by Keith Weaver
Rather than air his surprise and ask questions that Conway probably would brush aside anyhow, Sanford just gave him directions to Joe’s place.
“I’ll see you shortly then, Mr. Sanford”, and the connection was gone.
Conway arrived in less than five minutes. Before Conway could get into the story on why he was in Stanley Falls, Sanford briefed him on what had happened. Conway listened intently. Sanford explained that he had to go across the road pretty much right away to arrange details of the evening meal with Anne. He asked Conway where he was staying, and found out that Conway had booked himself into a motel on the edge of town.
“If it’s not too late to do so, you can ask the motel to cancel the booking and then you can move in here. We have three spare bedrooms. I assume you’ll only be passing on the motel costs to me anyhow, and if you were here that would give us all the time to talk that we would need, without anyone wondering about the guy checked into the motel.”
Conway agreed right away, which surprised Sanford somewhat, since he expected more coaxing to be needed. Conway pulled out a card and his cellphone, called the motel, did some grovelling and apologizing, and managed to have his reservation cancelled, promising to come and collect all his things immediately.
“Let me show you where you’ll sleep. When you return you can settle in right away. I might not be here when you get back, but I’ll be away only a few minutes.”
Conway nodded agreement, Sanford indicated that the door would be unlocked, and they both left.
When Sanford got to Anne’s place, he found that Julia and Anne had undertaken a cookie-baking marathon, and Anne was covering the home stretch on her own. She was piling cookies onto wire racks to cool, and related to Sanford, through an indulgent smile, that the last few days’ excitement, the heat in the kitchen, and the sugar hit from a few trial cookies had pushed Julia over the edge, and that she was napping.
Even as Anne spoke, Sanford noticed that the events of the past two days, good and bad, had borne down on her, and that she looked tired. Sanford observed her closely, but unobtrusively. Apart from appearing tired, she seemed to be back to her old self, and when he asked her if she wanted company, she said no, that things were fine, and gave a deprecating laugh. Sanford checked with her about dinner, which he had already insisted they would have at his place, and it was clear that she was relieved all over again at not having to worry about a meal. He told her that it would be informal, that she should just come over whenever Julia was awake, and he said that there would be someone else at dinner – a colleague from Toronto he had invited to the country for a few days’ rest.
Sanford then went back to Joe’s place to await Conway’s return.
Ten minutes later, Conway knocked politely then immediately entered carrying a small suitcase, and a black bag that evidently held a computer and probably an assortment of notebooks. He and Sanford nodded wordlessly to each other, indicating Conway’s intent, and Sanford’s acknowledgement, that Conway would stow his suitcase and be right back.
When Conway returned to the kitchen, he was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. Sanford pre-empted any business discussions by stating that according to his best guess they would be eating dinner in about forty-five minutes, they being him and Conway, Sanford’s daughter Julia, and the woman across the road, Anne Ferguson, who had been looking after Julia. Sanford said that they knew Conway would join them for dinner, but all they knew about him was that he was one of Sanford’s colleagues. Conway nodded.
“Anything I can do to help with dinner?” Conway asked.
“No, I don’t think so, but help yourself to some wine.”
Sanford made the initial preparations, and Julia and Anne arrived a few minutes later. Introductions were made, soft drinks and wine were opened, and the initial probing questions drifted into a comfortable conversation. Sanford then got the cooking itself started.
At Sanford’s suggestion, they ate outside, since it had been another fine day, and was now a warm afternoon sliding into what promised to be a long and placid evening. Anne asked Conway what he did, and he answered in a way that gave enough specifics to appear responsive but without really saying anything. The discussion over dinner indicated that Conway was a true artist when it came to posing interesting questions that elicited interesting information. They sat around for a while after finishing, their postures and faces mirroring the satiated languor of the evening, and engaging in desultory conversation. When Sanford rose to collect the plates and carry them into the kitchen, Conway was right on his heels, something that evidently impressed Anne, who was able to sit quietly while someone else did the after-dinner work that she was so accustomed to having to do. When that was done, Sanford fed Reggie, who had been waiting quietly next to his friend Julia, and they all watched the dog enjoy his meal as much as they had enjoyed theirs.
“Daniel and I have a few things to discuss”, Sanford said at length. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all”, Anne protested. Julia suggested that she and Anne do some weeding in Joe’s garden, and they set off to do that. Sanford and Conway went back inside, quickly washed up the dishes, then moved to Joe’s den where they could push the door to, without fully closing it, indicating politely that they wanted privacy.
Conway’s first few statements surprised Sanford.
“I’ve had a look into these two guys, Harold Sanford and Charles Jeffers. I’ll use Harold’s first name to avoid any confusion between you and him. Harold is, or was, both crafty and devious. There seems to be nothing in his life that one could call clear or straightforward. Apart from a very brief period as a salesman for Procter & Gamble, I can’t find any indication of who else he worked for. If, indeed, he ever worked for anyone else. My suspicion is that he was always a lone wolf, and he must have been a very subtle one, because he left hardly any prints behind him.”
“But there were payments from him to his wife, Aileen.”
“I have to accept your statement on that Mr. Sanford. But I can’t find any record of money moving through any arrangement that had the name Harold Sanford associated with it.”
Sanford shook his head in disbelief. “Not that long ago, just a couple of weeks, there was a sum of money transferred to me on Aileen’s death, and the lawyer’s letter indicated that this was being done on instructions from Harold Sanford.” As he was speaking, Sanford fished out Harold’s letter and the lawyer’s letter and passed them on to Conway. Conway looked at them briefly.
“And how, precisely, did the money come to you?” he asked.
“It was via a banker’s draft.”
“And did that come to you through the mail, through a bank?”
“No. It came as part of the content of a safe deposit box.” Even as he said this, Sanford recognized how odd that method of transfer was.
“None of this surprises me”, Conway said. “Somebody, and we have no idea who, put a banker’s draft into a safe deposit box that was then delivered to you on instructions from someone who could have been that same person, or somebody else. And the draft would have shown your name, the name ‘Harold Sanford’ typed out, and most likely an illegible signature. I doubt that it was drawn on any account. Probably it was just purchased in cash, transferred to the bank from somewhere. All of this might well have been done by Harold Sanford, but equally it could have been anybody.”
“But, he would need identification in order for the bank to complete a transaction like that.”
“Yes, he would, which is why I think it might well have been Harold Sanford. But, one needs to bear in mind that there are some excellent forgers out there.”
“But why would anybody go to all that trouble?”
Conway looked directly at Sanford. “I think that’s just the kind of person Harold is, or was.”
“Hang on!” Sanford interjected. “Do you think he’s dead or not?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Do you think that’s what Harold wan
ts people to think, that he wants everybody to be in doubt? Because he always wanted to be in a position where nobody ever knew what he was up to?”
“That’s exactly what I think, and why I think it.”
“Is there any evidence he was actually doing that?” Sanford asked, then realized it was a silly question, answering himself before Conway could, by saying “Of course there’s no evidence because he wanted there never to be any.”
They both nodded, having reached a common plateau of understanding.
“If he is dead, surely there will be records of his death”, Sanford observed, as though toying with a loose end, and then they both said in unison “but there are some excellent forgers out there”.
“So we’ve hit a dead end”, Sanford said flatly.
“Yes. We’ve hit a dead end. On the basis of evidence. But on the basis of rumour there’s a lot of information one can tap into.”
“Rumour?” Sanford asked in some surprise.
“This business is a shadow business”, Conway began. “Usually, the only records left behind about these people and their dealings are those produced by the police. Where the police reach dead ends, or in the cases where the police never become involved, there are no records. But the shadow world is well-populated, and those people notice things. That’s information of a sort, and there’s a market for it. Knowing who’s doing what is sometimes a clue as to why they’re doing it, or the starting point for deducing why they’re doing it. People in the shadow world do things for reasons that generally involve money directly, or the means to acquire money, and that’s the basis for the rumour information market. If I’m a shady character doing something on the quiet, and some other shady character learns this, he’ll want to know what I’m doing and why. Maybe that somebody else has missed a trick, or maybe he can whisk something valuable out from under my nose, or maybe he can prevent something being whisked out from under his own nose. Harold is known out there as a very smooth operator, and because those rumours exist and persist, I’m inclined to believe that he’s been flying successfully under the legal radar for many years.”
“So he hasn’t been a salesman all these years?”
“Oh, he probably has done all the things that salesmen do. He probably has made sales, and has had products or goods delivered. But that’s not how he’s been making most of his money, and it seems that he really has made, or come into, a great deal of money over the years.”
Sanford made a gesture of incomprehension, indicating that Conway should elaborate.
“Well, I would say that Harold has probably combined, very artfully and very successfully, the roles of swindler, embezzler, and blackmailer, and has used techniques that many business people would recognize.”
Sanford pondered all this for a good three or four minutes.
“Are you saying that he might in fact be dead, or are you saying that he might not be dead?”
“I’m saying that he might be either. If he really is dead, then the records of his death might be telling the truth. But if he is really just ‘dead’ on paper, then he has chosen to be ‘dead’ for some very good reason.”
“What kind of reason?”
“Well”, Conway continued, “he might have got himself into a difficult corner, and the easiest way out was to ‘die’. Or he might have started afresh as a different person. Or he might just have left the game completely and started a new life somewhere.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“I’m inclined to believe”, Conway said slowly, “that it’s some combination”.
“What leads you to that conclusion?” Sanford asked.
“Ah! This brings us to Charles Jeffers.”
“Charles Jeffers?” Sanford said in surprise.
“You did ask me to dig into Charles Jeffers, find out whatever I could. I have to say that it surprised me too when what I dug up gradually led me to the view that there is, or was, some kind of link between Harold and Jeffers.”
“What kind of link?”
“An agreement between thieves, it would seem. Among whom, as we know, there is no honour.”
“So, you think there might have been some kind of business link between them?” Sanford asked.
“Yes, but let me sketch what I’ve found out about Jeffers. He seems to be a con man and blackmailer. He wasn’t ever into the really big time, apparently, although there were three occasions when a fairly big prize was involved, the police had a good deal of evidence, but Jeffers came up with an alibi in each case that was unbreakable and completely believable. So he got off, in all three of those cases. I know nothing about just what Harold and Jeffers might have got up to together, but apparently there was something, if one can believe the rumours. It looks as though it was an arrangement for something more than a one-time job, that they worked together for months, or maybe a couple of years. But then something happened. Suddenly they weren’t an item any longer.”
“When do you think this breakup happened?”
Conway tapped his pen on the desk, pensively, Sanford thought, and was surprised at his own frivolous wordplay. “It seems to have happened just about the time you received this”, and Conway waved the lawyer’s letter Sanford had handed him a few minutes earlier.
“What sort of something?” Sanford asked.
“Not sure. Something very significant, for both Harold and Jeffers, but it was significant for each of them for different reasons.”
Sanford waited.
“This is really in the realm of supposition now”, Conway began in caveat fashion. “Harold and Jeffers likely planned a big job together. They likely carried it off successfully. But then something went sour, and it looks as though Jeffers was cut out of his share. Beyond that there might be more. I can’t tell. Then Harold ‘died’ or disappeared. From that time on, the rumour mill has gone completely quiet on Harold. Jeffers was still out there screaming blue murder to whoever in the shadow world would listen, but then he too went quiet a few weeks ago.”
“Why would someone like Harold just give away a large lump sum to me, when he had no need to do that? It seems completely out of character, not credible at all.”
“No? Look at his letter. It’s a masterpiece. A remorseful man’s attempt to make amends for how he had wronged a woman. It reads like the account of a confused, humble, and contrite soul who has scraped together a lifetime bounty that he should have made available to his good woman over the years. I can’t think of a better way to generate fog, create an image out there in the shadow world of an ordinary chap struggling to do the right thing.”
“If he’s viewed as such a slippery character, who would believe this?”
“Some people would”, replied Conway, “but anyway it’s grist for the rumour mill – it adds uncertainty, doubt, distortion.”
“But a quarter million dollars –” Sanford began.
“Means nothing to Harold”, Conway interrupted, completing the sentence.
Sanford considered all this for a moment. “Okay”, he said. “This is a great deal of background. It’s also information that demolishes the last of any preconceptions I had about Harold. What about the attempt to abduct Julia a few days ago?” Sanford walked through those events in a bit more detail for Conway.
Conway thought about it for a minute. “That one’s not clear at all. Perhaps it’s Jeffers trying to get some kind of reaction out of Harold. She’s his granddaughter, after all.”
“But you said Jeffers went quiet a few weeks ago”, Sanford challenged. “In addition to that, Harold has never shown any interest in Julia whatsoever.” Sanford expressed this with some venom, and he wondered whether Conway had missed the phrase in Harold’s letter making it clear that Julia and Harold were completely unrelated. But Sanford just let it go, thinking that it might be best to leave the matter to one side for the time being.
Conway shrugged. “Thinking about it a little more”, he began, “this attempted abduction job looks botched from several points o
f view. For an abductor to be foiled so completely like that indicates an almost total lack of planning and detailed information. Looks like the guy thought it would be a pushover, and that any hitches could be overcome by applying a little muscle.” He paused here, obviously giving it more thought. “In fact, it looks odd. The guy the police have arrested seems a bit dim, and likely he’ll start talking pretty soon. I would bet, however, that he has no idea who really is involved. If Jeffers is behind it, he’s likely organized it through a middleman. But then again, if Jeffers is involved, I would have expected a slicker operation. In fact, I would have expected the abduction to be successful. So, maybe it’s just a try-on by somebody, not Jeffers, who thought he could screw some cash out of you. It’s strange, I have to admit.”
Sanford was trying to work out a rationale in his head, based on Conway’s speculations. He knew, or was pretty sure, that Jeffers was not involved, because he knew for a fact that Jeffers was dead long before the attempted abduction took place. But, he couldn’t tell Conway that, nor could he tell anyone else, since it would lead inevitably to an investigation, all their lives being dragged publicly through the mud, and to what purpose? To deliver some semblance of process or justice, of closure, to Jeffers? Jeffers had been a complete prick for whom decay beneath a manure pile was already far too generous a fate. As he thought about it, Sanford began leaning more and more toward Conway’s suggestion of just an opportunistic nab, that there was incompetence behind this opportunism, and that having failed so ridiculously, they wouldn’t try again. In any case, Sanford intended to put in place visible and prominent barriers, their exact nature yet to be decided upon, to make it clear that anybody mounting a second attempt was likely to be hurt.
“What will you do now?” Sanford asked.
“I propose”, Conway began, “with your agreement, to keep digging for dirt on Jeffers. If there’s more information on a link between Harold and Jeffers, I want it. If digging around sends a message out into the shadow world that this search for information is serious, we might even see some nibbles that could lead to other hard information.”