‘As much as the next man—but I’m particular how I earn it.’ I turned to Charlie. ‘You didn’t take that clause from the Electronomics contract. So this was being cooked up as long ago as that. What the hell’s got into you?’ He didn’t answer, so I said, ‘All right; from now on we go back to square one.’
Brinton’s voice was almost regretful as he said, ‘‘Fraid not, Max. You don’t have all that much of a say any more.’
I looked at him. He still wore the big smile but it didn’t reach his eyes which were cold as ice. ‘What the devil are you talking about? I own fifty-one per cent of the shares—a controlling interest.’
He shook his head. ‘You did. You don’t now. You made a mistake, the elementary mistake of a man in love. You trusted someone.’
I knew it then. ‘Gloria!’
‘Yes, Gloria. You went off in a hurry and forgot about the seven per cent interest in the firm you’d given her. I bought her shares.’ He wagged his head. ‘You should pay more attention to proverbial sayings; there’s a lot of truth in them. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. See what I mean?’
I said, ‘Seven plus twenty-five makes thirty-two. That’s still not control.’
His grin had turned reptilian. ‘It is if Charlie votes with me—and he will. It seems he’s been a trifle worried lately—his financial affairs have become somewhat disordered and it’s definitely in his interest to increase the profitability of the company. It fell to me to point out that simple fact.’
‘I don’t suppose you had anything to do with his financial disorder,’ I said acidly. Brinton’s grin widened as I turned to Charlie and asked quietly, ‘Will you vote with him?’
He swallowed. ‘I must!’
‘Well, by God! What a bloody pair you are. I was prepared for his lordship to pull a fast one, but I didn’t think it of you, Charlie.’ He reddened. ‘You came to see me at my club just before I left. I thought then that you wanted something but I couldn’t figure what it was. Now I know. You wanted to find out if I was still going on holiday even though I’d left Gloria.’ I jerked my thumb at Brinton. ‘He sent you to find out. No wonder both of you were urging me to go. You were giving me the fast shuffle so that Brinton could grab Gloria’s shares.’
Brinton chuckled. ‘It was her idea, really. She came and offered them to me. Max, you’re a simpleton. You don’t think I’d let all the valuable information in your files go to waste. A man could make millions with what you’ve got here.’
‘You let me build up the reputation of the company, and now you’re going to rape it. Is that it?’
‘Something along those lines,’ he said carelessly. ‘But legally—always legally.’
I said, ‘Brinton, I have something for your ears only—something I don’t think you’d like Charlie to know about.’
‘There’s nothing you can say to me that anyone can’t hear. If you have something in your gullet, spit it out.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Kissack won’t be coming back.’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘Kissack? Who the hell is he?’
I hadn’t scored with that one. Of course, he might not know of Kissack who was pretty low on the totem pole—a hired hand. I tried again. ‘Lash won’t be coming back, either.’
That got to him! I knew by the fractional change in the planes of his face. But he kept his end up well. ‘And who is Lash?’
‘Lash is the man who hired the men who beat me up,’ I said deliberately. ‘Lash is the man who hired Kissack to k—’
Brinton held up his hand abruptly. ‘I can’t stay here all day. I have things to do at my place. You can come with me and get rid of this nonsense there.’ He got to his feet creakily.
I cheered internally. I had the old bastard by the short hairs, and he knew it. He went ahead of me and I paused at the door and looked back at Charlie. ‘You louse!’ I said. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’
I went with Brinton to the basement and we solemnly drove two blocks to the basement of another building and ascended to his penthouse where the coal fire still blazed cheerfully. All the time he didn’t say a thing, but once on his own ground, he said, ‘Stafford, you’d better be careful with your statements or I’ll have your balls!’
I grinned, walked past him and sat in an armchair by the fire, and put down my briefcase. He didn’t like that; he didn’t like not being in central, and that meant he’d have to follow me. He sank into an opposing chair. ‘Well, what is it?’
‘I’d like to tell you a story about a bright, ambitious young engineer who married a woman who had just come into money. She hadn’t won the pools or anything like that, but the life of her previous husband had been insured for a hundred thousand pounds. This was in 1937, so that’s a lot more money than it sounds like now—maybe half a million in our terms.’
I stopped but Brinton made no comment. He merely stared at me with cold eyes. ‘But what this woman didn’t know was that this bright young engineer who, incidentally, was Canadian like yourself, had murdered her husband. His name was John Grenville Anderson, but he was commonly known as Jock. He was born in 1898 which, by another coincidence, would make him exactly as old as you.’
Brinton whispered, ‘If you repeat those words in public I’ll take you to court and strip you naked.’
‘It was the name that foxed me,’ I said. ‘We’ve had quite a few Canadian peers but none of them have tried to hide behind a name. Beaverbrook was obviously Canadian; Thomson of Fleet not only retained his own name but advertised his newspaper connection. But Brinton doesn’t mean a damned thing, either here or in Canada. There’s a little place called Brinton in Norfolk but you’ve never been near it to my knowledge.’
I leaned down and opened the briefcase. ‘Exhibit One—a photocopy of a page from Whitaker’s Almanac.’ I read the relevant line. ‘“Created 1947, Brinton (1st.) John Grenville Anderson, born 1898.” A most anonymous title, don’t you think?’
‘Get on with this preposterous nonsense.’
‘Exhibit Two—a copy of your marriage lines to Helen Billson early in 1937. You didn’t stick with her long, did you, Jock? Just long enough to part her from her money. A hundred thousand quid was just what a man like you needed to start a good little engineering company. Then the war came, and Lord, how the money rolled in! You were in aircraft manufacture, of course, on cost plus a percentage until your compatriot, Beaverbrook, put a stop to that. But by the end of the war you’d built up your nest-egg to a couple of millions, plus the grateful thanks of your sovereign who ennobled you for contributing funds to the right political party. And not just a tatty old life peerage like we have now. Not that that made any difference—you had no legitimate children.’
His lips compressed. ‘I’m being very patient.’
‘So you are. You ought to have me thrown out neck and crop. Why don’t you?’
His eyes flickered. ‘You amuse me. I’d like to hear the end of this fairy story.’
‘No one can say I’m not obliging,’ I said. ‘All right; by 1946 you’d just got started. You discovered you had a flair for finance; in the property boom of the ‘fifties you made millions—you’re still making millions because money makes money. And it all came out of the murder of Peter Billson whose widow you married.’
‘And how am I supposed to have murdered Billson?’
‘You were his mechanic in the London to Cape Town Air Race of 1936. In Algiers you delayed him so he’d have to fly to Kano at night. Then you gimmicked his compass so that he flew off course.’
‘You can never prove that. You’re getting into dangerous waters, Stafford.’
‘Exhibit Three—an eight-by-ten colour photograph of Flyaway, Billson’s aircraft, taken by myself less than two weeks ago. Note how intact it is. Exhibit Four—an affidavit witnessed by a notary public and signed by myself and the man who took out the compass and tested it.’
Brinton studied the photograph, then read the document. I said, ‘B
y the way, that’s also a photocopy—all these papers are. Those that are a matter of public record are in the appropriate place, and the others are in the vaults of my bank. My solicitor knows what to do with them should anything happen to me.’
He grunted. ‘Who is Lucas Byrne?’
‘An aeronautical engineer,’ I said, stretching a point. ‘You’ll note he mentions a substance found in the main fuel tank. Here’s a report by a chemist who analysed the stuff. He says he found mostly hydrocarbons of petroleum derivation.’
‘Naturally,’ sneered Brinton.
‘He said mostly,’ I pointed out. ‘He also found other hydrocarbons—disaccharides, D-glucopyranose, D-fructopyranose and others. Translated into English it means that you’d put sugar into the fuel tank, and when Billson switched over from the auxiliary his engine froze solid.’ I sat back. ‘But let’s come to modern times.’
Brinton stretched out his hand and dropped Byrne’s statement on to the fire. I laughed. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’
‘What about modern times?’
‘You became really worried about Paul Billson, didn’t you, when you found he was practically insane about his father? He was the one man who had the incentive and the obsessiveness to go out to find Flyaway in order to clear his father’s name. You weren’t as worried about Alix Aarvik but you really anchored Paul. I had a long chat with Andrew McGovern about that the other day.’
Brinton’s head came up with a jerk. ‘You’ve seen McGovern?’
‘Yes—didn’t he tell you? I suppose I must have thrown a bit of a scare into him. He had no objection to employing Paul because you were paying all of Paul’s inflated salary. He jumped to the natural conclusion: that Paul was one of your byblows, a souvenir of your misspent youth whom you were tactfully looking after. And so you tethered Paul for fifteen years by giving him a salary that he knew he wasn’t worth. It’s ironic that it was you who financed his trip to the Sahara when he blew up. I dare say the payments you made through the Whensley Group can be traced.’
His lips twisted. ‘I doubt it.’
‘McGovern told me something else. He didn’t want Stafford Security pulled out of the Whensley Group—it was your idea. You twisted his arm. I don’t know what hold you have on McGovern, but whatever it is you used it. That was to stop me carrying on the investigation into Paul Billson. You also got McGovern to send Alix Aarvik to Canada but that didn’t work out, did it? Because I got to her first. So you had Lash have me beaten up. I don’t think McGovern likes you any more. I suppose that’s why he didn’t report back to you that he’d seen me—that and the fact that I told him he’d better keep his nose clean.’
Brinton dismissed McGovern with a twitch of a finger. ‘You said Lash isn’t coming back. What happened to him?’
‘Two bullets through his lungs, one through the belly, and another through the head at close range—that’s what happened to Lash. There are three dead men out there, and another with an amputated foot, and all because of you, Jock. All because you were so scared of what Paul Billson might find that you put out a contract on him.’ I tapped my arm in its sling. ‘Not Gstaad, Jock; the Tassili. You owe me something for this.’
‘I owe you nothing,’ he said contemptuously.
‘Then we come to a man called Torstein Aarvik who married Helen Billson.’ I drew a photocopy of the marriage certificate from my briefcase. ‘This really shook me when I saw it because legally she was Anderson, wasn’t she? Helen had lost sight of you so she took a chance. She married Aarvik as the widow Billson without divorcing you. It was wartime and things were pretty free and easy and, besides, she wasn’t too bright—I have Alix Aarvik’s word for that. But you knew where she was because you’d been keeping tabs on her. I don’t know how you separated her from her money in the first place but you used her bigamous marriage to keep her quiet for the rest of her life. She couldn’t fight you, could she? And maybe she wasn’t bright but perhaps she was decent enough to prevent Alix knowing that she’s a bastard. Now who’s the bastard here, you son of a bitch?’
‘You’ll never make this stick,’ he said. ‘Not after forty-two years.’
‘I believe I will, and so do you, or you wouldn’t have been so bloody worried about Paul Billson. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, Jock.’
‘Stop calling me Jock,’ he said irritably.
‘You’re an old man,’ I said. ‘Eighty years old. You’re going to die soon. Tomorrow, next year, five years, ten—you’ll be as dead as Lash. But they don’t have capital punishment now, so you’ll probably die in a prison hospital. Unless…’
He was suddenly alert, scenting a bargain, a deal. ‘Unless what?’
‘What’s the use of putting you in jail? You wouldn’t live as luxuriously as you do now but you’d get by. They’re tender-minded about murderous old men these days, and that wouldn’t satisfy me, nor would it help the people you’ve cheated all these years.’
I put my hand into my pocket, drew out a calculator, punched a few keys, then wrote the figure on a piece of paper. It made a nice sum if not a round one—£1,714,425.68. I tossed it across to him. ‘That’s a hundred thousand compounded at a nominal seven per cent for forty-two years.’
I said, ‘Even if Scotland Yard or the Director of Public Prosecutions take no action the newspapers would love it. The Insight team of the Sunday Times would make a meal of it. Think of all the juicy bits—Lady Brinton dying of cancer in virtual poverty while her husband lived high on the hog. Your name would stink, even in the City where they have strong stomachs. Do you think any decent or even any moderately indecent man would have anything to do with you after that?’
I stuck my finger under his nose. ‘And another thing—Paul Billson knows nothing about this. But I can prime him with it and point him at you like a gun. He’d kill you—you wouldn’t stand a flaming chance. You’d better get out your cheque book.’
He flinched but made a last try. ‘This figure is impossible. You don’t suppose I’m as fluid as all that?’
‘Don’t try to con me, you old bastard,’ I said. ‘Any bank in the City will lend you that amount if you just pick up the telephone and ask. Do it!’
He stood up. ‘You’re a hard man.’
‘I’ve had a good teacher. You make out two cheques; one to the Peter Billson Memorial Trust for a million and a half. The rest to me—that’s my twelve-and-a-half per cent commission. Expenses have been high. And I get Gloria’s shares, and you sell out of Stafford Security. I don’t care who you sell your shares to but it mustn’t be Charlie Malleson.’
‘How do I know you won’t renege? I want all the papers you have.’
‘Not a chance in hell! Those are my insurance policies. I wouldn’t want another Lash turning up in my life.’
He sat down and wrote the cheques.
I walked the streets of London for a long time that afternoon with cheques in my pocket for more money than I had ever carried. Alix Aarvik and Paul Billson would now be all right for the rest of their lives. I had put the money into a trust because I didn’t want Paul getting his hands on it—he didn’t deserve that. But the not-too-bright son of a not-too-bright mother would be looked after.
As for me, I thought 121/2 % was a reasonable fee. It would enable me to buy out Charlie Malleson, a regret-table necessity because I could no longer work with him. Jack Ellis would continue to be a high flier and he’d get his stake in the firm, and we’d hire an accountant and pay him well. And Byrne would get something unexpectedly higher than the ridiculous fee he’d asked for saving lives and being shot at.
At the thought of Byrne I stopped suddenly and looked about me. I was in Piccadilly, at the Circus, and the lights and crowds were all about me in the evening dusk. And it all seemed unreal. This, the heart of the city at the heart of the world, wasn’t reality. Reality lay in Ataker, in Koudia, in the Aïr, in the Ténéré, on the Tassili.
I felt an awful sense of loss. I wanted to be with Byrne and Mokht
ar and Hamiada, with the cheerful man who, because his name used to be Konti, was a murderer. I wanted to say hello again to the giraffe in Agadez, to sit beside a small fire at an evening camp and look at the stars, to feel again the freedom of a Targui.
I stopped and pondered, there among the hurrying crowds of Londoners, and decided to give Byrne his fee in person. Besides, it would also give me the opportunity of swapping dirty limericks with Hesther Raulier.
Windfall
To JAN HEMSING and an unknown number of Kenyan cats
ONE
It is difficult to know when this business began. Certainly it was not with Ben Hardin. But possibly it began when Jomo Kenyatta instructed the Kenyan delegation to the United Nations to lead a move to expel South Africa from the UN. That was on the 25th of October, 1974, and it was probably soon thereafter that the South Africans decided they had to do something about it.
Max Stafford himself dated his involvement to the first day back at the London office after an exhaustive, and exhausting, trip around Europe—Paris, Frankfurt, Hamburg, Amsterdam, Milan. Three years earlier he had decided that since his clients were multinational he, perforce, would also have to go multinational. It had been a hard slog setting up the European offices but now Stafford Security Consultants, as well as sporting the tag ‘Ltd’ after the company name, had added ‘SA’, ‘GmbH’, ‘SpA’ and a couple of other assortments of initials. Stafford was now looking with a speculative eye across the Atlantic in the hope of adding ‘Inc’.
He paused in the ante-room of his office. ‘Is Mr Ellis around?’
Joyce, his secretary, said, ‘I saw him five minutes ago. Did you have a good trip?’
‘Wearing, but good.’ He put a small package on her desk. ‘Your favourite man-bait from Paris; Canal something-or-other. I’ll be in Mr Ellis’s office until further notice.’
Joyce squeaked. ‘Thanks, Mr Stafford.’
Jack Ellis ran the United Kingdom operation. He was young, but coming along nicely, and ran a taut ship. Stafford had promoted him to the position when he had made the decision to move into Europe. It had been risky using so young a man in a top post where he would have to negotiate with some of the stuffier and elderly Chairmen of companies, but it had worked out and Stafford had never regretted it.
Flyaway / Windfall Page 30