“Hey yourself. By the way, I didn’t want to mention this in the office earlier Ben, but I have to say that you were looking positively radiant, which happens to be an adjective I never thought could be applied to a guy, especially you.”
“Please don’t make fun of me, Sam,” Ben requested.
“I’m not Ben. I’m very happy that you’re happy. You are still happy, I gather.”
“Oh I am. I am,” he laughed. “We’ll all have dinner soon, okay? But I’m in a rush right now, so let me fill you in. First of all, if Enrico Vasquez is a spy, agent or cop then his cover is way deep. I couldn’t find anything on him that’s not relevant to his job as a curator. Mind you I couldn’t get any info at all on what he was doing from 1980 to 1983. That could mean he was telling the truth, and he was at spy school or something, or he just dropped out of circulation to harass tourists like you.
“I have also got the Boss’s okay and have organised the surveillance team, led by me of course, to be at your disposal for this welcoming bash at the Exhibition Building tomorrow night. The guys, except for Sandra who’s got herself a nice frock, have all hired tuxedos so they can blend in.”
“You’re my hero, Ben,” Sam said emerging from the lift.
“Yeah, well that’s all the good news. The bad news is that the Boss expects to be fully briefed by you tomorrow and he wants to meet your friends Maggie and Pavel so he knows what to expect.”
“Oh, joy,” Sam moaned. “I’ll call him in the morning. He’s obviously working Saturday as usual.”
“What else would he do with his day off?” Ben laughed.
Maggie opened the door to her suite just as Sam was about to knock, and ushered her out into the hall. “I hate being late for parties,” she said. “I spoke to Anna Gould by the way.”
“Good. Did you find out why her husband hated the Professor enough to confess to a murder he didn’t commit?” Sam asked.
“Anna was beside herself,” Maggie said. “She swears if Haddon is not found guilty and hanged, she’ll kill him herself.”
“Does she believe he did it?”
“No, not at all,” Maggie laughed, as they entered the lift. “But she does think he’s completely lost his mind and she’s very annoyed with him. She adores Haddon, god only knows why; he’s possessive, jealous, irrational and childish. According to Anna, the rivalry between him and Lloyd began in 1977 when Haddon spent most of the year away on field trips. Lloyd used to socialise with both of them and continued to do so with Anna while Lloyd was away. They were just friends who went out to dinner, or to the theatre or art gallery but Haddon decided they were having an affair and that Lloyd was trying to take Anna away from him. That’s how it started, but at the same time it seemed to Haddon that he was always losing out to Lloyd at work as well, which wasn’t true either.”
“So Marsden and Mrs Gould were not having an affair,” Sam said.
“No, in fact Lloyd wasn’t���” Maggie hesitated as the lift came to a stop and the doors opened.
“Maggie!” exclaimed a short, broad-chested American man who launched himself into the lift.
“Eugene, how are you?” Maggie asked, through a clenched smile.
“Terrific as always. Have you heard the news?”
“What news, Eugene?”
“About the discovery of an Inca city bigger than Machu Picchu.”
“No, I haven’t,” Maggie said, feigning interest. “Where did you hear this?”
“It’s been all over the internet apparently. Someone told Bob Esterhauser who told me all about it on the flight from New Zealand this morning.”
“Who discovered it?”
“Bob wasn’t sure, but he heard from someone else that a very wealthy retired German professor named Schreiber has been funding a team of amateurs in the jungle south-west of Machu Picchu.”
“South-west?” Maggie repeated.
The lift stopped again and a well-dressed English couple joined them and the conversation.
“What do you think of the rumours about Vilcabamba, Maggie?” the man asked.
“I’ve just heard, Hugh. But this German can’t be claiming he’s found Vilcabamba. It’s not lost.”
“He’s saying he’s found the real Vilcabamba,” Hugh stated. “But I heard he was American. Isn’t that right, Sophie?”
“No Hugh, you’ve mixed your stories up again,” Sophie said patiently. “And you wonder how that rumour started about you trying to sell a collection of skulls you never had.”
The lift stopped again but a family surrounded by luggage decided to wait for an empty lift.
“So what are the real stories, Sophie?” Maggie resisted the urge to glance at Sam who remained unnoticed in the corner.
“A rich English industrialist and amateur archaeologist named Henry Steedman organised an expedition, comprised of American students, to explore the area west of Machu Picchu. He found a small but significant ceremonial centre and some quite astounding artefacts.”
“That’s���a lot of detail,” Maggie said, stifling a laugh. “Where did you hear all that?”
“Jennifer Pertwee’s brother has just come back from Peru. He actually met this Steedman fellow but was sworn to secrecy until the find is officially announced. Now I heard that Steedman might be coming here to the Conference to do just that. But that is a rumour.”
“But everything else is fact?” Maggie asked.
“Oh yes, I have it on the best authority,” Sophie pronounced.
Sam wondered whether the rumour of Hugh and his skull collection had been started by Sophie.
“No,” Eugene disagreed. “The guy’s a German named Schreiber, and he found a big city south-west of Machu Picchu. That’s what Esterhauser told me, and he got it straight off the internet.”
Sam rolled her eyes in astonishment. The two ‘someones’ who, not two minutes before, had been the source of Esterhauser’s information were now forgotten links in this incredible chain of bullshit.
“You must have him mixed up with the American that Hugh mentioned,” Sophie stated, obviously delighted that she could sort out this mess for everyone. “His name is Harry Steinberg and he found a priceless Inca statue in the basement of a house in Spain.”
“In Spain?” Maggie laughed, as the doors opened on the third floor.
“No,” Eugene argued, “You’ve got him confused with the guy who found the Aztec statue. He is at the conference, I’ve met him already. Aren’t you coming to Marcus’s party, Maggie?”
“Yes,” Maggie nodded. “I have to go downstairs for a minute.”
A second after the doors had closed, leaving them alone, Sam and Maggie burst into laughter.
“Good grief!” Sam exclaimed.
“Now you see how Pavel was killed in the jungle by a poison arrow when in fact he’d caught glandular fever in New Orleans,” Maggie said.
“We needn’t have bothered with the internet,” Sam grinned. “We could have told Sophie the truth, that Pavel Mercier was alive, had discovered Inticancha and was in Melbourne with the Hand of God and I’m sure her ‘best authority’ would still have devised Harry Steinberg, Henry Steedman and a fictitious basement in Spain.”
“Not to mention Eugene’s imaginary encounter with the non-existent finder of an Aztec statue,” Maggie said. They had reached the foyer, so she stabbed the button for the third floor. “Shall we join the party now to see if anyone has actually heard that a Henri Schliemann has discovered Manco Capac’s secret city and a legendary golden artefact?”
Sam was pleased to find that she had almost recovered from the Marcus Bridger virus and was barely affected by the sight of him holding court on the far side of the crowded function room. The fact that he looked at her most curiously when she smiled at him, as if he didn’t recognise her, did nothing at all for her ego. His vague smile had suggested he knew he should know who she was, but couldn’t place her in this context.
About 50 people were making the most of the open bar,
courtesy of the Rites of Life and Death and, judging by the conversations that Sam could actually understand, a great many of them were talking about an amazing archaeological find in Peru. Or Mexico or Chile or Spain. One man, who kept switching rapidly between French, English and Russian, was trying to convince his little circle of listeners that a treasure-filled Mayan funerary temple had been discovered on the Yucatan Peninsula.
“I wish you-know-who was here to enjoy all this gossip,” Maggie said. “There’s Andrew, let’s go interrogate the life out of him.”
“We need to be a bit more subtle than that,” Sam insisted, keeping pace with Maggie as she manoeuvred through the guests towards Barstoc who was standing alone near the bar.
“Don’t worry Sam, I’ll leave it all up to you. In this you are the expert.”
“Good evening, Mr Barstoc,” Sam said pleasantly, before asking the bartender for two beers.
“Detective Diamond, Dr Tremaine.” Barstoc seemed oddly taken aback. “How was Egypt?”
“So-so,” Maggie shrugged.
“Could I ask you a couple of questions, Mr Barstoc?” Sam asked. “Regarding my investigation.”
Barstoc straightened his shoulders. “Now is hardly the time. This is a social occasion, Detective.”
“Yes of course, I’m sorry. I just thought it would easier to chat here, rather than ask you down to the station tomorrow,” Sam said, starting to turn away.
“In that case,” Barstoc said hurriedly, “I’d be happy to talk to you. It will save us both time.”
“Thanks. Firstly, could you refresh my memory about the exact nature of your other business interests.”
“I run an import-export business. I deal mostly in rare precious stones,” Barstoc said, as if he was talking to a forgetful child. “But what does this have to do with your case?”
“Maybe nothing, Mr Barstoc,” Sam said. “You said mostly, what other things do you collect?”
“Anything that my clients, and I have many all over the world, express an interest in.”
“Ah, that would explain why you met with the antique dealers in Sydney.”
“I beg your pardon?” Barstoc barely managed to stay on the outraged side of angry. “Have you been following me?” he demanded.
“Me? No. I’ve been in Egypt,” Sam smiled. “But you did leave town in the middle of a murder investigation, so my colleagues felt they had to, at least, find out where you went. Were you after anything in particular from these business acquaintances in Sydney?”
“Not that it is any of your business, Detective Diamond, but yes I was trying to track down an antique necklace for a client in London.”
“Okay, fine,” Sam shrugged. “That’s all I needed.”
Barstoc frowned but visibly relaxed and took a sip of his drink. “That was painless,” he joked.
Sam smiled. “Oh, by the way, I believe we have something in common. I hear you’re a bit of a crime fiction buff. You’re even trying your hand at writing a mystery, I gather. How’s it going?”
“What?” Barstoc snapped, exhibiting one of the telltale signs of the flight or fight response by squirming as if his clothes were suddenly very uncomfortable. “I don’t know what���”
“Oh Andy,” Maggie chimed in, “there’s no need to be shy. Every writer has to start somewhere.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Mr Barstoc,” Sam said, trying to look genuinely sorry. “It’s just that we met an old friend of Maggie’s in Cairo who said he met you briefly when you sought out his friend Noel Winslow to get some advice. ‘Andy Baxter’, is that your pen name?”
Barstoc was speechless although his mouth looked like it was trying to help him form an appropriate response. “How did you���”
“Put it together?” Sam asked. “I happened to have a copy of your Exhibition catalogue with me.”
Barstoc raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Oh god, don’t ask,” Maggie butted in, with a laugh. “This was Sam’s first overseas trip and you’ve no idea the junk she took with her. She purposefully took her car and office keys, would you believe, but we’re still trying to work out how or why she packed a guide book to Japan.”
“Maggie,” Sam moaned, “do you have to tell everyone about the keys.”
Barstoc smiled and ran his hand through his hair. “I can see I’d better come clean,” he said. “I am not a writer. I am a freelance investigator, of sorts. I contacted Noel Winslow because I had been led to believe he knew the whereabouts of this antique necklace I am still seeking.”
“An investigator?” Sam asked. “For whom?”
“As I said, for my clients. I sometimes use my own, quite legitimate business as a cover to try and reclaim stolen jewellery. The necklace I’m looking for was taken from a house in London a year ago. It’s priceless, but only if it’s intact. It can’t be broken down and sold for parts, so to speak. A few dealers, not all legitimate, told me that Noel might know who was interested in buying it. I told him the truth about myself, when I realised his interest in jewellery of this kind was academic. He’d made the acquaintance of antique dealers all over the world while doing research for two of his books. Do you know Noel or just his friend���um,” Barstoc snapped his fingers to help his memory, “Patrick?”
“I knew Noel very well, Andrew,” Maggie admitted. “Do you know that he died the day you last saw him? He had a stroke.”
Barstoc pressed his fingers to his lips. “Oh how terrible. He was a such a generous man.”
“What do you do when you find these stolen goods?” Sam asked, wondering whether Barstoc and Vasquez had attended the same school of humbug.
“Um, it depends who has the item and who my client is. Sometimes I offer to buy it back, on other occasions I call in the local police. Detective Diamond, I do this work through word of mouth, and no one on the team knows about it. I would appreciate it you could keep it to yourself.”
“Of course, Mr Barstoc. And I appreciate your candour.”
Sam and Maggie watched Barstoc slither away into the crowd before turning to each other.
“Sounds plausible,” Maggie noted.
“Explains absolutely everything quite nicely,” Sam agreed.
“I think Andy and Enrico went to the Fairytale Academy together,” Maggie observed.
“Yes, I think you could be right. And I’ll be taking bets later that Haddon Gould will claim it was stress from his alien abduction that forced him to commit murder.”
“Sam! You’re back from Egypt.”
“Yes, we are. Hi, Adrienne.”
Maggie held up a finger. “Would you two excuse me, I’ve just spotted someone I need to berate.”
“Speaking of berating,” Sam said to Adrienne, “Daley Prescott had just spotted me, would you mind if we took a little stroll around the room?”
“Of course not,” Adrienne laughed.
“So, how’s the show going?” Sam asked, when they had relocated themselves out of Prescott’s line of sight, and behind Marcus Bridger and a silver-haired man with a very proper British accent.
“Splendid,” Adrienne replied, “considering Enrico had to dash home because is mother took a bad turn. But the grand opening was a great success and we’ve had big crowds every day.”
Adrienne continued to talk about the show but when Sam noticed that Barstoc had joined Bridger she turned half her attention to their conversation.
“Andrew, dear boy,” said the silver-haired gent, “I was just telling Marcus I played 18 at Sunningdale with your father last week.”
“Really?” Barstoc asked, as if it was the least interesting thing he’d heard all night.
“Yes. He was telling me all about this new venture of his in Barbados.”
“Really?” Barstoc said again. “I don’t know anything about it, Edward. If you’ll excuse me.”
“I hope I didn’t speak out of turn, Marcus,” Edward said as Barstoc walked off.
“No, not at all Edward. F
ather still hasn’t forgiven Andrew. I doubt he ever will.”
Father? thought Sam. “Adrienne, could you excuse me a sec,” she whispered, “I’ll be right back.” Sam made a beeline for Maggie who was on the other side of the room.
“Sam, dear, I’d like you to meet Athol Porter,” Maggie began.
“Hi, Athol,” Sam said, “I don’t mean to be rude but I need to talk to Maggie, urgently.”
“What is it?” Maggie asked when they had retreated to a quieter spot in the room.
“Marcus and Andrew are brothers.”
“No, they’re not,” Maggie laughed.
“Yes, they are,” Sam insisted, and repeated the conversation she’d overheard.
“How very odd,” Maggie muttered. “Who was Marcus talking to?”
When Sam pointed at the man, who was now talking to someone else, Maggie said, “That’s Edward Fisher. I’ll have a word with him. You stay here.”
Maggie was gone for five minutes during which Sam managed to avoid Daley Prescott again by joining a nearby conversation about the discovery of an Inca crown in Cuzco. No one missed her from the debate when she moved away to rejoin Maggie.
“Edward says that Andrew and Marcus are stepbrothers, Sam.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Apparently Andrew had a falling out with his stepfather, Daniel Bridger, about 20 years ago. He was disowned and disinherited. Edward said he’d heard they’d recently reconciled, otherwise he wouldn’t have mentioned Daniel in front of Andrew.”
“What do you think this means?” Sam asked.
Maggie snorted. “I’ve no idea, Sam. It might mean nothing at all. Obviously the brothers are still close, at least close enough to work together, despite the father’s opinion of Andrew. There could be any number of reasons why they don’t acknowledge their relationship, although the most logical might be they don’t want to risk Marcus being disinherited as well.”
“I suppose,” Sam agreed. “But if Andrew is ‘the one’, do you think Marcus knows about it?”
Maggie shrugged. “Andrew said no one on the team knows about this investigative work he allegedly does, but we know from Patrick that Marcus also met Noel Winslow, however briefly, in Cairo. So we can only guess at what Marcus does and doesn’t know. His mind is a bit of a vacuum when it comes to other people’s business and affairs anyway. If it doesn’t directly concern him or, more importantly, make him ‘look good’ he pays little attention. I could tell him right now that I’d been nominated for a Nobel Prize, but he’d be surprised all over again if someone else told him the same thing about me five minutes later.”
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