The Long Glasgow Kiss

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was a good seat. It wasn’t ringside. It wasn’t two, three or even four rows from ringside. But as I sat there in my black tie and tux, I had a pretty good view of the fight even if I had an even better view of the back of Willie Sneddon’s head as he sat ringside with his guest, a Glasgow Corporation councillor and head honcho of the Planning Department. The only thing that impeded my view was the curtain of tobacco smoke that hung in the air. It hung more heavily over the front two rows. The cigar class rows.

I sat next to my dates. Sneddon had been able to swing an extra couple of tickets for me and I had done my own little bit of suborning hospitality. Jock Ferguson was the kind of copper usually immune to inducement, but he had leapt at the chance to see the title fight. And it would do me no harm to patch up the bridge between us a little. Everyone knew, because the movies told us so, that the FBI was incorruptible, and anyway Dex Devereaux was not, officially, a peace officer while on this side of the Atlantic. So he had nothing to lose by accepting my invitation.

It had been remarkably easy to get the tickets from Sneddon. As soon as I told him I wanted to sweeten a couple of coppers, he handed over the tickets without a word of complaint.

I sat there and watched as the fighters — Schmidtke first, then challenger Kirkcaldy — made their way into the ring. Schmidtke was a German and there remained a huge anti-German sentiment throughout Britain. But despite all of the problems of poverty, sectarianism, violence and drink that afflicted them, Glaswegians were a warm bunch. I had been brought up in Atlantic Canada amongst open, friendly people. Maybe that’s why I liked it here. In any case, there was no booing or jeering when Schmidtke entered the ring, just a polite, restrained applause. There was an explosion of cheering and whistling as soon as Kirkcaldy entered the ring. There is no greater passion in Glasgow than pride, and Kirkcaldy was their boy.

As the bout began, I felt strange sitting there with the knowledge that only I, Sneddon and Bert Soutar had: that Kirkcaldy was stepping into the ring with a time bomb ticking away in his chest. I watched him move fluidly and without effort, just as he had the last twice I had seen him fight — without a hint of any deficit of stamina. It was not the most exhilarating of fights. Schmidtke seemed to be pacing himself, and both boxers were out-fighting, each keeping his opponent at a distance and weighing up any potential strategic weakness. It was not Schmidtke’s usual style and the second round was as uninspiring as the first. Both fighters seemed over-cautious and unwilling to open up.

When the third round went the same way, I could sense my fellow spectators becoming restless. I could understand why Kirkcaldy was circumspect about launching any kind of energy-sapping onslaught, but I couldn’t see why Schmidtke was holding back. Unless Schmidtke’s thinking was that if it ended up going the distance, there was always the tendency for a split decision to go the title-holder’s way.

But, there again, there was always the chance that Kirkcaldy had come to an arrangement that would allow him to end his career with a championship belt.

It was in the eighth round that I guessed I had been wrong. The German came out of his corner with the same tentativeness as in the previous rounds. His head low and defence tight.

It was the simplest of errors: Kirkcaldy swung an uncharacteristically loose right. It wasn’t so much that Kirkcaldy telegraphed the hook, as announced it with a gold-edged invitation complete with the times for carriages. The German answered the RSVP with an arcing hook that hurt me just to watch it connect. It lifted Kirkcaldy off his feet and he shoulder-slammed the canvas. Half of the spectators, including Jock Ferguson, leapt to their feet and there was a deafening explosion of shouts. The referee backed the German towards his corner with a hand to the chest and started counting out Kirkcaldy. The Scotsman shook the crap out of his head and stood up swiftly, bouncing on the balls of his feet and nodding to the ref. Once you’d kissed canvas, if you wanted to avoid a technical knock-out, you had instantly to convince the referee that you were okay, usually with an overdone display of bright athleticism. The ref backed Kirkcaldy into a neutral corner and checked his eyes before retaking the centre of the ring and indicating, with a gesture like drawing curtains, for the fighters to come together and recommence the match.

The German’s massive shoulders dipped and rose as he came out of his corner. There was a new energy in them. Kirkcaldy tried to outflank every new attack, but the German just kept driving him into the ropes, raining in vicious hooks.

I could see it now: Kirkcaldy’s face was pale, almost white, the lividity of the bruises around his eyes stark against his whiter skin. He launched an attack to drive Schmidtke back, but the German stood planted, rooted to the canvas, his bulky arms working like pistons, driving one blow after another into Kirkcaldy’s body.

Again it was clumsy. Schmidtke caught Kirkcaldy a legal hair’s breadth above the belt. Kirkcaldy dropped his elbows, bringing his guard down. Two successive jabs to his face, followed by a vicious, ugly bolo punch stunned the Scotsman. Then Schmidtke made his delivery. The dazed Kirkcaldy was probably the only person in the auditorium who didn’t see it coming: every single ounce of Schmidtke’s weight behind a roundhouse right that seemed to take an age to connect. But it did. Right on the side of Kirkcaldy’s jaw and the Scotsman went limp and crashed into the canvas. The German had his hands above his head grinning a gumshield grin and jumping on the spot before the referee had finished his count.

Everybody was on their feet, shouting, cheering and some booing now: less with hurt nationalistic pride and more with suspicion that they had just been witness to amateur dramatics instead of professional boxing.

I stood too, but I wasn’t applauding. I was watching the referee, Uncle Bert Soutar, and a fat, middle-aged man in a dinner suit and with a leather Gladstone bag crouched over Kirkcaldy. Even the German had stopped his triumphal dance.

The noise of the crowd was still deafening, but I felt as if a curtain had been pulled between me and them; as if I was the only person really seeing what was happening in the ring.

‘Christ… he’s dead…’ I said, my voice so drowned out by the crowd that I barely heard it myself.

‘Waddya say?’ Dex Devereaux shouted, still clapping, leaning in towards me.

I still watched the scene in the ring. Bert Soutar and the doctor were now helping Kirkcaldy to his feet. Kirkcaldy nodded vaguely to them, and Schmidtke, with a relief I could feel four rows back, embraced his defeated opponent. Kirkcaldy was helped from the ring to the cheers and jeers of the spectators.

After the fight, Dex Devereaux, Jock Ferguson and I made our way to the exits. I had hoped to talk to Willie Sneddon, but I’d lost sight of him. My guess was that he would not be a happy bunny. No matter what other schemes Kirkcaldy had come up with and cooperated with, he had cost Sneddon money. Costing Sneddon money was not something it was advisable for anyone to do. I did see Tony the Pole though. I excused myself from Ferguson and Devereaux for a moment.

‘Whaddya say? Whaddya hear Tony?’ I said smiling.

Tony didn’t smile back. ‘Iz a fugging dizgraze, Lennogs,’ he said gloomily, ignoring our traditional greeting. ‘A load ov fugging bollogs. Whit vaz zat like?’

‘Not a good night for you, Tony?’

‘Ziz fuggin carry-on haz cost me a fugging vortune.’

‘I suppose none of the local bookies will be happy with this result.’

‘Naw? You’d be zurprized, Lennogs. Not everythink iz vat it zeems. Zere’s at leazd vone baztart iz goin’ home happy.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, almost yelling to be heard. But Tony the Pole had been collared by a punter energetically waving a betting slip.

‘Azk Jack Collins aboot zat. Aye… you go an’ azk Jack Collins…’ Tony called, before turning his attention back to his punter. I left him to it and rejoined my guests.

I took Ferguson and Devereaux to the Horsehead Bar. It was well past closing time and Ferguson made a point of finding interesting something far off and down the street while I gave my coded knock. There were as many as twenty regulars inside the pub. Big Bob was on the bar.

‘We’re not looking for waiters, Lennox,’ he said, grinning inanely and taking in our dinner suits and black ties. ‘What’ll you be having then?’

‘You know Inspector Ferguson, don’t you Bob?’ I asked.

Bob eyed Ferguson and sighed. ‘On the house, obviously.’

I indicated a quiet table in the corner for Ferguson and Devereaux to take their drinks over.

‘For fuck’s sake, Lennox,’ said Bob when they were out of earshot. ‘Who the fuck you going to bring next… the chief constable?’

‘I wouldn’t do that, Bob. I always take him to the Saracen’s Sword

… classier joint. Anyway, I thought this was the night-shift canteen for the City of Glasgow Police.’

‘Aye, a dozen or so bluebottles who think their uniform entitles them to limitless free fucking beer. If I start on the management ranks it’ll be handouts as well and I’ll be truly fucked.’

‘Don’t worry, Bob,’ I said. ‘Ferguson is a straight copper.’

‘Aye? They’re the ones you’ve got to watch.’

Ain’t that the truth, I thought, as I took my drink and joined Devereaux and Ferguson in the corner.

‘So,’ said Devereaux. ‘What did you think of the fight?’

‘I really thought our boy would have given that kraut bastard a run for his money,’ said Ferguson. ‘But it was a bit of a walkover in the end.’

‘You?’ Devereaux nodded in my direction. ‘What did you think, Lennox?

I shrugged. ‘You never can tell with these things.’

‘Really?’ said Devereaux. ‘I think someone could tell the way that fight was going to turn out.’

‘A fix?’ Ferguson looked up from his beer. ‘You think it was rigged?’

‘Four, five rounds of dancing around each other, then the door’s left open for a couple of killer punches? You bet it was rigged,’ said Devereaux.

‘But Kirkcaldy’s on his way to the top. Everyone thought he had a good chance of picking up the European belt tonight. Why would he throw a fight?’

Devereaux shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s something we don’t know about him. Maybe he owes money. Maybe he hasn’t got the future everyone thinks he has.’ Devereaux seemed to examine me for a moment. ‘You’re not saying much.’

‘Me? Nothing much to say, Dex. I’m a bit pissed off that the fight was such a disappointment, that’s all.’

After a while we got off the subject of the fight, which I was thankful for. That little nugget of exclusive knowledge about Kirkcaldy’s heart condition kept rolling to the front of my mind. And from the front of my mind to the tip of my tongue was a short trip. Especially when I’d tied on a few.

I wasn’t thankful for long. Devereaux leaned forward and spoke to me in low tones when Ferguson had gone to the toilets.

‘Jock told me that they’re giving you quite a bit of licence with this Costello killing,’ said Devereaux. ‘How much do they know about it being tied in to John Largo?’

‘Nothing. I don’t know for sure that it is.’ It was the worst kind of lie, an obvious one, and Devereaux gave me a look. I sighed. ‘Okay, it could be that Largo killed Costello or had him killed. But I want to get my client’s brother out of this. Like I said, then I’ll give you Largo on a plate. Once I have Sammy, I’ll get him to talk. He’s my

… our… best hope of getting Largo.’

‘Okay, Lennox. Anything you say.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘It means you’re holding out on me.’

‘Am I? What?’

‘Alain Barnier.’

That stopped me in my tracks. Thankfully it was at that point that Jock Ferguson re-emerged from the toilets.

‘We ready?’ he asked.

Devereaux drained his whisky. ‘We’re ready.’

It had been raining while we had been in the Horsehead. The stonework and the cobbles on the street outside were the oil-sleek black of a Glasgow night. I had arranged to give Jock Ferguson a lift home.

‘I’ll drop you off at your hotel first,’ I said to Devereaux.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, squeezing his considerable bulk into the confines of the Atlantic’s back seats. ‘I’ll come along for the ride. See a little more of Glasgow by night.’ It was a fait that could not have been more accompli. I shrugged and dropped in behind the wheel.

Jock Ferguson, normally on the lugubrious side of funereal, was positively chipper on the journey back. The evening and the drink had combined to open a door in his personality. I wondered if that was who Ferguson had really been before the war. And I wished I could find as easy a way back to my prewar self. There again, the bottle was the key most men used.

After we dropped Ferguson outside his anonymous semi, Dex Devereaux swapped seats and took the front passenger seat.

‘Okay Johnny Canuck… Let’s go for a drive,’ he said cheerlessly.

The rain started again: intermittent, thick, greasy globs on the windscreen. The streets were empty of cars and our only obstacle on the way back to his hotel was a drunk in the middle of the road, one foot anchored as if glued to the asphalt. I gave him a blast of my horn but he waved his arm vaguely and cursed incomprehensibly at me. I swerved around him and drove on.

‘This town sure has an interesting relationship with booze,’ said Devereaux. Then he sighed. ‘I suppose if most of the crime you deal with is related to drunks, then it doesn’t stretch the grey matter. And these guys here… I mean the City of Glasgow Police — and no offence to Jock Ferguson — but these guys aren’t the brightest of cookies.’

‘I’ve made the same observation myself. In the past,’ I said, keeping my eyes on the road. ‘Why don’t you say what it is you want to say, Dex?’

‘Okay… like I say, these guys aren’t big thinkers. If they were, I reckon you’d be in a lot of trouble by now.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘Come on, Lennox.’ Devereaux laughed. ‘Paul Costello’s body is found half a mile away from a break-in and they don’t even think to see if it’s connected. Do you know the kind of beating you’d get if these guys found out you tapped that uniform?’

‘If you’re so convinced I did, why don’t you tell them?’

‘Listen, Lennox, if you get antsy with me, I might do just that. But I’m not interested in giving them you. I’m interested in you giving me Largo.’

‘I don’t have him to give,’ I said. We were on a quiet street and I pulled over to the kerb.

‘Yet,’ said Devereaux.

‘Yet.’ I sighed and rested my wrists in the basin of the steering wheel.

‘But you’re getting close. And you should have told me about Barnier.’

‘You seem pretty well informed without my help.’

‘Ferguson told me about the break-in. Actually, he was being a gripey pain in the ass about it. He said it was a French importer with an office in Marseille who got broken into. You see, it’s difficult for these guys to hold two thoughts in their head concurrently…’

‘They need a lie-down if they hold them consecutively,’ I said.

‘Well, the only thing they’ve got stuck in their heads is that a uniformed cop got cracked across the head. This town isn’t so different to the States. There’s a blood price to be paid if a cop gets hurt. But, like I say, they can’t see past that. No one is asking why the hell someone would break into an importer’s office where there’s nothing to steal except paperwork… in the middle of a bonded warehouse area filled with whisky, luxury goods, cars and god knows what else.’

‘Maybe they’d run out of paper clips and the stationers was closed.’

‘Cut the crap, Lennox, or I might just begin to feel the need to pay some professional courtesy to my Glasgow colleagues. What have you got on Alain Barnier?’

‘I think he’s a front for your boy. Or at the very least he’s behind the murder of Paul Costello, directly or indirectly. Costello and Sammy Pollock have stolen at least one of a consignment of twelve jade statuettes. My guess is that each statuette is packed with happy snow for your Harlem negroes.’

‘How did you find out about the statuettes?’

I told Devereaux about my trip to the disused farm cottage, the jade demon and somebody, probably the recently deceased Paul Costello, putting the lights out for me.

‘That’s why I turned over Barnier’s office, and I was right. I found the manifest for twelve Vietnamese jade demons.’

‘Vietnamese?’ Devereaux turned in his seat, pivoting his shoulders around.

‘Yeah. So what?’

‘Indochina is the source of the heroin that’s turning up on the streets. It could be that your frog Barnier doesn’t know what he’s shipping. It’s likely the heroin’s been packed into statuettes at source. Maybe Barnier has just been asked to ship these things, not knowing what’s inside them.’

‘I’d like to think that,’ I said. ‘But, for a wine merchant-cum-curio importer, Alain Barnier is pretty handy in a fight.’ I told Devereaux about what had happened outside the Merchants’ Carvery. ‘I’ve been following him for the last day or two.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. The only thing remotely illicit I’ve caught him doing is visiting a married woman in Bearsden while her husband’s at work.’

Devereaux sat quietly for a moment. ‘You say he has a history of importing from Indochina?’

‘As far as I know, yes.’

‘Then he must have strong connections and contacts there. The place is a mess. The French have fucked up good. Dien Bien Phu has been a disaster. A turning point. The French are going to clear on out of it, you know.’

‘I guess.’

‘And when they do, the Commies will take over. The French are going to leave the back door wide open for them.’

‘It’s a long way away, Dex,’ I said. ‘It’s a French colonial problem.’

‘Not now. Now it’s our problem. There’s going to be another Korea out there, take my word for it. In the meantime, it’s chaos. And chaos is the best environment for someone like John Largo to operate in.’

‘But you don’t think Barnier’s directly involved?’

‘I didn’t say that. It could be that he doesn’t know what he’s shipping. Or it could be that, for all we know, Alain Barnier is John Largo.’

‘It’s unlikely,’ I said. ‘Barnier is established here. The other thing is he looks too much like an international criminal mastermind. The sharp clothes, the French accent and the goatee beard… I think John Largo would keep a lower profile.’

‘So don’t I,’ said Devereaux, then grinned at my puzzled expression. ‘You’ll have to learn Vermontese. It’s what we say when we mean “so do I”. You know the other thing it could be… maybe John Largo is like Robin Hood. A kind of composite character. Maybe John Largo is more an organization than a criminal. Maybe Barnier is part of John Largo.’

‘He has a partner. A guy called Claude Clement. Here…’ I took my notebook from the side pocket of my dinner jacket and copied the addresses onto a blank page, tore it out and handed it to Devereaux. ‘I found that when I was stealing paper clips. Maybe Barnier and Clement are in this together. So what now?’

‘I’ll get onto Washington, see if we’ve got anything on Barnier or this other guy. In the meantime I suggest you keep tabs on him. I also suggest you give me everything you get, as soon as you get it. Otherwise I might just offer McNab or Ferguson my professional insight into who clobbered their beat boy. And, remember, I’ve still got a thousand dollars if you lead me to Largo. Don’t hold out on me again, Lennox.’

‘There is one more thing,’ I said. I had just remembered it myself. Taking out my notebook again, I scribbled a second note and handed it to Devereaux. ‘That’s the address in New York the jade demons are being sent: Santorno Antiques and Curios.’

‘Thanks.’ He took the note and put it in his pocket without looking at it.

We didn’t talk much after that. I drove him back to his hotel and waited to make sure he got in; it was three in the morning and it took an age before an elderly night porter opened up for him. Devereaux turned and gave me a half wave, half salute and disappeared into the hotel. I sat for a moment, staring at the closed oak door. I had given Devereaux everything. Almost everything. I hadn’t mentioned the visit to the Free French naval monument. It probably wasn’t anything, but I needed to check it out for myself first. I was deep tired. Tired to the bone. There were so many thoughts buzzing about my head but my brain had pulled the shutters down and turned the sign around on the door.

Thinking would have to wait until morning.