The End Game Read online

  “I said, Miss Crawley, that I was looking for file nine hundred and ten.”

  Miss Crawley advanced cautiously into the room and peered over his shoulder. She said, “You oughtn’t to come into partners’ rooms without asking. And that isn’t file nine hundred and ten.”

  “I didn’t say I’d found it, sweetheart. I said I was looking for it.”

  “That’s a very old file.”

  “None the worse for that.” Morgan tipped his chair forward, stretched out one hand and placed a finger on Miss Crawley’s high-necked old-fashioned blouse. Miss Crawley gave a squeak of alarm and reversed towards the door. She said, “What are you doing, Mr Morgan?”

  “It was a ladybird,” said Morgan. “It had alighted just above your right breast. I thought it kind to remove it before it came to any harm.”

  “Oh!”

  “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, Your house is on fire and your children have gone.”

  “I believe you’ve been drinking.”

  “In moderation.”

  Miss Crawley whisked out and slammed the door. Her feet went pattering off down the passage. Morgan grinned and returned to a study of the file. He seemed interested in the newspaper cutting and read it again.

  Heavy and deliberate footsteps in the passage announced the arrival of the owner of the room.

  “What have you been doing to Miss Crawley?” said Gerald Hopkirk. “She looked like a bird that’s had its tail feathers pulled.”

  “Is it not odd how everyone not only resembles a bird or an animal, but behaves like one. You are a big cuddly teddy bear, fond of honey and nuts.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Then again, some people look like fishes. There’s something very turbot-like about our Mr Piatt, don’t you think?”

  “What were you doing to Miss Crawley?”

  “A ladybird had alighted on her bosom. I assisted it to escape.”

  “And what were you doing in my room?”

  “Working, Gerald bach, toiling. Whilst the rest of the staff were feasting and drinking in the wine bars and the grill rooms of the City, I was applying myself to my daily task.”

  “What’s an old file of PAYE returns got to do with your daily task?”

  “It caught my eye. It had my reference on it, you see.”

  “Your reference? You’ve only been here a few months, and this file – oh, yes. D.R.M. Quite a coincidence. That was poor Moule.”

  “Mole?”

  “Pronounced Mole. Spelt Moule.”

  “Like Cholmondeley or Leveson-Gower.”

  “Yes. But not very like. There was nothing county about Dennis Moule.”

  “Why was he poor?”

  “It was a tragedy, really. When he came here he was quite a promising young accountant. He was engaged to old Mantegna’s secretary.”

  “A sound ploy. Many a professional man has got his feet under the Board Room table by marrying the boss’s secretary.”

  “He didn’t get round to marrying her. She was killed.”

  “On Highgate Hill, in a rain storm.”

  “How—?”

  “I was reading the cutting.”

  “I see. Yes. They got the name wrong, incidentally. Phyllis Blaney, not Blamey. A nice girl. The best secretary he ever had, Julius used to say. It broke poor old Dennis up. He took to drink. Became quite impossible. They had to get rid of him.”

  “It seems odd to me,” said Morgan, “that people should need an excuse for drinking. I’ve always found it quite easy to do it without any reason except that I like it. Which reminds me. You’re coming to dinner with us tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Susan is a perfectionist. Her masterpieces of the culinary art never appear on the table before nine o’clock. So we shall have time for a drink beforehand. Or possibly for two drinks. Do you know the Coat and Badge?”

  “No. What is it? Another of your pubs?”

  “How can you speak so lightly about that great, that immortal, that unique institution, the English tavern? Suppose the Mermaid Tavern had never existed. Should we have had the plays of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson?”

  “All right,” said Hopkirk resignedly. “I’ll buy it. Where and what is the Coat and Badge?”

  “No mere description can do justice to it. You shall see it for yourself.”

  “Not bad,” said Hopkirk. “How did you find it?”

  “I have a nose for such places. I was walking past, in the street, when instinct awoke. It said, David, there’s something down that passage that you ought to investigate. And the instinct was sound.”

  The Coat and Badge was tucked away at the foot of one of the alleys which runs down from Lower Thames Street to the river. It had a small public bar, a smaller private bar and a very small garden, with an iron table and some iron chairs in it.

  They took their second pints into the garden, where they drank for some time in silence, looking across the river at the back cloth of wharves and spidery cranes on the South Bank.

  Morgan said, “Blackett. Randall Blackett. He’s a large slice of our cake, isn’t he?”

  “Sixty-two companies. It might be sixty-four. They grow so fast you can hardly keep count of them.”

  “And it was his partner, Colonel Paterson, who got killed in that accident.”

  “That’s right. Why the sudden interest?”

  “I always take an interest in my work. Are we accountants and auditors of all Blackett’s companies?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “I’ve talked to him on the telephone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him. Sam Lyon does most of his stuff. I expect he has to meet him from time to time.”

  “A Napoleon of finance,” said Morgan. “A Genghis Kahn of the business world. A king tiger in the jungle of industry. And I’ll bet his wife bullies him.”

  “He’s a bachelor.”

  “Ah! A man of good sense.” Morgan got up, went into the building and reappeared with a tray containing two further pints of beer and two glasses of whisky.

  “The old Scottish custom of the chaser,” he said. “It improves both the beer and the whisky.”

  “Steady on,” said Hopkirk. “We don’t want to turn up stinking.”

  “What a truly horrible expression. In the days of the Regency, if a man happened to have consumed rather more alcoholic liquor than was wise, he was said to be glorious. ‘Stinking,’ indeed. How we have debased the language of drinking. You’ll be talking about ‘blotto’ next.”

  He swallowed the whole of the whisky and half the beer. Gerald Hopkirk followed suit, but more slowly.

  “Stop looking at your watch,” said Morgan. “We’ve lots of time. . . . April weather. I’m getting cold. Let’s have a last one inside.”

  The public bar had a dozen customers now. A dozen made it seem crowded. Three men in executive suits, two middle-aged and one young, were occupying the three stools at the bar.

  “The three bears,” said Morgan. “Father Bear, Mother Bear and Baby Bear.”

  This was unkind, especially to Mother Bear.

  “Were you talking about us?” said Father Bear.

  “I was talking to myself,” said Morgan. “It’s a terrible weakness I have. Two more of the same, please, Sidney.”

  “I think you were being bloody rude,” said Mother Bear.

  Baby Bear said, “He’s just a bloody Welshman.”

  “That’s right,” said Morgan, “a bloody Welshman.” He sounded pleased. “There’s just one thing wrong with this country, boyo. Thanks, Sidney. Have one for yourself.”

  “You were saying?” said Father Bear.

  “I was saying,” said Morgan, taking a pull at his drink, “that there’s one thing wrong with England. It’s full of Englishmen.” He roared with laughter.

  “He’s drunk,” said Baby Bear. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Tom.”

  “I’m not drunk, I’m happ
y,” said Morgan. “Another drink for each of my ursine friends.”

  There was no fight. Three reciprocal rounds later, Morgan and Hopkirk were walking up Lower Thames Street in search of a taxi. No taxis appeared.

  “We’d better take the Underground,” said Morgan.

  “We’re going to be late,” said Hopkirk.

  “Never do things by halves,” said Morgan. “If we’re going to be late, let’s be thoroughly late. I know a sweet little place, just down here to the left—”

  “No,” said Hopkirk.

  3

  They were very late, and Susan was very angry. She said, “You might have telephoned. The soup’s boiled over twice, and the meat will be like old leather.”

  “Nothing that you have cooked could possibly be like old leather.”

  “I suppose you’ve been on a pub-crawl. Take your hands off me and wash them.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Hopkirk. “I tried to get him back in reasonable time, but it was a losing battle.”

  Susan was not placated. She said, “Just because David is a selfish pig, there’s no need to play up to him.”

  After an uncomfortable meal, at which most of the conversation was supplied by David, Susan went out to the kitchen to make the coffee, and Gerald said, “I think I won’t wait for coffee. I’ll be buzzing off now.”

  “Don’t be a rat. You can’t push off and leave me.”

  “I think I must.”

  “Have your coffee first. The worst is over.”

  David was wrong. When Susan came back, the banked-up fires burst into yellow flame. She said, addressing her remarks pointedly to Gerald, “Did you have a very tiring day at the office? Sugar? Milk?”

  “Fairly tiring. Sugar, thank you. No milk.” Gerald stirred his coffee energetically.

  “I expect you like getting home in the evening and relaxing.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “You have a service flat, I believe. With its own restaurant. That must be very convenient.”

  “Oh, it is. Very.”

  “So you can please yourself what time you get in.”

  “Within reason.”

  “I see.” Susan looked out of the corner of her eye at David, who was also stirring his coffee. “So if you rolled in drunk at nine thirty, you’d still get something to eat?”

  “I expect they’d scratch up some sort of meal.”

  “But then, it’s different when you’re living somewhere on a commercial basis. I mean, when you’re paying your way.”

  “That’s right. I think I ought to be moving along now.”

  Susan ignored this. She said, “You’d suppose, Gerald, that someone who was living somewhere at someone else’s expense would be even more considerate, don’t you think?”

  “Well—”

  “If you mean me,” said David, “why not say so. Someone! Somewhere! Someone else! For Christ’s sake, stop wrapping it up. What you’re saying is that I scrounge on you.”

  He had gone very red.

  “Since I pay the rent of this flat and the rates and the cleaning woman and the electricity and the gas, and you occasionally chip in for the groceries, yes, I suppose you could put it that way.”

  “I’m an incumbrance. And you want to get rid of me. Is that right?”

  “I didn’t say so. I was simply stating some facts. More coffee, Gerald?”

  “No, really—”

  “You don’t have to say it twice,” said David, “you’ve made your meaning quite plain. I can take a hint as well as the next man.”

  He got out of his chair, upsetting his coffee cup as he did so, stumped across to the door and went out. Gerald said, “Let me mop that up before it ruins the table,” and shot out into the kitchen to fetch a cloth. When he came back with it, Susan was standing beside the table.

  She said, “Thank you, Gerald. I’ll do that.” Her face was rather white, but otherwise she seemed unmoved. She mopped up the spilt coffee, poured herself out another cup and said to Gerald, “You might as well have one. You can’t go now.”

  They could hear David bumping round in the bedroom.

  “What’s he going to do?”

  “He’s packing.”

  “He really means it, then.”

  “Means what?”

  “Means to go.”

  “He always means to go. The last time – let me see, that was about six months ago – he stayed away for a whole month. A very useful month as far as I was concerned. I got the flat spring-cleaned, chair covers, curtains and all.”

  David reappeared. He was carrying a bulging kit bag. He said, “If you’ll be good enough to pack up my other things, I’ll send round for them.”

  Gerald half expected her to say, “Don’t be silly,” but anger still seemed to be bubbling underneath. She said, “Certainly. If you’ll let me know where to send them.”

  David turned his back on her and said to Gerald, “Are you coming?”

  “Well—I think—perhaps—” said Gerald unhappily, torn between the desire to get away and an effort not to be rude to his hostess.

  “If you’re thinking of staying the night, Susan prefers to sleep on the right-hand side of the bed.”

  “Really, David!”

  Susan said, “He’s only being bitchy. I shouldn’t take any notice. If you’re going, David, just clear out quick.”

  “It couldn’t be too quick as far as I’m concerned.”

  “And don’t forget to leave your keys behind.”

  David put his hand in his pocket, extracted a latch key and an outer-door key from his ring and threw them both on to the table. They slid off on to the floor between him and Susan. Neither of them looked down.

  David shouldered his kit bag and marched out. They heard the front door slam.

  Susan said, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like another cup of coffee? I could easily heat it up.”

  “No, no,” said Gerald. “I really must be going. Thank you for the supper.”

  “A pleasure,” said Susan.

  4

  “Not one of our better evenings,” said David. His eyes were red-rimmed, and the slur in his speech suggested that he had had little sleep; or maybe had already taken a stiffener to see him through the day. “I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”

  “That’s all right,” said Gerald. “Does that sort of thing happen often?”

  “From time to time. She gets over it.”

  “I hope so, for your sake.”

  “I’m not sure. There are advantages and disadvantages. Pros and cons, as you might say.”

  “I should have thought it was all pro. A lovely pad and a lovely girl.”

  “Do you think she’s lovely?”

  “I certainly do. So, I should imagine, does every other chap who sets eyes on her.”

  “She’s all right, I suppose. I mean, considered as a girl.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Gerald. “Some people simply don’t know when they’re well off. If you don’t want her, I—”

  “No,” said David quickly. “Don’t even think about it. I was only joking last night. It wouldn’t do. You’re not her sort. You’re much too serious.”

  “All I was going to say,” said Gerald stiffly, “was that I imagined there would be no shortage of candidates to take your place.”

  “What Susan needs is someone she can fight with. It’s her French ancestry. The Perronet-Condes were Huguenots. Of course they’ve been over here for a long time now, but you can see that look in her eye every now and then. St. Bartholomew’s Eve and all that.”

  “The Huguenots didn’t kill the Catholics on St. Bartholomew’s Eve. It was the other way round. The Catholics killed them.”

  “You mustn’t believe all you read in the history books, boyo. Slanted stuff. Up with the big nations, down with the small ones. Tell me one history book that’s fair to the Welsh!”

  “The only people who are ever fair to the Welsh,” said Gerald, “are the Welsh. If you haven�
�t got any work to do, I have. Yes! Who is it? Come in, Rowley. What can I do for you?”

  “I was looking for Mr Morgan. I thought I heard his voice.”

  Fred Rowley had been a sergeant in the Royal Horse Artillery and was the office manager. Morgan and he had tested each other’s drinking capacity in a number of stiff bouts, and neither being able to put the other down they had declared a state of friendly neutrality.

  “What’s up, Fred?”

  “Mr Lyon wants you.”

  “To give me the good news, perhaps, that he intends to increase my inadequate remuneration.”

  “I wouldn’t bank on it.” As they moved out into the passage he lowered his voice and said, “I saw Miss Crawley coming out of his room.”

  “Creepy Crawley,” said Morgan. “Thank you, Fred, forewarned is forearmed.”

  He knocked at the door and went in without waiting for an answer. Samuel Lyon was seated behind his impressive twin-pedestal desk pretending to sort through his morning post. He said, “Oh, Morgan—”

  “You were wanting to speak to me,” said Morgan, seating himself uninvited in the clients’ chair beside the desk.

  Mr Lyon said, “Yes—um. I did. Yes, I wanted a word with you.” He was fat, flabby and fifty. He looked as though a little less for lunch each day and a little gentle exercise in the evening might, though it was probably too late, stave off the heart attack which he was going to have when he was sixty.

  He said, “I’ve just had Miss Crawley in here. She was complaining—that is, she told me that you had been intimate with her.”

  Morgan opened his eyes so wide that his eyebrows almost seemed to merge with his hairline.

  Lyon said hastily, “Don’t misunderstand me. I wasn’t implying intimacy in the—er—police court sense of the word.”

  “I’m glad you don’t mean that,” said Morgan comfortably. “Because if you had, I should have been bound to wonder whether she was mad or I was. What exactly has she accused me of doing? Undressing her with my eyes, perhaps. Even that would take courage.”

  “She says that you touched her.”

  “Touched her?”

  “On her, um, breast.”

  “Where did this act of gallantry take place?”

  “In Mr Hopkirk’s room, in the lunch hour, yesterday.”