Robert checked into a small hotel near Mothershed’s flat and telephoned General Hilliard.
“I have the name of the English witness, General.”
“Just a moment. All right. Go ahead, Commander.”
“Leslie Mothershed. He lives in Whitechapel, at 213A Grove Road.”
“Excellent. I’ll arrange for the British authorities to speak to him.”
Robert did not mention the passenger list or the photographs. Those were his aces in the hole.
Reggie’s Fish and Chip Shop was located in a little cul-de-sac off the Brompton Road. It was a small establishment with a clientele made up mainly of clerks and secretaries who worked in the neighborhood. Its walls were covered with football posters, and the parts that were exposed had not seen fresh paint since the Suez conflict.
The phone behind the counter rang twice before it was answered by a large man dressed in a greasy wool sweater. The man looked like a typical East Ender except for a goldrimmed monocle fixed tightly in the socket of his left eye. The reason for the monocle was apparent to anyone who looked closely at the man: His other eye was made of glass and of a color blue that was generally seen on travel posters.
“Reggie here.”
“This is the Bishop.”
“Yes, sir,” said Reggie, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Our client’s name is Mothershed. Christian tag, Leslie. Resides at 213A Grove Road. We need this order filled quickly. Understood?”
“It’s already done, sir.”
Chapter Twenty
Leslie Mothershed was lost in a golden daydream. He was being interviewed by members of the world press. They were asking him about the huge castle he had just bought in Scotland, his château in the South of France, his enormous yacht. “And is it true that the Queen has invited you to become the official royal photographer?” “Yes. I said I would let her know. And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will all excuse me, I’m late for my show at the BBC…”
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Has that man returned? He walked over to the door and cautiously opened it. In the doorway stood a man shorter than Mothershed (that was the first thing he noticed about him), with thick glasses and a thin, sallow face.
“Excuse me,” the man said diffidently. “I apologize for disturbing you at this hour. I live just down the block. The sign outside says you’re a photographer.”
“So?”
“Do you do passport photos?”
Leslie Mothershed do passport photos? The man who is about to own the world? That is like asking Michelangelo to paint the bathroom.
“No,” he said rudely. He started to close the door.
“I really hate to bother you, but I’m in a terrible jam. My plane leaves for Tokyo at eight o’clock in the morning, and a little while ago when I took out my passport, I saw that somehow my photograph had been torn loose. It’s missing. I’ve looked everywhere. They won’t let me on the plane without a passport photo.” The little man was near tears.
“I’m sorry,” Mothershed said. “I can’t help you.”
“I’d be willing to pay you a hundred pounds.”
A hundred pounds? To a man with a castle and a château and a yacht? It’s an insult.
The pathetic little man was going on. “I could go even higher. Two hundred or three hundred. You see, I really must be on that plane or I’ll lose my job.”
Three hundred pounds to take a passport picture? Not including the developing, it would take about 10 seconds. Mothershed began to calculate. That came to 1,800 pounds a minute. Eighteen hundred pounds a minute was 10,800 pounds an hour. If he worked an eight-hour day, that would be 94,400 pounds a day. In one week, that would come to—
“Will you do it?”
Mothershed’s ego jockeyed with his greed, and greed won out. I can use a bit of pocket money.
“Come in,” Mothershed said. “Stand against that wall.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
Mothershed wished he had a Polaroid camera. That would have made it so simple. He picked up his Vivitar and said, “Hold still.”