“No sweat, Downes. If I get help it will be just one guy, and we’ll stay out of the papers.”
“You hope to stay out of the papers. But it will not be easy. The Evening Standard and the Evening News have been very insistent on getting the story of last night’s shooting. I’ve put them off but inevitably someone will give them your name.”
“I don’t want ink,” I said. “I’ll shoot them away.”
“I hope so,” Downes said. “I hope too that you’ll not be staying with us a great many more days, hmm?”
“We’ll see,” I said. “Yes,” Downes said. “Of course we will.”
11
I sat on the bed and read the dialing instructions on the phone. I was exhausted. It was hard even to read the instructions. I had to run through them twice before I figured out that by dialing a combination of area codes I could call Susan Silverman direct. I tried it. The first time nothing happened. The second time I got a recorded message that I had screwed up. The third time it worked. The wires hummed a little bit, relays clicked in beneath the hum, a sound of distance and electricity hovered in the background, and then the phone rang and Susan answered, sounding just as she did. Mr. Watson, come here, I need you. “It’s your darling,” I said. “Which one,” she said. “Don’t be a smartass,” I said. “Where are you?” she said. “Still in London. I just dialed a few numbers and here we are.”
“Oh, I had hoped you were at the airport wanting a ride home.”
“Not yet, lovey,” I said. “I called for two reasons. One to say that I love your ass. And second, to ask you to do me a service.”
“Over the phone?”
“Not that kind of service,” I said. “I want you to make a phone call for me. Got a pencil?”
“Just a minute… okay.”
“Call Henry Cimoli”-I spelled it-“at the Harbor Health Club in Boston. It’s in the book. Tell him to get hold of Hawk and tell Hawk I’ve got work for him over here. You got that so far?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him to get the first plane he can to London and call me at the Mayfair Hotel when he gets to Heathrow.”
“Mm hmm.”
“Tell him money is no problem. He can name his price. But I want him now. Or sooner.”
“It’s bad,” Susan said. “What’s bad?”
“Whatever you’re doing. I know Hawk, I know what he’s good at. If you need him it means that it’s bad.”
“No, not too bad. I need him to see that it doesn’t get bad. I’m okay, but tell Henry to make sure that Hawk gets here. I don’t want Hawk to come to the hotel. I want him to call me from Heathrow, and I’ll get to him. Okay?”
“Okay. Who is Henry Cimoli?”
“He’s like the pro at the Harbor Health Club. Little guy, used to fight. Pound for pound he’s probably the strongest man I know. Before it got fancy, the Harbor Health Club used to be a gym. Hawk and I both trained there when we were fighting. Henry sort of trained us. He’ll know where Hawk is.”
“I gather you don’t have Hawk’s address. I would be willing to talk with him direct.”
“I know you would. But Hawk doesn’t have an address. He lives mostly with women, and between women he lives in hotels.”
“What if he won’t come?”
“He’ll come.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He’ll come,” I said. “How’s Techniques of Counseling doing?”
“Fine, I got an A - on the midterm.”
“Minus,” I said. “That sonovabitch. When I come home I want his address.”
“First thing?”
“No.” There was a small pause. “It’s hard on the phone,” I said. “I know. It’s hard at long distance in any event. And… it’s like having someone in the war. I don’t like you sending for Hawk.”
“It’s just to help me do surveillance. Even Lord Peter Wimsey has to whiz occasionally.” Susan’s laugh across the ocean, only slightly distorted by distance, made me want to cry. “I believe,” she said. “that Lord Peter’s butler does it for him.”
“When this is over maybe you and I can come,” I said. “It should be very fine for you and me to go around and look at the sights and maybe up to Stratford or down to Stonehenge. London gives me that feeling, you know. That excited feeling, like New York.”
“If a man tires of London, he is tired of life,” Susan said. “Would you come over?”
“When?”
“Whenever I’m through. I’ll send you some of my profits and meet you here. Would you come?”
“Yes,” she said. There was another small pause. “We’d better hang up,” she said. “This must be costing a great deal of money.”
“Yeah, okay. It’s Dixon’s money, but there’s not much else to say. I’ll call tomorrow at this same time to see if Henry got Hawk. Okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be home.”
“Okay. I love you, Suze. ”
“Love.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” She hung up and I listened to the transoceanic buzz for a minute. Then I put the phone down, leaned back on the bed, and fell asleep fully dressed with the lights on and my folded handkerchief still pressed against my chin. When I woke up in the morning the dried blood made the handkerchief, now unfurled, stick to my chin, and the first thing I had to do when I got up was to soak it off in cold water in the sink in the bathroom. Getting the handkerchief off started the cut bleeding again, and I got a butterfly bandage out of my bag and put it on. I showered even more carefully than yesterday, keeping the water off both bandages. Not easy. If they kept after me in a while I’d have to start going dirty.
I shaved around the new cut and toweled off. I changed the dressing on my bullet wound, turning half around and watching in the mirror to do it. There didn’t seem to be any infection. I bundled last night’s clothes into a laundry bag and left it for the hotel laundry. My shirt was a mess. I didn’t have much hope for it. If I stayed here long enough they’d probably hire a blood removal specialist. I had juice, oatmeal and coffee for breakfast, and went back out to watch my suspect. It was raining and I put on my light beige trench coat. I didn’t have a hat but there was a shop on Berkeley Street and I bought one of those Irish walking hats. Me and Pat Moynihan. When I got home I could wear it to the Harvard Club. They’d think I was faculty. With the hat turned down over my eyes and my trench coat collar up I wasn’t terribly recognizable. But I was terribly silly-looking. The broken nose and the scar tissue around the eyes somehow didn’t go with the Eton and Harrow look. It was a pleasant rain and I didn’t mind walking in it. In fact I liked it. Come on with the rain, there’s a smile on my face.
I varied my route, going east on Piccadilly and Shaftesbury and up Charing Cross and Tottenham Court Road. All the way I kept an eye out for a tail, doubling back on my route a couple of times. I came in Tottenham Street to her apartment building staying close to the wall. The only way she could see me was if she stuck her head out the window and looked straight down. If anyone was following me they were very goddamned good. I turned into her apartment house doorway and looked in the foyer. There were three apartments. Two were Mr. and Mrs. One was simply K. CALDWELL. I was betting on K. Caldwell. I rang the bell. Over the intercom a voice, distorted by the cheap equipment but recognizably female, said, “Yes?”
“Mr. Western?” I said, reading the name above Caldwell’s. “Who?”