The Snowfly (17 page)

“The Trust is folding?”

“I don't know the technical term,” the woman said. “I'm just one of the girls, see?”

“Secretary?”

“That's a Yank concept. Here I'm just a girl, sah.”

“What about the books?”

“Everything to be flogged off,” the woman said. “Liquidated.”

“When will they be sold? Is there an inventory?”

Too many questions all at once. The woman made a face. “I think you'd best talk to the trustees, sah,” she said, suddenly turning wary.

“Are they here?”

“No, sah, they comes every fortnight or so. For meetings, you see.”

“Frankly, it's only the books that interest me. I've been told that Sir Thomas built an amazing collection.”

“There were some books,” she said tentatively.

“‘Were'?”

“Are, I should say. They're on consignment for sale.”

“On consignment to whom?”

“I really couldn't say, sah.”

“Won't tell me or can't?”

“Can't, sah. Truth is,” she whispered, “I don't know, do I?”

I was disappointed. The Trust was folding and there were books, but they were to be sold. I left Hampstead thinking that my hoped-for lead had fizzled out before it even got going.

That evening I got a call around ten o'clock. There was a tremendous racket in the background.

“Mister Rhodes?”

“Yes?”

“Freegift Heartfield. We met this afternoon at the Trust? Is this a bad time, I'm so sorry to interrupt, sah.”

“I remember you and you're not interrupting.” Mostly I remembered her unique name and white lipstick.

“Bleedin' bastards,” she said. “I'd been given notice for next month but this afternoon Sir Sinjin Wonbrow—he's the director—called me on the carpet and sacked me on the spot. Like a bleedin' execution it was. One minute I was employed and the next minute I wasn't, was I?” The woman sounded very upset and her speech was slurred. I guessed she had been drinking or smoking dope. “Bleedin' buggers,” she repeated. “Those books you was inquirin' about?”

“Yes?”

“I no longer feel compelled to maintain confidences. The books you seek, Mister Rhodes, are on consignment with the firm of Broker, Brogger and Grant, New Row, Covent Garden. Do you dance?” she asked.

Dance? “On occasion.”

“I never get enoof dancin',” she said. “I'm with some of me mates at the Kitty Kat Klub in Soho. You know it?”

I had seen the facade. “I know where it is.”

“And where might you be?” she asked.

“Rupert Street.”

“Loovely,” she said. “Fite, you think, both of us in Soho at this very minute? Shall I pop on over to your place?” she asked. “Dancin' in private is much less inhibited than in public, do you agree?”

I more or less stared at the phone, not sure how to reply. “I suppose.” Was this the wide-open London of current legend?

“Is half-eleven too soon?” she asked.

“No, that's fine.”

“Right, then,” she said brightly. “Half eleven and we shall dance, yes?”

“Yep.” I had no radio, tape recorder, or phonograph. “It's number fourteen,” I said. “First floor.”

I would learn that
dance
was one of many street terms for “sex” and that Freegift Heartfield was laboring under the misconception that sharing information with me would somehow enable her to strike back at her employers. While this was a possibility, it was not a likelihood, but I did not try to disabuse her of her logic or her hope. I wanted to know the secrets of the snowfly and if I had to tell a few small lies, so be it.

She knocked on my door precisely at eleven-thirty. She wore a red mini skirt, red patent leather boots, and a huge red hat with a wide floppy brim, a gold band around the crown, and a tuft of bright feathers extending out the back. I opened a bottle of red wine for us and after several clumsy kisses we sat on my bed, using it as a couch.

She was all smiles. “I like a bitta chat before dancin',” she said. “It's very old fashioned, very civilized.”

She was from South London and had ended up at the Trust after three years of working in city government. “Treat you worse than day labor,” she said. She told me trustees had done all they could to keep Oxley's sole surviving relative from squandering the Trust's resources, which were reserved primarily for buying prime trout beats around the world.

She also said that the Trust had severe financial problems and the trustees needed desperately to sell Oxley's book collection, but were “frighteningly aquiver” over possible government intervention.

Why would the government intervene in a book sale? “You said the consignment is with Broker, Brogger and Grant. Which one do I talk to?” I asked her.

“Mister Brogger,” she said with open disdain.

“Why do trustees fear government intervention?”

“Something about antiquities and law,” she said, sliding her arms around my neck and looping a leg over my hip.

After a while she jumped up and shed her mini skirt to reveal crinkly black panties.

“Those sound like paper,” I said.

“Aye!” she said with a squeal of delight. “You see, paper wears to cover a girl's wares. Called Tear Wears, they are. Very groovy, the very latest. Like to rip 'em off?”

 

•••

 

Several days later I was in Covent Garden. The office was in a small building flanked by exclusive shops and restaurants. The business was called Broker, Brogger & Grant. It had a small brass sign, tastefully done, and an immaculately appointed interior. I had called ahead and made an appointment with Brogger on the subterfuge of doing an article about rare-book sales in England. I'd gotten a less-than-enthusiastic response over the phone but persisted and used what charm I could summon to eventually talk myself into an appointment. A receptionist with silver hair showed me to a seat and got me a cuppa and there I sat for thirty minutes past my appointment.

A heavyset man with pink skin and a perfectly pressed suit finally emerged from an office and looked at the receptionist, who nodded in my direction. I could tell by his expression that he was hoping I hadn't waited.

“Bowie Rhodes,” I said, introducing myself.

“Brogger,” he said gruffly.

I followed him into a well-appointed office devoid of personal mementos. There was a fireplace and high ceilings.

Brogger sat behind his desk, his hands clasped on a thick black leather desk pad.

“Rare books?” he asked cautiously.

“Specifically, the Oxley collection.”

He blinked several times. “Quite minor in historical significance. Hardly worth a newshound's interest.”

“We have lots of collectors in America interested in angling.”

“You don't say?” he said.

“Some with plenty of money to pay for the right things.”

I saw him edge forward in his chair. The hint of sales potential had captured his interest.

“You've taken the Oxley collection on consignment.”

No blinking now. “May I ask the source of your information?” His voice was cool and edgy.

“You can ask, Mister Brogger, but in my business—as in yours—certain sources must remain confidential.”

His pink face and neck reddened.

“What is it you want, Rhodes?” he asked impatiently.

“It's the books I'm interested in.” He did not look even a little relieved. “If I could just see the books, or have a list of the titles.”

“Am I to understand that you're interested in purchasing?”

“I might be,” I said, lying.

“Then you must send 'round your solicitor. This is England, sir. We do not engage in commercial intercourse face to face. England is
not
a nation of shopkeepers. I represent a seller and you as a potential buyer also must be legally represented. Much cleaner that way, you see?”

“Is it possible to get a list?” I pressed.

“Your solicitor may obtain one.”

“No solicitor, no talk, is that it?”

“This business depends on discretion.”

I thought about making a smart-ass remark but held my tongue.

I left the meeting frustrated, but at least I had confirmed that some of the Oxley collection still existed and that it was in the hands of Broker, Brogger & Grant and awaiting a buyer. This was better than nothing. All I had to do was get a solicitor. And check into the sale of antiquities laws.

It was a Friday night at the end of my second month. I had been through a long, tedious week of uninteresting stories and dropped in to Nolan's for a bite to eat. My plan was to turn in early and get some much-needed sleep.

I was working my way through a shepherd's pie when the bartender, Allan Admiral, informed me that I had a phone call.

I was shown to the pub's office and a private telephone.

“Rhodes? Shelldrake here. You'll be fetched outside Nolan's at twenty-two hundred hours.”

I tried to get my mind focused. “What about a photographer?”

“Yes, of course, your colleague Jowett. He has been alerted and is standing at the ready.”

Shelldrake's voice and timing gave me the willies. It was a bone-­eating cold night with a heavy blanket of fog and mist. He spoke in military times, knew I was at Nolan's, and already knew I planned to use Charlie Jowett. Was I being followed and monitored? Dolly was right. Shelldrake was SAS, at the least, and perhaps some other sort of intelligence type.

I stepped outside the pub for a cigarette moments before the appointed pickup and wondered what Charlie would think of all this cloak-and-­dagger stuff.

The pickup vehicle was a small dark lorry, a sort of panel truck. It pulled quietly to the curb, the back doors swung open, and I got in. Shelldrake perched on a bench seat by the door. Farther in I saw Charlie, who flashed a smile and gave me a Churchillian V. Then the doors were closed.

I sat beside Shelldrake. We drove in silence for nearly an hour. We could not see into the cab of the vehicle and were forced to ride in virtual darkness.

Eventually the lorry lurched to a stop. Shelldrake gave Charlie and me black wool hats and black rain slickers and told us to put them on.

We clambered out of the lorry and stretched our muscles. The damp, night cold was penetrating. I tightened the hood of my slicker.

“The two of you are now trespassing,” Shelldrake said when we stepped outside. “If pinched, you'll be on your own. Understood?”

Charlie cocked an eyebrow. “Wish I had my Wellies.”

We were both in street shoes on wet, muddy ground.

Shelldrake began walking into a copse of trees, not looking back. It was dark and nearly impossible to see. Charlie fell in beside me, his camera bag thumping his side as we stumbled down an uneven, muddy trail through the trees.

“Smashing adventure, eh?” Charlie whispered happily.

“We'll see,” I said.

We eventually emerged from the forest onto what appeared to be rolling meadows with high fencing. To our west I saw the glow of lights in the low sky. London, I guessed. I had no idea where we were. The fencing alone suggested a military installation to me, but there were no electric lights. As we approached the wire in darkness, Shelldrake whispered, “Through here, boyos. Step lively now!” I immediately thought of mines as Shelldrake used a small flashlight with a red lens to show us where an opening had been cut in the fence.

“What about tracks?” Charlie asked.

“Everything is arranged,” Shelldrake said with a clipped voice.

We eventually entered a building built low in the sod like an old Quonset. When Shelldrake opened the door, the smell inside overwhelmed both Charlie and me.

“Testing room,” Shelldrake said. He turned on an overhead light, glanced at his wristwatch, and said, “We have precisely eight minutes.”

Sheep carcasses hung from stainless-steel metal hooks fixed to the walls on either side of us. There was blackened blood in their wool coats and on the cement floor. The sweet, malodorous smell of death crawled onto us.

“Positively graveolent, eh,” Charlie said, stifling a gag and sinking slowly to his knees. I grabbed one of his arms but couldn't hold him up. He looked up at me with a miserable face and said, “Good place for a nuke, yes?”

“Puke?” I said and Charlie grinned crookedly and exclaimed, “Explosive, I should think,” as he lost the battle with his gag reflex and vomited for more than a minute while Shelldrake stood over him looking askance.

Shelldrake suddenly had a riding crop in his hand; he used it as a pointer.

“See,” he said to me, stepping up to the first carcass. “Rib cage shattered, compound fractures, bones extending through flesh, this the result of a rubber bullet unloosed at ten feet. This creature did
not
expire swiftly. You see, a projectile either crushes tissue or stretches it. Either mechanism can result in death or serious injury. Many forensics people and the medical community at large are under the misimpression that low-velocity missiles are less problematic than high-velocity projectiles. They are wrong, Rhodes. A baton round is technically characterized as low velocity, and it is that if and when compared to today's modern weapons—but the muzzle velocity closely approximates bullets used during the Great War. I would remind you that a great deal of killing took place with such antiquated weapons in that conflict.”

He stopped to see if I was following him, saw that I was scratching notes, and talked on. “Even low-velocity projectiles can stop the heart, lacerate the liver, break bones, blind, shatter teeth; the list of potential injuries is endless. Consider this. The modern hunting arrow strikes with less force than a .22 short round, yet it is lethal. You see, power is not the only measure of killing strength or stopping power.”

Charlie had recovered, had his camera out, and was already methodically shooting without benefit of a flash. I followed Shelldrake along, listening to him describe wounds and types of bullet materials and all the while Charlie's camera clicked busily in the background. “The baton round is large, heavy, and unstable in flight,” Shelldrake said. “A bullet causes the most damage at the point where it strikes with the highest velocity; the greater the area of contact, the greater the force imparted and the greater the resulting damage. Are you following?”