Copyright & Information

The End Game

First published in 1982

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

EAN	ISBN	Edition
0755105265	9780755105267	Print
0755131878	9780755131877	Kindle
0755132246	9780755132249	Epub

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

About the Author

Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.

After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.

HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published. “The plot,” wrote Keating, “is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings.” It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.

Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London: “I always take a latish train to work,” he explained in 1980, “and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.”. After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘The Daily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.

Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.

Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.

The police car slid quietly down the long, empty street. The widely-spaced lighting left pools of blackness midway between the overhead standards.

“More cheerful by daylight,” agreed Detective Constable Wrangle. He was driving the car.

The roadway was enclosed on both sides by a wooden wall made of ten-foot planks set vertically in the ground and held together by rows of metal strip. The bottom of the fence was buried in a thick belt of marram grass. Alder and thorn, the trees that grow quickest when men depart, had pushed their shoots through the cracks and were already tall enough to top the wall.

“Long as I can remember,” said Wrangle. “Must be more’n six years since they shut the East Docks.”

“Offices and sheds. Marine stores, ship repairers, bonded warehouses, places like that. When the ships stopped coming here, they got no customers so they all cleared out.”

“I remember it how it used to be in the old days,” said Brannigan. “When I was a kid, we lived over on Porthead Road. I remember when the docks was crowded with ships. Albion, Canada, Russia, Quebec, Princess – busy all day long, and most of the night, too, you could see the loading going on. Nothing at all, now.”

“Bloody shame,” agreed Wrangle. He wondered if this was a moment when he could offer the Sergeant a cigarette. He hadn’t known him long enough to be sure. The Sergeant was a recent arrival in the Division and was reputed to be hot on discipline.

“Bloody mismanagement,” said Brannigan. “Crowd of bloody old women. Think of nothing but their own pockets.” He kicked the planking thoughtfully. “You ever been inside?”

“Once or twice. Few years ago the Friary Lane crowd started using one of the empty sheds as a store for stuff they’d nicked from the goods yard at Malvern Steps. We got a tip-off and raided the place. Caught them with their pants down.” He grinned. “Once you’re in, there’s no way out, see.”

“Plenty of ways out on the other side, surely? I remember the kids used to get in and out like rabbits.”

“You’d have to be a very small rabbit to do it now,” said Wrangle. “They’ve put up a twelve-foot fence on three sides. Diamond mesh. Not big enough to get your toe in. You’d get over it with a grapnel and a rope easy enough, but not if you was in a hurry.”

“That’s right. They got a handful each. They’d just about be out by now. Not that they give us a lot of trouble here. There’s nothing to attract them.”

“Then why do they bother about that?” said Brannigan. He pointed to a notice on the wall which said, “Warning. This place is patrolled by Guard Dogs. Keep out.”

“That’s a load of cock. They did have a dog in there once. Soon after they shut it down, that was. It disappeared.”

Brannigan climbed back into the car. He said, “Go on. You tell me. I suppose the rats ate it.”

“The rats or the toe-rags. They got some way of getting in and they sleep in the sheds. In the summer, that is.”

“Like I said,” said Wrangle. “One of our hotel’s five-star customers.”

The tramp, pinned against the wall by the blade of light, had thrown up an arm to protect his eyes. He was skeleton-thin, fragile enough to be blown away by the first puff of wind.

“Let’s have a look at you,” said Brannigan. He climbed out of the car. The tramp slowly lowered his arm.

Brannigan checked for a moment. It was the voice that stopped him. The voice and intonation of an educated man. Then he said, “You’ve got no right to be hanging round at this time of night. I’ve a good mind to run you in.”

“You can’t do that,” said the tramp. “I have the wherewithal for a night’s lodgings.”

Brannigan knocked his hand up, and the coin went spinning into the gutter. The tramp dropped on his knees, whining like a child, and clutched at it before it disappeared down the grating. Then he got to his feet, swaying slightly.

“Don’t you tell me what I’ve got the right to do and what I haven’t got the right to do. People like you, I’ve got the right to do anything I like with. You’re rubbish. You’re nothing.”

He stretched out his big hands, caught the tramp by the lapels of his coat and lifted him. He weighed no more than a child. He held him for a moment, his face a few inches from his own. He could see the tears of weakness and fury trickling down the caved-in cheeks.

“I’m a citizen,” said the tramp. “I’ve the right of every citizen to be treated fairly.”

Brannigan put him down on the pavement with a thump, turned about and climbed back into the car.

“I expect there’s money in the family,” said Wrangle. “Must have been. You can see he’s been educated.”

As the car moved off he looked back. The tramp had sunk back into the shadows and become part of them.

“It’s funny to think,” said Wrangle, who was feeling philosophical, “that when Percy was a kid his old man sends him to Eton and Harrow and all that caper and thinks, one day my son may be prime minister.”

“It’s mothers think about their daughters that way now,” said Brannigan sourly. He was a male radical.

For a full five minutes after the car had gone, the tramp stayed still, like an animal that has been frightened. When he moved he kept close to the fence. As he walked his lips were working. He seemed to be counting. Two lamp standards and six paces later he stopped again.

At this point, a plane tree on the far side of the paling had grown to such a height that it was already well clear of the top. Its strong roots, growing outwards, had undermined the footing of that particular plank and had worked it loose. Over the years, the parasites which feed on wood had followed the roots down and completed the job. The plank looked secure enough, but in fact it was held in position only by the three lines of metal strip. The first and the third lines had been carefully severed, so that when the tramp pressed on the bottom of the plank it swung inwards, pivoting on the centre strip. The tramp went down on to hands and knees and wriggled through without difficulty, pushing the plank back into position behind him.

Once he was inside, it was clear that he was following an established track. After climbing over a low railing he came out on to a cinder path which wound its way for a hundred yards or more between piles of abandoned and rusting machinery, skirted a pit full of oily water and ended at a solid-looking pair of wooden gates. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, and there was enough light to read the name painted in faded white letters: Hendrixsons, Shipping Agents and Chandlers.

The tramp bypassed the gates quite simply by squeezing through one of the many gaps in the corrugated-iron fence. Inside there was a concrete yard. The left-hand side was open shed. The back and the third side, which had once been a smart office block, was now a sad parody of itself. There was a rusty grill over the front door, fastened with a chain. The windows were barred. There were gaps in the roof, and every grime-smeared pane of glass had been shattered, as though by shrapnel.

The tramp made for the open shed. A flight of wooden steps at the back led up to the first storey. This was full of every sort of debris and refuse. There were broken packing cases, cardboard cartons, the straw skirts which careful packers put round bottles, heaps of rags, piles of sacking and hundreds upon hundreds of old newspapers. It was a rats’ nest, enlarged to human proportions.

There were human rats in it. As the tramp climbed the steps he heard them stirring. He hoped that no one had trespassed into his favourite bedroom. This was a man-sized carton in the far corner, which had once been used for the transport of an electrical generator. It was lying on one side and was half full of newspaper and straw. It was empty. Good.

The tramp crawled into it and wriggled down among the debris. As he was doing so, he paused and sniffed. Someone, not far away, had been smoking a cigarette. He twisted round and poked his head out of the doorway of his cardboard room.

The tramp grunted. He recognised the voice. It was a middle-aged layabout called Irish Mick. He said, “If you go on smoking, Mick, one fine night we’ll all go up in flames.”

Other voices were muttering in the darkness. Conversations interrupted by the new arrival were starting up again. Whispered, husky, confidential colloquies which sometimes went on through the April night as the homeless men confided their meaningless secrets to each other.

“It’s a dump,” said David Rhys Morgan. “It’s as old-fashioned as my Auntie Tamsin’s knickers. But not so attractive.”

The building which carried the brass plate of Martindale, Mantegna and Lyon, Chartered Accountants, had once been the rectory of the Church of St. Martin-at-Hill. The church had fallen out of use many years before and had been opened to the sky by Göring’s bombers. Somehow the rectory, tucked away in a cul-de-sac, had survived bombs and developers. It was totally unsuited to be an office. It had no lift. Its hot water and heating system was subject to unscheduled stoppages. Its windows were so overshadowed by neighbouring giants that electric light was needed in most of the rooms for most hours of the day.

“A nineteenth-century dump,” said Morgan. “Straight out of the pages of Charles bloody Dickens.”

He was talking to himself. It was a quarter to two, and everyone else was out at lunch. He had had his own lunch from the bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk, and he was now wasting an agreeable half hour snooping into other people’s rooms.

The room next door belonged to one of the junior partners, Gerald Hopkirk. It was a nodding acquaintance with Gerald that had got Morgan his job in the firm. He had been there for three months now. He was already fed up with it.

“My old da was right,” he said. “Never stay in one job too long. It’s the bird that hops from bough to bough that gets the pick of the fruit.”

Hopkirk’s door was unlocked. Morgan went in and seated himself behind the desk. Close to his right hand was a filing cabinet. He opened the drawer labelled A-K, picked out a handful of files from the middle and spread them on the desk. One of them seemed to interest him. It was an old file and had seen a lot of service. It was labelled “Argon Finance – PAYE and National Insurance.” There was a newspaper cutting, already yellowing with age, stapled on to the inside of the cover. Morgan tipped his chair on to its back legs and started to read.

The torrential rain which burst over London yesterday was the direct cause of a tragedy which claimed three Lives. Julius Mantegna, a partner in the well-known firm of City Accountants, Martindale, Mantegna and Lyon, was driving to a business appointment in North London, accompanied by a client, Lt. Colonel Ian Paterson, and his secretary, Miss Phyllis Blamey. As they approached Highgate Archway a lorry and trailer, driven by Alfred Birch, which was coming down the hill, struck a patch of flood water and skidded. The lorry and trailer jackknifed across the road and hit the car head on. All three of the occupants were killed instantly. The driver of the lorry was taken to the Whittington Hospital suffering from shock, but was released later. The lorry belongs to the McCorkindale Transport Company. Mr Fergus McCorkindale said, “This was a terrible thing. Alf Birch has been driving for us for thirty years, and this is the first accident he has ever had.”

The file was full of PAYE returns and letters from and to the Inspector of Taxes. Among them was a single communication from the client himself. It was on good paper, headed “Argon Finance and Investment Limited,” over a small and rather well-designed logo of a ship under sail. The directors were named as Randall Blackett, C.A., and Ian Paterson, D.S.O. The registered office was a 513 Anstey House, Theobalds Road.

“Fifth floor of a big block,” diagnosed Morgan. “Sounds okay, but could have been a crummy little joint.”

The letter said: “Dear Julius, Get after the tax man with a big stick. He doesn’t seem to have read the last Finance Act. Yours, Randall.”

The “Randall” had been written in thick black ink with firm strokes of the pen. The signature of a man who knew his own mind and did not suffer fools gladly.

She had opened the door softly and was standing peering round it. “Like a startled but indignant hen,” said Morgan.

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.”

“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.”

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

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.”

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

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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?”

“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?”

“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.”

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

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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

“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.”

“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 happy,” 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.

“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—”

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.”

“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.”

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.

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

“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?”

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

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?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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

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.

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.”

“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?”

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

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

“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?”

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.

“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.”

Morgan reflected for a moment and then said, “Of course. It was the ladybird. Did she tell you about the ladybird?”

“Coming from I know not where, flying through the open window, it alighted on Miss Crawley’s blouse. Possibly it mistook the pattern of green and brown leaves for the thicket where it had abandoned its children. I thought it kind to remove it.”

“If Miss Crawley has led you to believe that anything of an improper nature took place, then I am afraid that she has allowed an overvivid imagination to run away with her.” He leaned forward in the chair and said, more seriously, “We both know how women—of a certain age—” He let the sentence hang.

Mr Lyon said, “Yes, well, it’s a possible explanation.” He seemed glad to leave the topic and move on to firmer ground. “That wasn’t the only thing I wanted to talk to you about. Your attendance record is far from good. Two days ago I wanted to look at one of your files and was told that you had not arrived. That was after ten o’clock.”

“A holdup on the Underground. We were kept waiting for twenty-five minutes between Chancery Lane and St. Paul’s. Several women fainted. You may have read about it in the papers.”

“I see,” said Mr Lyon drily. “As long as these holdups don’t occur too often. In an office like this, time is money.”

The events of the evening before, which had left their mark on David Morgan, did not seem to have affected Susan Perronet-Condé. She arrived at the office of M. N. Harmond Ltd. on the stroke of nine, looking her usual fresh, cheerful and composed self, and had been working for half an hour by the time Toby Harmond breezed in.

Toby was the great-grandson of the Michael Naysmith Harmond who had founded the firm midway through the reign of Queen Victoria, at a time when private enterprise had not yet learned to be ashamed of itself. The firm dealt in all varieties of printers’ ink. Its continuing prosperity had been based on the hard work and application of Francis Naysmith Harmond, Toby’s grandfather, and Edward Naysmith Harmond, Toby’s father.

By the fourth generation some of the enthusiasm had worn thin. Toby had played racquets and rugby football for Wellington and had recently discovered the joys of squash, at which he had become more than proficient. He had tried to lure Susan on to the court with him, so far without success.

She said, “I don’t see why I should sweat about retrieving impossible shots and losing every game nine-nil.”

“Nothing,” said Toby with enthusiasm. “Nothing at all. Suppose we give it a try this evening.”

“An excellent idea,” said Toby. “You could come and lie flat on your back on my sofa whilst I cooked the supper.”

“This is no time for frivolity,” said Susan sternly. “The six-monthly report and marketing analysis is due.” She indicated a large buff envelope on the desk. Toby looked at it with distaste. He said, “We’ve just done one.”

Two years before, Toby had given up the struggle to remain independent. The technical processes of ink manufacture, which had been simple in the days of Queen Victoria, had now become sophisticated and expensive. It was a sharply competitive market. To fall behind meant disaster. To keep up involved an increasing expenditure of capital which he did not possess. It was at this point that Martin Brandreth had arrived.

Toby knew Martin as the managing director of Sayborn Art Printers, one of the main purchasers of their inks. Brandreth had laid his proposition on the line without preamble. He said, “You’re undercapitalised. If you don’t do something about it your company will lose money again this year. As you have for the last two years, only more so. You can survive for another year or so on your reserves. After that, it’ll be a creditors’ liquidation.”

“That’s a lot of nonsense,” Toby had said. “You know nothing about it, and anyway what business is it of yours?”

“I know about it because I’ve read your published accounts. It’s my business because I’ve got a proposition for you. I can introduce you to a man who will buy a fifty-one per cent stake in your company. He can also find the money you need for new machinery.”

The only thing which had made Toby hesitate had been that he neither liked nor trusted Brandreth. He said, “Who’s the fairy godmother?”

Brandreth had added, “If it’s any comfort to you, you might like to know that he took us over a couple of years ago.”

“If he makes the same arrangement with you as he did with us, he won’t even ask for a seat on the Board. He’ll sign himself up as a consultant to your company. At a good fee.”

“Wait for it. The arrangement is that he doesn’t get a penny of fee until he has at least doubled your turnover and your profit.”

Toby had known that he was going to have to say yes. The decision was a simple one. Whether to remain captain of a sinking ship or sign on as first mate of a ship which had a prospect of staying afloat. The deciding factor had been that if Harmonds did go down, his father’s pension would go with it. His father was enjoying his retirement, down in Hampshire, in a farmhouse which had some fishing rights. He caught few fish, but was very happy.

In the event, it had not turned out as badly as Toby had feared. The dreaded Blackett had intervened very little, so far, in the running of the company, and all his interventions had been helpful. For the most part they had consisted of suggesting new outlets for Harmond products. Outlets, Toby suspected, in which Blackett also held a partial or a controlling interest. The only feature of the new regime which he found oppressive was the half-yearly report.

This was an extensive document, covering every aspect of the company’s business. The factual bits he could fill in easily enough with the assistance of his chief accountant. It was the two blank pages at the end which baffled him. One was headed “Prospects,” the other “Ideas.” On the first occasion he had written, “Prospects good. Ideas—none,” and had been tersely informed, by Blackett in person, that this was not good enough.

The two blank pages began to haunt him. He had never been good at expressing himself on paper and had never troubled to analyse the rationale of his business. Now he had to do both and had to do it every six months.

“You’re a girl with ideas,” he said to Susan. “Why don’t you do it?”

“You’ve been at this all your working life. I’ve been here exactly three months.”

“Exactly. You’ll be bringing a fresh mind to it. Come out to lunch and we’ll talk about it.”

Over lunch they talked about it. And about other things. Susan had suspected for some time that Toby was working up to a proposal of marriage. He was not a young man who concealed his feelings. She hoped he never got into a game of high-stakes poker.

The eating place he had chosen had those tall wooden pews which were a pain in the neck for the waiters, but gave diners a lot of privacy. They had been late starters and by the time they reached the coffee stage the place was nearly empty. For some minutes now Toby had been wearing the determined look of an infantryman about to go over the top.

Toby looked deflated. It was as though the attack had been called off at the last moment.

This had the hoped-for effect. Toby said, “Scared? I’m not scared of him. Who said I was scared of him?”

“Then why do you look like a dog threatened with a bath when this half-yearly report form arrives?”

Come to think of it, he was almost exactly like a golden Labrador they had had when she was young: large, friendly and without an ounce of guile.

“It’s a bore,” said Toby. “I can never think of anything new to say.” At least, his mind seemed to be veering away from proposals of marriage. “I can put in all the guff in the first part. It’s the Prospects and Ideas bit which buffaloes me. I think you might lend a hand with it. After all, you are my secretary.”

“I might be able to work out what Blackett wants if I had any idea what sort of man he was.”

Toby took a lump of sugar out of the bowl and ate it to assist thought. He said, “I don’t really know a lot about him. Everyone says he’s a wonderful chap, and they must be right when you think what he’s done. He’s a sort of water diviner. He goes round with his hazel rod looking for money. When the rod gives a twitch, he knows he’s on to something worth backing and he backs it for all he’s worth.”

Susan caught the waiter’s eye, and he refilled their coffee cups. Toby was safe for the next ten minutes. She said, “How did he start? Do you know?”

“Only what I’ve heard Brandreth talking about. He did a lot of different things immediately after the war. That was when he qualified as an accountant. And I think he spent some time in America. Then he started his own outfit, Argon Investments. He had a piece of the action in a property company run by a man called Woolf. Woolf died, and he bought out the widow. That’s when he really took off.”

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