The Madeiran Double Cross Read online

  Bloody good job that place is closed, Mason thought as they passed Harrods, or Elsie would want to stop and do a bit of shopping.

  At the end of the Brompton Road, Tony pulled the car into a smooth turn, and they were home.

  “Coming up for a drink?” Mason asked, trying to keep any hidden meaning out of his voice.

  Tony shrugged. “If it’s not keeping you up.”

  It would have been just like Elsie to hang around, postponing the moment when Mason could unveil The Plan, but for once she was co-operative. Maybe she was just too tired to be bloody awkward.

  “Thank you again, Tony, love,” she said as she headed for the master bedroom. “You’re a real gentleman.”

  Tony gave Mason a wry look. It was Frank he owed his loyalty to. The only part of Elsie that he respected was her brain.

  Mason mixed the drinks – a whisky for himself and a Bacardi and Coke for Tony – and sat down on the leather sofa. The sun was just rising, and through the picture window he could see Hyde Park. Yet even as he relished the experience, he remembered that the flat was on a short lease and the view was only rented.

  The two men made small talk until the taps had been turned off, the loo flushed, and Elsie was safely in bed.

  “So, where’s the job?” Tony asked finally, his voice edged with doubt, even before he’d heard the plan. “Local? Or up north?”

  “Neither,” Mason said. “It’s in Madeira.”

  “It’s a big thing pulling a job abroad, Frank.” And it was clear from his voice that his doubts had amplified. “Expensive, too. Will there be enough money to make it worthwhile?”

  On that point at least, Mason was sure he could be persuasive.

  “I want to pull it off at Christmas,” he said. “There'll be thirty thousand tourists on the island then. And not people doing it on the cheap, like you find in Benidorm. Me and Elsie went to the casino one night, and you’ve never seen so much money being thrown around outside Monte Carlo. They had three croupiers to each table, one to spin the wheel, the other two to rake the gelt in.”

  “Still,” Tony said, “the casino’s one thing but …”

  “Thirty thousand tourists,” Mason persisted, “and two hundred thousand locals, all wanting to splash out on the festivities.”

  “Even so …”

  In a scrap, Mason thought, he’d follow me to hell and back. But when it comes to planning a job …

  “Look,” he said, “the banks usually close for the three days over Christmas, but this year, because Christmas Day falls on a Thursday, they’ll be shut for five days. That means they’re going to have a rush on the twenty-third, and they’ll have to have a lot of cash to meet it, unless they want to run out and look like wallies. And there are only four or five main banks in the whole of Funchal. They’ll be bursting at the seams.”

  “Shouldn’t we ask Elsie what she …” Tony caught Mason’s look and made a hasty amendment, “…I mean, it’s all very well pulling the job, but how do we get away?”

  “Have you got a girl at the moment?” Mason asked. “Somebody you’re sleeping with regular?”

  “I’ve got one. I’m not shafting it yet, but it shouldn’t take me too much longer.” Tony grinned at Mason's puzzled expression. “It’s a virgin, this one, a barefoot orphan from up north. It just needs a bit more working on, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’ll be your choice,” Mason said doubtfully, “but I’m not sure she sounds like the right sort for this job. She sounds too much of a civilian.”

  “Christ,” Tony said, “you’re not thinking of taking women on the job, are you?”

  “Oh yes, I am. They’re an important part of The Plan.”

  THREE

  Raindrops drummed against the window, flattened, and trickled down the glass. Mason watched them, each one doggedly pursuing a course it had not chosen – a course which would end, whether it willed it or not, when pane met wood.

  Did it ever do anything else but rain in England? he asked himself.

  After the job was over, he wouldn’t settle down anywhere until he’d checked the average rainfall figures.

  He rolled over, nuzzling his nose in the pillow, and smelt the mixture of sweat and juices – that scent of animal sexuality which was peculiar to Linda. He could hear her now, brushing her long black hair in front of the dressing-table mirror.

  Swish … swish … swish …

  It wasn’t much of a love nest, this, he thought. The estate agent who sold him a short lease had described it as a ‘compact’ flat – which meant bed-sit. Still, it had been all he’d been able to afford in this road populated mainly by respectable working-class West Indians and financially wobbly Yuppies.

  The place had been decorated according to Linda’s tastes – and God, it had cost. The walls were covered with embossed paper, the curtains were of heavy velvet. Shag-pile carpet covered the floor, and the bed – which dominated the room – was draped with a soft, fluffy counterpane. One thing you had to say about Linda – neither in her dress, nor in her choice of furnishings, did she ever run any risk of being prosecuted under the Trades’ Description Act.

  He turned to look at her now. Her back was to him and her buttocks hung over the pink, woolly stool like a ripe peach. He could see the reflection of her breasts in the mirror, large and firm, and, by their very lack of sag, defying the laws of gravity.

  A nice view – but, like the one from his flat in Knightsbridge, only his as long as he had the money to pay for it.

  As Linda brushed her hair, the breasts jiggled, and the two brown eyes in the centres of them stared at him invitingly. He was not tempted. He had yearned for her body on holiday, but that was before he had come up with The Plan, and even at the height of their passion that afternoon there had been a part of his brain that would not relax – that had been preparing itself for what he had to say now.

  “I want you to do a job for me, darlin’.”

  She stopped brushing and froze.

  “What kind of job?” she asked suspiciously.

  Linda was not keen on work, he thought, not unless she could do it on her back. But at least she didn’t ask him if he meant that Elsie had a job for her, because, like most people, she didn’t know that up till now – up till now – it had been Elsie who’d worked everything out.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “you’ll like it. Two weeks in the sun and not much to do except get them glorious boobs a lovely shade of golden brown. Can’t be bad. Right?”

  Linda made a clucking sound to show her disapproval of his bad language. He wasn’t fooled. Her prudishness was, at best, only a vestige of her genteel, lower-middle-class upbringing in the suburbs. Now it wasn’t even that – now she was using it merely as a stalling mechanism.

  “Where?” she asked finally.

  “Madeira.” Mason reached over to his jacket, and extracted the ticket he had bought that morning. “I've booked you on the night flight.”

  “You’ve just got back from there.”

  True, but how could he have done what was necessary with Elsie watching him? Besides, he admitted to himself, Linda, with her ‘qualifications’, was likely to be more successful than he would have been.

  “You don’t want Elsie to know about it, do you?” Linda asked.

  She wasn’t stupid, Mason thought, but then a stupid woman wouldn’t be of much use to him.

  “No,” he said. “Elsie doesn’t know. I’m doing the job for us. When I’ve pulled it off, we’ll have more than enough money to go away.” A thought struck him. “Does Nigel know about you and me?”

  Linda shrugged her shoulders: her breasts bobbed rhythmically.

  “He knows I’m carrying on with somebody,” Linda said, “but I don't think he knows who. Why?”

  “I think I might be able to use him as well.”

  “Same job?”

  “No,” Mason said quickly. “Something else I’m pulling on the side, to raise the seed money. So, what do you say to two weeks in
Madeira?”

  Linda started brushing again. She found a knot just below her left ear and, as Mason did his best to restrain his impatience, she began to untangle it. It seemed to take forever.

  Mason lit a cigarette, not because he wanted one, just to give himself something to do with his hands – and still Linda’s concentration was focused on her hair.

  “Well, will you do it?” he demanded when he could restrain himself no longer, softening his voice to add, “I really need you on this one, darlin’.”

  “If you really need me,” Linda said, “then I want cutting in.”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Mason exploded. “I told you I was doing the job for us. What’s mine’s yours.”

  “And what’s mine’s yours, sweetheart,” Linda said sincerely. “But if I’m going to be on the team, it’s only right we get my share, isn’t it?”

  It made sense, Mason supposed. “You’ll get the same cut as the shotgun men,” he said. “Fair enough?”

  He twisted his head to get a different angle on the mirror. Linda's lovely boobs disappeared and instead he could see her face. Her lips were curved in a smile of triumph.

  “Fair enough,” she said.

  *

  Although it was only late afternoon, Arnie the Actor was wearing a white dinner jacket and black bow tie. Today he was James Bond – the original Bond, as played by Sean Connery – and a Martini rested just next to the crisp, clean cuff of his dress shirt. The day before, in complete contrast, he had been the wild Irish playwright Brendan Behan, and had stood, duffel-coated, knocking back the pints of Guinness until he fell over.

  Robbie the barman had become an expert at spotting Arnie's persona du jour and could usually guess what drink to pour without being asked.

  He glanced, almost hopefully, at the bottle of Lamb’s Navy rum which sat on the shelf behind him.

  “One day,” he thought, “Arnie’s bound to come clumping in here with a wooden leg and a bleeding stuffed parrot fastened to his shoulder.”

  The door swung open and a young man in a sharp grey suit entered.

  Tony Horton.

  Horton walked up to the bar, chose a stool two seats down from Arnie’s, and ordered a rum and Coke. He was not, strictly speaking, a member of Crocket’s Drinking Club, but Robbie wasn’t about to refuse to serve one of Frank Mason’s firm.

  Not that Frank was known to throw his weight around – but still …

  It wasn’t until he was well down his drink that Tony appeared to notice Arnie and ask if he’d like one.

  Twenty-four hours earlier, Arnie would have flung his arms around him and told him that he was the best friend a man ever had, then asked for “a pint of the black stuff, surr, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Now, he looked Tony coolly up and down and said in a deep voice, with just a trace of a Scottish accent, that he’d have a Vodka Martini.

  “Shaken, not stirred?” Tony asked sarcastically.

  Arnie, his eyes half-hooded, gave a slight nod.

  Tony waited until Robbie had retreated to the other end of the bar, then said quietly, “Got any time on your hands?”

  The corners of Arnie’s mouth twitched into a sardonic smile, the smile of a man who knows he is about to be offered an almost suicidal mission, but who will accept it anyway, because only he can save the free world. He glanced quickly around the bar as if to make sure that Starlight Eddie, Kev the Shark and the other two or three regular afternoon boozers were not, in fact, SMERSH agents in disguise.

  “What’s the assignment?”

  He really was a pain in the arse, Tony thought. Still, it could have been worse – sometimes he thought he was Rasputin.

  “I’ve got a friend who might be able to throw a bit of work your way,” Tony said.

  “That would be Frank Mason.”

  “Would it?” Tony said. He finished his drink. “It’s best we’re not seen together. I’m leaving now. Give it ten minutes and then follow me. I’ll be waiting on the corner, in a green Porsche.”

  “I drive,” Arnie said. “You sit in the ejector seat.”

  Tony grinned. Well, you had to.

  “Just as you like,” he said, heading for the door.

  *

  Nigel was sitting on the edge of the bed, playing with a rubber band stretched between his fingers, and watching his wife pack.

  “Look here, old girl,” he said, “I’m not sure that I like the sound of this at all. I mean, what exactly does it involve?”

  Linda held a dress up to herself and looked into the mirror. The neckline plunged – as it did on most of her summer clothes – almost to the navel. The hem was a little shorter than was fashionable, but then there were not many women who had legs as good as hers.

  “I’ve told you a thousand times,” she said. “Mr. Mason wants me to go and have a look at some property he’s thinking of buying in Ma … in the Canary Islands.”

  “Ma …? You said, ‘Ma…’”

  “It was going to be Majorca at first, but he changed his mind.”

  She realized that in covering up her mistake, she had involuntarily clenched her fists, creasing the dress.

  “Now look what you’ve made me do with all your questions,” she shouted, stomping out of the bedroom, down the hallway and into the tiny kitchen.

  She opened the cupboard door and the vacuum cleaner started to fall out. Furious, she pushed it back with her foot, while extricating the ironing board with one hand. While the iron heated up, she drummed her fingers impatiently on the board. The bedsprings creaked and she knew that Nigel had got up and was coming to join her.

  He appeared in the doorway.

  “I mean, why you? What do you know about property?” His eyes narrowed. “He’s not going with you, is he?”

  “No,” she said slowly, impatiently, as if explaining something to an extremely slow child. “He isn’t. I met him in the Orinoco Club a couple of times and we got talking. He wants to buy some flats and he doesn’t want his wife to know about it. And if he uses one of his regular staff, she’ll be bound to find out.”

  “Staff!” Nigel said. “Staff! He doesn’t have staff. It’s not a businessman you’re talking about, you know, it’s a gangster – a thug.”

  “At least he’s a man of some kind,” Linda said.

  She spat on the iron. It sizzled. She placed the dress on the board and began to smooth out the wrinkled patch.

  “Look, if you’d like to come with me, to make absolutely sure I’m going on my own, then you can,” she said. Nigel looked at her with sad, hopeful eyes, like a dog which has been offered a bone. Even his ears seemed to prick up, but they dropped again instantly when she added, “Provided, of course, you’ve got the money.”

  “You know I haven’t,” he said. “Most of what I earn goes to clothe you.”

  Linda ran her tongue around the edges of her mouth as she concentrated on making a perfect crease.

  “Well, there you are,” she said. “You can’t expect Mr. Mason to pay for you as well, now can you? So you’ll have to stay at home.”

  His lip curled – the small boy who has been hurt and wants his nanny to comfort him.

  She softened a little.

  “You might be flush again soon,” she said. “I’ve put in a good word for you with Mr. Mason. He’s got a job he wants doing.”

  “What does he want? Some photographs taken?”

  What did he want? Linda wondered. What possible use could Frank have for a weed like Nigel?

  “I don’t know what the job is,” she said. “He didn’t tell me, did he?”

  Nigel was nibbling at his lower lip. Even the thought of working for Frank was making him nervous.

  “Is it legal?” he asked.

  Oh, for God's sake! It really was pointless trying to be nice to him, Linda told herself.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” she said aloud. “Who the hell would employ you to do anything legal?”

  Nigel carried Linda's suitcases
down to the front door and watched until the cab – paid for by ‘Mr.’ Mason – had disappeared round the corner. He had suspected for some time that Linda was having an affair. Now he was sure that she was, and that her lover was Mason.

  He couldn’t blame Linda in a way. She was a mercenary little bitch, but he’d known that when he married her. Her dowry was her body, his money the bride-price. She had held to her side of the bargain, she was as beautiful as she had ever been – but he hadn’t been able to keep up his.

  All his problems had one simple solution – money. If he became rich, Linda would come back to him soon enough. And though whatever job Mason offered him wouldn’t pay that much – who would pay him that much? – there might be a way to put a squeeze on the gangster for more.

  Getting the money from Mason rather than anyone else would be doubly sweet; he might not be brave enough to fight his wife’s lover, but there were other ways in which honour could be served.

  *

  Arnie came through the door as James Bond, but as he walked across the room to where Mason was standing his shoulders drooped, the sardonic expression was replaced by world-weariness, and he was transformed back into what he really was – a two-bit actor who had never made the big time.

  Mason had seen Arnie go through this change many times. The property tycoon who couldn’t handle the deal himself because it would only force the prices up; the MoD Weapons Export Officer in temporary financial difficulties; the captain of the supertanker who could lay his hands on thousands of barrels of oil dirt cheap – all these characters disappeared once the mark had been dropped off at his hotel. Yet each time insignificant little Arnie emerged from the shell of his creation, Mason was both amazed and disappointed – as if he had hoped for a while that the actor had finally managed to escape from the trap in which he was caught.

  But none of us can escape, Mason thought – not without money.

  “Sit down, Arnie,” he said, indicating one of the dinky pink easy chairs that Linda had insisted on buying. “Sorry about this place. I know it looks a bit like a Port Said brothel, but at least it’s private. Right?”

  “Absolutely,” Arnie replied. The rich, modulated voice was not put on. That at least, he could call his own.