Modesty Blaise Read online

  MODESTY BLAISE

  Peter O’Donnell

  For Constance

  1

  Fraser adjusted his spectacles to the angle which he knew would produce the effect of prim stupidity he favored most. Running a finger down his nose, he stared obtusely at the open dossier in his hands.

  “I would suppose, sir,” he said cautiously, “that Modesty Blaise might be a person awfully difficult for us, er, actually to get.” He blinked toward the big, gray-haired man who stood by the window, looking down at the night traffic hurrying along Whitehall.

  “For a moment,” Tarrant said, turning from the window, “I hoped you might split that infinitive, Fraser.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir Gerald.” Fraser registered contrition. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Tarrant moved to the big desk across one corner of the room. Settling in his chair, he opened a polished wooden box, took out a cigar, and addressed himself to lighting it.

  “A remarkable woman, Fraser,” he said, watching the heavy smoke coiling up in the warm fluorescent light. “If you had been a child, on your own, in a Middle East DP camp in ‘45, do you think you could have managed to retire at twenty-six with well over half a million sterling? A small female child, of course.”

  Fraser quickly reviewed his selection of expressions, and chose the slightly offended one with pursed lips. Tarrant studied the look, then nodded his approval.

  “The point is,” he went on, “that we’re hardly likely to get her for money. Not on the Civil Service scale of two thousand a year, anyway.”

  Fraser lifted a hand with middle finger delicately bent, and scratched minutely at the scalp beneath his thinning hair. “Some of our people have a vocation for the work,” he said diffidently.

  “Yes. She seems to have a feeling for this country.” Tarrant frowned at his cigar. “After all, she chose to settle here. But I don’t feel that a clarion call to service is the way to get her, either.”

  “Blackmail?” Fraser tried to combine furtiveness, daring, and distaste in one expression. He fell short, and received a sympathetic wag of the head from Tarrant.

  “No … not blackmail. I don’t think we really have the levers for it, Fraser. And we need much more than reluctant co-operation.”

  “I wonder if … ?” Fraser let the sentence hang while he carefully selected a buff half-sheet from the dossier and peered at it unnecessarily for several seconds. “I wonder if this might do?”

  Tarrant took the slip and read the short message through twice. The hesitant but hopeful look, he thought, and looked up at Fraser to find that he was right.

  Briefly he wondered why a man with Jack Fraser’s field record should take such pains to project himself as an ineffectual dolt, now that he was safely behind a desk. Sheer habit, probably. The pose had served him handsomely in the past and might be hard to put aside now. Tarrant had no objection to the game. The two men were old friends and Fraser could speak with earthy bluntness on the brief occasions when he laid the pose aside. In any case it was a harmless game, sometimes useful and frequently amusing.

  “The message only came up from Cipher an hour ago,” Fraser said with a vague, apologetic gesture. “They wouldn’t attach any importance to it, of course. Just part of a general routine report. But it did occur to me that perhaps … ?”

  “I think it might do very well indeed.” Tarrant passed the half-sheet back and glanced at his watch. “Ten o’clock. Do you think she might see us tonight?”

  “No time like the present.” Fraser rolled out the phrase sententiously, not quite able to hide his delight at the opportunity. “Shall I try her number, sir?”

  There was a pleasant warmth in the night air as Fraser drove his old Bentley down Constitution Hill and swung with bland belligerence through the traffic at Hyde Park Corner. Rightly drawing an outraged cry from a taxi driver, he responded with an apologetic simper, immediately followed by a bellowed oath of such horrific imagination that Tarrant was hard put to conceal his admiration.

  “Your conversation with Modesty Blaise was very brief,” Tarrant said as they drove through the park. “Did she ask no questions?”

  “None, Sir Gerald.” Fraser hunched over the wheel and blinked worriedly through the windshield. “When I asked if you might call she just said: ‘Yes. Now if you wish.’ She seemed to know your name.”

  “She does. On two occasions she sent Willie Garvin over from Tangier to sell me rather valuable items of information. Some Nasser stuff, and a very useful thing on the Russian organization in The Levant.”

  “What impression did you have of Garvin, sir?”

  “A rough diamond, but remarkably well polished in parts. His speech is Bethnal Green, though I believe his French and Arabic are very good. His manners are impeccable; I lunched him at Rand’s Club to overawe him, but he might have been born to it. His bargaining was cheerful but ruthless. And he had the relaxed superiority of … well, of a plenipotentiary sent by a reigning empress.”

  “Not of a consort?” Fraser asked diffidently.

  “Definitely not that. As courtier to queen. No more.”

  “A pity, really.” Fraser sighed, and shouldered an Austin Mini aside. “If that had been the relationship, it might have made your position stronger. I mean, now that Garvin’s in trouble.”

  “Yes. But on the other hand … ?” Tarrant made it a question inviting completion.

  “That’s true.” Fraser nodded solemnly several times. “With a consort relationship, Garvin probably wouldn’t be in trouble. And you’d have no position at all, sir.”

  The tall block looking out over the park had been designed by a disciple of Le Corbusier and completed little more than a year ago, a triumph of simple elegance. Below ground-level lay a private swimming pool, squash courts and a gymnasium for use of the residents and their guests. The facade was of rubbed stone, the roof-line broken by receding planes with balconies. At the summit, the penthouse faced south and was bounded on two sides by a covered terrace of concrete flags with grass-grown joints.

  The penthouse had sold for seventy thousand pounds.

  At the desk in the large foyer a uniformed attendant inclined his head politely in response to Tarrant’s inquiry.

  “Yes, sir. Miss Blaise rang down that she was expecting you.”

  Beyond a field of soft maroon carpeting stood the solid doors of a private lift. The attendant touched a button and they slid quietly open.

  “Yes, here we are. She’s sent the lift down for you. If you gentlemen would step in, please? It’ll take you direct to the top, doesn’t serve any other floors.”

  “Thank you.” Tarrant pressed the button and the doors slid shut. The lift started with slow courtesy, then accelerated smoothly. At the top, the doors slid back and the two men stepped out.

  They were in a broad open foyer floored with ceramic tiles in charcoal-gray. Beyond lay a large room extending some fifty feet to the far wall, where a floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the park. The room was contiguous with the foyer but on a lower level, three steps down from a slender wrought-iron balustrade which edged the foyer across the width of the room.

  Throughout there was the imprint of a strong personality, and the immediate impression was of warmth and simplicity. But then the eye began to find strange enigmas in that simplicity, a curious mingling of styles which should have clashed but astonishingly blended.

  The foyer was furnished with two chairs, Louis XVI bergčre, and a drum table. To one side was an alcove for coats, behind a maize velvet curtain. The floor of the room proper was set with plain octagonal tiles, dull ivory in color. On it were scattered seven or eight rugs of varying size, glowing with the rich colors of Isfahan.

  The middle of one wall was broken by a
run of masonry in natural stone, with a hole-in-the-wall fireplace. The remaining walls were of golden cedar strip. They bore half a dozen pictures and a François Boucher tapestry. Of the pictures, Tarrant recognized a Miro, a Braque still life, and a Modigliani. The others were unknown to him.

  All doors leading from the room, and the two leading off from the foyer, were of teak veneer. They extended from floor to ceiling, and were sliding doors.

  In one corner of the room, broad curving shelves held a scattering of ornaments, a porcelain-mounted lion clock after Caffieri, backed by a pair of Sčvres plates; a jade dragon bowl of the Chia Ch’ing period, and a silver vinaigrette; three superb ivories, a Clodion statuette, and an antique mahogany knife-urn.

  The lighting was superb, and the larger pieces of furniture were in plain colors against the rich patterns of the rugs. Tarrant noted the deep-buttoned chesterfield in black hide, the two Barcelona chairs in mellow tan, and a long, low table tiled in white and gold.

  Built-in shelves along part of one wall held books and records, with the satisfactory, slightly untidy look of usage. There was a hi-fi toward the end of the shelves, partly hidden by a Coromandel screen.

  But it was to the rugs that Tarrant’s eyes kept returning. They touched him with the same pleasurable melancholy as certain music, Les Préludes of Liszt, perhaps.

  Beside him he heard a long, reverent sigh from his companion.

  “Hannibal’s piles,” breathed Fraser, who found relief from emotion in coarseness. “What a bloody setup.”

  Together they moved to the steps dividing the low wrought-iron balustrade. Fraser, himself again now, hugged his briefcase awkwardly and darted suspicious glances about him. From an open doorway on the right of the room there came the faint greenish glow of daylight fluorescent, and the soft hum of a small machine.

  Tarrant put down his bowler hat and umbrella on a chair.

  “I think you’d better cough, Fraser,” he suggested.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Fraser.” The voice held a mellow timbre with a slight foreign inflexion. The intonation was cool but not unfriendly. She stood in the open doorway with the fluorescent light behind her. The face was smooth and calm, with high cheekbones under dark, contemplative eyes. She would be five foot six, Tarrant thought, but with the black hair drawn up into a chignon on the crown of her head she appeared taller.

  Her skin held a soft, matte tan that would have made a fortune for any man who could get it into a bottle. Her mouth baffled Tarrant. Studied in isolation it was a touch too wide, but in the totality of her features a smaller mouth would have been wrong. Her neck, he decided, though magnificent, was definitely too long … but then again that wonderful poise of the head would have been marred by a shorter neck. Her legs…

  No, dammit, they weren’t too long. He wasn’t going to fall into the same trap again. This girl was made to be looked at as a whole, and as often as possible, for preference. He was surprised to find that he had an urgent wish to see her smile. She wore a cling sweater in winter-white with a polo neck. The sleeves were pushed carelessly back almost to her elbows. It was tucked into a wine-red skirt of fine tweed, with pleats at each side and pocket flaps. The skirt was held by a broad black leather belt with a double ring, and fell just to the middle of the knee. Her legs, of that same matte tan, were bare. She wore dull gold open sandals with set-back heels, and the touch of coral red on the toenails matched her lips.

  “Miss Blaise …” Tarrant moved down the steps, extending his hand. “I’m Tarrant. And may I introduce my colleague, John Fraser.”

  Her hand was cool, and he felt the play of wiry sinews in the long fingers. She turned a little to greet Fraser, and Tarrant saw her eyes strip the man of his obtuseness, label him “not-to-be-underestimated,” and file him away in her mind.

  “Forgive us for calling so late, Miss Blaise.” Tarrant let no more than a hint of apology color his words. “Are we disturbing you?”

  “Not very much. I’m interested to see you.” The directness of the answer disposed of formality. “But there’s something I’d like to get finished. It will only take three or four minutes, please come in.”

  She turned back into the room, and they followed. Tarrant had been in a lapidary’s workshop before, but had never seen one as tidy as this. There were three separate benches, each with a tall stool. One bench held a bed of three horizontal wheels connected to a motor at the end. The lead wheel was some distance from the other two, and behind it stood a jar of carborundum. There was a can of finest emery flour behind the wooden wheel, and a small jar of putty powder behind the felt wheel.

  On the second bench stood a small, watchmaker’s lathe fitted with a slitting-saw, a four-inch vertical disc of phosphor-bronze, its edge impregnated with diamond dust.

  Modesty Blaise seated herself at the third bench, and gestured for the men to take the other two stools. She picked up a dopstick with a sapphire cemented on its broad head. At a long glance, Tarrant estimated the gem at forty carats. It had been cut en cabochon, and now she was working on it with a point carver. She switched on, and the running spindle began to turn.

  Her face grew absorbed. Holding the dopstick in two hands, the butts of her palms resting on the angle plate, she slid the gem toward the cutting bit.

  Tarrant looked about him. A large wall safe stood open. Several drawers of various sizes had been taken from a rack in the safe and lay on the bench at his elbow. One drawer was filled with a dozen or more gems in the rough, diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Another held smaller gems, cut, faceted and polished.

  Then, in a larger drawer, he saw the carved semiprecious stones, and caught his breath. There were tiny jars and bottles carved from jade and agate, a satanic head in gold sheen obsidian, and a rose in pink alabaster. He saw an eight-armed goddess in white chalcedony, and a huge flat oval of intricately chased jet.

  For three minutes there was no sound in the room except for the whine of the motor. Fraser, his mask forgotten, watched intently.

  Modesty Blaise switched off the motor and stood up. She screwed a jeweler’s glass into one eye and studied the sapphire for ten seconds, then lifted her head, allowing the glass to drop into her hand.

  “May I see it, please?” Tarrant asked with a hint of genuine diffidence.

  “Of course. There’s still some polishing to be done.” She passed him the glass and the dopstick.

  The head of a girl was cameo-sculpted on the sapphire in semiprofile, long hair drawn back, shoulders bare. Incredibly, the tiny face was alive. Tarrant tried to see how it had been achieved by those simple outlines and hollows, but it was beyond analysis. In silence he passed the dopstick and glass to Fraser, then looked at Modesty Blaise.

  “This is your hobby, carving gemstones?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She met his eyes. “I don’t handle them professionally any more.” Her face was suddenly illumined by a surge of silent laughter. Here was the smile he had wanted to see. It was rich with delight, completely without restraint, and holding a gamine touch of mischief. Tarrant found himself grinning back at her.

  “Not professionally,” he said, and inclined his head in agreement. “We know you’re retired, Miss Blaise. And naturally you need a hobby to occupy you.”

  Her smile had gone now, leaving only a memory of it in the eyes. With Tarrant’s last words the memory vanished and she looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Of course.” Her voice was neutral. “Now, what will you drink?”

  They followed her into the big room, and she moved to a small bar, jutting from an alcove, which held shelves of bottles and glasses.

  “Please sit down. Sir Gerald?”

  “A small brandy, please.”

  “And you, Mr. Fraser?”

  “Oh, er …” Fraser drew a finger down his nose. “A large one, please,” he said with nervous bravado, then shrank back into his chair. Fumbling busily, he took two folders from his briefcase and rested them on his lap.

 
Tarrant watched with approval the economy of movement she brought to the business of fixing the drinks. The brandies were placed on a small table between the two men. She poured a glass of red wine for herself, a vin ordinaire he noticed, then settled at one end of the chesterfield and drew her feet up.

  “It’s interesting to meet you, Sir Gerald,” she said, lifting the glass slightly in acknowledgment. “I used to have a dossier on you before I retired.”

  “Oh, I’m a dull old stick, Miss Blaise.” He sipped the brandy, and felt the Midas touch that turned the throat to gold. “You have a much more fascinating biography.”

  “How much do you know of it?”

  “Ah. Fraser would be terribly upset if I claimed that we knew anything. Most of it is a series of guesses and deductions.”

  “May I hear them?”

  “Of course.”

  Tarrant nodded to Fraser, who opened a folder and frowned at the typescript within.

  “Well, er, briefly, Miss Blaise,” he said uneasily, “we first have you on record at about the age of seventeen. We believe you came from a DP camp in the Middle East, and there was no way to check your exact age.”

  “I can’t help you there, Fraser,” she said gravely. “I’ve never been able to check it myself.”

  “I see. Well, to summarize, you were a stateless person, and at this approximate age of seventeen we have you working in a small gambling establishment in Tangier. It was controlled by the Louche group, Henri Louche being a man who headed a small criminal organization. On his death at the hands of rivals one year later, you took control and there followed a remarkable expansion.”

  Fraser looked up from the dossier owlishly.

  “I am not,” he said, “at this stage differentiating between items of fact and items of supposition, you understand?”

  “That’s very wise, Mr. Fraser.” She rose, picked up a silver cigarette box and offered it to Fraser. The cigarettes were Perfecto Finos. When he declined, she took one herself and set a humidor of cigars at Tarrant’s elbow.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. “I’m afraid there’s only a choice of Burma cheroots and Petit Coronas.”