The Chinese Assassin (30 page)

Crowdleigh got up suddenly
and
went over to
the
window. He sucked deeply on the still, hot air outside for a few moments then turned with his hands
hi his pockets and
leaned precariously backward on the unprotected windowsill.

Ketterman
stirred
impatiently
on the
end
of the
bed.
‘Haven’t we learned
anything about our late friend Stil
l
man that
tends to authenticate what he said?
Could
be have been suborned
and taken
to Mongolia?’

Crowdleigh rocked backwards on
the
windowsill. ‘I’ve had only one preliminary report on
the
poor
devil,
which of course is
classified
,
but I suppose I
can tell
you he
was
dismissed from his post with the Royal Armaments
Research and
Development Establishment
ten years
ago on account of alcoholism.’

Scholefield
snapped
his fingers
suddenly. ‘That’s
the
gesture I remember, the wagging head. The sure sign of
the
alcoholic.
I
t bothered me vaguely all through
the meeting.’

Crowdleigh nodded impatiently. ‘He worked for a couple of
years
after that on retainers for various city insurance underwriters investigating air
crashes
abroad for them as a freelance. Then he
was
black-listed by them, too, for his
drinking and
he moved lock stock
and barrel
to
Yugoslavia.
He’d done a few jobs in Eastern Europe
and
it
was through
those air
accidents that
he got to know a few
influential
Communist intelligence
types
in the Warsaw Pact countries.’ Crowdleigh
rocked
backwards again at an
alarming
angle,
lifting both feet off
the floor.
‘That was
in
1970.
Whether Belgrade will co-operate in further investigations of his
“career”
or not
remains
to be seen. His
British pension
has been
drawn
regularly through a transfer arrangement
with
a Belgrade
bank
ever since—but if the
Russians wanted
to snap up a
tame western aircraft accident investigator
they cer
tainly
h
ad one available as a sitting duck in Belgrade circa September
1971.’

A nurse appeared
silently
behind
Ketterman.
Crowdleigh stopped talking abruptly. She
began straightening
Scholefield’s pillows. ‘I think, gentlemen, Mr.
Scholefield
should rest now,’
she said firmly.

Ketterman
stood up
and
looked
uncertainly
at
Scholefield
. ‘I must dash, Dick.
Got
several things to do before I go to the airport this
afternoon.
Washington
wants
to put the folios
through
the computers.’ He grinned, then hesitated, again holding his briefcase in
both hands
hi front of him. He
seemed
to be on
the
point of walking away but
didn’t
go. He looked uncomfortably
across
at Crowdleigh who
was still balancing precariously, hands
in pocket, on the open windowsill. Finally he stepped up
beside
Scholefield, bowed his head towards hi
m
and grasped
his forearm again in an awkward parting gesture. ‘Dick I’m
real damned
sorry about
Nina.
Yo
u
know
that,
don’t you?’

Scholefield
nodded
quic
kl
y
without looking up. Ketterman opened his mouth as if to
say
something
else. Then he changed his
mind and
hurried away.

Crowdleigh smiled perfunctorily at
the
nurse
and
let his feet
fall
slowly to the floor. ‘My deepest co
n
dolences, too,
Richard,
of course.’ As
h
e went away down the ward behind Ketterman he turned back
and lifted
one
hand
in a silent, parting salute.

14

The five-ton
truck
moved cautiously at walking speed
along a street
pitted
with potholes
in a wedge of bleak
industrial
wasteland carved out of North London by
the
recent passage of a stilted
urban
motorway. The hotel laundry letterwork
had
now
been
replaced
with
‘Genders’ Light Removals’
and
the whole vehicle had been
resprayed
a muddy brown colour. A row of derelict houses lined one side of the
street, their smashed
windows
staring
sightlessly out over
the
desolate rusting
wreckage
of a scrap dealer’s yard on the other. Dust
and grit swirled
up from under
its wheels and
hung in a cloud around
the truck as
it jolted slowly towards a grimy railway arch at
the end
of
the
road.

A corrugated tin
fence
closing
off a municipal refuse tip
between
the
scrap yard
and the
bridge had been decorated in lurid poster colours. But the hundred-yard
panorama
of green bills, bright flowers
and grazing nursery
cows
was darkening with grime
too. A group of youths
playing cricket against a wicket
whitewashed on the fence swore obscenely at
the truck as
it enveloped them briefly in
its gritty
dust
cloud.
One threw a large stone
which
thumped against
its side, leaving
a visible
dent.
The young fair-haired
American
swore quietly to himself inside
the
dosed driver’s
cab
as he
swerved
to avoid an emaciated German Shepherd dog which rushed
barking wildly
from the refuse grounds to retrieve the stone.

At the far end of the street the West Indian had parked his taxi in the shadow of the railway bridge a few yards short of the only building in the street in good repair. Its bright modern brickwork contrasted sharply with the blackened, crumbling masonry of the railway viaduct. A low, square complex of modern offices and workshops,
it
was fronted by a carefully swept forecourt, and two neat bay trees in tubs stood either side of the white-painted double doors. On a black frieze above the doors, freshly painted gold lettering embellished with discreet Gothic serifs spelled out ‘H. Jarvis
&
Sons Ltd. Funeral Directors since
1897.’

Arthur Cooper was sitting inside the back of the parked taxi clutching a plastic folder of sealed documents.
He tamed an
anxious
face to look at the
truck
as it
drew up behind,
but the black driver shook his
head meaningfully. A minute
later another taxi
arrived and Harvey Ketterman climbed out. The
West Indian driver
un
locked
the
doors then
to
release Cooper
and together they
hurried
up the steps between, the potted bay
trees.

At that moment the scratch cricket game
against
the fence along the
street was interrupted
again by the arrival of a television repair
van.
It parked outside the row of derelict houses
and two
men in overalls
climbed
out carrying metal tool
boxes.
They ignored the obscene
abuse
howled at them by the cricketers and
hurried off
towards the railway bridge
and
the funeral parlour, keeping close to the front of
the
gutted houses.

Inside Jarvis & Sons’ offices the last of the administrative
staff’
were leaving for lunch
and
Cooper led Ketterman quickly
through
towards the embalming workshops at the rear of the premises. The doors were already locked but Cooper produced a bunch of keys and motioned the American
ahead
of him.
Ketter
m
an
stopped abruptly inside the door at the sight of a dead Arab on
an
embalming table, covered to
the
waist
with
a white sheet.
Three
or four more bodies covered with black blankets were lying on stretchers that seemed to have been deposited carelessly
in the first
convenient place their bearers
had found among the clutter of collecting coffins, polythene canisters of embalming fluids
and empty caskets.

Cooper smiled nervously
as
he locked
the
door behind them.
‘That
gentleman’s ready
to
go home
to Tripoli
tonight.’ He
nodded
towards the waxen face of the Arab.
‘The
I
mam is coming after
lunch
to wash him.
Their
religion demands it.’

B
u
t Ketterman was
already walking quickly round the racks of coffins that stretched from floor to ceiling, checking that nobody was concealed in the room. ‘Are
all these damned
things empty?’

‘Most of ‘em are
full.’ Cooper leaned
closer to
read
a label. ‘This one’s waiting shipment to Beirut
next
week.’

Ketter
m
an
hurried over to
the
sliding
doors
that formed
the
far wall. He hauled them open and looked out into a large garage filled with black
hearses
and collecting ambulances. The doors to the
street
were padlocked on the inside. He
bent
down and
peered under
a row of
carpenter’s
benches, but
saw
only a clutter of wood
and
metal shavings, acetylene gas
cylinders
and scattered
tools.
As he stood up
the
coffins began to tremble on their racks. A distant rumble of sound built up rapidly to a roar as a
train
raced
across
the railway viaduct outside. For several seconds the workshops were filled
with
a deafening clamour of noise. When the silence returned Ketterman
walked
slowly back to Cooper. Beads of sweat stood out on the u
n
dertaker’s forehead although
the
atmosphere in the embalming room
was
chilled.

‘I thought
our
“Connaught” would suit best, Mr. Ketterman. It’s
always
been popular with you Americans.’ Cooper pointed to a large ornate casket
carved
out of dark mahogany that
was
lying open on
two
low trestles. With a shaking hand he stroked the
quilted
interior. ‘Zinc-lined,
then white satin and
flannelle
t
te. Our best finish.’

Ketter
m
an
glanced into the
pristine cleanness
of the casket’s
interior and
nodded. ‘Perfect. Let’s get on with
the
holes,
fast!’ Cooper
blinked uncomprehendingly at
him.
‘At least a dozen.’
Ketterman strode
over to a workbench and picked up a one-inch brace
and
bit. He thrust it impatiently into the little man’s
hands and began indicating spots around
the casket where he should
dril
l

‘But we only make holes in
caskets
to be
buried
at sea—’
Cooper caught
sight of Ketterman’s threatening expression and bent quickly over his
task, winding
frantically on
the
handle of the
drill
‘—to
make
them sink, of course.’

Ketterman
ignored
him and
turned to pick up the
zinc inner
lid that stood propped against
the wall.
It had a
little window
of plate glass eighteen inches square let into it at about head height.

‘That’s for identification purposes, Mr. Ketterman.’ Cooper, panting, with exertion,
was trying
to watch Ketterman over his shoulder as he worked. ‘Your embassy doesn’t do it
any
more. But most of ‘em
still
send diplomats down here to identify the body from the passport once
its
been sealed in—’ Cooper broke
off
suddenly in alarm and
turned
to stare up at the window in the wall
behind him.
He could
see
nothing through the
frosted
glass but something had
deflected
the light momentarily. He
looked
quickly
towards
Ketterman
for reassurance. But
the
American
was still staring
thoughtfully at the identification panel in the
inner lid.

‘They make us solder that on. If a
dead
body isn’t
aspirated
properly, you know—the gases build up inside it. A corpse can explode and blow the lid
off
an ordinary coffin, if there
isn’t an
inner metal
lining with
a soldered lid.’ A
hint
of hysteria had crept into Cooper’s voice
and
by now he was
turning constantly
to glance over his shoulder at the window. ‘If that happens in an
aircraft
hold all the other cargo can get
contaminated.
It’s happened more than once. The French for instance are terrible embalmers. Bodies from France often reek to high heaven.’

Ketterman
laid the panel carefully aside and
walked
over to
the
bench where Cooper
had
left the
file
of sealed documents. He picked them up and
began
to
inspect
them minutely.

‘They’re all there, you’ll find, Mr.
Ketterman.
The top one’s
the affidavit
I swore at your embassy.
Just
a simple affidavit, that’s all you need now if you don’t send
someone
to identify. The Russians and the
East Europeans still
come through. They don’t
trust
anybody. We have to put
extra screws
in the top of the coffin
and
drip
sealing wax
on them so they can stamp them with their
seals—’
Cooper stopped
and
swung round towards the window again.
This time
he caught a
glimpse
of a blurred shadow through the frosted glass, before it ducked away out of sight.

‘The Israelis are the most careful though, Mr. K.’ Cooper
was
almost sobbing now. ‘They always come, never miss. Feel all round the body and underneath it. Search the whole coffin
with
a
fine
tooth comb before it’s
sealed.
Nobody
else
does
that.’