Albert groaned and his eyelids flickered. Bird hopped across to a sink in the corner, turned on the tap and wet a cloth. As he started to come back, Jago appeared in the doorway. He stood there, hands deep in the pockets of the navy-blue Burberry, a figure of considerable menace, and Bird groaned and sank into a chair at the small table in front of the ovens.

  “You have been having yourself a time,” Jago remarked, and he leaned down and examined Albert. “Poor sod, there go his good looks and, let’s face it, those, plus his backside, were all he had to offer.” He lit a cigarette and leaned on the rail. “So, my friend Egan’s been here?”

  “Brown, Mr. Jago,” Bird said eagerly. “Brown was his name.”

  “Egan,” Jago said. “Twenty-four or five, slim build, hard face, black leather jacket, jeans?”

  “That’s him.” Bird nodded.

  “So what did you tell him?”

  Bird managed to look puzzled. “Tell him, Mr. Jago?”

  “Don’t play games,” Jago said patiently. “He didn’t come here to pass the time of day. He came to ask you about bodies from Paris, Eric Talbot, Mr. Smith and, very possibly, me. So what did you tell him?”

  “But what could I tell him, Mr. Jago?”

  Jago pulled Albert to his feet, held him up for a moment and then threw him backward down the steps. He landed awkwardly and there was a hollow crunch when his skull hit the tiles. Jago came down the steps and kicked him in the ribs.

  Bird screamed. “No, don’t hurt him. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”

  He started to gabble, the words spilling out of him as he went through what he’d told Egan. When he was finished, he sat there quietly sobbing.

  Jago looked down at Albert, and stirred him with his foot. “I wonder how many other times he did that, lurked around playing Peeping Tom?”

  “Only the once, Mr. Jago, I swear it.”

  “But once was enough, because he saw Danielo Frasconi, and he’s a very important man indeed. And now our friend Egan knows, and Mr. Smith isn’t going to like that. He isn’t going to like that at all.” He leaned down and examined Albert more closely, then straightened. “Not that it’s going to mean much to him any more. He’s dead.”

  “Albert!” Bird wailed. He stood up, lost his balance and fell over. He lay there for a moment, then started to crawl toward the chauffeur.

  Jago walked across to the ovens, and pressed the automatic starting buttons. The ovens flared at once. He waited a second or two until the gas jets were peaking, then opened both glass doors. Flames swept out immediately and paint on the walls above the oven bubbled in the intense heat.

  Bird cried, “No, Mr. Jago, you mustn’t do that. There’ll be a blowback.”

  Jago ignored him, picked up a can of cleaning spirit from the table on the corner, crossed the room quickly and went up the steps, unscrewing the cap on the can as he went.

  There was horror on Bird’s face now and he tried to get up, stumbled and fell across Albert. “For God’s sake, no!”

  Jago emptied the contents of the can over the wooden banisters and steps, threw the can down and struck a match. Everything fired instantly. Bird screamed as flames touched one of his trouser legs. He beat at it in vain. Behind him the entire wall and ceiling were on fire, flames roaring out of the ovens.

  “See you in hell, old man,” Jago called and went out, closing the door behind him. A minute later, and he was turning the Spyder out of the gate and taking the road to Rochester.

  He checked the time—three o’clock—and wondered what Egan’s next move would be; but he’d find that out soon enough when he got back to Lord North Street. And there would be Smith to bring up-to-date in the morning. A hell of a lot to tell him. Certainly he’d be as mad as hell about the Frasconi thing because that would jeopardize the entire Sicilian connection. Oh, yes, Smith wasn’t going to like that one little bit. For some reason, that amused Jago intensely and he sat back, a slight smile on his lips, and concentrated on his driving.

  Egan decided to go straight to Alan Crowther’s instead of Lord North Street. Crowther was an insomniac who often worked through the night, he knew that, but when he pulled up in front of the house in Water Lane just before four o’clock, it was in darkness. He got out and tried the bell, but there was no response. He tried a couple of times more, then went through the passage to the rear, found the spare key to the back door which Crowther always left under one of the rockery stones in the small garden.

  It was warm in the kitchen. He turned on the light, then boiled a kettle and made a cup of tea. Wherever Crowther was, he’d soon be back, for he never went away, never took holidays. Egan went into the sitting room, finished his tea, then lay on the large couch, arms folded. After a while he slept.

  He came awake to the sound of the front door. He swung his legs to the floor and checked his watch. It was five o’clock. Then Alan Crowther came in, but an Alan Crowther Egan had never seen before. He wore a dark woolen cap pulled down almost to eye level, heavy pullover, blue parka, jeans and lace-up boots, and carried a small backpack on his shoulders.

  “Sean. My God, you gave me a scare,” he said.

  “Sorry. I let myself in at the back door with the spare key. I needed to see you. But what is all this? Where the hell have you been, dressed like that?”

  “You’ve discovered my guilty secret.” Crowther removed his leather gloves, took off the backpack and parka. “Come in the kitchen. I’m frozen. My need for about a gallon of hot coffee is immense.”

  In the kitchen, he put on the percolator, spooned in coffee and turned, rubbing his hands. “A good night. I’ve been to Birmingham and back. By train, of course, the only way to travel.”

  “By train?”

  “Not the way you mean.” He sat down at the table and laughed. “When you reach my age you want something different, but what? That’s the problem. Too late to learn to fly or climb the Eiger.”

  “So?”

  “I’m a freightbagger, Sean. Met a fellow in a pub in Camden a year ago who put me on to it. An architect.” He smiled. “We jump freight trains, just for the hell of it. Always at night, of course.”

  “You must be mad,” Egan said incredulously.

  “I’m in good company if I am. We’re not yobs, Sean. Amongst my colleagues, if I may call them that, are accountants, City financiers, two doctors and at least one professor from the University of London.”

  He went to get his coffee and Egan said, “People like that? But why?”

  “Kicks, dear boy, that’s how we get them. Danger, excitement. Hopping on a moving train in the dark as it rolls out the freight yard behind Paddington or Victoria stations isn’t exactly easy. It takes nerve. That thing called bottle you’re always on about.”

  “Crazy.” Egan shook his head. “You must be.”

  “Tonight was a short run because I wanted to get back, but I’ve been as far as Glasgow sitting in a Ford Escort on a flattop all the way. Marvelous sense of freedom, especially as you roar through a brightly lit station. Mind you, you have to take care on that run. Up Liverpool way, gangs of young ruffians board, looking for car radios to pinch, and that means railway police, so you have to be on your toes.”

  “Crazy,” Egan repeated.

  “Nonsense. Best thing that ever happened to me, but what about Paris?”

  Egan brought him up-to-date. When he was finished he said, “So, Smith’s definitely behind everything. Have you come up with anything on him while I’ve been away?”

  “Not a thing. Oh, lots of crooks named Smith, and of every shape and variety, but nobody who would fit your man.” Crowther shrugged. “Of course, that isn’t surprising, is it? After all, Smith isn’t his real name, that stands to reason.”

  “Which leaves us with two leads. Jago and Danielo Frasconi. Can we see what you can dig up?”

  They went into the study, Crowther put down his coffee and got to work. “I’ll do Frasconi first. That should be simple. With his record, they’ll have him on file at CRO Scotland Yard.” Two minutes later, he nodded. “I’m in.” The facts started to unfold before them. “My goodness, it’s like a sequel to The Godfather.”

  The Frasconis were a powerful Mafia family based in Palermo, controlled by twin brothers, Danielo and Salvatore, thirty-five years of age. They obtained the bulk of the family’s income from drugs. The London end of the business involved two casinos and an interest in a chain of betting shops. They also owned three hotels.

  “All a front to launder their drug earnings,” Egan commented.

  “It would appear that Danielo ran things over here until the drug squad nailed him last year,” Crowther said. “He beat every charge brought against him except one. Assaulting a police officer. Served six months at Armley Prison, Leeds, and returned to Sicily on his release.”

  “Give me a printout on that,” Egan asked.

  “Certainly.”

  The printer started to chatter. “Now for friend Jago,” Egan said.

  “I’ll stay with Scotland Yard.” Crowther went to work and finally sat back. “Only three—an unusual name, you see. A burglar in Cardiff, a man doing life for murder in Durham Prison and an ex-City accountant at present doing five years in Parkhurst for fraud. Not much joy there.”

  “All right,” Egan said. “What do we know about him? Ex-Army, or I miss my guess. What most people in our class-ridden society would call a gentleman. A hell of a good man when it comes to trouble and handling himself. Scar on the left cheek.”

  “Sort of man who if he’d once been Army might well turn to the mercenary bit,” Crowther suggested.

  “That’s a thought,” Egan said. “You could try known mercenaries. I need a cup of tea. I’ll get you another coffee while I’m at it.”

  As he started for the door Crowther said, “Didn’t you say you mentioned him to Villiers?”

  “Yes, but that was when I thought he was one of his boys at Group Four.”

  “You’re missing the point.” Crowther scratched his head. “You see, you know now that Jago doesn’t work for Ferguson’s lot, but Villiers knew that when you made the accusation. If I know our Tony, he wouldn’t let that go. He’d want to know as much as you who the mystery man with the scar was. Set up his own search.”

  “That makes sense.” Egan nodded. “Group Four again. See what they’ve got.”

  He made his tea and was pouring Crowther a fresh cup of coffee when he heard the other man’s shout of triumph. He carried the cup through as Crowther looked up, beaming with delight.

  “Here it is. It’s a K insert. That means put on file within the last twelve hours. Tony must have had a battery of computers working on this one. Jago is an alias. Otherwise this gentleman fits perfectly.”

  There was a computer picture of Jago from army records that included the scar. “As you can see, he got that serving with his regiment as part of the U.N. peacekeeping force in Lebanon.” Crowther sipped some of his coffee.

  “Harry Andrew George Evans-Lloyd,” Egan said. “Substantive rank, Captain. Military Cross in Ireland, reason unspecified.”

  “Dishonorable discharge,” Crowther added. “Four at one blow. In the fairy story that was the tailor killing flies on his jam and bread. With the good Captain Evans-Lloyd it was four IRA gunmen shot in the back of the head.”

  “And were they what they seemed to be?” Egan pointed out.

  “Exactly. Not too nice for his old man. Retired major general and still alive. Look at his son’s roll of honor. Selous Scouts in Rhodesia, commando stuff for the South Africans in Angola.”

  “For which read death squad,” Egan commented.

  “That nasty business in Chad,” Crowther added. “But nothing for the past three or four years.”

  “Nothing known, you mean,” Egan added. “Give me a print of that too.”

  Crowther sat back. “What will you do now, go to Villiers? After all, you know more than his people at the moment.”

  “I don’t know. It’s up to Mrs. Talbot, really, or that’s the way I see it.” Egan took the printouts and folded them. “I’ll be on my way. I can’t thank you enough, Alan.”

  “It was nothing, but take care. I don’t know what Villiers intends to do about Jago, if that’s what we’re still calling him, but remember, Sean, he’s a thoroughly dangerous man.”

  “I will.”

  As they went to the door Crowther chuckled. “Very funny, really, the great Jack Shelley on his back with a bullet in the shoulder. Serves him right, playing games like that at his age.”

  “Just as daft as freightbagging at yours,” Sean remarked, and went out into the cold morning street.

  It was six o’clock, the streets were beginning to stir as he drove down to The Bargee. He parked in the yard, let himself in at the kitchen door and went upstairs quietly. Ida’s door was partially open. He could hear her heavy breathing as she slept, closed her door and went to his own room. He showered and shaved, changed to fresh underclothes, shirt and jeans and left the room.

  Ida’s door opened and she came out. “Sean, it’s you. I’ve been worried, you staying out so much. You’re not in trouble, are you?”

  “Trouble?” He grinned. “When was a good-looking girl trouble? Don’t you worry about me.” And he hurried downstairs and out the door.

  She went back to bed, but couldn’t sleep. After half an hour of tossing and turning, she went downstairs, put the kettle on to boil and made some toast. There was a knock at the kitchen door. When she opened it, she found Tony Villiers standing there.

  “Hello, Ida, I know it’s early, but I thought I might find Sean here.”

  “Come in, Colonel Villiers. You just missed him. Cup of tea? It’s fresh made.”

  She poured it out for him. Villiers said, “He was here last night then?”

  Alarm bells started in her head. She said, “Of course he was.”

  He smiled. “Good for you, Ida, only I happen to know he wasn’t.”

  She said, “Are you trying to say he’s in trouble?”

  “No, but he could be.” He took out his wallet and produced a card which he put on the mantelpiece. “My telephone number is on there, Ida, a special line that reaches me anywhere, day or night. If you ever need me, if you ever have anything to say, you know what to do.”

  He went out. She sat down at the table, stirring her tea, eyes blank, and then she started to cry.

  At seven o’clock, Jago, who had slept by the window with a rug over him for a couple of hours, awakened and looked down into Lord North Street. There was still no sign of the Mini Cooper, and silence from the house. He checked his watch again and called Smith.

  He was in the kitchen making coffee when the return call came. “Where are you?” Smith asked.

  “Back in London at the apartment.”

  “What happened in Paris?”

  “It’s a long story,” Jago told him.

  “Well, get on with it. I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

  Jago poured coffee and drank it as he talked. When he was finished, Smith said, “Not good.”

  “Why not? Valentin and that silly little tart out of the way. Shelley on his back in a hospital bed. Bird and his boyfriend incinerated. All avenues blocked except for Frasconi, and I’m entirely at your service on that one.”

  “Danielo Frasconi’s back in Palermo and he intends staying there. London got too hot for him. Mrs. Talbot and Egan wouldn’t last half a day if they went over there. You know the Mafia.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “You and me,” Smith said. “She and Egan now know we exist.”

  “Yes, old stick, but the joke is, that won’t do them any good at all because I’m not me and you’re not you. You worry too much.” Jago laughed. “Have your breakfast. I’ll keep you posted.”

  He put down the kitchen phone and got the bread out for toast. A moment later he heard sounds from the equipment in the sitting room and hurried in. Sarah was speaking to Egan. Jago looked out and saw the Mini Cooper parked outside the house. He got his coffee, came back and settled down to listen. Suddenly he stiffened and sat up.

  “Evans-Lloyd, that’s his real name,” Egan was saying.

  Sarah, in her dressing gown, sat on the window seat reading the printouts, occasionally making comments. Finally she said, “I don’t understand this man. He’s a killer, we know that, and yet he’s saved me twice. Why?”

  “Maybe you’re not on his list,” Egan said. “If he’s the kind of professional I think he is, then everything’s business. He has targets or a job to do. That’s what he’s paid for, no more, no less. He’s not so much a murderer in the criminal sense of the word as an assassin, or that’s how he sees it.”

  “You’re seriously trying to tell me there’s a difference?” Sarah said.

  “The Assassins were founded in Persia during the eleventh century. They used to get high on hashish, hence the name. They believed only in the action of the moment. They would kill for anyone who paid for their services, but the true assassin was totally committed once he’d taken the blood money. No going back, whatever happened, even at the cost of his own life.”

  “And you think Jago is like that?”

  “It’s a kind of honor with a man like him. The only pride he has left,” he told her.

  She nodded. “Let’s forget him for the moment. What about Danielo Frasconi?”

  “He’s in Palermo and he won’t be back.”

  “All right, we could go there.”

  Egan shook his head. “It’s another world. The Mafia still run everything that counts. Inconvenience people like the Frasconi brothers, and you’re found in the gutter if you’re found at all.”

  “Just a moment.” She crossed the room, opened a drawer in the Sheraton bureau. Beside the Walther PPK from Jock White was the card Rafael Barbera had given her on the plane. She came back and gave it to Egan. “Read that.”

  “Vito Barbera, Grosvenor Apartments, South Curzon Street.” He was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve got Mafia connections, Sean, and of the very highest quality. Have you ever heard of Don Rafael Barbera?”

  “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “He’s Capo Mafia in all Sicily. Boss of bosses.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27