The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin by Brian Freemantle Page A

interested in proving it as Charlie. And accepted it as a joint operation. Jones would realise the mistake and recover quickly, he guessed.
    ‘I can’t prove it,’ admitted Charlie.
    ‘Johnson isn’t interested?’
    ‘Called it preposterous.’
    ‘Which it is.’
    Clever, assessed Charlie. Now he was forced to talk further, always with the risk of a slip.
    ‘But it fits better with opium-smoking illiterates,’ he pointed out.
    ‘That really was damned smart of you,’ repeated Jones.
    The American was still manipulating the conversation.
    ‘It seems obvious,’ Charlie said uneasily.
    ‘Not to Johnson, who’s supposed to be the expert.’
    ‘He’s got a policeman’s mind … trained only to accept fact.’
    ‘What are you trained in?’ demanded Jones openly.
    ‘Trying to avoid £6,000,000 settlements,’ said Charlie.
    Jones smiled.
    Amusement? wondered Charlie. Or admiration at escaping again? There was as much danger in showing himself an expert in this type of interrogation as there was in a misplaced word.
    The American rose, to pace the room again.
    He went towards the bar and Charlie said, ‘Would you like a drink?’
    ‘Never touch it.’
    Because it might blur his faculties, no matter how slightly, guessed Charlie. And he judged Jones to be the sort of man who didn’t like to lose control of anything, most of all himself. About him there was an overwhelming impression of care. It was most obvious in the pressed and matched clothes, but extended to the manicured hands and close-cropped hair and even to the choice of cologne that retained his just-out-of-the-bathroom freshness.
    ‘Can I help you to one?’ offered the American.
    ‘No,’ said Charlie. Jones didn’t want to impair his thinking, he reflected. And he couldn’t afford to.
    ‘Thought about asking for an independent autopsy?’ asked Jones. ‘If you could discover any injury to Nelson inconsistent with his being drowned it would be something upon which Johnson would have to act.’
    An invitation to reveal his expertise, saw Charlie, the apprehension tightening within him.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
    ‘Might be an idea,’ said Jones.
    ‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. ‘It might.’
    ‘How much time do you think you have, now that Lu’s issued writs?’ asked Jones, nodding to Willoughby’s telex message that lay between them on the table.
    He’d endangered the underwriter by letting the American read the cable as they had travelled up in the lift, Charlie realised belatedly. It had been a panicked reaction, to gain time. Now, unless he allayed the uncertainties, it would be automatic for Jones to have their London bureau check Willoughby. And in his present state, the underwriter wouldn’t be able to satisfy any enquiry.
    ‘Not much,’ said Charlie. ‘Our lawyers will want to begin preparing an answer to Lu’s claim almost immediately. And they won’t be able to do that on what I’ve got available.’
    ‘So you’re in trouble?’
    But just how much? wondered Charlie.
    ‘Looks like it,’ he said.
    ‘I’ll be intrigued to see what you do,’ said Jones.
    ‘What would you do?’ demanded Charlie, turning the question.
    Jones made an uncertain movement.
    ‘I’m in a more fortunate position than you,’ he said. ‘There’s no money riding on what I do.’
    ‘What, then?’ insisted Charlie.
    Jones was at the window. He turned at the open question.
    ‘Just a group of government officials who want to know if Peking put a match to a liner hardly out of American ownership.’
    Now Jones was making mistakes, thought Charlie, as the different confirmation came of his earlier assessment. Or was he? Perhaps it was an invitation to Charlie to become more careless.
    ‘Why should that interest them?’ he pressed. ‘The sale had gone through, after all.’
    ‘But only just,’ said Jones. ‘Hardly be a friendly act towards America, would it?’
    ‘And that worries a shipping authority