The Spoilers / Juggernaut Page 5

  He had come out of the Navy with one leg permanently shortened, a disability pension and no job. The last did not worry him because he knew he was good with his hands. Since 1963 he had been working as a mechanic in a garage, and Warren thought his employer was damned lucky.

  Mrs Parker looked at her watch and made an exclamation. ‘Oh, I’ll be late. You’ll have to excuse me, Doctor.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Parker,’ said Warren, rising.

  ‘You get off, lass,’ said Parker. ‘I’ll see to the dishes, an’ the doctor an’ me will have a quiet chat.’ Mrs Parker left, and Parker produced a stubby pipe which he proceeded to fill. ‘You said you wanted to see me on business, Doctor.’ He looked up in a puzzled way, and then smiled. ‘Maybe you’ll be wantin’ a new car.’

  ‘No,’ said Warren. ‘How are things at the garage, Dan?’

  Parker shrugged. ‘Same as ever. Gets a bit monotonous at times—but I’m doin’ an interestin’ job now on a Mini-Cooper.’ He smiled slowly. ‘Most o’ the time I’m dealin’ wi’ the troubles o’ maiden ladies. I had one come in the other day—said the car was usin’ too much petrol. I tested it an’ there was nothin’ wrong, so I gave it back. But she was back in no time at all wi’ the same trouble.’

  He struck a match. ‘I still found nothin’ wrong, so I said to her, “Miss Hampton, I want to drive around a bit with you just for a final check,” so off we went. The first thing she did was to pull out the choke an’ hang her bag on it—said she thought that was what it was for.’ He shook his head in mild disgust.

  Warren laughed. ‘You’re a long way from the Navy, Dan.’

  ‘Aye, that’s a fact,’ said Parker, a little morosely. ‘I still miss it, you know. But what can a man do?’ Absently, he stroked his bad leg. ‘Still, I daresay it’s better for Sally an’ the kids even though she never minded me bein’ away.’

  ‘What do you miss about it, Dan?’

  Parker puffed at his pipe contemplatively. ‘Hard to say. I think I miss the chance o’ handling fine machinery. This patching up o’ production cars doesn’t stretch a man—that’s why I like to get something different, like this Mini-Cooper I’m workin’ on now. By the time I’m finished wi’ it Issigonis wouldn’t recognize it.’

  Warren said carefully, ‘Supposing you were given the chance of handling naval equipment again. Would you take it?’

  Parker took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘What are you gettin’ at, Doctor?’

  ‘I want a man who knows all about torpedoes,’ Warren said bluntly.

  Parker blinked. ‘I know as much as anyone, I reckon, but I don’t see…’ His voice tailed off and he looked at Warren in a baffled way.

  ‘Let me put it this way. Supposing I wanted to smuggle something comparatively light and very valuable into a country that has a seaboard. Could it be done by torpedo?’

  Parker scratched his head. ‘It never occurred to me,’ he said, and grinned. ‘But it’s a bloody good idea. What are you thinkin’ o’ doin’ the Excise with? Swiss watches?’

  ‘What about heroin?’ asked Warren quietly.

  Parker went rigid and stared at Warren as though he had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. The pipe fell from his fingers to lie unregarded as he said, ‘Are you serious? I’d a’ never believed it.’

  ‘It’s all right, Dan,’ said Warren. ‘I’m serious, but not in the way you mean. But could it be done?’

  There was a long moment before Parker groped for his pipe. ‘It could be done all right,’ he said. ‘The old Mark XI carried a warhead of over seven hundred pounds. You could pack a hell of a lot o’ heroin in there.’

  ‘And the range?’

  ‘Maximum five thousand, five hundred yards if you preheat the batteries,’ said Parker promptly.

  ‘Damn!’ said Warren disappointedly. ‘That’s not enough. You said batteries. Is this an electric torpedo?’

  ‘Aye. Ideal for smugglin’ it is. No bubbles, you see.’

  ‘But not nearly enough range,’ said Warren despondently. ‘It was a good idea while it lasted.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ asked Parker, striking a match.

  ‘I was thinking of a ship cruising outside the territorial waters of the United States and firing a torpedo inshore. That’s twelve miles—over twenty-one thousand yards.’

  ‘That’s a long way,’ said Parker, puffing at his pipe. It did not ignite and he had to strike another match and it was some time before he got the pipe glowing to his satisfaction. ‘But maybe it could be done.’

  Warren ceased to droop and looked up alertly. ‘It could?’

  ‘The Mark XI came out in 1944 an’ things have changed since then,’ said Parker thoughtfully. He looked up. ‘Where would you be gettin’ a torpedo, anyway?’

  ‘I haven’t gone into that yet,’ said Warren. ‘But it shouldn’t be too difficult. There’s an American in Switzerland who has enough war surplus arms to outfit the British forces. He should have torpedoes.’

  ‘Then they’d be Mark XIs,’ said Parker. ‘Or the German equivalent. I doubt if anythin’ more modern has got on the war surplus market yet.’ He pursed his lips. ‘It’s an interestin’ problem. You see, the Mark XI had lead-acid batteries—fifty-two of ‘em. But things have changed since the war an’ you can get better batteries now. What I’d do would be to rip out the lead-acid batteries an’ replace with high-power mercury cells.’ He stared at the ceiling dreamily. ‘All the circuits would need redesignin’ an’ it would be bloody expensive, but I think I could do it.’

  He leaned forward and tapped his pipe against the fireplace, then looked Warren firmly in the eye. ‘But not for smugglin’ dope.’

  ‘It’s all right, Dan; I haven’t switched tracks.’ Warren rubbed his chin. ‘I want you to work with me on a job. It will pay twice as much as you’re getting at the garage, and there’ll be a big bonus when you’ve finished. And if you don’t want to go back to the garage there’ll be a guaranteed steady job for as long as you want it.’

  Parker blew a long plume of smoke. ‘There’s a queer smell to this one, Doctor. It sounds illegal to me.’

  ‘It’s not illegal,’ said Warren quickly. ‘But it could be dangerous.’

  Parker pondered. ‘How long would it take?’

  ‘I don’t know. Might be three months—might be six. It wouldn’t be in England, either, you’d be going out to the Middle East.’

  ‘And it could be dangerous. What sort o’ danger?’

  Warren decided to be honest. ‘Well, if you put a foot wrong you could get yourself shot.’

  Parker laid down his pipe in the hearth. ‘You’re askin’ a bloody lot, aren’t you? I have a wife an’ three kids—an’ here you come wi’ a funny proposition that stinks to high heaven an’ you tell me I could get shot. Why come to me, anyway?’

  ‘I need a good torpedo man—and you’re the only one I know.’ A slight smile touched Warren’s lips. ‘It’s not the most crowded trade in the world.’

  Parker nodded his agreement. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t want to crack meself up, but I can’t think of another man who can do what you want. It ‘ud be a really bobby-dazzler of a job, though—wouldn’t it? Pushin’ the old Mark XI out to over twenty thousand yards—just think of it.’

  Warren held his breath as he watched Parker struggle against temptation, then he sighed as Parker shook his head and said, ‘No, I couldn’t do it. What would Sally say?’

  ‘I know it’s a dangerous job, Dan.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that—not for meself. I could have got killed in Korea. It’s just that…well, I’ve not much insurance, an’ what would she do with three kids if anythin’ happened to me?’

  Warren said, ‘I’ll tell you this much, Dan. I don’t think the worst will happen, but if it does I’ll see that Sally gets a life pension equal to what you’re getting now. No strings attached—and you can have it in writing.’

  ‘You’re pretty free wi’ your money—or is it your money?’ ask
ed Parker shrewdly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter where it comes from. It’s in a good cause.’

  Parker sighed. ‘I’d trust you that far. I know you’d never be on the wrong side. When is this lark startin’?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Warren. ‘It might not even start at all. I haven’t made up my mind yet. But if we do get going it will be next month.’

  Parker chewed the stem of his pipe, apparently unaware it had gone out. At last he looked up, bright-eyed. ‘All right, I’ll do it. Sally’ll give me hell, I expect.’ He grinned. ‘Best not to tell her, Doctor. I’ll cook up a yarn for her.’ He scratched his head. ‘I must see me old Navy mates an’ see if I can get hold of a service manual for the Mark XI—there ought to be some still knockin’ around. I’ll need that if I’m goin’ to redesign the circuits.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Warren. ‘I’d better tell you what it’s all about.’

  ‘No!’ said Parker. ‘I’ve got the general drift. If this is goin’ to be dangerous then the less I know the better for you.

  When the time comes you tell me what to do an’ I’ll do it—if I can.’

  Warren asked sharply, ‘Any chance of failure?’

  ‘Could be—but if I get all I ask for then I think it can be done. The Mark XI’s a nice bit o’ machinery—it shouldn’t be too hard to make it do the impossible.’ He grinned. ‘What made you think o’ goin’ about it this way? Tired of treatin’ new addicts?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Warren.

  He left Parker buzzing happily to himself about batteries and circuits and with a caution that this was not a firm commitment. But he knew that in spite of his insistence that the arrangements were purely tentative the commitment was hardening.

  IV

  He telephoned Andrew Tozier. ‘Can I call on you for some support tonight, Andy?’

  ‘Sure. Doc; moral or muscular?’

  ‘Maybe a bit of both. I’ll see you at the Howard Club—know where that is?’

  ‘I know,’ said Tozier. ‘You could choose a better place to lose your money, Doc; it’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.’

  ‘I’m gambling, Andy,’ said Warren. ‘But not with money. Stick in the background, will you? I’ll call on you if I need you. I’ll be there at ten o’clock.’

  ‘I get the picture; you just want some insurance.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Warren, and rang off.

  The Howard Club was in Kensington, discreetly camou—flaged in one of the old Victorian terraced houses. Unlike the Soho clubs, there were no flashing neon signs proclaiming blackjack and roulette because this was no cheap operation. There were no half-crown chips to be bought in the Howard Club.

  Just after ten o’clock Warren strolled through the gambling rooms towards the bar. He was coolly aware of the professional interest aroused by his visit; the doorkeeper had picked up an internal telephone as he walked in and the news would be quick in reaching the higher echelons. He watched the roulette for a moment, and thought sardonically, If I were James Bond I’d be in there making a killing.

  At the bar he ordered a Scotch and when the barman placed it before him a flat American voice said, ‘That will be on the house, Dr Warren.’

  Warren turned to find John Follet, the manager of the club, standing behind him. ‘What are you doing so far west?’ asked Follet, ‘If you’re looking for any of your lost sheep you won’t find them here. We don’t like them.’

  Warren understood very well that he was being warned. It had happened before that some of his patients had tried to make a quick fortune to feed the habit. They had not succeeded, of course, and things had got out of hand, ending in a brawl. The management of the Howard Club did not like brawls—they lowered the plushy tone of the place—and word had been passed to Warren to keep his boys in line.

  He smiled at Follet. ‘Just sightseeing, Johnny.’ He lifted the glass. ‘Join me?’

  Follet nodded to the barman, and said, ‘Well, it’s nice to see you, anyway.’

  He would not feel that way for long, thought Warren. He said, ‘These are patients you’re talking about, Johnny; they’re sick people. I don’t rule them—I’m not a leader or anything like that.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Follet. ‘But once your hopheads go on a toot they can do more damage than you’d believe possible. And if anyone can control them, it’s you.’

  ‘I’ve passed around the word that they’re not welcome here,’ said Warren. ‘That’s all I can do.’

  Follet nodded shortly. ‘I understand, Doctor. That’s good enough for me.’

  Warren looked about the room and saw Andrew Tozier standing at the nearest blackjack table. He said casually, ‘You seem to be doing well.’

  Follet snorted. ‘You can’t do well in this crazy country. Now we’re having to play the wheel without a zero and that’s goddam impossible. No club can operate without an edge.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Warren. ‘It’s an equal chance for you and the customer, so that’s square. And you make your profit on the club membership, the bar and the restaurant.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ demanded Follet. ‘It just doesn’t work that way. In any game of equal chances a lucky rich man will beat hell out of a lucky poor man any time. Bernoulli figured that out back in 1713—it’s called the St Petersburg paradox.’ He gestured towards a roulette table. ‘That wheel carries a nut of fifty thousand pounds—but how much do you think the customers are worth? We’re in the position of playing a game of equal chances against the public—which can be regarded as infinitely rich. In the long run we get trimmed but good.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a mathematician,’ said Warren.

  ‘Any guy in this racket who doesn’t understand mathematics goes broke fast,’ said Follet. ‘And it’s about time your British legislators employed a few mathematicians.’ He scowled. ‘Another thing—take that blackjack table; at one time it was banned because it was called a game of chance. Now that games of chance are legal they still want to ban it because a good player can beat a bad player. They don’t know what in hell they want.’

  ‘Can a good player win at blackjack?’ asked Warren interestedly.

  Follett nodded. ‘It takes a steeltrap memory and nerves of iron, but it can be done. It’s lucky for the house there aren’t too many of those guys around. We’ll take that risk on blackjack but on the wheel we’ve got to have an edge.’ He looked despondently into his glass. ‘And I don’t see much chance of getting one—not with the laws that are in the works.’

  ‘Things are bad all round,’ said Warren unfeelingly. ‘Maybe you’d better go back to the States.’

  ‘No, I’ll ride it out here for a while.’ Follet drained his glass.

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Warren. ‘I had a reason for coming here. I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘If it’s a touch for your clinic I’m already on your books.’

  Warren smiled. ‘This time I want to give you money.’

  ‘This I must stick around to hear,’ said Follet. Tell me more.’

  ‘I have a little expedition planned,’ said Warren. ‘The pay isn’t much—say, two-fifty a month for six months. But there’ll be a bonus at the end if it all works out all right.’

  ‘Two-fifty a month!’ Follet laughed. ‘Look around you and figure how much I’m making right now. Pull the other one, Doctor.’

  ‘Don’t forget the bonus,’ said Warren calmly.

  ‘All right; what’s the bonus?’ asked Follet, smiling.

  ‘That would be open to negotiation, but shall we say a thousand?’

  ‘You kill me, Warren, you really do—the way you make jokes with a straight face.’ He began to turn away. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Doctor.’

  ‘Don’t go, Johnny. I’m confident you’ll join me. You see, I know what happened to that Argentinian a couple of months ago—and I know how it was done. It was a little over two hundred thousand pounds you rooked him of, wasn’t it?’

  Follet
stopped dead and turned his head to speak over his shoulder. ‘And how did you learn about that?’

  ‘A good story like that soon gets around, Johnny. You and Kostas were very clever.’

  Follet turned back to Warren and said seriously, ‘Dr Warren: I’d be very careful about the way you talk—especially about Argentinian millionaires. Something might happen to you.’

  ‘I dare say,’ agreed Warren. ‘And something might happen to you too, Johnny. For instance, if the Argentinian were to find out how he’d been had, he’d raise a stink, wouldn’t he? He’d certainly go to the police. It’s one thing to lose and quite another to be cheated, so he’d go to the police.’ He tapped Follet on the chest. ‘And the police would come to you, Johnny. The best that could happen would be that they’d deport you—ship you back to the States. Or would it be the best? I hear that the States is a good place for Johnny Follet to keep away from right now. It was something about certain people having long memories.’

  ‘You hear too damn’ much,’ said Follet coldly.

  ‘I get around,’ said Warren with a modest smile.

  ‘It seems you do. You wouldn’t be trying to put the bite on me, would you?’

  ‘You might call it that.’

  Follet sighed. ‘Warren, you know how it is. I have a fifteen per cent piece of this place—I’m not the boss. Whatever was done to the Argentinian was done by Kostas. Sure, I was around when it happened, but it wasn’t my idea—I wasn’t in on it, and I got nothing out of it. Kostas did everything.’

  ‘I know,’ said Warren. ‘You’re as pure as the driven snow. But it won’t make much difference when they put you on a VC-10 and shoot you back to the States.’ He paused and said contemplatively. ‘It might even be possible to arrange for a reception committee to meet you at Kennedy Airport.’