After which they had all trooped back down to the drawing room and talked for an hour or so before going to bed - with Charles busy at the drinks table and Rosemary serving a cold supper of chicken and pickles to Harry Hall and Ray Peters. Charles had explained about "procedures" - Maria was never to go out alone, Rosemary would accompany her even on a walk round the garden, and Harry Hall was to know where she was every minute of the day and night.
Maria had protested, "But this is ridiculous. I'm in no danger it's Jack and Sam-"
"We know that, Mrs Green," Ray Peters had cut in swiftly, "but you're our responsibility now." He grinned, "Besides your husband might phone wanting to speak to you and he'll have my guts if I can't put you on the line right away."
And they had gone to bed not long after that.
"Have some more coffee," Rosemary said, interrupting her thoughts.
Maria shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm not behaving very well for a guest, am I?"
Rosemary smiled: "You're behaving exactly like one of our guests."
"Oh? You have others?"
"Not often. Perhaps once a year. Then Charles gets a phone call from London and we know someone wants a quiet place for a week or two."
"And you just take them in? Anyone - I mean without knowing about them or-"
Rosemary lifted the lid of the coffeepot and peered inside. "They're not anyone, otherwise my uncle wouldn't send them."
"But who?" Maria stumbled, "I mean - what sort of people-"
"I'm sorry," Rosemary smiled as she poured herself another cup of coffee, "Just say most of them are good people. Frightened people. Few of them English - Czechs, Poles-"
"I'm Italian," Maria said, almost defensively.
"I know. You're our first one. You must teach me to cook - what was that marvellous dish we had when we came to The Dog's Home?"
Maria tried to remember the menu the night Rosemary and Charles had dined with them. It was a month ago. After Maria had lost her argument with that man Llewellyn. Well, they had all turned against her - not just Kaufman but Enrico - and even Jack had sided with them. "I'm going to be with Sam," he had said, "and we all know there's a small army covering Sam. But we don't want another one camped here in The Dog's Home looking after you. Far better you go away until it's all over."
She had teased him about it later, in bed, "You just want me out the way, while you and Sam paint the town. Be like the old days every chorus girl in the West End will be fair game for you two."
Jack had chuckled and pulled her towards him, "You're afraid of missing your share, that's all. Come here and I'll give you something to remember me by."
And he had.
Rosemary said, "Something funny?"
"What? Oh, no - just thinking," Maria shook her head to dispel the memory. But one thought leads to another and when she wasn't thinking about Jack she was worrying about Sam. It had always been like that - ever since she came to England. Jack first, then Sam. Sam was "family" as perhaps only an Italian understands the closeness of that word.
"About what?" asked Rosemary.
"Oh - this and that - Sam mostly," Maria stubbed the cigarette out and immediately opened the packet for another one. "I wish I had spoken to him this morning. He, well he must feel so let down over this. That Jack and I have betrayed him-"
"I'm sure he feels no such thing," Rosemary said smoothly.
"I should have spoken to him," Maria said, biting her lip, "I would have but Jack said that man Kaufman had taken him off to the kitchen."
Rosemary said nothing. Past experience had taught her the art of listening. If she could get her guests talking - properly talking within the first twenty-four hours all manner of things were possible.
Maria shuddered. "We should never have listened to that man Kaufman. He's - oh I don't know - there's something about that man-"
"Bill Kaufman?" Rosemary sounded surprised, "Oh he's all right. Really." A shadow passed over her face, "He's had his share of problems too, that's all."
But Maria was not concerned with that. She had enough to worry about, with Jack and Sam and Lucia, and she was about to say so when the door opened and Ray Peters came in. Maria's eyes flew to his face. "Any news?" she asked.
He smiled reassuringly, "Only good news. Hardman made, contact - they're meeting for lunch."
"Oh that," she said flatly, "I know about that." Jack had told her hours ago. She glanced at her watch and was amazed to realise it was not quite twelve thirty. Was that all? She groaned. She had to face days and days of this - just Waiting. Waiting for news. God, she would go mad before it was all over.
The Hunter's Tower sits high up on Hampstead Heath, even above the Whitestone Pond. It's been there a long time, one way and another. Successive owners have added bits and changed others to make a bugger's muddle of the architecture. The car park has grown to the size of a football pitch - and a tiny, four-man lift has been installed inside to take the gentry up to the Turret Bar. The Old Bull and Bush is down the road, and beyond that lies Golders Green, where respectable Jewish families have replaced all the fish and chip shops with delicatessens.
But the Hunter's Tower rises above all that. I propped up the counter in the Turret Bar and looked out of the window. The three glass walls made the place like a goldfish bowl and let in more light than an artist's studio - but the view outside was a bit special. Across Hampstead to the bed-sit land of Belsize Park, then the West End, with the City office blocks on the skyline. Closer at hand the green of the Heath created an illusion of spaciousness - and of freedom. I smiled, illusion was right. Especially when I saw our taxi in the car park. Or rather, Kaufman's taxi. It may have plied for hire once but that was a long time ago. And I doubt our driver ever sat the exams taxi drivers go in for. He was downstairs now, in the other bar, but he wouldn't leave before me. No more than Henderson would. I turned slightly, the better to see him immersed in the Financial Times at his corner table. He had been there when we arrived. No acknowledgement had passed between us. A gin and tonic rested on the table in front of him, next to a menu. Not that he was ordering. He would wait for Hardman to arrive before doing that, to make sure his time in the dining room coincided with ours.
Jack looked across the room to where the two lovers held hands. Apart from us, and Henderson, and the man behind the bar, they had the place to themselves. Not that they cared, they were in a world of their own.
"Why this place?" Jack asked.
"Why not? It's never busy at lunchtimes. We can be sure of a quiet corner and we're unlikely to bump into any of Edgar's cronies this far out."
"Quick thinking, Sam," Jack mimicked Kaufman to perfection, "handled like a pro, buddy boy."
I grinned. "He's wrong about Hardman you know - completely wrong. I felt bad earlier - about dragging Edgar into this...this trap, but I feel okay now. It'll be worth it - just to put an end to Kaufman's senseless suspicions."
Jack shrugged and carried his drink to the far window. To a casual observer he was admiring the view. Perhaps his back was turned on Henderson by coincidence, but somehow I doubted it. When I joined him he said, "Don't underestimate Kaufman, or any of them - they're all professionals."
"Including Lucia?"
He half smiled at that. "Do yourself a favour and leave her alone. I saw the look you gave her this morning. Spend a week with the girls in Shepherd's Market when this is over - it'll be a damn sight less complicated."
I watched three businessman types wander into the bar and take our place at the counter. They were arguing loudly about who was having what and whose expense account was treating whom to lunch.
Jack continued to gaze out of the window - and he was still talking about Lucia. "She carries some sort of rank in the Carabinieri. Junior to Enrico but not by a lot," he shrugged, "I don't know much about her but her background includes Interpol and Christ knows what. She's tough, Sam - the only man who interests her is her brother Fiore - and not to kiss and make up either. Maria says she adored Franka. Ev
eryone did but Lucia's devotion was a bit special."
"Anything else I ought to know?"
He grinned. "Plenty - but we'll find out together. You know as much as I do now."
Even that was comforting. Ever since I left Brixton events had been shaping me rather than the other way round. Inexplicable things had happened; Jack's car being blown up; being kidnapped; the big house; Kaufman and his mob. Now at least I understood what was going on. And I was out and about again, able to act instead of re-acting to the actions of others. It made me feel better. And having Jack around helped, made it like the old days with the two of us against the world. This was a rougher world but I would rather have Jack next to me than anyone I could think of. He was about to say something but I stopped him. Edgar Hardman stood in the doorway, blinking in the strong light flooding in through the windows. It was Edgar, but I had to look twice to recognise him. He had aged ten years since I last saw him - as if he had been to prison, not me. His once straight back had bent and his mane of grey hair had turned white - and he looked so frail that I half expected to see him walk with the aid of a stick.
"He's here," I said softly, "doesn't look like a killer, does he?"
"Neither did Crippen."
I threw Jack a sour look and went forward to meet Edgar. His eyes lit up when he saw me and there was no mistaking the warmth of his greeting. It was every bit as cordial as I might have expected. I introduced Jack and told the story we had agreed upon - Jack was going on to a meeting with our architects "just round the corner" and had stopped off for a quick drink. He was leaving now but would pick me up after lunch for us to go onto our important meeting together. Edgar was polite enough but seemed relieved when we were left alone. I ordered his dry martini and carried it to a corner table.
"This is fun," he said with something of his old sparkle, "lunch in the country no less."
I chuckled. Edgar was a City man at heart. His office was less than three miles away but for him to leave the City during daylight hours called for a string of native bearers and a dozen packhorses. It was a hint of arrogance which reminded me of Kay.
Early conversation at re-unions is always a bit stilted and ours was no exception. We reconnoitred old ground like soldiers in a minefield.
I suppose so much of the past had brought pain to both of us that we were anxious to avoid opening old wounds. And I was inhibited by Kaufman's warning - "Let him make the running Sam, find out what's on his mind." It was completely ridiculous but I found it colouring everything I said. Especially when I remembered that photograph of Kay.
The head waiter collected our orders and we had another drink before going through to the dining room. It was very spacious, the other half of the top floor in fact, with the kitchens forming the central core. The furnishings were modern Italian - soft black leather with rosewood trim - but the cooking smells were decidedly French. Edgar sniffed with mild approval.
I was right about it being quiet. Of forty tables less than a third were occupied. From the corner of my eye I watched Henderson select a spot near the entrance before resuming his study of the share prices.
I tried to follow Kaufman's advice. I did try to make Edgar lead the conversation but apart from the occasional dry comment or amused observation, he was taciturn and ill at ease. Strain and nervousness showed in small mannerisms and he picked at his food with the appetite of a sparrow. It saddened, almost sickened, me to watch him. I remembered Edgar from the old days - full of life and authority - a quick, decisive man, a born decision-maker. Now he was a shadow of his former self. And just as he had changed, so too it seemed had our relationship. We had been good friends once, firm friends despite the difference in our ages. He could never have been my father with his background, but I had looked up to him as a sort of father figure. And he in turn had always supported me, encouraged me as a man might do with his son. I used to feel that we had so much in common - that Kay was only a part of it - but now that was all so far in the past that for the first hour we struggled to find things to say to each other.
Then, as we neared the end of the main course, Edgar raised his glass with obvious approval. I had ordered a Mouton Rothschild but then I never messed about with wine when Edgar was around he knew more on the subject than anyone I ever met. He swallowed slowly and set his glass back on the table. "It still exists," he said, "the quality trade. Only wish we still did it, but Charlie Weston moved us down market. Most of our stuff is what they call plonk these days. Rubbish shipped over in Charlie's tankers and bottled at Gravesend. Sold in supermarkets to poor devils who know it's good because they've seen it on the telly."
I was more than surprised. "Charlie Weston moved you down market?"
Edgar blinked. "Didn't you know? Charlie Weston controls Hardman's Wine these days. Surely you knew that?"
"No," I said, "I didn't know that. How - why?"
He shrugged. "That damn silly deal I did with Apex. Guaranteeing the share prices, remember? Seemed safe as houses at the time. But when the receiver sold it off - well, I had to settle with Weston and Douglas."
I was stunned. Of course I had known Edgar would be hard pushed to raise that kind of money, but half of me had expected, had hoped, that Charlie and Lew Douglas might waive their rights under the deal - or at least settle for a lesser amount. Dammit - we had been partners, colleagues, we had worked together. When I recovered my voice I asked, "You mean they called you - in full?"
Edgar sighed. "Business is business. I don't blame them especially, but I could have done with more time. Might have sold Wyndham Hall you know, but it takes a while to find the right buyer for a place like that."
"So what happened?" I felt helplessly angry. My blasted obsession with Apex had ruined us all. If only I had sold out! What wouldn't I give to put the clock back.
He was embarrassed. He must have guessed what I was thinking because he was trying to explain without laying the blame at my door. It was decent of him but it didn't make me feel any better.
"I settled with Douglas for cash," he said. "He's sold up here, you know - lives abroad - extended his hotels in the Mediterranean I think. Anyway, I haven't seen him since the beginning of the year, not since I settled with him. But, well, I owed Charlie Weston a million and a half. Takes some finding, Sam - especially in a hurry. The banks didn't want any part of it and I couldn't raise it without liquidating, so Charlie accepted shares in the wine business. He's been our bulk carrier for years you know, so he knows a fair bit about it. He was quite decent on the whole - the shares were transferred at a fair price, and that was that."
"So what are you left with?" I asked grimly.
He reached across and patted my arm. "Don't worry about me, Sam. I still own five per cent of the business. Of course, I'm only a figurehead these days, but they keep me on as chairman and provide me with a decent car." He smiled in an effort to reassure me, "I'm still rich, by some people's standards."
A waiter cleared our plates away. I was about to say something but Edgar waved me down, "Anyway, let's not waste time talking about my business. It's yours I want to talk about."
I said "yes" to the waiter about coffee and when I turned back Edgar was saying, "This rubbish in the papers. About you going back into the club business. You can't possibly be serious, can you?"
I felt the first twinge of nervousness. "Why not?" I asked uneasily, "Jack Green and I are old pals - and I've got to start again somehow."
"But for heaven's sake - why the club business?"
I remembered the arguments I had used on Tomlinson, about the club business being what I knew best - but when I started to replay them on Edgar he wouldn't listen. "That's not the point, Sam," he said hotly, "They won't let you go back, surely you realise that?"
I froze. Kaufman could not - must not - be right. I had precious little faith left in anything but I would be shattered if Kaufman was right about Edgar.
"What do you mean? They won't let me?"
"The authorities," Edgar waved a hand
at the whole of London beneath the windows. "That man who gave you so much trouble before - that policeman - Jones, or something."
"He can't stop me. Not if the licences are in Jack's name-"
"Then they will stop you!" Edgar's agitation grew by the second.
I stared at him. I could not believe what I heard, what I saw in his face. The waiter arrived with a pot of coffee and Edgar fidgeted until the man went away. Then the wine waiter arrived with a brandy for Edgar and a scotch for me, so it seemed an eternity before I could repeat my question, "Who are they, Edgar?"
Instead of answering he sat back in his chair and looked round the room. Only three tables remained occupied. The lovers still held hands, the three business types swapped stories, Henderson had put the Financial Times aside and was reading a paperback over his coffee. Looking at him reminded me of Kaufman saying, "Ninety per cent of this job is waiting." But it was only a vague thought - most of my mind was concentrating on Edgar's astonishing behaviour.
"Dammit Sam, there must be something else. Another line of business-" he cursed as he fumbled with his cigarettes. He was actually trembling.
"You said they will stop me Edgar. Who are they? I don't understand."
He succeeded in removing the cellophane and managed to open the packet. He offered them to me. "I don't understand either," he said, "not any more. There are lots of things I don't understand."
As I flicked my lighter I saw the worry in his eyes. Worry - and something else. I tried to remember how old he was. I must have known once but had forgotten. Sixty perhaps, not more, but he looked much older. Old and sick, worried and - frightened! It came as a shock to realise it, but I knew I was right. Edgar Hardman was desperately afraid.
I stared at him quite openly. It was rude of me but I was just so astonished. He tried to smile but it was a shaky sketch of the real thing. "An old man's whim, I expect, Sam. You get to my age and you realise how big a part luck plays in a man's life. I just think you would have better luck if you tried something else."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 60