MacGregor denied himself the pleasure of cajoling further revelations from Elvira. ‘Do you mean to say that you met Osmond, here, on a course? On a police course?’
Elvira blinked prettily. ‘What else?’
‘For policemen?’
‘And us girls, too.’
MacGregor swung back disbelievingly to Osmond. ‘You mean you’re a copper?’
Osmond’s face twisted in a grimace of disgust, anger and exasperation. His response, when he managed to force the words out through a rigid jaw, was directed at the fair Elvira. ‘You bloody, stupid, god-damn interfering cow!’ he snarled and, as if by magic, a gun appeared in his hand.
Ten
‘OK!’ said Osmond, a trifle more breathlessly than he might have wished. ‘OK. Now, let’s cool it, shall we? Everybody just stay nice and quiet and then nobody’ll get hurt. Right?’
Dover, MacGregor and Elvira gawped goggle-eyed.
‘That’s more like it!’ said Osmond, pathetically grateful when he saw that nobody was about to play the hero. ‘Good! I’m glad you’re going to be sensible. Now,’ – he took a deep breath to steady himself – ‘I’m just going to make a phone call. Right?’ He backed off towards the telephone. His next manoeuvre caused some anxiety amongst his audience as he tried to dial and keep his revolver trained on them at the same time. That nobody got shot probably owes much to the fact that Osmond had forgotten to slip the safety catch off.
The first fumbling attempt at dialling resulted only in the unmistakable tone of the engaged signal.
‘Oh, bugger!’ moaned Osmond.
Dover reckoned that this could go on for ever and, very gingerly, raised one hand in the air like an incontinent schoolboy wanting to leave the room. For one blush-making moment, MacGregor thought this was precisely what the chief inspector had in mind, but he was wrong. Dover was merely seeking permission to go on with his lunch.
This comparatively innocuous request seemed to arouse the beast in Osmond. ‘You move one bloody muscle,’ he threatened in a voice verging uncomfortably on the hysterical, ‘and I’ll let you have it right between the eyes!’ He gulped and, after glaring fiercely at his victims, began dialling again.
This time his efforts were successful and eventually the burr-burr was replaced by a faint, interrogative and high-pitched squawk.
‘I want to speak to Sven,’ said Osmond, his eyes flickering everywhere.
Another squawk.
‘Sven!’ repeated Osmond irately. He spelt it.
More squawks.
‘Of course I’ve got it right, you silly bitch! It’s the du Maurier code. Why don’t you bloody look it up?’
The squawks grew offended.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s whether it’s your first effing day on the effing switchboard or not!’ screamed Osmond, threatening the telephone with his revolver. ‘Put me through to Sven and be bloody quick about it. For God’s sake, this is a flash-flash call, you incompetent cow! You know what a flash-flash call is, don’t you?’
The telephone gave forth a few more peculiar sounds but eventually Osmond sagged with relief. ‘Sven?’ he asked. ‘This is Trill. Yes, Trill! Rabbits my end, by the way. Rabbits!’ You know – ears! Yes, that right. Now, listen, my seams are giving way. What? Well, yes of course I’m bloody sure! I wouldn’t be ringing otherwise, would I? What?’ Osmond listened tensely for several moments and then took another of his deep, nerve-steadying breaths. ‘I am perfectly calm, Sven,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘but I need help. No, there’s absolutely no way we can paper over the cracks. Or stitch things together again. I’m telling you – it’s all gone in one big bang. What? No,’ – he laughed contemptuously – ‘not them, not in a million years. No, it was some bloody little tart of a policewoman who just happened to remember me from way back. Nobody’s fault. Just one of those things.’ And then, more defensively, ‘Well, I couldn’t bloody help it, could I?’
Nobody else in the room, of course, could hear the other end of this conversation no matter how much they strained their ears, but MacGregor was fairly confident that he’d solved the problem. Bull-necked young men, guns, gobbledy-gook telephone calls and generous helpings of code names could only add up to one thing. Glancing across, he managed to catch Dover’s eye and generously mouthed the answer: Special Branch!
Dover’s facial expression remained as vacuous as ever. Either the theatrical profession had been deprived of a luminary when he had opted for a job with a pension, or the old fool hadn’t got the message.
Osmond was still talking. ‘OK – Rendezvous Three in sixty. Got you! All four of us, including the girl? Right! What? Use their wheels? The police car? You sure? Suppose I’m cynosure? Well, yes, I suppose we could make it look as though I’m being taken in for questioning or something, but what about your end? No,’ – he reached across and raised the edge of the lace curtain – ‘it’s just a big black car. Hasn’t got “POLICE” written on it or anything. OK, you’re the boss. See you.’
Osmond put the phone down. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re going for a ride!’
Dover, neither blessed with MacGregor’s perspicacity nor enlightened by it, caught his breath. In this atmosphere of violence, firearms and mysterious telephone calls, ‘going for a ride’ could have a very alarming connotation. However, he didn’t allow his natural anxiety to unman him completely. ‘I’ll bring my lunch with me,’ he said, gathering up the bits and pieces.
Prompted no doubt by some recollection of where
