The End Game Read Free

registered office was a 513 Anstey House, Theobalds Road.
    “Fifth floor of a big block,” diagnosed Morgan. “Sounds okay, but could have been a crummy little joint.”
    The letter said: “Dear Julius, Get after the tax man with a big stick. He doesn’t seem to have read the last Finance Act. Yours, Randall.”
    The “Randall” had been written in thick black ink with firm strokes of the pen. The signature of a man who knew his own mind and did not suffer fools gladly.
    “Why, Mr Morgan,” said Miss Crawley, “whatever are you doing in here?”
    She had opened the door softly and was standing peering round it. “Like a startled but indignant hen,” said Morgan.
    “What did you say?”
    “I said, Miss Crawley, that I was looking for file nine hundred and ten.”
    Miss Crawley advanced cautiously into the room and peered over his shoulder. She said, “You oughtn’t to come into partners’ rooms without asking. And that isn’t file nine hundred and ten.”
    “I didn’t say I’d found it, sweetheart. I said I was looking for it.”
    “That’s a very old file.”
    “None the worse for that.” Morgan tipped his chair forward, stretched out one hand and placed a finger on Miss Crawley’s high-necked old-fashioned blouse. Miss Crawley gave a squeak of alarm and reversed towards the door. She said, “What are you doing, Mr Morgan?”
    “It was a ladybird,” said Morgan. “It had alighted just above your right breast. I thought it kind to remove it before it came to any harm.”
    “Oh!”
    “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, Your house is on fire and your children have gone.”
    “I believe you’ve been drinking.”
    “In moderation.”
    Miss Crawley whisked out and slammed the door. Her feet went pattering off down the passage. Morgan grinned and returned to a study of the file. He seemed interested in the newspaper cutting and read it again.
    Heavy and deliberate footsteps in the passage announced the arrival of the owner of the room.
    “What have you been doing to Miss Crawley?” said Gerald Hopkirk. “She looked like a bird that’s had its tail feathers pulled.”
    “Is it not odd how everyone not only resembles a bird or an animal, but behaves like one. You are a big cuddly teddy bear, fond of honey and nuts.”
    “Don’t change the subject.”
    “Then again, some people look like fishes. There’s something very turbot-like about our Mr Piatt, don’t you think?”
    “What were you doing to Miss Crawley?”
    “A ladybird had alighted on her bosom. I assisted it to escape.”
    “And what were you doing in my room?”
    “Working, Gerald bach, toiling. Whilst the rest of the staff were feasting and drinking in the wine bars and the grill rooms of the City, I was applying myself to my daily task.”
    “What’s an old file of PAYE returns got to do with your daily task?”
    “It caught my eye. It had my reference on it, you see.”
    “Your reference? You’ve only been here a few months, and this file – oh, yes. D.R.M. Quite a coincidence. That was poor Moule.”
    “Mole?”
    “Pronounced Mole. Spelt Moule.”
    “Like Cholmondeley or Leveson-Gower.”
    “Yes. But not very like. There was nothing county about Dennis Moule.”
    “Why was he poor?”
    “It was a tragedy, really. When he came here he was quite a promising young accountant. He was engaged to old Mantegna’s secretary.”
    “A sound ploy. Many a professional man has got his feet under the Board Room table by marrying the boss’s secretary.”
    “He didn’t get round to marrying her. She was killed.”
    “On Highgate Hill, in a rain storm.”
    “How—?”
    “I was reading the cutting.”
    “I see. Yes. They got the name wrong, incidentally. Phyllis Blaney, not Blamey. A nice girl. The best secretary he ever had, Julius used to say. It broke poor old Dennis up. He took to drink. Became quite impossible. They had to get rid of him.”
    “It seems odd to me,” said Morgan, “that people should need an