buy a yacht big enough for the Mediterranean and small enough for him to
drive himself. The grouse moor was out of the question, but there might
be enough left for one or two decent paintings.
This Laski fellow was buying a headache. However, headaches seemed to be
his speciality. Hamilton knew a little about him. The man had no
background, no education, no family; but he had brains and cash, and in
hard times those things counted for more than good breeding. Perhaps
Laski and Hamilton Holdings deserved each other.
It was an odd thing Hamilton had said to Nathaniel Fett: “Tell Laski
that if I sell him my company by midday, I want the money in my hand by
noon.” How eccentric, to ask for cash on the nail like the proprietor of
a Glasgow liquor store.
But he knew why he had done it. The effect had been to take the decision
out of his hands: if Laski could produce the money, the deal would be
done; if not, not. Incapable of making up his mind, Hamilton had tossed
a ha’ penny
Suddenly he hoped fervently that Laski would be able to raise the cash.
Derek Hamilton wanted never to go back to the office.
The car drew up outside Fett’s place, and he got out.
THE BEAUTY of being an earwig, Bertie Chieseman had found, was that you
could do almost anything while you were listening to the police radio.
And the tragedy of it, from his point of view, was that there was
nothing much he wanted to do.
Already this morning he had swept the carpet, a process of raising dust
only for it to fall again soon afterward–while the airwaves were filled
with uninteresting messages about traffic in the Old Kent Road.
He had also shaved at the sink in the corner, using a safety razor and
hot water from the Ascot; and fried a single rasher of bacon on the
cooker in the same room for his breakfast.
He ate very little.
He had called the Evening Post only once since his first report at eight
o’clock: to tip them off about an ambulance call to a block of flats in
Westminster. The name of the patient had not been mentioned over the
air, but Bertie had surmised from the address that it might, just
possibly, be someone important. It was up to the news desk to phone
ambulance headquarters and ask the name; and–if headquarters had been
told, they would pass the information on. Often the ambulance men did
not make their report until the patient was in the hospital. Bertie
occasionally talked to reporters, and he always asked them questions
about how they used the information he gave them, and turned it into
stories. He was quite well informed about the mechanics of journalism.
Apart from that and the traffic, there had been only shoplifting, petty
vandalism, a couple of accidents, a small demonstration in Downing
Street, and one mystery.
The mystery was in East London, but that was about all Bertie knew. He
had heard an all-cars alert, but the subsequent message had been
uninformative: the cars were asked to look out for a plain blue van’
with a certain registration number.
It might simply have been hijacked with a cargo of cigarettes, or it
might be driven by someone the police wanted to question, or it might
have been in a robbery. The word “Obadiah” had been used; Bertie did not
know why. Immediately after the alert, three cars had been detached from
regular patrol to search for the van. That meant very little.
The fuss might be over nothing at all–perhaps even some Flying Squad
inspector’s runaway wife; Bertie had known it to happen. On the other
hand it could be big. He was waiting for more information.
The landlady came up while he was cleaning his frying pan with warm
water and a rag. He dried his hands on his sweater and got out the rent
book. Mrs. Keeney, in an apron and curlers, stared in awe at the radio
equipment although she saw it every week.
Bertie gave her the money and she signed the book. Then she handed him a