Copper, Gold and Treasure

by David Williams

  Benny would be outside the hotel to pick him up at 08.45 hours. Their ETA in Hans Crescent was 08.55 hours—that being the street skirting Harrods on the east as Hans Road does on the west and Basil Street does to the south. The store’s main frontage on Brompton Road had no bearing on Exercise Rudy.

  By 09.00 hours they were to be parked in Basil Street where they could observe all Harrods’ eastern and southern entrances. Mrs Cruba was invariably an early shopper and this morning with extra encouragement from Pierre would arrive not later than 09.15 hours. Her light blue Mercedes Coupe with CD plates she would leave in the Crescent or in Basil Street where Copper and Gold could see it: Pierre had guaranteed this so long as the two already had the taxi at the agreed vantage point.

  Pierre would leave Harrods alone through the southern exit fifteen minutes after going in. He would then walk west along Basil Street until they drew abreast of him with the cab. He would cross in front of them, getting in through the near-side door.

  Benny could then turn right into Hans Road—one way to Brompton Road—or head straight on for Walton Place, depending on how the traffic looked, joining Cromwell Road further along. Either way they would be set for the M4 Motorway and the fastest route to Egham.

  Their ETA at Rudwold Park was 10.30 hours.

  As he came down the Paragon stairs Copper debated again whether they were putting too much of a burden—too much responsibility—on Florence Spotter.

  Pierre Cruba was showing huge resource. In their talks on the telephone one sometimes got the feeling the lad could be masterminding the whole operation. Well, bully for him.

  ‘Good morning, Major Copper, sir.’

  ‘ 'Morning, Mr Chauder.’

  ‘Is it a taxi again today, sir? Would you like me to telephone the rank, Major? The Major takes taxis everywhere,’ Chauder added in an undertone to a departing guest he was trying to shame out of querying any more of the unsubstantiated extras on the bill.

  Damn Chauder: of course, he had been standing on the hotel steps the morning before at exactly the same time at the start of the dummy run. It was Benny who insisted on coming to the Paragon—in case it rained and the Major got wet waiting on some corner.

  The fellow knew perfectly well Copper couldn’t afford taxis in the ordinary way— and certainly not two days in a row. He had to think fast. ‘Don’t bother, thanks very much, Mr Chauder. A parent, d’you see? That’s it. Parent of one of my pupils. Kind enough to send transport. Here in a jiff, I expect. Wait on the porch.’

  ‘You do that, Major sir. Be my guest. Have a chair. There’ll be no charge. No charge whatsoever—today.’

  There was always the chance the other guest might have used one of the cane chairs on the stoop, thus incurring a justifiable charge not entered on his bill.

  The man, a short Iranian, had studied the Major carefully while weighing the owner’s words. Now he produced a wallet. Chauder smiled to himself. He knew how to deal with foreigners.

  Outside Copper eschewed the seats and began pacing up and down the pavement. He was much too early—but so was Benny who pulled up behind him unnoticed.

  ‘Taxi, guv?’

  The Major started. The bright tartan cap, the dark glasses and the false red beard took some digesting.

  As Copper got into the cab Benny swivelled around, pulled the glasses down his nose, and smiled expectantly. ‘So how about the disguise?’ He paused. ‘It’s Scotland forever— already.’

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘THERE HE IS,’ CRIED BENNY OVER HIS shoulder. He started the engine of the taxi just as a long, black Daimler limousine double parked beside them. With a car immediately in front, another behind and now one suddenly alongside they were totally hemmed in.

  ‘Tell that fool to move,’ the Major ordered from the rear of the cab as though he were a paying customer. He could see Pierre Cruba standing hesitantly outside the store entrance a hundred yards ahead. He hoped the boy had spotted them—and their predicament. The plan had worked perfectly up to this moment.

  Benny had the top half of his body hanging out of the window as he gesticulated to the driver of the otherwise empty Daimler. ‘Can you shift it, mate, please?’ he pleaded. ‘I want out.’

  The sallow-faced uniformed chauffeur stared dully at Benny for a moment, then, lethargically, he indicated with a backward jab of his thumb that he was waiting for something to happen behind.

  Copper too thrust his head out of a window. Two cars back a big American saloon was drawing away from the kerb—or trying to. It seemed the woman driver had several feet in which to manoeuvre but was behaving as though there were only inches. She hit the car in front: possibly there were only inches.

  The Major got out and stalked around the back of the limousine to remonstrate with the driver.

  ‘When Boadicea gets ’er chariot out, I’m backin’ in there.’

  ‘If you let us out you can back in here.’

  Sallow-face wasn’t buying. ‘Too small for this heap. Why’s ’e in there anyway? Taxi rank’s over there.’ He pointed at Benny and then at the official rank they had avoided using because it offered the wrong view of Harrods. ‘Wants it all ways, ’e does. ’Sides, ’e’s on a double line. Blimey!’

  They both looked back sharply. The woman driver had hit something else—noisily. An upstairs window shot up in the house closest to where she was bumping about. A young man wearing a superior air and a blue silk dressing-gown leaned out. ‘I say,’ he observed, ‘that’s my Renault.’

  ‘Bad luck, mate. Should have bought British.’ This was sallow-face again, more or less to himself.

  ‘You’re causing an obstruction.’ Benny had climbed down from the cab the better to support the Major’s protest. In brilliant sunlight his beard looked not only false but also threadbare.

  Sallow-face was unimpressed. ‘An’ you’re parked illegally. So what?’

  ‘So you’re both in trouble.’ A buxom traffic warden with a blonde moustache, slight but more convincing than Benny’s beard had joined them from the pavement.

  ‘I say! Miss! Miss!’ The man in the dressing-gown had also now materialized in the centre of the road and was competing for the warden’s attentions. ‘Will you kindly witness what that banshee’s done to my Renault?’

  ‘Your what, luv?’ She looked him up and down, wetting her lips in what to the Major seemed uncomfortably close to lewd anticipation.

  ‘My . . . My bumper,’ stammered the man. He tightened the dressing-gown around him in a prudishly defensive gesture on being made aware that this and open slippers completed his sartorial equipage.

  ‘Smashin’ legs, in’t ’e?’ the warden remarked conversationally to Copper as she moved back to the American saloon.

  Sallow-face let in his clutch, meaning to slip away quietly but stalled his engine.

  Copper and Gold made for the taxi.

  ‘Jeremy, you’re a double-edged bastard!’ This considered insult was hurled from the original thrown-up window by a raven-haired temptress dressed in a skimpy negligee—but only just. ‘You’ve let the Ayatollah out.’

  A group of mute onlookers was now assembling. Gazes turned back from the window to the hapless Jeremy. One or two people looked about for an escaping Moslem. A man in Gas Board uniform went on scrutinizing aspects of the negligee.

  The woman in the American car got out, slammed the door and, ignoring everyone, walked away briskly east—in the direction of Sloane Street.

  ‘Isn’t he in Fiona’s room?’ Jeremy quizzed Raven-hair while starting in pursuit. ‘Here, I say, what about the damage to my car?’ he called, dropping a slipper and having to come back for it. He looked appealingly towards the warden. She reciprocated warmly.

  ‘He’s not in Fiona’s room,’ bawled Raven-hair. ‘The Cardinal’s in bed with Fiona.’

  The onlookers remained silent except for the Gas Board man. ‘Cor,’ he said.

  An elderly nanny with a shocked expression hurried two little girls onward through the cr
owd. Sallow-face succeeded in moving the Daimler a few paces until progress was impeded by the slow-moving traffic building up in Basil Street.

  ‘She’s got a permit, luv.’ Blonde moustache was addressing Jeremy and pointing to a sticker on the windscreen of the American car. ‘Where’s yours, then?’

  ‘I’m visiting. Surely it’s allowed on Saturday mornings?’

  ‘Depends what you’ve got in mind, luv.’ She paused for a well-timed round of subdued sniggering from the appreciative audience. ‘Parkin's not allowed. Not without a permit it isn’t. Not in the Residents’ Zone.’

  Benny squeezed the front of the cab into the road between the rear of the Daimler and a small van. A Siamese cat darted out from under the taxi.

  ‘It’s the Buddha. He’s out too. Jeremy, you are the most utter swine.’ Raven-hair began hurling things through the window—mostly articles of men’s clothing which Jeremy bobbed about collecting. The crowd was delighted.

  The van driver waved the supplicating Benny forward.

  ‘Thank God we’re moving,’ said the Major, who was on the tip-up seat immediately behind Benny, peering over his shoulder. ‘Can you see Pierre anywhere?’

  ‘I’m here, sir,’ said the olive-skinned, curly-headed fifteen-year-old sitting well back on the far side of the cab.

  ‘Bless my soul,’ cried Copper. ‘How did you get in? Benjamin, he’s here.’

  Benny looked around briefly. The boy he saw was handsome, well developed and big for his age—and he was grinning broadly.

  ‘Got tired of waiting, sir. Thought it best to walk back to you. So many people about. No one noticed. I’m all packed for a short stay, sir.’ Pierre patted a large Harrods’ carrier bag on the seat beside him. ‘How d’you do, Mr Gold,’ he called.

  ‘How d’you do, Mr Cruba . . . er, Pierre. Well done, my boy.’

  ‘Oh look, there’s my stepmother.’

  They were moving past the south store exit Pierre had used. Yvonne Cruba was standing outside looking perplexed and waving to the doorman who was seeing someone into a car.

  ‘Down on the floor,’ hissed the Major obeying his own injunction and feeling rather foolish when he had done it. ‘All clear. Back on the seat, Pierre. Don’t think she saw us.’

  Benny had crunched himself down behind the wheel so that he could scarcely see over it, but he had made good progress: they were half way along Wilton Place.

  Just ahead on the left a small and elderly clergyman was standing at the kerb. ‘Stop, stop, Mr Gold,’ Pierre demanded urgently. Benny complied promptly.

  The boy leaped out of the cab and ran to the priest whom he then literally propelled across the road. The two appeared to engage in some mild form of altercation when they reached the other side before crossing back again together. Pierre pushed something into the clergyman’s hand, and pointed to the cab before hurrying back to it alone.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked the Major once they were under way again. He had watched the performance with growing impatience through the rear window.

  ‘Insurance, sir,’ answered the boy lightly, then added with an embarrassed chuckle, ‘Actually, he didn’t want to cross the road at all, but he was pleased with my gift for the poor.’

  ‘What sort of insur . . . ?’

  ‘I should stop somewhere else?’ Benny called from the front, interrupting the Major’s question. ‘Brompton Oratory? Hammersmith Synagogue? Maybe they could use a little money too.’ He shook his head and smiled as they turned west out of Beauchamp Place. In situations like this the boy took time for good works: eccentric, but nice.

  ‘No more stops, thank you, sir.’

  ‘When d’you think your stepmother will raise the alarm?’ The Major sounded edgy.

  ‘Yvonne? She won’t. We’ll have rung my father before she’ll think of it, sir.’ Pierre’s tone was entirely confident, something both men found strangely reassuring since it was they who were supposed to be in charge. ‘We split up after we’d been to the radio department. I said if I wasn’t waiting in the car in half an hour I’d have gone to the Science Museum.’

  ‘We’ve just passed it,’ called Benny.

  Pierre nodded. ‘Actually, she came out much sooner than I thought.’

  ‘I think she was going to ask the doorman if he’d seen you,’ said Copper.

  ‘He hadn’t. He wasn’t there when I left. Pity. I wanted him to see me.’

  The Major stiffened. ‘What if he’d seen you get in the cab and taken the number?’

  ‘Nobody takes cab numbers,’ Benny called over his shoulder. They were waiting for the lights to change at Gloucester Road. ‘You ever take a cab number, Roderick?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Now you have to speak up.’ They were in motion again and accelerating.

  ‘I said I never had,’ bellowed the Major.

  ‘Right,’ Benny bellowed back, ‘In a cab you’re anonymous. All black and two numbers on the back to confuse everybody. Except policemen.’ He smiled benignly at a motor-cycle patrolman passing them in the outside lane. ‘Nothing unusual, Officer. So what’s a little kidnap between friends?’ he added when the policeman was nearly out of sight: Benny was getting heady.

  Pierre had emptied the Harrods’ bag on to the seat. He also took some things from the pockets of the grey trousers he was wearing beneath an open white shirt and navy blue sweater.

  ‘I brought a spare toothbrush from home, and some socks and hankies. Nobody’ll notice they’re missing. Had to buy other things.’ He indicated pyjamas, undershorts, a coloured shirt and an anorak. ‘But they’re all things Yvonne knew I was buying. This was expensive.’ He produced a miniature Japanese cassette recorder from its box. ‘It takes this.’ He delved into the pocket of his shirt and brought out a cassette which he slotted into the machine. ‘It records as well as plays, of course.’

  ‘Top of the Pops, I expect,’ observed the Major, eyeing the mechanism with forced geniality.

  ‘Oh no, sir. This is programmed with all the phone calls we’ll be making to my father. I couldn’t bring my other recorder. They’d have noticed. It’s the same as this only with lots of attachments. Not so portable. Yvonne promised me this for my birthday.’

  ‘Programmed?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Listen.’

  The cab was filled with the sound of a high-pitched, mechanical voice. ‘I have a message about Pierre. I have a message about Pierre,’ it intoned. Each syllable was treated as an incantation, the consonants emphasized but clipped. ‘Please bring President Cruba to the phone,' the monotonous, unworldly howl continued.

  ‘We may not need that bit,’ said Pierre, stopping the machine. ‘My father often answers himself, especially at weekends. If he does, we skip to the next part . . .'

  ‘Sounds like a Chinese soprano in a very high wind,’ commented the Major. ‘Whose voice is that?’

  ‘Mine, sir. But you’d never guess, would you? It’s been electronically buffed. Like in the science fiction movies.'

  ‘Daleks, you mean?’ called Benny from the front. ‘That’s it, sir.’

  The Major had once watched a TV film involving Daleks, but not for very long. ‘But I thought those voices were made with instruments. Gadgets.’

  ‘If you’ve got the right gear, sir. This is just simulation.'

  ‘And quite horrible.’ Copper beamed. ‘I see the point, though. Clever stuff, young Cruba. Anyone know you dabble in this kind of thing?’

  ‘I don’t, sir. Not usually. This is my first go. Nobody knows. Want to hear some more?’

  ‘Yes,’ cried Benny. ‘Put it up loud.’

  Pierre pressed the switch. The voice continued. ‘President Cruba, your son is safe. If you want him to stay that way do not contact police. Do not let anyone else contact police. We shall know if anyone does.’

  ‘You have to say that, sir.’ Pierre put in. ‘They always say it. My father’ll believe it too. He thinks all police forces are infiltrated by criminals. He won’t risk
my skin.’ The boy’s tone was entirely without emotion.

  ‘Can’t hear,’ called Benny.

  ‘Mr Cruba won’t go to the police,’ the Major shouted back. Benny nodded. Pierre set the tape going again.

  ‘President Cruba, please be ready to make notes. This is Saturday. By 2 p. m. Monday you will deliver a sworn declaration to the Director of the Rudyard Trust for Officers and Gentlemen, 52 Strutton Ground, that the half million pounds you will deposit in the Trust's account at the National Bank, Victoria Street Branch, by 3 p.m. Tuesday is a voluntary and irrevocable gift to the Trust. We will repeat that.'

  ‘Those are the proper words, sir?’ Pierre had stopped the tape. ‘It’s what you said on the phone. What Father has to do and so on.’

  ‘Exactly, Pierre. You must have taken careful notes.’

  The Major had spent five hours in the Law Section of the Public Library getting everything right. He had given the boy a thorough briefing to be sure he would know what was involved: he hadn’t expected Pierre to have taken quite so much of the initiative. ‘The voice only has to add you’ll be returned safely. I suppose that’s on the tape?’ Pierre cleared his throat. ‘Actually, sir, there’s a bit before that.’

  ‘He’s very thorough, this young man,’ called Benny, who had been straining his ears to keep up. ‘So there’s something we’ve forgotten, Pierre?’

  ‘It’s the part about the fifty thousand pounds for my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?’ Copper and Gold echoed nearly in unison.

  ‘In cash. To be handed over on the Duke of York steps at ten-thirty Monday night. Except we’ll get it before then.’

  Benny pulled the cab into a lay-by beyond the Hogarth Roundabout, left the driver’s seat, and joined the others in the back. ‘You want to start again, my boy?’ he asked. ‘The bit about your momma?’

  ‘It’s simple really, Mr Gold, Major. You have a good cause. I too have a good cause. My mother.’ The boy paused. ‘My father treated her very badly. Not over money. In other ways. She won’t take money from him. She’s too proud. But she needs money. She deserves much more than fifty thousand.’