Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

7

Charlie decided it would be a mistake to over-react to Jack Pendlebury’s investigation. He should continue to remain cautious, but not panic. The man was a security official, after all. And even without Clarissa’s over-loud praise at the exhibition, he would have done the same, had he been in Jack Pendlebury’s position. But then, his training had been different; different, that is, unless Pendlebury was not who he claimed to be.

Charlie sat in the darkened projection room in the Pinker-ton offices, delaying the start of the video film of the previous night’s reception.

‘What can Pendlebury discover?’ he asked himself, lapsing into the unconscious habit of talking to himself when confronted with a problem. Very little, he thought. His assumed identity could not be uncovered unless there was a deep examination of the birth certificate with which he had obtained the passport. Were an enquiry made in London, then Willoughby would fully support him, just as Clarissa had when Pendlebury had intercepted her as she had entered the hotel the previous night. Pendlebury had looked tired and travel-weary, Clarissa had said. Charlie closed his eyes, trying to recall what Pendlebury had said earlier in the evening. An appointment, Charlie remembered. But nothing about a journey. He smiled at a sudden thought. By Clarissa’s reckoning, it had been past two o’clock in the morning when Pendlebury had spoken to her. And the reception had ended promptly at six. If Pendlebury’s appointment had been in Manhattan, that meant eight hours for the man to drink. Perhaps that was it; perhaps Clarissa, with her cocaine-numbed brain, had mistaken tiredness for booze and perhaps Pendlebury’s sudden appearance at the hotel was nothing more than a drunken episode.

Still, better to remain properly cautious, decided Charlie again, pressing the start button for the video-film replay. Because Clarissa’s interception wasn’t the only curiosity, or even the greatest. After the previous day’s cocktail bar conversation with Pendlebury, Charlie had again checked the video mechanism, convinced that he had not made a mistake during his tour with Heppert. And that check confirmed that he hadn’t. The most likely malfunction of any electrical equipment had to be the power supply, which made connecting both systems to the same source ridiculous; unless the purpose wasn’t the one Pendlebury had so glibly offered. Now Charlie had reason to believe it wasn’t. When he had asked the projection room technician to show the film, he’d made the question casual, hardly more than an aside, and the technician had responded ingenuously, unaware of any significance in the request. Despite the duplicated system, there was only one film available. So where was the other one? wondered Charlie.

Charlie had taken particular care to note where the surveillance cameras were during his introductory tour of the exhibition hall because he considered that photographs would be the most likely means of his being discovered. It would never be possible to know all the people who might examine them and it would only need someone with C.I.A. associations and a long memory to identify him. He’d been lucky to avoid getting killed in the first vengeance hunt by the British and American services; it would be stupid to expect escape a second time.

Charlie had the sequence of the previous night in his mind and was alert for his arrival on the film. Timing had been difficult because Charlie had been aware of the two fixed cameras constantly trained upon the door, which he regarded as the most exposed spot. He recognised the group of people behind which he had slotted himself and then, intent for the first sighting, saw himself. Or rather, his left arm and part of his shoulder. He smiled, an expression part pride at how he’d managed it and part amusement at watching himself perform. The very point of entry had been the most dangerous, because everyone had paused, awaiting the announcement of their arrival. It was here that Charlie had raised the elaborate brochure in apparent greeting to someone off-camera and got past the surveillance showing no more than the vaguest outline of the back of his head and an almost perfect shot of Tsar Nicholas II, whose bearded face formed the frontispiece for the book.

He stopped the film, had it rewound and watched a second time, trying to assess it impartially. There was no point in avoiding the cameras if the evasion was obvious; for a trained observer, that would create suspicion and therefore as much danger as a photograph itself. But Charlie was a trained observer; and he knew he’d managed it.

He sat back in the chair, contented; the greatest hurdle and he’d cleared it easily.

There were several shots of Pendlebury which Charlie began by looking at idly, and then upon which he began increasingly to concentrate, one professional admiring another. Just as Charlie’s surreptitious entry had been one of expert concealment, so the observation the American was keeping was that of perfection. Despite his apparently aimless wandering through the room, Charlie saw that there was never a moment when Pendlebury relaxed. And then came another realisation, and with it further curiosity.

‘He’s not looking at the right thing,’ Charlie told himself, forward in his chair now.

To ensure he had not had a mistaken impression, Charlie rewound the film once more, to the very point where Pendlebury first appeared, and stared intently at the bulging, dishevelled man. He watched for ten minutes and then had the reel stopped in mid-frame, and sat nodding to himself. He’d recognised the illogicality at the time, and forgotten it.

Pendlebury’s responsibility was to guard against theft of the contents of the twelve display cases. But not once had he looked towards them, which was neither natural nor logical. Certainly there had been security men in every aisle and another in personal attendance for the case to be opened, but there should also have been a time when Pendlebury automatically checked the exhibits. He’d only done so once, at the point where Charlie remembered criticising the opening of the display cases. Apart from that isolated occasion, wherever he had walked, Pendlebury had always positioned himself with one point in view. The door.

‘Why?’ muttered Charlie, and as he did so he remembered the incident when Pendlebury had appeared to recognise somebody. He started the film again, smiling at the brief reappearance of his arm when Pendlebury had been talking to him, so that he had almost missed the swivel of the three cameras that could be turned from the control room from which the exhibition was monitored.

Charlie reached out in readiness for the stop button when he saw the moment approaching when Pendlebury had appeared to react. He halted it early and then took it forward to the right frame in a series of jumps. Having found the frame, he replayed the film through at half speed, then rewound. A mannish woman wearing trousers, an obviously married couple and a sun-tanned man who clearly liked clothes and didn’t care how much he spent on them. Charlie took the film back and forth several times, hoping for some recognition, and then gave up. He was about to ask the control room for freeze frames of the entry when he stopped, hand half out towards the linking telephone. He had the film completely rewound, then asked for still photographs of the sequences he had selected. Next he went through the film, choosing at random four other episodes in addition to the entry of the group that seemed to interest Pendlebury. Having disguised what he wanted, he ran the film on, alert for something else which he hoped would confirm his impression about Pendlebury’s behaviour.

It came immediately. After the entry of the particular group, the American had started looking at the display cases. And drinking.

The video ended within minutes. Charlie thanked the control room, then turned up the viewing room lights from the panel set into the arm of his chair.

Anything? Or nothing? Certainly Pendlebury was a paradox, an apparent professional who did unprofessional things. But by whose standards? His own, as a security firm controller? Or those of Charlie, who had been trained to the highest level of Intelligence operative? And then there was the duplicate film about which the projection room technicians were ignorant. Again, little more than odd, something for which there could be a perfectly logical explanation. Still wrong to over-react; far better to wait.

‘Surprise, surprise!’

Charlie turned, watching Pendlebury shamble into the room. Charlie saw the man hadn’t changed his shirt from the previous day: there was spaghetti sauce on the collar.

‘Why surprise?’

‘Didn’t think you’d fully appreciate the benefits of a film recording.’

‘England has come a long way,’ said Charlie. ‘Some of the better houses have got proper chimneys instead of holes in the roof.’

‘Find anything?’ asked Pendlebury. He was clearer eyed than he had appeared at their first encounter. And there was no shake about his hands, either. So he hadn’t been drunk when he accosted Clarissa Willoughby.

‘I wasn’t looking for anything in particular,’ lied Charlie. ‘Just thought I’d have another look at the faces.’

‘And?’

‘Just faces.’

Pendlebury stared at him. ‘Perhaps I’ll have better luck.’

‘Is there anything to see?’

‘Who knows?’ said Pendlebury.

‘The organisers have accepted my view and decided not to open the cases any more,’ said Charlie.

‘There are going to be some disappointed stamp collectors,’ said Pendlebury. ‘They’d been told they could examine as close as they liked.’

‘But there’s going to be an insurance syndicate who are very happy,’ said Charlie.

Pendlebury looked at his watch.

‘You didn’t have time to get authority from London,’ he said, calculating the time difference between New York and London.

‘No,’ agreed Charlie.

‘You’re empowered to make decisions like that by yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must be regarded very highly,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Or hold a special position in the company.’

‘Both,’ said Charlie. ‘Didn’t Clarissa make that clear?’

‘Clarissa?’

‘The woman you bumped into in the foyer early this morning. Strange coincidence that, wasn’t it? Particularly as you’re staying at the Waldorf.’

‘Amazing,’ agreed Pendlebury, unembarrassed. ‘Attractive woman.’

‘The wife of the principal of my company,’ said Charlie.

‘Told me she’s thinking of coming down to Florida as well.’

Charlie frowned. Why had she told the American that?

‘Got some friends at Lyford Cay and wants to combine a visit,’ added Pendlebury.

‘She hasn’t mentioned it,’ said Charlie. ‘No reason why she should.’

Pendlebury lowered himself into a viewing chair adjoining Charlie’s. ‘Going to watch it through a second time?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘One of us might see something the other misses.’

‘We can compare later,’ said Charlie, rising.

‘See you at the exhibition then.’ Pendlebury consulted his watch again. ‘They’ll be ready now,’ he said.

‘Ready?’

‘The photographs you asked for. They were being developed as I came in.’

Pendlebury was looking at him with his face absolutely blank. Charlie returned the look without any expression. ‘Thanks,’ he said. He began walking towards the door, but Pendlebury called out, stopping him.

‘You will tell me, if there’s anything I should know, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ said Charlie. ‘Will you tell me?’

‘Naturally,’ said the American. ‘We’re working towards the same purpose, aren’t we?’

‘I hope so,’ said Charlie.

‘Me too,’ said Pendlebury. ‘I hope so very much.’

The photographs had been developed, as Pendlebury had promised. Charlie paused on the pavement outside, searching for a taxi. He had decided to try to identify the group at the exhibition with the help of the social directors of either the Waldorf Astoria or the Pierre Hotel. If that failed, then he would approach one of the society column photographers. It would probably take a long time and in the end be completely without point. But then again, it might not.

There was no possibility of his being criticised by anyone in the organisation about his New York visit, but Giuseppe Terrilli was a careful man and so he arranged two business meetings involving his shipping division while he was in the city. It meant staying over an extra day, but he did not again go anywhere near the Romanov Collection. He ordered his aircraft to be prepared for the morning of the third day and booked out of the Waldorf without even looking in the direction of the exhibition room.

He was smiling when he settled into the back of the limousine for the ride to La Guardia. It was very much the look of a child who has probed the cupboards in November and discovered what it is going to receive on Christmas morning.