The brotherhood, p.14
The Brotherhood, page 14
‘Shut up.’
There was a movement in the light, and Magnus wiped his eyes and thought, That’s no way to talk to a girl. But she gave a triumphant laugh: ‘So what are you going to do now? You’ve got the wrong man, you stupid bastard!’
‘Shut up!’ His voice had cracked into a falsetto, almost a woman’s voice: ‘I’ll have you in too if you’re not careful!’ He took a step forward. ‘What are you doing here, Owen?’
Magnus stood looking at the Hillman. It was jammed sideways against the sloping snout of the Citroën all crooked and hunchbacked with its windscreen shattered like crushed ice. The door on the driver’s side, away from where the Citroën had struck, hung open. He turned, blinking at the headlamps of the Mercedes which still pointed down into the road.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ he murmured, ‘you came straight out —’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His face had a white naked look with eyes that seemed to have no pupils, like a pair of burnt-out flashbulbs. Magnus peered at them, and the face became dim. ‘I was behind you and you came straight out —’
A door opened somewhere and a tall figure wobbled down into the glare of the road, his legs throwing shadows as though he were walking on stilts. Above the organ music the man’s voice cried: ‘Krok! Bogdan Krok!’
The girl laughed again: ‘I tell you, he wasn’t even driving!’
‘Shut up, you little bitch! Krok,’ he shouted, ‘I’m a police officer. There’s been an accident and I’m having you in. You understand that? I’m charging you — unfit to drive…’
Krok was stumbling about and swaying his arms. Magnus felt sick and dizzy. He leant against the Citroën, trying to focus on the three figures in the road. There was a lull in the music from the radio, and he heard Maya’s voice, clear and mocking: ‘You won’t get away with it this time, detective sergeant. This time we’ve got evidence.’
‘Evidence?’ Skliros turned to Krok, who stood beside Maya, his huge hands still swinging at his sides. ‘Don’t tell me he hasn’t been drinking! I can smell him from here.’
‘He wasn’t driving,’ Magnus called feebly. ‘I can swear to that. I was a witness.’
‘You keep out of this, Owen! Just keep out of it, or I’ll have you in too!’
‘Why don’t you have us all in!’ Maya shouted, ‘then we’ll see what the court has to say when they see that timetable you gave me this morning —’
There was a loud smack as Skliros hit her across the mouth. Her head jerked back, but she made no sound. He was bringing his hand up again, fist clenched this time, when Bogdan Krok raised both arms and swooped down on him, folding the slim young man in a crushing embrace, his right hand slamming into Skliros’ neck, while his truncated left, with its single finger and thumb, stabbed at the man’s face like some obscene blunt instrument.
Skliros was still very fast, trying to resort to every trick he had learnt in the gym at Hendon; but he could never quite recover from that first paralysing blow on the neck. He went down backwards with Krok rolling on top of him — Skliros kicking out, trying to bite the massive hand that pressed him to the road — while the prong of Krok’s left drove down like a stave into his throat.
Maya was shouting in Polish, trying to drag Krok away. Then for a few seconds the two men lay side by side, motionless.
Krok was the first to move, crawling over Skliros and spitting into the grass verge. Maya had run forward and began to help him up, leading him back across the road to the Mercedes. Magnus followed, walking carefully like a man entering a crowded room with all eyes on him. He climbed into the front seat next to Krok. Maya got into the driver’s seat, the engine started and the car lurched down off the bank and swung round, pointing back towards London.
There was a cold wind on Magnus’ face and he felt the blood growing tight and sticky round his eye. He remembered that he had left the keys in his car, the radio still on.
‘My car’s back there,’ he murmured. ‘With all my keys. I can’t get into my flat — unless you can break in for me.’ But there was no answer, just the powerful hum of the engine. He looked sideways at Krok, whose head lay back, relaxed as though in sleep. He said to Maya: ‘I’m sorry I followed you. I shouldn’t have, should I?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’ Her voice was small and unfriendly, and he suddenly felt miserable.
‘I hit my head. I don’t feel too good. I suppose we’d better go to the police.’
‘Police! Bogdan nearly killed one back there.’
Magnus considered this for a moment, watching the lights growing larger along the edge of the Common. ‘That man’s not a real policeman,’ he said dully: ‘he’s a raving nut. I know all about him. He’s one of Cane’s boys. He did this because Cane told him to.’ He paused; Maya had turned to look at him. ‘Cane told him to,’ he repeated.
‘I know that. But why did you follow us tonight?’
‘Didn’t think you were safe with Krok. Thought you’d be safer with a chaperon.’ He suddenly giggled: ‘Safer with Magnus Owen! — that’s a laugh, isn’t it?’
‘I told you to keep away from him,’ she said. ‘Now, are you well enough to listen to me?’
‘Ready and willing!’ he said, trying to concentrate on the lights ahead. They meant traffic, people, police stations. South-West Central.
‘Magnus, whose side are you on?’
He leant back and closed his eyes. ‘Whose side are you on, Maya?’
She ignored the question. ‘The important thing is that Bogdan’s in bad trouble, and you’re involved. You can’t get out of it now.’
‘I rammed Skliros’ car,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘We’ll have to go to the police.’
‘We’re not going to them yet. Not until I’ve talked to some people who’ll be able to back us up. I’ve got written evidence against Peter Skliros, a timetable he gave me, the idiot!’ She turned to him again, her eyes harsh in the lights ahead. ‘But you know all about that, don’t you?’
He shook his head, which was slamming with pain. ‘I can guess. Another little frame-up? Dangerous driving while under the influence? It’s a criminal offence, so he’d probably have been deported — like Duzinska and Berliner and Chuck Ortiz. Only this time it’s gone wrong?’
‘Very wrong. But not just for them. Bogdan’s still in trouble. He can now be charged with assaulting a police officer — and the police will be inclined to back Skliros up. That’s why we need friends to discredit him before he can give his own version.’
‘What friends?’ He heard Krok stir beside him and growl something in Polish. Maya ignored him.
‘You’ll find out,’ she said. ‘But first we’ve got to clean you both up and give Bogdan a chance to get sober. And while you’re doing that, I’ll go to these friends and explain what’s happened, and then we can all go together to the police and tell them everything — about Skliros and Steiner and Cane, and the party tonight, and why you ran out, and all about the crash, and how Skliros hit me when I mentioned the timetable. You understand, Magnus?’
Magnus understood very little. He said simply: ‘Anything you say, Maya. Any place, any time. Just clap your hands and Magnus Owen comes running.’ He remembered that the first edition of The Paper would be away, and there would be nothing on Bogdan Krok’s previous escapade. Instead, his evening’s work had consisted of leaving a crashed car with his fingerprints on the ignition keys, next to a plainclothes police officer who had been beaten senseless in the road.
He wondered what Hugh Rissell and Sir James Broom would have to say when they heard about it.
PART 3: NIGHT RIDE
CHAPTER 1
Magnus felt safe. Safe, because she and her friends were looking after him, seeing he came to no harm. He was in London, and London was safe. Safe as this big dreary hotel off the Gloucester Road — a Victorian retreat for retired officers and elderly ladies with small private means. Hardly the place to put a man like Bogdan Krok; but then the funds of the East-West Association were probably not lavish; his first-class air fare from Paris had been paid for by his French sponsors.
He found he could think almost clearly now, although it was easier when he turned his head from the wall, which was a churning pattern of crimson and mauve. The floor was gentler — a well-trodden carpet. The room contained a single bed, washbasin, table and chair, a wardrobe and a small sofa.
It was on the sofa that Magnus was now lying, his knees hooked up uncomfortably under his chin. It was not a large room, and Bogdan Krok was pacing it like an animal in a cage.
Magnus began to sit up. He said painfully: ‘Bogdan, where is she? Where’s Maya?’
Krok’s long legs swung past him, pausing at the table where he drank something from a bottle. ‘She’s crazy! She went to the embassy.’
‘What embassy?’
‘Our embassy. The embassy of the great Polish People’s Republic.’
Magnus knew that he should be surprised by this: but all that happened was a great roaring in his ears like a train going into a tunnel. When it stopped he was lying on his back again looking up at Krok, who towered above him swinging a brandy bottle like a club.
‘Maya went to our embassy, so now you have a drink and then we go to the newspapers.’ He thrust the bottle at Magnus, who began to struggle up again, trying to avoid the giddy wallpaper. He remembered the Citroën’s nose buried into the side of the Hillman; remembered again that he’d missed his deadline, missed his scoop on Krok, that he might even get the sack; and all Maya had done was run off to solicit help from a Communist embassy. ‘Oh my God!’ he groaned.
Krok had resumed his pacing, five strides to the wall, five back. ‘We go to the newspapers and tell them the story. You saw what happened. Maya told us — they were trying to get me arrested for driving a car when I was drunk.’
‘And you beat up a police officer. That’s worse, Bogdan. G.B.H. Grievous bodily harm.’
Krok growled and sat down on the end of the sofa. ‘So what do I do, huh? Lie on my back and wait for them to come and destroy me? I’m not a sick dog with one testicle, I tell you! And I’m not an idiot! We go to the newspapers and we tell them everything. We telephone them and they come here and we hold a press conference.’
‘At one o’clock in the morning?’ But he conceded that allowing for Krok’s limited knowledge of England, the idea had a certain bold logic. ‘We ought to go the police,’ he added, with no conviction.
‘Police? Are you crazy too? You think I’m just some idiot Pole! Well I tell you, I know things now about your beautiful England that I did not know yesterday. What Maya tells me!’ He pushed his face up to Magnus’, eyes glaring: ‘Before I come here, I think this of England — skies low, living standards high, freedom wide!’ He flung both arms out, almost smashing the brandy bottle against the wall.
‘But now I know more. I know that the blond man I have beaten tonight was a policeman. An English policeman!’ He stood shaking his head: ‘So I keep away from the police. We telephone the newspapers now and tell them everything.’
‘It’s too late for the newspapers,’ Magnus said. He sat up on the edge of the sofa and looked at his watch. Maya had been gone nearly an hour now, and had not even telephoned.
‘We can’t go to the newspapers, Bogdan,’ he said thickly. ‘We can’t do anything. We’re screwed!’
‘You have a drink, then you’ll feel better, huh?’ Krok handed him the brandy again, but he shook his head.
‘There’s only one thing for it — unless that girl comes back damned soon. We have to go to the police.’
Krok brought his foot down with a stamp that shook the floor. ‘I tell you, I’m not going to any bloody police! You say that again and I break your head!’ He stood above him holding the bottle by the neck, and Magnus remembered the man already had some experience in this form of combat. He waved his hand feebly and said, ‘All right, Bogdan, just put down the bottle and we’ll have a drink.’
They were drinking when the knock came on the door. Krok did not seem to hear it. It was repeated, more loudly. It was Magnus who got up and answered it.
The man outside had a narrow pointed face, rimless glasses and a pale-blue uniform with the hotel insignia stitched to the lapel. He stood in the doorway looking at Magnus with visible displeasure; then said, in a strong foreign accent: ‘You are disturbing the hotel.’
‘Tell him to go shit himself!’ Krok called from inside, and the man’s face went very red, but he did not move.
‘You are a most insulting man, Mr Krok. You will be reported in the morning to the management.’
Krok came lurching across the floor, elbowed Magnus aside and leant against the door jamb, leering at the porter. ‘You know what,’ he said at last: ‘I want to piss! And I can’t bloody well have one in this hotel of yours because you haven’t even given me a bathroom! Not even a place to piss!’ he shouted. ‘What sort of hotel do you think it is?’
The porter had backed prudently into the corridor and now began to tremble. ‘Mr Krok, this is outrageous. It cannot be tolerated.’ But as he spoke, Krok pushed past him and headed noisily down the corridor.
The little man stood for a moment, undecided whether to follow or not, then seemed to choose the line of least resistance. He turned to Magnus. ‘I must ask you to leave, sir. At once —’
Krok’s footsteps were now pounding unsteadily down the stairs. The porter glanced nervously along the corridor. There was a toilet only a few doors away; if the Pole was heading downstairs, it could only mean more trouble.
Magnus looked at him and hesitated. The man was a night porter, a foreigner, and he worked in the improbable hotel where Krok was staying. ‘Are you Polish?’ he said suddenly.
‘I am not. Now please, you will leave my hotel!’
‘German?’ Krok’s footsteps were nearing the lobby.
‘I am from Switzerland. Now please —’
Magnus nodded: ‘Oscar Wilde was right! — you all look like waiters, including the mountains.’
The Swiss stiffened. From the dark well of the staircase there now burst the voice of Bogdan Krok, carrying round the silent corridors the refrain of a Russian drinking song. Within seconds he had a captive audience reaching for house telephones, pushing bells, opening doors.
The Swiss had turned and was hurrying towards the stairs where a couple of dim figures in dressing gowns were leaning over the banisters. Krok’s voice rolled into a magnificent crescendo, and a man called across the stairway, ‘What’s going on? Will someone stop that noise at once!’
There were voices all round now, lights going on, slippers shuffling; and then suddenly the singing stopped. Magnus had reached the first landing when it happened. Below him the lobby was dim and quiet; the solitary light behind the reception desk shone on a poster advertising London theatres.
In the middle of the floor stood the Swiss porter. He was glancing rapidly around him, hands fidgeting at his sides. A door opened, then swung shut in the darkness, and a man in a raincoat walked briskly past him, turning up his collar as he reached the revolving doors into the street.
Magnus hurried down the rest of the stairs. The Swiss looked up and started to say something, his face grey with anger. ‘You are leaving my hotel at once,’ he said, keeping his voice as low as possible.
‘Where’s Mr Krok?’
‘I do not know. Now will you leave.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ From above, groups of faces were watching them round the well of the staircase.
‘Leave!’ the man hissed, ‘or I shall be obliged to call the police.’
‘I’m finding Mr Krok first,’ Magnus said, ‘and then we’ll leave together.’
He looked round, at the doors to the bar and the restaurant; and for an instant he thought he saw a face watching him outside the revolving doors. It was very dark; his head was pounding; he felt groggy, half-drunk.
There was another door — the one that had opened a moment earlier — and while the Swiss was starting to say something again, Magnus moved towards it. The electric sign above it had been turned out, but he could just read ‘Gentlemen’. He slammed it open, wasting a couple of seconds finding the light switch. It was silent inside, except for a slow tinkle of water, and he noticed a faint smell, both familiar and strange. Then he turned on the light.
It was the usual white-tiled room with basins and mirrors down one side, cubicles and urinals along the other. Krok had fallen against the urinals and lay with his face in the corner of the trough, touching a cake of germicide which had turned orange at the edges. Water rippled down from the nozzle above, flowing over his blond hair and growing pink as it soaked into the collar of his shirt.
Magnus looked at him for perhaps ten seconds. His shirt was still muddy from his fight with Skliros, and Magnus noticed how the water forked into two trickles behind his ears, one flowing into the trough, the other spreading out over his neck and washing clean a dark hole about half the width of a pencil … .22 calibre, he thought. Light and lethal at short range. The Japanese had used them in the capture of Singapore. This one would have been a pistol fitted with a silencer. Krok had probably not even turned. He would have been up against the urinal, singing at the wall, when someone had stepped up and shot him point-blank just below the skull. For a morbid moment he found himself wondering whether Krok’s flies were undone. Then that puzzling smell of germicide and cordite became overpowering, and he was back through the door, past the Swiss and across the lobby, lunging through the revolving doors and tripping almost headlong into the street.
He steadied himself against one of the pillars outside, breathing cold air to clear the taste of bile out of his mouth. The street was quiet except for the swish of traffic from the Cromwell Road. The porter did not come after him; but he knew he did not have long. The Swiss would try the toilet first, then call the police. It would be a matter of minutes. But meanwhile Magnus’ last doubts were resolved. He would go to the police himself and tell them everything.
