Part 9 (1/2)
d.i.c.k Hull said Merv hadn't been in yet. Leaving him to draw his Guinness, Joe went out to the lobby phone and, using the s.e.xwith flier he had in his pocket, he dialled Merv's mobile. No answer, which didn't surprise him. Merv's electronic equipment tended to come from nervous men in pub car parks after nightfall, and they didn't offer extended care contracts.
Now he tried Merv's home number.
It chimed different from what he remembered, but that didn't surprise him. Merv was a natural Bedouin, moving from oasis to oasis, which in his case were marked not by the presence of palm trees but widows of independent means. Whenever he moved in, he always imagined permanency, but it never worked out that way. Presumably he was still with Molly who had the dyslexic daughter in stationery, but there was no absolute guarantee.
”Yes?” snapped a voice in his ear.
It was male and not Merv. Time to box clever. Merv owed him, but that was no reason to drop a friend in the clag.
”I'm ringing on behalf of my firm to say that if you ever felt in need of a confidential enquiry service Even as he began his ingenious cover-up, it occurred to him he could be in a fix if this guy tried to employ him to check up on his woman who was being balled by Merv ... ”Who the h.e.l.l is this?” demanded the man.
”My name's Joe Sixsmith,” he said. ”Look, if this is a bad time ...”
”Bad time, of course it's a bad time, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. How did you get this number? Did the police give it to you?”
The man sounded even more agitated than a bit of unwanted cold-calling should warrant.
”No, why should they ... ? Look I'm sorry, perhaps I got a wrong number, who am I talking to here?”
”This is Naysmith, Felix Naysmith, who the h.e.l.l did you think it was? The police told me about you, Sixsmith. What the h.e.l.l do you want?”
”Oh yes, Mr. Naysmith,” said Joe, completely bewildered. ”From Poll-Pott? I mean, from the law firm ... what are you doing there .. ? I mean, just where are you, Mr. Naysmith?”
”At home, of course. Are you drunk, or what? And what is it you want?”
”Well, just to talk, perhaps we could meet, I thought it might help or something,” bur bled Joe, trying to get his act together.
”You did, did you? Can you hold on a moment. There's someone at the back door.”
Joe's mind which, like a small lift, had strict pa.s.senger limitations, was suddenly crowded with thoughts.
By what amazing coincidence had he managed to mis dial and get through to Felix Naysmith's home? And why was the guy there when his wife was expecting him back in Lincolns.h.i.+re?
And who on a dark midwinter's night went prowling round the rear of a house to knock on the back door ... ?
At last the surplus weight was dumped and the lift went shooting up his cerebrum.
”Mr. Naysmith!” he yelled. ”Don't open that door!”
But it was too late. He'd heard the bang as the phone was dropped on to a table, and now he could hear distantly a bolt being drawn and a door opened, then Naysmith's voice saying, ”Good Lord, what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?” And then the sound he most feared, which was no sound at all for a long amazed second, then the silence violently broken by a confusion of noise, gaspings, groanings, scufflings, broken words, choked-off cries ... ”Joe, my man. Not doing the heavy breathing to the nurses' home, I hope!”
A heavy hand clapped on to his shoulder. He looked up to see Merv's beaming face satelliting above him.
There were questions to ask but not now.
He thrust the phone into the taxi driver's huge hand and cried, ”Merv, dial 999, tell them to get round to the Naysmith house on the Heights, tell them it's urgent.”
Then he was off. What was it Butcher had said? Opposite Willie Woodbine's house ... well, he knew that, having been there once for a party which had gone off, literally, with a bang. Should mean the Rapid Response Unit would get their fingers out, but no guarantee. On the Ra.s.selas, RRU meant Really Rather U-didn't-bother-us. So, time for the lone PI to ride to the rescue!
The Mini's engine snarled as if it had been waiting all its long life for this moment.
But even breaking speed limits and shaving lights couldn't turn a fifteen-minute drive into less than twelve and as he hit the hill which (along with the property prices) gave Beacon Heights its name, he saw he'd been maligning the police. Up ahead the frosty night air was pulsing with blue. Which was good. Except that some of the strobe was coming off an ambulance. Which was bad.
A stretcher was being lifted into the ambulance. He ran the Mini up on to the pavement and hurried forward.
”What's happened?” he demanded as he forced his way through the small crowd of spectators. ”Is Naysmith dead?”
”Don't know. What's it to you, anyway?”
The man responding was a crinkly blond, in his thirties, beautifully tanned or heavily made up, and wearing a dinner jacket. A butler maybe, thought Joe. Then he checked out the teeth and upgraded his guess. Anyone could wear a bow tie but only money in the bank got you teeth that looked like Michelangelo had chipped them out of Carrara marble.
”I'm just worried, is all,” said Joe.
It occurred to him that most of the spectating men were dinner jacketed and their accompanying women were wearing fancy evening gowns which displayed a lot of rapidly goose-pimpling flesh. Presumably there'd been a top-people's party in one of the neighbouring houses, but good breeding hadn't stopped them pouring out to enjoy a spot of ghoulish gawking.
”Don't live round here, do you?” said the man with the authority of one who did.
”No,” said Joe. ”Just pa.s.sing through.”
”Or just coming back to the scene of the crime, eh? Hold on. I think you'd better have a word with the constabulary.”
Joe, realizing nothing useful was likely to pa.s.s between those twinkling teeth, had taken a step away in search of higher intelligence. Now he felt himself seized by the collar and dragged up till he stood on his toes. If he'd paused to think, probably good sense would have made him decide against a physical reaction. Or even if he'd opted for it, the intervention of the thought process would have meant he got it all wrong. But indignation blanked his mind, leaving plenty of uncluttered s.p.a.ce for the exercise of pure intuition.
In a move of which Mr. Takeus.h.i.+ must have been the source, but whose execution by this least cpt of his pupils would have amazed the old judo instructor, Joe jumped in the air, transferring all his weight to marble-tooth's arm. The man staggered forward, bending under the sudden burden, and Joe, reaching back over his shoulder with his right hand, seized him by the bow tie and brought him flailing through the air in a very effective if slightly unorthodox hip throw.
The women screamed in terror, or delight; the men made the kind of indignant baying noises by which good citizens since time began have indicated their readiness to become faceless cells in a lynch mob; and Joe looked anxiously down at the rec.u.mbent man, his mind full of fear that he might have incidentally dislodged one of those perfect teeth.
”You OK, mate?” he said.
The man had difficulty in replying, mainly because his tie was half strangling him.
Joe stooped to loosen it, saying, ”Always use a clip-on myself. Lot safer.”
Then he felt himself seized again and dragged upright. Any inclination he had to resist died when he saw it was two cops who'd got a hold of him and a moment later he heard Sergeant Chivers's familiar voice cry, ”I don't believe it. Twice may be coincidence but three out of three's too good to be true. Bring him inside!”
”Shall we cuff him, Sarge?” said one of the uniformed men.
”Cuff him?” said Chivers. ”You can kick him senseless for all I care. Only don't let anyone see!”
Nine.
There was good news.
Felix Naysmith wasn't dead.
And there was bad news.
He'd been badly beaten about the head and was in such a state of shock, he'd been unable to say anything about what had happened. He certainly hadn't said anything to confirm Joe's story.
”Ring the Glit,” said Joe. Talk to Merv Golightly. All I came here to do was save the guy's life.”