The banker shrugged. He doubted the medical evidence would support his belief: good thing too. Perhaps no one else would come to the same conclusion unprompted—except Mrs Miff.
It was while he was consciously steeling himself to share his view with no one that the telephone rang—beginning a series of events that served to change that view.
CHAPTER 17
BENNY PUT HIS MOUTH CLOSE TO THE microphone grille beside the bell-push. ‘It’s Benjamin Gold with a message from Stephen,’ he uttered in a rasping whisper. He was outside the house in Guilford Street.
‘Stephen who?’ the crackling voice demanded.
It was ten to nine: there were a lot of people about. Benny glanced up and down the street before responding. ‘Stephen Spotter,’ he croaked. A student nurse hurrying past on her way to Queen’s Square looked up sharply in sympathy, diagnosed laryngitis and hoped it wasn’t chronic.
Benny raised his pork-pie hat and smiled nervously at the nurse, watched her out of earshot, then re-addressed the grille. ‘It’s raining something shocking.’ He jumped back as a buzzer snarled under his nose.
Everard Crow-Patcher was waiting at the open door on the first floor. He wore a shrunken, karate-style dressing-gown in faded blue, over crumpled green pyjamas. The gown drooped at the front. He had a hand in one pocket because there was only one pocket, giving the whole ensemble a lop-sided look. He was unshaven. His long, thinning hair was standing up in tousled clumps. His eyes were screwed up against the light even though there wasn’t very much.
‘You’d better come in,’ he offered, as though reluctantly acknowledging the only alternative was for the caller to stay outside.
‘We’re giving the money back,’ said Benny less boldly than he had intended, so he said it again, louder.
He had been pointed into the untidy living-room. The curtains were still closed. The air smelled of last night’s cigarettes. He was still in his raincoat, holding his hat, and he hadn’t been asked to sit. It was Crow-Patcher who sat, abruptly, closing his eyes and passing his hand across his face.
‘Who is it, honey?’ A fruity, female American voice enquired from another room.
‘No one, my love. Just a message. It’s nothing.’ Everard then lowered his voice to a hiss. ‘What d’you mean — we're giving the money back? What money? Who are you, for God’s sake? What are you doing in my house—flat?’
‘We’ve been rumbled. All of us. Stephen, you, Pierre Cruba, Florence and us. You see, President Cruba . . .’
‘He’s dead? I knew it.’ Everard paled—even in the light from the unlined curtains he visibly paled. ‘It said in the news . . .’
‘We don’t know. Maybe. It’s still touch and go.’
‘You’re the kidnappers.’ This came more in astonishment than as confirmation.
Benny narrowed his eyes like Edward G. Robinson. This was the bit he had practised all the way from Victoria Station after dropping Roderick. ‘Uh-huh. But we’re in the clear on the killing if we get the dough back. Stephen says you got twenty-five grand.’
‘What?’
‘Grand . . . it means thousand. It’s American for . . .’
‘He’s a liar.’
‘That’s what we figured.’ He wanted to add, ‘The dirty rat’, but that might be overplaying things. ‘The police . . .’
‘The police have got Stephen?’
‘Not yet.’ That was improvisation: he had meant to say the police knew how much money had been stolen. ‘Stephen’s at the airport. Our boys are with him right now.’ Benny rolled his shoulders backwards which meant his chin got buried in the top of his raincoat.
‘Your boys? Your boys? You’re supposed to be two old . . .’
‘That’s what we wanted you to think.’ He pulled the coat down so that Everard could see he was smiling confidently. ‘The organization— ’ he paused, reminding himself to breathe deeply to avoid trembling and bringing on his asthma. ‘The organization is passing the dough back to the Cruba Family. That way we’re clean. Out of the picture. It’s a deal at the top.’ He looked purposefully at the ceiling. It needed painting very badly. ‘Stephen’s grabbing the chance. He was seen on the steps last night. He denied it was him. Said it was you.’
‘The swine. I was never on the steps.’ Now Everard was up and prancing around the room, speaking in a well-articulated stage whisper. ‘I was waiting in the Mall on the off-chance he’d pull something.’
Benny nodded sagely. ‘We Figured something like that.
Also he took the biggest share of the money, I’ll bet. He said you split down the middle. We thought he probably kept thirty.’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘That’s what we really thought,’ he added quickly. ‘It’s murder,, most likely. Somebody’s going to jail for life maybe, and here’s a guy cheating over five lousy grand.’
‘Keep your voice down.’ Everard crept out of the room. There was some shuffling in the hall. He came back with the black case. ‘Fifteen is all I got.’ He was almost inaudible.
‘That case . . .’ began Benny, affecting horror.
‘I know.’ He opened it carefully as though the hinges might squeak. ‘There’s ten, and here . . .’ He put the case aside and pulled several volumes from a low bookshelf to reveal a large brown envelope. ‘And here’s the other five.’ He looked up suspiciously. ‘How do I know . . .’
‘The notes are marked. Used but marked. We found out in time. Wouldn’t have touched them anyway.’ Benny shook his head: this was his last card.
Everard’s jaw dropped. He pushed the envelope into the case, closed it, and thrust it at Benny. ‘I was here last night from eight onwards. My wife’ll swear to it. Now get out.’
As Benny pulled the flat door shut behind him, he heard the fruity voice shout ‘You did what!’
Florence had warned him about Dina.
He had left the cab on the rank in front of the President Hotel, just short of Russell Square. He dialled the number on a pay phone in the hotel foyer, checking the time while waiting impatiently for a response. It was 09.13 hours. Roderick had them back on the hours business: more important, Roderick was due to ring in himself at nine-fifteen.
‘Hello. This is Florence Spotter,’ said the voice at the other end.
‘Benjamin here. The sum was fifteen—one-a-fife, now recaptured. All’s well. Please acknowledge.’
‘Oh, well done, Mr Gold. I mean fifteen, one five, acknowledged and understood. Over and up . . . I’ve lost the instructions . . .’
‘Out. Roger and out. Bye-bye, Miss Spotter,’ said Benny putting the phone down.
Then he rang his daughter Denise to say how much he and the Major had enjoyed the concert, what a good thing he had been spending the night at the Major’s hotel what with the rain and it being late, and how well he had slept, and what a good breakfast he had had.
And may he be forgiven was what he was thinking: lying to his own daughter yet.
The main concourse at Gatwick Airport was a daunting mass of clotting humanity.
Major Copper contemplated the scene with relish. He was glad he had signalled Miss Spotter from a phone on the railway platform: there were queues for everything in the airport. He hoped he wouldn’t be here long enough to need the gents. It was up to him now: Benjamin had done well.
Conditions were far better than the Major had expected. Only ten flights out so far, and all of them left over from yesterday—filled with travellers who had camped all night at the airport.
The four rows of check-in desks were operating. Boarding cards were being issued and luggage accepted, but passengers were warned the Traffic Controllers’ go-slow was expected to continue through the day. Flights were subject to anything up to twenty-four hours delay.
Passport Control was closed until passengers on flights actually boarding had left the overcongested departure lounges. No new travellers had been allowed through since seven: better and better.
The Major had garnered his intellige
nces from the public address system and several frustrated and loquacious holidaymakers delighted to unburden on someone about the lack of information.
He straightened his bowler and advanced on his carefully selected quarry. The furled umbrella and ancient briefcase he held protectively before him.
‘Excuse me, Officer. 1 think you can help me.’ The fresh-faced young policeman whom nobody seemed to need offered his full attention. He had spent the last few minutes debating whether he should grow a beard after all. ‘Name’s Festin. Colonel Festin,’ lied the Major. He had once had a friend of that name and rank: passed on years ago. ‘Here on a mercy errand. Bad news, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh yes, sir? Colonel.’
‘Young nephew somewhere in this crowd. Mother’s just dropped dead. Terrible thing. Come to fetch him myself. But how to extricate him?’ He waved his hand in the air, accidentally clipping a short Japanese on the ear. ‘So sorry.’ He turned and apologized to a tall female who didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘Airline, flight and destination, sir?’
‘That’s the trouble, old chap. No idea. Not the foggiest. Only know he was due to take off from here this morning. I could be all day lining up at those airline desks.’
‘The Airport Information desk would . . .’
‘That’s the worst of the lot. Anyway, I have to know if he’s gone already. May need to fetch him back. Have to start with the airlines.’
‘Mmm. See what we can do, sir.’
‘Knew you’d understand. Always tell the doers from the set of their chins. Same in the War.’
‘Follow me, sir.’ He decided not to grow a beard after all: his mother would be pleased. The people made way before his resolute stride. Copper followed, affecting what he thought was the searching look of a senior, plainclothes policeman.
A few minutes later a girl was reading the prepared announcement into the microphone on the Information Desk. ‘Will Mr Spotter, British Airtours passenger to Dubrovnik, please report to the British Airways Reservations Desk. Mr S. Spotter to British Airways Reservations, please.’
Everyone had been very co-operative. It had seemed sensible to let the constable try British Airways first, it being the biggest. The computer had promptly revealed S. Spotter’s travel plans.
Having his ‘nephew’ report to Reservations had been the Major’s idea. ‘Sensitive boy . . . Dicky heart himself . . . Don’t want him frightened . . . Jumping to the right conclusion, don’t you know? . . . Rather be with him when . . . He’s asked to be wait-listed on an earlier flight than the one he’s on? . . .Tell you what, let him think you want to alter his ticket.’
Stephen had been in the upstairs bar. He grabbed his canvas case, his only luggage: they were switching him to the earlier flight. That was the trick of travelling alone—always that one seat free at the last minute. He hurried down the stairs, feeling good. He pushed his way to the Reservations Desk.
‘I’m Stephen Spotter.’ The girl gave him her exclusive smile. He was used to that. She then looked over his shoulder and gave her exclusive smile to someone else.
‘My dear Stephen. It’s Uncle Roderick. A miracle we’ve caught you.’ The emphasis came on the last two words.
He turned about. It was that fool Major and with a cop in tow.
‘Never have done it without our friend here. Cut through the red tape like nobody’s business.’ The Major put his arm around the other’s shoulder—very firmly. ‘Bit of bad news I’m afraid, old chap.’ He looked towards the policeman, who nodded. ‘Not here, though. Got to watch that ticker of yours. Arranged a bit of privacy. All laid on.’
‘This way, Colonel. Mr Spotter.’ The constable set off on another of his parting of the waters acts—but mildly puzzled. Mr Spotter had turned out to be much older than expected and considerably more robust.
Stephen looked about him for means of escape. ‘Don’t try bolting.’ The Major was immediately behind him, breathing words into his ear. ‘Do as I say and you’ll be off the hook.’ He raised his voice. ‘Right with you, Officer. Lead on. Lead on.’
The ‘bit of privacy’ was a small interview room in the Police Control Centre.
‘Sit down, Stephen,’ said the Major as soon as they were alone. ‘Your mother’s passed away.’
‘To hell with sitting down, and my mother died twenty years ago. What’s your game, Copper?’ He sat down anyway on a plastic chair across a small table from the Major.
‘I’m collecting thirty-five thousand from that hold-all of yours and returning it to ex-President Cruba. That’s my game. After I’ve played it you can resume your journey to Dubrovnik—or Kancheepuram, for all I care.’
‘You have to be crazy.’
‘No, but you’ll be if you don’t cough up—and arrested for theft . . .’
‘It wasn’t theft, you old fool. He gave me the money. I had the password, remember?’
‘And attempted murder,’ the Major continued, entirely ignoring the interruption. ‘Crow-Patcher’s spilled the beans.’
‘There’s nothing to spill’—but the tone had become measurably less assured.
‘Not the way Mr Crow-Patcher tells it. We’ve got his fifteen thou. So, if you’d like to give me the rest of the fifty. In that case, is it? What they call cabin baggage, I believe. Well, you’d hardly want what’s in there to go in the hold, would you?’
‘How do I know . . .’
‘That we’re returning the money? You don’t, except I’m giving you my word as an officer and a gentleman.'
‘Big deal. So you’re whiter than white? So what about the little old kidnap? I could call the cops in now from next door . . .’
‘All a misunderstanding. Something ex-President Cruba will straighten out himself quite easily if it comes up. But it won’t. Not unless you raise it—and if you raise it, and after it’s been straightened out, there’ll still be the matter of robbery and assault. And that won’t be so easy to straighten out. Permanently bent I’d say, that one.’ The Major nodded sagely. ‘You see, Crow-Patcher’s panicked. Made you out to be the most terrible bounder. Ready to turn Queen’s evidence, and all that. Says he saw you . . .’
‘OK, Major. Tell you what we’ll do. There’s five thousand for you, and no hard feelings. Is it a deal?'
‘Thirty-five thousand, please, to be returned to Mr Cruba.’
‘I’ll make it ten. No questions. You never found me. Who’s gonna know, for crying out loud?’ The Major made no response. ‘OK, it’s a steal but we split it down the middle. Fifty-fifty. Equal shares.’
The Major stood up and held open the unbuckled briefcase. ‘Thirty-five thousand if you please, Mr Spotter.’ His face brightened. ‘Tell you what. If it helps at all, I’ll be glad to give you a receipt.’
Grim-faced, the other man unzipped his case.
As soon as Treasure finished the call from his secretary he telephoned Florence Spotter who apparently needed to talk to him urgently. Miss Gaunt had also reported that François Cruba was out of danger.
‘Oh, Mr Treasure. So kind. You must be fearfully busy. I wouldn’t have troubled you, but it’s about Stephen.'
‘Your nephew, Stephen Spotter?’
‘He telephoned early this morning.’
‘From where?’
‘He didn’t say, except he reversed the charges, so of course I knew. He didn’t have change for the telephone, you see.’
‘So where was he?’
‘At Gatwick Airport. The operator asked if I’d accept a call from there. It was quite early—about seven-fifteen. I was up, of course.’
‘And he didn’t realize you knew where he was?’
‘That’s right, Mr Treasure. He gave me no opportunity to explain . . . about the operator, I mean. He said he had to leave the country straight away as soon as he could get a flight. They’ve found oil somewhere.’
‘Did he say anything about Pierre’s father? About the stabbing?’
‘Nothing, except I wasn’t to worry
about anything. I wanted to tell him how displeased I was that he’d been pressing Prudence on the dissolution of the Rudyard Trust . . .’
‘And Crow-Patcher.’
‘Indeed. Thoroughly uncharitable acts on his part . . . and, dare I say, underhand after what he’d told me. But, you see, there wasn’t the opportunity. He said he was in a great rush and really ringing to say he couldn’t return my car—because it’d been stolen. Stolen!’
‘Where from?’
‘Somewhere in North London early last evening. He said Everard would be reporting it to the police. If anyone asked me about it I should say I’d lent it to Everard . . .'
‘That’s Mr Crow-Patcher?’
‘That’s right. He said the two of them were together last evening. I wasn’t to mention I had ever lent the car to him. He said it would probably turn up. Cars were often stolen for joy-riding, and the best place to look was in the car pounds. I don’t know what car pounds . . .’
‘They’re places where the police take cars that are parked illegally.’
‘I see. Well, Everard was kindly going to visit all the car pounds. All the same, it’s jolly inconvenient . . .’
Not to say suspicious: ‘The car’s insured, of course, Miss Stopper?’
‘That’s what nice Major Copper asked.’
‘You’ve spoken to the Major this morning?’
‘Indeed. It was far too early to telephone you at your office, so I rang the Major. I do hope you’ll think I did the right thing, Mr Treasure.’
‘I’m sure you did. What was the Major’s reaction?’ There was a slight pause at the other end. ‘I fear he never did trust Stephen. Both the Major and Mr Gold believed he had something to do with that dreadful episode on the steps. Not the stabbing. The robbery. They’d been discussing it. They were both at breakfast at the Major’s hotel. And then . . .’ This time there was a longer pause.
‘Are you there, Miss Spotter?’
‘Yes, Mr Treasure. Oh dear. When I think of the family shame . . .You see, the Major telephoned me again a few minutes later. He said they’d decided to take the initiative.’
Copper, Gold and Treasure Page 16