The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  The only other call that evening came from the hotel manager. He asked politely if madam would like to see the hotel doctor.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Dick. ‘She just caught a little sun but she’s on the mend, and I feel sure she will have fully recovered by the morning.’

  ‘Just give me a call,’ said the manager, ‘should she change her mind. The doctor can be with you in minutes.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you,’ said Dick, ‘but it won’t be necessary,’ he added before putting the phone down. He returned to his wife’s side. Her skin was now pallid and blotchy. He leant forward until he was almost touching her lips – she was still breathing. He walked across to the fridge, opened it and took out all the unopened bottles of Evian water. He placed two of them in the bathroom, and one each side of the bed. His final action, before undressing, was to take the DON’T DRINK THE WATER sign out of his suitcase and replace it on the side of the washbasin.

  Chenkov’s car pulled up outside the Grand Palace Hotel a few minutes before nine the following morning. Karl jumped out to open the back door for the minister.

  Chenkov walked quickly up the steps and into the hotel, expecting to find Dick waiting for him in the lobby. He looked up and down the crowded corridor, but there was no sign of his business partner. He marched across to the reception desk and asked if Mr Barnsley had left a message for him.

  ‘No, Minister,’ replied the concierge. ‘Would you like me to call his room?’ The minister nodded briskly. They both waited for some time, before the concierge added, ‘No one is answering the phone, Minister, so perhaps Mr Barnsley is on his way down.’

  Chenkov nodded again, and began pacing up and down the lobby, continually glancing towards the elevator, before checking his watch. At ten past nine, the minister became even more anxious, as he had no desire to keep the President waiting. He returned to the reception desk.

  ‘Try again,’ he demanded.

  The concierge immediately dialled Mr Barnsley’s room number, but could only report that there was still no reply.

  ‘Send for the manager,’ barked the minister. The concierge nodded, picked up the phone once again and dialled a single number. A few moments later, a tall, elegantly dressed man in a dark suit was standing by Chenkov’s side.

  ‘How may I assist you, Minister?’ he asked.

  ‘I need to go up to Mr Barnsley’s room.’

  ‘Of course, Minister, please follow me.’

  When the three men arrived on the ninth floor, they quickly made their way to the Tolstoy Suite, where they found the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the door knob. The minister banged loudly on the door, but there was no response.

  ‘Open the door,’ he demanded. The concierge obeyed without hesitation.

  The minister marched into the room, followed by the manager and the concierge. Chenkov came to an abrupt halt when he saw two motionless bodies lying in bed. The concierge didn’t need to be told to call for a doctor.

  Sadly, the doctor had attended three such cases in the past month, but with a difference – they had all been locals. He studied his two patients for some time before he passed a judgement.

  ‘The Siberian disease,’ he confirmed, almost in a whisper. He paused and, looking up at the minister, added, ‘The lady undoubtedly died during the night, whereas the gentleman has passed away within the last hour.’

  The minister made no comment.

  ‘My initial conclusion,’ continued the doctor, ‘is that she probably caught the disease from drinking too much of the local water –’ he paused as he looked down at Dick’s lifeless body – ‘while her husband must have contracted the virus from his wife, probably during the night. Not an uncommon occurrence among married couples,’ he added. ‘Like so many of our countrymen, he clearly wasn’t aware that –’ he hesitated before uttering the word in front of the minister – ‘Siberius is one of those rare diseases that is not only infectious but highly contagious.’

  ‘But I called him last night,’ protested the manager, ‘and asked if he’d like to see a doctor, and he said it wasn’t necessary, as his wife was on the mend and he was confident that she would be fully recovered by the morning.’

  ‘How sad,’ said the doctor, before adding, ‘if only he’d said yes. It would have been too late to revive his wife, but I still might have saved him.’

  PATRICK O’FLYNN STOOD in front of H. Samuel, the jeweller’s, holding a brick in his right hand. He was staring intently at the window. He smiled, raised his arm and hurled the brick at the glass pane. The window shattered like a spider’s web, but remained firmly in place. An alarm was immediately set off, which in the still of a clear, cold October night could be heard half a mile away. More important to Pat, the alarm was directly connected to the local police station.

  Pat didn’t move as he continued to stare at his handiwork. He only had to wait ninety seconds before he heard the sound of a siren in the distance. He bent down and retrieved the brick from the pavement, as the whining noise grew louder and louder. When the police car came to a screeching halt by the kerbside, Pat raised the brick above his head and leant back, like an Olympic javelin thrower intent on a gold medal. Two policemen leapt out of the car. The older one ignored Pat, who remained poised, arm above his head with the brick in his hand, and walked across to the window to check the damage. Although the pane was shattered, it was still firmly in place. In any case, an iron security grille had descended behind the window, something Pat knew full well would happen. But when the sergeant returned to the station, he would still have to phone the manager, get him out of bed and ask him to come down to the shop and turn off the alarm.

  The sergeant turned round to find Pat still standing with the brick high above his head.

  ‘OK, Pat, hand it over and get in,’ said the sergeant, as he held open the back door of the police car.

  Pat smiled, passed the brick to the fresh-faced constable and said, ‘You’ll need this as evidence.’

  The young constable was speechless.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Pat as he climbed into the back of the car, and, smiling at the young constable, who took his place behind the wheel, asked, ‘Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?’

  ‘Many times,’ interjected the sergeant, as he took his place next to Pat and pulled the back door closed.

  ‘No handcuffs?’ queried Pat.

  ‘I don’t want to be handcuffed to you,’ said the sergeant, ‘I want to be rid of you. Why don’t you just go back to Ireland?’

  ‘An altogether inferior class of prison,’ Pat explained, ‘and in any case, they don’t treat me with the same degree of respect as you do, Sergeant,’ he added, as the car moved away from the kerb and headed back towards the police station.

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’ Pat asked, leaning forward to address the young constable.

  ‘Constable Cooper.’

  ‘Are you by any chance related to Chief Inspector Cooper?’

  ‘He’s my father.’

  ‘A gentleman,’ said Pat. ‘We’ve had many a cup of tea and biscuits together. I hope he’s in fine fettle.’

  ‘He’s just retired,’ said Constable Cooper.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Pat. ‘Will you tell him that Pat O’Flynn asked after him? And please send him, and your dear mother, my best wishes.’

  ‘Stop taking the piss, Pat,’ said the sergeant. ‘The boy’s only been out of Peel House for a few weeks,’ he added, as the car came to a halt outside the police station. The sergeant climbed out of the back and held the door open for Pat.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Pat, as if he was addressing the doorman at the Ritz. The constable grinned as the sergeant accompanied Pat up the stairs and into the police station.

  ‘Ah, and a very good evening to you, Mr Baker,’ said Pat when he saw who it was standing behind the desk.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said the duty sergeant. ‘It can�