The Malaspiga Exit (17 page)

Carpenter walked past him. ‘What the hell are you doing in Ben's office? Nobody's supposed to come in here.'

Nathan shrugged. ‘I wanted to leave a message on his tape. It's highly confidential. So what about it?'

Carpenter didn't answer him at once. He went over to the machine, saw the little red switch pressed to recording, and flicked it abruptly to play back. There was nothing on it.

‘I didn't have time,' Nathan explained. ‘You came trying to bust down the door, so I opened it. What's this all about, Frank?'

He looked pained and as if he were becoming angry. As angry as any innocent man would be at the suggestion that he was doing anything irregular.

‘Look,' Nathan pressed his advantage, ‘look, what is this? Who are you balling at—I knew the rules around here when you were still in short pants!'

Suddenly Carpenter felt at a disadvantage. He had accused, tried and judged his friend on evidence that was only circumstantial. He just might have turned negligence into guilt.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘Maybe I just got uptight. I've had a long day. Ben gets very edgy about anyone coming in here. He's liable to fire Betty for letting you in.'

‘Forget it,' Nathan relaxed; he shrugged his shoulders, guying himself as usual.

He felt in his pocket for his pipe. The movement turned him slightly, and Carpenter looked past him to the filing cabinets against the wall. He slid his hand in his coat. ‘Jim,' he said. Nathan looked up from lighting his pipe and saw the gun.

‘For Christ's sake!'

‘What were you doing looking in the Malaspiga file?' Carpenter asked him. ‘You know that's got the highly confidential sticker on it. What were you looking for?'

‘I've never touched anything in this room,' Nathan exploded. ‘You've gone nuts! Holding a gun on me …'

‘You didn't quite shut the drawer,' Carpenter said. ‘The edge of the file is sticking up. You were looking for something, weren't you—something Eddi Taylor wanted to know.'

‘Now listen, you crazy bastard …'

‘Keep your hands where I can see them,' Carpenter told him. ‘I'm arresting you on suspicion. Go on into Betty's office. And don't try anything.'

Nathan walked ahead of him; there was a rigidity about his shoulders that warned Carpenter he was thinking of trying for his own gun, but the odds were too high and he did nothing. Outside the secretary saw them both and opened her mouth, emitting a gasp of amazement.

‘Get me security,' Carpenter said. He didn't look at her. He knew Nathan and all he would need was a second's inattention. He had seen the file; Carpenter knew by the look in his eyes that he had got what he came for. Katharine Dexter. If he had seen anything recent on the operation he must have seen that and known she had gone to Italy. If he got away and passed that message on, she was as good as dead.

‘This is Carpenter here. I have a suspect in Ben Harper's office. Send up two men immediately.'

‘You're making a mistake,' Nathan said. He looked white and grim. He spoke to the girl. ‘He's nuts,' he said. ‘He's flipped. He pulls a gun on me and says I'm under arrest …'

‘If you're clean,' Frank Carpenter said, ‘you can prove it. And Ben Harper will bust me for what I'm doing. Keep your hands out from your sides, Jim. If you try anything I'll shoot.'

‘Go fuck yourself!' Nathan rounded on him, blazing. He looked like a small violent animal. Betty cringed back behind her desk. The two security men came in and Carpenter spoke to the senior officer. ‘I'm booking Jim Nathan on suspicion. He's to be kept in close custody until Ben Harper gets back.'

‘I want a lawyer!' Nathan snarled. ‘What about my wife?'

‘Betty will call her and say you've been called away on a case. You can have a lawyer when Ben says so.' Nathan didn't say any more. He looked from Carpenter to the two burly security men and knew he didn't have a chance. Fear made him cautious. Fear for Marie, not for himself. If he got hurt, if he couldn't find a way, some way, of getting that message to Taylor … He blinked once, as if he had been hit, as the fear smashed at his nervous system. She would be all alone, thinking he was away working. Anyone could get to her. He looked once more at Carpenter.

‘You son of a shit,' he said. ‘I'll have you out on your ass for this!' He went out with the two men and down to the security section under the building.

Carpenter turned to the secretary.

‘How long was he in there?'

‘Oh, just a few minutes, Mr Carpenter—I didn't want to let him go in, I know it's against regulations but he said …'

‘I know what he said,' Frank interrupted. ‘Did he make any telephone calls from here?'

‘Not from this office—not since he spoke to you.'

‘How about while he was in Mr Harper's?'

‘I'll ask the switchboard. You can't dial direct.'

The answer was negative. No calls had been made from Ben Harper's office since he had left that morning. Whatever Nathan had found out, he hadn't been able to pass it on. Carpenter went back into the office. The file drawer was jammed open by the right-hand corner of the Malaspiga file, where it had been hurriedly pushed back and hadn't fitted into its slot. He didn't touch it. Ben Harper would need to see what had made him arrest one of the most trusted senior agents in the Bureau. If he was wrong and Nathan could clear himself, then his own career was finished.

Ben Harper would never forgive a mistake and a scandal inside his organization. Carpenter turned back to the girl. ‘Lock up here and leave. Don't talk to anyone about what's happened. You'll have plenty to do explaining to Ben why you broke the rules about letting anyone into his office. Don't make it worse for yourself by talking.' He went out of the office and down the passage to his own room.

He knew he wouldn't have taken such prompt action if Katharine Dexter hadn't been involved.

Eric Svenson was in a genial mood. He had enjoyed his trip to the States; the girls and the liquor had been provided with liberality and taste. He had found amusement in tormenting the sexless Eddi Taylor by forcing his participation, and had done a lot of business. In Stockholm he was a respected member of the rich industrial circle, with a wife and two children, a large house in the suburbs and a cabin where the family spent weekends. He was an importer of antiques and works of art, owned a chain of retail furniture stores where cheap reproductions were sold, and was the head of a heroin smuggling ring. He had operated in a small way years ago, after a dubious career with the Swedish Red Cross during the war, where he discovered the purchasing power of stolen morphine. The profits accruing from his activities on the side during those years had set him up in legitimate business; his connection with the Malaspiga organization had begun two years before, through an introduction to Eddi Taylor. He had since made personal contact with the organization in Italy, and was on his way for his annual visit.

He stretched out on Eddi Taylor's sofa and yawned. He reached for a large glass of neat whisky and swallowed grossly; he had a capacity for drink which was the equal of his appetite for sex, and he was proud of both. He was a big man, very fit, distinguished by a shock of grey-blond hair and bright blue eyes. A lot of women thought him extremely handsome. He called to Eddi Taylor, who was fumbling in his wallet by the hallway. ‘Hey—haven't you gone yet?'

‘Not yet,' Taylor called back. Two tall, busty girls in miniskirts and white kid boots were standing by Taylor, towering over him. He paid them for the evening's entertainment, which had left him feeling sour and irritable as usual, and hustled them out of the apartment. He came back into the lounge.

‘They've gone,' he said.

‘Pity.' The Swede grinned. ‘I could have done it again.'

‘Christ,' Taylor groaned. ‘One of these days it'll drop off! You ready for another drink?'

‘In a minute.' Svenson waved the glass. ‘Sit down; stop fussing. You give me the fidgets.' He watched Taylor ease himself into a chair; he was a man who did everything carefully, with an old-maidish economy of movement. He wriggled to get comfortable and crossed his small feet at the ankles. Svenson despised him and enjoyed battening on him for free meals, drinks and sex parties. In his eyes, Taylor was less than a man. Less even than a practising homosexual. That he would have understood and accepted. At least it was active. His blue eyes went narrow, and suddenly the broad, strong face was wiped clean of its bonhomie.

‘You realize it's Friday night,' he said to Taylor. ‘What's this policeman think he's doing?'

‘He should have called today,' Taylor said. ‘I gave him till tonight. I told him you were leaving Saturday morning.'

‘One thing's for sure,' Svenson said. ‘I'm not taking any shipment my end if there is a Bureau agent on their track. And I shall tell them so when I get there! They won't be pleased with you. You're responsible for the New York end.'

‘I know that,' Taylor snapped back at him. His nerves were raw from lack of sleep, too much drinking, which disagreed with him, and the ghastly evening spent with Svenson and the departed whores. He felt ready to quarrel with anyone. Svenson didn't frighten him; he was only a middleman like himself, although an important one. But at Malaspiga, far away in Tuscany, there was someone of whom he was very frightened indeed. ‘I'm going to call his home,' he said. ‘Right now.' He went to the telephone, dialled the number and almost immediately the other end answered.

‘Could I speak to Jim Nathan? Oh—he's not? Who am I talking to?' Svenson watched his back; under the beautifully cut jacket, the shoulder muscles tensed. ‘I see. You couldn't tell me where—okay. No, it doesn't matter. I'll try next week.' He banged the receiver down and the phone jangled. His face was contorted. ‘He's out of town! That was his wife—he's been sent away on a job and she doesn't know where he is, or when he'll be back!'

‘He's stalling,' Svenson remarked. He finished his whisky. ‘He can't get the information and he's run out on you.'

‘The bastard.' Taylor almost spat. ‘By Christ, I'll teach him to cross me up …'

‘Maybe the call'll come through tonight. It's only eleven.'

‘He's away,' Taylor shouted. ‘He's run out on it—you've just said so!'

‘It looks that way,' Svenson said. ‘Maybe you should have paid him.'

‘I'll pay him,' Taylor said. ‘I'll pay him just exactly what I promised!' He swung on one foot, neatly like a ballet dancer, and went for the phone again.

‘What are you doing?' Svenson asked.

‘Mind your own goddamned business!'

The Swede shrugged. He got up and went to the cabinet where Taylor kept his drinks. It was a seventeenth-century Spanish Vargueno, beautifully inlaid with ivory. A strong Moorish influence, Svenson noted, fingering the elaborate iron hinges. He poured a massive Scotch into his glass. He heard Taylor's voice, rising with anger.

‘You get over there tomorrow. And you fix her good, understand! Don't miss out on this one! Okay—no beating up, no rough stuff, just fix her!' The phone jangled again. He turned round to Svenson.

‘Nobody crosses me and gets away with it,' he said. He let out a deep breath. ‘You have an early start in the morning,' he said to Svenson. ‘I don't want to be inhospitable, Lars, but I'm pooped out myself.'

‘I'll finish this, and then I'll go. What do I tell them at Malaspiga?'

‘Tell them there's going to be a replacement for Firelli,' Taylor said. ‘I can't give them any more details than that, but to be on their guard against strangers. Anyone coming along, no matter what the cover story. Any time in the next few weeks. My guess is it'll be someone posing as a distributor; they won't try another antique dealer again. Tell them I'll try and find out what I can, but my contact inside has gone bad on me.' The plump little face was pinched and spiteful. ‘The bastard,' he said, not really speaking to Svenson. ‘That'll teach him …'

‘Okay.' The whisky disappeared in two huge swallows. ‘I'll pass on your messages. And thanks for all the good times, Eddi. I've really enjoyed myself. I'll have to be a good boy when I get to Malaspiga. There's nothing like you have over here.' He came and grasped Taylor's hand in his big fist, squeezed it, and thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Goodbye,' he said. ‘If anything does come through, call me at the hotel. I shan't be moving till I go to the airport.'

Taylor saw him to the door. He snapped out the lights in the lounge and the hallway and went to his bedroom. He undressed, neatly folding his clothes, discarding shirt and underwear to be laundered, and crawled into bed. He felt sick and tense. It was all very well for that randy Swede to take it coolly; he wasn't in danger, nobody was on his tail. Everything Taylor had built up for himself was in jeopardy: a big bank account in Switzerland, a thriving business and a beautiful apartment, full of the treasures he loved. Whoever the Bureau were sending out to investigate at Malaspiga must inevitably lead to him if they succeeded. He had already been screened once, but then it was Nathan asking the questions and telling the lies. Nathan, his safeguard, who had disappeared when he was most needed. Taylor said several obscene words, quite unconnected. It was his way of swearing, and for some reason it gave him satisfaction. He turned on his bedside lamp, measured out two sleeping pills, changed his mind and only took one. He swallowed it with some mineral water. He disliked taking anything, but he knew that he would lie awake, fretting and worrying all night. A few minutes later he was asleep, his mouth ajar, his hands folded meekly under his cheek like a small boy.

‘I want a lawyer,' Nathan said. ‘And I want to talk to my wife!'