Council a smog problem for the next two years, and then suddenly you found that these Portuguese gents who had signed the perforated side of the contract were planning to pay you in Monopoly money: you’d be right cut up, wouldn’t you?’
‘If the Monopoly money came out of an old boat, you mean?’
‘Yes, mate,’ said Ossie. ‘The bloke getting it out of the boat for the Portuguese blighters would suddenly become a spare benedick at a wedding. If you get my meaning.’
I got his meaning.
Ossie said, ‘I wouldn’t like to be quoted as to who finds you superfluous to requirements, but I wouldn’t like to look his name up in a big telephone directory if I didn’t know the initial.’
Ossie had confirmed what I suspected. At this stage I still had nothing with which to confront Mr Smith, but I knew where to find his stooge.
I left Ossie and walked along Compton and Brewer through Sackville Street to Piccadilly, and dropped in for a drink in the Ritz bar. Ivor Butcher was there. He’s always there.
‘Hi there, feller,’ he said.
We dealt with him when we had to, but always one had the feeling that he was likely to pinch something off your desk if you took your eyes off him for a minute. He came across to me before the waiter could even take my order.
‘Come downstairs, feller,’ he said, ‘it’s quieter down there.’ He had an accent like an announcer on Radio Luxembourg. Professional instinct prevailed over personal feeling. I accompanied him to the bar downstairs, where he insisted on giving me one of those sweet gin concoctions instead of sherry. He was wearing a Shepperton B- picture raincoat with the collar turned up at the back and kept one hand in his pocket as though any moment he might say ‘reach for de sky youse guys’. He usually produced in me a feeling of merriment, but I was far from merry today.
‘Nice vacation in Portugal?’ He was always fishing around for stub ends of information that he could peddle. He squeezed a sector of lemon into his drink, gnawed at the yellow pulp and sucked the rind.
I said, ‘What are you looking so happy about — did you just inherit Central Registry?’
‘Say, that’s rich,’ he said, giving a brief laugh. He popped a cherry into his bright mouth. He had the pretty face of a rock singer; long shiny hair swept backwards over his head and struck his collar, while an artful wave fell forward across his forehead. ‘You are looking great,’ he said. Ivor Butcher was a congenital liar — he told lies outside working hours.
Forms of address among men who work together vary. There’s the ‘sir’ or rank prefix by ones who don’t wish to pursue their relationship, the nickname used to conceal affection or at least respect, the Christian names of friends and the surname form of address among men who think they are still at college. Only men like Ivor Butcher are called by their full name.
‘What are you doing this afternoon? Wanna take a little ride down into Berkshire with me? I just bought myself a little country place, make a foursome, heh? Couple o’ cute girls. Back in time for the late show at Murray’s Club.’
‘You are living it up,’ I said, ‘you’ve come quite a distance since 1956.’[25]
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘got me an E-type Jag: Cambridge blue — wire wheels — it’s a gas.’
At the next table sat advertising executives with not enough chin and too much cuff. They were buying drinks with a generosity that an expense account brings. They prodded and discussed their product in low respectful tones. Sliced, sterilized and Cellophane-wrapped; a loaf. They talked about it like it was a cure for cancer.
I sipped the cocktail and offered Ivor Butcher the geranium-coloured cherry from it. ‘Mighty nice of you,’ he said. He munched the cherry and spoke simultaneously. ‘Could sell you a morsel of military dope you’d like I reckon.’
‘The phone number of the War Museum?’
‘Can it, Mac,’ he said, ‘this is real Zen stuff.’
‘Zo,’ I said.
He gave a one-decibel laugh and looked around furtively. ‘Cost you a grand.’
‘Just give me the sales talk,’ I said, ‘we’ll get to the estimates later.’
‘I get a call from a certain party in Maidenhead. This guy’s a real high-class B & E man.[26] I’ve got all the B & E boys on my payroll. Anythin’ they see unusual I get it pronto. Dig?’
‘Dig.’
‘This villain is doing a nice Cabinet Minister’s home, also in Maidenhead, when he flips through the desk and finds a nice leather desk diary. Knowing I’m a collector he passes it across to me for half a grand. What I’m peddling to you is one page …’
I signalled to the waiter over Ivor Butcher’s shoulder and it amused me to see him spin round like the Special Branch boys were just about to lift him out of his coat.
I said, ‘A Tio Pepe and another of whatever this gentleman is drinking, with two pieces of lemon and at least three cherries.’
Ivor Butcher smiled in relief and embarrassment.
He said, ‘Gee, for a minute …’
‘Yes, quite.’
At the next table one of the ad-men said, ‘… but great copy slicewise.’
‘What do you think, then?’ Ivor Butcher ran his tongue round his mouth to dislodge the particles of lemon and cherry.
‘I didn’t realize you did a bit of “black” on the side,’ I said.
‘We’ve got to live, haven’t we, pal?’ He would bleed an old-age pensioner or a set of hydraulic brakes with the same smiling self-righteousness.
‘Want a second opinion?’ I said.
‘I haven’t told you what’s on the page yet.’
‘You are going to tell and trust, are you?’ It didn’t seem like him.
‘Naw. Just the first and last word.’
‘O.K. One-two-three-go.’
‘Word the first is “Venev”; word the last “W.O.O.C.(P)”. Haw, thought that would make you stand up and sing “Rule Britannia”, pal.’ He sucked his teeth.
‘I don’t get the “Venev”.’
‘V.N.V.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t kid me, pal; Portuguese underground.’
‘We haven’t even got a file on it.’ I pretended to think deeply. ‘There’s a man called Jerry Hoskyn in the U.S. State Department. More their kind of thing, I’d say.’
‘It’s got your department right on the same page.’
‘Don’t shout at me,’ I said irritably, ‘I didn’t write it.’
‘Well,’ said Ivor Butcher somewhat subdued. ‘I was just trying to wise you up.’
‘And very nice of you, but no sale.’
The drinks came. In Ivor Butcher’s sugar-frosted glass were four bright-dyed cherries. Two wafers of lemon clung to the edge. He was radiant.
‘I didn’t think they’d bring them,’ he said in a breathless voice, and to tell you the truth, nor did I.
I said, ‘How big is it?’ He raised his eyes to me and only with difficulty remembered what we had been talking about. ‘How big?’ I said again.
‘The diary? — this big.’ He measured about four inches by five with his fingers.
‘How thick?’
‘Half an inch.’
‘Doesn’t sound like a grand’s worth to anyone I know.’
‘Garn, I’m only selling one page for a grand.’
‘You are nuts,’ I said.
