by Don Jacobson
Back at the safe house, the men huddled in the corner of the parlor before breaking apart with Robard and Schiller, along with Lizzy, moving down the hall and into the kitchen. The Bennets settled in to wait.
Number 3 Baptist Gardens was ready for the final act.
Chapter XLVIII
8:15 PM
Neither Bennet elected to speak much during the twenty minutes after doors had clicked shut, leaving the couple alone on the main floor. At one point in that span, Bennet had suggested that he would find a brandy to his taste, Fanny warned him against early imbibing, arguing, rather, that he needed to keep his wits about him until Winters had arrived.
Fanny gently scolded, “Really, Tom, I find myself to be unaccountably calm. Are you plagued by your nerves, famous or not? Might you not wait until our man is in the room before pouring yourself a restorative draught?”
Bennet rolled his eyes, sensing that his wife had turned the tables on him.
He nodded his surrender with a face-saving rejoinder, “Unlike Mr. Fleming, who has consumed three vodka martinis—shaken not stirred—before my very eyes when we have encountered one another at the club, I am not driven by the need to self-medicate. I will wait to have my drink, as distasteful as the prospect may be, with Herr Winters. However, I promise you, I will broach that subject as soon as the man arrives.
“However, if you have no objection, Madam, I will smoke a cigar right now. I am completely aware, before you choose to remind me, that this will show my utter defiance of Dr. Wilson’s orders.
“I find that, as you just have suggested, I am a bit excited. Winters might wonder why a man used to operating on the fringes of society would be jumpy…unless something, like last week’s poorly cooked and stored roast, was ‘off.’ I would benefit from one of Upmann’s finest, and its tranquilizing effects.
“With your permission?”
Mrs. Bennet, knowing how much her husband enjoyed his smokes, sat back in her armchair and offered a soft smile of consent. Her man pulled a leather case from his pocket, opened it, and extracted the dark brown tube. Fanny watched as he went through the usually-unobserved-by-female-eyes ritual of rolling it to break down the filler, snipping the end, and lighting the cigar using a hickory split lit off the coal fire snapping cheerily in the grate. Only after a thoroughly deep drag followed by a slow exhaust which blued the air in the room did the nearly imperceptible hunch in Bennet’s shoulders relax. A smile of satisfaction suffused his features.
And then an electric buzzer, installed especially to give warning, broke the mood. The watchers at 81C had sighted Winters approaching.
“He is early,” Bennet said, tossing the barley-burnt cigar into the fireplace where its incineration offered up an aromatic cloud that was swept up the chimney.
“Fanny, if you would admit him into my company and then retreat to the kitchen, I would be grateful. I will ring the buzzer to signal Denis and Allie when I want them to restrain our guest,” Bennet concluded.
The lady moved into the front entryway while Bennet puttered around the parlor: each occupied with thoughts about the outcome of the next half hour.
Winters had once again used a black cab to bring him to his rendezvous. He had marched past Claridge’s taxi queue lined up on Davies Street and sprinted to Brook Street, defeating Anubis’ usual precautions of having him shepherded into the third cab in line, the one always driven by a trusted adjunct. Instead, he had hailed a roving hack and set off on a zig-zagging path across the city, generally pointing toward his 8:30 meeting with Barraclough. After two or three legs, during which he kept looking out the rear window to see if they were being followed, he finally advised the driver to drop him on Queens Cres just short of Baptist Gardens.
Winters’ tradecraft was successful. He had broken the active surveillance that had lasted several days. His avoidance of the Anubis cab was, however, a blip and not a disaster because every member of the organization knew his ultimate destination. Resources were shifted away from the hotel, and the cloud of watchers collapsed into the sectors below Hempstead Heath, taking position well before Winters and his gypsy arrived.
As before, Marius had encouraged the cabbie to wait, this time with a whole £5 blue and a half of another. Compliance assured, the German stepped out onto the darkened walkway, pulling a torch out of his pocket to help him make his way toward the cul de sac. In the process, he walked past the vacant eyes of 81C Queens Cres. Unbeknownst to him, those blackened windows concealed the forward observation post that had sent the signal to the waiters down the street.
Winters was on alert, to be sure, but such had been his life since October 1945: a trip down a lonely path that began after his stroke against the Fitzwilliams. Skating ahead of those who would have taken him—the Israelis, the British, the Fitzwilliams—had become second nature. T’was simpler to avoid the attention a crowd of bodyguards would have attracted. A solitary, late middle-aged gentleman walking the streets of this North London quarter in the early evening hours was the sort of ripple all but the most suspicious would ignore.
And, that same man returning to his hired ride bearing a small parcel under one arm would be equally inconspicuous. I will have to avoid dancing a jig!
He absently patted his overcoat above his breast pocket in which rested his billfold, a blank bank draft for his Cox and Company account carefully folded therein. He would be willing to pay any amount to obtain the precious painting, a canvas for which he had expended much energy over the years and one for which he had yet to decide its fate. His funds were not unlimited, but they had been well fattened throughout the war thanks to tranches of confiscated Jewish property converted into cash, the proceeds deposited into his Swiss accounts.
The walk down Baptist Gardens to Number 3 passed quickly. He was unmoved that he was early for his appointment. Some would argue that lateness would have established him in a dominant position by forcing the seller to wait. However, he sensed that Barraclough and his connections in London’s underworld were the equivalents of earls and princes. They would not be impressed, in fact they might be put off, by posturing on his part. He was on their turf and had to respect that fact.
An early arrival would more likely to be taken by the fence as honoring the value of his time as opposed to a sign of weakness.
That would put the negotiation to come on a more congenial footing.
One last look behind assured him that he was unfollowed. He snapped off a hard right, one which would have made a drill sergeant proud, and climbed the stairs. He twisted the bell ringer.
A five-beat saw an inner door being opened, a shadowy figure cast against the frosted glass of the front door. That panel was pulled inward, revealing a middle-aged woman, dowdily dressed and wearing an apron. Her eyes betrayed no awareness of the visitor’s importance. On the contrary, her gaze was nearly bored and partially averted, as if Winters was no more—and no less—than any other who had stepped into her master’s presence.
Chapter XLIX
“You have a caller, sir,” was all that Mrs. Bennet said as she led Winters into the parlor after relieving him of his overcoat and hat.
Bennet rose from his seat by the fire and nodded to the woman saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Hill.”
Winters observed a man of later middle years, seemingly older than he himself, hair thinning, and face slightly drawn with a grayish pallor shaded beneath a ruddier over-complexion. His lips were slightly blue. He appeared exactly as Winters would have imagined an upper-class purveyor of stolen goods would have.
“If you would be so kind, please prepare a whiskey for my guest,” Bennet looked at Winters, an eyebrow raised in question. Marius genially nodded acceptance, “and me, and then please return to the kitchen. I will ring when the gentleman requires his hat and coat.”
Fanny, smiling inwardly at Tom’s friendly conceit of naming her after their old retainer, stepped over to the drinks tray, previously organized by Georgie. After pouring a bit m
ore than two fingers in each crystal glass, she carried the tumblers to the small table between the chairs and set them down. The amber liquid shimmered in the glow of the fire. She left the room using the servant’s entrance, preserving the impression of a well-organized household.
Bennet motioned the German to sit, not specifying which chair—and, thus, which drink—would be his. He bade Marius to enjoy his whiskey and excused himself to contact their mutual acquaintance, “Billy” Hill. Bennet adjourned himself to a side table where a telephone rested. Picking up the handset, he gave a number to the exchange. The connection completed, Bennet spoke into the mouthpiece, “Put me through to Mr. Hill.”
Then he waited.
In a moment he had straightened, his change in stance indicating that the crime boss had answered.
“Yes, Mr. Hill,” Bennet said, “Barraclough here.
“I have a gentleman in our parlor who says that he is acquainted with you and has been sent to me with your blessing.”
Bennet paused, listening to the other party.
Then he continued, “I understand. I will ask him.”
He reached into his suit jacket pocket and removed a Walther PP—Kitty’s own rescued from its hiding place in Deauville—which he conspicuously held but did not point at Winters.
He addressed the other, “Mr. Hill says that there was a special byword written on the card directing you here this evening. Please say it aloud now.”
Feigning indifference, even in the face of the implied threat of the weapon, Winters replied, “But, of course, Mr. Barraclough. Actually, sir, two words were written at the bottom of my invitation. They were Beach House.”
Bennet repeated the words, again paused to listen, and finally thanked the voice at the other end of the line before ringing off. He then made a conspicuous show of removing the clip from the firearm and clearing the chamber of the one round in the pipe. He dropped the pistol back in his pocket and handed the clip and cartridge to Winters who comfortably returned the spare round to the magazine.
Bennet dropped into the empty chair, leaned forward to grasp the untouched drink, and wearily said, “Please forgive me. I do regret any discomfort my exhibition with the pistol may have caused you. However, in my business, especially when dealing with high value items, one cannot be too careful.
“Since Mr. Hill holds a significant interest in certain objects, he has taken to insisting on two-step verification. I am pleased that we were able to avoid any unpleasantness of a nature which would be usually undertaken by less savory members of our organization.”
He stopped and took another pull on his drink, savoring the pungent peatiness of the whiskey.
His silence was an obvious invitation to Winters to engage.
Looking over the rim of his glass, Winters took in the room. He apprehended only two paintings…a Monet and the Renoir which had drawn him 6,000 miles like a lodestone.
He slaked his thirst by draining his scotch. He addressed Bennet, “I assure you, sir, no offense was taken, and no discomfort was felt. You needed to follow your security protocols.
“Looking across the room, I can see why you and your associates are so circumspect. These are two fine examples of the Impressionists’ craft. I doubt if I have seen better outside of any of a museum.
“However, Mr. Barraclough, I am surprised that you are only presenting me with two of the four paintings I had assumed to be available.”
Bennet looked discomfited and replied, “I do regret that there are but these two excellent pieces remaining for we have already delivered the first two to other buyers, ones who had standing orders with us, so to speak. We, sadly, lost one of the Monet’s when Timson was arrested.
“I do not wish to place any undue pressure upon you, however, I am anticipating another prospective purchaser later this evening. I could easily imagine that both will be on their way into a private collection by morning.”
Bennet gulped down the remainder of his drink before concluding, “Perhaps you could inspect the wares, so to speak.”
He stood, noticing that he felt a little wobbly on his pins with a sub-aural buzzing nagging the back of his head. However, Bennet smoothed his waistcoat and shot his cuffs.
Winters took two attempts to gain his feet. He covered his own unsteadiness with a cough into a closed fist. He mused that he must be aging faster than he thought if one glass of whiskey could affect him so.
He moved across the room, planting himself in front of Kitty’s portrait, fisted hands on his hips, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. He leaned in and recalled how the old woman had looked that day over six years ago as she stood in front of his squad’s gunsights.
Up until moments before she crumbled beneath the hail of bullets, the ancient aristocrat had seemed frail, old, and sick. Yet, when she flicked her final cigarette at her executioners, her spine had straightened, and the years fell away from her face.
The woman in this painting had emerged from beneath the wrinkles to proudly and calmly greet her ending with the same slightly sad expression surrounding an enigmatic smile. All she had done as the squad had racked their Schmeissers was close her eyes and tip her head back into the midday sun.
As Winters appraised the portrait and ignored him, Bennet shuffled over to the button to alert those waiting in the kitchen. He closely watched the German lest the fellow make some attempt to damage the painting or try to turn the tables on Bennet. However, he believed that Winters was inherently a coward—given that he had murdered Liebermann by striking from behind—and had been sufficiently cowed by his fear of Hill and the Krays.
Bennet pushed the button mounted next to the entry and moved away from the servant’s door to allow his men a clear path to Winters. As he stepped across the room, his foot failed to lift high enough, and his heel caught the edge of the carpet. He tumbled to the floor, drawing Winters’ gaze. He tried to stand, but his legs refused to work. His vision began to tunnel.
Winters watched as Barraclough struggled to regain his feet. The man was clearly in some distress and was becoming more spastic in his movements.
He did not look well when I came in. I wonder if he suffered a stroke?
Winters was no humanitarian. He ignored Bennet. Rather he determined to take the Renoir. However, he realized that he dared not leave the building with the painting without having paid for it. He pulled the portrait from the easel and stepped past the supine Barraclough.
He settled the painting on one of the chairs. Removing the bank draft from his wallet, Winters thought for just a moment before he wrote £100,000 in the area reserved for ‘amount.’ He left the check on the table adjacent to the empty glasses.
Then the room twisted before his eyes as the ceiling became a wall and the floor another against which his left cheek was suddenly pressed. His own breathing became preternaturally loud in his ears. He tried to rise, but as with the other man in his vision, likewise sprawled on the floor, t’was as if the line between brain and body had been cut.
All he could do was stare helplessly across at the other man lying opposite, confusion clouding his hazel green eyes. As Winters watched, those eyes began to close.
Then his own world darkened. A last thought flashed through his mind.
Those eyes! T’was as if I am staring in a mirror.
Fanny poured coffee for Lizzy and the boys. All were awaiting Bennet’s signal to rush into the parlor and pin down Winters. Allie was flexing his long fingers gazing off into the middle distance. Denis leaned against a wall, stropping his fileting knife on the sleeve of his leather bombardier’s jacket. Elizabeth, alternated between watching Fanny like a hawk and casting surreptitious glances at a wall clock that marked the march of minutes since Mrs. Bennet had returned.
After twenty circuits of the second hand, Fanny perked her ears as if she had heard something.
She offered up in a slightly anxious voice, “I just heard a double knock. Mr. Bennet said he would do so if he required my
presence. I must go.”
Alois stepped forward, placing a restraining hand upon her arm, “No, Grandmother Bennet, you must not. Grandfather was to signal us with a ring on the buzzer. This could be a ploy! Winters is a dangerous man. You could step into harm’s way.”
Fanny speared him with a withering glance, “However, it is all right for my husband to be alone in a room with him? Really Mr. Schiller, I assure you that a woman brought up in a world of highwaymen, cutpurses, and strong-arm robbers can hold her own with a decadent German who is fifteen years her senior.
“The Founder wants me in the room. That is why he knocked. Probably more whiskey, if I know my husband. The buzzer will be your signal. And, he wants you to stay put until he summons you.
“Lizzy, I am counting upon you to keep these two miscreants in check lest they upset the applecart!
“I will return as soon as Mr. Bennet gives me leave!”
She brushed past the two men who fell back under Lizzy’s glare as the younger woman moved to block their path. The double-hinged door swung back in its frame, and she was gone.
Mrs. Bennet paused before the door into the parlor. She breathed deeply…once…twice…three times.
She pushed open the door.
And saw the two occupants laid out where they had dropped: Mr. Bennet in the middle of the room and Winters nearer the fireplace.
Leftenant Quartermain’s Mickey Finn had worked as advertised.
Chapter L