‘I think you’re getting me confused with the police,’ Hawn said. ‘There might be something in this for you. Who do I ask for if I ring?’
‘Bunnie.’
‘See you at the Playboy Club,’ Hawn said, and opened the door.
The blond man watched him into his Citroën DS. He had plenty of time to memorize the number; and in his mirror Hawn saw him return to his office and lift the telephone.
Chief Superintendent Muncaster phoned back just after lunch. Hawn, without mentioning his theories or the extent of his investigations, told him straight out about the three events of yesterday afternoon.
Muncaster was a sly, taciturn man who never used a syllable that was not necessary. ‘Three cars from a garage in Wandsworth? And the owner won’t talk?’
‘Only that he was paid over the odds and they didn’t identify themselves. What about the business at the LSE and the “break-in” last night at my flat?’
‘What’s your girl’s name?’ Hawn told him. ‘Did she describe the two men?’
‘Vaguely. Professionals.’
‘You say your flat was gone over, only because she has a nose for these things, and because two of your books were in the wrong order? That’s not evidence, Hawn. Nor are three Fords in London traffic. Still, I’ll look into it. Call you back.’
‘When?’
‘When I’m ready.’ He hung up.
Early that evening Norman French rang, calling from a pay phone. His voice was faint but betrayed that ingratiating self-confidence of one who does not expect to be refused. ‘Tom, I’ve booked a table for us both at the Trattoo. Tonight, eight o’clock. I think you’ll be interested.’
‘In what?’
‘I’d prefer to discuss it at dinner. Just the two of us.’
‘Eight o’clock, the Trattoo.’
Anna had still not returned; Hawn left her a note to say he’d be late and that she was not to keep dinner for him.
Just after eight he parked his car near the restaurant in Abingdon Road. French had not arrived. The table he had booked was in the far corner downstairs, under an umbrella of potted plants. It was the most secluded spot in the restaurant. French was a fastidious man, and a careful one.
By nine o’clock he had still not appeared. Hawn allowed himself a fourth drink. By 9.30 he rang the Eden House Hotel. It was some time before the landlady answered. Hawn gave his name, then — remembering just in time French’s alias — asked for Mr Hudson. The landlady informed him that Mr Hudson had already retired, and did not wish to be disturbed.
‘But I was supposed to meet him for dinner tonight — he invited me himself. For eight o’clock. I’d be very grateful if you went up and told him I’m still waiting.’
‘Mr Hudson has retired,’ she repeated.
‘Would you kindly go up and ask Mr Hudson to come to the phone?’
After a long pause she said. ‘Mr Hudson must be asleep.’ Then: ‘Are you one of the gentlemen who called earlier?’
‘What gentlemen?’
‘I’m afraid we do not discuss Mr Hudson’s personal affairs with strangers.’ She terminated the conversation.
Hawn had a plate of spaghetti, half a bottle of wine, then drove round to Sussex Gardens. He suspected that the woman was covering up for French, who had obviously had a more important visitor, and had no scruples about dumping Hawn without even the courtesy of a telephone call.
He arrived at the hotel shortly before ten. It was one of those gloomy terrace mansions which had been given a skimpy cosmetic of cream paint and its name in red neon script, to attract second-class tourists and foreign students. There was a permeating smell of damp earth, old cooking and the ancient grime of Paddington Station.
The landlady was unhelpful. She repeated that Mr Hudson did not wish to be disturbed. Hawn became aggressive. Ten o’clock was too early for a man to go to bed, unless he had female company. Certainly Mr Hudson had no female company! she retorted. In which case, Hawn required to see him immediately.
She tried the house phone, then put it down, shaking her head. Hawn said, ‘If you can’t take me up and open the door, I’ll call the police.’ She led him up.
The room was on the third floor. It was unlocked: a small room, cheaply partitioned, with a basin, TV, a side table with an electric kettle, sachets of sugar and instant coffee; also a Baby Belling cooker which had recently been used.
French was in bed. The bedclothes had been pulled down to his waist and his feet stuck out at the end. The pillow was soaked thick and wet, like a huge skinned liver sausage. His head, with its short furry-black hair, was propped up against the pillow. In his left hand was a half-smoked cigarette which had slightly singed the sheet. There was still a red pinch at the top of his nose, left by his tinted glasses which lay on the bedside table, next to his cigarettes. His eyes showed like dull fish slits.
In his throat was a long wide gap, drained and glistening pink, and Hawn could see the severed vocal chords sprouting up like rings of spaghetti. Having recently enjoyed a good first course, he vomited it into the wastepaper basket.
The landlady was screaming.
Then he went and washed his face in the basin and looked round to see if French had had any drink. A half bottle of gin lay behind his shoe cleaning equipment. Hawn drank most of it, while the woman went on screaming. Then he went downstairs and dialled 999, called the Yard and asked for Muncaster, urgent.
CHAPTER 10
The police arrived in two Pandas and a Jaguar. There were too many of them. They kept starting to ask Hawn questions,
