DESMOND BAGLEY

The Spoilers

COPYRIGHT

Harper an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Collins 1969

Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1969

Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780008211196

Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008211202

Version: 2017-03-13

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

The Spoilers

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

THE SPOILERS

DEDICATION

This one is for Pat and Philip Bawcombeand, of course, Thickabe

ONE

She lay on the bed in an abandoned attitude, oblivious of the big men crowding the room and making it appear even smaller than it was. She had been abandoned by life, and the big men were there to find out why, not out of natural curiosity but because it was their work. They were policemen.

Detective-Inspector Stephens ignored the body. He had given it a cursory glance and then turned his attention to the room, noting the cheap, rickety furniture and the threadbare carpet which was too small to hide dusty boards. There was no wardrobe and the girl’s few garments were scattered, some thrown casually over a chair-back and others on the floor by the side of the bed. The girl herself was naked, an empty shell. Death is not erotic.

Stephens picked up a sweater from the chair and was surprised at its opulent softness. He looked at the maker’s tab and frowned before handing it to Sergeant Ipsley. ‘She could afford good stuff. Any identification yet?’

‘Betts is talking to the landlady.’

Stephens knew the worth of that. The inhabitants of his manor did not talk freely to policemen. ‘He won’t get much. Just a name and that’ll be false, most likely. Seen the syringe?’

‘Couldn’t miss it, sir. Do you think it’s drugs?’

‘Could be.’ Stephens turned to an unpainted whitewood chest of drawers and pulled on a knob. The drawer opened an inch and then stuck. He smote it with the heel of his hand. ‘Any sign of the police surgeon yet?’

‘I’ll go and find out, sir.’

‘Don’t worry; he’ll come in his own sweet time.’ Stephens turned his head to the bed. ‘Besides, she’s not in too much of a hurry.’ He tugged at the drawer which stuck again. ‘Damn this confounded thing!’

A uniformed constable pushed open the door and closed it behind him. ‘Her name’s Hellier, sir – June Hellier. She’s been here a week – came last Wednesday.’

Stephens straightened. ‘That’s not much help, Betts. Have you seen her before on your beat?’

Betts looked towards the bed and shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Was she previously known to the landlady?’

‘No, sir; she just came in off the street and said she wanted a room. She paid in advance.’

‘She wouldn’t have got in otherwise,’ said Ipsley. ‘I know this old besom here – nothing for nothing and not much for sixpence.’

‘Did she make any friends – acquaintances?’ asked Stephens. ‘Speak to anyone?’

‘Not that I can find out, sir. From all accounts she stuck in her room most of the time.’

A short man with an incipient pot belly pushed into the room. He walked over to the bed and put down his bag. ‘Sorry I’m late, Joe; this damned traffic gets worse every day.’

‘That’s all right, Doctor.’ Stephens turned to Betts again. ‘Have another prowl around and see what you can get.’ He joined the doctor at the foot of the bed and looked down at the body of the girl. ‘The usual thing – time of death and the reason therefore.’

Doctor Pomray glanced at him. ‘Foul play suspected?’

Stephens shrugged. ‘Not that I know of – yet.’ He indicated the syringe and the glass which lay on the bamboo bedside table. ‘Could be drugs; an overdose, maybe.’

Pomray bent down and sniffed delicately at the glass. There was a faint film of moisture at the bottom and he was just about to touch it when Stephens said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Doctor. I’d like to have it checked for dabs first.’

‘It doesn’t really matter,’ said Pomray. ‘She was an addict, of course. Look at her thighs. I just wanted to check what her particular poison was.’

Stephens had already seen the puncture marks and had drawn his own conclusions, but he said, ‘Could have been a diabetic.’

Pomray shook his head decisively. ‘A trace of phlebo-thrombosis together with skin sepsis – no doctor would allow that to happen to a diabetic patient.’ He bent down and squeezed the skin. ‘Incipient jaundice, too; that shows liver damage. I’d say it’s drug addiction with the usual lack of care in the injection. But we won’t really know until after the autopsy.’

‘All right, I’ll leave you to it.’ Stephens turned to Ipsley and said casually, ‘Will you open that drawer, Sergeant?’

‘Another thing,’ said Pomray. ‘She’s very much underweight for her height. That’s another sign.’ He gestured towards an ashtray overflowing untidily with cigarette-stubs. ‘And she was a heavy smoker.’

Stephens watched Ipsley take the knob delicately between thumb and forefinger and pull open the drawer smoothly. He switched his gaze from the smug expression on Ipsley’s face, and said, ‘I’m a heavy smoker too, Doctor. That doesn’t mean much.’

‘It fills out the clinical picture,’ argued Pomray.

Stephens nodded. ‘I’d like to know if she died on that bed.’

Pomray looked surprised. ‘Any reason why she shouldn’t have?’

Stephens smiled slightly. ‘None at all; I’m just being careful.’

‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Pomray.

There was not much in the drawer. A handbag, three stockings, a pair of panties due for the wash, a bunch of keys, a lipstick, a suspender-belt and a syringe with a broken needle. Stephens uncapped the lipstick case and looked inside it; the lipstick was worn right down and there was evidence that the girl had tried to dig out the last of the wax, which was confirmed by the discovery of a spent match with a reddened end caught in a crack of the drawer. Stephens, an expert on the interpretation of such minutiae, concluded that June Hellier had been destitute.

The panties had a couple of reddish-brown stains on the front, stains which were repeated on one of the stocking tops. It looked very much like dried blood and was probably the result of inexpert injection into the thigh. The key-ring contained three keys, one of which was a car ignition key. Stephens turned to Ipsley. ‘Nip down and see if the girl had a car.’

Another key fitted a suitcase which he found in a corner. It was a deluxe elaborately fitted case of the type which Stephens had considered buying as a present for his wife – the idea had been rejected on the grounds of excessive expense. It contained nothing.

He could not find anything for the third key to fit so he turned his attention to the handbag, which was of fine-grained leather. He was about to open it when Ipsley came back. ‘No car, sir.’

‘Indeed!’ Stephens pursed his lips. He snapped open the catch of the handbag and looked inside. Papers, tissues, another lipstick worn to a nubbin, three shillings and four-pence in coins and no paper money. ‘Listen carefully, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Good handbag, good suitcase, car key but no car, good clothes except the stockings which are cheap, gold lipstick case in drawer, Woolworth’s lipstick in bag – both worn out. What do you make of all that?’

‘Come down in the world, sir.’

Stephens nodded as he pushed at the few coins with his forefinger. He said abruptly. ‘Can you tell me if she was a virgin, Doctor?’

‘She wasn’t,’ said Pomray. ‘I’ve checked that.’

‘Maybe she was on the knock,’ offered Ipsley.

‘Possibly,’ said Stephens. ‘We can find out – if we have to.’

Pomray straightened. ‘She died on this bed all right; there’s the usual evidence. I’ve done all I can here. Is there anywhere I can wash?’

‘There’s a bathroom just along the hall,’ said Ipsley. ‘It’s not what I’d call hygienic, though.’

Stephens was sorting the few papers. ‘What did she die of, Doctor?’

‘I’d say an overdose of a drug – but what it was will have to wait for the autopsy.’

‘Accidental or deliberate?’ asked Stephens.

‘That will have to wait for the autopsy too,’ said Pomray. ‘If it was a really massive overdose then you can be pretty sure it was deliberate. An addict usually knows to a hair how much to take. If it’s not too much of an overdose then it could be accidental.’

‘If it’s deliberate then I have a choice between suicide and murder,’ said Stephens musingly.

‘I think you can safely cut out murder,’ said Pomray. ‘Addicts don’t like other people sticking needles into them.’ He shrugged. ‘And the suicide rate among addicts is high once they hit bottom.’

A small snorting noise came from Stephens as he made the discovery of a doctor’s appointment card. The name on it rang a bell somewhere in the recesses of his mind. ‘What do you know about Dr Nicholas Warren? Isn’t he a drug man?’

Pomray nodded. ‘So she was one of his girls, was she?’ he said with interest.

‘What kind of a doctor is he? Is he on the level?’

Pomray reacted with shock. ‘My God! Nick Warren’s reputation is as pure as the driven snow. He’s one of the top boys in the field. He’s no quack, if that’s what you mean.’

‘We get all kinds,’ said Stephens levelly. ‘As you know very well.’ He gave the card to Ipsley. ‘He’s not too far from here. See if you can get hold of him, Sergeant; we still haven’t any positive identification of the girl.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Ipsley, and made for the door.

‘And, Sergeant,’ called Stephens. ‘Don’t tell him the girl’s dead.’

Ipsley grinned. ‘I won’t.’

‘Now look here,’ said Pomray. ‘If you try to pressure Warren you’ll get a hell of a surprise. He’s a tough boy.’

‘I don’t like doctors who hand out drugs,’ said Stephens grimly.

‘You know damn-all about it,’ snapped Pomray. ‘And you won’t fault Nick Warren on medical ethics. If you go on that tack he’ll tie you up in knots.’

‘We’ll see. I’ve handled tough ones before.’

Pomray grinned suddenly. ‘I think I’ll stay and watch this. Warren knows as much – if not more – about drugs and drug addicts as anyone in the country. He’s a bit of a fanatic about it. I don’t think you’ll get much change out of him. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve cleaned up in this sewer of a bathroom.’

Stephens met Warren in the dimly lit hall outside the girl’s room, wanting to preserve the psychological advantage he had gained by not informing the doctor of the girl’s death. If he was surprised at the speed of Warren’s arrival he did not show it, but studied the man with professional detachment as he advanced up the hall.

Warren was a tall man with a sensitive yet curiously immobile face. In all his utterances he spoke thoughtfully, sometimes pausing for quite a long time before he answered. This gave Stephens the impression that Warren had not heard or was ignoring the question, but Warren always answered just as a repetition was on Stephens’s tongue. This deliberateness irritated Stephens, although he tried not to show it.

‘I’m glad you were able to come,’ he said. ‘We have a problem, Doctor. Do you know a young lady called June Hellier?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Warren, economically.

Stephens waited expectantly for Warren to elaborate, but Warren merely looked at him. Swallowing annoyance, he said, ‘Is she one of your patients?’

‘Yes,’ said Warren.

‘What were you treating her for, Doctor?’

There was a long pause before Warren said, ‘That is a matter of patient-doctor relationship which I don’t care to go into.’

Stephens felt Pomray stir behind him. He said stiffly, ‘This is a police matter, Doctor.’

Again Warren paused, holding Stephens’s eye with a level stare. At last he said, ‘I suggest that if Miss Hellier needs treatment we are wasting time standing here.’

‘She will not be requiring treatment,’ said Stephens flatly.

Again Pomray stirred. ‘She’s dead, Nick.’

‘I see,’ said Warren. He seemed indifferent.

Stephens was irritated at Pomray’s interjection, but more interested in Warren’s lack of reaction. ‘You don’t seem surprised, Doctor.’

‘I’m not,’ said Warren briefly.

‘You were supplying her with drugs?’

‘I have prescribed for her – in the past.’

‘What drugs?’

‘Heroin.’

‘Was that necessary?’

Warren was as immobile as ever, but there was a flinty look in his eye as he said, ‘I don’t propose to discuss the medical treatment of any of my patients with a layman.’

A surge of anger surfaced in Stephens. ‘But you are not surprised at her death. Was she a dying woman? A terminal case?’

Warren looked at Stephens consideringly, and said, ‘The death rate among drug addicts is about twenty-eight times that of the general population. That is why I am not surprised at her death.’

‘She was a heroin addict?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you have supplied her with heroin?’

‘I have.’

‘I see,’ said Stephens with finality. He glanced at Pomray, then turned back to Warren. ‘I don’t know that I like that.’

‘I don’t care whether you like it or not,’ said Warren equably. ‘May I see my patient – you’ll be wanting a death certificate. It had better come from me.’

Of all the bloody nerve, thought Stephens. He turned abruptly and threw open the door of the bedroom. ‘In there,’ he said curtly.

Warren walked past him into the room, followed closely by Pomray. Stephens jerked his head at Sergeant Ipsley, indicating that he should leave, then closed the door behind him. When he strode to the bed Warren and Pomray were already in the midst of a conversation of which he understood about one word in four.

The sheet with which Pomray had draped the body was drawn back to reveal again the naked body of June Hellier. Stephens butted in. ‘Dr Warren: I suggested to Dr Pomray that perhaps this girl was a diabetic, because of those puncture marks. He said there was sepsis and that no doctor would allow that to happen to his patient. This girl was your patient. How do you account for it?’

Warren looked at Pomray and there was a faint twitch about his mouth that might have been a smile. ‘I don’t have to account for it,’ he said. ‘But I will. The circumstances of the injection of an anti-diabetic drug are quite different from those attendant on heroin. The social ambience is different and there is often an element of haste which can result in sepsis.’

In an aside to Pomray he said, ‘I taught her how to use a needle but, as you know, they don’t take much notice of the need for cleanliness.’

Stephens was affronted. ‘You taught her how to use a needle! By God, you make a curious use of ethics!’

Warren looked at him levelly and said with the utmost deliberation, ‘Inspector, any doubts you have about my ethics should be communicated to the appropriate authority, and if you don’t know what it is I shall be happy to supply you with the address.’

The way he turned from Stephens was almost an insult. He said to Pomray, ‘I’ll sign the certificate together with the pathologist. It will be better that way.’

‘Yes,’ said Pomray thoughtfully. ‘It might be better.’

Warren stepped to the head of the bed and stood for a moment looking down at the dead girl. Then he drew up the sheet very slowly so that it covered the body. There was something in that slow movement which puzzled Stephens; it was an act of … of tenderness.

He waited until Warren looked up, then said, ‘Do you know anything of her family?’

‘Practically nothing. Addicts resent probing – so I don’t probe.’

‘Nothing about her father?’

‘Nothing beyond the fact that she had a father. She mentioned him a couple of times.’

‘When did she come to you for drugs?’

‘She came to me for treatment about a year and a half ago. For treatment, Inspector.’

‘Of course,’ said Stephens ironically, and produced a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘You might like to look at this.’

Warren took the sheet and unfolded it, noting the worn creases. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘It was in her handbag.’

It was a letter typed in executive face on high quality paper and bore the embossed heading: REGENT FILM COMPANY, with a Wardour Street address. It was dated six months earlier, and ran:

Dear Miss Hellier,

On the instructions of your father I write to tell you that he will be unable to see you on Friday next because he is leaving for America the same afternoon. He expects to be away for some time, how long exactly I am unable to say at this moment.

He assures you that he will write to you as soon as his more pressing business is completed, and he hopes you will not regret his absence too much.

Yours sincerely,

D. L. Walden

Warren said quietly, ‘This explains a lot.’ He looked up. ‘Did he write?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Stephens. ‘There’s nothing here.’

Warren tapped the letter with a finger-nail. ‘I don’t think he did. June wouldn’t keep a secondhand letter like this and destroy the real thing.’ He looked down at the shrouded body. ‘The poor girl.’

‘You’d better be thinking of yourself, Doctor,’ said Stephens sardonically. ‘Take a look at the list of directors at the head of that letter.’

Warren glanced at it and saw: Sir Robert Hellier (Chairman). With a grimace he passed it to Pomray.

‘My God!’ said Pomray. ‘That Hellier.’

‘Yes, that Hellier,’ said Stephens. ‘I think this one is going to be a stinker. Don’t you agree, Dr Warren?’ There was an unconcealed satisfaction in his voice and a dislike in his eyes as he stared at Warren.

II

Warren sat at his desk in his consulting-room. He was between patients and using the precious minutes to catch up on the mountain of paperwork imposed by the Welfare State. He disliked the bureaucratic aspect of medicine as much as any doctor and so, in an odd way, he was relieved to be interrupted by the telephone. But his relief soon evaporated when he heard his receptionist say, ‘Sir Robert Hellier wishes to speak to you, Doctor.’

He sighed. This was a call he had been expecting. ‘Put him through, Mary.’

There was a click and a different buzz on the line. ‘Hellier here.’

‘Nicholas Warren speaking.’

The tinniness of the telephone could not disguise the rasp of authority in Hellier’s voice. ‘I want to see you, Warren.’

‘I thought you might, Sir Robert.’

‘I shall be at my office at two-thirty this afternoon. Do you know where it is?’

‘That will be quite impossible,’ said Warren firmly. ‘I’m a very busy man. I suggest I find time for an appointment with you here at my rooms.’

There was a pause tinged with incredulity, then a splutter. ‘Now, look here …’

‘I’m sorry, Sir Robert,’ Warren cut in. ‘I suggest you come to see me at five o’clock today. I shall be free then, I think.’

Hellier made his decision. ‘Very well,’ he said brusquely, and Warren winced as the telephone was slammed down at the other end. He laid down his handset gently and flicked a switch on his intercom. ‘Mary, Sir Robert Hellier will be seeing me at five. You might have to rearrange things a bit. I expect it to be a long consultation, so he must be the last patient.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘Oh, Mary: as soon as Sir Robert arrives you may leave.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

Warren released the switch and gazed pensively across the room, but after a few moments he applied himself once more to his papers.

Sir Robert Hellier was a big man and handled himself in such a way as to appear even bigger. The Savile Row suiting did not tone down his muscular movements by its suavity, and his voice was that of a man unaccustomed to brooking opposition. As soon as he entered Warren’s room he said curtly and without preamble, ‘You know why I’m here.’

‘Yes; you’ve come to see me about your daughter. Won’t you sit down?’

Hellier took the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘I’ll come to the point. My daughter is dead. The police have given me information which I consider incredible. They tell me that she was a drug addict – that she took heroin.’

‘She did.’

‘Heroin which you supplied.’

‘Heroin which I prescribed,’ corrected Warren.

Hellier was momentarily taken aback. ‘I did not expect you to admit it so easily.’

‘Why not?’ said Warren. ‘I was your daughter’s physician.’

‘Of all the bare-faced effrontery!’ burst out Hellier. He leaned forward and his powerful shoulders hunched under his suit. ‘That a doctor should prescribe hard drugs for a young girl is disgraceful.’

‘My prescription was …’

‘I’ll see you in jail,’ yelled Hellier.

‘… entirely necessary in my opinion.’

‘You’re nothing but a drug pedlar.’

Warren stood up and his voice cut coldly through Hellier’s tirade. ‘If you repeat that statement outside this room I shall sue you for slander. If you will not listen to what I have to say then I must ask you to leave, since further communication on your part is pointless. And if you want to complain about my ethics you must do so to the Disciplinary Committee of the General Medical Council.’

Hellier looked up in astonishment. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the General Medical Council would condone such conduct?’

‘I am,’ said Warren wryly, and sat down again. ‘And so would the British Government – they legislated for it.’

Hellier seemed out of his depth. ‘All right,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I suppose I should hear what you have to say. That’s why I came here.’

Warren regarded him thoughtfully. ‘June came to see me about eighteen months ago. At that time she had been taking heroin for nearly two years.’

Hellier flared again. ‘Impossible!’

‘What’s so impossible about it?’

‘I would have known.’

‘How would you have known?’

‘Well, I’d have recognized the … the symptoms.’

‘I see. What are the symptoms, Sir Robert?’

Hellier began to speak, then checked himself and was silent. Warren said, ‘A heroin addict doesn’t walk about with palsied hands, you know. The symptoms are much subtler than that – and addicts are adept at disguising them. But you might have noticed something. Tell me, did she appear to have money troubles at that time?’

Hellier looked at the back of his hands. ‘I can’t remember the time when she didn’t have money troubles,’ he said broodingly. ‘I was getting pretty tired of it and I put my foot down hard. I told her I hadn’t raised her to be an idle spendthrift.’ He looked up. ‘I found her a job, installed her in her own flat and cut her allowance by half.’

‘I see,’ said Warren. ‘How long did she keep the job?’

Hellier shook his head. ‘I don’t know – only that she lost it.’ His hands tightened on the edge of the desk so that the knuckles showed white. ‘She robbed me, you know – she stole from her own father.’

‘How did that happen?’ asked Warren gently.

‘I have a country house in Berkshire,’ said Hellier. ‘She went down there and looted it – literally looted it. There was a lot of Georgian silver, among other things. She had the nerve to leave a note saying that she was responsible – she even gave me the name of the dealer she’d sold the stuff to. I got it all back, but it cost me a hell of a lot of money.’

‘Did you prosecute?’

‘Don’t be a damned fool,’ said Hellier violently. ‘I have a reputation to keep up. A fine figure I’d cut in the papers if I prosecuted my own daughter for theft. I have enough trouble with the Press already.’

‘It might have been better for her if you had prosecuted,’ said Warren. ‘Didn’t you ask yourself why she stole from you?’

Hellier sighed. ‘I thought she’d just gone plain bad – I thought she’d taken after her mother.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘But that’s another story.’

‘Of course,’ said Warren. ‘As I say, when June came to me for treatment, or rather, for heroin, she had been addicted for nearly two years. She said so and her physical condition confirmed it.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Hellier. ‘That she came to you for heroin and not for treatment.’

‘An addict regards a doctor as a source of supply,’ said Warren a little tiredly. ‘Addicts don’t want to be treated – it scares them.’

Hellier looked at Warren blankly. ‘But this is monstrous. Did you give her heroin?’

‘I did.’

‘And no treatment?’

‘Not immediately. You can’t treat a patient who won’t be treated, and there’s no law in England which allows of forcible treatment.’

‘But you pandered to her. You gave her the heroin.’

‘Would you rather I hadn’t? Would you rather I had let her go on the streets to get her heroin from an illegal source at an illegal price and contaminated with God knows what filth? At least the drug I prescribed was clean and to British Pharmacopoeia Standard, which reduced the chance of hepatitis.’

Hellier looked strangely shrunken. ‘I don’t understand,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘I just don’t understand.’

‘You don’t,’ agreed Warren. ‘You’re wondering what has happened to medical ethics. We’ll come to that later.’ He tented his fingers. ‘After a month I managed to persuade June to take treatment; there are clinics for cases like hers. She was in for twenty-seven days.’ He stared at Hellier with hard eyes. ‘If I had been her I doubt if I could have lasted a week. June was a brave girl, Sir Robert.’

‘I don’t know much about the … er … the actual treatment.’

Warren opened his desk drawer and took out a cigarette-box. He took out a cigarette and then pushed the open box across the desk, apparently as an afterthought. ‘I’m sorry; do you smoke?’

‘Thank you,’ said Hellier, and took a cigarette. Warren leaned across and lit it with a flick of his lighter, then lit his own.

He studied Hellier for a while, then held up his cigarette. ‘There’s a drug in here, you know, but nicotine isn’t particularly powerful. It produces a psychological dependency. Anyone who is strong-minded enough can give it up.’ He leaned forward. ‘Heroin is different; it produces a physiological dependency – the body needs it and the mind has precious little say about it.’

He leaned back. ‘If heroin is withheld from an addicted patient there are physical withdrawal symptoms of such a nature that the chances of death are about one in five – and that is something a doctor must think hard about before he begins treatment.’

Hellier whitened. ‘Did she suffer?’

‘She suffered,’ said Warren coldly. ‘I’d be only too pleased to tell you she didn’t, but that would be a lie. They all suffer. They suffer so much that hardly one in a hundred will see the treatment through. June stood as much of it as she could take and then walked out. I couldn’t stop her – there’s no legal restraint.’

The cigarette in Hellier’s fingers was trembling noticeably. Warren said, ‘I didn’t see her for quite a while after that, and then she came back six months ago. They usually come back. She wanted heroin but I couldn’t prescribe it. There had been a change in the law – all addicts must now get their prescriptions from special clinics which have been set up by the government. I advised treatment, but she wouldn’t hear of it, so I took her to the clinic. Because I knew her medical history – and because I took an interest in her – I was able to act as consultant. Heroin was prescribed – as little as possible – until she died.’

‘Yet she died of an overdose.’

‘No,’ said Warren. ‘She died of a dose of heroin dissolved in a solution of methylamphetamine – and that’s a cocktail with too much of a kick. The amphetamine was not prescribed – she must have got it somewhere else.’

Hellier was shaking. ‘You take this very calmly, Warren,’ he said in an unsteady voice. ‘Too damned calmly for my liking.’

‘I have to take it calmly,’ said Warren. ‘A doctor who becomes emotional is no good to himself or his patients.’

‘A nice, detached, professional attitude,’ sneered Hellier. ‘But it killed my June.’ He thrust a trembling finger under Warren’s nose. ‘I’m going to have your hide, Warren. I’m not without influence. I’m going to break you.’

Warren looked at Hellier bleakly. ‘It’s not my custom to kick parents in the teeth on occasions like this,’ he said tightly. ‘But you’re asking for it – so don’t push me.’

‘Push you!’ Hellier grinned mirthlessly. ‘Like the Russian said – I’m going to bury you!’

Warren stood up. ‘All right – then tell me this: do you usually communicate with your children at second hand by means of letters from your secretary?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Six months ago, just before you went to America, June wanted to see you. You fobbed her off with a form letter from your secretary, for God’s sake!’

‘I was very busy at the time. I had a big deal impending.’

‘She wanted your help. You wouldn’t give it to her, so she came to me. You promised to write from America. Did you?’

‘I was busy,’ said Hellier weakly. ‘I had a heavy schedule – a lot of flights … conferences …’

‘So you didn’t write. When did you get back?’

‘A fortnight ago.’

‘Nearly six months away. Did you know where your daughter was? Did you try to find out? She was still alive then, you know.’

‘Good Christ, I had to straighten out things over here. Things had gone to hell in my absence.’

‘They had, indeed!’ said Warren icily. ‘You say that you found June a job and set her up in a flat. It sounds very nice when put that way, but I’d say that you threw her out. In the preceding years did you try to find out why her behaviour had changed? Why she needed more and more money? In fact I’d like to know how often you saw your daughter. Did you supervise her activities? Check on the company she was keeping? Did you act like a father?’

Hellier was ashen. ‘Oh, my God!’

Warren sat down and said quietly, ‘Now I’m really going to hurt you, Hellier. Your daughter hated your guts. She told me so herself, although I didn’t know who you were. She kept that damned patronizing secretary’s letter to fuel her hatred, and she ended up in a sleazy doss-house in Notting Hill with cash resources of three shillings and four-pence. If, six months ago, you’d have granted your daughter fifteen minutes of your precious time she’d have been alive now.’

He leaned over the desk and said in a rasping voice, ‘Now tell me, Hellier; who was responsible for your daughter’s death?’

Hellier’s face crumpled and Warren drew back and regarded him with something like pity. He felt ashamed of himself; ashamed of letting his emotions take control in such an unprofessional way. He watched Hellier grope for a handkerchief, and then got up and went to a cupboard where he tipped a couple of pills from a bottle.

He returned to the desk and said, ‘Here, take these – they’ll help.’ Unresistingly, Hellier allowed him to administer the pills and. gulped them down with the aid of a glass of water. He became calmer and presently began to speak in a low, jerky voice.

‘Helen – that’s my wife – June’s mother – my ex-wife – we had a divorce, you know. I divorced her – June was fifteen then. Helen was no good – no good at all. There were other men – I was sick of it. Made me look a fool. June stayed with me, she said she wanted to. God knows Helen didn’t want her around.’

He took a shaky breath. ‘June was still at school then, of course. I had my work – my business – it was getting bigger and more involved all the time. You have no idea how big and complicated it can get. International stuff, you know. I travelled a lot.’ He looked blindly into the past. ‘I didn’t realize.…’

Warren said gently, ‘I know.’

Hellier looked up. ‘I doubt it, Doctor.’ His eyes flickered under Warren’s steady gaze and he dropped his head again. ‘Maybe you do. I suppose I’m not the only damned fool you’ve come across.’

In an even voice, trying to attune himself to Hellier’s mood, Warren said, ‘It’s hard enough to keep up with the younger generation even when they’re underfoot. They seem to have a different way of thought – different ideals.’

Hellier sighed. ‘But I could have tried.’ He squeezed his hands together tightly. ‘People of my class tend to think that parental neglect and juvenile delinquency are prerogatives of the lower orders. Good Christ!’

Warren said briskly. ‘I’ll give you something to help you sleep tonight.’

Hellier made a negating gesture. ‘No, thanks, Doctor, I’ll take my medicine the hard way.’ He looked up. ‘Do you know how it started? How did she …? How could she …?’

Warren shrugged. ‘She didn’t say much. It was hard enough coping with present difficulties. But I think her case was very much the standard form; cannabis to begin with – taken as a lark or a dare – then on to the more potent drugs, and finally heroin and the more powerful amphetamines. It all usually starts with running with the wrong crowd.’

Hellier nodded. ‘Lack of parental control,’ he said bitterly. ‘Where do they get the filthy stuff?’

‘That’s the crux. There’s a fair amount of warehouse looting by criminals who have a ready market, and there’s smuggling, of course. Here in England, where clinics prescribe heroin under controlled conditions to Home Office registered addicts, it’s not so bad compared with the States. Over there, because it’s totally illegal, there’s a vast illicit market with consequent high profits and an organized attempt to push the stuff. There’s an estimated forty thousand heroin addicts in New York alone, compared with about two thousand in the whole of the United Kingdom. But it’s bad enough here – the number is doubling every sixteen months.’

‘Can’t the police do anything about illegal drugs?’

Warren said ironically, ‘I suppose Inspector Stephens told you all about me.’

‘He gave me a totally wrong impression,’ mumbled Hellier. He stirred restlessly.

‘That’s all right; I’m used to that kind of thing. The police attitude largely coincides with the public attitude – but it’s no use chivvying an addict once he’s hooked. That only leads to bigger profits for the gangsters because the addict on the run must get his dope where he can. And it adds to crime because he’s not too particular where he gets the money to pay for the dope.’ Warren studied Hellier, who was becoming noticeably calmer. He decided that this was as much due to the academic discussion as to the sedation, so he carried on.

‘The addicts are sick people and the police should leave them alone,’ he said. ‘We’ll take care of them. The police should crack down on the source of illegal drugs.’

‘Aren’t they doing that?’

‘That’s not so easy. It’s an international problem. Besides, there’s the difficulty of getting information – this is an illegal operation and people don’t talk.’ He smiled. ‘Addicts don’t like the police and so the police get little out of them. On the other hand, I don’t like addicts – they’re difficult patients most doctors won’t touch – but I understand them, and they tell me things. I probably know more about what’s going on than the official police sources.’

‘Then why don’t you tell the police?’ demanded Hellier.

Warren’s voice went suddenly hard. ‘If any of my patients knew that I was abusing their confidence by blabbing to the police, I’d lose the lot. Trust between patient and doctor must be absolute – especially with a drug addict. You can’t help them if they don’t trust you enough to come to you for treatment. So I’d lose them to an illicit form of supply; either an impure heroin from the docks at an inflated price, or an aseptic heroin with no treatment from one of my more unethical colleagues. There are one or two bad apples in the medical barrel, as Inspector Stephens will be quick enough to tell you.’

Hellier hunched his big shoulders and looked broodingly down at the desk. ‘So what’s the answer? Can’t you do anything yourself?’

‘Me!’ said Warren in surprise. ‘What could I do? The problem of supply begins right outside England in the Middle East. I’m no story-book adventurer, Hellier; I’m a medical doctor with patients, who just makes ends meet. I can’t just shoot off to Iran on a crazy adventure.’

Hellier growled deep in his throat, ‘You might have fewer patients if you were as crazy as that.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry about my attitude when I first came in here, Dr Warren. You have cleared up a lot of things I didn’t understand. You have told me my faults. You have told me of your ethics in this matter. You have also pointed out a possible solution which you refuse to countenance. What about your faults, Dr Warren, and where are your ethics now?’

He strode heavily to the door. ‘Don’t bother to see me out, Doctor; I’ll find my own way.’

Warren, taken wrong-footed, was startled as the door closed behind Hellier. Slowly he returned to the chair behind his desk and sat down. He lit a cigarette and remained in deep thought for some minutes, then shook his head irritably as though to escape a buzzing fly.

Ridiculous! he thought. Absolutely ridiculous!

But the maggot of doubt stirred and he could not escape its irritation in his mind no matter how hard he tried.

That evening he walked through Piccadilly and into Soho, past the restaurants and strip joints and night clubs, the chosen haunt of most of his patients. He saw one or two of them and they waved to him. He waved back in an automatic action and went on, almost unaware of his surroundings, until he found himself in Wardour Street outside the offices of the Regent Picture Company.

He looked up at the building. ‘Ridiculous!’ he said aloud.

III

Sir Robert Hellier also had a bad night.

He went back to his flat in St James’s and was almost totally unaware of how he got there. His chauffeur noted the tight lips and lowering expression and took the precaution of ringing the flat from the garage before he put away the car. ‘The old bastard’s in a mood, Harry,’ he said to Hellier’s man, Hutchins. ‘Better keep clear of him and walk on eggs.’

So it was that when Hellier walked into his penthouse flat Hutchins put out the whisky and made himself scarce. Hellier ignored both the presence of the whisky and the absence of Hutchins and sank his bulk into a luxurious armchair, where he brooded deep in thought.

Inside he writhed with guilt. It had been many more years than he could remember since anyone had had the guts to hold up a mirror wherein he could see himself, and the experience was harrowing. He hated himself and, perhaps, he hated Warren even more for rubbing his nose into his shortcomings. Yet he was basically honest and he recognized that his final remarks and abrupt exit from Warren’s rooms had been the sudden crystallization of his desire to crack Warren’s armour of ethics – to find the feet of clay and to pull Warren down to his own miserable level.

And what about June? Where did she come into all this? He thought of his daughter as he had once known her – gay, light-hearted, carefree. There was nothing he had not been prepared to give her, from the best schools to good clothes by fashionable designers, parties, continental holidays and all the rest of the good life.

Everything, except myself, he thought remorsefully.

And then, unnoticed in the interstices of his busy life, a change had come. June developed an insatiable appetite for money; not, apparently, for the things money can buy, but for money itself. Hellier was a self-made man, brought up in a hard school, and he believed that the young should earn their independence. What started out to be calm discussions with June turned into a series of flaming rows and, in the end, he lost his temper and then came the break. It was true what Warren had said; he had thrown out his daughter without making an attempt to find the root cause of the change in her.

The theft of the silver from his home had only confirmed his impression that she had gone bad, and his main worry had been to keep the matter quiet and out of the press. He suddenly realized, to his shame, that the bad press he was likely to get because of the inquest had been uppermost in his mind ever since he had seen Inspector Stephens.

How had all this happened? How had he come to lose first a wife and then a daughter?

He had worked – by God, how he had worked! The clapperclawing to the top in an industry where knives are wielded with the greatest efficiency; the wheedling and dealing with millions at stake. The American trip, for instance – he had got on top of those damned sharp Yanks – but at what cost? An ulcer, a higher blood pressure than his doctor liked and a nervous three packets of cigarettes a day as inheritance of those six months.

And a dead daughter.

He looked around the flat, at the light-as-air Renoir on the facing wall, at the blue period Picasso at the end of the room. The symbols of success. He suddenly hated them and moved to another chair where they were at his back and where he could look out over London towards the Tudor crenellations of St James’s Palace.

Why had he worked so hard? At first it had been for Helen and young June and for the other children that were to come. But Helen had not wanted children and so June was the only one. Was it about then that the work became a habit, or perhaps an anodyne? He had thrown himself whole-heartedly into the curious world of the film studios where it is a toss-up which is the more important, money or artistry; and not a scrap of his heart had he left for his wife.

Perhaps it was his neglect that had forced Helen to look elsewhere – at first surreptitiously and later blatantly – until he had got tired of the innuendoes and had forced the divorce.

But where, in God’s name, had June come into all this? The work was there by then, and had to be done; decisions had to be taken – by him and by no one else – and each damned decision led to another and then another, filling his time and his life until there was no room for anything but the work.

He held out his hands and looked at them. Nothing but a machine, he thought despondently. A mind for making the right decisions and hands for signing the right cheques.

And somewhere in all this, June, his daughter, had been lost. He was suddenly filled with a terrible shame at the thought of the letter Warren had told him about. He remembered the occasion now. It had been a bad week; he was preparing to carry a fight to America, and everything had gone wrong so he was rushed off his feet. He remembered being waylaid by Miss Walden, his secretary, in a corridor between offices.

‘I’ve a letter for you from Miss Hellier, Sir Robert. She would like to see you on Friday.’

He had stopped, somewhat surprised, and rubbed his chin in desperation, wanting to get on but still wanting to see June. ‘Oh, damn; I have that meeting with Matchet on Friday morning – and that means lunch as well. What do I have after lunch, Miss Walden?’

She did not consult an appointment book because she was not that kind of secretary, which was why he employed her. ‘Your plane leaves at three-thirty – you might have to leave your lunch early.’

‘Oh! Well, do me a favour, Miss Walden. Write to my daughter explaining the situation. Tell her I’ll write from the States as soon as I can.’

And he had gone on into an office and from there to another office and yet another until the day was done – the 18-hour working day. And in two more days it was Friday with the conference with Matchet and the expensive lunch that was necessary to keep Matchet sweet. Then the quick drive to Heathrow – and New York in no time at all – to be confronted by Hewling and Morrin with their offers and propositions, all booby-trapped.

The sudden necessity to fly to Los Angeles and to beat the Hollywood moguls on their own ground. Then back to New York to be inveigled by Morrin to go on that trip to Miami and the Bahamas, an unsubtle attempt at corruption by hospitality. But he had beaten them all and had returned to England with the fruits of victory and at the high point of his career, only to be confronted by the devil of a mess because no one had been strong enough to control Matchet.

In all that time he had never once thought of his daughter.

The dimming light concealed the greyness of his face as he contemplated that odious fact. He sought to find excuses and found none. And he knew that this was not the worst – he knew that he had never given June the opportunity of communicating with him on the simple level of one human being to another. She had been something in the background of his life, and the knowledge hurt him that she had been something and not someone.

Hellier got up and paced the room restlessly, thinking of all the things Warren had said. Warren had seemed to take drug addiction as a matter of course, a normal fact of life to be coped with somehow. Although he had not said so outright, he had implied it was his task to clear up the mess left by the negligence of people like himself.

But surely someone else was to blame. What about the profit-makers? The pushers of drugs?

Hellier paused as he felt a spark of anger flash into being, an anger which, for the first time, was not directed against himself. His was a sin of omission, although not to be minimized on that account. But the sin of commission, the deliberate act of giving drugs to the young for profit, was monstrous. He had been thoughtless, but the drug pedlars were evil.

The anger within him grew until he thought he would burst with the sheer agony of it, but he deliberately checked himself in order to think constructively. Just as he had not allowed his emotions to impede his negotiations with Matchet, Hewling and Morrin,, so he brought his not inconsiderable intellect to bear unclouded on this new problem. Hellier, as an efficient machine, began to swing smoothly into action.

He first thought of Warren who, with his special knowledge, was undoubtedly the key. Hellier was accustomed to studying closely the men with whom he dealt because their points of strength and weakness showed in subtle ways. He went over in his mind everything Warren had said and the way in which he had said it, and seized upon two points. He was certain Warren knew something important.

But he had to make sure that his chosen key would not break in his hand. Decisively he picked up the telephone and dialled a number. A moment later he said, ‘Yes, I know it’s late. Do we have that firm of investigators still on our books? They helped us on the Lowrey case … Good! I want them to investigate Dr Nicholas Warren MD. Repeat that. It must be done discreetly. Everything there is to know about him, damn it! As fast as possible … a report in three days … oh, damn the expense! … charge it to my private account.’

Absently he picked up the decanter of whisky. ‘And another thing. Get the Research Department to find out all they can about drug smuggling – the drug racket in general. Again, a report in three days … Yes, I’m serious … it might make a good film.’ He paused. ‘Just one thing more; the Research Department mustn’t go near Dr Warren … Yes, they’re quite likely to, but they must steer clear of him – is that understood? Good!’

He put down the telephone and looked at the decanter in some surprise. He laid it down gently and went into his bedroom. For the first time in many years he ignored his normal meticulous procedure of hanging up his clothes and left them strewn about the floor.

Once in bed the tensions left him and his body relaxed. It was only then that the physical expression of his grief came to him and he broke down. Waves of shudders racked his body and this man of fifty-five wet the pillow with his tears.

TWO

Warren was – and was not – surprised to hear from Hellier again. In the forefront of his mind he wondered what Hellier was after and was almost inclined to refuse to see him. In his experience prolonged post-mortems with the survivors did no one any good in the long run; they merely served to turn guilt into acceptance and, as a moral man, he believed that the guilty should be punished and that self-punishment was the most severe form.

But in the remote recesses of his mind still lurked the nagging doubt which had been injected by Hellier’s final words and so, somewhat to his surprise, he found himself accepting Hellier’s invitation to meet him in the St James’s flat. This time, oddly enough, he was not averse to meeting Hellier on his own ground – that battle had already been won.

Hellier greeted him with a conventional, ‘It’s very good of you to come, Doctor,’ and led him into a large and softly luxurious room where he was waved courteously to a chair. ‘Drink?’ asked Hellier. ‘Or don’t you?’

Warren smiled. ‘I have all the normal vices. I’d like a Scotch.’

He found himself sipping a whisky so good that it was almost criminal to dilute it with water, and holding one of Hellier’s monogrammed cigarettes. ‘We’re a picturesque lot, we film people,’ said Hellier wryly. ‘Self-advertisement is one of our worst faults.’

Warren looked at the intertwined R H stamped in gold on the handmade cigarette, and suspected that it was not Hellier’s normal style and that he went about it coldbloodedly in what was a conformist industry. He said nothing and waited for Hellier to toss a more reasonable conversational ball.

‘First, I must apologize for the scene I made in your rooms,’ said Hellier.

‘You have already done so,’ said Warren gravely. ‘And in any case, no apology is necessary.’

Hellier settled in a chair facing Warren and put his glass on a low table. ‘I find you are very well thought of in your profession.’

Warren twitched an eyebrow. ‘Indeed!’

‘I’ve been finding out things about the drug racket – I think I have it pretty well taped.’

‘In three days?’ said Warren ironically.

‘In the film industry, by its very nature, there must be an enormous fund of general knowledge. My Research Department is very nearly as good as, say, a newspaper office. If you put enough staff on to a problem you can do a lot in three days.’

Warren let that go and merely nodded.

‘My research staff found that in nearly one-third of their enquiries they were advised to consult you as a leading member of the profession.’

‘They didn’t,’ said Warren succinctly.

Hellier smiled. ‘No, I told them not to. As you said the other day, you’re a very busy man. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘I suppose I should thank you,’ said Warren with a straight face.

Hellier squared his shoulders. ‘Dr Warren, let us not fence with each other. I’m putting all my cards on the table. I also had you independently investigated.’

Warren sipped whisky and kept steady eyes on Hellier over the glass. ‘That’s a damned liberty,’ he observed mildly. ‘I suppose I should ask you what you found.’

Hellier held up his hand. ‘Nothing but good, Doctor. You have an enviable reputation both as a man and as a physician, besides being outstanding in the field of drug addiction.’

Warren said satirically, ‘I should like to read that dossier some time – it would be like reading one’s obituary, a chance which comes to few of us.’ He put down his glass. ‘And to what end is all this … this effort on your part?’

‘I wanted to be sure that you are the right man,’ said Hellier seriously.

‘You’re talking in riddles,’ said Warren impatiently. He laughed. ‘Are you going to offer me a job? Technical adviser to a film, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Hellier. ‘Let me ask you a question. You are divorced from your wife. Why?’

Warren felt outrage, surprise and shock. He was outraged at the nature of the question; surprised that the urbane Hellier should have asked it; shocked because of the intensive nature of Hellier’s investigation of him. ‘That’s my affair,’ he said coldly.

‘Undoubtedly,’ Hellier studied Warren for a moment. I’ll tell you why your wife divorced you. She didn’t like your association with drug addicts.’

Warren put his hands on the arms of the chair preparatory to rising, and Hellier said sharply, ‘Sit down, man; listen to what I’ve got to say.’

‘It had better be good,’ said Warren, relaxing. ‘I don’t take kindly to conversations of this nature.’

Hellier stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘That tells me more about you than it does about your wife, whom I am not interested in. It tells me that the interests of your profession come ahead of your personal relationships. Are you aware that you are considered to be a fanatic on the subject of drugs?’

‘It has been brought to my attention,’ said Warren stiffly.

Hellier nodded. ‘As you pointed out – and as I have found in my brief study – drug addicts are not the most easy patients. They’re conceited, aggressive, deceitful, vicious, crafty and any other pejorative term you care to apply to them. And yet you persist against all the odds in trying to help them – even to the extent of losing your wife. That seems to me to show a great deal of dedication.’

Warren snorted. ‘Dedication my foot! It’s just what goes with the job. All those vices you’ve just mentioned are symptoms of the general drug syndrome. The addicts are like that because of the drugs, and you can’t just leave them to stew because you don’t like the way they behave.’ He shook his head. ‘Come to the point. I didn’t come here to be admired – especially by you.’

Hellier flushed. ‘I was making a point in my own peculiar way,’ he said. ‘But I’ll come to the nub of it. When I came to see you, you said that the problem was in stopping the inflow of illicit drugs and you said it was an international problem. You were also damned quick to say that you weren’t prepared to jump off to Iran on a crazy adventure.’ He stuck out his finger. ‘I think you know something, Dr Warren; and I think it’s something definite.’

‘My God!’ said Warren. ‘You jump to a fast conclusion.’

‘I’m used to it,’ said Hellier easily. ‘I’ve had a lot of experience – and I’m usually right. I get paid for being right and I’m highly paid. Now, why Iran? Heroin is ultimately derived from opium, and opium comes from many places. It could come from the Far East – China or Burma – but you said the problem of illegal supply begins in the Middle East. Why the Middle East? And why pick Iran in particular? It could come from any of half a dozen countries from Afghanistan to Greece, but you took a snap judgment on Iran without a second thought.’ He set down his glass with a tiny click. ‘You know something definite, Dr Warren.’

Warren stirred in his chair. ‘Why this sudden interest?’

‘Because I’ve decided to do something about it,’ said Hellier. He laughed briefly at the expression on Warren’s face. ‘No, I haven’t gone mad; neither do I have delusions of grandeur. You pointed out the problem yourself. What the devil’s the good of patching up these damned idiots if they can walk out and pick up a fresh supply on the nearest corner? Cutting off the illegal supply would make your own job a lot easier.’

‘For God’s sake!’ exploded Warren. ‘There are hundreds of policemen of all nationalities working on this. What makes you think you can do any better?’

Hellier levelled a finger at him. ‘Because you have information which for reasons of your own – quite ethical reasons, I am sure – you will not pass on to the police.’

‘And which I will pass on to you – is that it?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Hellier. ‘You can keep it to yourself if you wish.’ He stabbed a finger towards Warren again. ‘You see, you are going to do something about it.’

‘Now I know you’re crazy,’ said Warren in disgust. ‘Hellier, I think you’ve been knocked off balance; you’re set on some weird kind of expiation and you’re trying to drag me into it.’ His lips twisted. ‘It’s known as shutting the stable door after the horse has gone, and I want no part of it.’

Unperturbedly, Hellier lit another cigarette, and Warren suddenly said, ‘You smoke too much.’

‘You’re the second doctor to tell me that within a fortnight.’ Hellier waved his hand. ‘You see, you can’t help being a doctor, even now. At our last meeting you said something else – “I’m a doctor who just makes ends meet”.’ He laughed. ‘You’re right; I know your bank balance to a penny. But suppose you had virtually unlimited funds, and suppose you coupled those funds with the information I’m certain you have and which, incidentally, you don’t deny having. What then?’

Warren spoke without thinking. ‘It’s too big for one man.’

‘Who said anything about one man? Pick your own team,’ said Hellier expansively,

Warren stared at him. ‘I believe you mean all this,’ he said in wonder.

‘I might be in the business of spinning fairy tales for other people,’ said Hellier soberly. ‘But I don’t spin them for myself. I mean every word of it.’

Warren knew he had been right; Hellier had been pushed off balance by the death of his daughter. He judged that Hellier had always been a single-minded man, and now he had veered off course and had set his sights on a new objective. And he would be a hard man to stop.

‘I don’t think you know what’s involved,’ he said.

‘I don’t care what’s involved,’ said Hellier flatly. ‘I want to hit these bastards. I want blood.’

‘Whose blood – mine?’ asked Warren cynically. ‘You’ve picked the wrong man. I don’t think the man exists, anyway. You need a combination of St George and James Bond. I’m a doctor, not a gang-buster.’

‘You’re a man with the knowledge and qualifications I need,’ said Hellier intensely. He saw he was on the edge of losing Warren, and said more calmly, ‘Don’t make a snap decision now, Doctor; just think it over.’ His voice sharpened. ‘And pay a thought to ethics.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now what about a bite to eat?’

II

Warren left Hellier’s flat comfortable in stomach but uneasy in mind. As he walked up Jermyn Street towards Piccadilly Circus he thought of all the aspects of the odd proposition Hellier had put to him. There was no doubt that Hellier meant it, but he did not know what he was getting into – not by half; in the vicious world of the drug trade no quarter was given – the stakes were too high.

He pushed his way through the brawling crowds of Piccadilly Circus and turned off into Soho. Presently he stopped outside a pub, looked at his watch, and then went in. It was crowded but someone companionably made room for him at a corner of the bar and he ordered a Scotch and, with the glass in his hand, looked about the room. Sitting at a table on the other side were three of his boys. He looked at them speculatively and judged they had had their shots not long before; they were at ease and conversation between them flowed freely. One of them looked up and waved and he raised his hand in greeting.

In order to get to his patients, to acquire their unwilling trust, Warren had lived with them and had, at last, become accepted. It was an uphill battle to get them to use clean needles and sterile water; too many of them had not the slightest idea of medical hygiene. He lived in their half-world on the fringes of crime where even the Soho prostitutes took a high moral tone and considered that the addicts lowered the gentility of the neighbourhood. It was enough to make a man laugh – or cry.

Warren made no moral judgments. To him it was a social and medical problem. He was not immediately concerned with the fundamental instability in a man which led him to take heroin; all he knew was that when the man was hooked he was hooked for good. At that stage there was no point in recrimination because it solved nothing. There was a sick man to be helped, and Warren helped him, fighting society at large, the police and even the addict himself.

It was in this pub, and in places like it, that he had heard the three hard facts and the thousand rumours which constituted the core of the special knowledge which Hellier was trying to get from him. To mix with addicts was to mix with criminals. At first they had been close-mouthed when he was around, but later, when they discovered that his lips were equally tight, they spoke more freely. They knew who – and what – he was, but they accepted it, although to a few he was just another ‘flaming do-gooder’ who ought to keep his long nose out of other people’s affairs. But generally he had become accepted.

He turned back to the bar and contemplated his glass. Nick Warren – do-it-yourself Bond! he thought. Hellier is incredible! The trouble with Hellier was that he did not know the magnitude of what he had set out to do. Millionaire though he was, the prizes offered in the drug trade would make even Hellier appear poverty-stricken, and with money like that at stake men do not hesitate to kill.

A heavy hand smote him on the back and he choked over his drink. ‘Hello, Doc; drowning your sorrows?’

Warren turned. ‘Hello, Andy. Have a drink.’

‘Most kind,’ said Andrew Tozier. ‘But allow me.’ He pulled out a wallet and peeled a note from the fat wad.

‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ said Warren drily. ‘You’re still unemployed.’ He caught the eye of the barman and ordered two whiskies.

‘Aye,’ said Tozier, putting away his wallet. ‘The world’s becoming too bloody quiet for my liking.’

‘You can’t be reading the newspapers,’ observed Warren. ‘The Russians are acting up again and Vietnam was still going full blast the last I heard.’

‘But those are the big boys,’ said Tozier. ‘There’s no room for a small-scale enterprise like mine. It’s the same everywhere – the big firms put the squeeze on us little chaps.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers!’

Warren regarded him with sudden interest. Major Andrew Tozier; profession – mercenary soldier. A killer for hire. Andy would not shoot anyone indiscriminately – that would be murder. But he was quite prepared to be employed by a new government to whip into line a regiment of half-trained black soldiers and lead them into action. He was a walking symptom of a schizophrenic world.

‘Cheers!’ said Warren absently. His mind was racing with mad thoughts.

Tozier jerked his head towards the door. ‘Your consulting-room is filling up, Doc.’ Warren looked over and saw four young men just entering; three were his patients but the fourth he did not know. ‘I don’t know how you stand those cheap bastards,’ said Tozier.

‘Someone has to look after them,’ said Warren. ‘Who’s the new boy?’

Tozier shrugged. ‘Another damned soul on the way to hell,’ he said macabrely. ‘You’ll probably meet up with him when he wants a fix.’

Warren nodded. ‘So there’s still no action in your line.’

‘Not a glimmer.’

‘Maybe your rates are too high. I suppose it’s a case of supply and demand like everything else.’

‘The rates are never too high,’ said Tozier, a little bleakly. ‘What price would you put on your skin, Doc?’

‘I’ve just been asked that question – in an oblique way,’ said Warren, thinking of Hellier. ‘What is the going rate, anyway?’

‘Five hundred a month plus a hell of a big bonus on completion.’ Tozier smiled. ‘Thinking of starting a war?’

Warren looked him in the eye. ‘I just might be.’

The smile faded from Tozier’s lips. He looked at Warren closely, impressed by the way he had spoken. ‘By God!’ he said. ‘I think you’re serious. Who are you thinking of tackling? The Metropolitan Police?’ The smile returned and grew broader.

Warren said, ‘You’ve never gone in for really private enterprise, have you? I mean a private war as opposed to a public war.’

Tozier shook his head. ‘I’ve always stayed legal or, at any rate, political. Anyway, there are precious few people financing private brawls. I take it you don’t mean carrying a gun for some jumped-up Soho “businessman” busily engaged in carving out a private empire? Or bodyguarding?’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Warren. He was thinking of what he knew of Andrew Tozier. The man had values of a sort. Not long before, Warren had asked why he had not taken advantage of a conflict that was going on in a South American country.

Tozier had been scathingly contemptuous. ‘Good Christ! That’s a power game going on between two gangs of top-class cut-throats. I have no desire to mow down the poor sons of bitches of peasants who happen to get caught in the middle.’ He had looked hard at Warren. ‘I choose my fights,’ he said.

Warren thought that if he did pick up Hellier’s ridiculous challenge then Andy Tozier would be a good man to have around. Not that there was any likelihood of it happening.

Tozier was waving to the barman, and held up two fingers. He turned to Warren, and said, ‘You have something on your mind, Doctor. Is someone putting the pressure on?’

‘In a way,’ said Warren wryly. He thought Hellier had not really started yet; the next thing to come would be the moral blackmail.

‘Give me his name,’ said Tozier. ‘I’ll lean on him a bit. He won’t trouble you any more.’

Warren smiled. ‘Thanks, Andy; it’s not that sort of pressure.’

Tozier looked relieved. ‘That’s all right, then. I thought some of your mainliners might have been ganging up on you. I’d soon sort them out.’ He put a pound note on the counter and accepted the change. ‘Here’s mud in your eye.’

‘Supposing I needed bodyguarding,’ said Warren carefully. ‘Would you take on the job – at your usual rates?’

Tozier laughed loudly. ‘You couldn’t afford me. I’d do it for free, though, if it isn’t too long a job.’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘Something really is biting you, Doc. I think you’d better tell me what it is.’

‘No,’ said Warren sharply. If – and it was a damned big ‘if’ – he went deeper into this then he could not trust anyone, not even Andy Tozier who seemed straight enough. He said slowly, ‘If it ever happens it will take, perhaps, a few months, and it will be in the Middle East. You’d get paid your five hundred a month plus a bonus.’

Tozier put down his glass gently. ‘And it’s not political?’

‘As far as I know, it isn’t,’ said Warren thoughtfully.

‘And I bodyguard you?’ Tozier seemed bewildered.

Warren grinned. ‘Perhaps there’d be a bit of fetching and carrying in a fierce sort of way.’

‘Middle East and not political – maybe,’ mused Tozier. He shook his head. ‘I usually like to know more about what I’m getting into.’ He shot Warren a piercing glance. ‘But you I trust. If you want me – just shout.’

‘It may never happen,’ warned Warren. ‘There’s no firm commitment.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Tozier. ‘Let’s just say you have a free option on my services.’ He finished his drink with a flourish and bumped down the glass, looking at Warren expectantly. ‘Your round. Anyone who can afford my rates can afford to buy me drinks.’

Warren went home and spent a long time just sitting in a chair and gazing into space. In an indefinable way he somehow felt committed, despite what he had said to Andy Tozier. The mere act of meeting the man had put ideas into his head, ideas that were crazy mad but becoming more real and solid with every tick of the clock. At one point he got up restlessly and paced the room.

‘Damn Hellier!’ he said aloud.

He went to his desk, drew out a sheet of paper, and began writing busily. At the end of half an hour he had, perhaps, twenty names scribbled down. Thoughtfully he scanned his list and began to eliminate and in another fifteen minutes the list was reduced to five names,

ANDREW TOZIER

JOHN FOLLET

DAN PARKER

BEN BRYAN

MICHAEL ABBOT

III

Number 23, Acacia Road, was a neat, semi-detached house, indistinguishable from the hundreds around it. Warren pushed open the wooden gate, walked the few steps necessary to get to the front door and past the postage-stamp-sized front garden, and rang the bell. The door was opened by a trim, middle-aged woman who greeted him with pleasure.

‘Why, Dr Warren; we haven’t seen you for a long time.’ Alarm chased across her face. ‘It’s not Jimmy again, is it? He hasn’t been getting into any more trouble?’

Warren smiled reassuringly. ‘Not that I know of, Mrs Parker.’

He almost felt her relief. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Well, that’s all right, then. Do you want to see Jimmy? He’s not in now – he went down to the youth club.’

‘I came to see Dan,’ said Warren. ‘Just for a friendly chat.’

‘What am I thinking of,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘Keeping you on the doorstep like this. Come in, Doctor. Dan just got home – he’s upstairs washing.’

Warren was quite aware that Dan Parker had just reached home. He had not wanted to see Parker at the garage where he worked so he had waited in his car and followed him home. Mrs Parker ushered him into the front room. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ she said.

Warren looked about the small room; at the three pottery ducks on the wall, at the photographs of the children on the sideboard and the other photograph of a much younger Dan Parker in uniform. He did not have to wait long. Parker came into the room and held out his hand. ‘This is a pleasure we didn’t expect, Doctor.’ Warren, grasping the hand, felt the hardness of callouses. ‘I was only sayin’ to Sally the other day that it’s a pity we don’t see more of you.’

‘Perhaps it’s just as well,’ said Warren ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I put the breeze up Mrs Parker just now.’

‘Aye,’ said Parker soberly. ‘I know what you mean. But we’d still like to see you, sociable like.’ The warm tones of the Lancastrian were still heard, although Parker had lived in London for many years. ‘Sit down, Doctor; Sally’ll be bringing in tea any minute.’

‘I’ve come to see you on … a matter of business.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Parker comfortably. ‘We’ll get down to it after tea, then, shall we? Sally has to go out, anyway; her younger sister’s a bit under the weather, so Sally’s doin’ a bit o’ baby-sitting.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Warren. ‘How’s Jimmy these days?’

‘He’s all right now,’ said Parker. ‘You straightened him out, Doctor. You put the fear o’ God into him – an’ I keep it there.’

‘I wouldn’t be too hard on him.’

‘Just hard enough,’ said Parker uncompromisingly. ‘He’ll not get on that lark again.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what kids are comin’ to these days. It weren’t like that when I were a lad. If I’d a’ done what young Jimmy did, me father would a’ laid into me that hard with his strap. He had a heavy hand, had me dad.’ He shook his head. ‘But it wouldn’t a’ entered our heads.’

Warren listened to this age-old plaint of the parents without a trace of a smile. ‘Yes,’ he agreed gravely. ‘Things have changed.’

Sally Parker brought in the tea – a cut down, southern version of the traditional northern high tea. She pressed homemade cakes and scones on Warren, and insisted on refilling his cup. Warren studied Parker unobtrusively and tried to figure out how to broach the delicate subject in such a way as to ensure the greatest co-operation.

Daniel Parker was a man of forty. He had joined the Navy during the last few months of the war and had elected to make a career of it. In the peacetime Navy he had forged ahead in his stubborn way despite the inevitably slow rate of promotion. He had fought in Korean waters during that war and had come out of it a petty officer with the heady prospect of getting commissioned rank. But in 1962 a torpedo got loose and rolled on his leg, and that was the end of his naval career.

He had come out of the Navy with one leg permanently shortened, a disability pension and no job. The last did not worry him because he knew he was good with his hands. Since 1963 he had been working as a mechanic in a garage, and Warren thought his employer was damned lucky.

Mrs Parker looked at her watch and made an exclamation. ‘Oh, I’ll be late. You’ll have to excuse me, Doctor.’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Parker,’ said Warren, rising.

‘You get off, lass,’ said Parker. ‘I’ll see to the dishes, an’ the doctor an’ me will have a quiet chat.’ Mrs Parker left, and Parker produced a stubby pipe which he proceeded to fill. ‘You said you wanted to see me on business, Doctor.’ He looked up in a puzzled way, and then smiled. ‘Maybe you’ll be wantin’ a new car.’

‘No,’ said Warren. ‘How are things at the garage, Dan?’

Parker shrugged. ‘Same as ever. Gets a bit monotonous at times – but I’m doin’ an interestin’ job now on a Mini-Cooper.’ He smiled slowly. ‘Most o’ the time I’m dealin’ wi’ the troubles o’ maiden ladies. I had one come in the other day – said the car was usin’ too much petrol. I tested it an’ there was nothin’ wrong, so I gave it back. But she was back in no time at all wi’ the same trouble.’

He struck a match. ‘I still found nothin’ wrong, so I said to her, “Miss Hampton, I want to drive around a bit with you just for a final check,” so off we went. The first thing she did was to pull out the choke an’ hang her bag on it – said she thought that was what it was for.’ He shook his head in mild disgust.

Warren laughed. ‘You’re a long way from the Navy, Dan.’

‘Aye, that’s a fact,’ said Parker, a little morosely. ‘I still miss it, you know. But what can a man do?’ Absently, he stroked his bad leg. ‘Still, I daresay it’s better for Sally an’ the kids even though she never minded me bein’ away.’

‘What do you miss about it, Dan?’

Parker puffed at his pipe contemplatively. ‘Hard to say. I think I miss the chance o’ handling fine machinery. This patching up o’ production cars doesn’t stretch a man – that’s why I like to get something different, like this Mini-Cooper I’m workin’ on now. By the time I’m finished wi’ it Issigonis wouldn’t recognize it.’

Warren said carefully, ‘Supposing you were given the chance of handling naval equipment again. Would you take it?’

Parker took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘What are you gettin’ at, Doctor?’

‘I want a man who knows all about torpedoes,’ Warren said bluntly.

Parker blinked. ‘I know as much as anyone, I reckon, but I don’t see …’ His voice tailed off and he looked at Warren in a baffled way.

‘Let me put it this way. Supposing I wanted to smuggle something comparatively light and very valuable into a country that has a seaboard. Could it be done by torpedo?’

Parker scratched his head. ‘It never occurred to me,’ he said, and grinned. ‘But it’s a bloody good idea. What are you thinkin’ o’ doin’ the Excise with? Swiss watches?’

‘What about heroin?’ asked Warren quietly.

Parker went rigid and stared at Warren as though he had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. The pipe fell from his fingers to lie unregarded as he said, ‘Are you serious? I’d a’ never believed it.’

‘It’s all right, Dan,’ said Warren. ‘I’m serious, but not in the way you mean. But could it be done?’

There was a long moment before Parker groped for his pipe. ‘It could be done all right,’ he said. ‘The old Mark XI carried a warhead of over seven hundred pounds. You could pack a hell of a lot o’ heroin in there.’

‘And the range?’

‘Maximum five thousand, five hundred yards if you preheat the batteries,’ said Parker promptly.

‘Damn!’ said Warren disappointedly. ‘That’s not enough. You said batteries. Is this an electric torpedo?’

‘Aye. Ideal for smugglin’ it is. No bubbles, you see.’

‘But not nearly enough range,’ said Warren despondently. ‘It was a good idea while it lasted.’

‘What’s your problem?’ asked Parker, striking a match.

‘I was thinking of a ship cruising outside the territorial waters of the United States and firing a torpedo inshore. That’s twelve miles – over twenty-one thousand yards.’

‘That’s a long way,’ said Parker, puffing at his pipe. It did not ignite and he had to strike another match and it was some time before he got the pipe glowing to his satisfaction. ‘But maybe it could be done.’

Warren ceased to droop and looked up alertly. ‘It could?’

‘The Mark XI came out in 1944 an’ things have changed since then,’ said Parker thoughtfully. He looked up. ‘Where would you be gettin’ a torpedo, anyway?’

‘I haven’t gone into that yet,’ said Warren. ‘But it shouldn’t be too difficult. There’s an American in Switzerland who has enough war surplus arms to outfit the British forces. He should have torpedoes.’

‘Then they’d be Mark XIs,’ said Parker. ‘Or the German equivalent. I doubt if anythin’ more modern has got on the war surplus market yet.’ He pursed his lips. ‘It’s an interestin’ problem. You see, the Mark XI had lead-acid batteries – fifty-two of ‘em. But things have changed since the war an’ you can get better batteries now. What I’d do would be to rip out the lead-acid batteries an’ replace with high-power mercury cells.’ He stared at the ceiling dreamily. ‘All the circuits would need redesignin’ an’ it would be bloody expensive, but I think I could do it.’

He leaned forward and tapped his pipe against the fireplace, then looked Warren firmly in the eye. ‘But not for smugglin’ dope.’

‘It’s all right, Dan; I haven’t switched tracks.’ Warren rubbed his chin. ‘I want you to work with me on a job. It will pay twice as much as you’re getting at the garage, and there’ll be a big bonus when you’ve finished. And if you don’t want to go back to the garage there’ll be a guaranteed steady job for as long as you want it.’

Parker blew a long plume of smoke. ‘There’s a queer smell to this one, Doctor. It sounds illegal to me.’

‘It’s not illegal,’ said Warren quickly. ‘But it could be dangerous.’

Parker pondered. ‘How long would it take?’

‘I don’t know. Might be three months – might be six. It wouldn’t be in England, either, you’d be going out to the Middle East.’

‘And it could be dangerous. What sort o’ danger?’

Warren decided to be honest. ‘Well, if you put a foot wrong you could get yourself shot.’

Parker laid down his pipe in the hearth. ‘You’re askin’ a bloody lot, aren’t you? I have a wife an’ three kids – an’ here you come wi’ a funny proposition that stinks to high heaven an’ you tell me I could get shot. Why come to me, anyway?’

‘I need a good torpedo man – and you’re the only one I know.’ A slight smile touched Warren’s lips. ‘It’s not the most crowded trade in the world.’

Parker nodded his agreement. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t want to crack meself up, but I can’t think of another man who can do what you want. It ‘ud be a really bobby-dazzler of a job, though – wouldn’t it? Pushin’ the old Mark XI out to over twenty thousand yards – just think of it.’

Warren held his breath as he watched Parker struggle against temptation, then he sighed as Parker shook his head and said, ‘No, I couldn’t do it. What would Sally say?’

‘I know it’s a dangerous job, Dan.’

‘I’m not worried about that – not for meself. I could have got killed in Korea. It’s just that … well, I’ve not much insurance, an’ what would she do with three kids if anythin’ happened to me?’

Warren said, ‘I’ll tell you this much, Dan. I don’t think the worst will happen, but if it does I’ll see that Sally gets a life pension equal to what you’re getting now. No strings attached – and you can have it in writing.’

‘You’re pretty free wi’ your money – or is it your money?’ asked Parker shrewdly.

‘It doesn’t matter where it comes from. It’s in a good cause.’

Parker sighed. ‘I’d trust you that far. I know you’d never be on the wrong side. When is this lark startin’?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Warren. ‘It might not even start at all. I haven’t made up my mind yet. But if we do get going it will be next month.’

Parker chewed the stem of his pipe, apparently unaware it had gone out. At last he looked up, bright-eyed. ‘All right, I’ll do it. Sally’ll give me hell, I expect.’ He grinned. ‘Best not to tell her, Doctor. I’ll cook up a yarn for her.’ He scratched his head. ‘I must see me old Navy mates an’ see if I can get hold of a service manual for the Mark XI – there ought to be some still knockin’ around. I’ll need that if I’m goin’ to redesign the circuits.’

‘Do that,’ said Warren. ‘I’d better tell you what it’s all about.’

‘No!’ said Parker. ‘I’ve got the general drift. If this is goin’ to be dangerous then the less I know the better for you. When the time comes you tell me what to do an’ I’ll do it – if I can.’

Warren asked sharply, ‘Any chance of failure?’

‘Could be – but if I get all I ask for then I think it can be done. The Mark XI’s a nice bit o’ machinery – it shouldn’t be too hard to make it do the impossible.’ He grinned. ‘What made you think o’ goin’ about it this way? Tired of treatin’ new addicts?’

‘Something like that,’ said Warren.

He left Parker buzzing happily to himself about batteries and circuits and with a caution that this was not a firm commitment. But he knew that in spite of his insistence that the arrangements were purely tentative the commitment was hardening.

IV

He telephoned Andrew Tozier. ‘Can I call on you for some support tonight, Andy?’

‘Sure. Doc; moral or muscular?’

‘Maybe a bit of both. I’ll see you at the Howard Club – know where that is?’

‘I know,’ said Tozier. ‘You could choose a better place to lose your money, Doc; it’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.’

‘I’m gambling, Andy,’ said Warren. ‘But not with money. Stick in the background, will you? I’ll call on you if I need you. I’ll be there at ten o’clock.’

‘I get the picture; you just want some insurance.’

‘That’s it,’ said Warren, and rang off.

The Howard Club was in Kensington, discreetly camouflaged in one of the old Victorian terraced houses. Unlike the Soho clubs, there were no flashing neon signs proclaiming blackjack and roulette because this was no cheap operation. There were no half-crown chips to be bought in the Howard Club.

Just after ten o’clock Warren strolled through the gambling rooms towards the bar. He was coolly aware of the professional interest aroused by his visit; the doorkeeper had picked up an internal telephone as he walked in and the news would be quick in reaching the higher echelons. He watched the roulette for a moment, and thought sardonically, If I were James Bond I’d be in there making a killing.

At the bar he ordered a Scotch and when the barman placed it before him a flat American voice said, ‘That will be on the house, Dr Warren.’

Warren turned to find John Follet, the manager of the club, standing behind him. ‘What are you doing so far west?’ asked Follet, ‘If you’re looking for any of your lost sheep you won’t find them here. We don’t like them.’

Warren understood very well that he was being warned. It had happened before that some of his patients had tried to make a quick fortune to feed the habit. They had not succeeded, of course, and things had got out of hand, ending in a brawl. The management of the Howard Club did not like brawls – they lowered the plushy tone of the place – and word had been passed to Warren to keep his boys in line.

He smiled at Follet. ‘Just sightseeing, Johnny.’ He lifted the glass. ‘Join me?’

Follet nodded to the barman, and said, ‘Well, it’s nice to see you, anyway.’

He would not feel that way for long, thought Warren. He said, ‘These are patients you’re talking about, Johnny; they’re sick people. I don’t rule them – I’m not a leader or anything like that.’

‘That’s as may be,’ said Follet. ‘But once your hopheads go on a toot they can do more damage than you’d believe possible. And if anyone can control them, it’s you.’

‘I’ve passed around the word that they’re not welcome here,’ said Warren. ‘That’s all I can do.’

Follet nodded shortly. ‘I understand, Doctor. That’s good enough for me.’

Warren looked about the room and saw Andrew Tozier standing at the nearest blackjack table. He said casually, ‘You seem to be doing well.’

Follet snorted. ‘You can’t do well in this crazy country. Now we’re having to play the wheel without a zero and that’s goddam impossible. No club can operate without an edge.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Warren. ‘It’s an equal chance for you and the customer, so that’s square. And you make your profit on the club membership, the bar and the restaurant.’

‘Are you crazy?’ demanded Follet. ‘It just doesn’t work that way. In any game of equal chances a lucky rich man will beat hell out of a lucky poor man any time. Bernoulli figured that out back in 1713 – it’s called the St Petersburg paradox.’ He gestured towards a roulette table. ‘That wheel carries a nut of fifty thousand pounds – but how much do you think the customers are worth? We’re in the position of playing a game of equal chances against the public – which can be regarded as infinitely rich. In the long run we get trimmed but good.’

‘I didn’t know you were a mathematician,’ said Warren.

‘Any guy in this racket who doesn’t understand mathematics goes broke fast,’ said Follet. ‘And it’s about time your British legislators employed a few mathematicians.’ He scowled. ‘Another thing – take that blackjack table; at one time it was banned because it was called a game of chance. Now that games of chance are legal they still want to ban it because a good player can beat a bad player. They don’t know what in hell they want.’

‘Can a good player win at blackjack?’ asked Warren interestedly.

Follett nodded. ‘It takes a steeltrap memory and nerves of iron, but it can be done. It’s lucky for the house there aren’t too many of those guys around. We’ll take that risk on blackjack but on the wheel we’ve got to have an edge.’ He looked despondently into his glass. ‘And I don’t see much chance of getting one – not with the laws that are in the works.’

‘Things are bad all round,’ said Warren unfeelingly. ‘Maybe you’d better go back to the States.’

‘No, I’ll ride it out here for a while.’ Follet drained his glass.

‘Don’t go,’ said Warren. ‘I had a reason for coming here. I wanted to talk to you.’

‘If it’s a touch for your clinic I’m already on your books.’

Warren smiled. ‘This time I want to give you money.’

‘This I must stick around to hear,’ said Follet. Tell me more.’

‘I have a little expedition planned,’ said Warren. ‘The pay isn’t much – say, two-fifty a month for six months. But there’ll be a bonus at the end if it all works out all right.’

‘Two-fifty a month!’ Follet laughed. ‘Look around you and figure how much I’m making right now. Pull the other one, Doctor.’

‘Don’t forget the bonus,’ said Warren calmly.

‘All right; what’s the bonus?’ asked Follet, smiling.

‘That would be open to negotiation, but shall we say a thousand?’

‘You kill me, Warren, you really do – the way you make jokes with a straight face.’ He began to turn away. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Doctor.’

‘Don’t go, Johnny. I’m confident you’ll join me. You see, I know what happened to that Argentinian a couple of months ago – and I know how it was done. It was a little over two hundred thousand pounds you rooked him of, wasn’t it?’

Follet stopped dead and turned his head to speak over his shoulder. ‘And how did you learn about that?’

‘A good story like that soon gets around, Johnny. You and Kostas were very clever.’

Follet turned back to Warren and said seriously, ‘Dr Warren: I’d be very careful about the way you talk – especially about Argentinian millionaires. Something might happen to you.’

‘I dare say,’ agreed Warren. ‘And something might happen to you too, Johnny. For instance, if the Argentinian were to find out how he’d been had, he’d raise a stink, wouldn’t he? He’d certainly go to the police. It’s one thing to lose and quite another to be cheated, so he’d go to the police.’ He tapped Follet on the chest. ‘And the police would come to you, Johnny. The best that could happen would be that they’d deport you – ship you back to the States. Or would it be the best? I hear that the States is a good place for Johnny Follet to keep away from right now. It was something about certain people having long memories.’

‘You hear too damn’ much,’ said Follet coldly.

‘I get around,’ said Warren with a modest smile.

‘It seems you do. You wouldn’t be trying to put the bite on me, would you?’

‘You might call it that.’

Follet sighed. ‘Warren, you know how it is. I have a fifteen per cent piece of this place – I’m not the boss. Whatever was done to the Argentinian was done by Kostas. Sure, I was around when it happened, but it wasn’t my idea – I wasn’t in on it, and I got nothing out of it. Kostas did everything.’

‘I know,’ said Warren. ‘You’re as pure as the driven snow. But it won’t make much difference when they put you on a VC-10 and shoot you back to the States.’ He paused and said contemplatively. ‘It might even be possible to arrange for a reception committee to meet you at Kennedy Airport.’

‘I don’t think I like any of this,’ said Follet tightly. ‘Supposing I told Kostas you were shooting your mouth. What do you suppose would happen to you? I’ve never had a beef against you, and I don’t see why you’re doing this. Just watch it.’

As he turned away, Warren said, ‘I’m sorry, Johnny; it seems as though you’ll be back in the States before the month’s out.’

‘That does it,’ said Follet violently. ‘Kostas is a bad guy to cross. Watch out for your back, Warren.’ He snapped his fingers and a man who was lounging against the wall suddenly tautened and walked over to the bar. Follet said, ‘Dr Warren is just leaving.’

Warren glanced over at Andy Tozier and held up a finger. Tozier strolled over and said pleasantly, ‘Evening, all.’

‘Johnny Follet wants to throw me out,’ said Warren.

‘Does he?’ said Tozier interestedly. ‘And how does he propose to do that? Not that it matters very much.’

‘Who the hell’s this?’ snapped Follet.

‘Oh, I’m a friend of Dr Warren,’ said Tozier. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Follet. It should be an interesting exercise.’

‘What are you talking about? What exercise?’

‘Oh, just to see how quickly it could be taken apart. I know a couple of hearty sergeant types who could go through here like a dose of salts in less than thirty minutes. The trouble about that, though, is that you’d have a hell of a job putting back the pieces.’ His voice hardened. ‘My advice to you is that if Dr Warren wants to talk to you, then you pin back your hairy ears and listen.’

Follet took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. ‘All right, Steve; I’ll sort this out,’ he said to the man next to him. ‘But stick around – I might need you fast.’ The man nodded and returned to his position against the wall.

‘Let’s all have a nice, soothing drink,’ suggested Tozier.

‘I don’t get any of this,’ protested Follet. ‘Why are you pushing me, Warren? I’ve never done anything to you.’

‘And you won’t, either,’ observed Warren. ‘In particular you won’t say anything about this to Kostas because if anything happens to me all my information goes directly to the places where it will do most good.’

Tozier said, ‘I don’t know what this is all about, but if anything happens to Dr Warren then a certain Johnny Follet will wish he’d never been born, whatever else happens to him.’

‘What the hell are you ganging up on me for?’ said Follet desperately.

‘I don’t know,’ said Tozier. ‘Why are we ganging up on him, Doc?’

‘All you have to do is to take a holiday, Johnny,’ said Warren. ‘You come with me to the Middle East, help me out on a job, and then come back here. And everything will be as it was. Personally, I don’t care how much money you loot from Argentinian millionaires. I just want to get a job done.’

‘But why pick on me?’ demanded Follet.

‘I didn’t pick on you,’ said Warren wearily. ‘You’re all I’ve got, damn it! I have an idea I can use a man of your peculiar talents, so you’re elected. And you don’t have much say about it, either – you daren’t take the chance of being pushed back to the States. You’re a gambler, but not that much of a gambler.’

‘Okay, so you’ve whipsawed me,’ said Follet sourly. ‘What’s the deal?’

‘I’m running this on the “need to know” principle. You don’t have to know, you just have to do – and I’ll tell you when to do it.’

‘Now, wait a goddam minute.…’

‘That’s the way it is,’ said Warren flatly.

Follet shook his head in bewilderment. ‘This is the screwiest thing that ever happened to me.’

‘If it’s any comfort, brother Jonathan, I don’t know what’s going on, either,’ said Tozier. He eyed Warren thoughtfully. ‘But Doc here is showing unmistakable signs of acting like a boss, so I suppose he is the boss.’

‘Then I’ll give you an order,’ said Warren with a tired grin. ‘For God’s sake, stop calling me “Doc”. It could be important in the future.’

‘Okay, boss,’ said Tozier with a poker face,

V

Warren did not have to go out to find Mike Abbot because Mike Abbot came to him. He was leaving his rooms after a particularly hard day when he found Abbot on his doorstep. ‘Anything to tell me, Doctor?’ asked Abbot.

‘Not particularly,’ said Warren. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Just the usual – all the dirt on the drug scene.’ Abbot fell into step beside Warren. ‘For instance, what about Hellier’s girl?’

‘Whose girl?’ said Warren with a blank face.

‘Sir Robert Hellier, the film mogul – and don’t go all pofaced. You know who I mean. The inquest was bloody uninformative – the old boy had slammed down the lid and screwed it tight. It’s amazing what you can do if you have a few million quid. Was it accidental or suicide – or was she pushed?’

‘Why ask me?’ said Warren. ‘You’re the hotshot reporter.’

Abbot grinned. ‘All I know is what I write for the papers – but I have to get it from somewhere or someone. This time the someone is you.’

‘Sorry, Mike – no comment.’

‘Oh well; I tried,’ said Abbot philosophically. ‘Why are we passing this pub? Come in and I’ll buy you a drink.’

‘All right,’ said Warren. ‘I could do with one. I’ve had a hard day.’

As they pushed open the door Abbot said, ‘All your days seem to be hard ones, judging by the way you’ve been knocking it back lately.’ They reached the counter, and he said, ‘What’ll you have?’

‘I’ll have a Scotch,’ said Warren. ‘And what the devil do you mean by that crack?’

‘No harm meant,’ said Abbot, raising his hands in mock fright. ‘Just one of my feebler non-laughter-making jokes. It’s just that I’ve seen you around inhaling quite a bit of the stuff. In a pub in Soho and a couple of nights later in the Howard Club.’

‘Have you been following me?’ demanded Warren.

‘Christ, no!’ said Abbot. ‘It was just coincidental.’ He ordered the drinks. ‘All the same, you seem to move in rum company. I ask myself – what is the connection between a doctor of medicine, a professional gambler and a mercenary soldier? And you know what? I get no answer at all.’

‘One of these days that long nose of yours will get chopped off at the roots.’ Warren diluted his whisky with Malvern water.

‘Not as bad as losing face,’ said Abbot. ‘I make my reputation by asking the right questions. For instance, why should the highly respected Dr Warren have a flaming row with Johnny Follet? It was pretty obvious, you know.’

‘You know how it is,’ said Warren tiredly. ‘Some of my patients had been cutting up ructions at the Howard Club. Johnny didn’t like it.’

‘And you had to take your own private army to back you up?’ queried Abbot. ‘Tell me another fairy tale.’ The barman was looking at him expectantly so Abbot paid him, and said, ‘We’ll have another round.’ He turned back to Warren, and said, ‘It’s all right, Doctor; it’s on the expense account – I’m working.’

‘So I see,’ said Warren drily. Even now he had not made up his mind about Hellier’s proposition. All the moves he had made so far had been tentative and merely to ensure that he could assemble a team if he had to. Mike Abbot was a putative member of the team – Warren’s choice – but it seemed that he was dealing himself in, anyway.

‘I know this is a damnfool question to ask a pressman,’ he said. ‘But how far can you keep a secret?’

Abbot cocked an eyebrow. ‘Not very far. Not so far as to allow someone to beat me to a story. You know how cutthroat Fleet Street is.’

Warren nodded. ‘But how independent are you? I mean, do you have to report on your investigations to anyone on your paper? Your editor, perhaps?’

‘Usually,’ said Abbot. ‘After all, that’s where my pay cheque comes from.’ Wise in the way of interviews, he waited for Warren to make the running.

Warren refused to play the game. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, and fell silent.

‘Oh, come now,’ said Abbot. ‘You can’t just leave it at that. What’s on your mind?’

‘I’d like you to help me – but not if it’s going to be noised about the newspaper offices. You know what a rumour factory your crowd is. You’ll know what the score is, but no one else must – or we’ll come a cropper.’

‘I can’t see my editor buying that,’ observed Abbot. ‘It’s too much like that character in the South Sea Bubble who was selling shares in a company – “but nobody to know what it is.” I suppose it’s something to do with drugs?’

‘That’s right,’ said Warren. ‘It will involve a trip to the Middle East.’

Abbot brightened. ‘That sounds interesting.’ He drummed his fingers on the counter. ‘Is there a real story in it?’

‘There’s a story. It might be a very big one indeed,’

‘And I get an exclusive?’

‘It’ll be yours,’ said Warren. ‘Full right.’

‘How long will it take?’

‘That is something I don’t know.’ Warren looked him in the eye. ‘I don’t even know if it’s going to start. There’s a lot of uncertainty. Say, three months.’

‘A hell of a long time,’ commented Abbot, and brooded for a while. Eventually he said, ‘I’ve got a holiday coming up. Supposing I talk to my editor and tell him that I’m doing a bit of private enterprise in my own time. If I think it’s good enough I’ll stay on the job when my holiday is up. He might accept that.’

‘Keep my name out of it,’ warned Warren.

‘Sure.’ Abbot drained his glass. ‘Yes, I think he’ll fall for it. The shock of my wanting to work on my holiday ought to be enough.’ He put down the glass on the counter. ‘But I’ll need convincing first.’

Warren ordered two more drinks. ‘Let’s sit at a table, and I’ll tell you enough to whet your appetite.’

VI

The shop was in Dean Street and the neatly gold-lettered sign read: SOHO THERAPY CENTRE. Apart from that there was nothing to say what was done on the premises; it looked like any Dean Street shop with the difference that the windows were painted over in a pleasant shade of green so that it was impossible to see inside.

Warren opened the door, found no one in sight, and walked through into a back room which had been turned into an office. He found a dishevelled young man sitting at a desk and going through the drawers, pulling everything out and piling the papers into an untidy heap on top of the desk. As Warren walked in, he said, ‘Where have you been, Nick? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

Warren surveyed the desk. ‘What’s the trouble, Ben?’

‘You’d never believe it if I told you,’ said Ben Bryan. He scrabbled about in the papers, ‘I’ll have to show you. Where the devil is it?’

Warren dumped a pile of books off a chair and sat down. ‘Take it easy,’ he advised. ‘More haste, less speed.’

‘Take it easy? Just wait until you see this. You won’t be taking it as easy as you are now.’ Bryan rummaged some more and papers scattered.

‘Perhaps you’d better just tell me,’ suggested Warren.

‘All right … no, here it is. Just read that.’

Warren unfolded the single sheet of paper. What was written on it was short and brutally to the point. ‘He’s throwing you out?’ Warren felt a rage growing within him. ‘He’s throwing us out!’ He looked up. ‘Can he break the lease like that?’

‘He can – and he will,’ said Bryan. ‘There’s a line of fine print our solicitor didn’t catch, damn him.’

Warren was angrier than he had ever been in his life. In a choked voice he said, ‘There’s a telephone under all that junk – dig it out.’

‘It’s no good,’ said Bryan. ‘I’ve talked to him. He said he didn’t realize the place would be used by drug addicts; he says his other tenants are complaining – they say it lowers the tone of the neighbourhood.’

‘God Almighty!’ yelled Warren. ‘One’s a strip joint and the other sells pornography. What the hell have they to complain of? What stinking hypocrisy!’

‘We’re going to lose our boys, Nick. If they don’t have a place to come to, we’ll lose the lot.’

Ben Bryan was a psychologist working in the field of drug addiction. Together with Warren and a couple of medical students he had set up the Soho Therapy Centre as a means of getting at the addicts. Here the addicts could talk to people who understood the problem and many had been referred to Warren’s clinic. It was a place off the streets where they could relax, a hygienic place where they could take their shots using sterile water and aseptic syringes.

‘They’ll be out on the streets again,’ said Bryan. ‘They’ll be taking their shots in the Piccadilly lavatories, and the cops will chase them all over the West End.’

Warren nodded. ‘And the next thing will be another outbreak of hepatitis. Good God, that’s the last thing we want.’

‘I’ve been trying to find another place,’ said Bryan. ‘I was on the telephone all day yesterday. Nobody wants to know our troubles. The word’s got around, and I think we’re blacklisted. It must be in this area – you know that.’

Something exploded within Warren. ‘It will be,’ he said with decision. ‘Ben, how would you like a really good place here in Soho? Completely equipped, regardless of expense, down to hot and cold running footmen?’

‘I’d settle for what we have now,’ said Bryan.

Warren found an excitement rising within him. ‘And, Ben – that idea you had – the one about a group therapy unit as a self-governing community on the line of that Californian outfit. What about that?’

‘Have you gone off your little rocker?’ asked Bryan. ‘We’d need a country house for that. Where would we get the funds?’

‘We’ll get the funds,’ said Warren with confidence. ‘Excavate that telephone.’

His decision was made and all qualms gone. He was tired of fighting the stupidity of the public, of which the queasiness of this narrow-gutted landlord was only a single example. If the only way to run his job was to turn into a synthetic James Bond, then a James Bond he’d be.

But it was going to cost Hellier an awful lot of money.

THREE

Warren was ushered into Hellier’s office in Wardour Street after passing successfully a hierarchy of secretaries, each more svelte than the last. When he finally penetrated into the inner sanctum, Hellier said, ‘I really didn’t expect to see you, Doctor. I expected I’d have to chase you. Sit down.’

Warren came to the point abruptly. ‘You mentioned unlimited funds, but I take that to be a figure of speech. How unlimited?’

‘I’m pretty well breeched,’ said Hellier with a smile. ‘How much do you want?’

‘We’ll come to that. I’d better outline the problem so that you can get an idea of its magnitude. When you’ve absorbed that you might decide you can’t afford it.’

‘Well see,’ said Hellier. His smile broadened.

Warren laid down a folder. ‘You were right when you said I had particular knowledge, but I warn you I don’t have much – two names and a place – and all the rest is rumour.’ He smiled sourly. ‘It isn’t ethics that has kept me from going to the police – it’s the sheer lack of hard facts.’

‘Leaving aside your three facts, what about the rumour? I’ve made some damned important decisions on nothing but rumour, and I’ve told you I get paid for making the right decisions.’

Warren shrugged. ‘It’s all a bit misty – just stuff I’ve picked up in Soho. I spend a lot of time in Soho – in the West End generally – it’s where most of my patients hang out. It’s convenient for the all-night chemist in Piccadilly,’ he said sardonically.

‘I’ve seen them lining up,’ said Hellier.

‘In 1968 a drug ring was smashed in France – a big one. You must realize that the heroin coming into Britain is just a small leakage from the more profitable American trade. This particular gang was smuggling to the States in large quantities, but when the ring was smashed we felt the effects here. The boys were running around like chickens with their heads chopped off – the illegal supply had stopped dead.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Hellier. ‘Are you implying that to stop the trade into Britain it would be necessary to do the same for the States?’

‘That’s virtually the position if you attack it at the source, which would be the best way. One automatically implies the other. I told you the problem was big.’

‘The ramifications are more extensive than I thought,’ admitted Hellier. He shrugged. ‘Not that I’m chauvinistic about it; as you say, it’s an international problem.’

Hellier still did not seem to be disturbed about the probable cost to his pocket, so Warren went on: ‘I think the best way of outlining the current rumours is to look at the problem backwards, so to speak – beginning at the American end. A typical addict in New York will buy his shot from a pusher as a “sixteenth” – meaning a sixteenth of an ounce. He must buy it from a pusher because he can’t get it legally, as in England. That jerks up the price, and his sixteenth will cost him somewhere between six and seven dollars. His average need will be two shots a day.’

Hellier’s mind jerked into gear almost visibly. After a moment he said, ‘There must be a devil of a lot of heroin going into the States.’

‘Not much,’ said Warren. ‘Not in absolute bulk. I daresay the illegal intake is somewhere between two and three tons a year. You see, the heroin as sold to the addict is diluted with an inert soluble filler, usually lactose – milk sugar. Depending on whether he’s being cheated – and he usually is – the percentage of heroin will range from one-half to two per cent. I think you could take a general average of one per cent.’

Hellier was figuring again. He drew forward a sheet of paper and began to calculate. ‘If there’s a sixteen-hundredth of an ounce of pure heroin in a shot, and the addict pays, say, $6.50 …’ He stopped short. ‘Hell, that’s over $10,000 an ounce!’

‘Very profitable,’ agreed Warren. ‘It’s big business over there. A pound of heroin at the point of consumption is worth about $170,000. Of course, that’s not all profit – the problem is to get it to the consumer. Heroin is ultimately derived from the opium poppy, papaver somniferum, which is not grown in the States for obvious reasons. There’s a chain of production – from the growing of the poppy to raw opium; from the opium to morphine; from morphine to heroin.’

‘What’s the actual cost of production?’ asked Hellier.

‘Not much,’ said Warren. ‘But that’s not the issue. At the point of consumption in the States a pound of heroin is worth $170,000; at the point of the wholesaler inside the States it’s worth $50,000; at any point outside the States it’s worth $20,000. And if you go right back along the chain you can buy illicit raw opium in the Middle East for $50 a pound.’

‘That tells me two things,’ said Hellier thoughtfully. ‘There are high profits to be made at each stage – and the cost at any point is directly related to the risks involved in smuggling.’

‘That’s it,’ said Warren. ‘So far the trade has been fragmented, but rumour has it that a change is on the way. When the French gang was busted it left a vacuum and someone else is moving in – and moving in with a difference. The idea seems to be that this organization will cut out the middlemen – they’ll start with the growing of the poppy and end up with delivery inside the States of small lots in amy given city. A guaranteed delivery on that basis should net them $50,000 a pound after expenses have been met. That last stage – getting the stuff into the States – is a high risk job.’

‘Vertical integration,’ said Hellier solemnly. ‘These people are taking hints from big business. Complete control of the product.’

‘If this comes off, and they can sew up the States, we can expect an accelerated inflow into Britain. The profits are much less, but they’re still there, and the boys won’t neglect the opportunity.’ Warren gestured with his hand. ‘But this is all rumour. I’ve put it together from a hundred whispers on the grapevine.’

Hellier laid his hands flat on the desk. ‘So now we come to your facts,’ he said intently.

‘I don’t know if you could dignify them by that name,’ said Warren tiredly. ‘Two names and a place. George Speering is a pharmaceutical chemist with a lousy reputation. He got into trouble last year in a drug case, and the Pharmaceutical Society hammered him. He was lucky to escape a jail sentence.’

‘They … er … unfrocked him?’

‘That’s right. This crowd will need a chemist and I heard his name mentioned. He’s still in England and I’m keeping an eye on him as well as I can, but I expect him to go abroad soon.’

‘Why soon? And how soon?’

Warren tapped the desk calendar. ‘The opium crop isn’t in yet, and it won’t be for a month. But morphine is best extracted from fresh opium, so as soon as this gang have enough of the stuff to work on then Speering will get busy.’

‘Perhaps we should keep a closer watch on Speering.’

Warren nodded. ‘He still seems to be taking it pretty easy at the moment. And he’s in funds, so he’s probably on a retainer. I agree he should be watched.’

‘And the other name?’ enquired Hellier.

‘Jeanette Delorme. I’ve never heard of her before. She sounds as though she could be French, but that doesn’t mean much in the Middle East, if that’s where she hangs out. But I don’t even know that. I don’t know anything about her at all. It was just a name that came up in connection with Speering.’

Hellier scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘Jeanette Delorme.’ He looked up. ‘And the place?’

‘Iran,’ said Warren briefly.

Hellier looked disappointed. ‘Well, that’s not much.’

‘I never said it was,’ said Warren irritatedly. ‘I thought of giving it to the police but, after all, what had I to give them?’

‘They could pass it on to Interpol. Maybe they could do something.’

‘You’ve been making too many television pictures,’ said Warren abrasively. ‘And believing them, at that! Interpol is merely an information centre and doesn’t initiate any executive work. Supposing the word was passed to the Iranian police. No police force is incorruptible, and I wouldn’t take any bets at all on the cops in the Middle East – although I hear the Iranians are better than most.’

‘I appreciate your point.’ Hellier was silent for a moment. ‘Our best bet would appear to be this man, Speering.’

‘Then you’re willing to go on with it on the basis of the little information I have?’

Hellier was surprised. ‘Of course!’

Warren took some papers from his file. ‘You might change your mind when you see these. It’s going to cost you a packet. You said I could pick a team. I’ve been making commitments on your behalf which you’ll have to honour.’ He pushed two sheets across the desk. ‘You’ll find the details there – who the men are, what they’ll cost, and some brief biographical details.’

Hellier scanned the papers rapidly and said abruptly, ‘I agree to these rates of pay. I also agree to the bonus of £5,000 paid to each man on the successful completion of the venture.’ He looked up. ‘No success – no bonus. Fair enough?’

‘Fair enough – but it depends on what you mean by success.’

‘I want this gang smashed,’ said Hellier in a harsh voice. ‘Smashed totally.’

Warren said wryly, ‘If we’re going to do anything at all that is implied.’ He pushed another paper across the desk. ‘But we haven’t come to my price.’

Hellier picked it up and, after a moment, said ‘Humph! What the devil do you want with a property in Soho? They come damned expensive.’

Warren explained, with feeling, the trouble the Soho Therapy Centre had run into. Hellier chuckled. ‘Yes, people are damned hypocrites. I’d have probably been the same before … well, never mind that.’ He got up and went to the window. ‘Would a place in Wardour Street do?’

‘That would be fine.’

‘The company has a place just across the road here. We were using it as a warehouse but that’s been discontinued. It’s empty now and a bit run down, but it may suit you.’ He returned to his desk. ‘We were going to sell it, but I’ll let you have it at a peppercorn rent and reimburse the company out of my own funds.’

Warren, who had not yet finished with him, nodded briefly and pushed yet another paper across the desk. ‘And that’s my bonus on the successful completion of the job.’ Ironically he emphasized the operative word in mockery of Hellier.

Hellier glanced at the wording and nearly blew up. ‘A twenty-bedroomed country house! What the devil’s this?’ He glared at Warren. ‘Your services come high, Doctor.’

‘You asked for blood,’ said Warren. ‘That’s a commodity with a high price. When we go into this we’ll come smack into opposition with a gang who’ll fight because the prize could run into millions. I think there’ll be blood shed somewhere along the line – either ours or theirs. You want the blood – you pay for it.’

‘By making you Lord of the Manor?’ asked Hellier cynically.

‘Not me – a man called Ben Bryan. He wants to establish a self-governing community for addicts; to get them out of circulation to start with, and to get them to act in a responsible manner. It’s an idea which has had fair results in the States.’

‘I see,’ said Hellier quietly. ‘All right; I accept that.’

He began to read the brief biographies of the team, and Warren said casually, ‘None of those people really know what they’re getting into. Suppose we come into possession of, say, a hundred pounds of heroin – that would be worth a lot of money. I don’t know whether I’d trust Andy Tozier with it – probably not. I certainly wouldn’t trust Johnny Follet.’

Hellier turned a page and, after a while, lifted his head. ‘Are you serious about this – about these men you’ve picked? Good God, half of them are villains and the other half incomprehensible.’

‘What kind of men did you expect?’ asked Warren. ‘This can’t be done by a crowd of flag-waving saints. But not one of those men is in it for the money – except Andy Tozier. They all have their own reasons.’ He took a sour look at himself and thought of Follet. ‘I discover I have an unexpected talent for blackmail and coercion.’

‘I can understand you picking Tozier – the professional soldier,’ said Hellier. ‘But Follet – a gambler?’

‘Johnny is a man of many parts. Apart from being a gambler he’s also a successful con man. He can think up ways of pulling money from your pocket faster than you can think up ways of stopping him. It seems to me that his talents could be used on other things than money.’

‘If you put it that way I suppose it seems reasonable,’ said Hellier in an unconvinced voice. ‘But this man, Abbot – a newspaperman, for God’s sake! I won’t have that.’

‘Yes, you will,’ said Warren flatly. ‘He’s on to us, anyway, and I’d rather have him working for us than against us. He was on my original list, but he dealt himself in regardless and it would be too risky to leave him out now. He’s got a good nose, better than any detective, and that’s something we need.’

‘I suppose that seems reasonable, too,’ said Hellier glumly. ‘But what doesn’t seem reasonable is this man, Parker. I can’t see anything here that’s of use to us.’

‘Dan’s the only really honest man among the lot of them,’ said Warren. He laughed. ‘Besides, he’s my insurance policy.’

II

Hellier propounded some of the philosophy of the film business. ‘Most countries – especially the poorer ones – like film companies. The boys at the top like us because we’re not too stingy with our bribes. The man in the street likes us because on location we pay exceptionally high rates, by local standards, for colourfully-dressed extras. We don’t mind because, when all’s said and done, we’re paying a damned sight less than we would at home.’

He hefted a large book, foolscap size and neatly bound. ‘This is a screen play we’ve had on the shelf for some time. About half the scenes are set in Iran. I’ve decided to resurrect it, and we’re going to make the film. You and your team will be employed by us. You’ll be an advance team sent out to Iran by us to scout out good locations – that gives you an excuse for turning up everywhere and anywhere. How does that suit you?’

‘I like it,’ said Warren. ‘It’s a good cover.’

‘You’ll be provided with vehicles and all the usual junk that goes with an advance team,’ said Hellier. ‘Give me a list of anything else you might need.’ He flicked through the pages of the script. ‘Who knows? We might even make the picture,’ he said sardonically.

Andy Tozier approached Warren. ‘You’re keeping me too much in the dark,’ he complained. ‘I’d like to know what I’m getting into. I don’t know what to prepare for.’

‘Prepare for the worst,’ said Warren unhelpfully.

‘That’s no bloody answer. Is this going to be a military thing?’

Warren said carefully, ‘Let’s call it paramilitary.’

‘I see. A police action – with shooting.’

‘But unofficial,’ said Warren. ‘There might be shooting.’

Tozier stroked the edge of his jaw. ‘I don’t like that unofficial bit. And if I’m going to be shot at I’d like to have something handy to shoot back with. How do we arrange that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Warren. ‘I thought I’d leave that to you. You’re the expert.’ Tozier made a rude noise, and Warren said, ‘I don’t really know what we’re going to get into at the other end. It’s all a bit difficult.’

Tozier pondered. ‘What vehicles are they giving us?’

‘A couple of new Land-Rovers. They’ll be flown out to Iran with us. The country out there is pretty rough.’

‘And the equipment we’re getting. What does it consist of?’

‘It’s all part of our cover. There are some still cameras with a hell of a lot of lenses. A couple of 16-millimetre movie cameras. A video-tape outfit. A hell of a lot of stuff I can’t put a name to.’

‘Are there tripods with the movie cameras?’ Warren nodded, and Tozier said, ‘Okay, I’d like to have the Land-Rovers and all the equipment delivered to me as soon as possible. I might want to make a few modifications.’

‘You can have them tomorrow.’

‘And I’d like some boodle from this money mine you seem to have discovered – at least a thousand quid. My modifications come expensive.’

‘I’ll make it two thousand,’ said Warren equably. ‘You can have that tomorrow, too.’

‘Johnny Follet might be more useful than I thought,’ said Tozier thoughtfully. ‘He knows his weapons – he was in Korea.’

‘Was he? Then he’ll get on well with Dan Parker.’

Tozier jerked his head. ‘And who is Dan Parker?’

Warren grinned. ‘You’ll meet him sometime,’ he promised.

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Ben Bryan when Warren told him of what was happening.

‘And why would we need a psychiatrist?’ asked Warren.

Bryan grinned. ‘To inject a modicum of sanity. This is the craziest thing I’ve heard.’

‘If you join us you’ll be as mad as we are. Still, you might come in useful.’ He looked at Bryan speculatively, then said, ‘I think you’d better be in the main party. Mike Abbot can go with Parker.’

‘What’s he going to do?’

‘He’s our Trojan Horse – if we can find the Delorme woman – and that’s proving to be a hell of a problem. Hellier has a team in Paris going through birth certifi – cates, pulling out all the Jeanette Delormes and running them down. They’ve found eight already. On the off-chance she was born in Switzerland he has another team there.’

‘Supposing she was born in Martinique?’ asked Bryan.

‘We can only try the obvious first,’ said Warren. ‘Hellier’s investigators are good – I know because they did a bang-up job on me. Anyway, he’s spending money as though he has his own printing press. We’re already into him for over £70,000.’ He grinned. ‘Still, that’s only a couple of years’ upkeep on his yacht’

‘I’ve never heard of a rich man really keen to part with his money,’ said Bryan. ‘You must have knocked the props clean from under him. You made him take a look at himself – a good, clear-eyed look – and he didn’t like what he saw. I wish I could do the same to some of my patients. Perhaps you should change your profession.’

‘I have – I’m in the business of raising private armies.’

Everything seemed to happen at once.

It may have been luck or it may have been good investigative practice, but the Delorme woman was traced, not through the patient sifting of birth certificates, but from a pipeline into the French Sûreté. It seemed that Mike Abbot had a friend who had a friend who …

Hellier tossed a file over to Warren. ‘Read that and tell me what you think.’

Warren settled back in his chair and opened the folder.

Jeanette Véronique Delorme: Born April 12, 1937 at Chalons. Parents …

He skipped the vital statistics in order to come to the meat of it.

‘… three months’ imprisonment in 1955 for minor fraud; six months’ imprisonment in 1957 for smuggling over Franco-Spanish border; left France in 1958.’

Then followed what could only be described as a series of hypotheses.

Believed to have been involved in smuggling from Tangier to Spain, 1958-1960; smuggling arms to Algeria, 1961-1963; smuggling drugs into Italy and Switzerland, 1963-1967. Believed to have been implicated in the murders of Henry Rowe (American) 1962; Kurt Schlesinger (German), Ahmed ben Bouza (Algerian) and Jean Fouget (French) 1963; Kamer Osman (Lebanese) and Pietro Fuselli (Italian) 1966.

Operational Characteristics: Subject is good organizer and capable of controlling large groups; is ruthless and intolerant of errors; is careful not to become personally involved in smuggling activities, but may have been director of large-scale jewel thefts, south of France, 1967. This, however, may be considered doubtful.

Present Whereabouts: Beirut, Lebanon.

Present Status: Not wanted for crime in Metropolitan France.

There were a couple of smudgy photographs which had not survived the copying process at all well, but which showed a blonde of indeterminate age.

Warren blew out his cheeks. ‘What a hell-cat she must be.’ He tapped the folder. ‘I think this is the one – everything fits.’

‘I think so, too,’ said Hellier. ‘I’ve stopped everything else and narrowed it down to her. A man has already flown out to Beirut to pinpoint her.’

‘I hope someone has told him to be careful,’ said Warren.

‘He just has to find out where she lives and … er … her standing in the community. That shouldn’t be too risky. Then he pulls out and you take over.’

‘I’ll get Dan Parker out there as soon as we know something definite. Mike Abbot will support him – I’m not sure Dan could pull it off on his own. This might need the sophisticated touch. Oh, and we have a volunteer – Ben Bryan will be joining the Iran group.’

‘I’m glad to hear that Mr Bryan is going to earn his manor house,’ said Hellier, a shade acidly. ‘There’s still nothing on your man, Speering.’

‘He’ll make a move soon,’ said Warren with certainty. His confidence had risen because the dossier on Jeanette Delorme fitted in so tidily.

‘Well, the same thing applies. There’ll be an investigator with him all the way – probably on the same plane if he flies. Then you’ll take over.’

Speering moved two days later, and within twelve hours Warren, Tozier, Follet and Bryan were in the air in a chartered aircraft which also carried the two Land-Rovers. Parker and Abbot were already on their way to the Lebanon.

III

It was snowing in Tehran.

Follet shivered as the sharp wind cut through his jacket. ‘I thought this place was supposed to be hot.’ He looked out across the airport at the sheer wall of the Elburz Mountains and then up at the cold grey sky from which scudded a minor blizzard. ‘This is the Middle East?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘About as Middle as you can get,’ said Tozier. ‘Still, it’s March and we’re nearly five thousand feet above sea level.’

Follet turned up his collar and pulled the lapels close about his throat. ‘Where the hell is Warren?’

‘He’s clearing the vehicles and the gear through customs.’ He smiled grimly. The modifications he had made to the Land-Rovers were such that if they were discovered then all hell would break loose in the customs shed, and Warren and Bryan would find themselves tossed into jail without a quibble. But he had not told Warren what the modifications were, which was all to the good. True innocence is better than bluff when faced with the X-ray eye of the experienced customs official.

All the same he breathed more easily when Follet touched him on the shoulder and pointed. ‘Here they come,’ he said, and Tozier saw with relief a Land-Rover bearing down upon them. On its side it bore the neat legend: Regent Film Company. Advance Unit. The tension left him.

Warren poked his head through the side window. ‘Ben’s just behind me,’ he said. ‘One of you jump in.’

‘Did you have any trouble?’ asked Tozier.

Warren looked surprised. ‘No trouble at all.’

Tozier smiled and said nothing. He walked around to the back of the vehicle and stroked one of the metal struts which held up the canopy. Follet said, ‘Let me get in and out of this goddam wind. Where are we going?’

‘We’re booked in at the Royal Tehran Hilton. I don’t know where it is but it shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’ He pointed to a minibus filling up with passengers, which had the name of the hotel on its side. ‘We just follow that.’

Follet got in and slammed the door. He looked broodingly at the alien scene, and said abruptly, ‘Just what in hell are we doing here, Warren?’

Warren glanced at the rear view mirror and saw that the other Land-Rover had arrived. ‘Following a man.’

‘Jeeze, you’re as close-mouthed as that strongarm man of yours. Or are you keeping him in the dark, too?’

‘You just do as you’re told, Johnny, and you’ll be all right,’ advised Warren.

‘I’d feel a hell of a lot better if I knew what I was supposed to do,’ grumbled Follet.

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