The Long Glasgow Kiss

The big American grinned at me as he entered. He took off his pale straw hat and revealed the most amazing haircut I had ever seen. His salt and pepper hair had been crew-cut, clipped almost to the skin around the back and sides but bristled upwards on top. What made it truly amazing was the skill of his barber in making it perfectly, absolutely flat across the top. The picture of a hairdressing engineer, scissors in one hand, spirit-level in the other, leapt to mind.

‘Lennox, this is a colleague of ours from the United States. This is Dexter Devereaux. He’s an investigator, like you.’

‘Call me Dex,’ said the grin beneath the flat-top.

I shook the American’s hand, then turned to Ferguson. ‘You said Mr Devereaux is an investigator like me …’ I asked. ‘Or do you mean an investigator like you?’

‘I’m a private eye. Like yourself …’ Devereaux smiled collegially at me. ‘I’m here on a private investigation. Criminal, but private.’

‘Okay … so what can I do for you?’ I asked. I realized we were all still standing. ‘Sorry … please sit down, Mr Devereaux.’

‘Like I said, call me Dex … Thanks.’ Ferguson and the American sat down on the leather sofa. I took a bottle of Canadian rye and three glasses out of a cupboard.

‘I take it you guys aren’t so on duty that you can’t have a drink?’

‘Speaking personally, I’m never that much on duty,’ said Devereaux. He took the whisky and sipped it. ‘Mmmm, nice …’ he purred approvingly. ‘I thought you guys only ever drink Scotch.’

‘I’m not a Scotch kinda guy,’ I said, and sat in the armchair opposite. Devereaux eyed my apartment, his eyes ranging casually across the furniture, the bottles on the sideboard, the books on the bookshelves. But it was the same apparent casualness of a pro-golfer preparing for a swing.

‘You’ve got a lot of books,’ he said turning back to me. ‘You got any Hemingway?’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘No Hemingway. Just like I’ve got no blended Scotch. So what is it I can do for you, Mr Devereaux?’

‘Please … Dex. As for what you can do for us … you mentioned John Largo to Detective Ferguson here, I believe.’

‘I asked him if he knew him or anything about him.’

‘And what do you know about John Largo?’ Devereaux turned his eyes from me while he sipped the whisky.

‘All I know about Largo is his first name is John, and I only know that because Jock here inadvertently told me. And now I know that he’s some kind of really big fish, because someone is prepared to fly a twenty-dollar-an-hour private detective across the Atlantic on his account. And that, I’m afraid, is all I know. Other than someone who was a friend of someone who has gone missing knows him. And now he’s gone missing himself.’

‘Paul Costello. I told you about his father,’ Jock Ferguson explained to Devereaux, who nodded almost impatiently, but with his smile still in place. There was something about the exchange that told me all about the hierarchy of this relationship. This may have been Ferguson’s town, but Devereaux was calling all the shots on this case. Whoever Largo was, whatever he was into, it was big.

‘Who’s the friend of Costello who’s gone missing?’ Devereaux asked, and took another sip of whisky. Again, question and action both done with professional casualness.

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr Devereaux,’ I said, returning his smile. ‘Client confidentiality. My client doesn’t want the police involved.’

‘You’re Canadian?’ asked Devereaux.

‘Yep. New Brunswick. Saint John.’

‘That’s practically Maine. I’m from Vermont.’

‘Really? That’s practically Quebec.’

Devereaux laughed. ‘You’re not wrong there. D’yah know we’ve got the highest percentage of French Americans in the States. Higher even than Louisiana. That’s where my name comes from.’ He laughed. ‘Vermont–French, I mean, not Louisiana.’

‘Yes. I did know that, as a matter of fact. Like you say, New England’s just over the border from Saint John. And New Brunswick is bi-lingual.’

‘Ah, yes …’ Devereaux gave a sigh of exaggerated satisfaction at our exchange. I got the feeling that the hands-across-the-water act was about to come to an abrupt end. ‘You know, Mr Lennox, it really would be a big help to us if you could see your way to telling us who your client is.’

‘Can’t do it, Mr Devereaux. As an enquiry agent yourself, you should know that. But that’s the only thing I can’t do. I’ll help you in any way I can. Who is John Largo?’

Devereaux looked into his glass. Jock Ferguson hadn’t touched his whisky. When Devereaux looked up, he was still smiling, but the thermostat had been turned right down.

‘You can’t expect us to trust you, Mr Lennox, if you don’t trust us. Let’s be honest, I’ve seen Detective Ferguson’s colleagues at work. The police here seem mighty interested in Mr Largo too. If you were taken in for withholding evidence, then it could be a long and painful process.’

‘I don’t give up my clients, Dex. Not for a beating, not for cash, and most definitely not because of threats.’ I stood up. ‘I think you gentlemen should go.’