The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin

22

Willoughby needed movement to let off his excitement, striding without direction about the room. For the first time he was holding himself upright, Charlie saw. He was remarkably tall.

‘Unbelievable,’ said the underwriter, groping for words sufficient to express himself. ‘A miracle, nothing short of a miracle…’

The grandfather clock in the corner of Willoughby’s office chimed the half-hour and Charlie looked across to it. Still another hour before the appointment. The chiropodist would probably insist upon the supports being put into his shoes. Mean another new pair, he supposed. Wonder how difficult it would be, adjusting to an artificial lump beneath each foot?

‘People got hurt,’ Charlie reminded him, puncturing the other man’s euphoria. ‘Too many people.’

Willoughby stopped the pacing, looking seriously at Charlie.

‘And not just in Hong Kong,’ said the underwriter, obscurely.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Charlie. Despite the chiropodist, he could still get to Guildford before the rush-hour. He hoped Edith’s grave hadn’t become too neglected.

Willoughby shook himself, like a dog throwing off water:

‘It’s not important. Incidentally, there was quite a lot of money due to Robert Nelson. I sent it to our new broker…’

‘There was a woman,’ said Charlie hopefully. ‘It’s important to arrange something for her…’

‘Jenny Lin Lee?’ interrupted Willoughby.

Charlie nodded.

‘She’s dead.’

‘Oh.’

‘Massive drug overdose, apparently,’ said the underwriter. ‘The police have decided it was self-administered, so there’s no question of any crime.’

Already stencilled ‘closed’ and filed in one of Johnson’s neat little cabinets by one of his neat little clerks, thought Charlie. Again he’d been too late.

‘She knew Lu would win some sort of victory,’ said Charlie softly.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ said Charlie.

‘I’ll always be indebted to you,’ declared the underwriter, sitting at last at his desk.

‘It took me a long time to realise how long I’d been away,’ said Charlie. ‘Almost too long.’

He would never know about the Peking ambassador, he thought. Not until it was too late, anyway.

‘I wouldn’t like it to end,’ said Willoughby. ‘In fact, Clarissa wants to meet you.’

‘Clarissa?’

‘My wife. Let’s meet socially, very soon.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry for the way all this began, Charlie. It was wrong to treat you as I did.’

‘Forget it.’

‘I’d like the association to continue.’

Charlie shifted, uncertainly. How soon would it be before the fear diminished and the boredom began eating away at him again?

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I made a lot of mistakes.’

‘But won in the end.’

‘Only just.’

Which was all he could ever hope for, decided Charlie. To win. By a small margin.