The End Game (2 page)

Once he was inside, it was clear that he was following an established track. After climbing over a low railing he came out on to a cinder path which wound its way for a hundred yards or more between piles of abandoned and rusting machinery, skirted a pit full of oily water and ended at a solid-looking pair of wooden gates. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, and there was enough light to read the name painted in faded white letters: Hendrixsons, Shipping Agents and Chandlers.

The tramp bypassed the gates quite simply by squeezing through one of the many gaps in the corrugated-iron fence. Inside there was a concrete yard. The left-hand side was open shed. The back and the third side, which had once been a smart office block, was now a sad parody of itself. There was a rusty grill over the front door, fastened with a chain. The windows were barred. There were gaps in the roof, and every grime-smeared pane of glass had been shattered, as though by shrapnel.

The tramp made for the open shed. A flight of wooden steps at the back led up to the first storey. This was full of every sort of debris and refuse. There were broken packing cases, cardboard cartons, the straw skirts which careful packers put round bottles, heaps of rags, piles of sacking and hundreds upon hundreds of old newspapers. It was a rats’ nest, enlarged to human proportions.

There were human rats in it. As the tramp climbed the steps he heard them stirring. He hoped that no one had trespassed into his favourite bedroom. This was a man-sized carton in the far corner, which had once been used for the transport of an electrical generator. It was lying on one side and was half full of newspaper and straw. It was empty. Good.

The tramp crawled into it and wriggled down among the debris. As he was doing so, he paused and sniffed. Someone, not far away, had been smoking a cigarette. He twisted round and poked his head out of the doorway of his cardboard room.

A voice from the darkness said, “Watcheer, Percy.”

The tramp grunted. He recognised the voice. It was a middle-aged layabout called Irish Mick. He said, “If you go on smoking, Mick, one fine night we’ll all go up in flames.”

“Sure, and some night we’ll all die any road. What’s the odds?”

Other voices were muttering in the darkness. Conversations interrupted by the new arrival were starting up again. Whispered, husky, confidential colloquies which sometimes went on through the April night as the homeless men confided their meaningless secrets to each other.

“It’s a dump,” said David Rhys Morgan. “It’s as old-fashioned as my Auntie Tamsin’s knickers. But not so attractive.”

The building which carried the brass plate of Martindale, Mantegna and Lyon, Chartered Accountants, had once been the rectory of the Church of St. Martin-at-Hill. The church had fallen out of use many years before and had been opened to the sky by Göring’s bombers. Somehow the rectory, tucked away in a cul-de-sac, had survived bombs and developers. It was totally unsuited to be an office. It had no lift. Its hot water and heating system was subject to unscheduled stoppages. Its windows were so overshadowed by neighbouring giants that electric light was needed in most of the rooms for most hours of the day.

“A nineteenth-century dump,” said Morgan. “Straight out of the pages of Charles bloody Dickens.”

He was talking to himself. It was a quarter to two, and everyone else was out at lunch. He had had his own lunch from the bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk, and he was now wasting an agreeable half hour snooping into other people’s rooms.

Samuel Lyon, the senior partner, had locked his door.

“Suspicious old bugger,” said Morgan.

The room next door belonged to one of the junior partners, Gerald Hopkirk. It was a nodding acquaintance with Gerald that had got Morgan his job in the firm. He had been there for three months now. He was already fed up with it.

“My old da was right,” he said. “Never stay in one job too long. It’s the bird that hops from bough to bough that gets the pick of the fruit.”

Hopkirk’s door was unlocked. Morgan went in and seated himself behind the desk. Close to his right hand was a filing cabinet. He opened the drawer labelled A-K, picked out a handful of files from the middle and spread them on the desk. One of them seemed to interest him. It was an old file and had seen a lot of service. It was labelled “Argon Finance – PAYE and National Insurance.” There was a newspaper cutting, already yellowing with age, stapled on to the inside of the cover. Morgan tipped his chair on to its back legs and started to read.

Tragedy on Highgate Hill

The torrential rain which burst over London yesterday was the direct cause of a tragedy which claimed three Lives. Julius Mantegna, a partner in the well-known firm of City Accountants, Martindale, Mantegna and Lyon, was driving to a business appointment in North London, accompanied by a client, Lt. Colonel Ian Paterson, and his secretary, Miss Phyllis Blamey. As they approached Highgate Archway a lorry and trailer, driven by Alfred Birch, which was coming down the hill, struck a patch of flood water and skidded. The lorry and trailer jackknifed across the road and hit the car head on. All three of the occupants were killed instantly. The driver of the lorry was taken to the Whittington Hospital suffering from shock, but was released later. The lorry belongs to the McCorkindale Transport Company. Mr Fergus McCorkindale said, “This was a terrible thing. Alf Birch has been driving for us for thirty years, and this is the first accident he has ever had.”

The file was full of PAYE returns and letters from and to the Inspector of Taxes. Among them was a single communication from the client himself. It was on good paper, headed “Argon Finance and Investment Limited,” over a small and rather well-designed logo of a ship under sail. The directors were named as Randall Blackett, C.A., and Ian Paterson, D.S.O. The registered office was a 513 Anstey House, Theobalds Road.

“Fifth floor of a big block,” diagnosed Morgan. “Sounds okay, but could have been a crummy little joint.”

The letter said: “Dear Julius, Get after the tax man with a big stick. He doesn’t seem to have read the last Finance Act. Yours, Randall.”

The “Randall” had been written in thick black ink with firm strokes of the pen. The signature of a man who knew his own mind and did not suffer fools gladly.

“Why, Mr Morgan,” said Miss Crawley, “whatever are you doing in here?”

She had opened the door softly and was standing peering round it. “Like a startled but indignant hen,” said Morgan.

“What
did you say?”

“I said, Miss Crawley, that I was looking for file nine hundred and ten.”

Miss Crawley advanced cautiously into the room and peered over his shoulder. She said, “You oughtn’t to come into partners’ rooms without asking. And that isn’t file nine hundred and ten.”

“I didn’t say I’d found it, sweetheart. I said I was looking for it.”

“That’s a very old file.”

“None the worse for that.” Morgan tipped his chair forward, stretched out one hand and placed a finger on Miss Crawley’s high-necked old-fashioned blouse. Miss Crawley gave a squeak of alarm and reversed towards the door. She said, “What are you doing, Mr Morgan?”

“It was a ladybird,” said Morgan. “It had alighted just above your right breast. I thought it kind to remove it before it came to any harm.”

“Oh!”

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, Your house is on fire and your children have gone.”

“I believe you’ve been drinking.”

“In moderation.”

Miss Crawley whisked out and slammed the door. Her feet went pattering off down the passage. Morgan grinned and returned to a study of the file. He seemed interested in the newspaper cutting and read it again.

Heavy and deliberate footsteps in the passage announced the arrival of the owner of the room.

“What have you been doing to Miss Crawley?” said Gerald Hopkirk. “She looked like a bird that’s had its tail feathers pulled.”

“Is it not odd how everyone not only resembles a bird or an animal, but behaves like one. You are a big cuddly teddy bear, fond of honey and nuts.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Then again, some people look like fishes. There’s something very turbot-like about our Mr Piatt, don’t you think?”

“What were you doing to Miss Crawley?”

“A ladybird had alighted on her bosom. I assisted it to escape.”

“And what were you doing in my room?”

“Working, Gerald bach, toiling. Whilst the rest of the staff were feasting and drinking in the wine bars and the grill rooms of the City, I was applying myself to my daily task.”

“What’s an old file of PAYE returns got to do with your daily task?”

“It caught my eye. It had my reference on it, you see.”

“Your
reference? You’ve only been here a few months, and this file – oh, yes. D.R.M. Quite a coincidence. That was poor Moule.”

“Mole?”

“Pronounced Mole. Spelt Moule.”

“Like Cholmondeley or Leveson-Gower.”

“Yes. But not very like. There was nothing county about Dennis Moule.”

“Why was he poor?”

“It was a tragedy, really. When he came here he was quite a promising young accountant. He was engaged to old Mantegna’s secretary.”

“A sound ploy. Many a professional man has got his feet under the Board Room table by marrying the boss’s secretary.”

“He didn’t get round to marrying her. She was killed.”

“On Highgate Hill, in a rain storm.”

“How—?”

“I was reading the cutting.”

“I see. Yes. They got the name wrong, incidentally. Phyllis Blaney, not Blamey. A nice girl. The best secretary he ever had, Julius used to say. It broke poor old Dennis up. He took to drink. Became quite impossible. They had to get rid of him.”

“It seems odd to me,” said Morgan, “that people should need an
excuse
for drinking. I’ve always found it quite easy to do it without any reason except that I like it. Which reminds me. You’re coming to dinner with us tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“Susan is a perfectionist. Her masterpieces of the culinary art never appear on the table before nine o’clock. So we shall have time for a drink beforehand. Or possibly for two drinks. Do you know the Coat and Badge?”

“No. What is it? Another of your pubs?”

“How can you speak so lightly about that great, that immortal, that unique institution, the English tavern? Suppose the Mermaid Tavern had never existed. Should we have had the plays of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson?”

“All right,” said Hopkirk resignedly. “I’ll buy it. Where and what is the Coat and Badge?”

“No mere description can do justice to it. You shall see it for yourself.”

“Not bad,” said Hopkirk. “How did you find it?”

“I have a nose for such places. I was walking past, in the street, when instinct awoke. It said, David, there’s something down that passage that you ought to investigate. And the instinct was sound.”

The Coat and Badge was tucked away at the foot of one of the alleys which runs down from Lower Thames Street to the river. It had a small public bar, a smaller private bar and a very small garden, with an iron table and some iron chairs in it.

They took their second pints into the garden, where they drank for some time in silence, looking across the river at the back cloth of wharves and spidery cranes on the South Bank.

Morgan said, “Blackett. Randall Blackett. He’s a large slice of our cake, isn’t he?”

“Sixty-two companies. It might be sixty-four. They grow so fast you can hardly keep count of them.”

“And it was his partner, Colonel Paterson, who got killed in that accident.”

“That’s right. Why the sudden interest?”

“I always take an interest in my work. Are we accountants and auditors of all Blackett’s companies?”

“As far as I know.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“I’ve talked to him on the telephone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him. Sam Lyon does most of his stuff. I expect he has to meet him from time to time.”

“A Napoleon of finance,” said Morgan. “A Genghis Kahn of the business world. A king tiger in the jungle of industry. And I’ll bet his wife bullies him.”

“He’s a bachelor.”

“Ah! A man of good sense.” Morgan got up, went into the building and reappeared with a tray containing two further pints of beer and two glasses of whisky.

“The old Scottish custom of the chaser,” he said. “It improves both the beer and the whisky.”

“Steady on,” said Hopkirk. “We don’t want to turn up stinking.”

“What a truly horrible expression. In the days of the Regency, if a man happened to have consumed rather more alcoholic liquor than was wise, he was said to be glorious. ‘Stinking,’ indeed. How we have debased the language of drinking. You’ll be talking about ‘blotto’ next.”

He swallowed the whole of the whisky and half the beer. Gerald Hopkirk followed suit, but more slowly.

“Stop looking at your watch,” said Morgan. “We’ve lots of time. . . . April weather. I’m getting cold. Let’s have a last one inside.”

The public bar had a dozen customers now. A dozen made it seem crowded. Three men in executive suits, two middle-aged and one young, were occupying the three stools at the bar.

“The three bears,” said Morgan. “Father Bear, Mother Bear and Baby Bear.”

This was unkind, especially to Mother Bear.

“Were you talking about us?” said Father Bear.

“I was talking to myself,” said Morgan. “It’s a terrible weakness I have. Two more of the same, please, Sidney.”

“I think you were being bloody rude,” said Mother Bear.

Baby Bear said, “He’s just a bloody Welshman.”

“That’s right,” said Morgan, “a bloody Welshman.” He sounded pleased. “There’s just one thing wrong with this country, boyo. Thanks, Sidney. Have one for yourself.”

“You were saying?” said Father Bear.

“I was saying,” said Morgan, taking a pull at his drink, “that there’s one thing wrong with England. It’s full of Englishmen.” He roared with laughter.

“He’s drunk,” said Baby Bear. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Tom.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m happy,” said Morgan. “Another drink for each of my ursine friends.”