Solo - Jack Higgins [37]
He was waiting under the trees outside Ferguson's apartment in Cavendish Square later when the taxi drew up and Baker got out. He paid the driver and went inside. Morgan gave him a few minutes and followed.
When Kim opened the door, he walked straight past him and through into the living-room. Ferguson was at his desk, the file in front of him; Baker stood at his side.
'Christ Almighty!' Baker said bitterly.
Ferguson sighed. 'Oh dear, you are being awkward, aren't you, Asa?'
'All right,' Morgan said. 'Let's stop playing silly bastards. You want this Cretan character and so do I, so why not say so officially and be done with it.'
'But that's just it, dear boy. Nothing official. That's the whole point.'
'Oh, I see?' Morgan glanced at Baker. 'I was supposed to be grateful for favours received from my old mate here and go roaring off like a wild man to see what I could find out on my own. And all my own fault if I cocked it up, eh?'
Ferguson leaned back. 'And could you, Asa? Go roaring off and find anything, I mean? Anything of value?'
'The Mauser,' Morgan said. 'If I could trace the arms dealer who supplied it, that would do for a start.'
'And where in the hell would you find that information?' Baker demanded.
'Belfast.'
'Belfast!' Baker said in amazement. 'You must be crazy.'
'Let's put it this way. There are people there on entirely the wrong side, who might be willing to help me for old times' sake.'
'Like Liam O'Hagan? Because you once served together? All you'll get there is a bullet in the head.'
'And what else, Asa?' Ferguson interrupted. 'What else would you need?'
'I'd like to interview Lieselott Hoffmann before I leave for Belfast. Tomorrow morning would be fine.'
Ferguson said, 'Arrange that with Dr Riley, Superintendent.'
'I'd also like a list of all the hits mentioned in that file. Dates, places, the works.'
Morgan walked to the door. Ferguson said, 'Asa, as far as I'm concerned, you're on leave for a month.'
'Of course.'
'On the other hand, if there's anything we can do....'
'I know,' Morgan said. 'Don't hesitate to call.'
In 1947, as the first rumblings of the Cold War were heard on the horizon, J. Parnell Thomas and his House Committee on un-American activities, decided to examine the Hollywood film industry for signs of Communist subversion.
Nineteen writers, producers and directors formed a resistance group, declaring that it was none of the Committee's business what their political opinions were. Eleven were called to Washington to answer for themselves in public. One, Bertolt Brecht, departed for East Germany in a hurry. The remaining ten all refused to answer, using the freedom of speech guarantee contained in the first amendment of the American constitution.
The affair sent shock waves all the way down through the industry, involving far more than the famous ten. In the period that followed, many actors, writers and directors had their reputations so damaged by Senate investigations that they never worked again.
Sean Riley, an Irish-American writer with a reputation for plain speaking, was one of the casualties. In spite of his two best-screenplay Oscars, he suddenly found himself unable to get work of any kind. His wife, who had suffered from heart trouble for years, was unable to take the strain and worry of that terrible period. She died in 1950, the year her husband refused to appear before a Senate subcommittee headed by Joseph McCarthy.
Riley didn't surrender. He simply withdrew into the country, a rambling old Spanish-American farmhouse in the San Fernando Valley, taking his eight-year-old daughter with him.
For years, he made a living as what is known in the industry as a script doctor. Anyone in trouble with a screenplay took it to Riley and he rewrote it for a fee. Naturally, his name never appeared in the credits.
It was not, in the end, such a bad life. He wrote