A Royal Summons
Aunt Mirabelle had imprinted in Joe's heart a faith in a benevolent deity that it would have taken surgery to remove, but when it came to everyday practicalities, he paid as much attention to Sod's as God's Law.
All that stuff about the lilies of the field and taking no thought for the morrow was fine, but any fool knew that a man driving around with a flat in his boot was bound to have another blow-out pretty damn quick, so on his way back to town he pulled into Ram Ray's garage on the ring road. Ram wasn't around, and he had to deal with the head mechanic, Scrapyard Eddie, who'd got his nickname because it was said that if you fell out with him, that was where your vehicle was likely to end up. Joe had recently been foolish enough to second-guess Eddie on a fuel pump fault in the old Morris, and now the mechanic seemed disinclined to admit the possibility of fixing the spare before the weekend.
Fortunately Ram's highly efficient and very desirable secretary, Eloise, who had a soft spot for Joe, came out to say hello. When she heard his problem she said, 'Do it, Eddie,' in a tone that reduced the mechanic to fawning co-operation, and invited Joe into the office for a cool cola.
'Don't you just love this weather, Joe?' she asked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, a maneuver that made Joe glad he already had an excuse for sweating.
'Yeah, it's got its attractions,' he said. High among which was Eloise's abandonment of outerwear just this side of decency, or a long way that side if you were Aunt Mirabelle.
'So how's business?' she asked.
'So so. And how's George? Saw him demolish Ernie Jagger last month. He's on a real winning streak!'
George was Eloise's boyfriend. A rising star in the boxing world, he stood two meters high, about the same across the shoulders, with fists like bunches of petrified bananas. Known in the sporting columns as Jurassic, the image of George was a good thing to keep in mind when talking to Eloise.
'Not with me, he ain't,' said Eloise. 'All that training, he takes it so seriously. Me, I like a sporting guy, but not when it turns him into a monk. No, George is out. Got myself a new sport, only Chip don't let it interfere with his time off.'
'Chip?' said Joe. 'So what's his game?'
'Golf, among other things,' laughed Eloise. 'He's assistant pro out at the Royal Hoo.'
Joe wasn't particularly surprised. Coincidences that would have had others running to the parapsycholo- gists he took in his stride. Butcher had once said to him, 'Sixsmith, you're in a job you've got no particular talent for, and you go at it in a half-assed way, but you've got a strike rate Willie Woodbine would die for. Serendipity, that's what it's called. That's what you've got, Joe.'
'Can I get treatment on the NHS?' he'd asked.
'Don't joke about it!' she'd retorted sternly. 'It's probably the only thing keeping you alive!'
Joe had thought about it later, then he'd sent it to the Recycle Bin to join all the other stuff that looked likely to stretch the period between his head hitting the pillow and sleep hitting his head by more than five seconds.
'Chip Harvey,' he said. 'I've just been talking to him. Nice lad.'
'You've been to the Royal Hoo?' said Eloise. She was too nice to make cracks about getting a job in the kitchen or sweeping up leaves from the course, but Joe's musical ear detected the harmonics of surprise in her tone.
It occurred to him he'd have done better to keep his mouth shut. But no point crying over spilt milk, said Mirabelle.
Anyway, as Whitey added, may be spilt milk to you, but it's manna from heaven to me.
'Yeah. I'm on a case. Working for a member called Porphyry. Look, he's told people he was showing me around with a view to applying for membership, so that's what Chip thinks. When you talk to him, make sure he keeps it to himself, OK?'
A lesser man might have tried to swear Eloise to secrecy, but Joe had had it drummed into him as a child, never ask for what you know you can't get!
The young woman didn't seem to have heard his plea.
'Christian Porphyry? You're working for Christian Porphyry?'
Here we go, thought Joe, recalling Beryl's reaction to the Young Fair God.
'That's right.'
'I met him couple of days back,' she said, dreamy eyed. 'First time I went out with Chip. He took me back to his flat out at the Hoo. He was showing me round, shouldn't have been, really, but it was a dead quiet time, then we bumped into Mr. Porphyry. He was just so nice! Anyone else and Chip might have been in bother. He says some of the members there act around him like he was invisible, like a footman in one of those big old houses you see on the telly. But not Mr. Porphyry. What are you doing for him, Joe?'
'Sorry, can't tell you that, El,' said Joe. 'Mr. Porphyry wants it kept confidential. You'll make sure Chip understands that, won't you?'
This got through.
'Sure, Joe. Chip thinks he's great. If that's what Mr. Porphyry wants, you can rely on Chip.'
Whereas if it's just what I want…
Joe pushed the unhelpful thought away and looked for upsides.
Some of them act around him like he was invisible…
He said, 'Yeah, Mr. Porphyry's having a spot of trouble at the club. Chip knows all about it and, from what he said, he's very much on Mr. Porphyry's side. In fact, it might help Mr. Porphyry a lot if I could have a quiet word with Chip away from the club…'
Eloise knew a hint when she heard one.
'I'm meeting him down the Hole tonight, half seven, if you want to catch him before we go clubbing.' 'Might just do that,' said Joe. 'Sorry.' His mobile was ringing. He didn't recognize the number in the display nor the voice that said, 'May I speak to Mr. Sixsmith?' in response to his noncommittal, 'Yo?' The voice was a woman's, young, confident, educated but not posh, and above all friendly rather than menacing. 'That's me,' he admitted. 'Oh good. Tried your office number but just got your answer service. My name's Mimi, Mr. Sixsmith. I'm Mr. Ratcliffe King's PA. He would like to see you with a view to employing the services of your agency. Would it be possible to make an appointment?' Sam Spade might have growled, 'Why not? I'll be in my office about four if he wants to drop round.' But Joe was a pragmatist. He said, 'Sure. What time would be convenient for Mr. King to see me?' 'Three o'clock this afternoon?' He liked the question mark. It could have come out as a statement or even a command. He said, 'That's fine.' 'You know where we are?' Mimi asked. Which, considering how ProtoVision House dominated the north end of the High Street, was like asking if he knew where the Queen lived in London. 'I can always ask a policeman if I get lost,' he replied, risking a joke. Mimi laughed a bubbly genuine kind of laugh. 'See you at three then,' she said. 'Bye.' 'Bye,' said Joe. He looked at Eloise, who was busy scrolling incomprehensible spreadsheets down her computer screen.
He said, 'You know someone called Mimi, PA to Ratcliffe King?'
'Maggie Hardacre? Yeah, we went to school together. That her you were talking to?'
'Yeah. Her boss wants to hire me.'
'King Rat? Get yourself a watertight contract then, Joe, and a couple of good witnesses to his signature.'
'Why do you say that?'
'I've seen the kind of discount he gets from Ram.'
Her boss, Ram Ray, was rated one of Luton's sharpest in a commercial deal.
'So this Mimi…'
'Maggie's OK,' said Eloise. 'Went off to secretarial college in London, turned herself into Mimi and a top-flight PA, but she hasn't lost herself, know what I mean? Never wanted to come back here, but King made her an offer she couldn't refuse, so they say, and every time she gets restless, he makes her a better one. That's one thing about King Rat; he's a bastard, but if he really wants you, he doesn't count the pennies.'
'I'll remember that,' said Joe.
The door opened and the head mechanic said, 'Tire's done and back on your car, Mr. Sixsmith.'
'Thanks,' said Joe.
