Gilded Edge, The

by Miller, Danny

  ‘Guy was a couple of years below Johnny and me at Eton, but I never considered him one of us. Not really.’

  ‘Why’s that? He’s in the Montcler team photo, has the money, went to the right school.’

  DeVane went to hoist his drink, then stopped halfway between the bar and his gaped mouth, and he said rather apologetically, ‘Oh, Vince, I’m afraid you might think I’m a frightful snob if I tell you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Nicky. You’re an aristocrat, and it goes with the territory. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t, and it would kill the American tourist trade.’

  DeVane thought about it for a second, then let rip with an impulsive peal of laughter.‘Quite so, quite bloody so!’This outburst of laughter must have set something off, because he suddenly looked queasy and uncomfortable. ‘Oh, Vincent, you must excuse me, but I need to get to the little boys’ room post-haste,’ he said, dismounting from his stool with some effort. ‘When I get back I shall tell you all about how the Gilded Edge works . . . I’m surprised you haven’t asked already, Vince.’

  Vince picked up the loose cards on the bar and packed them into a tidy block, and said, ‘That’s the thing about good tricks and puzzles. I like to work them out for myself. And I think I’ve got this one beat.’

  ‘Bravo! I shall look forward to hearing it,’ replied DeVane, before he toddled off to the gents with a stiff and unsteady stride.

  Confident he had their card trick sussed, Vince sat at the bar, making busy with the cocktail sticks. One in his mouth, and one dislodging a small piece of grey grit from under the forefinger amid his otherwise perfectly clipped and kempt phalanx of nails. That operation took up the fat end of a couple of minutes. He then gathered up the cards from the bar and did some fancy shuffling that brought the young bartender over to initiate some conversation. He was an English Lit student studying at London, and was only reading Playboy because it contained an interview and a short story by Vladimir Nabokov. The young bartender’s story was upheld by the thumbed and annotated copy of Lolita that was stashed along with the jazz mag. By the time Vince eventually got up and made his way into the gents, Nicky DeVane had been absent for about fifteen minutes.

  Vince found the aristocrat sitting on the throne in a cubicle, out for the count. Vince shook him, gave him a couple of wakening slaps across the chops, and even considered shoving his head down the toilet and flushing the chain, but decided against it. Nothing was going to stir him out of his current stupor. It substantiated the account of his behaviour at the Imperial, as an unreliable lightweight.

  Vince told the young barman that his friend, the Honourable Nicholas no less, was sleeping it off in his private chambers. He then slipped him a couple of quid to keep an eye on him, and picked up the pack of cards from the bar. Nicky DeVane had never got around to telling him about the Gilded Edge card cheat, but as Vince left the Criterion, wishing the young bartender good luck with his exams, he wore a sanguine and solid grin on his face.

  Ten minutes after Vince had left the Criterion bar, two men entered it. Both were of medium height and build, and were attired in dinner jackets. And they both wore rhino masks.

  CHAPTER 51

  Vince got a taxi back to his flat. The cabbie wanted a conversation, but Vince didn’t; he was busy. His head was still spinning with all the information Nicky DeVane had revealed.

  And with all his own theories slipping into place like tectonic plates, the path was becoming less crooked and uneven as, conversely, the fault lines and cracks in the suspects’ stories and motives began to appear. He was so caught up in the case, and lost in thought, that when he knocked on his own front door and had it opened by Isabel Saxmore-Blaine, still in a catsuit and thighhigh boots, he stepped back in surprise before he stepped in. He’d forgotten about the fancy dress ball they’d just attended, and now thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

  Vince told Isabel everything that Nicky DeVane had told him. She had questions, but he had more and wasn’t too interested in playing catch-up, as the clock was ticking. He explained that he needed to get into the house in Eaton Square, and reckoned he knew a way in. When he and Mac had first checked the place over for possible ways of entering not involving the front door, they had realized the house could easily be accessed through the back garden. That just meant getting in through the—

  ‘I have a key.’

  Isabel cut him dead with that statement. Then she looked suitably sheepish, as well she might. If that little fact had been floated earlier, her claim of innocence would have been thrown further into jeopardy. She confessed that she found a spare set, and had another set clandestinely cut. Beresford – controlling, fastidious, territorial – would have been apoplectic had he found out that she was prowling the premises uninvited and unsupervised. But Isabel had her reasons: she suspected he was seeing someone else. Not just an informal fling (which their liberated and louche arrangements had allowed for) but a full-blown affair with a model he had stolen from Simon Goldsachs; a woman who Isabel suspected had probably been procured for them both by Nicky DeVane. So with the green-eyed monster mocking her every move, she had searched through drawers, ransacked laundry baskets, plundered suit pockets and ogled his address book. Not her finest hour, she now admitted. Vince didn’t care, so long as she had a key.

  They drove to Isabel’s new flat to pick it up. Vince asked her if she wanted to change out of the catsuit and into something more appropriate. She refused, stating that he hadn’t changed either, so why should she? And, anyway, she thought the outfit was highly appropriate for their venture, and most enjoyable. Vince couldn’t argue with that, and got the comic-strip connotation, and went along with it. So the masked detective and his catsuited sidekick roared off in the growling Jag and headed for Eaton Square.

  There had been changes to the house since Vince and Isabel’s last visit. The olfactory senses were no longer assailed by the cloying odour of lilies. There were no flowers anywhere now, and the air smelled vapidly old and empty. With its occupant’s death, it seemed something of the house had died with him. Most of the portraits featuring proud generations of battling Beresfords, were removed from the walls now; the finely struck collection of Paul Storr silverware was under lock and key; and all the antiques – from the heavy oak furniture to the dainty porcelain – were boxed up and put in storage until their fate had been decided. And that went for the bricks and mortar, too. The place had been the Beresfords’ town residence since it had been built, but Her Majesty’s Inland Revenue Service had been forensically finecombing the Beresford finances, and they had been found wanting. Death and taxes, both guaranteed, and the former didn’t negate the levying of the latter.

  In the basement den/study things seemed relatively untouched, though. The Escalado horse racing game was still set up on the billiard table, with all the little jockeys and gee-gees lined up expectantly for the next race. All the cups and trophies were still on the shelves, along with the photos of Beresford and his friends.

  Isabel asked, ‘What’s down here that wasn’t down here before, Vincent?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s always been here. Just hidden, sort of.’

  Vince went over to the side table that stood before the window that looked out on to the rising bank of the garden. It was a hefty-looking Regency side table in polished rosewood, and had a sturdy central-column pedestal that flared out into four carvedpaw feet. Innocuous-looking enough, it looked as if it folded out into a small dining table. A silver condiment set, for salt and pepper and oil and vinegar, and the stack of six cork table mats rested on it.

  ‘Beresford was playing cards when he was killed,’ said Vince. He then pointed to the green leather armchair positioned in front of the TV. ‘Then he was moved over to this chair, and the gun was put in his hand to make it look like he had shot himself.’Vince kneeled down to take a look underneath the table. To one side of the central support column he quickly discovered a small brass catch, shaped like a trigger, and gave it a pull. Isa
bel, without prompting, removed the condiment set and place mats and put them over on the desk. Then they both moved the table away from the window. Vince slid the top aside until it was open, unfolding into a table over twice its previous size. And that manoeuvre revealed that the underside of its polished surface was covered in green baize. It formed a card table that could comfortably accommodate eight players, and underneath the table top were concealed sectioned compartments stuffed with games and goodies. And clues. All of which Vince greeted with a broad smile.

  Isabel said, ‘I never knew this was a card table, but then again I’ve only ever been in this room about three times. And one of them was when I discovered him dead. But it’s hardly a surprise. He was a gambler.’

  ‘Simon Goldsachs had a similar table in his study, which held a secret too. Grand plans for a paradise off the coast of West Africa. A Shangri-la where he and his friends could get away from the riff-raff.’

  Vince rifled the compartments and took out gaming chips and money, including a roll of about five hundred pounds secured with an elastic band. There were also packs of playing cards still in their virginal cellophane wraps and stamped with the Montcler seal. And one other pack, which was already opened, and not a Montcler pack but a plain deck of Waddington playing cards that you could buy in any games store.

  Vince picked up one of the Montcler packs, unsheathed it from its crispy plastic, broke the seal and opened it. He pulled up a couple of chairs and took a seat at the card table.

  Isabel joined him. ‘I thought you didn’t play cards?’ she said.

  ‘Not with a stacked deck, I don’t, and these are stacked. Marked.’

  Vince began to deal out the cards, separating them into highvalue and low-value, with six being the dividing number.

  ‘Nicky DeVane never told me how their card scam worked, not properly. But he revealed enough. And Billy Hill gave me some clues, too. He said it was a twenty-four carat gold cheat. The rest I figured out.’

  Vince put the two separate stacks of cards next to each other on the green baize. He said, ‘Take a look at them, and what do you see?’

  Isabel looked at the cards, then shrugged impatiently. ‘Just two piles of cards. So what?’

  ‘Take a good look at the gilding around the edges. Now what?’

  Isabel looked intently at the two blocks of gold sitting on the table. She looked good and hard from all angles before she said, ‘They’re in different shades of gold?’

  ‘Bingo!’ said Vince, banging his fist with exclamatory zeal on the table. ‘The low-value cards have been gilded in nine carat gold, so they look dull, almost coppery in comparison to the high-value cards, which have been gilded in twenty-four carat. They look almost yellow: got a real glint to them. It’s simple enough to do; a home gilding kit could probably do the job. But once they’re shuffled . . .’ Vince shuffled the cards, ‘and mixed in together, they look the same as . . .’ Vince then took out the pack of cards he had taken from the Montcler club that evening and rested them next to the ‘marked’ pack, ‘they look the same as the legitimate deck.’

  Isabel’s eyes narrowed in on the two gold blocks, and she examined them with a forensic intensity. Vince looked at his watch, and muttered something like ‘We haven’t got all night’. Isabel raised a hand to shut him up and then, in her own sweet time, eventually purred, ‘Mmmm . . . well, my darling detective, I for one can see a slight difference. The marked cards look more grainy.’

  Vince leaned in for a closer gawp and saw it too. ‘Of course there’s going to be a slight difference, because there is a slight difference. But it’s only noticeable to the trained eye, and to those in the know. And you, my sweet, are now in the know.’

  She looked at the grinning detective, and gave a concessionary little wobble of her head to acknowledge the fact.

  ‘You’re a tough crowd to please, Miss Saxmore-Blaine.’

  ‘I’m just playing devil’s advocate, Mr Treadwell.’

  ‘And you play it well. But the difference is only noticeable by close comparison, and the people being cheated are never going to see the right and the wrong decks placed side by side.’

  Vince picked up the marked cards, gave them another quick shuffle. He dealt out a hand, five cards, and fanned them in front of him as if he were playing a game. He was holding the Jack of clubs, the seven of hearts, the three of spades, the five of clubs and the nine of diamonds. It was a beast of a hand – a crippled claw, a hook – but it would serve its purpose.

  ‘Take a good look at the top of the cards, and tell me what you see?’

  Isabel sat back in her chair, at a respectable playing distance, and studied the top of the cards he was holding. She then concluded: ‘I see nothing. I can’t tell the difference.’

  Vince looked perplexed. ‘Are you playing devil’s advocate again?’

  ‘You do want a rock-solid case, don’t you?’

  ‘Fair enough, Clarence Darrow.’Vince laid the cards face down on the table. He got up and went over to the partners’ desk and picked up a tall and industrial-looking anglepoise lamp, unplugged it and brought in over to the card table and plugged it back in. It gave off an illuminating 100 watts of dusty light.

  He said: ‘All casinos have bright lights, as bright as possible. Not only the 150-watt bulbs in the chandeliers, but the overhead table lights too. It’s an unforgiving light that not only keeps everyone awake and playing, but it also helps prevent cheating. When you sit down at a gaming table, there are no dark spots, no hiding places. It’s as if you’re in a ring of fire.’ Again Vince held the cards like he was playing a hand. ‘Guy Ruley told me you’re a good shot. Is that true?’

  ‘I’ve twenty/twenty vision, the same as Johnny. To tell you the truth, I used to miss a few just so he wouldn’t go into a frightful strop. To bag more than him, anyone would think I’d just shot his balls off.’

  ‘Concentrate on the top of the cards, Isabel.’

  It didn’t take long before she said, ‘I see it. Just a glint, but I see it.’

  ‘Tell me the order of them, high or low . . .’

  Isabel read out the sequence, ‘High, high, low, low . . . high,’ and she got it spot on. A smile tore across Vince’s face, and he said, ‘Beresford had it down cold, had it practised. So long as the other player didn’t hold his cards too close to his chest or cover them up, he could read them. And no one in the Montcler would be that guarded, because no one would expect cheating. Because you were sitting among gentlemen, playing with Johnny Beresford and other like-minded men of honour.’

  Isabel expelled a whip-cracking ‘Ha!’ at that remark.

  Vince qualified: ‘Well, the Montcler isn’t exactly some two-bob back-room spiel in Bermondsey; it’s in Berkeley Square, for Christ’s sake!’ He stood up, feeling invigorated, and went over to the shelf holding the collection of silver-framed photos of Beresford and his friends at play. To Vince’s eye, the one empty picture frame looked like a big gaping mouth asking the questions who? and why? He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the photo that he had carried around with him since the case had started. It was creased, it was smudged, it was ripped at the corner, it was in bad shape. But as he slipped it back into the frame, it closed that gaping mouth and finally answered the questions.

  Isabel came over and joined him. She looked at the series of photos with all the interest of a stranger. Vince wondered if it struck her as odd that she appeared in none of them. But he knew that thought must have struck her a long time ago, and then been washed over and conveniently forgotten in the miasma of booze and pills and emotional detachment that seemed to exist between herself and Beresford.

  Looking at the men gathered in the photo, Isabel said: ‘Which one killed Johnny?’

  ‘He killed himself. He died by his own hand. But they’re all guilty. One is more guilty than the others, but they all had a hand in it.’

  ‘Johnny the golden boy. It almost seemed as if the Montcler club was created for him, and
him alone. The first amongst equals . . .’

  ‘Maybe at one time it was like that. But in every group there’s always a pecking order. But it’s not set in stone and, with time, that order can change. Stocks rise and fall. I think there’s a new order emerging.’

  CHAPTER 52

  The Ruley residence was situated in rural Buckinghamshire. By the time they arrived there, it was just before dawn, when darkness was at its ripest, deepest and most oppressive. A sickle of moonlight hung poignantly in the pitch-black sky, with not even the twinkle-twinkle of little stars to illuminate the scene. The house was secluded, set in its own ample and wooded acreage, so without specific directions you would never find it. Isabel knew the way, since she had been to ‘Chuckers’ before, with Johnny and the rest of his gang for the occasional shooting party. The house was unofficially called Chuckers because Joseph Ruley, Guy’s father, had built the place from scratch just after the war, and had designed it specifically to resemble the Prime Minster’s country residence, Chequers, which was in the same county and not that far away. A massive pretension on his part that didn’t go uncommented on. Joseph’s wife – Josephine, no less – was also partly to blame, because of her unrepentant northernness and penchant for referring to everyone as ‘Chuck’.

  Vince slowed the engine and parked the Mk II in a small layby. Upon doing so, an argument ensued. Vince told Isabel he was going to break into Chuckers, and hopefully catch Ruley by surprise, and that she was to wait in the car. Isabel contended that she had been in the house and knew the layout, and therefore should accompany him. Vince said that he’d work it out, but she wasn’t keen on being left in the car, away from the action. He opened the glove compartment and took out a pocket torch; he didn’t need to shine it on those exquisite features to see that they were now arranged in petulant annoyance. Vince assured her that he wouldn’t be long. He then wisecracked and said he didn’t realize cats were afraid of the dark.