The End Game (24 page)

David studied his routine with interest. Twice a day, once in the morning and once in the early evening, he extracted a single precious tablet from his store, dissolved it in distilled water and filled the hypodermic syringe which lived in a leather case in his coat pocket. Then he injected the magic directly in the veins of arm or leg. For an hour or two afterwards he was dead to all that went on around him. His body slumped, his head nodded and his pupils contracted. He seemed to be asleep, but in fact he was wandering freely in his own world of beauty and hope and youth restored. Then he would return, often quite abruptly, to the prison of the present. For a few hours he would be a tolerable, talkative companion. Then David would note the symptoms, the yawning and sneezing and scratching, as impatience developed beyond impatience into longing and beyond longing into a twitching lust for the next shot. But he had retained just sufficient strength of mind not to anticipate it. His life was ruled by the white tablets and the syringe. He would have fought to defend them with nails and teeth insanely, using any weapon he could lay hands on. Even his most light-fingered friends knew this and left him alone.

After a few arguments and one fight, David succeeded in establishing a sleeping place alongside him. The fight was with Irish Mick, who had previously regarded himself as Percy’s particular friend and confidant and resented the shift in his allegiance. The fight had not been a long one. David had tripped Mick and sat on him long enough and heavily enough to convince the Irishman that he was a stronger and fitter man. Peace had been patched up.

David had then clinched his hold over Moule by indicating to him, indirectly and under the strictest promises of secrecy, that he might have an available source from which further supplies of heroin could be obtained.

“For a price,” said David. “It’s not given away.”

“I have the money,” said Moule. This was true. Money was only important to him as a key to the white tablets. Since he had not been able to buy more than forty, barely a three weeks’ supply, the money he had not used was wrapped in a handkerchief and tucked away in one of his many coat pockets. He spent very little on food and nothing on anything else. The money was there. What he needed was the drug. Towards the end of the second week, under renewed pledges of secrecy, David produced six tablets. They were part of a much larger supply which he had extracted from Dr. Ramchunderabbas when he handed over the promised second instalment of heroin. He sold the tablets to Moule for three pounds in cash, and from that moment his bondage was complete. David was master, he was slave.

Twenty times a day he said to David, in a voice which trembled with anxiety, “You will find it for me. You’ve got a supplier. I’ve got the money. I’ll pay for it.”

“When the time comes,” said David.

“You’re sure.”

“Rest easy.”

He knew, to a day, how long his slave’s supply would last.

Night was the time for confidences. In the warm and stinking darkness, as the after effects of his evening shot wore off, Dennis Moule would talk. Long, rambling discourses, covering his early life, unhappy times at school—he still remembered the name of a boy who used to bully him—happy holidays with his widowed mother, who spoiled him. Early days as a trainee accountant. Some reminiscences of his life with Martindale, Mantegna and Lyon, where he had worked his way up to be chief assistant to Julius Mantegna. Occasional references to the young lady he had hoped to marry, but nothing on the topic that David was waiting for. At that point, a curtain came down.

David was careful not to force confidences. He knew that his time would come.

Only once was he given a glimpse behind the curtain. It started with discussion of something which had been reported in the papers. Two boys had found an old tramp, asleep and bemused with methylated spirits. There was some left in the bottle beside him. They had poured this over his legs and set fire to him. The tramp had died of shock and burns.

“Dangerous louts,” said David. “I hope they catch them and put them away for a good long stretch.”

“Louts, yes,” said Percy in his schoolmaster’s voice. “But not dangerous. If you have met really dangerous men you would not trouble your head about boys.”

David grunted encouragingly. Moule seemed to be considering whether he would go on. In the end he said, “I told you that I used to work for this travel agency.”

“You did mention it.”

“After I had been there about a year, I found out that they were using me to carry drugs. In a secret pocket in my courier’s bag. I thought I would take a little for myself. Why not? It was I who was taking the risks. There were a number of packets and I took a little, a very little, out of each. But of course, they found out. One evening two men bundled me into a car and drove me down to a place not far from here. It was dark, but I could see it was a shop. I was taken into a room at the back and strapped to a chair. The man who seemed to be in charge—I found out afterwards that he was a Maltese—quite an ordinary-looking man, rather tubby, with glasses, said, ‘Put your hand flat on the table and don’t move it until I tell you to.’ I did what he said. I was so frightened by now that I was pissing in my trousers. Then he took up a big, heavy knife and he said, ‘You helped yourself to a little of my friends’ goods. I’m going to help myself to a little bit of your hand.’ And he brought the knife down, smack, and cut off the very tip of my middle finger.”

“So you got back into line and did what you were told.”

“Good God, yes.”

“And have stayed in line ever since.”

“After I left the agency, I had no occasion to interfere in things of that sort.”

“Not in the drug-running business. But there was something else, wasn’t there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard stories,” said David. He had moved up, in the darkness, so that his head was close to Moule’s, and he had dropped his voice to a trickle of sound. “People do say that you’ve got some secret. Some sort of papers, which might incriminate a big businessman.”

“No.”

There was a long silence.

David was close enough to Moule to feel that he was shaking.

“Nothing in it, eh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t talk about it. I can’t.”

“All right,” said David agreeably. “Let’s talk about something else, then.”

“Blackett wanted me to go down on Thursday and stay the night,” said Sam Lyon. “He wanted to talk to me about the implications of the new Finance Bill. He must have forgotten that I was going to be in Switzerland on Thursday. I shan’t be back much before midnight. When I told him, he suggested that you went, instead.”

“Me?” said Gerald Hopkirk a bit blankly.

“Why not? You know all about his affairs. When I retire, you’ll probably have to take him on.”

“Then don’t retire,” said Gerald.

Sam Lyon accepted the compliment with a smile. He said, “You’re scared of him.”

“Certainly I am.”

“He won’t eat you. You’ve never been down to his house before, have you?”

“Years ago. I took some papers down for him to sign.”

“He’s a good host. He’ll make you very comfortable. Take your dinner jacket.”

“That’s all very well,” said Gerald. “But I don’t know a lot about the new Finance Bill. What
are
its implications?”

“There was a very good crib in the
Economist
last week. I imagine it’s the company ‘see-through’ provisions he’s worried about. Have a look at Section 18 and 19—”

The discussion became technical.

“And one word of advice,” said Lyon. “Don’t drink too much of his port. I made that mistake last time I went down and very nearly fell asleep in the middle of a technical discussion on underdistribution.”

Thinking about it afterwards, Gerald could not have explained why he had felt uncomfortable about a perfectly ordinary business trip. He had visited clients at their homes often enough and had once spent a weekend in the castle of an impoverished Scottish laird who wished to discuss the economics of grouse shooting. It is true that the standard of living at Blackett’s Virginia Water house was several degrees plusher than anything he had encountered before. There was a manservant who devoted himself silently to his comfort and succeeded in making him thoroughly uncomfortable. The household obviously ran on oiled wheels; and the garden, in which he strolled before dinner, was large and was maintained to a pitch of neatness that he had previously associated with public parks.

Blackett, who had met him at the station, drove him back to the house. He said, “Let’s keep business for after dinner.”

When Gerald went up to his room to change, he found that his suitcase had been emptied of its scanty contents, his dress clothes laid out and a bath run for him in the bathroom which was en suite with his bedroom. A small decanter of whisky had appeared on the table beside the bed, with a thermos flask of iced water. Remembering Sam Lyon’s warning, he helped himself to a very modest peg, had his bath and began to feel better.

When he got down to the drawing room he discovered, to his relief, that he was not the only guest. A South African, with a chin like the prow of a battleship, whom he was invited to address as Barney, and a smooth Kuwaiti Arab whose name he never discovered were already there, drinking very cold and very dry martinis. They were joined by Barney’s wife and a pleasant middle-aged lady called Mrs Arbuthnot, who seemed to fill the function of hostess.

It was as good a dinner as Gerald had ever eaten, beautifully cooked and served with the unobtrusive efficiency of a top-class French restaurant. The details of the food escaped him, but the wine remained in his memory. A white wine which was as cold and smooth as the ice maiden’s kiss and a robust red burgundy which laughed all the way from the glass to his palate. After the meal coffee was served in the drawing room, round a fire of applewood. Gerald, who had lost most of his inhibitions by now, said, “Sam warned me about your port, Mr Blackett.”

“He gave it a bad name?”

“On the contrary. Too good a name. He said that I should allow myself two glasses, but no more.”

“In South Africa,” said Barney, “we have excellent Burgundy, but we’ve never produced any port worth drinking. Burgundy’s a technique. The production of port is an
art
known only to the Portuguese.” He proceeded to give them a ten-minute lecture on wine making, either unconscious that he was monopolising the conversation or not caring. At the end of it he said, “We’ll have to be getting back now. We can fix up the final details when you meet my Board on Monday.” He collected his wife, and they made for the door. Blackett went with them. The Kuwaiti had not joined them for coffee, but had made his excuses and gone straight up to his room.

When Blackett returned, Mrs Arbuthnot said, in the tone of voice of someone who has said the same thing before without any expectation of attention being paid to it, “You men mustn’t sit up gossiping until all hours,” and took herself off.

Blackett filled Gerald’s nearly empty glass from the decanter and said, “Now, what about this bloody Finance Act?”

It took them half an hour and a further glass of port to straighten out the Finance Act. Gerald was relieved to find that his views on it largely coincided with his host’s. He was wondering whether it would be politic to make a move towards bed when he found that his glass had been refilled.

Blackett cut short his protests. He said, “Sam’s a good chap. I’m prepared to accept his views on accountancy, but, like most people, he talks nonsense about wine. Vintage port doesn’t give you gout and it doesn’t send you to sleep. It simply complements the meal.” He added, suddenly and with no particular relevance to what had gone before, “Do you remember a man called Moule in your office? Or was he before your time?”

“Dennis Moule. I knew him well. We came into the firm almost at the same time.”

“Then you can advise me. I had a letter from him the other day. Not very legible, but I made most of it out. He wanted a job. Any sort of job. Commissionaire, post-room, odd-job man. It struck me as an unusual request from a qualified accountant.”

“I haven’t seen him since he left, but I did hear that he’d—well—gone downhill.”

“In what direction?”

“Drink, to start with.”

“Then drugs, I suppose.”

“I did hear something of the sort.”

“I don’t want to break any confidences, but if I’m going to employ him, I’d better know the worst.”

“It wasn’t entirely his fault. I don’t think he was what you’d call a strong character, but he was perfectly all right until his fiancée was killed in that accident. I expect you remember it.”

“I not only remember it,” said Blackett, “you could say, in a way, that I was responsible for it. Ian Paterson and Julius Mantegna were driving up to North London, looking for me, when it happened. I didn’t realise it had such a traumatic effect on Moule.”

“I don’t think I shall ever forget that day,” said Gerald. “February fourteenth, St. Valentine’s Day, but not much love around the office. It wasn’t only the rain, which never let up for a moment. Julius was in a bad frame of mind, which was unusual for him. I gathered from Miss Blaney that he’d taken home some papers to read the night before and he was very worried about them.”

“Do you happen to know what the papers were?”

“Not really. They were confidential. A client had done something stupid, without telling Julius. That’s the trouble with clients. They consult you
after
they’ve put their foot in it.”

“Just so,” said Blackett, with rather a grim smile.

“Of course, we knew nothing about the accident until we got to the office next day. The rain had stopped overnight, and it was a lovely morning. I was feeling particularly cheerful, for some reason I can’t now remember, and I’d got in earlier than usual. The cleaners were just finishing their morning chores. One of them said something about ‘poor Mr Moule.’ I couldn’t make out what she was talking about. At that moment the door at the end of the passage swung open—it was a little room where we keep our photographic machine—and Moule came out. I noticed that he was carrying a folder of papers and I said, ‘Hullo, Dennis. You’re up early,’ or something like that. He pushed past me, without a word, and went into Julius’s room and slammed the door. As he went past, I got the impression that he’d been crying. Then Sam Lyon arrived and told me what had happened, so of course I realised what was wrong.”