“Good,” I said, “don’t let me disturb you, just pretend I’m not here.”
“You don’t seem surprised,” O’Brien grated out angrily.
“Not at all.”
When someone hurries in with a writ for your release you don’t sit around discussing your good fortune with the cops, you just accept it graciously and hope he’ll throw in a drink afterwards. Urquhart reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a wallet that looked as if it had cost more money than I’d ever had in one, and extracted an envelope. He put it on the table in front of O’Brien who prodded it and blinked.
“What’s this for?” he said.
Urquhart smiled. “I understand this is how you like to do business, Mr O’Brien. My principal has no objection and I think Mr Hardy hasn’t noticed anything untoward.”
He inclined his head towards me and I smiled smoothly back. I pointed at the envelope lying alongside the legal document.
“Bit of betting money for you there Paddy,” I said, “Collins can help you pick yesterday’s winners.”
“That will do Hardy,” Urquhart snapped. “I’m sure the sergeant knows his business.”
O’Brien looked again at the envelope and let out a breath slowly. He glanced up at Collins who had an idiot smile on his face.
“Very well, Mr Urquhart,” O’Brien muttered, “all in order I think.”
“I should think so,” said Urquhart quietly, “I’ll see you outside Mr Hardy. I assume you have possessions to collect?”
“Just the gold watch and lighter and the mad money. Lead the way Sergeant.”
Collins opened the door and the lawyer walked out purposefully — he was the kind who memorised routes in and out and never got lost no matter how many times you turned him around. When he was gone O’Brien gave me a hard look.
“Don’t put a foot wrong Hardy or you’ll be back faster than you can fuck.”
I shook my head disapprovingly and drew my finger across my throat.
“Cover your tracks, mate,” I said, “heads are gonna roll.” I walked out with Collins close behind me.
“What are you talking about?” he said anxiously.
“Don’t worry Colly, you have a solid asset.”
We got to the admission desk and I was given my things back in exchange for a signature in a ledger. I stuffed them into my pockets and headed for the door.
Collins padded after me. “What d’you mean solid asset?” he asked.
I tapped my forefinger against my temple and kept moving.
Urquhart was standing on the pavement propping up a gun-metal Celica that looked fresh from the showroom. When he saw me he went around to the driver’s side and got in. He beckoned at me with an imperious forefinger and I got in beside him. He turned a key which apparently started the engine, not that you’d know from the noise level. I pulled the seat belt out slowly to show him that I knew how they worked and settled myself down into the leather.
He didn’t smile, he didn’t say anything until we were out into the traffic — he was gold plated and platinum tipped. He avoided a truck and rounded a bus with two easy movements.
“I am Miss Gutteridge’s solicitor,” he said at last.
“Oh yeah, lucky you.”
“Don’t try to upset me, Mr Hardy, you won’t succeed. I’m not interested in you, and your tough guy act doesn’t impress me. People who have to be bailed out of police lock-ups in the sort of condition you are in are obviously stupid and no amount of repartee can redeem them.”
“Yeah. I have the same view of people who wear three hundred dollar suits and have to shave every day, so we’re even. How did Susan know I was in the can and why did she tell you to get me out?”
“Miss Gutteridge called me late last night and asked me to contact you to discuss a matter she wishes you to pursue. Your telephone didn’t answer, your answering service is hopelessly unsatisfactory, so I called at your address and made inquiries. I felt you couldn’t do whatever is required of you in jail.”
“Very true. Where’s Susan, in hospital?”
“I haven’t been instructed.”
“Of course not, you’re a messenger boy, not privy council.”
He winced and pulled in to the kerb. “Your jokes are as terrible as your appearance, I think I’ll ask you to get out.” I opened the door and eased my aching body out slowly. “Here will do,” I said. He reached over, closed the door and glided away into the traffic with the air of someone who had won the round. Maybe he had.
I hailed a taxi and got home in ten minutes. Nobody had broken in, nobody was waiting for me behind the door with a cosh. I called the hospital and was told that Mrs Sleeman was sleeping well and taking solid food. I left the message that I’d call that night if possible and the following morning if not. I didn’t ask about Susan Gutteridge, but the receptionist sounded just a touch excited when I gave my name. She told me that Miss Gutteridge had a message for me which I was to collect at the hospital. I gripped the handpiece so hard my knuckles cracked.
“Miss Gutteridge is a patient in the hospital?”
“Yes.” The receptionist sounded like a willing participant in a high drama.
“For stabilisation of diabetes, under Dr Pincus, right?”
“Yes, and…”
“And what?”
“For two broken legs and multiple broken ribs. She was run over just outside the hospital.”
“When?”
“At ten o’clock this morning.”
“How did she manage to write a message?”
“She insisted, she terrorised the emergency ward and wrote your message before she allowed the doctors to attend to her. She threatened them with lawsuits. She’s sedated now. The message must be very urgent, Mr Hardy.”
“Can’t you give it to me over the phone?”
“No, it’s in a sealed envelope. After what she said I daren’t open it. You’ll have to collect it yourself.”
I told her I’d be there within half an hour. I hoped she wasn’t going to be too disappointed when she saw me.
The hospital lobby was crowded with departing visitors when I arrived. Most of them looked in good health and glad to be on their way back to the land of the healthy. The receptionist didn’t disappoint me. She was dark and fresh looking in crisply starched linen which was fashionably cut. It made her look like someone playing a part in a TV hospital drama. Perhaps she expected me to play with a hat and unlit cigarettes. I didn’t, but she had the thrill of looking at my investigator’s licence before handing over the envelope. I walked back to my car and got in before ripping the paper open. The writing was shaky as you’d expect and this reinforced the feeling of fright which the short note conveyed: “Mr Hardy — I was deliberately run down. The car was a red Volkswagen. Please help me. One of my solicitors will contact you, name your own fee. Please help.”
There was a shaky, scrawled signature at the bottom. I rolled a cigarette and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel as an aid to thought. The Gutteridge Terroriser was still operating and his targets had been narrowed down by one. I wondered how much pressure from how many directions had been put on Bryn to make him crack the way he had, but I knew that the question would never be answered. Bryn had taken the brunt of the danger that lay in association with the files squarely on his chest and it had killed him indirectly. Now the two remaining targets were both asking for protection. Conflicts of interest would have to be sorted out and I intended to get onto that as soon as they were able to stand the strain of each other’s company. Right now the straightforward move was to round off some unfinished work by checking on Walter Chalmers.
I drove across to his place via the flats where Naumeta Pali lived. Her place in this was one of the most puzzling aspects of the whole affair. There was no red Volkswagen parked under the building so I kept going. Chalmers’ house was in what is called a garden suburb in England. It was a large brick bungalow, built soon after World War I by someone who had money to spend. There was a deep front porch with a low brick wall around it and two massive plaster cast water maidens on top of the porch pillars. The house had a high pitched roof with deep overhanging eaves and nicely carved woodwork around the windows and ventilation ducts. The block it sat on was larger than average for the area, getting on for half an acre and it was crowded with flowers, bushes and
