The Amulet Page 6

  I laid my damp jacket over the back of my chair, took the whisky from its box, and offered them a drink.

  "No, thanks," Newman said.

  "Not while were on duty," Hardy responded.

  I shrugged and poured myself a large one. I downed it in one smooth gulp.

  "In some parts of the island that would be considered a criminal offence," Hardy said.

  "Nearly as bad as putting lemonade in it," said Newman.

  Their style of alternating speech was beginning to grate on me.

  "So which toes have I stepped on this time?" I asked.

  "We need to know your movements," Newman said.

  I spoke before Hardy had a chance.

  "Well, the toilet's through there," I said, motioning to the door.

  "Funny," Hardy said.

  "Very," Newman replied.

  "I wonder if Mr. Harris is laughing," Hardy said.

  "Who's he?" I asked.

  I wanted to sit down in the chair, but that would have left them looming over me. They intimidated me enough already without me giving them any more advantage. They were dressed almost identically, in long black woolen coats that reached their ankles over black Italian suits. The only difference was in their shirts, Hardy white, Newman blue. I suspected that they would have worn trilbies if they thought they could get away with it. Their black shoes were buffed to a deep shine. Legend on the street had it that they were steel toe capped, but I wasn't about to rile them enough to find out.

  As I said, Hardy was the taller. About six-one, and twenty stone, he was a big chap. He had recently taken to shaving his head, and along with the moustache and small beard, it gave him a menacing, almost psychopathic, look. He pumped iron, and although his stomach had spread in the years that I'd known him, he was still someone I wouldn't like to meet on a dark night.

  Newman was his physical opposite. He stood about five-nine, and weighed only nine-stone at most. He wore his hair long at the collar, and affected tinted aviator sunglasses, even at night. His coat seemed to hang off him, and rumor had it he was an evil, vicious sod who would have been in jail if he wasn't a cop.

  A further rumor had it that they were partners in bed, but I wasn't about to go down that route.

  While I was musing, Hardy had taken out his notebook.

  "John Harris. Local derelict and moocher. No fixed abode. Age: thirty-nine. Last known address: a private psychiatric hospital in Ayr. Found dead at eight this evening at the back of Buchanan Street Bus Station. Cause of death: multiple lacerations."

  I thought I could see where this was going. I poured myself another drink and lit a cigarette, pleased to note I wasn't shaking.

  "Sorry," I said. "I don't know the man."

  "Maybe this will refresh your memory," Newman said, and dropped a photograph on the desk.

  He was at least ten years younger, and he was clean, and clean-shaven, but I recognized him. It was my singing friend from the bus.

  And that's when I made the mistake. Maybe it was the drink talking; maybe I just didn't like having cops in my office after midnight. I lied to them.

  "Sorry, again," I said. "I've never seen him before."

  I took another sip of whisky as they looked at each other.

  "Maybe you'd like to reconsider?" Hardy said.

  "It'll look better later when we have to take you in," Newman said.

  But I had told the lie. Now it was time to live with it.

  "Sorry, guys. Still a blank. But if anything comes to mind I'll be sure to call you."

  "Fobbing us off, are you?" Newman said.

  "We don't give up that easily," Hardy said.

  I sighed deeply and lit a cigarette.

  "So why me?" I asked.

  "Where were you at eight o'clock tonight?" Hardy countered.

  "Out in the sticks." I said. "Having a pint in Dunblane."

  "And I suppose you've got an alibi?" Newman said.

  I took out the train tickets from my wallet and showed him them.

  "Two singles? And one of them to Perth? Any reason why?" Hardy asked. They had moved closer to me, and now all three of us were crowded around the desk.

  "It's a long story," I said.

  "We've got time," Newman said.

  "And two train tickets don't prove you were there," Hardy said. He leaned even closer until we were almost nose-to-nose. "Where were you at ten o'clock?"

  "Dunblane station, waiting for a train," I said. I took the credit card receipt for the whisky from my wallet and put it beside the train tickets.

  "Haddows off-license, Dunblane High Street, 9:45," I said, tapping the receipt. "And the barmaid in The Tappit Hen in Dunblane will verify that I left there about half-nine."

  "Smart arse," Hardy said.

  "A no-friend smart-arse," Newman said.

  "Shall we tell him?" Hardy said.

  Newman nodded, and Hardy took out his notebook.

  "James Henry Allen, 10 Dalgety Mansions, Maryhill. Private detective, antique dealer, pawnbroker, fence and one-time resident of Her Majesty's Prison Barlinnie. Aged eighty-nine. Died 10:30 p.m. Cause of death, multiple lacerations."

  "No," I said, almost shouting. "Not wee Jimmy."

  "A closed room murder case," Hardy said.

  "Very tasty," Newman said.

  "Security locks all still in place and alarmed," Hardy said.

  "How do you feel now, no-friend smart-arse?" Newman said.

  I moved towards him, and he raised his hands, but even when angry I wasn't stupid enough to hit him.

  "So why come to me?" I asked, sitting down, hard, in the chair and lighting a new cigarette from the butt of the old.

  "We found this on his desk," Hardy said, and took a package from his pocket. It was a plain brown parcel, with string wrapped around it. It was addressed to me, in Wee Jimmy's handwriting, but had no stamp on it. Surprisingly, the cops hadn't opened it.

  I turned it over in my hands. I knew exactly what it was. The old man always was soft for the big gesture.

  "Are you not going to open it?" Newman said.

  "Don't keep us in suspense," Hardy said sarcastically.

  "I don't need to open it. I know what it is. It's a book," I said. "An old book of Jimmy's that I admired."

  "Something juicy?" Newman said.

  "Porn?" Hardy said.

  "No," I replied. I suddenly felt old and weary. I wanted these guys out of my life so that I could drink the whisky and remember the old man.

  "No," I said again. "It's a real book. No pictures, just words and ideas. You should try reading one sometime."

  "I've read one," Hardy said.

  "He didn't like it," Newman said.

  Their double act was getting on my nerves. I tore open the package and showed them the Chandler. A card fell out of it.

  'A very merry unbirthday to you,' it read, and sudden tears came to my eyes as I recognized the old man's handwriting.

  "It is a book," Newman said.

  "Aye," said Hardy. "And it's not even new. Nothing for us here just now."

  "We might need to talk to you again," Newman said to me.

  "That's all right," I said, not looking up as they left. "I'm not going anywhere."

  I sat there holding the Chandler and drinking whisky until nearly half the bottle was gone and my tears had all dried up.

  * * *

  I remembered the first time I'd met the old man. All I knew of him before that was the voice at the end of the phone that accused me of stealing his place in the phone book.

  I'd arranged to meet him in the bar of The Pond Hotel, and I'd dressed for the part. I had a double-breasted suit, a kipper tie, and a high collared shirt pressed to perfection. Under the jacket I wore a pair of thick black braces, held up, not by metal clamps, but by buttons sewn into the trousers. Nobody would see them, but I knew they were there, an essential part of my detective-noir persona. I smoked a Camel non-filter, and playing with my authentic forties Zippo.

  "Let me gues
s," a voice said. "The Continental Op?"

  I looked up, and saw Jimmy for the first time.

  "No. Marlowe." I said.

  He sat down opposite me.

  "Philip or Christopher?"

  "How about Lew Harper?" I said.

  "No. He'd never be seen dead in that suit. I've got you pegged more as Mike Hammer. You haven't got a big-breasted-blonde assistant who does your typing and breathes deeply a lot have you?"

  I shook my head. "But I'm working on it." I said.

  "Pity," he said, "I would have forgiven you your transgressions if you had."

  He ordered two pink gins, with angostura bitters, and we spent the rest of the night talking about private detectives, both old and new. We agreed about Hammett and Chandler, disagreed about Ross McDonald, The Rockford Files, and Magnum, and agreed we didn't think Bob Mitchum was Marlowe, but that Powers Boothe had been okay.

  They had to throw us out at closing time.

  After that we shared cases. Or rather, I pumped him for information, he usually provided it, and I sent him all my divorce cases-the more sordid the better.

  I'd prepared myself for his death. I knew it wasn't that far away, but I'd been looking for a hospital bedside, or him keeling over in a bar. I'd never even got a chance to say goodbye.

  I put the Chandler in my desk drawer. It would be a long time before I got round to reading it.

  * * *

  By this time the room had gone a bit fuzzy, and my legs betrayed me when I tried to stand. Although it was now past one in the morning, I called my client-if she could call me after midnight, it was the least I could do to return the favor.

  To my disgust she answered on the second ring. I didn't even have the satisfaction of getting her out of bed.

  "Mrs. Dunlop?" I said. "Mrs. Arthur Dunlop."

  "Mr. Adams?"

  I heard the question in her voice.

  "I can't find your damned amulet, Nanki-poo won't be singing 'A Wandering Minstrel' again, and my best friend is dead. I'm off the case."

  I was just about to put the phone down-and I might have managed it if I had been more sober, then she said the words that made me keep listening.

  "We'll double your money," she said.

  "You know me so well," I said, and noticed I was slurring.

  "Mr. Adams, you are drunk," she said.

  "Yes ma'am," I said. "And you are a liar, but in the morning I'll be sober."

  Give her credit, she actually laughed.

  "Churchill was better. Double the money, Mr. Adams," she said, and hung up on me.

  "Damn," I said to the handset, "I wanted to do that."

  3

  I woke just as the sun came up. I was still sitting in my desk chair, with one leg on the desk and the other on the floor.

  My back felt like I had been stretched on a rack, and several small furry things had slept in my mouth. And not just slept either-my mouth felt like it had been used as a toilet. A cold shower, a change of underwear, two cups of coffee, and my last cigarette went some way to making me human.

  Old Joe struck up the first 'Just One Cornetto' of the day. That meant the newspapers had been delivered, and he was ready to receive customers.

  When I got downstairs, he had my two packs ready for me, but I made him put them back.

  "Camels, please Joe. For old times sake," I said.

  "Feeling maudlin?" he asked, but I didn't reply-I was scanning the front pages of the papers. There was no mention of Jimmy, or of the light opera singer John Harris. And I'm sure old Joe hadn't heard either-he'd have mentioned something to me.

  "I just fancied a change," I said, taking a Herald and paying him. "Can a man not change his mind?"

  "Not after five years. And not as often as a woman," Joe said, and laughed. "And talking about women-I've remembered where I saw that stoater before-the one that visited you a couple of days ago."

  I'd been on my way out, but I turned back.

  "Don't tell me. Artie Dunlop."

  The old man looked shocked.

  "She's mixed up with 'The Undertaker'? Then maybe it isn't who I think it is. But I saw her double in Blackpool, in a fortune telling booth. About ten years ago now, but I never forget a pair of legs."

  "I don't think so," I said. "She doesn't seem the type." But then I remembered how she seemed to know about the typewriter. Then again, she'd known I was drunk last night as well, but that hadn't been difficult.

  I left Joe with the promise that I'd keep him posted. There was little chance of that-the only time you told Joe anything was if you wanted the whole West End to know quickly.

  I stepped out of the shop, and found Doug trying to force something through my letterbox.

  "I only want it if it's a plain brown envelope stuffed with twenties," I said in his ear. He jumped, suddenly flustered, and spilled a wad of A4 sheets across the pavement.

  I helped him pick them up.

  "They're all out of sync now," he said accusingly. "I hope you're not in a hurry to find out what I found."

  I looked at the pile of papers.

  "Christ, Doug. How much is here?"

  "Don't worry," he said. "It's not as bad as it looks. There's a lot of repetition-I haven't had time to sort it out yet."

  "You weren't up all night, were you?"

  He looked sheepish.

  "I got carried away," he said. "You know how it is."

  Actually, I didn't-I'd so far managed to avoid hooking up to the Internet. I preferred to get my information first-hand, or as near to it as possible.

  "I suppose I'd better give you some coffee," I said. "I wouldn't want you falling asleep at your desk-who knows what the world would come to."

  I led him up the stairs. He tutted when he saw the whisky bottle. I didn't tell him why I'd been drinking; the wound was too raw. If I started talking about the wee man again, I'd start drinking again. Much as the idea appealed, I had work to do.

  "Park your bum," I said and motioned him to the desk. "And tell me what kept you away from the triple-X sites."

  "It'll be easier if you read it," he said. "It's a bit far fetched, and you'll have a lot of questions."

  "Okay. I'll do you a deal," I said. "You shuffle them back into the right order, and I'll make the coffee."

  When I got back with the coffee there was a neat pile of paper on the desk in front of my chair.

  "Fast work," I said. "Have you been practicing your poker shuffle again?"

  "It wasn't as bad as it looked," he said.

  "What is it about?" I asked.

  "Just read it," he said. "You'll be entertained, if nothing else."

  I gave him my newspaper, a coffee, and a cigarette, then I settled down to read.

  The top pages were all about Arthur Dunlop. There were fuzzy pictures taken with long telephoto lenses, masses of press speculation, hundreds of column inches, and nothing I didn't know already.

  "Thanks for this," I said. "But it's all standard stuff. What about the Gilbert and Sullivan link?"

  Doug leaned over and sorted the papers before handing them back to me.

  "There you go. There's the good stuff."

  The heading at the top of the first page read "http://www.moonlichtnicht.co.uk/harris.html."

  "What's this-the Harry Lauder appreciation society?"

  That one went over his head.

  "No, it's a 'magazine of the weird'. One of the sites where conspiracy theorists and UFOlogists gather."

  "UFO...what? I said.

  "Just read it, will you," Doug said. "I've got to be at work in half an hour."

  * * *

  It all began on September 20th, 1987. John Harris was a musical prodigy and a Doctor of Physics, a youth with perfect pitch and an interest in the acoustic properties of archaeological sites. He had already, at the age of twenty-four, published several papers that had stood archaeology on its head.

  He had made it clear that ancient man had been much more 'acoustically sophisticated' than had been s
upposed, building their tombs, halls and homes as perfect places in which to sing and play music. His book The Acoustics of the Ancients was already much sought after by those in the know, and he was working on a blockbuster tentatively entitled Did Cheops play Jazz? with which he intended to prove that the Great Pyramid at Giza was actually a giant acoustic amplifier.

  On that day in September, John was studying tablets in the Hunterian Museum in Glasgow University. These tablets had been brought from Ur by the infamous Johnson expedition, and he'd had to get special permission from the University authorities just to look at them. He was working on a new theory-that some of the untranslated tablets actually held an undiscovered form of musical notation.

  John hoped that, by gaining knowledge of how the Sumerian's music was structured, he would be able to finally translate, and play, music that had not been heard for more than three millennia.

  He had spent the bulk of the summer in a small triangular room in the attic, annoying the numismatist next door with his constant attempts at articulating the 'music' he was reading.

  Today he thought he might finally have it cracked. Abut eleven o'clock in the morning he had finished transcribing the tablets into what he could recognize as music. He started singing.

  And hell came to Glasgow University. Witnesses in the corridor said that the walls seemed to shimmer and shake. Some reported an intense, numbing cold, others a stifling heat. But all remembered the deep, atonal chanting that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

  The numismatist reports that the wall between the rooms became transparent at one point, and that John Harris himself seemed to be fading in and out of reality.

  Out in the museum itself, a party of schoolchildren fled in fright as a stuffed woolly mammoth began to wave its trunk and show suspicious sign of life. Farther back, in the storerooms beyond, a paleontologist was studying a fossil fish when he found he was looking into a deep pool of sea water, with his fossil fish, now suddenly re-animated, swimming happily in it.