‘If you don’t have any proof,’ said Lomax, his voice rising, ‘what’s your game?’
‘What we’re discussing, Mr Lomax, is your game, not mine,’ said Alan calmly. ‘I may not be able to prove you’ve spent the last ten days disposing of over six thousand pairs of shoes, but what I can prove is that those shoes weren’t in your warehouse when you set fire to it.’
‘Don’t threaten me, sunshine. You have absolutely no idea who you’re dealing with.’
‘I know only too well who I’m dealing with,’ said Alan as he bent down and removed four boxes of Roger Vivier shoes from the Harrods bag and lined them up at Lomax’s feet.
Lomax stared down at the neat little row of boxes. ‘Been out buying presents, have we?’
‘No. Gathering proof of your nocturnal habits.’
Lomax clenched his fist. ‘Are you trying to get yourself thumped?’
‘I wouldn’t go down that road, if I were you,’ said Alan, ‘unless you want to add a charge of assault to the one you’ll be getting for arson.’
Lomax unclenched his fist, and Alan unscrewed the cap on the petrol can and poured the contents over the boxes. ‘You’ve already had the fire officer’s report, which confirms there was no suggestion of arson,’ said Lomax, ‘so what do you think this little fireworks display is going to prove?’
‘You’re about to find out,’ said Alan, suddenly cursing himself for having forgotten to bring a box of matches.
‘Might I add,’ said Lomax, defiantly tossing his cigarette stub on to the boxes, ‘that the insurance company has already accepted the fire chief’s opinion.’
‘Yes, I’m well aware of that,’ said Alan. I’ve read both reports.’
‘Just as I thought,’ said Lomax, ‘you’re bluffing.’
Alan said nothing as flames began to leap into the air, causing both men to take a pace back. Within minutes, the tissue paper, the cardboard boxes and finally the shoes had been burnt to a cinder, leaving a small cloud of black smoke spiralling into the air. When it had cleared, the two men stared down at all that was left of the funeral pyre – eight large metal buckles.
‘It’s often not what you do see, but what you don’t see,’ said Alan without explanation. He looked up at Lomax. ‘It was my wife,’ continued Alan, ‘who told me that Catherine Deneuve made Roger Vivier buckles famous when she played a courtesan in the film Belle de Jour. That was when I first realized you’d set fire to your own warehouse, Mr Lomax, because if you hadn’t, according to your manifest, there should have been several thousand buckles scattered all over the site.’
Lomax remained silent for some time before he said, ‘I reckon you’ve still only got a fifty-fifty chance of proving it.’
‘You may well be right, Mr Lomax,’ said Alan. ‘But then, I reckon you’ve still only got a fifty-fifty chance of not being paid a penny in compensation and, even worse, ending up behind bars for a very long time. So as I said, I will be recommending that my client settles for two million, but then it will be up to you to make the final decision, sunshine.’
‘So what do you think?’ asked Penfold as a bell sounded and the players began to stroll back out on to the field.
‘You’ve undoubtedly beaten the odds,’ I replied, ‘even if I was expecting a slightly different ending.’
‘So how would you have ended the story?’ he asked.
‘I would have held on to one pair of Roger Vivier shoes,’ I told him.
‘What for?’
‘To give to my wife. After all, it was her first case as well.’
BLIND DATE
4
THE SCENT OF JASMINE was the first clue: a woman.
I was sitting alone at my usual table when she came and sat down at the next table. I knew she was alone, because the chair on the other side of her table hadn’t scraped across the floor, and no one had spoken to her after she’d sat down.
I sipped my coffee. On a good day, I can pick up the cup, take a sip and return it to the saucer, and if you were sitting at the next table, you’d never know I was blind. The challenge is to see how long I can carry out the deception before the person sitting next to me realizes the truth. And believe me, the moment they do, they give themselves away. Some begin to whisper, and, I suspect, nod or point; some become attentive; while a few are so embarrassed they don’t speak again. Yes, I can even sense that.
I hoped someone would be joining her, so I could hear her speak. I can tell a great deal from a voice. When you can’t see someone, the accent and the tone are enhanced, and these can give so much away. Pause for a moment, imagine listening to someone on the other end of a phone line, and you’ll get the idea.
Charlie was heading towards us. ‘Are you ready to order, madam?’ asked the waiter, his slight Cornish burr leaving no doubt that he was a local. Charlie is tall, strong and gentle. How do I know? Because when he guides me back to the pavement after my morning coffee, his voice comes from several inches above me, and I’m five foot ten. And if I should accidentally bump against him, there’s no surplus weight, just firm muscle. But then, on Saturday afternoons he plays rugby for the Cornish Pirates. He’s been in the first team for the past seven years, so he must be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Charlie has recently split up with his girlfriend and he still misses her. Some things you pick up from asking questions, others are volunteered.
The next challenge is to see how much I can work out about the person sitting at the next table before they realize I cannot see them. Once they’ve gone on their way, Charlie tells me how much I got right. I usually manage about seven out of ten.
‘I’d like a lemon tea,’ she replied, softly.
‘Certainly, madam,’ said Charlie. ‘And will there be anything else?’
‘No, thank you.’
Thirty to thirty-five would be my guess. Polite, and not from these parts. Now I’m desperate to know more, but I’ll need to hear her speak again if I’m to pick up any further clues.
I turned to face her as if I could see her clearly. ‘Can you tell me the time?’ I asked, just as the clock on the church tower opposite began to chime.
She laughed, but didn’t reply until the chimes had stopped. ‘If that clock is to be believed,’ she said, ‘it’s exactly ten o’clock.’ The same gentle laugh followed.
‘It’s usually a couple of minutes fast,’ I said, staring blankly up at the clock face. ‘Although the church’s perpendicular architecture is considered as fine an example of its kind as any in the West Country, it’s not the building itself that people flock to see, but the Madonna and Child by Barbara Hepworth in the Lady Chapel,’ I added, casually leaning back in my chair.
‘How interesting,’ she volunteered, as Charlie returned and placed a teapot and a small jug of milk on her table, followed by a cup and saucer. ‘I was thinking of attending the morning service,’ she said as she poured herself a cup of tea.
‘Then you’re in for a treat. Old Sam, our vicar, gives an excellent sermon, especially if you’ve never heard it before.’
She laughed again before saying, ‘I read somewhere that the Madonna and Child is not at all like Hepworth’s usual work.’
‘That’s correct,’ I replied. ‘Barbara would take a break from her studio most mornings and join me for a coffee,’ I said proudly, ‘and the great lady once told me that she created the piece in memory of her eldest son, who was killed in a plane crash at the age of twenty-four while serving in the RAF.’
‘How sad,’ said the woman, but added no further comment.
‘Some critics say,’ I continued, ‘that it’s her finest work, and that you can see Barbara’s devotion for her son in the tears in the Virgin’s eyes.’
The woman picked up her cup and sipped her tea before she spoke again. ‘How wonderful to have actually known her,’ she said. ‘I once attended a talk on the St Ives School at the Tate, and the lecturer made no mention of the Madonna and Child.’
‘Well, you’ll find it tucked away
in the Lady Chapel. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.’
As she took another sip of tea, I wondered how many out of ten I’d got so far. Clearly interested in art, probably lives in London, and certainly hasn’t come to St Ives to sit on the beach and sunbathe.
‘So, are you a visitor to these parts?’ I ventured, searching for further clues.
‘Yes. But my aunt is from St Mawes, and she’s hoping to join me for the morning service.’
I felt a right chump. She must have already seen the Madonna and Child, and probably knew more about Barbara Hepworth than I did, but was too polite to embarrass me. Did she also realize I was blind? If so, those same good manners didn’t even hint at it.
I heard her drain her cup. I can even tell that. When Charlie returned, she asked him for the bill. He tore off a slip from his pad and handed it to her. She passed him a banknote, and he gave her back some coins.
‘Thank you, madam,’ said Charlie effusively. It must have been a generous tip.
‘Goodbye,’ she said, her voice directed towards me. ‘It was nice to talk to you.’
I rose from my place, gave her a slight bow and said, ‘I do hope you enjoy the service.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied. As she walked away I heard her say to Charlie, ‘What a charming man.’ But then, she had no way of knowing how acute my hearing is.
And then she was gone.
I sat waiting impatiently for Charlie to return. I had so many questions for him. How many of my guesses would turn out to be correct this time? From the buzz of cheerful chatter in the café, I guessed there were a lot of customers in that morning, so it was some time before Charlie was once again standing by my side.
‘Will there be anything else, Mr Trevathan?’ he teased.
‘There most certainly will be, Charlie,’ I replied. ‘For a start, I want to know all about the woman who was sitting next to me. Was she tall or short? Fair or dark? Was she slim? Good-looking? Was she—’
Charlie burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded.
‘She asked me exactly the same questions about you.’
WHERE THERE’S A WILL*
5
NOW, YOU'VE ALL HEARD the story about the beautiful young nurse who takes care of a bedridden old man, convinces him to change his will in her favour, and ends up with a fortune, having deprived his children of their rightful inheritance. I confess that I thought I’d heard every variation on this theme; at least that was until I came across Miss Evelyn Beattie Moore, and even that wasn’t her real name.
Miss Evelyn Mertzberger hailed from Milwaukee. She was born on the day Marilyn Monroe died, and that wasn’t the only thing they had in common: Evelyn was blonde, she had the kind of figure that makes men turn and take a second look, and she had legs you rarely come across other than in an ad campaign for stockings.
So many of her friends from Milwaukee commented on how like Marilyn Monroe she looked that it wasn’t surprising when as soon as Evelyn left school she bought a one-way ticket to Hollywood. On arrival in the City of Angels, she changed her name to Evelyn Beattie Moore (half Mary Tyler Moore and half Warren Beatty), but quickly discovered that, unlike Marilyn, she didn’t have any talent as an actress, and no number of directors’ couches was going to remedy that.
Once Evelyn had accepted this – not an easy thing for any aspiring young actress to come to terms with – she began to look for alternative employment – which was difficult in the city of a thousand blondes.
She had spent almost all of her savings renting a small apartment in Glendale and buying a suitable wardrobe for auditions, agency photographs and the endless parties young hopefuls had to be seen at.
It was after she’d checked her latest bank statement that Evelyn realized a decision had to be made if she was to avoid returning to Milwaukee and admitting she wasn’t quite as like Marilyn as her friends had thought. But what else could she do?
The idea never would have occurred to Evelyn if she hadn’t come across the entry while she was flicking through the Yellow Pages looking for an electrician. It was some time before she was willing to make the necessary phone call, and then only after a final demand for the last three months’ rent dropped through her mailbox.
The Happy Hunting agency assured Evelyn that their escorts were under no obligation to do anything other than have dinner with the client. They were a professional agency that supplied charming young ladies as companions for discreet gentlemen. However, it was none of their business if those young ladies chose to come to a private arrangement with the client. As the agency took 50 per cent of the booking fee, Evelyn got the message.
She decided at first that she would only sleep with a client if she felt there was a chance of their developing a long-term relationship. However, she quickly discovered that most men’s idea of a long-term relationship was about an hour, and in some cases half an hour. But at least her new job made it possible for her to pay off the landlord, and even to open a savings account.
When Evelyn celebrated – or, to be more accurate, remained silent about – her thirtieth birthday, she decided the time had come to take revenge on the male species.
While not quite as many men were turning to give her a second look, Evelyn had accumulated enough money to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. But not enough to ensure that that lifestyle would continue once she reached her fortieth birthday, and could no longer be sure of a first look.
Evelyn disappeared, and once again she changed her name. Three months later, Lynn Beattie turned up in Florida, where she registered for a diploma course at the Miami College of Nursing.
You may well ask why Lynn selected the Sunshine State for her new enterprise. I think it can be explained by some statistics she came across while carrying out her research. An article she read in Playboy magazine revealed that Florida was the state with the greatest number of millionaires per capita, and that the majority of them had retired and had a life expectancy of less than ten years. However, she quickly realized that she would need to carry out much more research if she hoped to graduate top of that particular class, as she was likely to come up against some pretty formidable rivals who had the same thing in mind as she did.
In the course of a long weekend spent with a middle-aged married doctor, Lynn discovered, without once having to refer to a textbook, not only that Jackson Memorial Hospital was the most expensive rest home in the state, but also that it didn’t offer special rates for deserving cases.
Once Lynn had graduated with a nursing diploma, and a grade which came as a surprise to her fellow students but not to her professor, she applied for a job at Jackson Memorial.
She was interviewed by a panel of three, two of whom, including the Medical Director, were not convinced that Ms Beattie came from the right sort of background to be a Jackson nurse. The third bumped into her in the car park on his way home, and the following morning he was able to convince his colleagues to change their minds.
Lynn Beattie began work as a probationary nurse on the first day of the following month. She did not rush the next part of her plan, aware that if the Medical Director found out what she was up to, he would dismiss her without a second thought.
From the first day, Lynn went quietly and conscientiously about her work, melting into the background while keeping her eyes wide open. She quickly discovered that a hospital, just like any other workplace, has its gossip-mongers, who enjoy nothing more than to pass on the latest snippet of information to anyone willing to listen. Lynn was willing to listen. After a few weeks Lynn had discovered the one thing she needed to know about the doctors, and, later, a great deal more about their patients.
There were twenty-three doctors who ministered to the needs of seventy-one residents. Lynn had no interest in how many nurses there were, because she had no plans for them, provided she didn’t come across a rival.
The gossip-monger told her that three of the doctors assumed that every nurse wanted to sleep with them
, which made it far easier for Lynn to continue her research. After another few weeks, which included several ‘stopovers’, she found out, without ever being able to make a note, that sixty-eight of the residents were married, senile or, worse, received regular visits from their devoted relatives. Lynn had to accept the fact that 90 per cent of women either outlive their husbands or end up divorcing them. It’s all part of the American dream. However, Lynn still managed to come up with a shortlist of three candidates who suffered from none of these deficiencies: Frank Cunningham Jr, Larry Schumacher III and Arthur J. Sommerfield.
Frank Cunningham was eliminated when Lynn discovered that he had two mistresses, one of whom was pregnant and had recently served a paternity suit on him, demanding that a DNA test be carried out.
Larry Schumacher III also had to be crossed off the list when Lynn found out he was visited every day by his close friend Gregory, who didn’t look a day over fifty. Come to think of it, not many people in Florida do.
However, the third candidate ticked all her boxes.
Arthur J. Sommerfield was a retired banker whose worth according to Forbes magazine – a publication which had replaced Playboy as Lynn’s postgraduate reading – was estimated at around a hundred million dollars: a fortune that had grown steadily through the assiduous husbandry of three generations of Sommerfields. Arthur was a widower who had only been married once (another rarity in Florida), to Arlene, who had died of breast cancer some seven years earlier. He had two children, Chester and Joni, both of whom lived abroad. Chester worked for an engineering company in Brazil, and was married with three children, while his sister Joni had recently become engaged to a landscape gardener in Montreal. Although they both wrote to their father regularly, and phoned most Sundays, visits were less frequent.
Six weeks later, after a slower than usual courtship, Lynn was transferred to the private wing of Dr William Grove, who was the personal physician of her would-be victim.
The New Collected Short Stories Page 48