'You think I should go, Butcher?' he said through the open door.
'Didn't you tell King you'd take the job?'
'I suppose. But if it's just a trick to get shot of me…'
'You got any evidence of that, Sixsmith?' 'No. Was hoping you'd come up with something,' he said sadly. 'You were? I'm touched. But I haven't. And as your legal adviser I have to say that a verbal contract in the presence of a witness is binding. And in Ratcliffe King's case, the binding's done with piano wire. So my advice is, go. Don't pay me now, I'll send you a bill.' She began to walk away. 'I bet you will, too. Thanks a bunch,' yelled Joe after her. He started up the Morris. He had a lot to think about, but as he left the car park he didn't forget to check in the mirror to see if there was any sign of the Cruiser and its twitchy owner. There wasn't. One less thing to worry about, thought Joe. But it still left plenty.
14
What's Become of Waring?
Back in his flat he shouted hello to Whitey but got no response. It didn't surprise him. During this hot weather the cat spent most of the day sleeping, only rousing himself during the cool of the evening to sally forth and check on his empire. As the flat was on the seventh floor, sentimental visitors sometimes opined it was a long way for a little cat to have to make his way down all those stairs and back up again. Long and dangerous, some of them said.
But if the visitors visited often enough, almost certainly a day would come when, as they got into the lift downstairs, they would find themselves joined by Whitey, who would then ride up to the seventh with them.
'But we never see him going down with us,' a visitor might occasionally say.
'Going down he don't use the lift,' Joe would reply.
He took it in his stride now, but the first time he'd seen Whitey squeeze through the railings of the tiny balcony and vanish from sight, he'd almost died of shock. He'd rushed to the rail and peered over, expecting to see a splatter of fur and flesh on the pavement below. Instead he'd glimpsed a little white rump moving rapidly down the wall from balcony to balcony till it reached the ground. At a pinch, Whitey could make it back up by the same route, but when it came to energy conservation, he was way ahead of the Greens.
Joe checked the time. Eight-forty, still early enough to wander round to Beryl's flat and suggest they share a cooling takeaway. Early enough, that is, if you weren't being picked up to go to the airport at five o'clock tomorrow morning.
What should he do? Ring Porphyry and tell him he'd done all he could for him and would be refunding his money? Or ring Mimi and tell her to tell her boss something had come up and he wouldn't be able to take the job after all.
But that would make him sound really unreliable and he guessed King Rat's dissatisfaction could blacklist parts of the Sixsmith Agency other complainants couldn't reach.
In any case, hadn't the fact that this Spanish job was only for three days made even Butcher dilute her doubt of King Rat's motives?
So he'd go. It gave him the excuse he needed to ring Beryl.
She said, 'Hi, Joe. Thought you might have rung earlier to suggest going out tonight to make up for last night.'
As if it had been him who stood her up!
He said, 'Sorry. I was busy on a job.'
'Yeah. Down at the Hole in the Wall, was that?'
Shoot! How the heck did she know that? he asked himself. And guessed the answer almost simultaneously. Aunt Mirabelle. Who had an intelligence system in the Luton area that made the CIA look like amateurs. Correction! The South Beds Bird-watching Society made the CIA look like amateurs. Mirabelle's totalitarian network was KGB or MOSSAD in its scope. One of her minions probably worked at the Hole, and news of Joe's appearance among the ravers would have shot along the line like a sighting of Bin Laden at a bar mitzvah.
And once Mirabelle heard, she'd have been straight on to Beryl to find out if she could throw any light on this latest aberration.
'That's right,' he said. 'Working Chris Porphyry's case.'
He guessed right that this would be a diversion.
'The hunk in the Aston? You actually went to the Royal Hoo and got the job?'
'I surely did,' he said. 'No need to sound so surprised either. Look, what I'm ringing for is, I have to be away for a couple of days, wondered if you and Desmond could keep an eye on Whitey for me. Usual: top up the water and food, don't let the tray get too disgusting.'
Desmond was Beryl's young son, who loved the cat.
'Couple of days?'
'Till the weekend maybe.'
'That's four days.'
'Hey, three, four, no need to get hung up on counting.'
'When I'm doling out your pills in the geriatric ward, you'll want me to get hung up on counting, believe me.'
'I surely will as you'll likely be in the next bed,' said Joe ungallantly.
'I certainly won't be in the same bed.' This wasn't going too well. He said, 'Will you do it? Please.' 'Course I will. You don't think I'd let a dumb animal suffer. And I worry about Whitey, too.' This was better. 'Well, thanks. You've got a key, right?' 'Yeah, if I can recall where I put it. When are you leaving?' 'Five tomorrow morning.' 'Jeez, Joe. What's Mr. Porphyry offering you to get you up so early?' 'This ain't that job. This one, I'm working for Mr. Ratcliffe King.' There was a moment's shocked silence then she said, 'Oh Joe, Joe, all these high-up people, don't be getting out of your depth.' 'Hard with high-up people,' he joked. 'Then don't be getting above yourself. Gotta go now. Bye, Joe.' 'Bye,' he said reluctantly. As he ended the call, the phone rang again. 'Sixsmith,' he said. 'Joe, it's Chris. You said you'd let me know how you were getting on.' There was no reproach in the voice, just hope. No, worse than hope. Confidence. 'Making progress, Chris,' said Joe. 'Yes?' He cast around for something reassuring to say and all that came to mind was Butcher's obscurely jokey, What's become of Waring? He said, 'That lad, Waring, the assistant green- keeper, still no word of him?' 'No. Why do you ask?'
'Just think there might be a connection,' lied Joe. 'You being so concerned about him and all.'
It sounded so feeble that he anticipated the long silence that followed must signal the inevitable onset of doubt about his competence.
Instead…
'Oh, Joe, Joe,' said Porphyry. 'What Willie said about you is true. You don't say much, but nothing gets past that razor-sharp mind of yours.'
'Eh?' said Joe, thinking there must be a crossed line or something.
'Yes, I take a special interest in Steve, but I don't see how it can be connected with this business. Thing is, Steve's local. Sally, his mother, used to work for my parents. Housemaid. I remember her well, pretty little thing… I recall telling her I wanted to marry her…'
He paused as if in reminiscence.
Joe thought, Oh shoot! He's not going to tell me Butcher was right, is he?
Then Porphyry laughed. It was good to hear him laugh. Young Fair Gods aren't made for sorrow.
'She said, 'Thank you kindly, Master Chris, but my George has got first refusal.' Then she took me to the kitchen and gave me a huge slice of cook's chocolate fudge cake. Best adhesive known for mending an eight-year- old's broken heart. She got married soon after, handed in her notice when she got pregnant with Steve.'
Joe heaved a silent sigh of relief and said, 'This George…'
'George Waring. Worked on the estate. Sort of general dogsbody. Could turn his hand to anything. Might have made something of himself if he hadn't been such a devil for the drink. Killed him in the end, poor blighter.'
'He died of alcoholic poisoning?'
