Joe Sixsmith: Killing The Lawyers Part 24

"Surely," said Pollinger.

He picked up his phone and dialled. Joe wandered to the window and looked down into the yard at the white Merc. Must be nice to afford wheels like that, he thought. But there was no real envy in the thought. A man shouldn't waste time coveting what wasn't his due. But those things that were his due, like freedom, respect and, in his own case, an old Morris Oxford, he should be willing to fight to the last drop of blood for.

He heard Pollinger say, "Oh h.e.l.lo, Lucy. Darby here. Listen, I've got a chap called Sixsmith in my office, private investigator I've hired to watch out for our interests in this terrible business. I believe you've met him ... yes, that's the one. Well, it would be useful if he could talk to Felix ... how is he, by the way? Resting ... very wise so would it be all right for Sixsmith to call round some time ... yes, of course he would ... fine, of course, you get back to the invalid. Give him my best. "Bye."

He put the phone down. Joe turned to face him.

"OK, is it?" he said.

"Yes. I spoke to Lucy. Felix is taking it easy, it seems, resting in bed, though from the sound of it he's not making a very good patient. Banging on the floor to get her attention! Anyway, she says it will be fine for you to call, but could you ring before you go, just to make sure Felix is up to it?"

"Sure," said Joe.

"You'll need his number. He's ex-directory."

Not if you want a taxi, he's not, thought Joe. But it didn't seem worth the effort of explaining.

Pollinger scribbled the number on a piece of paper. Joe took it and put it in his wallet.

I'll be on my way," he said. I'll check back with you the minute anything turns up. See you, Mr. Pollinger."

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Sixsmith."

On his way down the stairs he met Mrs. Mattison coming up.

He said, "He's up there."

"I thought he must be," she said. "He might have let me know."

"Things on his mind," said Joe with masculine solidarity. "Nice to have met you, Mrs. Mattison."

"You too," she said.

He went past her but had only descended another three or four stairs when she called, "Oh, Mr. Sixsmith "Yes?"

He turned and looked up at her. Handsome woman. More important perhaps, she looked like she was going to tell him something.

Then she smiled and said, "Nothing. Just Happy New Year, Mr. Sixsmith."

"And the same to you," said Joe.

Twenty-One.

This morning the Plezz was buzzing with activity as teams of workmen laboured to make it fit for the Grand Opening the following day.

The main public ceremony would take place in the stadium just before the athletics meeting. The mayor would make a speech, an Olympic-style torch would be carried in by a young runner, and the whole shooting match would be declared open. In the evening, a civic reception was to be held in the new art gallery. Invitations were harder to get hold of than pickled onions in a narrow jar. It was rumoured that many of the uninvited had arranged holidays abroad to support their claims to have sent their apologies. Joe, on the other hand, felt neither surprised nor humiliated at not being on the list. In fact, if an invitation had dropped through his letter box, he'd probably have binned it as a bad forgery and a worse joke.

He ran in to Hooter Hardiman as he entered the stadium. He looked hara.s.sed.

"You still around, Joe?" said the man, making it sound like another straw on his already overladen back.

"Nice to see you too," said Joe. "You had any more thoughts about who might have been planting those notes? Someone in the Spartans, you thought, maybe."

A nonstarter, he reckoned. This thing was way beyond a nasty practical joke. But so long as Hooter stayed on his suspect list, he might as well keep him lulled. And just because Starbright had caught Abe and Mary humping was no reason to revise the list.

"Don't you think I've got other things to keep me occupied than worrying about some hacked-off half wit demanded Hardiman. "Every other b.u.g.g.e.r responsible for getting things organized for tomorrow seems to think I should be doing his job. I don't see why I've got to take on yours as well!"

He strode away. Genuine irritation or heavy play-acting, wondered Joe. Didn't matter which. If Hooter was a player, he reckoned it was a support role, not a lead. Find Alberich and the Rhinegold was safe. Why the shoot was his mind running on Wagner? Of course. Mrs. Mattison telling him about Montaigne's little joke. Good baritone part, Alberich. There'd been some talk of Boyling Corner putting on a concert version of Das Rheingold with the Luton Operatics, and there'd been a heady moment when Rev. Pot, musing on the problems of casting, had let his eye dwell speculatively on Joe as he referred to the malignant dwarf baritone.

Well, it had come to nothing, and if it had materialized, Joe didn't doubt he'd have ended up in the chorus as usual. But no harm in dreaming.

He essayed a few remembered phrases from Alberich's opening exchange with the Rhinemaidens, and was amazed when one of them sang back over his shoulder. True, it was in a tenor falsetto, but perfectly phrased for all that. He turned to find Starbright Jones standing behind him.

"Hey, man," he said. "You never said you could sing."

"Can't really. You should've heard my old dad. But he had me at it soon as I could open my mouth without burping. You do more than karaoking?"

You really have been following me around, thought Joe.

He said, "I'm in the Boyling Corner Choir."

"You are?" He sounded impressed. "Hear they're pretty good."

"You?" said Joe.

"Was when I was younger. Sort of drifted away. Who're you after?"

Thought I might have a chat with Abe Schoenfeld."

Jones nodded approvingly.

"He's your man," he said. "He's around somewhere."

"Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on Zak?" asked Joe.

"She's showering."

Joe thought of making a joke, remembered Starbright's secret pa.s.sion, decided against it.

"Finished training already?" said Joe looking at his watch.

"She's got a race tomorrow, remember? Just a light workout is all she needs today. Listen, you get this sorted quick, see? If your way don't work, then I'll have to try mine."

He walked away, looking as menacing in retreat as he did advancing. A high melodic line which didn't sound as if it could have any connection with him came drifting back. Joe thought he recognized it as Siegfried's outburst as he confronted the giant Fafner now turned into a dragon.

Time I got this sorted, thought Joe. Unless I want the blame for letting Starbright loose on an unsuspecting world.

He wasn't sure how best to play it. Or rather he was sure how best to play it, which was with subtle questioning and clever verbal traps to trick Schoenfeld into admitting what was presently only a nasty suspicion in Starbright Jones's mind. Trouble was, he didn't really know the rules of that subtle questioning game. Also it was worth remembering that if Schoenfeld was the guy behind the betting scam, then he was also the guy who reacted to interference by trying to cancel the interferer's ticket.

Maybe the best way to proceed was Starbright/Siegfried's after all! As Aunt Mirabelle used to say as she dragged him to the dentist, little bit of pain never hurt anyone.

He was into the warren of corridors connecting the offices and the changing areas now. Ahead of him a door opened and Mary Oto came out, clutching what looked like a length of fax paper. She didn't look in his direction but turned the other way. He paused till she turned a corner then hurried after her. The room she'd come out of was Hardiman's office. Cautiously he peered round the next corner and glimpsed her vanishing through another door. When he reached it he saw that it led into the men's locker room. This he recalled was where Starbright had overheard the activity which caused him such embarra.s.sment. Chances were the woman had come in here to meet her boyfriend once again. What other reason? Joe didn't mind a cla.s.sy strip show but he was no voyeur. He wanted to be in there before talking stopped and the action started. There wouldn't be just a single entrance to the changing rooms, would there? Fire regulations would demand at least one alternative. He went on down the corridor and felt a glow of satisfaction at being proved right. Cautiously he opened the door and peered in. No one in sight but he could hear the sound of a shower at the far end.

He stepped inside and made his way towards it.

Mary Oto was standing before an open shower stall. Abe Schoenfeld was just visible through a cloud of steam. The hiss of the water was going to make eavesdropping difficult, thought Joe. Fortunately it meant they had to raise their voices too, so he cautiously edged closer, keeping a central row of lockers between himself and the couple, and by dint of standing on a bench so that his head was above the locker level, he began to pick up the conversation.

"So that's it then. All set," said the man.

That's it. After the race, we're home and free."

"She won't like it."

"You know what they say about omelettes and eggs," said the woman indifferently.

Shoot! thought Joe. This was one callous lady!

His indignation and rise in water sound as the man increased the shower pressure made him miss the next bit of the exchange.

"She will do it, won't she?" the man was saying as he turned the jet down. "One thing I've learned about your sister is she hates not being in control."

"The other thing you should have learned is, she's not stupid. She'll dig her heels in, but she won't cut herself off at the ankles to keep them dug."

"I guess so. Hey, come on here, give me a kiss to celebrate."

"p.i.s.s off, you idiot, I'm getting soaked!" cried Mary, but she didn't sound really angry and Joe thought, time to get out of here if they're going to start slapping their meat.

He turned to go, stepping gingerly off the bench, then paused and climbed up again as the woman disengaged herself and said, "So that just leaves the little gumshoe to worry about."

"Yeah, he's persistent, ain't he? You got a line yet?"

"No. But whatever, now we've got this far, he can't be any bother to us, can he?"

"None in the world. Come here!"

They re-engaged. Joe turned once more, only this time he completely forgot he was standing on the bench, and his first step sent him crashing to the floor.

"Oh shoot!" he said, pushing himself to a sitting position and feeling for broken bones. But there was no time for first aid.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" cried Schoenfeld. And the next moment he was round the end of the row of lockers and glaring with angry disbelief at Joe.

Some folk might say that there's no way a stark naked man, however big, can take on a fully clothed man, however small, without feeling his disadvantages.

Joe, however, wasn't brought up to take advantage of the unprotected. Indeed, when he accidentally brushed against Schoenfeld's private parts as he rose to his feet, where a lesser man might have grabbed hold and twisted, he flushed and said, "Hey, man. I'm sorry."

The only reward for his forbearance was a left hook to his temple which sent him reeling sideways.

"So what's your game, d.i.c.khead?" demanded Schoenfeld.

Doubting whether the guy really wanted an answer, Joe did the only thing a sensible PI could do in the circ.u.mstances and ran.

He made it out of the door at such a speed he went straight into the wall opposite and bounced back into Abe Schoenfeld's waiting arms. The same arms instantly put him in a headlock which he recalled from Mr. Takeushi's cla.s.ses. Pity he couldn't recall the counter to it. As the blood flow to his head became seriously interrupted, his princ.i.p.al feeling was of shame. Surely the conquerer of Marble-Tooth of the S AS in all his finery could deal with a mother-naked Yank?

Schoenfeld was screaming something about "the truth" but he couldn't make it out over the roaring of his blood, and anyway he doubted if it had much to do with the truth that would set him free.

Then another voice spoke.

This anyone's fight, or are you two just in love?"

Joe twisted his head round, or rather Abe twisted it round, so that he found he was looking at Douglas Endor.

Joe said, "Arrghh."

Schoenfeld said, "You want a fight, you got it," and hurled Joe towards the agent. Joe had never worn a thousand-pound mohair suit but he knew it was worth every penny if it felt as comfortable on as it did against his face as he embraced Endor for succour and support.

Endor said, "Easy there, Abe. Let's sit down and talk about this."

Schoenfeld said, "Too late for talking," and balled his fists.

Joe closed his eyes and prepared for a renewed attack. Good Samaritans were OK for succour, but you couldn't really expect them to take on your fights. He only hoped Endor would have the sense to run off and call Security.

Then Mary's voice said, "Abe."

She was standing in the changing-room door.

Endor said, "Mary? What's going on?"

She glowered at him angrily then pointed an accusing finger at Joe.

"Ask your little friend," she sneered.

"Joe?" said Endor.

His tongue had just about deflated to a size where speech was once again possible. He croaked, "It's over. OK? It's over."

The man and woman exchanged glances. Then Abe said, "That's right. It's over. Come on, sweetheart." And putting his arm over Mary's shoulders, he urged her back into the changing room.

"Now what the h.e.l.l was that all about?" demanded Endor, gently distancing Joe from the mohair.

Joe croaked something noncommittal. In fact he felt tempted. He had decisions to make and it would be good to talk. But in the PI game, whoever was paying the piper should be the only one ent.i.tled to hear the tune.

Endor said, "Joe, if it helps, I know who you are. And if you're thinking, it's none of my business, then remember, Zak is my business. So talk to me."

Same line as Hardiman, thought Joe. Except his first concern was for the Plezz, while Endor's interest in Zak herself went as deep as his pocket.

And with the end in sight, didn't he have the right to know his percentage of what had been going on?

Talk to anyone who buys me a cup of coffee," he croaked.