EQMM, September-October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "So you need to win tonight,” I said, “and win well."

  He shook his head. “I've cash in hand, never fret. If only I can run Antoine to earth."

  "I'd heard that you were about to be hauled into a debtors’ prison,” I said.

  "Aye, so I was—this far from the Marshalsea.” He held his fingers a hair's breadth apart. “Or following Antoine to Geneva. But I had a plan. And damn me if it didn't work rather well."

  "And what was the plan?"

  He peered at me hazily. “Tell you what, if you're ever dunned, I'll tell you then. Until then, mum's the word.” And that was the last I got from him.

  To my amazement and horror, it was soon all about town that I was dangling after Miss Honoria. Since I had spoken to the young lady no more than one could achieve in a country dance and also knew her true position, I suspected that the origin of these rumours was none other than Lady Grenfell herself.

  "I take it that you do not find these rumours likely to entice you into her family?” Mama asked, as I squired her to the Royal Academy.

  "On the contrary, they raise horrible suspicions."

  She narrowed her eyes. “Against whom?"

  I flushed. I had not revealed even to her that Miss Honoria might be enceinte. “About Lady Grenfell's truthfulness,” I answered at last.

  "You mean in the matter of the diamond necklace?"

  "Exactly. I simply cannot believe that family up to its eyes in debt buys a diamond necklace. Champagne, yes, a necklace, no. And Lady Grenfell's shone like new, did it not?"

  She nodded.

  "Mama, which jeweller does her ladyship patronise?"

  * * * *

  When I indicated to John Bridge, of Messrs. Rundell and Bridge, that I wished to speak with him on a matter of some delicacy, he glanced with amazement at my clerical garb, worn for the first time in London, but swiftly returned to his usual calm and pleasant demeanour, inviting me into his private office.

  "In fact, it is not a matter of some delicacy,” I corrected myself, “but of the utmost delicacy—secrecy, indeed."

  He bowed. “You have my word, my Lord—"

  "Parson Campion,” I corrected him. “I am not here on family business. I am here to enquire about the purchase of a diamond necklace."

  "You know that I may not betray secrets,” he demurred.

  "I do indeed. Neither may I, in my calling, though the two are somewhat different. But I believe that someone has been punished for a crime he did not commit. May I ask you if anyone has recently bought a diamond necklace to replace a lost one?"

  He responded to my smile with a courteous one of his own. “It is—I am pleased to say—an all too regular occurrence. But I do keep records: Perhaps if you gave me a definite name I might check? But please do not ask me to do more than confirm an absolute truth. I dare not point you in anyone's direction!"

  I held his gaze. “Mr. Bridge, did Lady Grenfell purchase a copy of her stolen diamond necklace?"

  "Sir, she did not."

  * * * *

  My mother heard the news with interest. “But Almeria was certainly wearing a necklace remarkably similar to the lost one. Indeed,” she added reflectively, “it positively glistered."

  "And all that glisters is not gold!” I quoted the proverb with gusto. More soberly I added, “I fear I have to ask a few questions—nay, not of Lady Grenfell herself. Not yet. Now, Mama, if you had to have a copy of a necklace made, to which discreet jeweller would you go?"

  "To the one to which you have already been—to Rundell and Bridge, of course."

  * * * *

  My mother had kindly invited Dr. Hansard and his wife to join us in Berkeley Square, engaging to show Mrs. Hansard the sights of the town and introduce her to her milliner and her modiste while Edmund and I conferred about our next move. Our dispositions were somewhat hampered by the continued presence in the capital of Miss Honoria, looking more and more unwell.

  "If only her wretched lover would return and remove her from the country for good! It cannot be good for a lady in her condition to be embroiled in the scandal that is about to ensue,” I said.

  Dr. Hansard raised an eyebrow. “Women are a great deal tougher than is widely believed,” he declared. “But her very situation must be distressing, and a wedding band, put in place by no matter how shady a gamester, might be perceived as preferable to prolonged rustication and separation from her bastard babe, which is usually the price such unfortunate girls must pay to be rehabilitated into society."

  "We have no alternative but to seek out Stourton again. He must have some idea of the young man's whereabouts. He might even be prevailed on to escort his sister to whichever city he has descended upon,” I added slowly.

  But such an idea found no favour with Stourton. He had no particular reason not to go, but mentioned an engagement with friends, a horse to see to—all facile excuses that made my knuckles itch.

  "It would be the deed of a generous brother,” I urged

  "When was I ever generous?” he asked with an unpleasing sincerity.

  * * * *

  Lady Grenfell was equally unhelpful. Without suggesting outright that Miss Honoria had lost her virtue, we hinted as best we could the reason for her illness. Whether her ladyship was indeed ignorant, or else so stupid as not to understand our insinuations, I know not. But she averred without hesitation that her daughter was not at home, but had just stepped out to a lending library.

  At last I could restrain myself no longer. “Lady Grenfell, may I speak to you about the diamond necklace you wore to your ball?"

  How did I expect her to react? With a blush of guilt? One of her famous spasms?

  Certainly not with an indulgent beam.

  "Dear Stourton knew how upset I was when that monster stole it from around my very neck! He had a run of luck at cards or on the horses.... What a sweet boy, to purchase a replacement for me."

  "Sweet indeed,” I echoed.

  * * * *

  "So what is your latest theory?” Mama asked me indulgently, as we ate an exquisite luncheon. “Do you believe that young Stourton has such a generous spirit as to buy such a gift for a woman with whom he has scarcely been on speaking terms this last five years?"

  "No,” Edmund replied on my behalf. “On the contrary, I believe she suspected him of stealing it—hence her lies under oath to the court. To ‘prove’ his innocence, he came up with a replacement. Which may not be a replacement at all, but paste."

  "Since it glisters,” Mama agreed, nodding to me. “So you need to see the necklace again, but more closely. We will invite the family to dine before joining us in our box for the opera. No woman worth her salt would fail to wear her diamonds for such an event. Now what is it, Tobias?” I might have been an importunate seven-year-old tugging at her skirt.

  "Would not such an invitation lend credence to this ridiculous rumour about my attachment to Miss Honoria?” I asked stiffly.

  "It might indeed. Or it might shock her into confessing that she is ... betrothed ... to someone else."

  Hansard smiled. “I see only one problem, my lady. How do we get a sufficiently close look at this necklace? It cannot be such an event as you would invite Mr. Rundell or Mr. Bridge!"

  "That does not mean that they cannot give an opinion,” I declared. “Mr. Bridge will only answer direct questions, not volunteer information. Last time I asked the wrong question. This time I must ask the correct one."

  * * * *

  The party never reached the opera, but a fine drama was enacted before our eyes.

  It was Miss Honoria—or rather her absence, with a trifling indisposition, according to her mama, her eyes spitting fire—who provoked what threatened to become an unseemly altercation.

  Stourton looked from one cool face to the next, finished his Champagne in one gulp—a mistake, as he was already well into his cups when he arrived.

  "We have such hope of you two lovers,” she announced, with a hard titter and a smile in my direction. �
�Do we not, Stourton?"

  "I am sure Stourton has no such thing,” I declared, incensed. “Stourton knows that Miss Honoria's feelings are engaged elsewhere, and he is in fact about to take his sister to her intended."

  "Am I, old chap? I think not."

  "I think so indeed,” I persevered. “You have a great deal of money at your disposal, have you not? And you might as well spend it on someone who—if not precisely deserving—is in need of it. And once you have reached Geneva—"

  "Geneva!” he snorted. “I learned today that he has fled to Canada! Catch me going there!"

  "Well, you will escort your sister there instead. I suggest that you stay there. In fact, if you ever return to this country, you will almost certainly hang."

  As we had arranged, Hansard was carefully watching not me or Stourton, but Lady Grenfell. In a moment he was at her side, producing smelling salts and pressing her back into her chair. “Nay, your Ladyship—please remain seated. I cannot answer for your health otherwise.” As he plied the vinaigrette, he most deftly unfastened her necklace.

  "Hang? Why should a gentleman hang?” Stourton asked insolently, but with a pallor that suggested he knew exactly why.

  "For sending an innocent man to the gallows. That poor wretch whom you identified in court, ma'am, was entirely innocent, as I am sure you know. You recognised your son as he robbed you. What words you exchanged subsequently I can only imagine. But I suspect that you demanded the return of your property as the price of your silence—a reasonable request, after all. What mother would want her son to swing? Accordingly, your necklace was returned. As a gesture of remorse, your son had even had it cleaned. It looked very fine. But in fact, Lady Grenfell, your son reneged on the deal. He had the necklace copied.” So much had Mr. Bridge confirmed.

  "Indeed, these are but trumpery beads!” Hansard concluded, casting them at her feet.

  "Do you now object to Stourton's journey abroad?” I asked. “I cannot think so, because he will of course be escorting you, ma'am. You may have had no hand in the robbery, but you committed perjury of the very worst sort. You sent an innocent man to a hideous death. You deserve—you both deserve—to be handed over to the law this very evening. But we will be generous where you were not. We will give you till tomorrow night to quit these shores forever, with a written undertaking that you will never return—and, of course, why. Go now. I fear our dinner engagement must be cancelled."

  * * * *

  "At least poor Honoria will have her mother beside her when she marries,” Mama declared sentimentally. “And when she delivers her child."

  "I think not, ma'am,” Hansard said, staring down at the fire. “You tell me that she has long cried wolf in the matter of her health. So I fear that no one will take any notice at her next spasm or the next but one. But I can tell you that her pulse indicates the most serious of heart conditions. She will not reach Canada if the crossing is rough."

  "She would be buried at sea?” I asked slowly.

  "In all probability."

  "Then truly God moves in mysterious ways. I thought that we had let the pair off lightly. But now it seems that poor William is truly avenged after all."

  (c)2008 by Judith Cutler

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: EVENT RISK by Mike Wiecek

  A winner of the PWA's Shamus Award for best short story, in 2006, and a two-time winner of the Derringer Award for best short story, Mike Wiecek makes a first appearance in EQMM here with a tale of the murderous side of a high-rolling businessman. He is the author of the 2005 novel Exit Strategy (Jove), which received a nomination from the International Thriller Writers for their best-novel award.

  I admit, I thought hard before agreeing to meet Tarnbeck where he want-ed. Generally, my clients are keen to conduct our business in private—they need to see me in person, but they're more than skittish about potential blowback. Tarnbeck, evidently marching to a different drummer, suggested the shooting range at his club.

  "What?” I wasn't sure I heard him right on the cell phone.

  "I try to fire a few hundred rounds a week. You have to practice too, right? We'll make it a working meeting."

  I do keep up my training, in fact, but that's part of my job. Tarnbeck was CEO of a six-billion-dollar manufacturing company. Did I have any lunatic enemies devious enough to arrange a hit in Connecticut's third-priciest country club?

  But I needed the work, so I said yes. Life is too short to worry whether ninjas had infiltrated the blue-blazer set.

  So there we were, two guys on the outdoor range in perfect weather: cool, overcast, and no wind whatsoever. October in Fairfield County can go either way, what with global warming and all, but we'd lucked out. A few gold and red leaves had escaped the grounds crew, lying on the greensward between asphalted shooting strips. Before we started, I couldn't see a single gleam of brass anywhere, even in the berm behind the target row, which meant the groundskeepers were spending hours picking over the lawn every night.

  When did golfing and squash give way to semiautomatic weapons? I tell you, New Money has too much time on its hands.

  "Nice handgun,” Tarnbeck had said when I pulled out the Sig P226 I normally use. He had an unmodified Model 1911 himself, and from fifty yards was plinking the headplates steadily, six at a time. I'll say this for him, he looked good: about sixty, with a runner's rangy build, a silver brush cut, and a nice, easy stance while he popped away. I used the big Mickey Mouse ears—I value my hearing—but Tarnbeck stayed with the small foam plugs favored by those with an image to protect.

  Of course, that meant we could barely hear each other, and I wasn't about to go hollering out our business. So the conversation proceeded fitfully during reloads, when I could loosen the earmuffs.

  "Here's the problem,” he said as we refilled our magazines. “This blowhard died in my boardroom the other day."

  "I heard.” It was in the papers. Tarnbeck's company was “exploring strategic alternatives,” as they say, and one of the suitors, some private-equity partner, had keeled over during a private negotiation. “Heart attack. You have a liability issue?"

  "Of course not.” Tarnbeck glanced at me impatiently. “He should have cut back on the steaks and whiskey a long time ago."

  "How fast did EMS get there?” Call it professional curiosity—911 response time sometimes matters to me, for all kinds of reasons.

  "A few minutes.” He shrugged, finished with his last magazine, and snapped it back into the pistol. “Long enough for everyone else in the room to speed-dial his broker."

  That was a nice image: The guy on the floor gasping and clutching at his chest while all around him his pals were busy shorting his debt. Tarnbeck grinned and stepped back to the line, raising his pistol.

  Five minutes later we started up again.

  "Someone's trying to horn in on my buyout,” Tarnbeck said. “Buying our stock on the sly, raising money in the unregulated markets. It's got the bankers all jumpy about event risk, so they're jacking up our short-term rates. Lots of rumors, and I have no idea who's behind it all."

  "Nothing in the 13-D's?” The SEC requires investors to fess up once they've acquired more than five percent of a public company, for just this reason.

  "Not for another week. It's too recent."

  "So you've got another bidder.” Tarnbeck nodded shortly, and started shooting again.

  I could see the problem. Tarnbeck wanted to take the company private himself. As CEO, he knew exactly where he could slash and burn, to cash out asset value hidden from current shareholders. If some other buyout group outbid him, not only would Tarnbeck lose the deal and its hundreds of millions of easy money, he'd also surely lose his job. He wanted the LBO, and he wanted it cheap, and some jackal had shown up to contest the carcass.

  Of course, the shareholders—whose interests Tarnbeck was supposed to represent—would benefit from a higher price. Can you say, conflict of interest?

  We moved back to 75 yards and switched to si
lhouette targets. Long range for handguns, though Tarnbeck kept his groupings impressively tight. You could tell that everything he did he made into a competition, and he was obviously paying attention to my own results. So I let my shots drift around, mostly on the paper but randomly spaced. Hey, I needed the job.

  "I guess I know why you looked me up,” I said, while we waited for the rangemaster to trot out more boxes of ammo.

  Tarnbeck nodded, looking straight at me. “Lots of investigators could find out who it is,” he said. “Probably quicker than you, too. But then what, they're gonna write me a report? I need this problem settled for good."

  "For good,” I repeated.

  "You know what I mean. Do I have to spell it out?"

  The dead guy in his boardroom must have been an inspiration. I sounded him out on fees, and he was sensible enough not to nickel-and-dime the bonus calculation, so we got to a handshake quick enough.

  Tarnbeck didn't turn back to the targets, though. He stood watching me, thoughtful, keeping his pistol pointed correctly downrange.

  "I wonder,” he said. “This amounts to inside knowledge. A man in your position could arrange to profit on any number of side trades ahead of the, ah, precipitating event."

  The smarter ones figure this out. “That's right."

  Tarnbeck thought about it some more. “But ... you don't have the capital to make it worthwhile, do you?"

  Like, twenty percent of nothing is still nothing. Maybe it's a cliché, but it's still true: You got to have money to make money.

  "I'm not living off investments,” I said. “I earn my pay."

  "Got it.” Tarnbeck seemed satisfied. “Sure you don't want to shoot some more?"

  "No.” I had already put the Sig away. “My hand hurts."

  * * * *

  Normal accountants complete their assignments with an audit report and a stack of spreadsheets. My jobs might start out the same way, but they generally end up requiring, say, unlicensed firearms, or lengths of piano wire. Sure, Tarnbeck could have gotten a straight financial investigator cheaper than me. But he wasn't interested in the numbers, he was buying an outcome. All the letters you might have after your name—C.P.A., M.B.A., CFE, whatever—just aren't going to handle that last bit.