A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 13

(“Pugh comes from German aristocracy, you know,” Carruthers explained, “and is very fussy about how he’s addressed.” “Be as polite as you want,” Clarence said, “just get him here!” “Yes, sir,” Carruthers said, and went back to his composing.)

(“Sir Percival loves flattery,” Carruthers explained. “That’s all in there to put him in a good mood, to make him receptive.” “Spread it on with a trowel if it makes him happy,” Clarence said, reading over his shoulder, “just get him here!” “Right,” Carruthers said, and went on.)

(“How’s that?” Carruthers asked. “Satisfactory?” “It is if it brings him here,” Clarence said flatly, folding the note and tucking it into its envelope. “Otherwise it’s garbage.” “I assure you it will bring him,” Carruthers said. “You have my word for it.” “That and a dime will get you coffee,” Clarence said brusquely, and came to his feet, raising his voice. “Hall”)

Sir Percival Pugh was a handsome, well-built man in his middle forties, a trifle above average in height, with extremely sharp dark blue eyes which he could mask with innocence at a moment’s notice, with fair hair combed a bit longer than the style over a wide brow that had a slight bulge, as if requiring the additional room for the massive intelligence lodged behind it. Sir Percival had just completed a late breakfast and had gone into his study to practice his card tricks — for prestidigitation and amateur magic were two of Sir Percival’s most ardent hobbies — when his butler appeared to announce they had a visitor with a message for Sir Percival which he refused to hand over to any surrogate.

The butler’s tone indicated (a) that if the visitor had to appear at all, he should have used the servants’ entrance rather than the front hall; (b) that the visitor should have parked that sad example of the automobilemaker’s art around the corner rather than in his lordship’s driveway where people might see it and think it pertained to the house; and (c) that if he, the butler, that is, had raised any of these points with the visitor, it would have been suicidal. Sir Percival, well accustomed to reading both his butler’s tone as well as his expression, frowned and bade the butler to allow the gentleman in. He then sat back and awaited developments.

After his butler’s unspoken comments, Sir Percival was really not surprised when Harold appeared in the doorway, clutching the note in one large, sweating hand. This was, of course, the large man who had hustled William Carruthers into that wretched little car at the airport; the muscle in the kidnaping. He was here, therefore, with a note from Carruthers, since there was no other possible link between them. He accepted the note from Harold, and glanced first at the signature, not at all surprised that he had been correct in his surmise; Sir Percival was not accustomed to being wrong. He was pleased to see that although the kidnapers had obviously learned by now that Carruthers and his friends were penniless, at least they had not punished him for his poverty. Or at least they had not broken his arms, since he was able to write. Well, possibly the note might further clarify the situation. He went back to the top of the page and began reading.

His first feeling was one of irritation at Carruthers. Pugh’s family was about as Germanic as Yorkshire pudding; he could trace his ancestry back eighteen generations in Wales and a few centuries in Ireland before that. He understood the necessity for this fiction, however, in order for Carruthers to bring up the German Morgen for morning, obviously the closest poor Carruthers had been able to come to the name “Morgan.” He even forgave Carruthers the “young goat” for Kidd, and the use of Bartholomew Roberts’ name, when actually Lord Justice Pomeroy had presided at Simpson’s trial. But when the man went to such infantile lengths to bring in the name “Teach,” it was too much! It was a wonder he hadn’t said something about a witness with a black beard! And that “A very—” at the end was the final straw!

Pugh was a man who required extremely few clues; his mammoth brain rebelled at having too many hints thrust at it, as if suggesting that his giant intellect needed them to solve any mystery. Still, the hints had gone over the head of the brains behind the kidnaping — for Sir Percival had known from the day at the airport that the large man in the room with him had only been the muscle — but it was still taking chances to put so much down on paper, and Pugh disliked any unnecessary chances.

He went back and read the note a second time, although its message was firmly imprinted on his brain. German Karte, indeed! So obviously Carruthers had unearthed some bit of parchment which was a pirate map, or which purported to be a pirate map, or which — most probably — was neither, but which Carruthers wished him to authenticate as a pirate map, no matter what it was. At that moment Sir Percival could not see where there was any profit in it for him — the mention of a fee did not sound substantial — and profit for Sir Percival came first in all his calculations. On the other hand, Carruthers should have been well aware of this trait of Sir Percival’s character, and should scarcely have written the note to him without taking this factor into account. In any event, he had nothing else to do that afternoon, and it would be pleasant to see Billy-Boy Carruthers again. But first he wished more information, and went about getting it in the manner he knew best. He smiled genially at Harold.

“One word, if I may,” he said politely. “There is mention in this note of payment for my services. You’ll pardon me for being frank, but in all honesty — while I am sure your other attributes outshine this minor failing — you do not look as if you could afford to pay a very large fee.”

Harold had been standing first on one foot and then on the other, quite uncomfortable in this fine house, but Sir Percival’s words brought him from his embarrassment.

“Me? I ain’t goin’ to pay nothin’,” he said disdainfully. “If you’re lookin’ for dough, you better look to Clare.”

“Clare? Your wife?”

“Naw! Clarence, my partner. I just call him Clare for short, like he calls me Hal. Well,” Harold added, some of Simpson’s tendency toward honesty having rubbed off on him the past day or so, “he’s actually more my boss than a partner. Mainly on account of he’s got all the dough.”

“As good a reason as any and better than most, as I’m sure any captain of industry would agree. But when you say, in your quaint fashion, that your friend has — and I quote — ‘all the dough,’ does that mean he had sufficient to pay me a reasonable fee?”

“Who, Clare?” Harold waved away any doubts with one of his basket-sized hands. “He’s got enough unless you’re out of your mind for what you charge.”

“Oh?” Sir Percival sounded dubious.

“Yeah! Clare’s got almost sixty grand stashed away in a safe at the house. He thinks I don’t know, but I do. As if I couldn’t open that box with a piece of boiled spaghetti the worst day I ever seen! Only thing is,” he added sadly, “I wouldn’t rob Clare. He’s my partner.”

“An admirable sentiment,” Pugh said graciously, “and one that does you credit.” Almost sixty grand, the man said; roughly thirty thousand pounds. And this naughty man Clarence was greedy enough to try to get more by kidnaping an elderly gentleman. Well, Pugh thought, possibly we can teach this Clarence the error of his ways — at a slight charge, of course. But lessons of that nature never came cheap; if they did, people would never learn. It would take a bit of planning, but Pugh had no doubts on that score. He looked up.

“I’ll be a few minutes. Would you care for a cup of coffee in the kitchen?”

“Gee, sure!” Harold said wholeheartedly. He had been ill at ease in the room, whose carpeting seemed to be as thick as the jute piles at Sing Sing. The kitchen, he was sure, was equally well appointed, but it would be more his style.

“Fine,” Pugh said, and rang for the butler. As he watched Harold lumber from the room, his eyes narrowed and his giant brain began to consider the delicate edifice of the plan he was constructing. As each wall went into place, he nodded, checked it for stability, and then moved on to the next step. And when at last the carpeting had been laid and the pictures neatly hung on the walls and properly straightened, he came to his feet and walked into his library. He located his file of newspapers, selected one a week old, checked it over carefully, and smiled. He then packed his briefcase with the necessary materials, added the newspaper, and walked into the kitchen.

“Ready,” he said to Harold.

“Great!” Harold said, relieved to be quit of the luxurious mansion. “The car’s in the drive...”

The three elderly gentlemen were seated around the kitchen table playing cards, but the card play without the aid of brandy and champagne, and with no money involved — not to mention playing with cards whose backs were known to all — was desultory to say the least. At the sound of Harold opening the front door, they all looked up in anticipation. Carruthers threw down his cards and came to his feet; the others followed suit, trailing him into the library, where Harold had ushered his guest.

“Ah, Sir Percival!” Carruthers said warmly.

“Mr. Carruthers! And Mr. Briggs and Mr. Simpson, too.” Pugh was actually not surprised to see them all there, nor did it affect his plan except in the most minor of details. His computerlike brain had already noted the facts and was in the process of handing down a print-out. Obviously a ransom note had been sent to the two at their club, and Briggs, most likely, had come to the spot where the ransom was to be delivered, probably carrying a bag with fresh clothing for Carruthers, since (a) they had no money, and (b) the shirt Carruthers was wearing seemed to be relatively clean, even if excessively patterned. And, not having any money, Briggs had also been taken into custody and a second ransom note had undoubtedly been dispatched, probably asking for twice as much, and poor Simpson, not having a clue as to what to do, had shown up and spilled the beans as to the financial bind they found themselves in. And when Clarence had tried to send them about their business as a lost cause, the three — or, more likely, Carruthers — had come up with this parchment business. Which, Pugh said to himself in satisfaction, brings us up to today’s breathtaking episode; come next Saturday and bring sixpence. All of the above ratiocination having taken but a fraction of a second, he continued speaking seemingly without pause. “And how are you all keeping?”

“Fine!” Carruthers said with a wide smile, answering for them all. “The reason we asked you here — ”

“Quiet! No hints!” Clarence said sternly, and came forward to introduce himself. “Sir Percival, my name is Clarence—”

“Alexander. I know,” Sir Percival said in a kindly tone. “Harold was good enough to do the introductions while we were driving here. How do you do, sir?”

“I’ll do a lot better once you translate something in Latin for me,” Clarence said, and turned to glare at the three. “And like I said, no hints!” He turned back to Sir Percival, bringing the scroll to the table and unrolling it. He pointed. “Here you are, Sir Percival. Just what is this thing?”

Pugh bent over the table looking profoundly studious. In his mind’s eye he could see little Briggs crossing his fingers behind his back, and could imagine Simpson wetting his lips nervously, but he was equally sure that Billy-Boy Carruthers was looking as unconcerned and benign as ever. Patience and faith! Pugh thought with an inner smile, and brought his attention back to the parchment. He nodded slowly.

“Remarkable!” he murmured. “May I?” He took the scroll carefully and turned it over, studying the hairline cracks on the back and raising his eyebrows spectacularly at seeing the x imprinted there. He then reversed the parchment once more and continued reversing it as he compared the words on one side with the tiny lines on the other. “Truly amazing! I should not have thought it possible!”

“Yes, that’s fine, but what is it?” At this point Clarence was almost pleading.

“Ah, yes, that’s why you called me here, wasn’t it? Well,” Sir Percival said in a scholarly tone, “to be brief, it appears to be a map of some sort, and a reference on the other side to a treasure this map purports to locate.” His eyes came up from the scroll and he took a deep breath. “It seems hard to believe, after all these years and with so many people searching for it through the centuries, but it appears to be the key to the Great Mogul treasure!”

Clarence leaned forward, his eyes bulging. “Are you sure?”

“Quite. One could scarcely make a mistake about a thing like that, could one?” Sir Percival put down the scroll with a sigh and smiled genially. “Yes. And now, if you don’t mind, possibly you could pay me — considering the small amount of work involved in the translation, plus the pleasure you have given me in permitting me to look upon this famous document, I think fifty pounds should do — and then could Harold drive me home? I’m expecting some friends over this afternoon for a few hands of bridge.”

“Hey!” Harold said enthusiastically. “You play—?”

“Hal, shut up!” Clarence said crossly. “Sir Percival—”

“Yes?”

“I... I—” Clarence was torn. Obviously one did not snatch people like Sir Percival Pugh. Harold had undoubtedly left fingerprints all over Sir Percival’s home when he was there, as well as probably parking in the drive where everyone could see and later identify the car. Besides, if Sir Percival Pugh were missing it would be quite a different matter from those three old nobodies. In Sir Percival’s case all Scotland Yard would be involved, and the cops would be here as soon as they could trace the large man with whom Sir Percival had left his home. And Clarence needed a covey of cops around about as much as he needed an impacted wisdom tooth.

On the other hand, what good was a genuine pirate map if he couldn’t decipher it? No. He had to get Sir Percival to tell him what the parchment said before he left. But how? Clarence cleared his throat.

“Sir Percival,” he said, “we... well, we more or less assumed it was a map of some sort, a pirate map of some sort, that is—” Clarence was trying his best to sound sincere while at the same time attempting to broadcast a threat to any who might be tempted to contradict him, no easy chore. “It’s just — well, we were hoping you would tell us a bit more—”

“More? But there really isn’t much more to be told,” Sir Percival said, sounding puzzled by the request. “As we both agree, it is a pirate map. Quite old and genuine in every respect, as far as I can judge, and relating, in my opinion, to the location of the Great Mogul treasure, lost all these years. And now, if you really don’t mind, I would like transportation back to my home. Guests this afternoon, you know,” he added a trifle apologetically.

“Wait a second!” Clarence said desperately. The old men also knew what the map said, but after their trying to con him the night before with that diploma for pig-farming nonsense — pig-farming, yet! — he wouldn’t trust their interpretation any further than he could kick a Sherman tank uphill against the wind.

“Yes?” Sir Percival said politely.

“Ah... well, look, Sir Percival,” Clarence said, trying to make up his mind without quite knowing what he wanted to make up his mind about. “What I mean is — well, what I figured I’d get for your fee — well, what do the words actually say?”

“Just what I’ve just finished telling you,” Sir Percival said with the air of one whose patience is not limitless. He withdrew a pocket watch and looked at it rather pointedly.

“At least, does it say how big the treasure is?” Clarence asked, almost wailing, picking at straws.

Sir Percival paused and then nodded, as if Clarence had raised an interesting point. He checked his watch again, seemed to come to the conclusion that he still had several minutes before he had to run, and seated himself comfortably in a chair.

“Now, that’s a rather fascinating subject for conjecture,” he said musingly. “Although I believe we can make some decent assumptions, and come to some rather startling conclusions. We can assume, for example, with every degree of accuracy, that the J. Avery mentioned in the scroll is none other than the famous — or, rather, infamous — pirate, John Avery. We can make this deduction since this is the Avery farm, and since the scroll was hidden here. And also — although I suppose I should not be telling you this — the scroll apparently is based upon one of his major acts of piracy—”

(“I tried to tell you about that Avery bit,” Simpson said to Clarence reproachfully, “but you wouldn’t listen.” “Shut up,” Clarence said uncharitably. “Go on, Sir Percival.”)

“Yes. Well,” Sir Percival said, tenting his fingers and contemplating them all over them, “we know that John Avery, alias Every, alias Bridgeman, and also known among the fraternity as Long Ben and the Arch-Pirate, was born in this general vicinity, give or take a hundred miles or so, and went to sea as a youth in the merchant marine. This was not, of course, uncommon among youths at the time, but what was a bit unusual, possibly, was that after becoming a mate, John Avery led a mutiny and took the crew and ship into piracy. He was quite active as well as being successful — the two are not always synonymous — but his major stroke was the famous prize he took in the Red Sea, a ship, as I’ve stated before, of the Great Mogul. And on that ship, and a treasure never seen since, was a booty of” — he paused for effect — “100,000 gold pieces of eight...”

Clarence gulped. “How — how much is that in today’s money?”

Sir Percival considered, a slight frown accompanying his calculations.

“Let us see. The piece of eight has been considered by some to be named for a coin which was the equivalent of eight reales. Others — and for the purposes of this discussion I throw my weight in this direction — thought of it as the doblón de ocho of the Spain of the era, the doubloon of eight escudo of gold, as we call it. Its weight was a trifle under twenty-eight grams, or approximately one ounce in today’s scale.”

Clarence was stunned. One thing he knew very well was numbers; another was money.

“One hundred thousand ounces of gold? One hundred thousand ounces of gold?” He took a deep breath, trying to control the trembling that had begun to take him in its grip. “At over two hundred dollars an ounce? That’s... that’s twenty million dollars!” He leaned toward Pugh. “Where is it? Where is it?”

Sir Percival shook his head regretfully.

“I’m afraid that was not in our deal. You wished to know what the parchment represented. I have told you. And now, if you and Harold are both busy, possibly you might at least drive me to the train? After paying my fee, of course.”

“Hold it! Hold it!” The thought of losing twenty million dollars was, in itself, unthinkable. Clarence tried to bring his whirling thoughts to some sort of order. Twenty million bucks! Twenty million smackeroos! That old man Carruthers had sure been right when he said there was enough for them all! But that didn’t mean that any of it had to be thrown away! And to think it all started because Harold picked up a newspaper someone had left in a bar, which in turn had led him to kidnaping the old man for a paltry twenty grand! Old Opportunity had done himself proud, this time! He brought himself back to earth, swallowing. “Look, Sir Percival. There’s plenty for everyone. After all, I showed you the scroll. It wouldn’t be right for you to try to cut me out of the deal.”

Sir Percival considered Clarence for several moments. Then, at last, and with a sigh, he made up his mind.

“Possibly you are right,” he said. “Legally, for your information, you haven’t a leg to stand on. You not only showed me the scroll, as you yourself have just now stated, but you even offered me a fee to read it — a fee, I might mention, which has yet to be paid. But in a moral sense, I expect you have a point. However, since I now know where the treasure is — and you do not — and since I can move quite quickly when necessary, I suggest that my portion be seventy-five per cent, and yours be the balance.”

“Wait a second!” Briggs said hotly. “What about us? After all, Billy-Boy thought of—” He seemed to realize what he was saying. “I mean,” he said a bit sheepishly, since he had to say something, “we found the scroll in the first place.”

Again Sir Percival considered.

“I suppose there is some justice in what you say,” he said, and tried to be fair about the matter. “What about seventy-five per cent for me, and you three and Clarence and Harold to divide the other twenty-five per cent. After all,” he pointed out, “that would be five per cent each, which is not to be caviled at, considering the sum of money we are talking about.”

“Wait a second!” Clarence said angrily. “There’s only one of you, and two of us!”

“And three of us,” Carruthers pointed out. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

“And those old men know what’s on the parchment, too,” Clarence added angrily. “You’re not the only one can read Latin!”

“True. I should have expected that Simpson, at least, and also possibly Carruthers, would be familiar with the translation,” Pugh said sadly, while Briggs bridled at being left out. “A problem...” Sir Percival pursed his lips and closed his eyes, as if to better plan a fair and equitable distribution of the huge sum of money. At last he opened his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain. We’ll do it this way,” he said, his regret at giving up such a large share of the money evident in his voice. “Since we are, in effect, three interested parties, we’ll divide the money into three equal portions. One third, of course, to me; one third to Clarence and Harold, and one third to Mr. Carruthers and his two friends.”

Clarence was about to object again, when he realized that once they all had their individual shares, he could easily kidnap one of the old men again — anyone but that big-mouthed runt, Briggs — and end up with a good portion of their share as well.

“Okay,” he said brusquely. “Now, what does that thing say?”

Sir Percival held up an admonitory hand.

“One moment,” he said. “I believe in cases such as this it is customary to make some gesture to indicate the good faith of the parties involved.”

“Now what do you mean?” Clarence was beginning to get irked with these constant interruptions that were preventing him from getting at the treasure as soon as possible.

“What I mean is quite simple,” Sir Percival said easily. “In cases such as this, since we intend to share a considerable amount of money in three equal parts, some gesture — usually in the form of an equal contribution of money — is made by all three parties.”

“Money? How much money?” Clarence asked, instantly-suspicious.

“I believe in the usual agreements, it is normal to place a small percentage of the sum involved in the joint venture, donated in equal parts by each of the partners, in someone’s safekeeping. Should, then, any partner fail to demonstrate his good faith, his portion is forfeit, to be divided between the others.”

“Yeah,” Clarence said, his eyes narrowed, “but how much?”

Sir Percival considered.

“Let me see... In this case, since we are discussing a matter of approximately twenty million dollars, or about seven million dollars plus to each party, I would suggest we each put up half-of-one per cent of our share.”

Clarence frowned darkly.

“That’s over thirty-five grand! That’s a lot of dough.” His eyes narrowed as he added the most important thing. “And exactly who holds all that dough?”

“Anyone can hold it,” Sir Percival said, and added modestly, “I’ll hold it, if you wish.”

“Wait a second—”

“Or,” Pugh said, “if this presents itself to you as a problem, you can hold it. It really makes little difference.” He frowned as he made a calculation. “Let us make it an even forty thousand dollars each, or twenty thousand pounds. I see you have a safe here. In that case I suggest you take charge of the money. I assume that is agreeable?”

Clarence thought about it. Despite his natural tendency to be suspicious, he could see nothing wrong with the arrangement, as long as the money was in his safekeeping.

“Yeah. Well, all right.”

“That is, if you have your share to begin with,” Pugh added significantly.

Clarence glanced at Harold and wished the large man was out of the room. But he could not let the opportunity pass; old O would never forgive him if he did. “I’ve got my share right here in the house,” he said. “What about you?”

“My bank has a branch at East Westerly, which is not far,” Sir Percival said. “If you care to drive me there, I can easily arrange the money in a matter of minutes.”

Clarence still saw flaws. “What about the old men? You got real generous and cut them in, but they can’t come up with the ante. They’re broke. So how about cutting them right out again?”

Sir Percival looked at Clarence pityingly.

“You are obviously not familiar with Mr. Carruthers and his rather odd sense of humor,” Sir Percival said, and smiled brightly. “I am sure he was pulling your leg when he said they were without funds. It’s a habit of his, you know, especially where money is concerned.” He looked at Carruthers a trifle sternly. “You really shouldn’t do that, Carruthers. It’s bad form, you know.”

“I—” Billy-Boy was looking confused.

“And don’t try to look as if you didn’t know exactly what I’m speaking of! Tell the truth, Carruthers! Do you deny that you invested the money you gained from the Jarvis award in Namibian Chartered Mines, Limited?”

“No. I mean, I don’t deny it,” Carruthers said, amazed at Pugh’s knowledge, “but—”

“I thought so,” Pugh said rebukingly, interrupting smoothly. “And am I mistaken that you have a mistrust of banks, so that you normally carry the certificates on your person in a money belt?” His eagle eye had noted the slightly larger bulge at Carruthers’ stomach and had instantly fed it into the computer.

“Why, yes,” Carruthers said, finally beginning to get the message. He only hoped that Briggs and Simpson would also see the light and keep their mouths shut. He opened his shirt, raised the flap of the money belt, and withdrew the certificates. “Here they are.”

“So you three clowns were broke, huh?” Clarence was fuming. “You double-crossing, lying, cheating!” He grabbed the certificates from Carruthers’ hand, studied them a moment, and then looked up, his eyes hard. “Who’s got a newspaper?”

“By the oddest of coincidences,” Sir Percival said, pleased to contribute, “I just happen to have one in my bag.” He brought it forth and handed it over, adding a bit apologetically, “I’m afraid it’s a few days old...”

“If it’s got the stock market reports, that’s all I want,” Clarence said brusquely, and leafed through the pages until he found the one he wanted. His finger slid impatiently down the long column of figures. “Namibian Chartered Mines, Limited. Listed at eighteen shillings. And you’ve got—” He counted and looked up, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “These certificates are worth over forty grand! And you said you were broke!”

Carruthers shrugged philosophically.

“Wealth,” he said, with a professorial air, “is a relative matter. To one person forty thousand dollars may be a veritable fortune, beyond the wildest dreams of avarice. To another, more fortunate one, forty thousand dollars, particularly in today’s economy, may be a mere bagatelle.” He frowned thoughtfully. “What was it Shakespeare said?”

“You mean, ‘a rose by any other name’?” Simpson asked.

“Or ‘a fool and his money’?” Briggs asked.

“Or ‘no profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en’?”

“Or, ‘our purses shall be proud, our garments poor’?”

“Something like one or all of those,” Carruthers said, “or possibly not. No matter.” He pointed to the certificates in Clarence’s hand. “That is our share in the venture. Consider us in.”

“And if you’ll be so kind as to drive me to the bank,” Sir Percival said, “I shall add my widow’s mite to the pile, and then we’ll be off and running.”

“Okay; but Hal, you keep an eye on these chiseling sharpies until we get back, huh?” Clarence said, and sneered inwardly. So much for all the newspaper talk about the loyalty of one of the old buzzards for the others! He had seen the look of shock on the open countenance of Simpson; it was obvious old skinny had not known the value of those stock certificates; old baggy-pants was simply a crook! Well, when this was over and he snatched Carruthers a second time, there was no doubt of what he would do with the old man once he had stripped him clean. It was going to be down the well or under the barn, one or the other. Definitely! Lie to him, would they? They must think they were dealing with some clod from the corn belt!

Carruthers cleared his throat, this time suggestively.

“While you are gone,” he said, a tentative note in his voice, “since we are now working together for the common weal, I don’t suppose you could ease up a bit on the alcohol restrictions...?”

Clarence stared a moment, and then, with a sigh, he tossed the key to the cupboard in Harold’s direction. What were a few drinks when a fortune was to be made? Besides, it would likely be the old buzzard’s last meal — or last drink — before he went down the hall to the little green door. Once Pugh had been paid off and went his way, it was going to be bread and water for old fatso until D-Day; which would actually be a break for Harold. There would be less excavation to dig the old buzzard’s grave. He turned to Sir Percival.

“Okay,” he said flatly. “Let’s go.”

Sir Percival stacked the forty thousand dollars that Clarence had given him, added his own twenty thousand pounds fresh from the bank — they had decided not to be picayune regarding the difference in exchange rates — placed the stock certificates from Carruthers on top, and neatly wrapped the entire amount in some brown paper taken from his bag.

“There,” he said with satisfaction, and turned to Clarence. “And now, since it is your desire to be the guardian of the funds, if you would be so kind as to open the safe?”

“Sure,” Clarence said, and bent to fiddle with the dial, making sure that his back blocked out any possibility of any of the others noting the combination. He pulled back the outer door, took the packet from Pugh, slid it into an inner alcove, and closed the heavy outer door of the safe.

“Wait a second!” Briggs said suspiciously. “We all have money in there, but Clarence is the only one with the combination!”

“Faith,” Sir Percival said reproachfully. “Patience and faith.”

“Yeah!” Clarence said. He grinned and twisted the dial.

“Yes,” Sir Percival said, and smiled at the others. “We are now, it appears, in business. And with the crass financial considerations taken care of, suppose we get down to the business of the meeting and reveal what the parchment scroll actually says...”