The Mordida Man (13 page)

“I know nothing about it,” Khoja said and yawned.

“You know nothing about it, huh?”

“Nothing.”

Hopkins nodded as if that was exactly what he had expected and turned to Dunjee. “You hear that, Ralph? He don't know nothing about it. He just works here. He's just the chief counter holder-downer.”

Dunjee shrugged.

“Let's go,” Hopkins said and picked up his tool case.

“You cannot go up,” Khoja said, examining the fingernails on his left hand. “It is not permitted.”

Incredulity spread over Hopkins' face. “Up! You hear that, Ralph? Abdullah here thinks we're going
up
. We're not going
up
. We're going back to the shop and ring up Mr. Abedsaid at the Embassy and tell him it's a no go at Cameldrivers' Towers and he can bloody well wait another two months to have his locks changed, and if somebody keeps on breaking in and stealing things, then maybe he better talk to the man in charge, which is you, idn't it?”

Khoja frowned. “Stealing?”

“Got the stereo the other night, they did. Right, Ralph?”

Dunjee nodded.

“I had not heard,” Khoja said.

“Well, he's not going to be spreading it around now, is he? Not likely.” Hopkins gave the counter a pat of finality. “But you can explain it all to him. Just tell him we wouldn't go up without your okay. Tell him to give us a ring. We can be back in a month or two.” Hopkins turned away.

“Wait,” Khoja said.

Hopkins turned back.

“I can ring him.”

“Ring him?”

“Yes. The telephone. Here.”

“Well, that's an idea now, isn't it? You got his private number?”

“Private number?”

“At the Libyan Embassy. Here.” Hopkins dug out the work order and again spread it in front of Khoja, pointing to a telephone number.

“Ah, yes. His private number.”

Hopkins and Dunjee watched Khoja dial the number. It was answered on the second double ring. Khoja started out hesitantly in English and then with obvious relief switched quickly into voluble Arabic. The conversation went on for several minutes.

After Khoja hung up he turned back to Hopkins. “You can go up.”

“You talked to him, did you?”

“To his assistant.”

“Miss Salem?”

“You know her?”

“She's the one who called in the order.”

“She gave me instructions,” Khoja said. “You are to clean up afterwards. You are to leave no mess. She was very firm.”

“We never leave any mess, Jack,” Hopkins said and turned toward the elevator.

It was a two-room apartment, or possibly three, counting the small kitchen, which contained some cheap china and stainless steel flatware, a few glasses, and by way of nourishment two containers of frozen orange juice and a jar of instant coffee.

Dunjee watched Hopkins work. Hopkins was both methodical and fast. The kitchen took him only two minutes, and his search included a careful inspection of the oven as well as a fast but thorough look into the small space behind the refrigerator.

Hopkins moved into the living room shaking his head. “Nothing—except it'd be ducky if I knew what the hell I was looking for.”

“I don't know,” Dunjee said.

A small kneehole desk was positioned in front of the windows. Hopkins crossed over and tried the drawers. They were locked. He took a small length of thin steel from his pocket and with a quick move that was almost too fast to follow snapped the desk lock open. He looked up at Dunjee. “You take the desk,” he said.

Hopkins began his search of the living room while Dunjee sat behind the desk and started opening drawers. In the bottom drawer was a thick unsealed envelope. In it was a sheaf of five-and ten-pound notes. Dunjee tossed them onto the desktop. “Here,” he said.

Hopkins rolled back a small, cheap Oriental rug he'd been looking under, moved to the desk, picked up the envelope, and looked inside. “Nice,” he said and stuck the envelope down into his coverall pocket.

The rest of the desk's contents included a Lloyds Bank checkbook, blank envelopes, stationery, stamps, some dried-out ballpoint pens, and a small key which Dunjee tossed onto the desktop. “What's this for?” he said.

Hopkins came over to look at it. “A tin box. Or maybe a briefcase. I'll try the bedroom.”

While Hopkins was gone, Dunjee reopened each of the desk's seven drawers and ran his hand under their bottoms. He then took each drawer all the way out to see whether anything had been taped to their ends. He was putting the last drawer back when Hopkins came in from the bedroom carrying a small gray steel box.

“In the wardrobe,” he said. “Back behind the luggage.”

Hopkins used the key to open the steel box. When he saw what its contents were, he wrinkled his nose and spun the box around so Dunjee could look. The box's contents consisted mostly of pictures, eight-by-ten glossies. The pictures were of nude young girls, most of them in their early teens. All were engaged in various homosexual practices. All looked very English. Dunjee sighed and started examining each picture, both back and front. There were forty-two pictures. On the back of the thirty-ninth picture was the name Frank and a phone number written in pencil. With another sigh, Dunjee copied it down into his address book.

The rest of the steel box's contents consisted of papers for a 450 SLC Mercedes; a .25-caliber Colt automatic, loaded; a switchblade knife with a six-inch blade and a broken spring; a cheap souvenir metal model of the Eiffel tower; a small suede drawstring bag that felt heavy, and a breast-pocket-size notebook whose leather cover was embossed in gold with “Organize Your Day.”

Dunjee thumbed through the notebook. What few entries there were were written in Arabic. He put the notebook into a coverall pocket, picked up the drawstring bag, opened it, and dumped its contents on the desk. Twenty gold Krugerrands spilled out. Dunjee had just finished stacking them into two neat piles when Hopkins came out of the bedroom again shaking his head. At the sight of the gold he stopped shaking his head and smiled.

“Makes you want to go to church, doesn't it?” Hopkins said as Dunjee shoved the two stacks of gold coins toward him.

“What about this?” Dunjee said, indicating the .25-caliber pistol.

“You mean if I were on me own?”

Dunjee nodded.

“I'd take it. Might fetch a few quid.”

Dunjee shoved the pistol into a hip pocket, repacked the contents of the steel box carelessly, and handed it to Hopkins, who took it back into the bedroom. He came out just as the polite knocking at the door began.

They looked at each other. “I'm not looking to go back inside, friend,” Hopkins said and held out his hand. Dunjee took the pistol from his hip pocket and handed it to him.

Hopkins moved to the door, the pistol in his right hand and behind his back. He used his left hand to open the door.

“Well?” Hopkins said.

Dunjee thought that the voice in the hall seemed to be all adenoids. “He told me to bring it up.”

“Who told you?” Hopkins said.

“The wog at the desk.”

“Bring what up?”

“The tickets. You Mr.—wait a sec—Abedsaid? You don't look like no Mr. Abedsaid.”

“What kind of tickets?” Hopkins said.

“Airline tickets. These.”

“I'll give 'em to him,” Hopkins said.

“You gotta sign.”

“Me guvnor does all the signing,” Hopkins said and opened the door wide enough to let in a skinny fifteen-year-old with a face full of angry pimples and know-it-all brown eyes. The eyes swept the room and settled on Dunjee. “You the signer?”

Dunjee nodded.

The messenger handed him a thick blue envelope, produced a receipt book, found the right page, and offered it to Dunjee along with a ball-point pen. Dunjee read the receipt carefully and then signed “Arsène Lupin” on the indicated line and handed it back. The youth read the name, moving his lips. He stared at Dunjee. “That French?”

Dunjee smiled.

The messenger turned to Hopkins. “What's the matter, don't he speak English?”

Hopkins jerked his head toward the door. “Out.”

“What about me generous gratuity?” the messenger said. “That's how I take care of me old mum. We'd starve, we would, sir, mum and me, if it wasn't for generous gratuities.”

Hopkins dug down into his pocket, found fifty pence, and slapped it into the youth's outstretched palm. “Out.”

“Leggo my arm,” the youth said as Hopkins steered him through the door and slammed it shut. He moved back to the desk, took the pistol from his pocket, and offered it to Dunjee.

Dunjee again put the pistol away in a hip pocket, picked up the thick blue envelope, ripped it open, and examined the enclosed ticket.

“Where to?” Hopkins asked.

“Rome,” Dunjee said. “First class.”

14

They had slipped the Belgravia Locks Ltd. coveralls off in the Volvo Dunjee had rented and stored them in the car's trunk. Back up in his room at the Hilton, Dunjee dialed a number while Hopkins counted the Krugerrands.

“What's gold bringing?” Hopkins asked.

“Eight-oh-two, the last I noticed,” Dunjee said and listened to the phone ring. It was answered just before the third ring by Delft Csider with her usual noncommittal “Yes.”

“You were great,” Dunjee said.

“I got tired of waiting in that phone booth.”

“Sorry,” he said. “How are you at wheedling?”

“Try me.”

“There's an Alitalia flight to Rome tomorrow morning at eight forty-five, flight 317. I want seat three-B for myself in first class. And I want the two seats just across the aisle from me for my secretary, D. Csider, and my associate, H. Hopkins. Hold on.” He looked at Hopkins. “You got a passport?”

“Rome?” Hopkins said.

“Rome.”

Hopkins thought about it. “I got a passport,” he said.

“He's got one. Second, I need something else from that instant printer of yours who did the locksmith thing.”

“What?”

“A couple of dozen letterheads. Make them read ‘Anadarko Explorations, Inc.' Think up some address and phone number for Tulsa. I want letters typed on each one—some long, some short. My name below as president.”

“Anyone going to be reading the letters?”

“Maybe just the salutations. They should include a lot of names and addresses in Kuwait, Oman, and maybe Nigeria.”

“Anything else?”

“Is Grimes around?”

“He'll be back at four.”

“Tell him I'll either see him or talk to him then.”

“I'll tell him. Where do you want to stay in Rome?”

“Some place expensive.”

“The Hassler do?”

“Perfect.”

“I'll try,” she said. “What else?”

“Let's have dinner.”

“Seven?”

“Fine. I'll either see you or call you by five.”

After they said goodbye, Dunjee hung up the phone and turned to Hopkins. “Five thousand for Rome plus expenses.”

“Rome, is it?”

“Rome.”

“Might see the Colosseum.”

“Don't bank on it.”

“Be too busy, will we?”

“I don't know.”

Hopkins stacked the twenty Krugerrands into one pile. “At 802 an ounce that's 16,040 dollars. There was another nine hundred quid in that envelope you found. You want a slice?”

“No.”

“You're making me rich, Mr. Dunjee, sir.”

“I know.”

Hopkins used his forefinger to knock the pile of gold coins over. “When will we be getting to the nasty part?”

“Maybe in Rome. Maybe not. I don't know.”

“Never been to Rome.”

“You'll like it.”

Hopkins nodded. “I'll go. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I'm greedy, I am.”

“Everybody is,” Dunjee said, took out his address book, and turned to the page where he had written the name “Frank” and a telephone number. He stared at the number for several moments, then shrugged, picked up the phone, and dialed.

When a man's voice said hello, Dunjee said, “Frank?”

“Frank, is it?” the man said.

“That's right.”

“The Kraut, you mean?”

“Frank won't like that.”

“What?”

“You calling him a Kraut.”

“You're a Yank, aren't you?”

“Right.”

“I never knew a Yank yet who minded being called Yank, so why should a Kraut mind being called Kraut?”

“Well, you know Frank.”

“I know he owes me fifty quid in rent and I've got his stuff locked away in the bin down in the cellar and if that's what you're calling about, I'm thinking you'd better be bringing it along.”

“Fifty? Frank didn't say it'd be that much.”

“Fifty it is. I keep records. All down in black and white.”

“Well, Frank wants his stuff, so I'll come up with it somehow. You take a check?”

“No checks.”

Dunjee sighed. “I guess you'd better give me that address again. Frank wrote it down on the back of a napkin and you know how Germans write—all spikes and squiggles.”

The man on the telephone recited an address and Dunjee wrote it down. “I'll be there in half an hour.”

“With the fifty quid.”

“With the fifty quid.”

After he hung up, Dunjee showed the address to Hopkins. “Bayswater,” Hopkins said. “Not far—maybe five minutes. Who's Frank?”

“I haven't the slightest idea. He seems to be German and his name was written on the back of one of those girlie pictures.”

“So what's the fifty quid going to buy?”

Dunjee shrugged. “Let's go find out.”

The old house was on a dead-end street called Caroline Place. The landlord was a fifty-six-year-old man whose bulging brown eyes gave him a perpetually startled look, which may have been caused by a bad thyroid, or by the awful surprise that life had handed him. His name, he said without being asked, was Mr. Thumbolt and wasn't it too bad how the niggers were ruining the country. “I keep ‘em out of here though,” he said, adding sadly, “Most of the time.”