home, anyway, for people who spoke English and could read it. Simpson’s was on the right, just past the Savoy Hotel. I wondered if they played “Stompin‘ at the Savoy” over the music in the elevators. Probably the wrong Savoy.
I turned into Simpson’s, which was oak paneled and high ceilinged, and spoke to the maitre d’. The maitre d‘ assigned a subordinate to take me to Flanders, who rose as I approached. So did the man with him. Very classy. “Mr. Spenser, Inspector Downes, of the police. I asked him to join us, if that’s all right with you.” I wondered what happened if it weren’t all right. Did Downes back away out of the restaurant, bowing apologetically?
“Fine with me,” I said. We shook hands. The waiter pulled out my chair. We sat down.
“A drink?” Flanders said.
“Draught beer,” I said.
“Whiskey,” Downes said. Flanders ordered Kir.
“Inspector Downes worked on the Dixon case,” Flanders said, “and is a specialist in this kind of urban guerrilla crime that we see so much of these days.”
Downes smiled modestly. “I’m not sure expert is appropriate, but I’ve dealt with a good many, you know.”
The waiter returned with the drinks. The beer was cold, at least, but much flatter than American beer. I drank some. Flanders sipped at his Kir. Downes had his whiskey straight without ice or water, in a small tumbler, and sipped it like a cordial. He was fair-skinned with a big round face and shiny pink cheekbones. His body under the black civil-servicey-looking suit was heavy and sort of slack. Not fat, just quite relaxed. There was a sense of slow power about him.
“Oh, before I forget,” Flanders said. He took an envelope from inside his coat and handed it to me. On the outside in red pen was written, “Spenser, 1400.”
“The exchange rate is very good these days,” Flanders said. “Your gain and our loss, isn’t it.” I nodded and stuck the envelope in my jacket pocket. “Thank you,” I said. “What have you got to tell me?”
“Let’s order first,” Flanders said. He had salmon, Downes had roast beef and I ordered mutton. Always try the native cuisine. The waiter looked like Barry Fitzgerald. He seemed delighted with our choices. “Faith and begorra,” I murmured. Flanders said, “I beg your pardon?” I shook my head. “Just an old American saying. What have you got?” Downes said, “Really not much, I’m afraid. A group called Liberty has claimed responsibility for the Dixon murders and we have no reason to doubt them.”
“What are they like?”
“Young people, apparently very conservative, recruited from all over western Europe. Headquarters might be in Amsterdam.”
“How many?”
“Oh, ten, twelve. The figure changes every day. Some join, others leave. It doesn’t seem a very well organized affair. More like a random group of juveniles larking about. ”
“Goals?”
“Excuse me?”
“What are the goals of their organization? Do they wish to save the great whales? Free Ireland? Smash apartheid? Restore Palestine? Discourage abortion?”
“I think they are anticommunist.”
“That doesn’t explain blowing Dixon up. Dixon industries aren’t practicing state socialism, are they?” Downes smiled and shook his head. “Hardly. The bombing was random violence. Urban guerrilla tactics. Disruption, terror, that sort of thing. It unravels the fabric of government, creates confusion, and allows the establishment of a new power structure. Or some such.”
“How are they progressing?”
“The government seems to be holding its own.”
“They do much of this sort of thing?”
“Hard to say,” Downes sipped at his Scotch some more and rolled it around over his tongue. “Damned fine. It’s hard to say because we get so bloody much of this sort of thing from so many corners. Gets difficult to know who is blowing up whom and why.” Flanders said, “But, as I understand it, Phil, this is not a major group. It doesn’t threaten the stability of the country.” Downes shook his head, “No, surely not. Western civilization is in no immediate danger. But they do hurt people.”
“We all have reason to know that,” Flanders said. “Does any of this help?”
“Not so far,” I said. “If anything it hurts. As Downes knows, the more amateurish and unorganized and sappy a group like this is, the harder it is to get a handle on them. The big well organized ones I’ll bet you people have infiltrated already.” Downes shrugged and sipped at his Scotch. “You’re certainly right about the first part anyway, Spenser. The random childishness of it makes them much more difficult to deal with. The same random childishness limits their effectiveness in terms of revolution or whatever in hell they want. But it makes them damned hard to catch.”
“Have you anything?”
“If you were from the papers,” Downes said, “I’d reply that we were developing several promising possibilities. Since you’re not from the papers I can be more brief. No. We haven’t anything.”
“No names? No faces?”
“Only the sketches we took from Mr. Dixon. We’ve circulated them. No one has surfaced.”
“Informants?”
“No one knows anything about it.”
“How hard have you been looking?”
