Here Comes Charlie M

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘But I want you every third night to be at these hotels …’

Patiently he recited from an A.A. guide book the first listing and then the hotel once removed in case the initial choice was full in towns selected from a carefully calculated, sixty-mile radius of London. It took a long time because Charlie insisted she read them back to him, to ensure there was no mistake.

‘Start from Oxford,’ he concluded, ‘the day after tomorrow and go in order of the towns as I’ve given them to you.’

‘And just wait until you contact me at any one of the hotels, always on the third day?’ she anticipated.

‘That’s right.’

‘Sounds very simple,’ she said and he started to smile, hoping at last for a change in her attitude.

‘There’s just one thing, Charlie,’ she added.

‘Yes?’

‘What happens after a month, when I’ve gone around and around and you haven’t contacted me … haven’t contacted me because you’re lying dead in some ditch somewhere?’

Her voice switchbacked and she struggled to a halt.

‘I don’t expect to be lying dead somewhere,’ he said.

‘But what if you are?’ she insisted. ‘I’ve got to know, for Christ’s sake!’

Very soon she would be crying, he knew. He hoped she was in one of the end boxes at the Zurich exchange where there would be some concealment from the high wall.

‘Then it will be Rupert who calls you,’ he admitted, reluctantly.

For several minutes there was complete silence.

‘It would mean we’d never see each other again, Charlie.’

She was fighting against the emotion, he realised, carefully choosing the words before she spoke.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she went on, straining to keep her voice even. ‘That never really registered with me, the day you left to go to London. But that could be it; the last time. And you didn’t kiss me, when you left.’

‘I said I don’t expect to be lying dead somewhere,’ he repeated, desperately.

‘What would I do, Charlie?’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve always had you.’

Now it was his voice that was flat, without expression. It wouldn’t be the answer she wanted, he knew.

‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said. ‘Not to them, I mean. So they wouldn’t try to hurt you.’

‘So I could come safely back here, to an apartment where you’d never be again and to a bed in which you’d never sleep or touch me and …’

Grief washed over the bitterness.

‘… and live happily ever after,’ she finished badly, through the sobs.

‘Please, Edith,’ he said.

He waited, wincing at her attempts to recover.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, finally. ‘I can’t help blaming you and I know all the time that it’s not your fault … not in the beginning, anyway.’

‘We can still win,’ he insisted.

‘You really believe that, don’t you?’ she challenged. ‘You can’t lose that bloody conceit, no matter what happens to you.’

If I did, thought Charlie, then I’d be slumped weeping in a telephone box.

‘I mean it,’ he tried again, avoiding another confrontation.

‘I’ll be at Oxford,’ she sighed, resigned to the plan.

‘I love you, Edith,’ he said again.

‘Charlie.’

‘What?’

‘If … if you’re right … if you manage it … promise me something.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll tell me that more often.’

‘Every day,’ he said, too eagerly.

‘Not every day,’ she qualified. ‘Just more than you have in the past.’

The telephone operator looked up at him, eyebrows raised, when Charlie left the box. It had been very hot in the tiny cubicle, he realised. His shirt was wet against his back.

‘Thirty-five minutes,’ said the man. ‘It would have been far more comfortable in your room.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Charlie.

Edith wouldn’t have left the booth in Zurich yet, he knew. She’d be crying.

The pipe stem snapped, a sudden cracking sound in the silent room.

‘Sure?’ asked Cuthbertson.

‘Positive,’ said Wilberforce.

‘Why would the Americans impose their own surveillance?’

‘Because they don’t trust ours. Probably don’t trust us, either. No reason why they should.’

‘They won’t kill him?’ demanded Cuthbertson, worriedly.

‘No,’ Wilberforce assured him. ‘Not until they’ve found out why he’s doing these things.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Nothing,’ said the British Director. ‘It might be a useful safeguard.’

The man was bewildered by Charlie Muffin’s attitude, Cuthbertson knew. Served him right; always had been too conceited by half. He coughed, clearing the permanently congested throat.

‘Not going quite as we expected,’ suggested Cuthbertson.

‘No,’ admitted Wilberforce.

Upon whom, wondered Cuthbertson, would the man try to put the responsibility this time?

NINETEEN

The lunch with Willoughby was as open as that of the previous day, but kept to a much tighter schedule. For that reason they ate at the Ritz, because the bank Charlie had carefully chosen was a private one less than five hundred yards away in Mayfair and he wanted to begin on foot.

They left at three o’clock. Charlie paused outside, handing Willoughby the document case while he struggled into a Burberry, turning the collar up under the dark brown trilby hat.

‘You look rather odd,’ said Willoughby.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s hope others think so too.’

‘I’d hate to think we’re wasting our time,’ said the underwriter.

‘We’re not,’ Charlie assured him. ‘Believe me, we’re not.’

I hope, he thought.

He led the way through the traffic stop-starting along Piccadilly and up Stratton Street.

An assistant manager was waiting for the appointment that Charlie had made by telephone, one of several calls he had made after speaking to Edith. The formalities were very brief, but Charlie lingered all alone in the safe deposit vault, keeping strictly to the timing that had been rehearsed with the others in Willoughby’s office. Edith would have already decided her route and timetable, thought Charlie, sighing. Maybe even packed. She always liked doing things well in advance.

He and Willoughby left the bank at three-fifty, turning up Curzon Street towards Park Lane.

‘We’re running to the minute,’ said Charlie.

‘Are you sure we’re being followed?’ asked Willoughby.

‘Stake my life on it,’ said Charlie, smiling at the unintended irony. ‘In fact, I am,’ he added.

‘I feel rather ridiculous,’ said Willoughby.

‘You’re supposed to feel scared,’ said Charlie.

Four o’clock was striking as they emerged in front of the park. For several seconds they remained on the pavement, looking either way, as if seeking a taxi.

‘Here we go,’ said Charlie, seeing a break in the traffic stream and hurrying across towards the underground