Imperfect Strangers

by Stuart Woods

  Maeve departed, and Sandy turned back to the private detective. "What is it you want, Mr. Morris?"

  "Well, sir, that sort of thing," he indicated the photographs again, "would likely bring around ten thousand pounds sterling from the appropriate publication, at the very least. I mean, involving a countess and all."

  "Ten thousand pounds?" Sandy asked.

  "Oh, at the very least," Morris replied. "And then there's the earl, of course; he might be willing to go a good deal more to keep the countess's countenance out of the tabs."

  "Exactly what is your proposition, Mr. Morris?"

  "Well, I'm not a greedy man, sir, and I certainly don't want to go about causing a lot of trouble for members of the aristocracy, not to mention yourself and your business, so I'd happily accept a consideration of ten thousand pounds sterling, in cash of course, in return for all the negatives and prints." His face suddenly went from obsequious to serious. "And not a farthing less, sir."

  Sandy's shoulders slumped. "You told my wife that was what you were selling," he said.

  "Well, sir, let's just call that an oversight, shall we? This time, you'll have everything, and you have my word on it."

  Sandy glanced at his watch. "I can't manage it until later today."

  Morris laid a card on the desk. "Why you just take your time, sir. You can deliver the sum to my premises no later than close of business today. That's 5:00 p.m. After that, there'd still be time to make the morning editions, you see."

  "All right," Sandy said, defeated.

  "Nothing larger than a twenty quid note," Morris said, rising. "I dislike larger bills."

  Sandy nodded, and Morris left his office.

  "I'll see myself out, sir," the man said. "And I do hope I'll see you by five."

  Sandy sat for a while, massaging his temples.

  CHAPTER 35

  Sandy got out of the cab in front of the Garrick Club, paid the cabbie, and walked inside. A doorman in a small oak and glass booth saw him coming, looked him up and down, decided he wasn't a member.

  "Yes, sir? May I help you?"

  "My name is Kinsolving; I'm meeting Sir John Drummond," Sandy said.

  "Yes, sir; upstairs, in the bar."

  Sandy climbed the stairs of the grand old club, past portraits and busts, mostly of ancient actors, and on the next floor found his man. Sir John Drummond was resting most of his two hundred and fifty pounds against the bar, a glass of something in his hand.

  "Sandy," Drummond cried, clapping him soundly on the back. "How good to see you. What are you having?"

  "I think I'd better have a single malt, Johnny," he said.

  Drummond blinked, then ordered the drink. He was impeccably dressed in a pinstriped suit from a fine tailor, a heavy gold watch chain arcing across his middle from vest pocket to vest pocket. "If you need whisky at lunchtime, let's leave the bar and go straight to a table," he said. "More privacy." He grabbed both his drink and Sandy's and led the way downstairs.

  Sandy had met John Drummond more than ten years before, at a dinner party, and they had made a habit of seeing each other regularly when Sandy was in London. Drummond was a retired barrister, but he had always had his fingers in a number of British pies. Sandy had never known anyone who knew so many people in so many walks of life so very well.

  Downstairs, they took a table in a corner of the high-ceilinged dining room, its tobacco-stained walls holding still more portraits of old actors and scenes from old West End productions. It was only half past twelve, and the room was uncrowded, since most of the members came to lunch at one or later. Sandy had been here many times, always with Sir John. Drummond handed him a menu, and a waitress quickly appeared to take their order. When she had gone, Drummond turned to him. "Sorry to hear about Jock and Joan. A shock to lose them both within so short a time."

  "Yes, thank you, Johnny. The worst is over, I'm glad to say."

  "Then tell me how I can help you, my boy."

  "You're the only person I know to whom I could go for advice in a case like this," Sandy said.

  "A case like what?" Drummond demanded.

  "I'm being blackmailed, Johnny."

  Drummond's heavy eyebrows shot upward. "Details?"

  "Well-"

  Drummond held up a cautionary hand. "No names, if you please; I don't like to know more than I have to about these things."

  "Short and simple. Joan put a London private detective on me, and he got photographs of me in bed with a lady… or two."

  "Or two?"

  "I'm afraid so. One of them rather well known about town. The detective is threatening to go to the tabloids with the photos unless I pay him ten thousand pounds before five o'clock today. Joan had apparently already paid him, but he kept copies."

  "Mmmm," Drummond grumbled.

  "I'd pay him the money and be done with him, Johnny, but I simply don't think that would be the end of it."

  "Quite right, my dear fellow," Drummond said. He waved over a waitress, and they placed their orders, then Sir John stood. "Will you excuse me for a moment? Call of nature."

  "Of course."

  Drummond got up and left the table.

  Sandy sipped his drink and glanced idly around the room, which was slowly filling with barristers, actors, journalists, and government officials.

  Drummond returned just as the first course arrived. "Well, done any sailing lately?" he asked, digging into some smoked mackerel pate.

  "Only once this season, at Edgartown."

  "You must come down to Cowes this summer, my boy; do some racing with us."

  "I'd love that. This is a short trip, but maybe later in the summer."

  "Come to Cowes for a week, first week in August, bring a girl; I'll put you up."

  "Sounds wonderful; can I let you know next week?"

  "Surely."

  "I'm buying a vineyard in California, and I have to get that sewed up and organized before I can make a commitment for August."

  "Quite right."

  "I'll send you some bottles, when we have our first vintage."

  "Look forward to trying the vino."

  The main course arrived, and the two men began eating. Drummond had still said nothing about Sandy's problem. They finished, declined dessert, ordered coffee.

  Drummond tossed his down, hauled a gold watch from his vest pocket and regarded it glumly. "Got to run, my boy. Look forward to hearing from you next week." The two men rose and shook hands. "Go and have a pee," Drummond said, "to give me time to get out, then meet an acquaintance of mine, who's waiting for you in a taxi outside; he's aware of the gist of the problem; you tell him anything else he needs to know. Stop by your bank and cash a check for five hundred quid; give it to the fellow when the problem's been satisfactorily solved."

  "Thank you, Johnny," Sandy said gratefully. "I'll be in touch." They parted at the dining room door; Drummond went toward the street, and Sandy found the men's room down the back hall.

  When he emerged from the club into the sunlight, a taxi was waiting at the curb, and a hand motioned him inside.

  Sandy got into the cab. A hefty man in a tweed suit and a trilby hat stuck out his hand. "Good day," he said.

  Sandy shook his hand. "I'm-"

  "Names are unnecessary, sir," the man said quietly. He reached forward and closed the glass partition separating them from the driver. "Now, sir, who is this private copper?"

  Sandy handed him Morris's card, and the man grimaced.

  "Know the bugger well," he said. He opened the partition again and gave the driver Morris's address in the London suburb of Clapham.

  "Oh," Sandy said to the driver, "I'd like to stop for a moment at Cadogan Place and Sloane Street." He sat back as the cab pulled into traffic. He and the other man made small talk about the weather and sports until the cab stopped in front of Sandy's bank. He went inside, cashed a check for five hundred pounds, returned to the cab and the journey resumed.

  "Wait for us," the man said to the driver.

>   They got out of the cab in front of a small grocery. Sandy looked upstairs and saw, painted on the window, "J. Morris, Private Enquiries."

  "You go up first," the man said to Sandy. "There's a woman who works there; tell Morris to get rid of her, and when I see her leave I'll come up. Show him some money, but don't give it to him."

  Sandy nodded, found the stairs and walked up a flight and rapped on an opaque glass door.

  "Come in," a woman's voice sang.

  Sandy opened the door and found a plump, motherly woman, sitting behind a small desk, knitting.

  "He's waiting for you, luv," she nodded toward an open door, then went back to her knitting.

  Sandy walked into the rear office. Morris was sitting behind an impressive desk, refilling a lighter with fluid.

  "Ah, Mr. Kinsolving," Morris said, beaming. He got up, went to the door and looked around. "All alone, are we?"

  "See that we are," Sandy said, nodding toward the secretary.

  "Mavis," Morris said to the woman, "Go down to Woolsey's and get me some pipe tobacco, will you? Take half an hour to do it."

  The woman put down her knitting and left the office. Morris returned, sat behind his desk, and began stuffing a pipe with tobacco.

  "Let's see the negatives," Sandy said.

  "Well, sir, let's see the money," Morris replied, beaming at him. "If you would be so kind."

  Sandy produced an envelope with the five hundred pounds he had gotten from his bank, flashed the bills at Morris, and returned them quickly to his pocket.

  Morris stood up. Both sides of his office were occupied with storage cabinets and files. He went to a drawer, took out an envelope, and spread the prints and some negatives on his desk. "There you are," he said, "all the remaining goods."

  "Glad to hear it, Jerry," a voice said from behind Sandy. "And where are the rest?"

  Morris's face fell. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

  Sir John Drummond's acquaintance walked into the room, seemingly unconcerned with Morris. He walked around the desk slowly, looking at the ceiling, then stopped. "Ah, there we are," he said, pointing at a small camera fixed to a corner above the molding.

  "You're not the law anymore, my friend," Morris said. "You have no business here."

  The former policeman was walking along one side of the room, looking into cabinets. "Where are the real negatives, Jerry?" he asked.

  Morris looked at Sandy. "Is he with you?"

  "He is," Sandy said. "If I were you, I'd give him the negatives."

  The ex-cop was fiddling with a panel, and suddenly, it came open. "Ah ha ha!" he crowed. "Look what we have here!"

  Sandy stood up and looked into the little closet. A video cassette recorder was running silently, and the walls were lined with videotapes.

  "Jerry, I won't ask you again," the ex-cop said.

  "That's the lot, damn you," Morris said, gesturing at the photographs on the desk.

  The ex-cop shook his head. He picked up the can of lighter fluid on the desk, walked to the video closet, removed the cassette from the recorder and began spraying the fluid over the tape and all the other equipment inside.

  "Goddamit, you stop that!" Morris cried. "I'll have the police on you."

  "I'm sure the boys would love viewing those tapes," the ex-cop said. "Why don't you phone them?"

  Morris stood, fuming, behind his desk, but he did nothing for a moment. Then he went to another file drawer, extracted another envelope, and tossed it onto his desk.

  The ex-cop turned to Sandy. "See if that's what we're looking for, will you?"

  Sandy shook out the contents of the envelope. He held the negatives up to the light, then scooped all the prints and negatives into the envelope. "That's it," he said.

  "Is it everything, Jerry?" the ex-cop said to Morris. "Absolutely everything?"

  "It's everything!" Morris cried. "I swear it."

  "Uh oh," the ex-cop said. He picked up the lighter from the desk, flicked it and tossed it into the closet. There was a muffled noise, then the closet burst into flame.

  "Last chance, Jerry," the ex-cop said.

  Morris, whose eyes were very nearly bugging out of his head, ran to yet another filing cabinet, grabbed yet another envelope, and tossed it at Sandy.

  Sandy caught it, inspected the contents, then took all the negatives and prints and tossed them into the flames. "I think we're done here," he said to the ex-cop.

  "Good; we'll be running along then, shall we? Jerry, you can get your fire extinguisher out now. And if this gentleman ever hears from you again, or hears from someone who heard from you, I'll be back, and next time, I'll toss you in there," he indicated the flaming closet, "before I light the match."

  Sandy and his companion walked down the stairs.

  "You take the cab, sir; I'll get another one," the ex-cop said.

  Sandy took the cash envelope from his pocket and pressed it into the man's hand. "I can't thank you enough," he said.

  The two men shook hands and parted.

  CHAPTER 36

  At precisely eight-thirty they were seated at a corner table on the street side of the Connaught Restaurant, a spacious room with candlelight reflecting from polished mahogany paneling and tables set with snow-white cloths and gleaming silver and crystal. Half an hour earlier Sandy had met Angus's girlfriend, whose name was Maggie Fox, and Angus had met Cara. Any early awkwardness had passed after a bottle of Veuve Cliquot '66, and by the time the first course arrived they were the best of friends. Sandy, ever the good host, had ordered for all of them.

  "It's beautiful," Maggie said as a small plate was set before her. "What is it?"

  "Two versions of the same dish," Sandy said, pleased that she had asked. "Croustade d'oef de caille-one called Maintenon, the other Christian Dior. Maintenon is quail's eggs in a little pastry boat covered in a cold white sauce and sprinkled with Beluga caviar; Christian Dior is the same, but on a bed of duxelles of mushrooms and covered with hollandaise sauce. There's no polite way to eat them, just gobble them up."

  Maggie did just that. She was tiny, not much more than five feet, of slender build, with large eyes, perfect teeth, and short hair as thick as fur. "Oh, God," she murmured. "I've never had anything like it."

  Cara and Angus had similar remarks to utter, but Sandy was concentrating on pleasing Maggie. "Which do you like best?" he asked.

  "I can't decide," she sighed.

  "No one I know has ever been able to make that decision," Sandy said.

  "And what's the wine?" she asked, sipping from the glass of white.

  "A Puligny Montrachet, Les Combettes, 70," he replied.

  "It goes beautifully with the quail's eggs."

  "Thank you," he said, beaming at her.

  The main course was Noisettes d'Agneau Edward VII, little filets of lamb on fried bread, and a slice of pate with a brown sauce.

  "This is perfectly wonderful," Maggie said. "And the wine?"

  "A red Bordeaux, or as the English like to call it, a claret. This one is a Chateau Palmer '78, one of my favorites."

  "The perfect accompaniment," she said, raising her glass to him.

  "Thank God you're not a vegetarian and a teetotaler," Sandy said. "I'd have to deny you my son."

  She laughed aloud. "What a relief!" she crowed. "Anyway, I don't think a surgeon can be a vegetarian. It's not appropriate, somehow."

  "I see your point. Will you practice general surgery?"

  "Certainly not. I plan to lead a civilized life, and that doesn't include getting up in the middle of the night to perform emergency appendectomies. In the fall I'm entering a residency for plastic surgery, specializing in the face. You see, when I was a little girl I was something of a tomboy, and I broke my nose falling out of a tree. It was repaired by the most marvelous surgeon, and my fate was set, as well as my nose."

  "He did a fine job," Sandy said.

  "How kind you are."

  "Where do you come from?" he asked.

  "F
rom a small town in Georgia called Delano."

  "I didn't detect an accent."

  "That's because I went to Harvard for my undergraduate work and med school and then to New York for my internship and residency. I've been in Yankeeland so long my accent has gotten scrambled; when I get a little drunker, it may reemerge."

  Sandy was in love with her before dessert came.

  • • •

  Dessert was creme brulee, with a crust so thick you had to rap on it with the back of a spoon to break through, and with raspberries mixed in. Sandy was just beginning his when he looked up and saw Peter Martindale walk into the restaurant. Sandy watched, frozen, as Martindale and another man were shown to a table in the far opposite corner of the room.

  "Something wrong, Sandy?" Cara asked, looking at him oddly. Her back was to the room.

  "No, no, I was just entranced by this dessert."

  "Me, too," she said, smiling at him. They had hardly exchanged a word the whole evening, he had been so preoccupied with pleasing Maggie.

  Sandy raised a hand and summoned the maitre d'. "Mr. Chevalier," he said in a low voice, "someone I would rather not speak to has just come into the restaurant; he's sitting in the far corner. I would be very grateful if you would move that screen by the door a couple of feet so as to block his view of us."

  "Of course, Mr. Kinsolving," the man said, and a moment later the adjustment had been made.

  Sandy breathed easier, and he resisted the impulse to bolt from the restaurant. When they had finished dessert he suggested they have coffee in his suite. On their way out Sandy made sure to keep the screen between Cara and Martindale. After all, the art dealer believed his ex-wife dead, and Sandy didn't want to give him too great a shock.

  As they waited for the lift, Sandy sidestepped to the front desk. "Is there a Mr. Peter Martindale registered here?" he asked, then prayed as the young woman flipped through the register.

  "No, sir," she said.

  "Thank you," he replied, then got onto the elevator with his party.