He was followed by some of my mates from the pub, who blew in to say get well soon, and Mrs Blunt came in, all of a dither, wondering where Gus had gone. I told her he was in the land of nod, and she said not to waken him, but she’d have a hot high tea waiting for him when he and his bandages got back home. What a nice lady; she didn’t breathe a word about the four thousand separate pieces of wet wood that now constituted her daughter-in-law’s dining-room furniture.
Nobody came to buy a toy, even though, wounded as I was, I had shown willing. But Gerald Rankin phoned to say he’d tracked down a fabulous collection of tinplate boats and ships in Inverness. As he was too busy to go up there for a few days, would I like to vet them for him, all expenses paid? I was amazed he hung on long enough for me to finish laughing. I know I was rude, but I couldn’t help it. History has a way of repeating itself. I wouldn’t repeat my mistake. I politely declined and wished him luck. I felt a four-letter word for having ever suspected him.
I was still smiling when he came in — an old man, quite bald, with a stoop that would not have disgraced Quasimodo. He walked slowly over to the counter, and stretching himself up slightly straighter, deposited a package in front of me. It was wrapped with the highest grade brown paper, and fastened very neatly with fine red string. He looked up at me. ‘You do buy toys as well as sell them, don’t you?’ His voice was cultured and much firmer than his appearance had suggested.
‘Sometimes, if they are unusual, or in very fine condition.’ I replied gently. I was intrigued to see what he had brought in for my appraisal, but he took his time, carefully undoing the string, and folding back the paper. At last, it was revealed, and it was worth every second of the wait.
‘I’m sorry to bother you after your nasty accident, but I wonder if that is of any use to you, sir?’
Before me was an immaculate tinplate limousine, about forty-five centimetres long, finished mainly in dark blue, but with red outlining to the doors, windows and waistline, and incredibly fine gold pin-striping on all the major body panels. There were two beautifully cast carriage lamps each side of the bevelled glass windscreen, and an intricately detailed luggage rack on the roof. Inside, the seats were bright red. Date around 1910 or so, and the maker, I reckoned, was either Carette or Bing. I looked at him enquiringly.
‘Yes, you may pick it up, sir.’
I did so, and my eyes quickly noted the inimitable GNB trademark of Gebrüder Bing of Bavaria. My cat should have been there to share my excitement.
‘It’s quite beautiful,’ I said after a while.
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ he replied, and smiled softly.
I looked at it again in detail. ‘I’ve never seen …’ I began, but he interrupted.
‘I know what you’re going to say, sir. It’s not quite like the usual, standard Bing limousine of the period, is it? The colours aren’t quite right, and the lamps are bigger than usual.’
‘But it doesn’t look repainted,’ I remarked.
‘It hasn’t been. Let me explain. Before the First World War, my father worked for the Bing concern. This model was, if you like, the prototype of the later limousine. It has many little differences from the normal production run cars: lamps, size of doors, colours, and one very intriguing little item. May I?’
He held out his hands for the car. I carefully placed it in them. Holding the car with his left hand, he opened the small side door on its hinges with his right. Then he popped his forefinger and thumb inside, and I could see he was releasing something. Then he handed the toy back to me.
‘There, Mr Marklin. A wonderful extra for any boy.’
I looked inside the door, and could see that now the rear seat cushion had been raised to reveal a secret compartment that ran the width of the car. And inside that compartment was a tiny tinplate box.
‘Take it out, Mr Marklin.’
I obeyed, and I could see it had a hinged lid. I looked up and he nodded. I raised the lid, and inside was what looked like gemstones of some kind, their every facet glinting and flashing in my eyes.
‘Only coloured glass, you understand, Mr Marklin. But what could they not be in the eyes and imagination of a young boy? A king’s ransom, perhaps. The ill gotten gains of the rascally Raffles. A massive, political bribe to stop some mid-European conflict. There’s no end to what those glinting jewels could mean, do you not think?’
I was too impressed to say anything very sensible, so I just let my eyes and face express my agreement.
‘What a shame, Mr Marklin, that Bing did not have the imagination to put it into regular production. Only this one was ever made, and it has been in my family ever since 1909.’
I suddenly felt very sad. ‘You know, you’re right. I couldn’t put a price on it. And if I did, I don’t think I could afford it. You should put it up for auction, you know, in London — Sotheby’s, Phillips, somewhere like that, not bring it to the Toy Emporium, Studland.’ I smiled apologetically.
‘Mr Marklin, that’s very sweet of you to be so honest. But I would never go through all the palaver of taking it to London and all that — I really wouldn’t. I would like it to have a good home. Would you not like it for your own collection — not to sell in the shop?’
‘There’s nothing I would like more,’ I replied, ‘but I really cannot afford such a thing right now. In a few years’ time, maybe, but not now.’
‘I’m so pleased — about your wanting it, that is. And I’m sure Miss Trench will be equally happy.’
I looked at my visitor with new and surprised eyes.
‘Oh, don’t be alarmed, Mr Marklin. I buy my plants and vegetables and things from Miss Trench’s cousin, Lady Philippa Stewart-Hargreaves, over Owermoigne way, and she told me that Arabella — I think that’s your friend’s name — knew a man who was very interested in toys, and might like the Bing limousine. So I showed it to her only an hour ago now, and she said, would I bring it over to you as a favour. So here I am.’
‘Yes, Arabella was quite correct. I think it is very wonderful.’
He smiled at me, and held out his right hand.
‘Well, that’s it then, Mr Marklin. I leave it in your loving care.’ He shook my good hand and made to leave the shop.
I came out from behind the counter, and ran across to him. ‘Look, you can’t leave it here. It could be worth anything from two to five thousand pounds. Even more, maybe.’
He laughed quietly. ‘Oh, Mr Marklin, didn’t I tell you? How stupid of me. Miss Trench gave me a very handsome cheque for it there and then, so all you need to worry about is getting it insured. Good day, sir, and keep dreaming. It’s the nearest we ever get to being in heaven in our lifetime, isn’t it?’
And with that, he left my shop. I watched him slowly climb into the driving seat of a 1947 Lanchester Ten, that was in as immaculate condition as the miniature Bing limousine, and drive quietly away.
I had to pinch myself to make certain I had not dreamt what d just transpired within my Toy Emporium. For not only had I just acquired the gift of a most fabulous antique toy, but also, perhaps, the key to a treasure of a quite different metal.
*
I woke up the recumbent bandages, and saw them home to his cottage down the sea lane. We must have looked more than ridiculous, as was confirmed by the very odd glances and whispered comments from passing holiday-makers. I couldn’t resist in the end, and I said in a loud voice as we passed a young couple with a pram. ‘You know, Gus, that’s the last time you get me on the Studland ferry.’ They looked thunderstruck, and I guessed that it would be some months before that little family ever used it again.
However, it did give me time to try out my little scheme on Gus. He was as committal as ever. He didn’t say a thing, bless him. I then came to the crunch point for both of us.
‘But you realize, Gus, what this means? You’ll have to drive.’
He looked surprised, then remembered as he looked down at my fat white plaster.
‘And that’s more of a sacrifi
ce for me than for you,’ I went on, ‘as we’ll have to go in your car.’
Gus almost broke out in a smile.
‘S’all right. Goes like a …’ He hesitated, and I knew he was about to say ‘bomb’, but thought better of it. ‘… bird, it does, now I got those new plugs.’
The only bird I could think of that fitted the Popular was a half-dead vulture, but I let it pass.
He stopped at his gate, and turned to me. I could see Mrs Blunt peering at us through the curtains. (Crafty old devil — she must have a key. She didn’t look as if she had a credit card.)
‘When do you want to go?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know yet. Next time he takes Derek out. Hope it’s soon.’
Gus nodded.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I hope there’s no trouble with your boat insurance people.’
‘Don’t suppose there will be,’ he said. ‘I haven’t paid a premium for nearly five years.’
‘But Gus …’ I began, but suddenly caught the glint in his eye. The bastard, he’d got me going again.
The rest of the day was, despite the many and varied plasters, kind of nice. I phoned Deborah, and she promised to ring back soonest with the information I needed. I then sat down for the evening, and found I could read Woody Allen again — that has to mean something, if only that the telly was saving me electricity and intellectual frustration. And then the high point of the late hours, Arabella performed her Mac Arthur return. We went through a nursery (green) type badinage, like, did she enjoy pricking out? and if she’s got green fingers, would she please keep them off me until she’d washed, and give my regards to her Aunty Rhinum, and the like and then I went and got the Bing limousine.
‘My sweet, darling, precious Arabella,’ I said, embracing her (I’d put the car down first), ‘a million thanks for this extravagant gift, but really, I can’t accept it, you know,’
I could tell from her expression, she had already worked out an answer to my anticipated reaction.
‘Then I’ll give it to another toy fanatic. There are a few about, you know.’ She winked at me.
‘But …’ I began, but she sealed my lips (or, to be more accurate, opened them) with a kiss.
‘No “buts”,’ she whispered in my plastered ear.
‘I’m not reduced to bread and water by my extravagance, you know. My cousin has the title and little money; my side of the family has the money, and no titles.’ I knew I was beaten.
‘Who wants titles?’ I muttered between slips of the tongue (hers), and we must draw a veil over the next hour or so. Suffice it to say, Woody Allen didn’t get a look in.
We came downstairs again feeling peckish and Miss Often and I did a culinary double act. She did the cooking; I did the eating. But I did the washing up single-handed, so to speak, and got detergent up my plaster. She said it would keep my skin nice and soft, and we sang a chorus of ‘Plasters that do dishes can be soft as your face’. I had not felt so happy for ages.
But soon after that, Arabella asked the inevitable question — what was I going to do next about Treasure? I parried it as much as I could, but she was not convinced.
‘Look’, she said, with great concern, ‘there’s precious little you can achieve with one arm and twenty-nine plasters. For goodness’ sake, leave it alone — at least for a bit. Until you’re stronger. By then the police may have …’
‘Sure,’ I said, rather cruelly. (I didn’t mean to be.) ‘By then money will grow on trees, the communists will love the capitalists, a Briton will win every final at Wimbledon.’
She got up abruptly. ‘And I won’t be here any more.’
I deserved that.
‘Darling, do believe me.’ I took her hand and urged her gently back onto the settee. ‘There’s just one more thing I have to do. And I promise you it does not get me into any danger — or any more danger than I’m already in.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise,’ but she did not look totally convinced.
‘Won’t you tell me?’
‘If I do, you might want to come. And I don’t want that. It’s just the fabulous toy you gave me has given me an idea where the diaries might be hidden.’
She thought for a minute. ‘Secret compartments?’
I nodded.
‘Oh leave it to the police, why don’t you?’ she cried.
‘Gus is coming with me,’ I said quickly.
‘Gus was with you when you were blown sky high,’ she vehemently pointed out.
‘But we helped each other to shore,’ I weakly rejoined.
‘And this is positively the last action you’ll take on your own?’
‘Positively, absolutely, utterly and without question.’
‘How many more does that mean there will be?’ she remarked dryly, then added, ‘I seem to bring tragedy around with me, don’t I?’
Her last remark, I could see, was more to herself than to me. She got up as if to go, but then sank back again onto the settee. Then she looked at me with deadly seriousness.
‘Maybe my enemies are right: I am Belladonna, poisonous to all who wish to partake of me …’
I hadn’t seen her like this since the night she told me something of her life, and why she had begun her association with Treasure, and what he meant to her.
I took her by the shoulders. ‘Look, my darling Often, what the hell are you talking about? This whole gruesome, tragic business wasn’t sparked off by you …’
She pulled away. ‘Maybe this one wasn’t.’
I was starting to get alarmed.
‘There was another one?’
She hesitated, then quite suddenly, collapsed into my arms, and began shaking with her crying. ‘Just you be careful, Peter, that’s all,’ she managed to stammer out between sobs.
‘Just be bloody, bloody, bloody careful — for my sake.’
I would have had to have been as thick as Ken Gates to have probed any further right then, so I didn’t. We just sat quietly together, and listened to the odd owl hoot on its way to a midnight snack. Eventually, we went up to bed, and snuggled very close all night to keep out the bogie men.
*
Next morning, Arabella left early to help her cousin at the nursery, and neither of us mentioned her rather alarming comments of the evening before. But I couldn’t get them out of my mind. But soon after she had gone, I had an idea. I rang the Daily Telegraph Information Service and asked for all the gen they had on Trenton Public School. I did the same with The Times, and my old mate at the Western Gazette. The first thing I found out was the colour of the school tie — diagonal bars of black, maroon and yellow divided by a thin line of white. I remembered that plaster boy in his infinite youth, alone with his childish playthings atop a barn, and the colour of the tie against the grey of his shirt.
The second piece of information that intrigued me was that it was regarded as one of the more modern of public schools — and that even its buildings were not that hallowed, most of them being of post-war construction, due to a hit and run Dornier flattening most of the old in 1944. I worked out Treasure would have been about fourteen at the time, and must remember the bombing vividly — unless he had been the bomb equivalent of shell shocked. I counted myself lucky that none of my own schooling had been as terrifying as an air raid, although, I suppose, many would claim the Headmaster came close to it at times. Photographs of the school and stats of the bomb damage were promised by both The Times and Telegraph by return of post in exchange for a small fee. I sent off two cheques right away.
Then Deborah rang to say that Derek was going out to lunch with Treasure that very day, and would be eating at the Wharf-side Restaurant in Poole. I knew the place vaguely, from my old advertising days — more expense account than hard-earned money eating, but quite good for all that. Being situated right on the water-front at Poole, it did not have a car-park of its own, which suited me admirably if Treasure drove himself. The only problem now was which car he would take. I prayed he would feel very
important that day. I immediately ran over to Gus’s place (I tell a lie; it was more of a shambling trot), and he was in the shed where I keep my old Daimler.
‘Come to work on it, at last, have you?’ he asked, rather grumpily, and prodded at a rusting rear wheel spat. ‘You laugh at my old car, but what about this?’ A few flakes of reddened metal confettied to the dirt floor.
‘I don’t use this every day, Gus,’ I said a little irritably, knowing he was right. I just had to get round to it one day. I really loved that old car, and did not want to see it die. ‘But that’s not why I came. We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Lulworth.’
‘When?’ he asked.
‘An hour and a half.’
‘In Lulworth?’
‘No, Poole. Have to be there early to see where he parks. But you’ll have to keep some distance behind him, Gus, otherwise he’ll see us. We’re not exactly inconspicuous.’ I laughed as I said this, for while I was getting used to having an Egyptian mummy as a close friend, not everybody had had the opportunity so to do.
‘I’ll bring my sets of keys and all that.’
‘You do that, Gus.’
His uncle had died some years previously, and had bequeathed to Gus quite a few of the tools of his trade as a professional garage owner over Sidmouth way. These include four plywood boards full of duplicate ignition and door keys hanging on hooks. I reckon Gus could open up half the cars in the country if he had enough time, for he always keeps a handy little file in his pocket, and what didn’t quite fit, soon does, in his hands.
So, two hours later, we were parked just up from the glossy premises of Willard, Jenks and Pursar, from where we could just see their car-park, and any car that might pull up outside their glass front entrance. I advised Gus to lower himself down in his seat, just in case. He did so, without a word of a grumble, and promptly fell asleep. Some SAS operative he was turning out to be. However, he was to be, quite literally, the key to any success we might have.
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