Modesty Blaise Read online

  “I back Willie to outthink any man you can put up. And that’s only part of it. You need more than finesse to cope with piano wire round your throat.”

  “You don’t agree with Pompous Percy that this was a coincidence?”

  She made a gesture of impatience. “Of course not. Ten million poundsworth of diamonds is a big, big job, and that narrows the field to the big, big boys. There are just three who might tackle it but only one of them is a probable.”

  “Yes?”

  “That piano-wire killing sounds like Borg to me. And he’s a Gabriel man.” She set out two cups and saucers and began to pour the coffee.

  “Gabriel,” Tarrant said quietly, watching her hands. He was silent for several seconds, then asked inconsequentially: “Who looks after you here?”

  “I have a houseboy called Weng. He’s Indochinese, and at the moment he’s down at Benildon, in Wiltshire, where I have a small cottage and a few acres of woodland. Weng’s there because I keep three horses and the groom is on holiday. He’ll be returning tomorrow. Why did you change the subject when I spoke of Gabriel?”

  “To gain time. No cream or milk, thank you. I’ve been trying to collect what I know of Gabriel from the dusty shelves of my memory.”

  “I doubt if you’ll find very much there.”

  “You’re right, my dear. Our file and the Interpol file on Gabriel are both slim and inconclusive. In theory he’s a very rich, very respectable gentleman, with many diverse interests, of Latvian origin but a naturalized Venezuelan, or is it Bolivian?”

  “The second, but it’s not important. What’s important is that Gabriel, in practice not theory, is a criminal heavyweight. The biggest there is, from Lisbon to Hong Kong. His resources are enormous.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Once, briefly. I crossed swords with him by accident. We’d planned a big job, lifting a consignment of gold at Calcutta. And so had Gabriel. He sent for me and told me to back down. I didn’t argu. I backed.”

  She picked up the cups of coffee, set them on a tray, and carried the tray through into the spacious living room. Tarrant followed.

  “Very wise,” he commended. “You ran The Network for profit, and a gang war is always costly. But this affair is different. I’ll provide all the backing you want, far better support than Willie Garvin can give you.”

  She stood very still and looked at him searchingly. “You’re not a fool, Sir Gerald. I wonder why you’re talking like one?”

  He started to speak, knowing he had prodded too hard, but she stopped him with a quick shake of her head.

  “No. Sit down and have your coffee. And listen to me.” She waited while he obeyed. “I found Willie Garvin in a Saigon jail, and I bought him out. He was nasty and he was dumb, but he was lethal. I had reason to think I could do something about the nastiness and the dumbness. No, not reason, just a feeling.”

  She sat down on the black hide chesterfield facing Tarrant, and slowly stirred her coffee.

  “I was right,” she said. “Much more so than I’d imagined. The first thing Willie gave me was total loyalty. You can only guess at what that meant to me in my kind of business. I also discovered that Willie could think, very clearly and very fast. It must always have been there, but it was latent; perhaps because he’d never had an aim or goal before.”

  “And what goal did you give him?”

  “I didn’t.” She hesitated. “Working for me seemed to be enough; and the way he developed was astonishing. You know, I’ve learned a great deal from Willie Garvin. And even better than being able to think, he has instinct.”

  She looked up at Tarrant and smiled suddenly. “You won’t believe this, but he can sense trouble coming. His ears prickle.”

  Tarrant stared. “You’re joking.”

  “No. It’s saved my life twice. I don’t know how many times it’s saved his. Another instinct is that he knows my mind without being told. When you’re up the sharp end, as Willie calls it, that’s something money can’t buy. And finally, he’s in a class of his own when it comes to action. I’ve seen him” She broke off with a little shrug and picked up her cup of coffee. “Never mind. Seven years is a long time, Sir Gerald, and Willie Garvin’s is a long story. I’m not going to tell it now.”

  “I do take your point,” Tarrant said slowly. He put doubt into his tone, feeling that the critical moment was at hand. “But all this is in the past, and it’s a full year since Garvin worked for you. I would feel he’s gone downhill badly, and I’m bound to insist that you don’t bring him into this. I’m sorry …” He let his voice trail uncomfortably into silence. It was a silence that lasted a full minute.

  Modesty finished her coffee, put down the cup, and stood up. Tarrant rose with her. “Then it ends here,” she said coolly.

  “I beg your pardon?” Tarrant’s manner was as frosty as her own. “I feel that at this stage you’re already committed.”

  “No. I agreed to do a certain job for you. But I’m not an employee, Sir Gerald. If I do the job, I’ll supply my own tools.”

  Tarrant held his face rigid for five seconds, then let it relax in resignation and gave a faint sigh. “Well … if that’s your ultimatum, I can only yield. When will you speak to Garvin?”

  “It’s for you to speak to him.” There was no concession in her face. “Willie doesn’t belong to me. But I need him. And I think if you ask him very nicely to help me, he’ll probably agree.”

  Right through the guts, Tarrant thought with wry admiration. “I’ll ask Willie nicely,” he said. “Where and when?”

  “You’re taking me to lunch with Sheik Abu-Tahir tomorrow.” Her voice was friendly again. “Can you spare time to run out with me to the Treadmill that evening?”

  “You heard what my master said. I’m to give my full personal attention to this.”

  “Tomorrow evening, then. And perhaps in the meantime you can find out where Gabriel is now and what he’s doing, or supposed to be doing.”

  “I’ll get Fraser busy on it. He’s duty officer tonight. Will it be all right if I pick you up here at twelve forty-five tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be ready. And I take it there’s no time to be lost in starting this job?”

  “None. The diamonds go aboard the Tyboria in two weeks’ time, and come into Beirut three weeks later. It doesn’t allow you a lot of leeway for getting a line on the operation.”

  “No.” She sat on the arm of a chair and looked at him curiously. “Have you made any guesses on what shape it might take?”

  “I would have thought any attempt must be made at one end or the other, Cape Town or Beirut. The South African authorities are responsible at Cape Town. Beirut’s a little more vague. But I can take care of the two ends through official channels.”

  “You’re concerned about in between?”

  Tarrant shrugged uneasily. “I suppose so, though it hardly seems to work. The fact is, I’m playing a hunch. If I were Willie Garvin, my ears would be prickling.” He smiled at her. “But I’m uncertain all along the line. That’s why I want you coming up from underneath. If you can find the shape of the operation, I shall know where to concentrate my efforts.”

  Modesty fingered the splendid amethyst pendant that lay against her flesh above the curving line of her dress. Her eyes were distant. Looking at her, seeing her wholly as a woman, Tarrant felt a sudden dreamlike sense of unreality. It was absurd, out of all reason, that he should be talking of these things to this warm and beautiful female creature. She was never made to walk with death and violence at her shoulder. Looking at the long smooth column of her neck, he thought of piano wire, and his stomach constricted.

  “How fast I can move,” she said, “depends very much on the kind of reaction I get from my old contacts. They tend to wear their mouths shut. But it’s possible that for me …” She stood up and shrugged. “They may speak out of one corner.”

  “What will you ask?”

  “About diamonds. And about Gabriel. If he shows up clea
n I’ll have to think again. But I’m picking Gabriel to start with, so please find out all you can about him.”

  “Very well.” The momentary sense of unreality had passed, and Tarrant was professional again. “Thank you for the coffee, my dear. I’ll say goodnight.”

  When the lift doors had closed on Tarrant she went out on to the terrace and smoked a cigarette. Her thoughts were turned inward and she was watching herself vigilantly. With satisfaction she noted that there was no tension, only a sense of warm exhilaration.

  She stubbed out the cigarette and went back into the penthouse. The paneled walls of her bedroom were ivory, the fitted carpet was pale green, and the bedspread and curtains silver-gray. A door led off to a large bathroom with a sunken bath and a shower cubicle. Here the walls were of very light pink tile, and the floor was laid with large black composition tiles, soft and warm to the foot.

  She adjusted the mixer on the bath and let the water gush while she undressed in the bedroom. Beneath the lined evening dress she wore a black bra and pantie-stockings, no girdle or suspenders. She had a dislike for straps, buckles, anything that confined, and for this reason the long nylon stockings were of one piece with the pants, in the style of theatrical tights.

  In the bathroom she stood naked before the full-length wall mirror and studied her body with a careful appraisal that was devoid of conceit.

  No sign of fat. She hadn’t gone soft in this last year. There had been plenty of exercise, a daily swim, the long rides at Benildon, and the occasional workouts with Willie Garvin, for old time’s sake. Or had it been just for old time’s sake … ?

  She ran probing fingers down the muscles of her thighs and calves, then straightened and drummed gently against the flat stomach with the sides of her fists.

  Muscle-tone good.

  Smoothly she arched her body right back until her palms touched the floor behind her; she brought one leg up straight, with the toe pointing to the ceiling, then followed with the other leg, and brought them down together in a controlled movement to complete the slow-motion back-flip.

  Her mind searched her body carefully for any hint of stiffness or strain, but there was none, and she gave a little nod of satisfaction.

  The bath was three-quarters full now. She turned off the water and sank into it, pulling a bathcap over her hair. A telephone stood in a recess near the head of the bath. She lifted the receiver and began to dial.

  Willie Garvin muttered an oath as the phone rang persistently.

  “Leave it,” whispered the blond girl, propped on an elbow and hovering over him, her face close to his. “They can’t ring forever.” She dipped her head to bite his ear.

  Her voice held the well-bred county drawl. She was twenty-three, the daughter of a gentleman farmer, and engaged to the son of another gentleman farmer. Willie hoped the lucky man didn’t bruise easily. This girl was all teeth; still, if you could take it while she warmed up, it was worth it in the end.

  “Lay off a sec, Carol,” he said, and rolled on to his side, his back toward her, picking up the phone from the bedside table.

  ” ‘Allo?”

  “It’s me, Willie. Are you on an extension?”

  ” ‘Allo, Princess.” His voice was warm with pleasure. “No, I’m on the main line, by the bed. The extensions are switched off.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “Yes. Nobody important, though. Just passing the time.”

  “My God, Willie, she’ll love that bit.” He heard laughter in her voice. “All right, I’ll talk and you acknowledge, right?”

  “Sure, Princess. Go ahead.”

  She spoke quietly for several minutes, and he listened with complete absorption. To anybody who might have overheard, her words would have been cryptic, for she used a mixture of argot from French, Arabic, and English, but to Willie Garvin the inwardness of every sentence was plain.

  At one point he gave a low whistle and grinned without humor. ” ‘Ope you’re right, Princess. Be nice to get that one by the shorts. It always stuck in my craw when we ‘ad to back down that time.”

  Later he said: “Sure. You bring ‘im along about eight, then. ‘Ow d’you want it played?”

  He listened again, and chuckled. “Okay, Princess. No, you didn’t disturb me a bit. So long for now, then.”

  He put down the phone and lay back with hands behind his head, smiling up at the ceiling with euphoric content. It was as he reached for cigarettes on the bedside table that he had an abrupt sense of something missing.

  His mind raced back over the last few minutes, picking up the sounds and movements which had barely penetrated his consciousness, the sudden bouncing of the bed, and the flutter of stockings and underwear; the flouncing and muttering; the snap of an overnight case and the slam of the door, followed by the fading click of heels marching purposefully away along the passage.

  Willie Garvin sat bolt upright and stared about the empty room in hurt astonishment.

  “Carol?” he said indignantly. “Carol!”

  6

  Tarrant’s cab drew up outside the penthouse block behind on open Rolls-Royce in two tones of blue, a Mulliner-Park Ward convertible. A uniformed chauffeur sat at the wheel.

  “Keep the meter going,” Tarrant said to the taxi driver, and glanced at his watch. “I don’t think we’ll need to wait more than a minute or so.”

  As he got out of the taxi, Modesty Blaise came down the steps from the entrance. She wore a two-piece of pure silk jersey in steel blue, the skirt slim, the overblouse pouched and with a deep cowl collar. Her gloves were of white kid, matching her handbag, and she wore no hat.

  Tarrant, who knew his jewelry, priced the single strand of pearls at her throat at seven thousand pounds. She was very beautiful, and he felt a pang of deep melancholy at the knowledge that he was putting her in hazard.

  She greeted him, smiling, and said: “We won’t need the cab. Weng will drive us.”

  Tarrant looked at the Rolls. Now he saw that the chauffeur was a young Asiatic, about nineteen years old, who sat at the wheel with folded arms and an air of calm superiority.

  “You needn’t worry,” Modesty said. “Weng’s taken the advanced driving course.”

  “I’ve every confidence,” Tarrant paid off the taxi. “But I’m not used to such regal transport.”

  “I only bought it in a mad moment,” she confessed as Tarrant opened the door and handed her in. “But Weng loves it, and it’s the right thing for the occasion. When you go to visit a Sheik, you do it in a style that honors him.”

  Glancing sharply at her as he settled beside her, Tarrant saw that she spoke quite seriously.

  “I’m obliged,” he said. “It hadn’t occurred to me.”

  The Rolls glided silently into the stream of traffic heading for Park Lane.

  “Have you anything on Gabriel?” Modesty asked.

  “A little. But we’re expecting more reports during the afternoon. I’ll go over it with you this evening at Willie Garvin’s place.” Tarrant looked about him and lifted an eyebrow.

  “Does our advanced driver know the way to the Ritz?”

  “Yes. But I have to make a call first. It won’t delay us more than two minutes.”

  The car wound through side streets north of Oxford Street and halted at a small parade of shops. Modesty got out quickly and went into a shop with a narrow, peeling facade. Above it Tarrant could just make out the word ANTIQUES in faded lettering. Weng alighted and stood by the door, waiting.

  Within two minutes Modesty returned. Weng held the car door for her, then resumed his seat. A hundred yards on they were halted by a long double-line of traffic, jammed on the right turn at the lights ahead. Tarrant, who liked to move unobtrusively through life, was conscious of the stares drawn by the open Rolls and its occupants. But his unease was tinged with pride at being in the company of the woman who sat beside him.

  Oh, my God, he thought suddenly. I must look like her sugar daddy. He turned his head to glance furtively at
her, and found that she was looking past him, absorbed in something on the nearside, where area railings guarded a row of basements. A small boy, with cowboy hat and belt, crouched on the steps and peered through the railings, an alloy-cast gun in his hand. Another small boy, also with a gun, and wearing a sheriff’s badge, hugged a letter box and looked out from behind it warily. For the moment their game was suspended as they gazed at the Rolls.

  The boy behind the railings lifted his gun, pointed it at Tarrant, cried “Pow!” and ducked out of sight.

  “Pow! Pow!” This time it was from the letter box. A small head emerged warily to observe the damage.

  “When I was young,” Tarrant mused as the car edged forward a few yards, “we always said ‘Bang!’ Not very onomatopoeic, I suppose, now one considers it—” He broke off, startled. Modesty had turned and was kneeling in a crouch on the seat. Her right hand was clenched with two fingers extended to imitate a gun.

  She lifted her head, aiming at the small figure peering round the letter box. “Pow!”

  The face lit up in a grin of astonished delight, then vanished.

  “Pow!” from the railings. Another from the other side of the letter box, and a quick response from Modesty. Tarrant swallowed hard. He saw with bleak satisfaction that a tinge of red was creeping up the back of Weng’s neck and that he was fidgeting with the wheel, anxious to move.

  “Pow!” Modesty fired and ducked. A fusillade came from the railings and the letter box. Tarrant turned a basilisk glare upon two young women with shopping baskets and a middle-aged man with a briefcase who had stopped to watch the battle.

  The car ahead moved, and on a final “Pow!” from the railings Modesty jerked up and spun round to crumple out of sight on the seat. Looking back, Tarrant saw the two miniature cowboys standing on the pavement and gazing after the Rolls with worshipful awe.

  When the car had turned the corner Modesty sat up and pushed a wisp of hair into place. Her eyes were sparkling with enjoyment. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said, “but it’s more like a ricochet, I suppose.”