A Cool Breeze on the Underground

  He lived modestly for a wealthy man, an heir. He preferred to put his money into important things such as rare books, an Argyll retreat, and a share in a trout stream in that same shire. So he set aside part of his house in London’s St. John’s Wood for an office, and saw most of his patients there or at the hospital. When the telephone rang on this particular evening, his nurse was long gone, so he answered it himself.

  Rare was the caller who warned him not to interrupt, and Ferguson listened with rapt, if a tad annoyed, attention to the manic stream-of-consciousness verbal style of this lower-class young man and allowed a good ten seconds of silence to pass before he deigned to respond.

  “Ah,” he said, “may I speak now?”

  Receiving an affirmative reply, he said, “First, may I inquire how you came to be in possession of these volumes? … Actually, it is my business, considering that you are asking me to purchase them…. I see. I see…. No, tonight would not be convenient…. Yes, I’m quite sure. I don’t do business at night, you understand … regardless of what you have been led to believe. I do, in fact, know a Mr. Carey, but he is a tobacconist and I rather doubt that he would— The soonest I could possibly see you would be at, let me think, tomorrow at half past one…. Yes? And your name? … Well, I shall have to know— Yes, Mr. Smythe, I shall look forward to meeting you at half past one tomorrow. Good evening.”

  When the rather desperate young man rang off, Ferguson sat down with two fingers of whiskey and searched his brain for any trace of a Neal Carey who had some connections with books. An hour or so later, he came up with an answer.

  Allie’s world had become a cloudy mix of grief and sleep. Lying in the filthy Bayswater flat that was Colin’s new retreat, she would wake up from a drugged sleep and remember Neal and the pain would start again. It wouldn’t last for long, because Vanessa would pop her a quick one again, a small shot of smack that would send her back into reverie and sleep.

  For a while, she thought she might have dreamed the long ride to London, when she had clung to Colin’s back and hung on for life as he relentlessly sped back to the city. They had stopped only three or four times—she couldn’t remember—for gas and for Colin to haul her behind some loo and shoot her up. She knew she was a prisoner, but after a while she couldn’t remember why. She could remember only the sight of the shotgun blast ripping open Neal’s chest, and the blood, so much blood. She could remember fighting Colin during the first fix or two, but the next time she didn’t fight, and after that, she rolled her sleeve up and held her arm out. And after that, she became impatient when Nessa was late with her shot.

  She was in a tiny back bedroom of a small third-story flat. Either Crisp or Vanessa was always with her, and sometimes a young Oriental guy would come and check her out. She could sometimes hear Colin talking in the other room—a one-sided conversation that she realized must be over the phone. She didn’t care. She wanted her shot. It let her sleep and gave her pretty dreams: dreams where the blood blossomed from Neal’s heart and floated in the air and became a shiny bouquet of wet roses; in which she dove to the bottom of a deep, cold lake and found him there, smiling, pretending to be asleep; dreams of endless naps on warm, fluffy clouds that glided slowly over the city, and she could see everything and everybody.

  Soon there was little difference between being asleep and being awake, and that was fine with Allie. She had tried real life and it had let her down badly.

  Crisp and vanessa were prisoners, too. Prisoners of the stupid deal Colin had made with Dickie Huan.

  “Not to worry,” he told them. “One more small transaction and we’ll be ass-deep in filthy lucre.”

  One more small transaction, Colin thought. He was nervous, and hated admitting it to himself. The idea of striking a deal with an upper-class doctor scared him, and it was a blow to his pride. The son of a whore had sounded so bloody cool, so reserved. He had spoken to Colin with that same condescending tone he had heard from those bastards his whole life, and his dad before him. Well, never mind, taking the old fart’s money was revenge enough.

  And he’d need the money now, he thought—first to pay off Dickie and then to lay low someplace for a bit. Christ on the cross, he hadn’t wanted to kill Neal, had he? Had he? Maybe he had. But he probably wouldn’t have shot if Neal hadn’t gone for him. Silly bastard, as if any tart was worth it, even a sweet piece like Alice. He had spewed up after shooting Neal. He’d given a few blokes the blade before, but never for the sweet by-and-by. It was sickening, it was. But then he remembered Dickie Huan’s lads. Better Neal then me, he thought. And he did rip me off … all that nicker … and Alice.

  Alice. What to do with Alice? She wouldn’t keep her trap shut, would she? Mind you, no one would likely believe a junked-up mess like Alice, but still. Maybe Dickie would take her up. Sort of a bonus. No, no good. If she blabbed it to Dickie, that would be the end. Dickie would own him, charge him whatever price he wanted.

  No, Amsterdam was the better answer. Go with Uncle Colin for a holiday. Let her peddle herself in the Damestrasse behind a window. She wouldn’t last.

  And it wasn’t as if she didn’t deserve it. Amsterdam’s the spot. Take Dickie’s bloody heroin and flog it on a higher market, anyway.

  Right. But first to get rid of this fucking book. It was still only 10:30. Three bloody hours. Christ.

  Such a balls-up could happen in three hours. He glanced over at Crisp, who was sitting on the floor munching on a bag of that obnoxious shit. He’d have to lose this one and no mistake. Little bloody good it would do to set himself up on the Continent with his new wealth, only to have this idiot and his ugly gash trailing along.

  “I’ll ring you up when it’s all done, and you can get out of here. Bring Alice to the Dilly and I’ll haul her up to her boyfriend.”

  “Neal seems to be taking this pretty easily,” Crisp said. Colin noted that suspicion tainted his usual subservient whine.

  “I took care of old Neal.” Too true, he thought. “He just wants the trouble and strife in there back again. Sweet, isn’t it?”

  “I thought you were in love with her.”

  It’s a good job he was shaking Crisp when he was. Bugger was beginning to get cheeky. “I was. Take a lesson from it.”

  Colin took a few extra minutes with the mirror to knot his tie, a maroon knit he fancied with the muslin jacket, pink shirt, and gray slacks he had chosen for the occasion. Then he slipped into the cordovan tasseled loafers and checked the shine on the toes. He’d show this Oxbridge shit what class was. He looked ridiculous.

  “Well, kiss me, darling,” he said. “I’m off to make our fortune.”

  “Have a nice day at the office, dearie,” Crisp answered. He hoped like hell Colin didn’t fuck this up.

  Colin gave Huan’s thug a playful slap on the shoulder. “Want to share a taxi, sports fan?”

  Rich lombardi was in a big hurry. The convention was about to start, and the Senator was in his suite waiting for the big meeting about what to do without little Allie.

  It was a problem, all right, because little Allie wasn’t going to show. Title her story Little Girl Lost Oh well, he could figure out something to tell the press. He always had.

  He tucked his shirt in, zipped up his fly, and smiled at the girl on the bed. She smiled back. She was young, blond, had incredible blue eyes, and wanted to be an intern in the Senator’s office next summer when she graduated from high school. Well, that could probably be arranged.

  Rich Lombardi loved his job.

  “Gotta go,” he said. “Meeting with the Senator. Gotta hurry.”

  He rushed out the door, past the little alcove with the Coke machine, past the little man with one arm who was crouched behind it.

  Graham had no trouble letting himself into the room.

  Colin took a long, deep breath and rang the bell.

  Dr. Ferguson bugger took his own good time coming to the door. Colin tried to steady his heartbeat. This was it, mate: the breakout. Don’t take any crap
from the bloke, now, he thought. You have what he wants.

  Ferguson was a smallish fellow, early fifties maybe, and dressed Savile Row.

  “Mr. Smythe, is it?”

  “Dr. Ferguson, I presume?” A little cheek to show the bastard I’m not afraid of him.

  “Do come in.”

  Nice. Nice place. Antique furniture. Hunting prints on the walls. Books, of course.

  “You brought the item with you, I hope.”

  Colin pointed at the attaché case clutched in his hand.

  “May I see it?”

  “May I see the money?”

  Ferguson sat down and pointed Colin to a chair. “You are new at this, Mr. Smythe. The merchandise first, and if it’s genuine, then we discuss the money.”

  Colin put the case on his lap and opened it. He handed the books to Ferguson.

  The doctor opened up the first volume, checked out the cover, the spine, and the first few pages. Then he examined the other three volumes.

  “These are from Simon Keyes’s collection. I’m surprised he let it go.”

  “So is he.”

  “Ah, yes—”

  Colin leaned over. “Let’s cut the genteel bullshit. You had an arrangement with Neal Carey. I’m acting as, shall we say, his agent. Same terms.”

  “And how did you get this from Mr. Carey?”

  “Do you care?”

  “No.”

  Come on, come on, Colin thought. So close. Don’t blow it now.

  “Ten thousand, was it?” Ferguson was asking him.

  Colin smiled. “Twenty, actually.” Up yours, mate.

  “Ah, yes.”

  Ah, yes, indeed. Twenty thousand sweet quid and Colin is set. I’ll turn that twenty to fifty quick as your sister drops her knickers.

  “You’ll accept a check?”

  Colin looked nonplussed.

  Ferguson chuckled. “Sorry, a small joke.”

  I’ll small-joke you, you smarmy twit. Twenty thousand quid may be play money to you; it’s my fucking life.

  “You do realize,” Ferguson continued, “that I expected this delivery some weeks ago.”

  “There were problems.”

  “Apparently.”

  No. Christ, no. Don’t let it go sour now.

  The whoreson ballocks breaker spent about three hours lighting his fucking pipe, then he said, “Fortunately for you, Mr. Smythe, truth be known, I would kill for these volumes.”

  Truth be known, Dr. Ferguson, I did.

  “Then you won’t mind giving me my money.”

  Ferguson gestured with his pipe to a closed door. “Shall we step into the library?”

  Yes, we bloody well shall, if that’s where you keep the nicker. A small evil thought of hitting the bastard over the head and taking it all crept into Colin’s mind, but he dismissed it. Mustn’t be greedy.

  “After you.”

  Colin stepped into the library.

  “Hello, rugger.”

  Colin blinked hard. Twice.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Smythe?” Ferguson asked.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Colin recovered quickly. “Neal … glad you’re all right, chappie.”

  And sweet bugger all if Neal wasn’t sitting right there, not looking too good, but a damn sight better than he’d looked the last time Colin saw him. He was pale as a nun at an orgy, and the shirt that was draped over his shoulders revealed a bloody bandage that covered most of his chest. And he looked real tired, totally fagged, which wasn’t bad, considering he had been dead and all.

  “God’s blood, Neal, that gun had a hair trigger, didn’t it?” Neal didn’t answer him. He didn’t smile or laugh or nothing. Just sat and stared at him. Maybe he is dead, after all.

  “When I was a lad,” Ferguson intoned, and double sod him, “on my first bird-hunting jaunt, my father taught me to always, always check my load. Too heavy a shot, you ruin the bird. Too small a shot, you wound the bird. Of course, a load of rock salt … you lose the bird.”

  Colin whirled on him. “Yeah, well, you triple-sodomized poxy piece of ape dung, Dad never took me bird hunting, unless you count the time we boffed your grandmum in the gents’ at Charing Cross, and what in the name of Lord Nelson’s sausage is rock salt, while we’re about it?”

  “Steady, lad.” This contribution came from a big bloke in the corner, and God’s blood if it wasn’t Hatcher, that half-honest peeler from Vine Street, who wouldn’t even take a bribe from Dickie Huan. And he already had the irons out. This thing was turning to shit, quick like. Think, Colin lad, think. “Where’s Allie?”

  Thank you, Neal. God bless you, rugger. I can always count on you.

  “I dunnoo, Neal.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Colin. I’ll take you out and shoot you.” Colin wasn’t thrilled that Hatcher was nodding. “But maybe I could find out,” Colin said.

  Colin watched and sweated as Neal and the cop exchanged what could be called significant looks. “Hatcher?” Neal asked.

  Hatcher stroked his chin. He was thinking, Colin saw, which he knew was hard on cops.

  “Not meaning to be difficult,” Hatcher said, “but it leaves me, as it were, standing out in the cold looking through the window at the Christmas pudding. I understand what you’re asking, you get your girl back safe … all well and good … and Mr. Keyes gets his books back, and the young punk goes scot-free. I get left in the same old dead-end job, putting the arm on ponces for the small money.”

  So much for half-honest, Colin thought. Must’ve left that half to home.

  And it must have been a hell of a natter they had before I got here. Leave it to a greedy cop to queer a nice arrangement. Except it isn’t so nice, is it? If I leave this room free as a bird, I still have Dickie to deal with.

  The cop continued: “If I may offer a suggestion. Why don’t you leave me and the lad to have a chat alone, and I’ll wager next month’s take I’ll have your girl for you quick as a Scotsman’s funeral.”

  “Then what?”

  Christ, Neal, don’t encourage him!

  “I’ll charge our friend here with an assortment of major crimes against the Crown, and perhaps win a pat on the back from my grateful superiors.”

  Neal looked at Hatcher. “Enjoy,” he said, and started out of his chair. He took it slow, and it still hurt.

  “Hold on,” Colin said. “Let’s not be hasty.” He gave Hatcher his most engaging hustler’s smile. “How would you like to be a superstar?”

  Neal eased himself down on the bed in Ferguson’s guest room, The doctor had insisted he rest, and Neal supposed it made sense. It would take a while for things to work out, anyway.

  His chest throbbed. When the charge had first hit him, he’d thought he was dead. He was sure now that his heart had stopped for a second or so, either through pain, or shock, or fear, and the sheer force of the blow that had taken him off his feet had driven the air out of his lungs. He remembered hitting the floor, and that was about it before he’d passed out.

  He’d come to when the collie started licking his face and sniffing him, and he saw Hardin leaning over him. The tough old shepherd got him to his feet and cleaned up the raw, rasping wound. He sterilized his knife with the flame of a match and used it to pick out the rock salt that was still imbedded in the flesh. Then he asked Neal some hard questions.

  When he heard the story, Hardin left Neal in the cottage and returned an hour later in an old Bedford lorry. First they went to the village, where they each had a whiskey and Neal placed his call to London. Ferguson had already heard from “Mr. Smythe,” and had recalled Neal’s name. He reasoned that Neal, for some bizarre reason, had betrayed his host by stealing his most valuable possession, and Ferguson was considering ringing the police. He agreed to wait until Neal could tell him the story in person, and then run him in if he wished.

  The long ride to London was a torment in the bumpy old truck, and every jolt sent a burning stab through Neal’s chest. When they
arrived at Ferguson’s in the small hours of the morning, Neal was in bad shape.

  “Good God, man,” Ferguson said as he helped Hardin carry Neal in. “What on earth has happened to you?”

  They took Neal into the examining room and laid him out on the table. Ferguson went to work with real instruments, but not without remarking that Hardin had done a solid, if primitive, job, and then he asked Hardin about the nasty bump on his head. Hardin insisted it could wait. The doctor worked on Neal with tweezers, tongs, scalpel, and sutures, covered the whole bloody mess with sulfate ointment, and stuck a variety of needles into Neal, shooting him up with antibiotics and a tetanus vaccination for good measure. He tried to give Neal some sleeping pills, but he refused them. He desperately needed to tell the doctor about Allie.

  Ferguson listened to Neal’s tale with some skepticism. He was all for calling the police, even after he’d accepted Neal’s version of the events. It took all Neal’s remaining energy to convince him that it would be the end of Alison Chase. Finally, they had compromised. Neal put a call in to the Piccadilly Hotel, and a few minutes later Hatcher rang back. He arrived at Ferguson’s shortly thereafter.

  Over whiskey in the doctor’s study, it all seemed very civilized, almost like a game. Neal struggled to stay awake as they laid the plans for an ambush, a trap that—if it worked—would set Allie free.

  “He won’t have her with him,” Neal said.

  Ferguson agreed. “No, he’s too wily for that.”

  “Well then, gentlemen,” said Hatcher, “the only thing to do then is to get his nuts under the boot … and step on them.”

  He had said goodbye to Hardin at the door and thanked him.

  Hardin shook his hand and said, “You brought some excitement to the dog and me. We don’t much care for excitement.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing you or the lady again.” “I don’t suppose you will.”