The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘No, Albert, it was no fault of yours, that I can assure you. If ever I discover who is to blame, I’ll let you know. By the way, I’ll need a taxi around 9.30, to take us to the Musée d’Orsay.’

  ‘Of course, Tony.’

  I will not bore you with the mundane conversation that took place in the taxi between the hotel and the museum, because it would take a writer of far greater abilities than I possess to hold your attention. However, it would be less than gracious of me not to admit that the Picasso drawings were well worth the trip. And I should add that Susie’s running commentary caused a small crowd to hang around in our wake.

  ‘The pencil,’ she said, ‘is the cruellest of the artist’s tools, because it leaves nothing to chance.’ She stopped in front of the drawing Picasso had made of his father sitting in a chair. I was spellbound, and unable to move on for some time.

  ‘What is so remarkable about this picture,’ said Susie, ‘is that Picasso drew it at the age of sixteen; so it was already clear that he would be bored by conventional subjects long before he’d left art school. When his father first saw it – and he was an artist himself – he . . .’ Susie failed to finish the sentence. Instead, she suddenly grabbed my hand and, looking into my eyes, said, ‘It’s such fun being with you, Tony.’ She leaned forward as if she were going to kiss me.

  I was about to say, ‘What the hell are you up to?’ when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘Check,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean, “Check”?’ she asked.

  ‘The knight has advanced across the board – or, to be more accurate, the Channel – and I have a feeling he’s about to be brought into play.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Tony?’

  ‘I think you know very well what I’m talking about,’ I replied.

  ‘What a coincidence,’ a voice said from behind her.

  Susie swung round and put on a convincing display of surprise when she saw Richard standing there.

  ‘What a coincidence,’ I repeated.

  ‘Isn’t it a wonderful exhibition?’ said Susie, ignoring my sarcasm.

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Rachel, who had obviously not been informed that she, like me, was only a pawn in this particular game, and was about to be taken by the queen.

  ‘Well, now that we’ve all met up again, why don’t we have lunch?’ suggested Richard.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve already made other plans,’ said Susie, taking my hand.

  ‘Oh, nothing that can’t be rearranged, my darling,’ I said, hoping to be allowed to remain on the board for a little longer.

  ‘But we’ll never be able to find a table in a half-decent restaurant at such short notice,’ Susie insisted.

  ‘That shouldn’t prove a problem,’ I assured her with a smile. ‘I know a little bistro where we will be welcome.’

  Susie scowled as I moved out of check, and refused to talk to me as we all left the museum and walked along the left bank of the Seine together. I began chatting to Rachel. After all, I thought, we pawns must stick together.

  Jacques threw his arms up in Gallic despair when he saw me standing in the doorway.

  ‘How many, Monsieur Tony?’ he asked, a sigh of resignation in his voice.

  ‘Four,’ I told him with a smile.

  It turned out to be the only meal that weekend that I actually enjoyed. I spent most of the time talking to Rachel, a nice enough girl, but frankly not in Susie’s league. She had no idea what was happening on the other side of the board, where the black queen was about to remove her white knight. It was a pleasure to watch the lady in full flow.

  While Rachel was chatting away to me, I made every effort to listen in on the conversation that was taking place on the other side of the table, but I was only able to catch the occasional snippet.

  ‘When are you expecting to be back in New York . . .’

  ‘Yes, I planned this trip to Paris weeks ago . . .’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be in Geneva on your own . . .’

  ‘Yes, I did enjoy the Keswicks’ party . . .’

  ‘I met Tony in Paris. Yes, just another coincidence, I hardly know him . . .’

  True enough, I thought. In fact, I enjoyed her performance so much that I didn’t even resent ending up with the bill.

  After we had said our goodbyes, Susie and I strolled back along the Seine together, but not hand in hand. I waited until I was certain Richard and Rachel were well out of sight before I stopped and confronted her. To do her justice, she looked suitably guilty as she waited to be chastised.

  ‘I asked you yesterday, also after lunch, “If you could do anything in the world right now, what would it be?” What would your reply be this time?’

  Susie looked unsure of herself for the first time that weekend.

  ‘Be assured,’ I added as I looked into those blue eyes, ‘nothing you can say will surprise or offend me.’

  ‘I would like to return to the hotel, pack my bags and leave for the airport.’

  ‘So be it,’ I said, and stepped into the road to hail a taxi.

  Susie didn’t speak on the journey back to the hotel, and as soon as we arrived, she disappeared upstairs while I settled the bill and asked if my bags, already packed, could be brought down.

  Even then, I have to admit that when she stepped out of the lift and smiled at me, I almost wished my name was Richard.

  To Susie’s surprise, I accompanied her to Charles de Gaulle, explaining that I would be returning to London on the first available flight. We said goodbye below the departure board with a hug – a sort of ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again, but then perhaps we won’t’ hug.

  I waved goodbye and began walking away, but couldn’t resist turning to see which airline counter Susie was heading for.

  She joined the queue for the Swissair check-in desk. I smiled, and headed for the British Airways counter.

  Six years have passed since that weekend in Paris, and I didn’t come across Susie once during that time, although her name did occasionally pop up in dinner-party conversations.

  I discovered that she had become the editor of Art Nouveau, and had married an Englishman called Ian, who was in sports promotion. On the rebound, someone said, after an affair with an American banker.

  Two years later I heard that she’d given birth to a son, followed by a daughter, but no one seemed to know their names. And finally, about a year ago, I read of her divorce in one of the gossip columns.

  And then, without warning, Susie suddenly rang and suggested we might meet for a drink. When she chose the venue, I knew that she hadn’t lost her nerve. I heard myself saying yes, and wondered if I’d recognise her.

  As I watched her walking up the steps of the Tate, I realised that the only thing I had forgotten was just how beautiful she was. If anything, she was even more captivating than before.

  We had been in the gallery for only a few minutes before I was reminded what a pleasure it was to listen to her talk about her chosen subject. I had never really come to terms with Damien Hirst, having only recently accepted that Warhol and Lichtenstein were more than just draughtsmen, but I certainly left the exhibition with a new respect for his work.

  I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that Susie had booked a table for lunch in the Tate restaurant, or that she never once referred to our weekend in Paris until, over coffee, she asked, ‘If you could do anything in the world right now, what would it be?’

  ‘Spend the weekend in Paris with you,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Then let’s do it,’ she said. ‘There’s a Hockney exhibition at the Pompidou Centre that has had glowing reviews, and I know a comfortable but unpretentious little hotel that I haven’t visited in years, not to mention a restaurant that prides itself on not being in any of the tourist guides.’

  I have always considered it ignoble for any man to discuss a lady as if she were simply a conquest or a trophy, but I must confess that, as I watched Susie disappear through the departure gate to catc
h her flight back to New York on the following Monday morning, it had been well worth the years of waiting.

  She has never contacted me since.

  SOMETHING FOR NOTHING*

  JAKE BEGAN to dial the number slowly, as he had done almost every evening at six o’clock since the day his father had passed away. For the next fifteen minutes he settled back to listen to what his mother had been up to that day.

  She led such a sober, orderly life that she rarely had anything of interest to tell him. Least of all on a Saturday. She had coffee every morning with her oldest friend, Molly Schultz, and on some days that would last until lunchtime. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she played bridge with the Zaccharis who lived across the street. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she visited her sister Nancy, which at least gave her something to grumble about when he rang on those evenings.

  On Saturdays, she rested from her rigorous week. Her only strenuous activity being to purchase the bulky Sunday edition of the Times just after lunch – a strange New York tradition, which at least gave her the chance to inform her son which stories he should check up on the following day.

  For Jake, every evening the conversation would consist of a few appropriate questions, depending on the day. Monday, Wednesday, Friday: How did the bridge go? How much did you win/lose? Tuesday, Thursday: How is Aunt Nancy? Really? That bad? Saturday: Anything interesting in the Times that I should look out for tomorrow?

  Observant readers will be aware that there are seven days in any given week, and will want to know what Jake’s mother did on a Sunday. On Sunday, she always joined his family for lunch, so there was no need for him to call her that evening.

  Jake dialled the last digit of his mother’s number and waited for her to pick up the phone. He had already prepared himself to be told what he should look out for in tomorrow’s New York Times. It usually took two or three rings before she answered the phone, the amount of time required for her to walk from her chair by the window to the phone on the other side of the room. When the phone rang four, five, six, seven times, Jake began to wonder if she might be out. But that wasn’t possible. She was never out after six o’clock, winter or summer. She kept to a routine that was so regular it would have brought a smile to the lips of a Marine drill sergeant.

  Finally, he heard a click. He was just about to say, ‘Hi, Mom, it’s Jake,’ when he heard a voice that was certainly not his mother’s, and was already in mid-conversation. Thinking he had a crossed line, he was about to put the phone down when the voice said, ‘There’ll be $100,000 in it for you. All you have to do is turn up and collect it. It’s in an envelope for you at Billy’s.’

  ‘So where’s Billy’s?’ asked a new voice.

  ‘On the corner of Oak Street and Randall. They’ll be expecting you around seven.’

  Jake tried not to breathe in or out as he wrote down ‘Oak and Randall’ on the pad by the phone.

  ‘How will they know the envelope is for me?’ asked the second voice.

  ‘You just ask for a copy of the New York Times and hand over a $100 bill. He’ll give you a quarter change, as if you’d handed him a dollar. That way, if there’s anyone else in the shop, they won’t be suspicious. Don’t open the envelope until you’re in a safe place – there are a lot of people in New York who’d like to get their hands on $100,000. And whatever you do, don’t ever contact me again. If you do, it won’t be a payoff you’ll get next time.’

  The line went dead.

  Jake hung up, having completely forgotten that he was meant to be ringing his mother.

  He sat down and considered what to do next – if anything. His wife Ellen had taken the kids to a movie, as she did most Saturday evenings, and they weren’t expected back until around nine. His dinner was in the microwave, with a note to tell him how many minutes it would take to cook. He always added one minute.

  Jake found himself flicking through the telephone directory. He turned over the pages until he reached B: Bi . . . , Bil . . . , Billy’s. And there it was, at 1127 Oak Street. He closed the directory and walked through to his den, where he searched the bookshelf behind his desk for a street atlas of New York. He found it wedged in between The Memoirs of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf and How to Lose Twenty Pounds When You’re Over Forty.

  He turned to the index in the back and quickly found the entry for Oak Street. He checked the grid reference and placed his finger on the correct square. He calculated that, were he to go, it would take him about half an hour to get over to the West Side. He checked his watch. It was 6.14. What was he thinking of? He had no intention of going anywhere. To start with, he didn’t have $100.

  Jake took out his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, and counted slowly: $37. He walked through to the kitchen to check Ellen’s petty-cash box. It was locked, and he couldn’t remember where she hid the key. He took a screwdriver from the drawer beside the stove and forced the box open: another $22. He paced around the kitchen, trying to think. Next he went to the bedroom and checked the pockets of all his jackets and trousers. Another $1.75 in loose change. He left the bedroom and moved on to his daughter’s room. Hesther’s Snoopy moneybox was on her dressing table. He picked it up and walked over to the bed. He turned the box upside down and shook all the coins out onto the quilt: another $6.75.

  He sat on the end of the bed, desperately trying to concentrate, then recalled the $50 bill he always kept folded in his driving licence for emergencies. He added up all his gatherings: they came to $117.50.

  Jake checked his watch. It was 6.23. He would just go and have a look. No more, he told himself.

  He took his old overcoat from the hall cupboard and slipped out of the apartment, checking as he left that all three locks on the front door were securely bolted. He pressed the elevator button, but there was no sound. Out of order again, Jake thought, and began to jog down the stairs. Across the street was a bar he often dropped into when Ellen took the children to the movies.

  The barman smiled as he walked in. ‘The usual, Jake?’ he asked, somewhat surprised to see him wearing a heavy overcoat when he only had to cross the road from his apartment.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Jake, trying to sound casual. ‘I just wondered if you had a $100 bill.’

  ‘Not sure if I do,’ the barman replied. He rummaged around in a stack of notes, then turned to Jake and said, ‘You’re in luck. Just the one.’

  Jake handed over the fifty, a twenty, two tens and ten ones, and received a $100 bill in exchange. Folding the note carefully in four, he slipped it into his wallet, which he returned to the inside pocket of his jacket. He then left the bar and walked out onto the street.

  He ambled slowly west for two blocks until he came to a bus stop. Perhaps he would be too late, and the problem would take care of itself, he thought. A bus drew into the kerb. Jake climbed the steps, paid his fare and took a seat near the back, still uncertain what he planned to do once he reached the West Side.

  He was so deep in thought that he missed his stop and had to walk almost half a mile back to Oak Street. He checked the numbers. It would be another three or four blocks before Oak Street crossed with Randall.

  As he got nearer, he found his pace slowing with every step. But suddenly, there it was on the next corner, halfway up a lamppost: a white-and-green sign that read ‘Randall Street’.

  He quickly checked all four corners of the street, then looked at his watch again. It was 6.49.

  As he stared across from the opposite side of the street, one or two people went in and out of Billy’s. The light started flashing ‘Walk’, and he found himself being carried across with the other pedestrians.

  He checked his watch yet again: 6.51. He paused at the doorway of Billy’s. Behind the counter was a man stacking some newspapers. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, and must have been around forty, a shade under six foot, with shoulders that could only have been built by spending several hours a week in the gym.

  A customer brushed past Jake and asked for a packet of Marlboros
. While the man behind the counter was handing him his change, Jake stepped inside and pretended to take an interest in the magazine rack.

  As the customer turned to leave, Jake slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out his wallet and touched the edge of the $100 bill. Once the Marlboro man had left the shop, Jake put his wallet back into his pocket, leaving the bill in the palm of his hand.

  The man behind the counter stood waiting impassively as Jake slowly unfolded the bill.

  ‘The Times,’ Jake heard himself saying, as he placed the $100 bill on the counter.

  The man in the black T-shirt glanced at the money and checked his watch. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before reaching under the counter. Jake tensed at the movement, until he saw a long, thick, white envelope emerge. The man proceeded to slip it into the heavy folds of the newspaper’s business section, then handed the paper over to Jake, his face remaining impassive. He took the $100 bill, rang up seventy-five cents on the cash register, and gave Jake a quarter change. Jake turned and walked quickly out of the shop, nearly knocking over a small man who looked as nervous as Jake felt.

  Jake began to run down Oak Street, frequently glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. Checking again, he spotted a Yellow Cab heading towards him, and quickly hailed it.

  ‘The East Side,’ he said, jumping in.

  As the driver eased back into the traffic, Jake slid the envelope out from the bulky newspaper and transferred it to an inside pocket. He could hear his heart thumping. For the next fifteen minutes he spent most of the time looking anxiously out of the cab’s rear window.

  When he spotted a subway entrance coming up on the right, he told the driver to pull into the kerb. He handed over $10 and, not waiting for his change, jumped out of the taxi and dashed down the subway steps, emerging a few moments later on the other side of the road. He then hailed another taxi going in the opposite direction. This time he gave the driver his home address. He congratulated himself on his little subterfuge, which he’d seen carried out by Gene Hackman in the Movie of the Week.