The Money Stones

by Ian St. James

  I dried myself and returned to the bedroom, telling myself to put a brave face on things, even if it kills, and laughing aloud at the absurdity of everyday language.

  Hallsworth and 'Sue' were already in the kitchen, drinking my coffee and eating my toast. Her appearance surprised me. She had done something different with her hair and was dressed in a tailored business suit, quite unlike the casual clothes she usually wore.

  'Good morning, Pamela.' The new name felt strange on my lips. Odd really, how difficult it was to call her Pamela, and yet how impossible to think of her as Sue. But I knew who she was for all that. I took another look at the suit and asked, 'Going for an interview?'

  'High spirits?' Hallsworth cocked an eyebrow. 'Different from last night?'

  I grinned at him. 'A good sleep and an easy conscience. My remedy for anything. What's yours?'

  'Thirty million pounds.' His smile was so warm and friendly that last night might never have happened.

  I looked at the girl. Half the night had been spent thinking about her. Wondering how I would feel when I saw her again. Trying to make sense of her life, all that deception, all those lies. Making guesses about how much of our relationship had been genuine and how much fake? Windsor came to mind. 'I'm sorry, Mike,' she had said. 'Sorry now, that it was you. Remember that, eh?' I remembered all right. The bitch!

  Turning my back on them I filled the kettle to make tea. 'Whatever became of Susan Ballantyne?' I asked over my shoulder. 'Remember her? The girl who lived quietly in the country, writing history books. The church mouse with an honours degree.'

  There was no reply. I carried a cup and saucer to the table and caught the girl watching me. Something in her expression was startling enough to jog my hand and rattle the cup and its saucer. Except expression is quite the wrong word, the opposite in fact. Her face was motionless, as still as stone. The cool grey eyes looked back into mine totally without feeling. What had I expected for God's sake? Remorse? Guilt? Even embarrassed, perhaps. Anything but cold detachment. I recovered enough to say: 'Sue Ballantyne really existed you know. Once. About your size and not unlike you to look at. She was a real church mouse though. No family, little money, few friends. You were probably all she had.'

  She turned her face away to study the kitchen clock.

  'We've a busy morning,' Hallsworth began, but I cut him short. 'Not till I've breakfasted we haven't.' I put bread in the toaster and collected marmalade from the larder. 'Anyway we were talking about Sue Ballantyne. I'll tell you about her if you like. After all, the story almost begins with her, doesn't it?'

  He made no reply. Just sat and watched me. But he was curious all right. I said, 'About the time you married. A young man with a young wife, both with a taste for rich living but lacking the wherewithal. So you put the bite on the poor old Brigadier. After all he'd done well enough - a decent pension and landing that job at Haldane's. Half their business was military stuff anyway, so having a Brigadier on the Board was good PR, if nothing else. Trouble was, he was bright. Bright enough to put in charge of purchasing. Ironic isn't it? If he'd been a bit of a duffer he'd have lived a damn sight longer.'

  I made the tea while Hallsworth and the girl took their cue from Albert, and said nothing. I carried the teapot to the table: 'The allowance he provided wasn't enough though was it? Not for your life style. So his job was your big chance, with him placing contracts worth millions and you living it up every night with Bruno Frascari. So you faked a failed marriage and Pamela Johnstone embarked on a life of business under her maiden name.'

  Suddenly the girl banged the table, making us all jump. 'Shut up,' she snapped, looking at Hallsworth as if to tell him to make me. But he was hooked. There was enough curiosity in his eyes to have killed a dozen cats. And all at once I realised what I had seen in the girl's face. Tension! She was as taut as a coiled spring. Every ounce of concentration was being used to stop her nerves from coming apart. The discovery encouraged me and drove me on.

  'The scheme worked fine didn't it?' I said to Hallsworth. 'Except for a nosey newspaperman. And the Brigadier knew his son for what he was. So when he found out, the pieces fell into place. Poor sod. Sensed a scandal and blew his brains out.'

  His white face may have meant painful memories, or maybe he was acting. I neither knew or cared. I had memories of my own and twenty-seven hours left to protect them.

  'Pinero sniffing around was just bad luck.' I buttered a slice of toast, not expecting him to comment and not waiting. 'Especially when he got on the German end. Meetings with the liquidator and so on. So Miss Johnstone had to disappear. Back to England for a timely death. Except that Pamela Johnstone, with all that money stashed away, wanted very much to live, didn't she?'

  'You're guessing,' Hallsworth said, so quietly that it took someone who'd known him a long time to detect his uncertainty. And I'd known him just long enough.

  'Only about where you found little Miss Ballantyne.' I turned to the girl. 'Who was she? An old school chum? A scholarship girl perhaps? Orphaned and living in what's called reduced circumstances.'

  Her face wasn't motionless now. The vein I'd noticed standing out on her neck began to throb and drew an answering twitch from one corner of her mouth, while her eyes flashed messages to Hallsworth. 'He knows - ' she began, but he interrupted her. 'Nothing,' he snapped. 'He knows nothing.'

  Her hands in front of her on the table were folded into tiny white fists with smaller spots of white marking her knuckles as they strained against the skin. She sat straight-backed and stared at me with frightened eyes. 'How - ' she began, but again he cut her short.

  'How did I know?' I ignored Hallsworth, concentrating on her, watching the alarm signals of her body language. 'You told me.'

  A hand flew to her mouth as if to stop words uttered long ago.

  'Oh, not outright,' I admitted. 'You changed the story a bit. Swapped the roles around.' I jerked my head at Hallsworth. 'He probably seduced her. Easy enough, I'd think, girl like that probably imagined herself in love anyway. Then you arrived back at the crucial moment to catch them at it. Estranged wife accuses lifetime friend of betrayal. And sets the scene for the final act. Sue Ballantyne's final act. Doused with petrol, your rings on her fingers, stuffed behind the wheel of a car, and-'

  'No!' she leapt to her feet, her hands covering her ears. 'Shut up. Damn you, shut up!'

  'What's the matter, Pamela Johnstone?' I jeered. 'Afraid of ghosts?'

  Hallsworth cut in then, his voice rising almost to a shout: 'The whole things preposterous. A guess that's so bloody crazy that-'

  'That it worked!' I shouted back, on my feet now, putting the table between me and them. 'You two murdered Sue Ballantyne, didn't you? Years ago. Then you -'

  'Albert,' Hallsworth shouted. The giant took an uncertain step forward, his path blocked by the table.

  'Call him off,' I snapped. 'I'm no good to you if I can't even sign my name. And when I've done that you'll fake my death just like you did hers. Except hers was easy - Pamela Johnstone writing her own' suicide notes, confirmed as authentic by heartbroken parents and shocked solicitors. Evidence enough to satisfy the police. It was about all they had - apart from a body so badly charred that the only remains were the rings on its fingers. And after that no one paid any attention when little Miss Ballantyne left to live abroad. Except by then Susan Ballantyne was Pamela Johnstone.'

  Albert had been denied long enough. The table went over, crockery crashed onto the floor and he was on me half lifting, half throwing me back against the wall. I managed two punches before collapsing under the fury of his onslaught, the floor spinning up to meet me as I rolled over to avoid his - swinging boot. A glimpse of Pamela Johnstone's white face above me, her hands still at her ears; my gaze spinning to take in the kitchen clock. Eight o'clock. I had twenty-six hours left.

  Three

  I lost the next two hours, and when Hallsworth came to my room at ten o'clock one look was enough to know he was still angry. He motioned Albert outsid
e and let rip with his own version of the riot act. I got the lot - beginning with the bit about Jean's life hanging on the slender thread of my cooperation and ending with a vivid description of the fun Albert would have unless I stayed in line. It was a performance designed to cow me and it partially succeeded. Whatever happened in the future I would have to watch my step - for Jean's sake if not my own.

  Afterwards Albert went to work with a clothes brush, for once dusting me down instead of knocking me down. Fussy about marks was Albert. Even when he hit me he punched where the bruises wouldn't show.

  Hallsworth and I went down to my office. A typewriter tapped in the next room and for a wild moment I imagined Jean at her desk and everything normal, but seconds later the door opened and Pamela Johnstone came in with a letter for Hallsworth's signature. They worked swiftly, the sureness of their actions testimony to months of preparation, a chilling reminder that more than a year of my life had been used by others to set the scene for a single operation. The Pepalasis project.

  Hallsworth unveiled a duplicate set of books, covering every transaction since the company's incorporation. Almost a duplicate set, but not quite. Entries converted his drawings to mine to create the illusion that I'd drawn more than my entitlement, whilst clients' accounts were credited with an additional fifty thousand pounds worth of earnings before the same amount was systematically syphoned off to my personal account at Barclay's Bank. But those were just the opening moves. On Hallsworth's instructions I drew a cheque for the entire amount of the company's cash reserves held at the Midland Bank in Piccadilly. Eighty-two thousand pounds. Payable to me. And then another cheque, drawn to 'cash' on my Barclay's account for a hundred and thirty-two thousand - the value of the reserves plus the fifty thousand transferred by Pepalasis. After which I telephoned Barclay's to tell them I would be sending a messenger to pay in the cheque drawn on the Midland and to collect the one hundred and thirty-two thousand. In cash. Hallsworth had reason enough to smile as he replaced the telephone extension and handed the two cheques to Pamela Johnstone. She and Albert went on their way rejoicing to the Bank while I sat and calculated how much of my freedom had just been sacrificed. It was almost lunchtime when they returned, and the four of us adjourned to the flat for a quick meal.

  'When do I speak to Jean?' I demanded.

  'Later,' Hallsworth stonewalled. 'At the end of the day.'

  In the afternoon Pamela Johnstone went out, leaving Hallsworth and me to finish the job of painting me the biggest bastard the City's ever known. Specifically he worked, I watched. And worried about Jean. When he still refused to let me speak to her I adopted a policy of cautious non co-operation and refused to initial entries in his duplicate Minute Book until I was satisfied about her safety. It irritated him, but he did damn all about it except grumble, and I drew consolation from making small stands where I could.

  The afternoon wore on. I answered a couple of calls, neither related to the Pepalasis project. But Hallsworth listened to both of them, grim faced and alert for any sign of foolishness on my part. And Seckleman continued to interrupt every hour on the hour. He had been in and out all day, relaying news of the export order. Pamela Johnstone had even been introduced to him, as a friend helping out while Jean had a couple of days off. And Seckleman's three o'clock appearance brought a real problem. I'd not paid much attention earlier, using his visits as thinking time to search for a way of getting Jean to safety. But the mid afternoon bout of agitation caught my interest in a big way. And so did Hallsworth's reaction to it. He was worried sick. 'For God's sake!' he exploded. 'All the cargo's containerised. There can't be a delay. Understand? It's quite out of the question.'

  Seckleman made a gesture of helplessness and repeated his story. The problem sounded simple enough - at least to my ears. All suppliers were delivering to a bonded warehouse in Liverpool, from which goods would be released when suppliers confirmed receipt of payment - on Thursday morning. The day would then be used for loading and the ship would be put to sea in the early hours of Friday morning. The hitch lay in the docks, and a snap decision by the employed labour to work to rule. Which meant that loading would take seven hours longer.

  'There's absolutely nothing I can do about it,' Seckleman said miserably. 'We either load earlier by advancing payment to tomorrow morning, or the ship's master has to apply to the Port Authority for permission to remain in berth for an extra day. And that won't be easy. Not with half the ships hit by the same problem creating a queue of freighters half way to Ireland.'

  'But earlier payment is quite impossible,' Hallsworth said furiously. 'Absolutely bloody impossible.'

  Seckleman shrugged helplessly while Hallsworth gave vent to his views on dock labour and then lapsed into a long silence.

  'Telex all suppliers,' he said eventually. 'We'll pay by direct bank transfer before closing of banking tomorrow. Get back to the warehouse and ask them to stand by for cargo release tomorrow afternoon. Find out if the extra half day and night gives them enough time.' He scowled angrily, and added, 'We'll undertake to meet any costs as a result of night shift working. Understand?'

  Seckleman hesitated, thought better of it, nodded and hurried off to spread the glad tidings about early payment.

  Something nagged at the back of my mind, but before it reached the front the telephone rang. It was Bob Harrison. 'Who's Harrison? Hallsworth wanted to know, after telling Muriel to hold the call.

  Bob! My mind erupted with memories of Sunday's supper. 'A friend,' I said, trying to make it sound casual. 'Nothing to do with business.' Which was true. But Bob had heard enough on Sunday to put him on guard as far as Hallsworth was concerned. I wondered if I could get a message to him? About Jean'. About what was happening. 'He's coming over tonight,' I lied quickly. 'I forgot - we're supposed to be having dinner together.'

  Hallsworth reached for the extension. 'Put him off. Very carefully.'

  Threats were unnecessary. I was convinced already. If the real Sue Ballantyne could be reduced to a cinder, an accident involving Jean would be child's play.

  I picked up the phone. 'Bob, I'm awfully sorry but I can't make tonight.' I rushed on, speaking so quickly that he had no chance to answer, 'but we've got a bit of a flap on. My partner and I are sitting here re-arranging appointments like mad. Both of us. Er, together.' I took a deep breath and added quickly: 'By the way, great party Sunday. Say thanks to Barbara for me will you? You're a lucky fellow, having a charmer like that for a wife. And - those friends of yours fascinating people, and so right about everything they said. Absolutely spot on.' Hallsworth's glare was so furious that I dried up. Completely. My mouth opened and closed but not a sound came out.

  'Yes,' Bob said slowly. I held my breath and I felt beads of sweat form against the inside of my shirt collar and across my forehead. I had to shut him up, had to say something, anything, just a quick word before he gave the game away. My mouth opened but still the sound wouldn't come.

  'We enjoyed the party too’ Bob said. 'Must do it again. How's Jean?'

  I was so surprised that I almost fluffed it. 'She's fine. Er no, not fine - matter of fact she's a bit off colour. Not in today.'

  'Sorry to hear it,' he said slowly, as if taking a long time to think. 'Give her my love won't you. And bad luck about tonight. Make it Friday shall we?'

  Hallsworth was shaking his head violently and making urgent gestures for me to hang up.

  'No - er, not Friday either, Bob. Sorry. This rush job. Must go now-'

  'Just a sec! Amy, er Amy and Barbara, asked me to collect those encyclopaedias you promised to lend us. You remember the ones. For Amy's school project. Okay if I pop in tonight, just to pick them up?'

  The palm of my hand was so damp with sweat that I almost dropped the telephone. But I could have cheered. God knows who runs Army Intelligence, but the job rightfully belongs to a man called Bob Harrison.

  'Not this evening, Bob,' I said quickly, and Hallsworth relaxed a second too soon to stop me adding, 'but the morning, eh?
Early - say nine o'clock?'

  'Fine - see you then - okay, Mike?'

  But the line went dead as Hallsworth's hand came down sharp on the receiver rest of the extension phone. 'You crazy, bloody fool!' he stormed at me. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

  'You heard him. About the books. What else could I do?'

  He smouldered with suspicion, as agitated as I had ever seen him. 'Yes, I heard him,' he said. He lit a cigarette and puffed it nervously in between quick peeks at me.

  Our moods contrasted for the rest of the afternoon - his decidedly nervy and irritable, mine almost cheerful as I blessed the day I had made a friend of Bob Harrison.

  Pamela Johnstone returned at half-past six, letting herself in downstairs with a key I didn't even know she had. The office staff had left for the day, Seckleman only minutes earlier, and Hallsworth and I were as good as finished.

  'Any problems?' he asked anxiously, as she came through the door.

  'No,' she shook her head and walked to the sideboard. 'Everything's fine. Want a drink?'

  I watched her carefully. Early this morning, over breakfast, she had been near to cracking apart, but she was a lot calmer now. Coolness itself, as she poured drinks, as if we were old friends preparing a quiet evening together. Thinking about it, I suppose we were. Old friends and new enemies.

  'Jean,' I reminded both of them. 'When do I speak to her?'

  'Oh, sorry, I forgot,' she reached into her handbag. 'A message for you.'

  I wondered what she meant, holding a cassette in her hand, offering it to me. Then I understood and in the same split second remembered the other cassette, the one I had pocketed in Poignton's office. Remembered it and forgot it, as I snatched the one from the outstretched hand, hating the casual way she handled it, hating her for having anything to do with Jean. A minute later it was in the machine on the desk and the tape was running.