‘Come to the point.’
‘Half an hour after you left I had an anonymous phone call from some man telling me not to worry about my brother.’
‘Then why worry?’
‘Because the last time it happened—an anonymous phone call, I mean—he got mixed up in some awful currency affair in France and only Jan’s influence put it right for him. Jan was very fond of him. They got on well together.’
‘Thank you for being frank with me. How many times has he been in jail?’
It took her ten seconds flat to decide not to give me a backhander, and then she said, ‘Once—when he was twenty-five. He did two years for some . . . well, it was something to do with the City and the share promotion. I told you. He’s a dreamer, always after big money, big schemes. The trouble is he’s hopelessly incompetent, really.’ The smile flashed on. ‘You will help me, won’t you?’
‘Absolutely. No matter how much it costs you.’ I gave her my little butler bow and ushered her out.
I thought about her, all through the poached eggs and cheap chablis. And then I thought about brother Martin. Well, it all seemed straightforward enough. I just had to find him. That should be simple enough. How simple can you get? Here was a case, I thought, which I could take just for health reasons; no escalation to the dangerous heights of the Secret Service world of Manston and Sutcliffe, no excessive excitements—just find Martin Freeman. Somewhere—God damn it—somebody must have laughed at my innocence, knowing I was going to end up looking for another man, far more important than Freeman, a man who had been kidnapped—and for reasons which were to bring Manston and Sutcliffe down on me like a pair of hawks on a corn-fat dove.
*
Intercontinental News Services were around the corner from Fleet Street in Whitefriars Street. The weather had relented a bit and there were occasional strip-teasing gleams of spring sunshine. Walking the few yards from the taxi to the office, I thought I detected a suggestion of a new lift in my steps, something that in time might almost develop into briskness.
After a lot of delay and little co-operation I saw a Mr Addle who was the Office Manager. He lived in an office about the size of a big packing case. As I sat opposite him my knees almost touched his under the desk. His long grey face looked as though it had been moulded out of wet paper pulp and allowed to set hard. He had an absent look in his eyes and a rambling way of talking which suited me. All I had to do was nudge him now and again. I explained how Mrs Stankowski was worried about her brother and wanted me to trace him. Had he any views about the resignation?
His eyes wobbled, trying to focus on a point somewhere above my head, and he said, ‘Not the first time he’s resigned. Always comes back. Restless man, certain charm, though. Knew how to make friends and use people. Good at his job . . . well, good as most. Always trouble over his expenses, of course, but there always is trouble over expenses with all of them.’
‘Did he specialize in anything, any particular field of news?’
‘No. Anything he could pick up. Oh, well, maybe European political affairs more than most.’
‘He’d been in trouble before, hadn’t he?’
‘Before he came to us. Impulsive, easily led. Always had some wildcat scheme for making a fortune. But then a lot of people have. You know, being Office Manager and responsible for staff. . . makes me a bit like a Father Confessor. Everyone comes to you with their stupid little confidences and problems. Particularly the secretaries and typists.’ His eyes managed to focus briefly on me. ‘Miss Lonelyhearts, that’s me. Thank God I’ve only got another year to do. Got a bungalow down at Seaford. You can sit at the window and look out to twenty or thirty miles of nothing but sea.’ His eyes wavered up to the wall a foot behind my head. ‘Distance . . . lovely thing.’
‘How was he on women?’
‘Terrible, I’m told. But not here. I saw to that. Anyway, he wasn’t here often. You should tell Mrs Stankowski he’ll turn up. He’s that kind. The turning-up kind.’
‘Where was he based in Europe?’
‘Paris, usually. Sometimes Rome. Beirut, too, for a while. Look, I can’t tell you anything that’ll help you trace him. He’s just gone off.’
From Fleet Street I went round to the Mountjoy Hotel in Dorset Square. It was a quiet, modest place which could have done with a repaint job inside and out. Behind a little counter-fronted alcove which was the hotel desk sat a brunette of about thirty-odd, good-looking and pleasant, and with time on her hands. She was drinking coffee and reading a week-old Observer colour supplement. She looked up and gave me a bright, flashing smile full of false promises. Returning it in kind, so that we immediately became old and intimate friends, I said, ‘My name’s Addle. I’m the Office Manager of Intercontinental News Services. And I want to make some enquiries about one of our correspondents—Martin Freeman—who used to live here.’
She nodded sympathetically and said, ‘I’m Mary McCarthy, American novelist—but, of course, you know that—and I’ve taken this job to get material for a new book I’m writing. You don’t have to go out of the door and come back and start all over again. You can do it from where you’re standing.’
‘You know Mr Addle?’
‘He’s been in Room Twelve for the last ten years. Martin Freeman came here on his recommendation. My real name is Jane Judd—yes, I know it sounds like a strip-cartoon character, but I’m stuck with it. Actually I am writing a book and it’s called Why I Sometimes Don’t Like Men. Subtitle—Homo Hoteliens. They think every
