Jigsaw by Campbell Armstrong Page B

Miss Gabler, and stepped back, her mouth open.
    â€˜In the bathtub no less. Poor little bastard.’
    â€˜You have a cruel sense of humour.’ She flapped a hand, shuffled away. Her slippers flopped. ‘Some people,’ she remarked, more to herself than Pagan.
    Smiling, Pagan shut the door. He liked Miss Gabler if only because she brought out a mischievous streak in him, a light-heartedness. He dumped the mouse in the garbage, then turned off the music. The silence rushed back in. He finished his drink just as his street-door buzzer made its customary rasping sound.
    He went to the intercom and said, ‘Yeah?’
    â€˜Frank Pagan?’ The voice that came up from the street was American. Pagan recognized the accent; the man was from one of the southern states, Alabama, Georgia. ‘My name’s Al Quarterman. From the US Embassy? I need to have a word.’
    The US Embassy. Why? Pagan pressed the button that released the lock on the street door. He listened to his visitor climb the stairs. When he opened his apartment door, he saw a cadaverous man in his mid-forties. There was an air of ill health about Quarterman. He had dark mournful eyes and yellowy skin. In another age you might have said he was consumptive. He held out his hand, Pagan shook it. Quarterman’s fingers felt like unfleshed bone.
    â€˜I don’t want to intrude on your privacy. I tried your office first. Your associate Foxie was reluctant to give me your address. It was like getting a bone away from a Doberman. He relented only when I explained why I needed to see you.’ Quarterman glanced round the room, saw the rock posters. ‘Hey, an aficionado. I go way back. Bill Haley and The Comets. “Rock Around the Clock.” When life was fun and games.’
    â€˜I remember it,’ Pagan said. ‘Drink?’
    â€˜Don’t mind if I do, Frank. Can I call you that?’
    Pagan said he had no objection. He admired the easy familiarity of Americans. He poured two shots of Auchentoshan. He gave one to Quarterman, who said, ‘Here’s to lost youth and rock and roll,’ and tossed the drink back, unforgivably, in one gulp.
    â€˜You ought to savour that, Al,’ Pagan said.
    â€˜Is that the proper way?’
    â€˜It is for me,’ Pagan said. He tasted the malt. It suggested peat, liquid smoke, heathery mysteries. ‘So. Why do you need to see me?’
    Quarterman set his glass down on the coffee table. ‘One of our people is missing,’ he said. ‘He may have been on that tube.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    â€˜No, we’re not sure. And we hope to God we’re completely wrong. But he didn’t take his car to the Embassy when he came to work. He said something to one of the typists about how he wasn’t looking forward to going home on the Tube. And he isn’t answering his telephone. Consequently, it’s a possibility we have to consider.’ There was an expression of sad uncertainty on Quarterman’s face. ‘The Ambassador considers this a matter of protocol. We need to nail this down before you publish a list of the casualties. We don’t want Harcourt’s family to just come across his name in the newspapers or on TV. If he was on the Tube, the Ambassador feels we should be the first to deliver the information to the next of kin.’
    â€˜Harcourt, did you say?’ Pagan asked.
    â€˜Bryce Harcourt.’
    Pagan found a pencil and wrote this down.
    â€˜If Bryce was on the train, naturally we’d want to ship his remains back. His family …’ Quarterman looked at the bottle of Auchentoshan. ‘Do you mind?’
    â€˜Help yourself.’
    â€˜Damn fine stuff.’ Quarterman poured himself a generous glass. ‘His family would want him interred in Florida. The Harcourts are old and influential. Plus they’re personal friends of the President, which makes Harcourt’s death all the more …