VII
Mr. Scarr's Story
Mendel looked at him and wondered whether he was dead. He emptied the pockets of his own overcoat and laid it gently over Smiley's shoulders, then he ran, ran like a madman towards the hospital, crashed through the swing-doors of the out-patients' department into the bright, twenty-four hour interior of the hospital. A young coloured doctor was on duty. Mendel showed him his card, shouted something to him, took him by the arm, tried to lead him down the road. The doctor smiled patiently, shook his head and telephoned for an ambulance.
Mendel ran back down the road and waited. A few minutes later the ambulance arrived and skilful men gathered Smiley up and took him away.
'Bury him,' thought Mendel; 'I'll make the bastard pay.'
He stood there for a moment, staring down at the wet patch of mud and cinders where Smiley had fallen; the red glow of the car's rear lights showed him nothing. The ground had been hopelessly churned by the feet of the ambulance men and a few inhabitants from the pre-fabs who had come and gone like shadowy vultures. Trouble was about. They didn't like trouble.
'Bastard,' Mendel hissed, and walked slowly back towards the pub.
The saloon bar was filling up. Scarr was ordering another drink. Mendel took him by the arm. Scarr turned and said:
'Hello, friend, back again. Have a little of what killed Auntie?'
'Shut up,' said Mendel; 'I want another word with you. Come outside.'
Mr. Scarr shook his head and sucked his teeth sympathetically.
'Can't be done, friend, can't be done. Company.' He indicated with his head an eighteen-year-old blonde with off-white lipstick and an improbable bosom, who sat quite motionless at a corner table. Her painted eyes had a permanently startled look.
'Listen,' whispered Mendel; 'in just two seconds I'll tear your bloody ears off, you lying sod?'
Scarr consigned his drinks to the care of the landlord and made a slow, dignified exit. He didn't look at the girl.
Mendel led him across the street towards the pre-fabs. The side lights of Smiley's car shone towards them eighty yards down the road.
They turned into the yard. The MG was still there. Mendel had Scarr firmly by the arm, ready if necessary to force the forearm back and upwards, breaking or dislocating the shoulder joint.
'Well, well,' cried Scarr with apparent delight;
'She's returned to the bosom of her ancestors?'
'Stolen, was it?' said Mendel. 'Stolen by a tall Scotsman with a walking stick and an address in Ealing. Decent of him to bring it back, wasn't it. Friendly gesture, after all this time. You've mistaken your bloody market, Scarr' Mendel was shaking with anger. 'And why are the side lights on? Open the door.'
Scarr turned to Mendel in the dark, his free hand slapping his pockets in search of keys. He extracted a bunch of three or four, felt through them and finally unlocked the car door. Mendel got in, found the passenger light i~ the roof and switched it on. He began methodically to search the inside of the car. Scarr stood outside and waited.
He searched quickly but thoroughly. Glove tray, seats, floor, rear window-ledge: nothing. He slipped his hand inside the map pocket on the passenger door, and drew out a map and an envelope. The envelope was long and flat, greyblue in colour with a linen finish. Continental, thought Mendel. There was no writing on it. He tore it open. There were ten used five-pound notes inside and a piece of plain postcard. Mendel held it to the light and read the message printed on it with a ball-point pen:
'FINISHED NOW SELL IT:'
There was no signature.
He got out of the car, and seized Scarr by the elbows. Scarr stepped back quickly. 'What's your problem, friend?' he asked.
Mendel, spoke softly. 'It's not my problem, Scarr, It's yours. The biggest bloody problem you ever had. Conspiracy to murder, attempted murder, offences under the Official Secrets Act. And you can add to that contravention of the Road Traffic Act, conspiracy to defraud the Inland Revenue and about fifteen other charges that will occur to me while you nurse your problem on a cell bed.'
'Just a minute, copper, let's not go over the moon. What's the story? Who the hell's talking about murder?'
'Listen, Scarr, you're a little man, come in on the fringe of the big spenders, aren't you. Well now you're the big spender. I reckon it'll cost you fifteen years:'
'Look, shut up, will you:'
'No I won't, little man. You're caught between two big ones, see, and you're the mug. And what will I do? I'll bloody well laugh myself sick while you rot in the Scrubs and contemplate your fat belly. See that hospital, do you? There's a bloke dying there, murdered by your tall Scotsman. They found him half an hour ago bleeding like a pig in your yard. There's another one dead in Surrey, and for all I know there's one in every bloody home county. So it's your problem, you poor sod, not mine. Another thing — you're the only one who knows who he is, aren't you? He might want to tidy that up a bit, mightn't he?'
Scarr walked slowly round to the other side of the car. 'Get in, copper,' he said.
Mendel sat in the driving seat and unlocked the passenger door from the inside. Scarr sat himself beside him. They didn't put the light on.
'I'm in a nice way of business round here,' said Scarr quietly, 'and the pickings is small but regular. Or was till this bloke come along:'
'What bloke?'
'Bit by bit, copper, don't rush me. That was four years ago. I didn't believe in Father Christmas till I met him. Dutch, he said he was, in the diamond business. I'm not pretending I thought he was straight, see, because you're not barmy and nor am I. I never asked what he done and he never told me, but I guessed it was smuggling. Money to burn he had, came off him like leaves in autumn. 'Scarr' he said; 'you're a man of business. I don't like publicity, never did and I hears we're birds of a feather. I want a car. Not to keep, but to borrow. He didn't put it quite like that because of the lingo, but that's the sense of it. 'What's your proposition?' I says. 'Let's have a proposition?'
' 'Well; he says; 'I'm shy. I want a car that no one can ever get on to, supposing I had an accident. Buy a car for me, Scarr, a nice old car with something under the bonnet. Buy it in your own name; he says, 'and keep it wrapped up for me. There's five hundred quid for a start, and twenty quid a month for garaging. And there's a bonus, Scarr, for every day I take it out. But I'm shy, see, and you don't know me. That's what the money's for; he says. 'It's for not knowing me?
'I'll never forget that day. Raining cats and dogs it was, and me bent over an old taxi I'd got off a bloke in Wandsworth. lowed a bookie forty quid, and the coppers were sensitive about a car I'd bought on the never never and flogged in Clapham.'
Mr. Scarr drew breath, and let it out again with an air of comic resignation.
'And there he was, standing over me like my own conscience, showering old singles on me like used tote tickets?'
'What did he look like?' asked Mendel.
'Quite young he was. Tall, fair chap. But cool — cool as charity. I never saw him after that day. He sent me letters posted in London and typed on plain paper. Just 'Be ready Monday night; 'Be ready Thursday night; and so on. We had it all arranged. I left the car out in the yard, full of petrol and teed up. He never said when he'd be back. Just ran it in about closing time or later, leaving the lights on and the doors locked. He'd put a couple of quid in the map pocket for each day he'd been away?'
'What happened if anything went wrong, if you got pinched for something else?'
'We had a telephone number. He told me to ring and ask for a name?'
'What name?'
'He told me to choose one. I chose Blondie. He didn't think that was very funny but we stuck to it. Primrose 0098.'
'Did you ever use it?'
