held up his glass and looked at it, like one of those white-coated actors in TV commercials about indigestion. He said, ‘We were wondering whether to send samples to the lab.’
‘Send a whole bottle,’ I said. ‘Order a case from Harrods, and give them his Diner’s Card number.’
Blantyre’s face reddened, but whether in shame or anger I could not be sure. I said, ‘Good. Well, if I’m not disturbing you two, I’ll take a look round while there’s still some evidence left.’
Blantyre gave me both barrels of a sawn-off twelve-bore, sighed and left the room wearing a sardonic smile. His drinking companion followed him.
I’d hardly started having a look round when Dawlish arrived. If Schlegel was hoping to keep our break-in inconspicuous, I’d say that Dawlish screwed up any last chance, what with his official car and uniformed driver, and the bowler hat and Melton overcoat. To say nothing of the tightly rolled umbrella that Dawlish was waving. Plastic raincoats are de rigueur for the rainy season in Barons Court.
‘Not exactly a playboy pad,’ said Dawlish, demonstrating his mastery of the vernacular.
Even by Dawlish’s standards that was an understatement. It was a large gloomy apartment. The wallpaper and paintwork were in good condition and so was the cheap carpeting, but there were no pictures, no books, no ornaments, no personal touches. ‘A machine for living in,’ said Dawlish.
‘Le Corbusier at his purest,’ I said, anxious to show that I could recognize a cultural quote when I heard one.
It was like the barrack-room I’d had as a sergeant, waiting for Intelligence training. Iron bed, a tiny locker, plain black curtains at the window. On the windowsill there were some withered crumbs. I suppose no pigeon fancied them when just a short flight away the tourists would be throwing them croissants, and they could sit down and eat with a view of St James’s Park.
There was a school yard visible from the window. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining. Swarms of children made random patterns as they sang, swung, jumped in puddles and punched each other with the same motiveless exuberance that, organized, becomes war. I closed the window and the shouting died. There were dark clouds; it would rain again.
‘Worth a search?’ said Dawlish.
I nodded. ‘There will be a gun. Sealed under wet plaster perhaps. He’s not the kind of man to use the cistern or the chimney: either tear it to pieces or forget it.’
‘It’s difficult, isn’t it,’ said Dawlish. ‘Don’t want to tear it to pieces just to find a gun. I’m interested in documents – stuff that he needs constant access to.’
‘There will be nothing like that here,’ I said.
Dawlish walked into the second bedroom. ‘No linen on the bed, you notice. No pillows, even.’
I opened the chest of drawers. There was plenty of linen there; all brand new, and still in its wrappings.
‘Good quality stuff,’ said Dawlish.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
Dawlish opened the kitchen cupboards and recited their contents. ‘Dozen tins of meat, dozen tins of peas, dozen bottles of beer, dozen tins of rice pudding. A package of candles, unused, a dozen boxes of matches.’ He closed the cupboard door and opened a kitchen drawer. We stared at the cutlery for a moment. It was all new and unused. He closed it again without comment.
‘No caretaker,’ I said. ‘No landlady, no doorman.’
‘Precisely,’ said Dawlish. ‘And I’ll wager that the rent is paid every quarter day, without fail, by some solicitor who has never come face to face with his client. No papers, eh?’
‘Cheap writing-pad and envelopes, a book of stamps, postcards with several different views of London – might be a code device – no, no papers in that sense.’
‘I look forward to meeting your friend Champion,’ said Dawlish. ‘A dozen tins of meat but three dozen bars of soap – that’s something for Freud, eh?’
I let the ‘your friend’ go unremarked. ‘Indeed it is, sir,’ I said.
‘None of it surprises you, of course,’ Dawlish said, with more than a trace of sarcasm.
‘Paranoia,’ I said. ‘It’s the occupational hazard of men who’ve worked the sort of territories that Champion has worked.’ Dawlish stared at me. I said, ‘Like anthrax for tannery workers, and silicosis for miners. You need somewhere … a place to go and hide for ever …’ I indicated the store cupboard, ‘… and you never shake it off.’
Dawlish walked through into the big bedroom. Blantyre and his sidekick made themselves scarce. Dawlish opened the drawers of the chest, starting from the bottom like a burglar so that he didn’t have to bother closing them. There were shirts in their original Cellophane bags, a couple of knitted ties, sweaters and plain black socks. Dawlish said, ‘So should I infer that you have a little bolt-hole like this, just in case the balloon goes up?’ Even after all these years together, Dawlish had to make sure his little jokes left a whiff of cordite.
‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘But on the new salary scale I might be able to afford one – not in central London, though.’
Dawlish grunted, and opened the wardrobe. There were two dark suits, a tweed jacket, a blazer and three pairs of trousers. He twisted the blazer to see the inside pocket. There was no label there. He let it go and then took the tweed jacket off its hanger. He threw it on the bed.
‘What about that?’ said Dawlish.
I said, ‘High notch, slightly waisted, centre-vented, three-button jacket in a sixteen-ounce Cheviot. Austin Reed, Hector Powe, or one of those expensive mass-production tailors. Not made to measure – off the peg. Scarcely worn, two or three years old, perhaps.’
‘Have a look at it,’ said Dawlish testily.
‘Really have a look?’
‘You’re better at that sort of thing than I am.’ It was Dawlish’s genius never to tackle anything he couldn’t handle and always to have near by a slave who could.
Dawlish took out the sharp little ivory-handled penknife that he used to ream his pipe. He opened it and gave it to me, handle first. I spread the jacket on the bed and used the penknife to cut the stitches of the lining. There were no labels anywhere. Even the interior manufacturer’s codes had been removed. So I continued working my way along the buckram until I could reach under that too. There was still nothing.
‘Shoulder-pads?’ I said.
‘Might as well,’ said Dawlish. He watched me closely.
‘Nothing,’ I said finally. ‘Would you care to try the trousers, sir?’
‘Do the other jackets.’
I smiled. It wasn’t that Dawlish was obsessional. It was simply his policy to run his life as though he was already answering the Minister’s questions. You searched all the clothing? Yes, all the clothing. Not, no, just one jacket, selected at random.
I did the other jackets.
