Who Was That Blonde ?
"Bodie !,"
The voice on the phone startled Bodie. It was female, agitated, and not immediately familiar.
Bodie was tired and a bit cross. He'd had a very difficult day. He'd been allocated the task, shared among senior agents, of taking the new men round all the places used by C.I 5, - the Interrogation Centre, the various offices used, and the wide range of safe houses all over London.
His partner, Doyle was much better at this task than he was, having a lot more patience, but he was on an enquiry for Cowley. He would have dealt better with the men who had irritated him today. Two of them had been no bother, but the third, a man called Hughes, had been excited, and to his mind, cocky with it.
Not one himself for kow-towing to rank, nevertheless Bodie had expected that his experience and years of service ought to have merited him a little deference and respect. And Hughes hadn't shown him that !
He'd come home, late in the evening, hoping for a decent meal, a leisurely shower, and a quiet hour writing up his report on the day, before bed. But he'd hardly got in before his phone rang.
"Bodie ?," the anxious voice had said.
"Who are you ?," he asked.
"It's Marge, Marge Harper," came the reply.
"How the heck did you get this number ?," demanded Bodie angrily.
"Bodie, shut up and listen," Marge almost shouted. "It's Ray! My men found him a few moments ago, down a back alley. He's been shot and beaten up, - he's hurt bad, Bodie !"
Bodie was all attention now, as she continued. "I wanted to call an ambulance, but he kept saying your name and demanding a phone. He dialled this number, but then he passed out. I need help, Bodie !"
Bodie's tiredness and ill-temper were forgotten, as his mind raced over what she had just said.
"Right, Marge," he said briskly. "I'll organise an ambulance – I can get priority ! Then I'll be with you as fast as I can. Do what you can to help him meanwhile." He rang off, and made a couple of quick phone calls.
As Bodie tore through the busy evening streets of London, he thought back to when they had first met Marge. She was quite a character, very street wise, a fence and a dealer, well-known to the police. She had taken a real shine to Doyle, and had given them a lot of help on an arms and drugs case they were working on. He had never quite forgiven her for dismissing him as a 'lout', but she was a good sort really, and would do what she could to help his partner.
It didn't take him long to reach Marge's place. Alf, one of her men was waiting for him. He instructed him to look out for the arrival of the ambulance, and to keep an eye on his car, and hurried up the stairs to Marge's rooms.
What he saw dismayed him ! His partner, Ray, was lying on a rough blanket on a sofa, with Marge and her other man, Herbie, hovering anxiously over him. Apart from the all too obvious cuts and bruises marring his features, tears and dark stains on his clothes indicated many other injuries. His face, what he could see of it, was very pale, and he was out cold. Marge, busy with a flannel and a bowl of warm water was doing her best to clean up his face.
Bodie gazed at his friend for a moment. Deeply unconscious, his mate was at rest and pain-free. He didn't much like what he had to do next, but he didn't shirk the task. Heedless of the blood staining his hands, he grabbed Doyle by the shoulders, and shook him hard. Marge let out a cry of protest, and tried to pull him away, but he elbowed her aside.
"Marge," he said firmly, "You said he was desperate to phone me, which means he had something important to impart. I have to rouse him !."
To Marge's further dismay, he began to slap his mate's face, and not gently either. He hated doing it, but was relieved when it had the right effect. Doyle moaned feebly, and his eyelids began to flutter. A few moments more, and his eyes flicked open. As they lit upon Bodie, he seemed to gain strength, and reached out to grab his partner's hand.
"Bodie," he gasped weakly, "I have to tell you …."
"I know, Ray," said Bodie, "I'm listening. Just take it steady."
"Lord Murdistan," Doyle whispered
"I know who he is," said Bodie. "A high Court Judge."
"Law Lord, actually," corrected Doyle, and pressed on. "Contract out on him. A hit tomorrow morning at the Law Courts, - a sniper !."
"You're sure ?," asked Bodie. Doyle nodded weakly. "Tell Cowley." He tried to sit up. An expression of pain crossed his face, and he fell back limply, out of it again.
Bodie gazed anxiously at his unconscious friend. He hated to leave him, but if what he had just told him was true, and he'd no reason to doubt it, then he had to move fast. He must contact his boss, inform him, and assist in whatever action Cowley determined.
He turned to Marge, who was hovering anxiously. "The ambulance will be here soon," he said. "Look after him, Marge."
He left, shot down the stairs, and out to his car. As he drove, he put an urgent call into base, demanding to know where Cowley was. He'd asked once already, and had only been told he wasn't in Headquarters. Now he made it clear he had to know, and this time the information was forthcoming. He altered his course, and was very soon with his boss, telling Cowley everything.
Dr. Fenton gave his hands a final rinse, dried them on a towel, and turned round to have another look at the curly-haired patient he'd just been treating.
"Well, Ray, old son," he said with a smile. "You do like to keep me busy, don't you ?"
Eyes closed, his patient, heavily sedated, did not respond, but the nurse tending him smiled back at the doctor, well-known for his teasing manner.
"He'll do now," said the doctor. "You'll see him up to Ward 7, won't you, Sister ?," he said.
"Of course, sir," she replied, and then added "His sister is in the waiting room. Will you speak to her ?"
Dr. Fenton looked a little surprised, but said nothing. He made his way to the waiting room and entered. A smartly-dressed blonde woman jumped to her feet and looked anxiously towards him.
"I don't know who you are, my dear," he addressed her, "but Ray's sister you are not ! That I do know."
"No, I'm not," admitted Marge Harper. "I only said I was, so that the ambulance men would let me come with them. I had to. I promised Bodie I'd look after him."
"I see," began the doctor, "Well, if he knows you ….." Dr. Fenton was well aware of who Bodie and Doyle were, and what they did.
"Is Ray all right ?," interrupted Marge anxiously.
"He'll be fine," Fenton re-assured her. "I had to dig one bullet out of him, but the rest of his injuries were mainly rather painful, but superficial. He mends well, so a few days rest will do wonders."
"Can I see him ?," asked Marge eagerly.
"Not yet," replied the doctor firmly. "He won't be fit to see any visitors for a few days He'll sleep a lot."
Marge had to be satisfied with that. She sought out her faithful henchmen, who had followed in the car, and went home. She would have liked to call Bodie for further re-assurance, but found she couldn't recall the number that Ray had dialled, which was just as well, for it wasn't meant to be available to anyone other than those, mainly in C.I.5, who had a right to know.
But Dr. Fenton was not able to enforce his embargo on visitors.
Just before mid-day the following day, Cowley swept into the hospital with Bodie in tow, and asked to see his man. The doctor repeated his view that Doyle wasn't ready for visitors, but Cowley insisted. "He's got information that we need to hear," he said firmly. "Will you wake him up, please."
So the doctor rather reluctantly told the nurse to administer a shot that would go some way to rescind the effect of the sedation he had previously prescribed. It had the desired result. After a few moments Doyle began to move restlessly, as if in some discomfort, and opened weary eyes.
The nurse threw Cowley a cross look, as she helped her patient to sit up, and pushed a pile of pillows behind him. Even Bodie's smile, as he helped her, didn't charm her, as she reluctantly followed the doctor out, leaving the trio alone. Cowley and Bodie found chairs and drew them up to the bedside. Doyle was now rapidly coming round, and recognised his visitors.
"Lord Murdistan ?," he queried quickly, as memory returned.
"He's all right," replied Cowley. "I'll fill you in on that in a minute. Right now, we've got to hear what exactly happened to you."
Doyle paused for a moment, trying to get his recollections into some sort of order. "Following your orders," he began, "I was trying to find a man called Maloney, who was proving rather elusive."
"I've been trying to trace him for some while, without success," interrupted Cowley. "That's why I put you on the job."
Mentally accepting this approbation, Doyle continued. "I managed to trace him to this rather seedy pub, The Swan, which I learned was his regular haunt. Apparently he goes in there most nights, so I was told. I went there yesterday evening, but he hadn't yet come in. So I got a beer and retired into a corner, hoping to be as unobtrusive as I could, for I was getting a few suspicious looks from the regulars. It was one of those old places with wood panelling and wooden benches along the walls, with semi- partitions every so often, designed to give a bit of privacy to small sections. I chose a secluded corner, and settled down to wait." The listening two nodded. So far, this seemed to be very straightforward.
"Then I discovered something odd," Doyle continued. "You know the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul's ?"
Cowley and Bodie exchanged puzzled looks. Was Doyle a bit delirious, seemingly going off at a tangent ?
"Well," went on Doyle, "I found that the panelling on the wall seemed to have the same effect. When I leaned my head back against it, the conversation in the next booth became clearer, and I could hear what they were saying."
Cowley and Bodie listened eagerly, for this sounded interesting, and clearly Doyle wasn't 'off his rocker' at all.
"I heard them saying something about a 'contract'. A sniper was going to have a go at Lord Murdistan, the next morning, when he arrived at the Law Courts in the Strand. Then the pair got up to leave, and I recognised one of them. I've forgotten his name, it was a few years ago, but I could find him in Records, I'm sure."
He reached for a glass of water, took a few sips, and then went on with his story. "I was in two minds about whether I ought to follow them, but then Maloney came in, got himself a pint, and went to a table the other side of the room. He looked at his watch, as if he were waiting for someone, so I sank back in my place and waited. A few minutes later a man came in and joined him."
"Someone you know ?," questioned Cowley.
"No," answered Doyle. "He was an older man, tall, dark-haired, dressed in a smart suit, very out of place in that seedy pub, and he walked with a slight limp."
Cowley nodded approvingly. Doyle's powers of observation were pretty good, as usual.
"I watched for a while," Doyle went on, "He was talking very quietly to Maloney. Looked as if he were trying to persuade him about something. Then he got up and left. I decided it would be a good idea to follow him. We could always try for Maloney at the pub, another time."
He moved a little awkwardly as if in pain, and Bodie jumped up to adjust the supporting pillows. Doyle gave him a grateful smile and continued.
"I followed the man out. In spite of his limp, he was moving quite briskly up the road. I was being pretty careful, I thought, but I reckon the man was a 'pro', for as we turned into a side street he spotted me. Quick as a flash, he pulled out a gun and fired at me. I moved pretty fast, but he just 'winged' me." He patted the top of his right arm, heavily bandaged. "I fell over into a shop doorway. By the time I'd scrambled back to my feet, he had disappeared. Then I heard the sound of a car screeching away. So I'm afraid I lost him," he added apologetically.
"Not surprising," commented Bodie.
"I was bleeding rather a lot," continued his mate. "So I decided to go back to my car, and get a bit of help, but when I went down an alley that was a short cut, I was set on by a gang of youths, five or six of them. I didn't smell booze, so I guess they were 'high' on drugs. I tried to fight them off, but with an injured arm, they were too much for me," he said ruefully. "I don't remember any more, sir," he added, "till I woke up in Marge's place, and the rest you've heard from Bodie, I expect."
Cowley nodded, his mind quickly assimilating all he had just heard. "Yes," he said, "He came straight to me, and so I was able to take action."
He proceeded to answer Doyle's initial question. "I went to see Lord Murdistan early this morning. He's quite a formidable man ! He protested that judges are often given threats that come to nothing. He refused to cancel this morning's session. He's semi-retired really, but he was filling in at the Law Courts to help clear a back-log of cases that had piled up because two judges had gone down with the 'flu."
He paused, thinking back to how stubborn the elderly man had been. "I did manage to persuade him to wear a bullet-proof vest, though he really didn't think it was necessary."
Then he out-lined the other plans he had put in place. "You'd mentioned a sniper," he said, "So we mounted a search on all the possible vantage points on the buildings opposite for such an attack, and that was a success. We found a man just setting up. He made a run for it, and Mills and Newton had a fine chase over the roof-tops. But the man misjudged a leap across a gap, and fell."
"Dead, sir ?," queried Doyle.
"Unfortunately, yes," replied Cowley. "So although we did protect Lord Murdistan, thanks to your information, we weren't able to discover the reason for the attack, or who was behind it." He stood up to leave, and added, "That's something you can work on when you're better, so don't be too long about it." Bodie gave Doyle a grin, almost apologising for their boss's brusqueness. Both knew it was just his way, really. He worried about his men much more than he let on.
But Doyle did have another visitor !
Dr. Fenton escorted Cowley down to the foyer, partly out of courtesy, but mostly because he had great admiration for this clever man and the work he was doing. Having seen him off, he was having a quick word with the girl on the reception desk.
A visitor, carrying a large bunch of flowers, entered, spotted him there, and came quickly up to him.
"Dr. Fenton," she accosted him.
He swung round at the voice, and recognised her. A mischievous grin came over his face. "Ah, Raymond's sister," he said cheekily.
"You know I'm not," replied Marge, responding to the doctor's teasing tone.
"Is Ray all right ?."
"He's fine," replied Fenton. "His injuries weren't that bad. A bit of rest and he'll bounce back."
"Can I see him ?," she asked eagerly.
"He's really not up to visitors," replied the doctor. "He needs to sleep." But, seeing her crest-fallen face, he relented, and gave way to the spark of mischief ever present in his nature.
"It's against the rules," he said, "but if you follow me, you can have five minutes while I talk to Matron, - but only five minutes, mind !."
The young nurse attending to Doyle had just straightened the bed and settled her patient down after his previous visitors. So she was not pleased when the door opened, and a woman entered. She was carrying a large bunch of flowers which she thrust into the nurse's hands. Then she advanced swiftly to the bedside, and bent to bestow a kiss on the occupant, who was already half asleep.
Doyle winced as the greeting touched the edge of a nasty bruise, and opened sleepy eyes. "Marge !," he exclaimed , somewhat startled.
"How are you, lover ?," she asked in her usual bold manner. She was impervious to the cross stare of the watching nurse.
"Not too bad," replied Doyle, trying to recover his composure. "I was going to come and see you when I was better, to thank you and your boys for helping me."
"I'm just thankful they found you," said Marge, "You could have died in that alley."
"Oh, hardly," protested Doyle. "I wasn't hurt that bad. But you did help me reach Bodie and that was important."
"Is there anything you need ?," asked Marge, "Anything I can get for you ?"
"Oh, no, thank you," replied Doyle, "I'm being very well looked after.
He directed a conciliatory smile towards the young nurse, who was standing there, clutching the bunch of flowers, and looking very displeased. "I'll be out in a day or so."
At this point, Dr. Fenton appeared in the doorway, so Marge knew her brief visit was over. She reached out gentle fingers to stroke his cheek.
"Your poor face," she whispered, and carefully bestowed another quick kiss, managing this time to find a less painful spot.
As she left, Doyle saw the grin on Dr. Fenton's face, and resolved later to have it out with him for causing this rather embarrassing encounter. His little nurse must have got entirely the wrong impression.
Doyle rather obstinately refused any further sedation, but he managed to sleep naturally. So he recovered quickly, and was discharged.
A few days later, Cowley, glancing out of his office window, was secretly pleased to see Doyle's car swing neatly into a space in the yard below. He stepped out of his office just as Doyle appeared at the top of the stairs, and beckoned him in. He cast a critical eye over his man as he entered and closed the door. The technicolour of the visible bruises was now fading to a dingy yellow, and he seemed to be moving easily without any sign of discomfort.
"I presume you've come to look in Records for the man you recognised ?," said Cowley.
"Yes, sir," replied Doyle. "I'm afraid I'm not back on full duty yet. My arm injury needs a bit longer.
Cowley nodded. He'd already had that report.
"We picked up Maloney yesterday," said Cowley. "He's not being very co-operative yet. Won't tell us about the man he met, so while you're searching, keep an eye out for him, too."
"He may not have a record here, sir," said Doyle doubtfully. "I suspect he was foreign. Just a look about him. But I would recognise him if I saw him again."
Maloney was well-known to both the police and C.I 5, as being active in the theft of fine art, and valuable antiques. He did nothing himself, but was adept at putting skilled thieves into contact with potential buyers. So the man he'd been meeting could well merit C.I.5's closer attention.
Doyle left to get on with his task. He spent most of the day searching through records and photographs for the two men he was interested in. At the end of the afternoon, he took his report to his boss.
"I couldn't find any trace of the man who shot at me," he began, "but I did find the one I overheard talking. His name's Joe Simpson. Not a very appealing specimen .But he's a bit of a puzzle," he added, frowning.
"Oh, why ?," asked Cowley.
"Well, he's very small fry," responded Doyle. "Forgery was his line – false passports, visas and permits, mostly. So I can't think why he's involved with a planned assassination."
He paused thoughtfully. "Come to that," he added, "I don't understand why anyone should be after Lord Murdistan. I know judges do get threats, but he's been virtually retired for nearly two years now, and he wasn't handling anything particularly big before that either."
"Yes, that's puzzling me too," agreed his boss. "However, if we pick up Simpson, we may find out." He looked down at the list on his desk. "You're not on duty, so I'd better send Bodie and someone else."
"I should tag along," said Doyle eagerly, "for I can identify him."
Cowley looked dubious, but relented. "Don't get involved in any action," he warned. "If you get hurt again while not officially on duty, I'll have trouble with the doctor."
"I'll be careful," promised Doyle, and went off to see if his partner was in the building.
So he was close behind Bodie and Mills, as they strolled into The Swan, later that evening. He was hoping that Simpson would be there again, and luck was with them, for he instantly spotted him, with the same companion, sitting in a corner alcove. Without being too obvious, he pointed them out to his fellow agents, and then stood back as they moved purposefully in on their quarry. Engaged in earnest conversation, the pair did not notice Bodie and Mills until they were almost on top of them. Startled, they quickly got to their feet, and seemed ready to run.
Mills grabbed the one they didn't know and Bodie reached for the other. But Simpson tried to make a break for it. He lashed out a painful kick to Bodie's shin, dodged round a table and tried to bolt towards the door.
While Doyle knew he'd been ordered not to take any part in the action, for fear of further injury, it didn't stop him from moving sideways, and sticking his foot out in the way of the hapless flight. Joe Simpson fell over it, and landed in an untidy heap on the floor. Close behind, Bodie pounced on him and hauled him to his feet.
It was all over very quickly. As the trio marched their prisoners out of the pub, many of the onlookers, after their first surprise, stuck their heads down, and took no more notice. Most of them decided it was none of their business, - they had their own secrets.
The two suspects were taken to the Interrogation Centre. Simpson was as stubbornly silent as Maloney had been, but it was obvious that his companion, whose name was Norris, was going to be the weak link. So they separated him from Simpson, and put some pressure on him. Bodie stressed to the scared man that if the judge had been killed, he would have been an 'accessory to murder' – a bit of an exaggeration, maybe, but it had the desired effect. Norris was ready to tell all he knew, but unfortunately that was very little. All he could add was that Joe had said that he'd done a special job for someone, and had been well paid for it. The word about the proposed assassination had just slipped out because Joe had spent some of the money getting rather drunk. He hadn't heard any details.
Deciding that he was of little use to them, they turned him loose, warning him to say nothing to anybody about what had happened. They held on to Simpson, knowing that persistent questioning might eventually break down his resistance. As they, personally, were making little progress, they left him to more skilled interrogators, and got on with other work. There was always plenty of that !
A day or so later, as Doyle was handing in a report to Cowley's secretary, his boss appeared in the doorway of his office and beckoned him in. "I've found the man who shot at you," he said. "Knowing Maloney's connections with the art world, I had a few enquiries made there, using your description of him. He's a Dutchman, Van Hooten by name, well-known in Amsterdam for some dubious dealings in stolen fine art. But he's already left Britain."
Doyle was interested in this information. "Maybe if we tell Maloney that we know his visitor, he'll open up a bit," he suggested.
"Try it, and see if it helps," ordered Cowley.
So Doyle went to see Maloney, and told him what they had learned. As he had hoped, the news broke Maloney's stubborn silence.
"Yes," he admitted, "It was him. He'd got my name, and arranged to meet me. I'd never met him before, though. He wanted me to find someone to acquire two Dutch old masters for him. But I was cautious. I didn't care for his manner. So he left, saying he'd contact me again." He looked rather pleadingly at Doyle. "I didn't know he'd shot at you," he said. "And then I heard he'd 'high-tailed' it back to Amsterdam. I hope I never see him again," he added vehemently'
Doyle was in two minds about whether he agreed with this last remark. Maybe he would like to see Van Hooten again, if it meant putting him behind bars. He reported to Cowley who considered the matter thoughtfully.
"Well," he said at last. "We can't really hold Maloney this time, if he hasn't actually made a deal with this man. So let him go. Let's hope we catch up with him again sometime with something we can prove."
"What about Simpson ?," asked Doyle.
"We'll hang on to him for a bit," said Cowley. "Give the experts a chance. I'd still like to find out why Lord Murdistan was a target, and who is behind it all."
Bodie and Doyle, now fully back on active duty, reported for orders to Cowley's office one morning, to find him reading his daily police report. He skimmed through it quickly, and was on the point of putting it down, when something caught his eye.
"That man we turned loose ?," he queried.
"Maloney ?, " said Doyle.
"No, the other one, Simpson's friend," replied Cowley. "Norris. What was his first name ?"
"Bill, I think," said Doyle, "Yes, Bill Norris."
"I thought so," said their boss, "He's dead, - killed in a 'hit and run' accident."
Both his agents looked at him enquiringly. Accidents like that were all too common, and none of their business, usually. So Cowley explained. "The police only put into these reports, 'accidents' that they are suspicious about," he said thoughtfully.
"You think he might have been silenced ?, asked Doyle, quickly seeing the point of his boss's interest.
"For what someone thought he knew," added Bodie, catching on equally quickly.
"Possibly," said Cowley.
"That might bother Simpson," said Bodie. "Let's fill him in."
He was right. The pair went to see Simpson, told him what had happened, and were instantly surprised, as the man fell to pieces before their eyes. "He'll kill me too !," exclaimed Simpson, with a look of total panic.
"Who ?," demanded Doyle.
"Why, Levison, of course," cried the man, now totally un-nerved.
"Levison ?," protested Doyle. "But he's in prison, surely."
"That won't stop him," said Simpson. "He has men everywhere."
"What did you do for Levison,?," asked Bodie, pressing home the advantage.
The frightened little man was ready to tell all. "I copied lots of documents," he confessed, "changing dates and times on them. And altered a couple of passports, too."
Making sure Simpson was safely locked up and under surveillance, Bodie and Doyle hurried to impart to Cowley all they had learned. On the way, Doyle brought Bodie up to date on Levison.
"He was a real villain," he said, "Into every nasty activity you could think of. I wasn't working on the case, but C.I D. were, trying to put together enough evidence to put him away."
"There was a trial, beginning of last year, wasn't there,?," said Bodie.
"Yes," replied Doyle. "They finally nailed him, and he got a sizeable sentence."
By this time they had reached Cowley's office, and Doyle swiftly relayed all the information they had gleaned.
"But I still don't understand why Levison should be after Lord Murdistan," said Doyle. "He wasn't the judge that sentenced him."
"I can sort that out, now," said Cowley. "The report has just come in to me. Levison is asking for an appeal against his sentence, citing new evidence. And Lord Murdistan has been appointed to lead the Appeal Court judges,"
"Lord Murdistan has a reputation for being very hard on appeals, - he rarely allows them. He issued a statement about this once, saying, in effect,
"A great deal of painstaking work goes into supplying the evidence that results in a conviction, and it shouldn't be overturned by a late technical detail."
"Murdistan does have police protection, doesn't he ? " asked Bodie. "I've always thought that was routine for judges."
"Yes, he has," said Cowley, "and it's been stepped up now."
"If Levison's 'new evidence' is what Simpson's done for him," said Doyle thoughtfully, "He needs to be kept very safe, if he's going to tell the truth in court."
"Yes," agreed Cowley, "and that's going to be your job now. If Levison begins to suspect that Simpson is going to 'rat' on him, he'll be desperate to get him silenced."
He consulted the report on his desk. "The appeal is due to start a week tomorrow," he said.
"The state of panic the man's in, he'll need night and day surveillance," commented Doyle, not looking forward to the task.
"Then you'd better take him to a safe house," said Cowley. "Three, five and nine are available."
"Five !," Bodie and Doyle almost shouted in unison.
Safe house five was a nice little flat on the second floor of a small block in a quiet residential area. Although it wasn't very large, it was well appointed, so a few days enforced stay would not be too uncomfortable.
"Right," agreed their boss. "You'll be there a full week till the appeal opens, so I'll get provisions arranged, while you work out a plan to get him there safely"
As the pair left to make their own arrangements, Doyle was cogitating on the last thing their boss had said. "He's right, you know," he said. "We'll have to think carefully. Simpson was telling the truth when he said Levison has men everywhere. Someone let him know that we had picked up Simpson and Norris, and someone told him when Norris was back in circulation."
They both went back to their own flats, to put together the personal things they'd need for the week. As a safety precaution, these were picked up by another agent, before being delivered unobtrusively to the safe house.
"Any ideas ?," Bodie asked Doyle, as they sat over a coffee in the canteen.
"Well, yes," replied his clever mate. "Simpson's not a big man, so a blond wig and a woman's coat might be an idea."
"It's a good one," agreed Bodie. "And we could get hold of a small, old car, that wouldn't attract much attention." The sat for a while finalising their plans, and sending others out for the things they needed, i.e. the disguise items, and a suitable vehicle.
So it was, that, later that evening, a small dark-blue car crept out onto London's busy streets. They had deliberately chosen the rush hour, hoping that the sheer volume of traffic on the move would give them the anonymity they wanted.
Doyle was driving, a knitted woolly hat flattening and concealing his unruly curls. Bodie was in the back, seated beside a lightly made-up blonde, in a coat with a large fur collar.. They hadn't persuaded Simpson to wear shoes with heels, but no-one was likely to notice his feet anyway.
They moved into the stream of traffic, making its homeward way out of the centre of London. The light was poor, as the street lights were just coming on. The congestion was just as they had expected, but they were making steady unobtrusive progress. Bodie and Doyle were fully alert, but keeping calm. Simpson however was a bag of nerves, very jittery. He kept fidgeting about and patting his wig nervously.
Suddenly, he let out a yell. "I can't do this !," he cried. "I want out !" He was reaching for the door handle, and trying to pull the wig off.
Bodie was quick to act. He couldn't let the man make a scene and attract attention. So he grabbed him, and wrestled furiously to subdue him. Not an easy task, for Simpson had found the strength of desperate panic, but eventually he managed it. With his arms wrapped tightly round the smaller man, he pinned him back against the seat.
Doyle had glimpses of the struggle in the rear-view mirror. He could do nothing to help his mate, but concentrated on his own task, which was keeping up his slow but steady pace amid the traffic.
Simpson gave in, and subsided limply, but Bodie continued to hang on to him firmly, in case he should try it again.
The rest of the journey, however, was managed without incident, as the very ordinary little car made its way through the traffic, now thinning as it reached the suburbs. Doyle pulled up outside the little block of flats. He got out and joined Bodie as they hustled the 'blonde' up the single flight of stairs to the door of the flat.
Bodie slid the key into the lock, opened the door, and pulled Simpson in. He closed the door at once. Doyle listened till he heard the locks click into place. He hurried back down to deal with the car. He drove it round the back to the allocated parking place, and locked it up.
Then he clambered up the fire-escape ladder. He tapped on the access window, and waited a moment till Bodie came to it and let him in. They quickly re-locked the window, and pocketed the keys along with those of the front door. They didn't want Simpson making another attempt to run away. They kept a close eye on him as he disgruntledly removed his disguise and washed the make-up off his face.
It proved to be a very boring week for Bodie and Doyle. Cowley's vague promise of trying to send them some relief men came to nothing. They didn't arrive !.
The fridge and kitchen cupboards were well stocked, so Doyle got some pleasure out of producing interesting meals, but even that palled after a while. They juggled and alternated the shifts so that they took turns at night duty, for Simpson was in such a depressed, frightened state, that he couldn't be left for one moment, in case he tried something silly.
They watched a lot of day-time television. That did distract Simpson, but only for a while. Every so often he would remember why he was there, and what lay ahead of him, - testifying in court to scupper Levison's appeal !
Even the amnesty promised, failed to encourage him. He was a single man, living in a rented room, so a new name and a job somewhere in the north could be easily arranged, he had been told. But fear of reprisals still dominated his thoughts, so he was pretty miserable company.
Although it seemed to be abysmally slow, time did pass, and on the final evening, Bodie and Doyle gratefully received their orders for the following day. The proceedings did not start till later in the day, but they were told to bring their 'guest' in quite early. That suited them very well, for there would be less traffic about then.
It was a difficult start, as Simpson, very reluctant to go, was slow getting dressed and picky over breakfast. He was already in danger of making them late, so they all but lost patience with him when he refused point-blank to re-don his disguise.
"I won't do it !," he declared obstinately. "I know Levison's going to get me. He's going to kill me, I'm sure of it. But if I die, I'll do it as a man, and not looking like a tart in 'drag'."
Already pretty fed up with him, they gave up trying to persuade the scared man. The sooner they got rid of him, the better, was the thought in both their minds.
Doyle let Bodie out onto the fire-escape, and he hurried down to collect the car. Doyle watched from the window till he saw it come round to the front. Then, taking a firm grip on Simpson's arm, he hurried the man down the stairs and into the back of the little car.
Bodie was grumbling crossly. "I can't wait," he said, "to get back to driving a decent car, instead of this little heap."
"Be fair," protested Doyle. "It served its purpose very well."
The streets were pretty empty at that early hour, so they made good speed, as Bodie pushed the little vehicle almost to its limits.
A policeman, who'd been looking out for them, opened the big gate, and waved them round to the back entrance. Bodie pulled the car to a halt close to the small flight of steps leading to the door, which was open ready for them. He braked firmly, and climbed out. Doyle had opened the back door of the car, and was pulling a reluctant Simpson towards it.
Suddenly, disturbing the quiet, a shot rang out, and to his horror, he saw Bodie crumple, fall across the bonnet of the car, and slide off in front of it.
Every instinct in him screamed to dash to his partner's aid, but he knew he mustn't ! His priority was to get this so-important witness safely into the building.
He clamped a hand tight on Simpson's wrist, and pulled him close into him. The other hand was holding his gun, primed and ready. He eased out of the car, dragging his prisoner with him. He flung a few quick shots in the direction that he thought the first one had come from. They were far from accurate at that distance, but they might deter the sniper long enough for him to get his man up those steps and into shelter.
He yanked Simpson out, pushed him in front of him, and ran with all the speed he could muster towards the waiting doorway.
Several more shots did come from the high building opposite. He heard them 'ping' off the car roof, and felt the splinters of stone chips as they hit the stone pillars flanking the doorway. He feared that at any moment one would hit one of them.
But, miraculously, none found their mark. They tumbled through the doorway, neither of them harmed ! The cool dark inside was very welcome.
The hallway was now full of people, including several heavily-armed police who were peering cautiously out of the doorway, and returning the fire coming from the roof opposite. Several court officers were there too, and Doyle thankfully handed Simpson over to them, relieved as they hustled him away. He turned back to the doorway and went to push his way past the police, who immediately tried to prevent him going out. He quickly pulled out his I.D. card and flashed it at them.
"My mate," he explained quickly, "He's been hit. He's down behind the bonnet of the car."
He was immediately let through, and the men moved with him, eyeing the buildings opposite for any sign that would help them locate the sniper. They moved cautiously out but no more shots came.
Maybe he's realised he's failed, thought Doyle and has left. Emboldened by this thought, he pushed past them. And still bending low, dashed to the front of the car to find how Bodie was.
His first sight dismayed him. Bodie was lying flat, clearly out cold. There was blood on his forehead, and a little pool of it forming on the ground below his head. Almost afraid to do so, Doyle reached a rather shaky hand to feel for a pulse in his mate's neck. Much to his relief, when he found it, it was strong and regular.
There was a movement beside him, and a quick glance showed him a man in paramedic garb. Help was at hand ! The man opened his pack, and began to wipe away some of the blood to assess the injury. He turned to Doyle.
"It's all right, sir," he said re-assuringly. "It's not a penetrating wound, just a nasty crease." He continued to swab away the blood, and as he did so, Bodie began to stir.
Doyle shot out a restraining hand to stop his mate struggling to sit up. "Easy, mate," he said, relief steadying his voice. "Let the man do his job." After a little more ministration, they helped a rather shaky Bodie to his feet.
The medic turned to Doyle. "There's an ambulance coming, sir." he said.
"I don't need an ambulance," Bodie protested, but the man took no notice.
"They'll dress that injury properly, and check for concussion," he told Doyle, who thanked him for his assistance.
When the ambulance rolled in a few moments later, Bodie was still protesting, but Doyle pushed his unwilling mate into it. "Come on, sunshine," he said persuasively. "Our job's done. So we can relax now."
While Doyle was sitting in the waiting-room, his phone 'beeped'. It was their boss, Cowley
"Report on Bodie, please," he demanded brusquely.
"He'll be all right, sir," reported Doyle. "He was very lucky though. It was a nasty crease, a close thing."
"Good," said Cowley, his voice relieved. He'd had a very sketchy report earlier. "I'm giving you both a few days leave, so you can keep an eye on him." Bodie was quickly patched up, and released, sporting a large dressing.
Doyle had used the waiting time, to get his own car brought to the hospital, so he was able to collect his partner when he was discharged. Making a decision, he drove them both back to his own flat. He'd been told to keep an eye on his friend, and to report instantly any adverse symptoms. But there were none. Bodie recovered quickly. They enjoyed their few day's rest, doing very little, and when their 'lord and master' recalled them they went back to work in good spirits. Cowley met them as they reported in.
"You'll be glad to know," he said, "that the appeal hearing is going very well. The lawyer handling Simpson is doing it expertly, and is getting him to talk freely." This pleased the listening pair greatly.
"Levison is looking furious, too," added their boss. "He must know by now that Simpson's revelations have killed his chances totally. I fact, he's likely to have his sentenced increased, when it all comes out about the murder of Norris, and the attempts on the lives of first Lord Murdistan, and then Simpson."
It was no longer C.I.5's business, but they continued to read about it in the papers, and on the news, and were very pleased with the way it was all going. Levison was not getting away with anything this time !
A few evenings later, Bodie and Doyle were out enjoying a foursome, with two very nice girls, Diane and Lorna, whom Bodie had dated several times. As they settled down at a table in their favourite eating-place, and put in their orders, Lorna suddenly turned to Bodie.
"I've a bone to pick with you, Bodie," she said, trying to pull a cross face, though she was only teasing. "Something my flat-mate told me."
"Oh, what's that ?," asked Bodie, trying to think what he'd done, or hadn't done.
"About a fortnight ago," she said, "It was in the rush-hour, as she was coming home from work. Her bus was stopped at a traffic-light. She saw you in the back of a car with a blond woman ! You were all over her, she said, hugging and kissing her. She saw quite a bit before the traffic moved on."
"I wasn't," Bodie began to protest. Then he realised that because they always kept pretty quiet about just what their jobs were, he wouldn't be able to tell her the truth. He appealed to his friend, who was beginning to smile mischievously at his mate's discomfiture.
"You tell her, Doyle," he pleaded, "I wasn't doing anything, was I ?,"
"Don't ask me," replied Doyle with a grin. "I was driving, wasn't I ? I don't know what you were up to behind my back."
"Thanks a lot, mate," said Bodie, with a scowl.
"Any time, sunshine," replied Doyle cheekily.