way to visit Grandpops in Falmouth.

The guard came past the window checking his traditional timepiece. Once he had taken a final glance at both ends of the huge train, he waved a hand and let out three sharp blasts on his whistle. At the same time there was a minor commotion at the entrance to the platform. A gentleman in a blue suit and bowler hat ran round the barrier and managed to scramble aboard Harry's carriage.

Relief showed on the man's ruddy face as he dropped into the seat across from Harry.

“Just made it!” he said, and without further comment extracted a copy of
The Times
from a worn briefcase. Throughout the journey, he silently filled in the crossword puzzle.

Harry watched as the city gave way to the suburbs and then to the verdant English countryside. They passed through a vast field of tall waving grass as a flock of geese flew overhead in perfect formation. Bright rays of sunshine pierced the clouds. The aromatic smell of fried pork sausages filled the carriage. The father and son returned from the buffet car laden with food and drink.

“Now who ordered what, darling?” the mother asked as the little cardboard boxes were laid on the table.

“Yours is the bacon roll, darling. The bun is Lucy's,” the father replied. “Did you want tea or coffee? John couldn't remember.”

“Tea please, darling. But only if you have a spare one.”

“Well, actually, darling, we brought a spare one just in case.”

Harry watched as brother John took a big bite from the roll with the sausage and began to munch.

Harry loved British bangers. Two of them at that moment, preferably in a crusty white roll and accompanied by a can of Guinness, would hold him over nicely until dinner. But he didn't dare leave the leather case. Taking it would draw unwanted attention. By the time the guard walked through the carriage and announced they were about to arrive at Taunton Station, Harry had made up his mind to find the best accommodation the town could offer and treat himself to an Epicurean Feast.

The gentleman opposite stood up and put on his bowler hat. “Need help with your luggage?” he asked politely.

“No. I can handle it, thank you,” said Harry. “But I could do with the name of a good hotel. Can you recommend one?”

“You'll like the Waterside,” the man replied without hesitation. “It's down by the river on Wicket Green. Best food for miles around. Excellent cellar too.” In true British style, he touched the brim of his bowler as they parted company.

The Waterside stood in extensive gardens with decorative battlements running along the top of the main building giving it the appearance of a fortress. There was even a turret at one end. The walls were covered with ivy. The white of the window frames peeked through the dark green foliage. Harry mentally thanked the man in the bowler hat for the perfect hideaway. He paid his taxi driver and went in through the portico.

The interior was a blend of the old and the modern. Without destroying the atmosphere of Victorian England, every amenity and comfort had been skillfully installed within the original Gothic architecture. Magnificent arrangements of roses sprang from every surface. Three venerable clocks ticked away in the hallway. A demure lady in a white blouse and black neck ribbon welcomed him from behind the polished oak counter.

“And how long will you be with us, sir?”

“I'm not sure,” he murmured as he filled out the registration card. “Can I let you know later? Or would that be a problem?”

“Not at all, sir. Not at all.” She handed over a large key on a brass ring. “Number fourteen. It's on the top floor overlooking the river.” She lowered her voice. “One more thing, sir, how will you be settling your account?”

Harry hesitated. Should he use a credit card? That would mean a physical record. Perhaps it would be better to pay in cash. But if she required a deposit, that would mean opening the suitcase. This called for a compromise. The lady took an imprint of his American Express card but assured him it would be no problem if he wanted to pay by cash later.

“One more thing, sir,” said the lady. “What paper would you like with your morning tea and what time would you like to be knocked up?”

Harry smiled. “
The Daily Telegraph
and eight o'clock please.”

A tap of the bell on the counter summoned a scrubbed young porter in a green baize apron who took the key and expertly picked up the three cases. Harry followed him to the elevator and they rose steadily upwards to the penultimate floor. A short flight of stairs took them to a narrow hallway. At the far end the porter opened the door to number 14 and stood politely to one side. Harry walked into the little room beneath the eaves.

Apart from the bed, the furniture was small in scale. There was a padded armchair, a circular table with two chairs and a cabinet. On top of this were a television set and a bowl of brightly colored flowers. A card was propped against the bowl indicating that a Well-Appointed Gymnasium was available on the third floor.

The closet was well stocked with wooden hangers. A paneled door led through to a white and chrome bathroom. Two thick white bathrobes hung on the back of the door.

The young man put one of the cases on the stand and the others on the floor by the bed. Harry gave him a five-pound note, closed the door after he left and turned the key in the lock.