LITMIR.BIZ

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said, ‘I watched him go inside. I followed him through to this balcony, but by that time he had gone down this iron ladder to a rowing boat and rowed towards the far bank. I phoned the office and suggested that they alert the river police. My informant says that he was making for a large grey boat standing off Lavender Wharf. I have identified it as a Polish vessel.’

      Dawlish and Harriman looked at me, but I wasn’t keen to make a fool of myself, so I looked at Chico and wondered why he was wearing a tie with fox-heads on it.

      Dawlish and Harriman looked across the water towards the Polish ship, and Dawlish said they would leave Chico with me. They took the car and visited the Port of London Authority Police.

      Chico produced a large leather cigar-case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he said.

      ‘As long as you don’t tell me about an amusing little claret you discovered last night.’

      ‘I won’t, sir,’ Chico agreed.

      The sky was as red as an upturned hull and propping it up were great forests of cranes. From Lavender Wharf came the oily smell that pilots are said to navigate by on foggy days. Chico said, ‘You don’t believe me?’

      ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ I said. ‘Grannie has come along to show us how to do our job, so let him handle it.’ We drank beer and watched the slow movement of the water. A police launch came round the bend and turned towards the Rotherhithe side. I could see Bernard, Dawlish and Harriman in the rear talking to a policeman and being careful not to point at the Polish boat.

      ‘What do you think?’ Chico asked.

      ‘Let’s take it very slowly,’ I said. ‘You followed this man here. How were you travelling?’

      ‘We were each in separate taxis.’

      ‘You saw this man enter by the bar entrance?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How far behind him were you?’

      ‘My cab gave his cab space to turn round, then I paid my cab and told him to wait. I was a minute behind him.’

      ‘A full minute?’

      ‘Yes, at least,’ Chico agreed.

      ‘You followed him right through the pub out to this balcony?’

      ‘Well I couldn’t see him at the bar, so the only explanation was that he walked right through and on to the balcony here.’

      ‘So that’s what you think?’

      ‘Well, I wasn’t sure until I spoke to the witness on the balcony.’

      ‘And he said?’

      ‘He said that a man had walked through and down the ladder and rowed away.’

      ‘Now tell me what he really said.’

      ‘That’s what he said.’

      ‘What did you ask him?’ I said wearily.

      ‘I asked him if a man had done that and he said, “Yes, there he is, across the river. There.”’

      ‘But you couldn’t see him?’

      ‘No, I just missed seeing him.’

      ‘Go and find this joker who saw him.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Chico. He came back with a pot-bellied man in a brown whipcord suit and a matching flat cap. He had a large nose and heavy lips and his complexion was raw and pink. He had the hoarse, full-chested voice that men acquire when they address small crowds. I guessed him to be a bookie or a tic-tac man, especially since whipcord – which doesn’t attract animal hair – is favoured by race-track men. He extended a large hand and shook mine in over-hearty friendliness.

      ‘Tell me what you told him,’ I said.

      ‘About the feller climbing down the ladder and rowing off out to sea?’ He had a loud beery voice and was delighted with any opportunity for using it. ‘I could see he was up to no good right from …’

      ‘I’ve got a hot meal waiting,’ I said, ‘so let’s make it quick. This man went down on to the mud. How deep into it did he sink?’

      The big-nosed man thought for a moment. ‘No, he had the boat under the foot of the ladder.’

      ‘So his shoes didn’t get dirty?’

      ‘That’s right,’ he boomed. ‘Hand the gentleman a coconut, Bert. Ha ha.’

      ‘So he sat in the row boat while it traversed twenty foot of mud, to the river. Would you care to explain that a little more fully?’

      He grinned an ugly gap-toothed grin. ‘Well, squire …’

      ‘Look. Having a joke with Little Lord Fauntleroy here is one thing, but making a false statement to a police officer is a criminal offence punishable by …’ I paused.

      ‘You mean?’ He pushed a large thumb towards Chico, ‘… and you?’

      I nodded. I guessed he had a licence to lose. I was glad he had interrupted because I didn’t know what it was punishable by.

      ‘I was just sending him up. No harm meant, squire.’ He turned to Chico. ‘Nor to you, squire. Just my fun. Just my fun.’

      A little grey corrugated woman behind him said, ‘Just his fun, sir.’ The big-nosed man turned to her and said, ‘All right, Florrie, I’ll handle this.’

      ‘I understand the temptation involved,’ I said. Big-nose nodded solemnly. I tapped Chico’s shoulder. ‘This young man,’ I said to Big-nose, ‘will be back in a moment or so to buy you some beer until a couple of other gentlemen arrive. Then if you will be kind enough to explain your joke to them …’

      ‘Certainly. Certainly,’ said Big-nose.

      I walked back through the bar to the street. Chico said, ‘What do you think happened?’

      ‘There’s no thinking involved. You followed this man here. He isn’t inside the bar, therefore he either went upstairs – unlikely – or he left. There is no evidence that he left via the balcony as your funster friend suggested, so it seems likely that he turned round at the rear of the bar and walked down that alley and out of the side entrance. If I had been him I would have had my own taxi waiting – I remember you said it was turning round – but before driving away I would have given the driver of your cab a quid and told him that you wouldn’t need him any more.’

      ‘That’s right,’ said Chico. ‘My taxi wasn’t here when I came out again. I thought it was odd.’

      ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Well when Mr Dawlish and Mr Harriman have completed their activities perhaps you would explain those details to them.’

      I beckoned the driver of the Wolseley and he drove over to me. I got in. ‘I’ll go back to my flat now,’ I said to the driver.

      The police radio was still tuned in and it was saying, ‘… he’s a flasher Gulf one one. Ends. Origin Information Room. Message timed at two one one seven.’

      ‘How will Mr Dawlish and the rest of us get back?’ asked Chico. The driver turned the volume down but it was still audible, like the voices of a gang of midgets jammed somewhere in the engine. I said, ‘You see, Chico, Mr Dawlish likes these opportunities for a little vicarious high living; I personally prefer an evening by the fire. So next time you feel like creating an international incident complete with night boat trips and Polish ships, try and give me advance warning. To make me even happier next time you are given a surveillance task’ – heaven forbid, I thought – ‘just take a short length of movie that I can view in comfort.’

      ‘I will, sir.’

      ‘Splendid,’ I said in reasonable likeness of Dawlish’s voice.

      The car moved slowly forward.

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