by George Sims
‘Hi, there! Ed!’
Buchanan had been walking along looking down at his feet, like Machin, mentally kicking a stone all the way from the entrance of Bathwick Street Mews where he had said good-bye to Ken Hughes. As he turned the corner into Porchester Terrace he looked up to see Katie Tollard running along to meet him. She wore a navy roll-necked pullover and a camel corduroy skirt. With her height and slim figure she always appeared elegantly dressed, though she did not fuss over her appearance. Like Ken Hughes, she seemed to have her life well organized and her priorities all thought out.
‘Aren’t you though?’
‘What?’
‘Bee was saying you’ve never looked so fit. Of course she’s prejudiced. I say it’s rather a laugh, the idea that you once sat on her lap.’
‘Absolutely true though. In fact I can remember going to sleep on her lap, or rather I can remember waking up in that position. And very nice it was too. Leo had one of those tiny Austin Sevens in those days, and occasionally we all squeezed in. I don’t know how he got it to move.’
‘What happened with Machin?’
‘Nothing much. Told him about Sidney Chard’s disappearance but I think he would take a lot of convincing that it has anything to do with Leo’s death. Told him about that chap, Blencowe, too, having seen the girl Judy Latimer. Bumper seemed much more interested in that. You can’t add anything else about her?’
‘You’re being discreet—hinting that I might have known something was going on between her and Leo. I didn’t. About a year ago I thought he might be having an affair with someone, with a woman who had been a customer. But I never saw Judy Latimer or even heard her name. Of course Leo would have been careful like that. In fact I’m very surprised that he picked her up in our local.’ She sighed and shrugged. ‘Well, we’ll see what old Manny has to say. Once or twice in the shop I think he’s been on the point of blurting something out and then thought better of it because of Bee.’
‘Did he know Leo very well?’
‘Yes, he did, in a funny kind of a way. They didn’t go out to the pub together, or anything like that. But Manny used to spend a fair amount of time in our shop, loved to have a cup of char and talk over old times in the trade, battles won and lost, the finds he’d made. Still, Manny’s not really an egotist, he’s very interested in other people and notices things about them. I’m quite sure he’s spotted how nervy and irritable Leo had become in recent months. You’ll like Manny, you’ll find him interesting, and his funny old set-up. Makes marvellous coffee too. Which will be rather welcome. It’s been an inky morning.’
‘Why? More mysterious phone-calls from Freedson?’
‘No, nothing dramatic, but we had the accountant round all the morning and that made Bee a bit weepy. Leo wasn’t systematic, didn’t always keep our stock-book up-to-date, wrote enigmatic little notes on scraps of paper and then lost them. And his cheque stubs! Some with amounts paid but no payee, and some just blank…Oh, I say! Look down there.’
Katie tightened her grip on Buchanan’s arm as they reached a grimy plaster pillar in front of a run-down Victorian house with a basement. She pointed down the steps to a window flanked by two dustbins. ‘Isn’t he sweet? Always sits there when he’s expecting anyone because he’s rather deaf, and the bell’s a bit temperamental.’
Buchanan saw an old man with a luxuriant beard and spectacles sitting at a small desk close to the window, surrounded by tottering piles of books and magazines. Katie ran down the steps and tapped at the window. The old man put his face right up to the glass, nodded and then turned round. After a few minutes a door round the corner was slowly opened.
When Buchanan had entered the dark basement flat with Katie he understood why the door could not have been opened quickly, for there were more piles of books and cardboard cartons containing books in the passage-way, so that entrance had to be effected cautiously. Katie took the old man’s hand, saying in a loud, carefully enunciated way: ‘This is a friend of Bee’s, Manny, Ed Buchanan. He’s known Leo and Bee since they lived in the East End, so he pre-dates you even. Ed, this is Professor Immanuel Klein.’
Buchanan shook the proffered hand gently. Klein wore an old-fashioned dark-coloured suit with a heavy black silk tie that was knotted about an inch below the gap in his stiff collar; a watch-chain was strung across his waistcoat. He had wiry black and white hair which merged indivisibly with a beard of similar badger colouring, so that he seemed to peer out through chinks in a bristly hedge. Behind thick lenses his pale brown eyes had a sad expression that reminded Buchanan of Machin. It struck him forcibly how much concentrated experience Machin must have had of unpleasant duties, breaking news of deaths, questioning relatives, looking at corpses. It was no wonder that Bumper’s one-time cheerful expression had been replaced by a look that was wary and sombre.
Klein said, ‘Welcome! Welcome, my dears! Katie is used to all this chaps but you’ll find you have to pick your way I’m afraid, Mr Buchanan. My business…’
Katie brushed this aside briskly. ‘You’re not to run yourself down, Manny. It’s a good business. You get some fine things.’
‘My business?’ Klein paused and half-turned round. He gave a short, gasping laugh. ‘My business is grasping at straws. Every week I need a little miracle.’
Buchanan could not remember ever having entered a room so cluttered with a multitude of things; there were so many that it was impossible to take them in. He stared around, pondering the quirks of personality that drove him to dislike possessions and Klein to hoard them. It seemed as if Klein hoped to re-create a world that he had lost. Two walls were covered with framed photographs, some of them sepia-coloured and looking a hundred years old. There were also numerous framed prints and German posters. A third wall was lined with shelves crammed with books and magazines. There were so many piles of papers and oddments on the floor that Buchanan found it difficult to move without creating further disorder. He sat down on a fragile-looking chair as soon as Katie had found space on a sofa with springs broken by its load of box-files and brown paper parcels. In one corner of the room there was an antiquated gramophone with a horn, and a radio that looked nearly as old in a wooden case with a fretwork design. A coffee percolator was bubbling away on a gas-ring.
Klein slowly turned the chair by the desk round to face his visitors and sat down with a sigh. He addressed Katie, making a gesture of inadequacy: ‘Would you, my dear? The coffee? I get so flustered with guests. I do absurd things.’
‘Of course, Manny.’
Klein fiddled with a thick pencil, half opening his mouth as if to say something and then rejecting it. Katie, handing round the coffee, seemed to hover in alert speculation, unwilling to break in on his concentration. When she was seated Klein said, ‘I’ve been hoping for a good talk with you, my dear. Certain things I did not like to say in front of Mrs S. That terrible business about Leo. Never will I believe he killed the girl. That is an inexplicable mystery.’ He turned to scrutinize Buchanan, saying to Katie, ‘Does our friend here understand about our funny old business—I mean, such technical data as the Ring, settlements, that kind of thing?’
‘No, I don’t. I spent just one day at Harrods’ auction rooms with Katie, and that was the only sale I’ve attended.’
Klein nodded gravely, picked up a pamphlet from the desk and held it by one corner, waggling it back and forth. ‘Just after Easter this year I went to a small sale at Launceston. That’s near Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. Three London dealers formed a Ring at that sale. Five months later one of them is dead, one has disappeared, and the other has shut up his shop and gone abroad.’
‘That was the Trewartha sale?’ Katie asked.
‘Correct. Property of the late Marquess of Trewartha, last of the line, who died in December 1972.’
‘The elaborate black leather harness in the window at Crawford Street came from the Trewartha collection, Ed. And that massive i
ron fireback with the coat of arms.’
Klein turned to face Buchanan squarely as he explained: ‘A Ring is an arrangement by which the dealers gang together at an auction, appoint one of their group to do all the bidding, then hold another auction, a “knockout”, among themselves afterwards. The difference between the prices realized at the proper auction and the “knockout” is split up between the dealers unsuccessful at the second sale. That is the “settlement”. Quite illegal, this sort of thing, but it still operates occasionally. Of course the law is hard to uphold in such matters. I’ve never been a member of the Ring but you can understand the temptation to come to some kind of arrangement between dealers. For example, supposing Katie and I were the only dealers to attend a small sale. Should we bid each other up or should we come to some arrangement beforehand about abstaining from bidding on some lots? You see?’
Katie pulled a face. ‘Leo didn’t like settling. If he did, it was because of Sid Chard.’
Klein said, ‘You’re right. The three London dealers in the Ring were Leo, Mr Chard and Harry Freedson from Highgate. They had no real opposition. The weather was terrible, the catalogue was a bad one, and very few people attended the sale—mainly farmers’ wives, a doctor who only wanted a picture and a sundial, and yours truly. The Ring kindly allowed me to purchase six minor items. They took all the good things.’
Katie said, ‘I didn’t know that Sid and Freedson had attended the Launceston sale. Our lots came up by carrier, apart from the harness and two clocks which Leo brought back in his car. I do remember Leo saying he’d taken a run out to the Trewartha Place ruin and that it was the bleakest, most inaccessible house he’d ever seen. Apparently, it’s right on the moor surrounded by bogs and streams, with hills at the back. When I was doing some research to write up the harness I came across a newspaper report of Trewartha’s death, and it said that no one had seen him for ten years before the fire, though that hardly seems possible.’
Klein waved the sale catalogue. ‘It hardly seems possible that something should happen to all three men who formed the Ring. In just five months! Where is Mr Chard? I dislike that man but I do not know anyone in the trade who is harder-working. Making money is his religion. What is he doing, leaving his business for a month? And why has Harry Freedson closed his shop and gone to Holland?’
‘Bee’s had two odd phone-calls from Freedson, vaguely hinting that he’s in a position to help her,’ Katie said.
‘You see? Of course there’s some great mystery here. It seems, my dears, that for once I was very fortunate in not being admitted to the Ring.’ Klein flicked through the pages of the catalogue. ‘I’ve looked through this countless times but there’s no clue I can find. I’m sure there’s nothing here of exceptional value.’
‘May I borrow the Trewartha catalogue, Manny?’ Katie asked. ‘Leo told me he hadn’t kept his copy because the entries were worthless.’
‘Of course, my dear, keep it for as long as you wish. I’ve an absurd feeling about this matter, so absurd that I hardly care to admit it. But it seems as if there must be a curse on the Trewartha property.’
‘The fire destroyed the house completely?’ Buchanan asked.
‘Only the stone shell remained. I talked to the auctioneer’s clerk about it, and he said that a postman spotted the flames and tried to get in through a window but was beaten back. By the time the fire-engine got there most of the roof had fallen in. Then the hoses brought the fire under control and the firemen carried out some things that were in the hall and a small study near the front door. They searched for Trewartha but his body wasn’t found till the next day. A strange, lonely death for a strange man.’
Chapter XVII
The King of Diamonds in the Greek pack of playing cards was dressed in a multi-coloured robe and carried a spear, the letter B and a diamond surmounted by a crown were placed in the corners of the card. The Queen wore a similar robe, her double image being bisected by a lily. The Jack of Diamonds was dressed like a warrior in classical times, holding a helmet.
Buchanan had opened the pack of cards that he had bought in Athens with the idea of playing Patience, but the King of Diamonds reminded him of the phrase, written by Leo: ‘Court-Card as much of a mystery today as he was then’. He sorted out all the court-cards and laid them in a row across Leo’s kitchen table. A small printed slip of paper fluttered from the carton on to the floor and Buchanan picked it up realizing he did not know whether it was a manufacturer’s guarantee or a ticket in a sweep-stake. It was absurd to have worked for four months on a Greek island and end up knowing only a few tourist phrases. ‘You’re not trying,’ Stella Messisklis had often said in commenting on his lack of concentration when they had puzzled together over the Greek language, but had been ready to excuse it because of his long hours of manual work. Buchanan found it harder to excuse: he knew that he often did shy away from thinking things out or applying himself to a problem. Sitting alone in the Welbeck Street Mews flat he decided that for once, if only for half an hour, he would really concentrate on the mystery surrounding Leo Selver and see what that would achieve.
He went into the bedroom and took a pad of writing-paper from his battered suitcase. He had spent most of the day in Katie Tollard’s company and they had talked about various points concerning Leo Selver—it would be interesting to see if they formed more of a pattern when written down in chronological order.
Returning to the kitchen he put on a kettle to make some instant coffee. The afternoon and evening had been spent very pleasantly with Katie, and he had enjoyed walking round Hampstead, an area she knew much better than he did, but their evening meal in Highgate had been a poor one, with rough wine and weak coffee. He intended to blot out the memory with a good strong brew and the remains of the Captain Bligh rum.
After the first sip of coffee he began to write, taking more trouble than he usually did in order to set out the facts clearly:
On Wednesday, 25 April 1973, two days after the Easter holiday, Leo Selver attended an auction in Launceston at Whelan’s Rooms, Hill Street. The sale was of the surviving contents of Trewartha Place. With his friends Sidney Chard and Harry Freedson, Selver formed a ‘Ring’. Purchases for the ‘Ring’ were all made by Sidney Chard, who bought some ninety-five items out of the total of two hundred.
Manny Klein had noted down the purchasers’ names in his copy of the catalogue, marking Chard’s lots as ‘C’. Klein appeared certain that the sale did not include anything of exceptional value. It seemed that Leo Selver had subsequently purchased thirty items at the ‘knockout’ after the sale: this was the number that went into the stock at the Crawford Street shop; of those only four now remain unsold. After the Trewartha sale Selver’s relationship with Chard seems to have changed. They ‘became like conspirators’ was the phrase used by Klein. Very brief biography of Lord Trewartha, who died in December 1972, in Who’s Who: TREWARTHA, 10th Marquess of, cr. 1690; Charles James Everett; b. 17 Mar. 1907; son of 9th Marquess and Jane Edith (d. 1930), d. of Sir James Walters. Educ.: Eton; Balliol. Address: Trewartha Place, Cornwall.
Apart from the change in his relationship with Chard, Selver became a much more nervous character in the months following the sale, ‘irritable, unsettled, unable to concentrate, and doing little work in the shop’ according to K. On 15 June he went to see a private detective, apparently concerned about the possibility that he was being followed. On 17 August Selver’s dead body, together with that of the girl Judy Latimer, was discovered in her ground-floor flat in Stephen Street.
Buchanan’s rare mood of concentration was broken by the sound of a car driven at speed into the mews, followed by a vigorous tooting and, moments after, the ringing of the doorbell. As he came downstairs he could see through the frosted glass at the top of the door that the caller looked like Katie.
On opening the door he saw a much more glamorous version of the windswept girl he had said good-bye to only an hour or
so previously, dressed in black velvet trousers and a white and gold pullover with a cowl collar. Her hair was arranged differently and she was wearing eye make-up.
‘Hello, Ed. Do you mind being called out like this?’
‘You must be joking.’ Buchanan gestured vaguely round the mews. ‘Knock on any door and see if you get complaints.’ He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. ‘Does that answer your question? You’ve done something to your hair. I’m not sure what but I like it.’
‘Do I still look pale?’
Buchanan thought: I couldn’t have said that—correction, I could have said that. He was so intent on keeping his relationship with Katie different from his last affair that he had made the mistake of treating her too much like a friend instead of an attractive girl. ‘Difficult to say in this light but I should say, yes, a little pale. Pale but lovely. Very lovely.’
Without being aware that either of them had moved forward they were kissing and their first kiss was as exciting as he thought it might be.
When she stepped back Katie looked at him in silence for some moments and then said, ‘Well, that’s nearly made me forget why I came. But I’m glad I did. I was going to ask if you would pop round with me to Homer Street. Ralph Blencowe, the art dealer, did some detective work himself. He spotted a fashion photograph of that young bloke he saw with Judy Latimer, phoned the Sunday Times, in which it appeared, tracked down the advertising agency and finally came up with the young man’s name. He’s called Toby Crest—apparently he’s one of the male models most in demand at the moment and has been working in New York for a few weeks. Now he’s back here and’—Katie glanced at her watch—‘at this minute, with any luck, should be at Homer Street.’
‘Okay, let’s go then. I shan’t change because I know I can’t compete with glamorous male models.’