The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin (3 page)

He was more impatient than at previous conferences, striding up and down the specially installed platform, calling almost angrily into the microphone for the room to settle.

Finally, disregarding the noise, he began to talk.

‘Not a fortnight ago,’ he said, ‘I welcomed many of you aboard that destroyed liner out there …’

He swept his hand towards the windows, through which the outline of the ship was visible.

‘And I announced the purpose to which I was going to put it.’

The room was quiet now, the only movement from radio reporters adjusting their sound levels properly to record what Lu was saying.

‘This morning,’ he started again, ‘you have accompanied me into the harbour to see what remains of a once beautiful and proud liner …’

He turned to the table, taking a sheet of paper from a waiting aide.

‘This,’ he declared, ‘is the surveyor’s preliminary report. Copies will be made available to you individually as you leave this room. But I can sum it up for you in just two words – “totally destroyed”.’

He turned again, throwing the paper on to the table and taking another held out in readiness for him, this time by John Lu.

‘This is another report, that of investigators who have for the past four days examined the ship to discover the cause of the fire,’ continued Lu. ‘This will also be made available. But again I will summarise it …’

He indicated behind him, to where two men in uniform sat, files on their knees.

‘And I have asked the men who prepared the report to attend with me today, should there later at this conference be any questions you might like to put to them. Their findings are quite simple. The
Pride of America
has been totally destroyed as the result of carefully planned, carefully instigated acts of arson.’

He raised his hand, ahead of the reaction to the announcement.

‘Arson,’ he went on, ‘devised so that it guaranteed the
Pride of America
would never be put to the use which I intended.’

He referred to the report in his hand.

‘“… Large quantity of inflammable material spread throughout cabins in the forward section,”’ he quoted, ‘“… sprinkler system disconnected and inoperative and fire doors jammed to prevent closure … debris of two explosive devices in the engine room, together with more inflammable material, ensuring immediate and possibly uncontrollable fire … kerosene introduced into the sprinkler system at the rear of the vessel, so that the fire would actually be fed by those attempting to extinguish it …”’

He looked up, for what he was saying to be assimilated.

‘Provable, incontrovertible facts,’ he said. ‘As provable and as incontrovertible as this –’

Again the aide was waiting, handing to Lu a length of twisted, apparently partially melted metal about a foot long. The millionaire held it before him, turning to the photographers’ shouted requests.

‘There is some lettering upon the side,’ he said, indicating it with his finger and once more holding the metal for the benefit of the cameramen. ‘A translation will be made available, together with all the other documents to which I’ve referred today. But again I will summarise it for you. This is part of the outer casing of an incendiary device. It was found, together with other evidence still in the possession of the Hong Kong police, in the engine room. The lettering positively identifies it as manufactured in the People’s Republic of China …’

Lu returned the casing to the table behind him, happy now for the noise to build up.

‘Arson,’ he shouted, above the clamour. ‘Arson committed by a country frightened of having the free world constantly reminded of the evils of its doctrine.’

He snatched again for the incendiary casing.

‘Their former leader, Mao Tse-tung, once preached that power comes from the barrel of a gun. This is the proof of that doctrine.’

He slumped back against the table, reaching out for the instantly available glass of water and throughout the room more aides began moving with microphones so that questions would be heard by everyone.

‘Do you feel fully justified in making the accusations that you have today?’ was the first, from an unseen woman at the back.

Lu led the mocking laughter that broke out.

‘I’ve rarely felt so justified in doing anything in my life,’ he said. ‘Is it possible for a country to sue someone for defamation of character? If it is, then I shall be happy to accept any writ from the People’s Republic of China.’

‘Will you attempt to buy another vessel to create another University of Freedom?’ asked the
New York Times
correspondent.

‘And have it burned out within days? That blackened hulk out there can speak as eloquently as any political lecturer of the dangers I wanted to publicise.’

‘What about the professors whom you had already engaged?’ demanded the same questioner.

‘They were employed upon a year’s contract. In every case, that contract has been honoured in full and first-class air fares made available to return them to whichever country they choose.’

‘How much has all this cost?’

‘I have never made any secret of the fact that I purchased the
Pride of America
for $20,000,000.’

‘Does that mean you’ve lost that amount of money?’ queried an Englishman representing the
Far East Economic Review.

‘Of course not. International maritime regulations insist that all vessels be properly insured.’

‘So the $20,000,000 is recoverable?’

‘Certainly I shall eventually be reimbursed for the purchase of the vessel. But that, gentlemen, isn’t important. What is important is for the world to recognise the flagrant reaction of a country terrified of the truth, and the lengths to which it is prepared to go to prevent that truth …’

‘Who were the insurers?’ asked the Englishman.

‘The cover was spread amongst a syndicate of Lloyd’s of London.’

‘Is the claim already submitted?’

‘Probably,’ said Lu dismissively. ‘I’ve left the matter in the hands of my lawyers.’

Two days after Lu’s heavily publicised conference, an announcement was made in the name of Chief Superintendent Sydney Johnson of the Hong Kong police. As a result of intensive enquiries since the arson aboard the
Pride of America
, it said, Hong Kong detectives had arrested two Chinese who had been employed aboard the vessel for its modification refit. Investigation had shown them to be mainland Chinese who had illegally crossed the border into Hong Kong only six months previously. Their families still resided in Shanghai.

On this occasion, Lu did not summon a conference. Instead he issued a brief statement. Without wishing to prejudice any court hearing, it said, the police announcement was regarded as proof of every claim made by Mr L. W. Lu, who looked forward with interest to a full judicial examination of the arrested men.

Both men were hesitant, each unsure of the other.

‘I wasn’t sure if you’d come,’ said Rupert Willoughby.

Charlie Muffin walked farther into the underwriter’s office, taking the outstretched hand.

‘Never thought I’d get past the secretary,’ said Charlie, indicating the outer office.

‘She’s a little over-protective at times,’ apologised Willoughby. It was easy to understand his secretary’s reluctance. Charlie wore the sort of concertina’ed suit he remembered from their every encounter, like a helper behind the second-hand clothes stall at a Salvation Army hostel. The thatch of strawish hair was still disordered about his face and the Hush Puppies were as scuffed and down-at-heel as ever.

‘Your call surprised me,’ said Charlie. Willoughby was the only person who possessed his telephone number. Or the knowledge of what he had once been. And done.

‘I had decided you’d never call,’ he added.

‘I almost didn’t,’ admitted Willoughby.

‘So you’re in trouble.’

‘Big trouble,’ agreed Willoughby. ‘I don’t see any way of getting out.’

‘Which makes me the last resort?’

‘Yes,’ said the underwriter, ‘I suppose it does.’

4

Rupert Willoughby was a tall, ungainly man, constantly self-conscious about his height. He took great care with his tailoring, trying to minimise his stature, but then defeated any effort of his tailor in an attempt to reduce it even further by hunching awkwardly. He crouched now, untidy, his blond hair flopping over his forehead as he bent over his desk, occasionally referring to a file as he outlined the details of the
Pride of America
cover, every so often jerking up to the other man, as if in expectation of some reaction.

Beyond the desk Charlie sat with his legs splayed before him, head sunk upon his chest. By twisting his left foot very slightly, Charlie could see that the repair hadn’t worked and that the sole of his left shoe was parting from the uppers. Which was a bloody nuisance. It meant a new pair and those he was wearing were at last properly moulded to his feet. It always seemed to happen like that, just when they got comfortable. Looked like rain, too.

‘And so,’ concluded Willoughby, ‘my proportion of the syndicate makes me liable for £6,000,000.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘It appears you are.’

How much the man resembled his father, thought Charlie nostalgically. Practically an identical style of setting out a problem, an orderly collection of facts from which any opinion or assessment was kept rigidly apart, so that no preconceptions could be formed. Sir Archibald Willoughby, who had headed the department during almost all of Charlie’s operational career and whom Charlie realised without embarrassment he had come to regard as a father-figure, had obviously groomed his real son very carefully.

‘It’s a lot of money to lose,’ said the underwriter.

The figure was too large to consider seriously, decided Charlie. He looked sideways. How much space in the room would £6,000,000 occupy? he wondered idly. The whole bookcase and the sidetable, certainly. Probably overflow on to the couch as well.

‘And you want to avoid paying out?’

Willoughby stared across the desk. His hand was twitching, Charlie saw.

‘It might be difficult,’ said the underwriter hurriedly. The admission embarrassed him and he actually blushed.

‘You haven’t got your share?’ demanded Charlie.

‘No.’

‘Christ.’

‘It’s only temporary,’ said Willoughby defensively. ‘We’ve had a very bad two years … whole series of setbacks.’

‘But why take the risk in the first place?’

‘I
had
to,’ insisted Willoughby. ‘A firm can be wiped out in a creditors’ rush by no more than a City rumour that it’s in financial difficulties. Besides which, there seemed
no
risk.’

‘You’re a bloody fool,’ said Charlie.

‘That knowledge doesn’t help either,’ said Willoughby.

‘Your father left a fortune,’ remembered Charlie.

‘Already gone.’

‘Loans then.’

‘There’s hardly a bank where I don’t have an overdraft. And where I haven’t gone over the limit.’

‘So?’

‘So unless there’s a near-miracle, there’s nothing that can stop me being drummed out of the Exchange.’

‘Nobody knows?’

‘Nobody. Yet. But it won’t take long. This sort of news never does.’

‘What’s the legal opinion of Lu’s claim?’

‘We are completely liable,’ said Willoughby.

‘No room for manoeuvre?’

Willoughby shook his head. ‘We might have had a chance had we included a political sabotage clause, the sort of thing that’s been introduced into aircraft cover since hijacking started.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Because it’s not normal, in case of ship cover … and I was in too much of a hurry to sign the policy.’

‘Why?’

‘Nelson managed to negotiate a 12 per cent premium. For Lloyd’s, that’s very high. I needed the liquidity.’

‘Who’s Nelson?’

‘Our Hong Kong agent.’

‘Good?’

‘He got more of the cover than anyone else when it was put on the Hong Kong market.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why more than anybody else, and at such a good premium?’

‘Because he’s better, I suppose. Or because he tried harder.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Unusual chap,’ remembered the underwriter. ‘I’ve only met him three times. Colonial through and through. Born in India, father a governor of a minor state there before independence. Only time spent in England was at school, Eton and then Cambridge. He’s so out of place here that two years ago he cut short the paid home leave that we allow our overseas men. Made some excuse about the climate’

‘Reliable?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘What does he say?’

Willoughby paused at the staccato questioning.

‘It’s so straightforward that he doesn’t even see the need for an investigation,’ he said.

‘But you do?’

Willoughby leaned towards him.

‘I’ve got to try,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to try anything.’

The soul-baring would be difficult for the man, Charlie knew. He’d hate admitting to being anything less than his father had been.

‘How long before you’ve got to pay?’ asked Charlie.

Willoughby made a movement of uncertainty.

‘Lu’s lawyers have already filed an intention to claim. We could probably delay until the two men who have been arrested are found guilty, but even to attempt that might create a dispute. I gather they’ve made a full admission.’

‘So you haven’t much time.’

‘I haven’t much of anything,’ said Willoughby. ‘Time least of all.’

‘The last resort,’ repeated Charlie. There was no point in buggering about. And Willoughby appeared to appreciate honesty anyway.

‘Yes,’ agreed the underwriter.

‘Would you have avoided contacting me, if you could?’

Willoughby paused. Then he admitted, ‘Yes. If I had had a choice, I wouldn’t have made the call.’

Most people would have lied, recognised Charlie, unoffended. The man was trying to retain his integrity, anxious though he was.

‘Well?’ said Willoughby. He couldn’t keep the plea out of his voice.

So much of his life had been spent getting hold of the shitty end of the stick that nobody else wanted to touch, reflected Charlie. How he wished the approach had come through friendship, reminiscent of the man’s father, rather than desperation.