Billion-Dollar Brain

Along Wapping High Street and Wapping Wall the wharves and cranes were high, dirty and silent. The car headlights ignited the green flickering eyes of stray cats and shiny cobblestones. The Wolseley bounced over the tiny bridges of the dock entrances and under the grimy cat-walks. Just behind the fences there were sudden expanses of dark water where passenger boats were twinkling with yellow lights and white-coated waiters, like the Hilton laid on its side, carved into sections and ready to tow out to sea. We dropped Bernard off at Wapping Police Station, where two policemen in waterproofs and waders were waiting for him.

Chico was standing outside the pub. The Prospect of Whitby is a bow-fronted tourist attraction. In summer they throng here like harbour rats. But this was winter, and the window was opaque with condensation and the door shut tight against the cold. We tumbled out like the Keystone cops. Anxious excitement plastered Chico’s hair against his damp pink forehead.

‘Hello, sir,’ he greeted each of us in turn. Chico led the three of us inside the pub and made a big operation of buying us drinks as if he was a sixth-form boy with three house-masters. He got so excited that he was calling the barman sir.

The interior of the Prospect is dark with artful knick-knacks and inglenooks, and the big kick is that the customers leave thousands of visiting cards, theatre tickets and associated paper pinned to the antlers, so that you feel like a bug in a litter basket. I walked right through the bar and out to the balcony that overlooks the Pool of London. The water was as turbid as oil. The waterfront was still and deserted. I heard Dawlish trying to prevent Chico from sending down to the cellar for the type of sherry that Dawlish liked. Finally, to ease the agony of the whole thing, Harriman said, ‘Four big bitters’ to the barman, who was as relieved as anyone. They followed me on to the balcony. When we were finally standing in a small Druidian circle with ritualistic foaming glasses Chico said, ‘He’s away across the river.’

I said nothing; Harriman said nothing; so finally Dawlish said, ‘Tell them how you know.’

Chico said, ‘I proceeded as instructed …’

Dawlish said, ‘Just explain …’

Chico said, ‘I watched him go inside. I followed him through to this balcony, but by that time he had gone down this iron ladder to a rowing boat and rowed towards the far bank. I phoned the office and suggested that they alert the river police. My informant says that he was making for a large grey boat standing off Lavender Wharf. I have identified it as a Polish vessel.’

Dawlish and Harriman looked at me, but I wasn’t keen to make a fool of myself, so I looked at Chico and wondered why he was wearing a tie with fox-heads on it.

Dawlish and Harriman looked across the water towards the Polish ship, and Dawlish said they would leave Chico with me. They took the car and visited the Port of London Authority Police.

Chico produced a large leather cigar-case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he said.

‘As long as you don’t tell me about an amusing little claret you discovered last night.’

‘I won’t, sir,’ Chico agreed.

The sky was as red as an upturned hull and propping it up were great forests of cranes. From Lavender Wharf came the oily smell that pilots are said to navigate by on foggy days. Chico said, ‘You don’t believe me?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ I said. ‘Grannie has come along to show us how to do our job, so let him handle it.’ We drank beer and watched the slow movement of the water. A police launch came round the bend and turned towards the Rotherhithe side. I could see Bernard, Dawlish and Harriman in the rear talking to a policeman and being careful not to point at the Polish boat.

‘What do you think?’ Chico asked.

‘Let’s take it very slowly,’ I said. ‘You followed this man here. How were you travelling?’

‘We were each in separate taxis.’

‘You saw this man enter by the bar entrance?’

‘Yes.’

‘How far behind him were you?’

‘My cab gave his cab space to turn round, then I paid my cab and told him to wait. I was a minute behind him.’

‘A full minute?’

‘Yes, at least,’ Chico agreed.

‘You followed him right through the pub out to this balcony?’

‘Well I couldn’t see him at the bar, so the only explanation was that he walked right through and on to the balcony here.’

‘So that’s what you think?’

‘Well, I wasn’t sure until I spoke to the witness on the balcony.’

‘And he said?’

‘He said that a man had walked through and down the ladder and rowed away.’

‘Now tell me what he really said.’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘What did you ask him?’ I said wearily.

‘I asked him if a man had done that and he said, “Yes, there he is, across the river. There.”’

‘But you couldn’t see him?’

‘No, I just missed seeing him.’

‘Go and find this joker who saw him.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chico. He came back with a pot-bellied man in a brown whipcord suit and a matching flat cap. He had a large nose and heavy lips and his complexion was raw and pink. He had the hoarse, full-chested voice that men acquire when they address small crowds. I guessed him to be a bookie or a tic-tac man, especially since whipcord – which doesn’t attract animal hair – is favoured by race-track men. He extended a large hand and shook mine in over-hearty friendliness.

‘Tell me what you told him,’ I said.

‘About the feller climbing down the ladder and rowing off out to sea?’ He had a loud beery voice and was delighted with any opportunity for using it. ‘I could see he was up to no good right from …’

‘I’ve got a hot meal waiting,’ I said, ‘so let’s make it quick. This man went down on to the mud. How deep into it did he sink?’

The big-nosed man thought for a moment. ‘No, he had the boat under the foot of the ladder.’

‘So his shoes didn’t get dirty?’

‘That’s right,’ he boomed. ‘Hand the gentleman a coconut, Bert. Ha ha.’

‘So he sat in the row boat while it traversed twenty foot of mud, to the river. Would you care to explain that a little more fully?’

He grinned an ugly gap-toothed grin. ‘Well, squire …’

‘Look. Having a joke with Little Lord Fauntleroy here is one thing, but making a false statement to a police officer is a criminal offence punishable by …’ I paused.

‘You mean?’ He pushed a large thumb towards Chico, ‘… and you?’

I nodded. I guessed he had a licence to lose. I was glad he had interrupted because I didn’t know what it was punishable by.

‘I was just sending him up. No harm meant, squire.’ He turned to Chico. ‘Nor to you, squire. Just my fun. Just my fun.’