Black Butterfly Read Free

Retinue of Nihilists, Incendiarists and Murderers. The man who’d come out of the Second World War covered in glory (and certain unmentionables) after preventing the Nazis from exploding a miniature purgative inside the Prime Minister’s guts.
    I had risen to the top of my curious profession (oh, for goodness sake, I’m not going into all that again. Visit thelibrary!). I was officially ‘Joshua Reynolds’, President of the Royal Academy. Not the oh-so-respectable bastion of Fine Art you might be imagining, of course, but the front for Her Britannic Majesty’s really, really Secret Service. (There, I’ve said it. No need to go to the library now. I’ve saved you the bus fare.)
    But to my old friends, old lovers, old tailors but most especially, dear old Reader, to you, I remain Lucifer Box.
    Would you know me, still? The tall frame a little stooped in the black linen suit, the hands knotty with veins. Perhaps the eyes would still surprise you. Sharp and brightly blue, like the sun-glistened edge of a melting snowdrift. Or do I flatter myself? Probably .
    My scandalous career had been quite a ride but, like all good things, had to come to an end. The Royal Academy was finally to be absorbed by the traditional MI6 mob: the ‘Service’. With their checkpoints and their microfilmed sex-acts and their shabby little assassinations in rainy Czech alleys.
    Playfair held up a hand. ‘Anyway, I’m in no rush, old love. You remember that. You have all the time in the world.’
    ‘One month,’ I said, contemplating the popping gas-fire. It was a stiflingly hot June, but Playfair was notoriously thin-blooded. ‘It really doesn’t take that long to clear one’s desk.’
    ‘What have you got on, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Something juicy, I trust? Something nice for me to inherit? Or are you going to sort everything out in four short weeks and leave me with slim pickings?’
    ‘I’m winding down gently…’ I began.
    ‘Out with it!’
    ‘Well…’
    ‘I knew it, you old fox!’
    I shrugged. ‘Something down in Cape Town. Locals have been looking for Coelacanth.’
    ‘Beg pardon?’
    ‘Species of ancient fish,’ I explained. ‘Long believed extinct but still hanging around.’
    We both smiled at that.
    ‘Well,’ I continued, ‘the Cape Towners caught something all right, but it wasn’t what it appeared.’
    Playfair rubbed his hands together. ‘Don’t tell me! A robotic Soviet listening device covered in scales and fins!’
    ‘Nothing so interesting. Just a body. An old friend of mine, in point of fact.’
    He stopped sucking on his pipe. ‘Oh, I am sorry. What happened?’
    I shrugged. ‘Looks like suicide. Drove his car into the bay.’
    Playfair shook his head. ‘Bloody shame.’ He got up and started opening drawers. ‘Tell you what. I think there might still be some sherry here somewhere. Left over from the Coronation.’
    ‘No, thanks. And how about you?’
    ‘Hm?’
    ‘Cases? Pending?’
    Playfair pulled a face. ‘Usual pallid guff. Chinese making ugly noises. Narcotics scare out in the Balkans’. He paused with a dusty bottle of Sandeman in one hand. ‘Leftist grumblings in Venezuela…’
    I nodded dully.
    The parp of car horns and the unmistakable roar of the city sent a sudden and unexpected pang of emotion surging through me. I glanced round at the drearily respectable portraits and the drearily respectable room. ‘I just hope…’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I just hope you have some fun ,’ I said. ‘It really used to be the most tremendous fun.’
    ‘Don’t think I signed the chit for “fun”,’ said Playfair. He smiled and raised his glass. ‘To you.’
    He got to his feet and buttoned his jacket. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me. Pleasure, as always. And I’m sure I’ll see you again before you leave.’
    ‘If you like.’
    ‘Cheerio, old love.’ He took my hand and then glanced down at the desk, his attention already elsewhere. For all his bonhomie, I had been effectively