Straight

15

I began printing out everything in the secret files as it seemed from the manual that, particularly as regarded the expense organizer, it was the best way to get at the full information stored there.

Each category had to be printed separately, the baby printer clicking away line by line and not very fast. I watched its steady output with fascination, hoping the small roll of paper would last to the end, as I hadn’t any more.

From the Memo section, which I printed first, came a terse note, “Check, don’t trust.”

Next came a long list of days and dates which seemed to bear no relation to anything. Monday, Jan. 30, Wednesday, March 8... Mystified I watched the sequence lengthen, noticing only that most of them were Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays, five or six weeks apart, sometimes less, sometimes longer. The list ended five weeks before his death, and it began... it began, I thought blankly, four years earlier. Four years ago; when he first met Clarissa.

I felt unbearable sadness for him. He’d fallen in love with a woman who wouldn’t leave home for him, whom he hadn’t wanted to compromise: he’d kept a record, I was certain, of every snatched day they’d spent together, and hidden it away as he had hidden so much else. A whole lot of roses, I thought.

The Schedule section, consulted next, contained appointments not hinted at earlier, including the delivery of the diamonds to his London house. For the day of his death there were two entries: the first, “Ipswich. Orwell Hotel, P. 3:30 P.M.,” and the second, “Meet Koningin Beatrix 6:30 P.M., Harwich.” For the following Monday he had noted “Meet C King’s Cross 12:10 Lunch Luigi’s.”

Meet C at King’s Cross... He hadn’t turned up, and she’d telephoned his house, and left a message on his answering machine, and sometime in the afternoon she’d telephoned his office to ask for him. Poor Clarissa. By Monday night she’d left the ultra-anxious second message, and on Tuesday she had learned he was dead.

The printer whirred and produced another entry, for the Saturday after. “C and Dozen Roses both at York! Could I go? Not wise. Check TV.”

The printer stopped, as Greville’s life had done. No more appointments on record.

Next I printed the Telephone sections, Private, Business and Business Overseas. Private contained only Knightwood. Business was altogether empty, but from Business Overseas I watched with widening eyes the emergence of five numbers and addresses in Antwerp. One was van Ekeren, one was Guy Servi: three were so far unknown to me. I breathed almost painfully with exultation, unable to believe Greville had entered them there for no purpose.

I printed the Expense Manager’s secret section last as it was the most complicated and looked the least promising, but the first item that emerged was galvanic.

I wished he had been more explicit, more specific, but he’d seen no need to be. It was surprising he’d written so much. His feelings must have been strong to have been entered at all. No other entries afterward held any comment but were short records of money spent on courier services with a firm called Euro-Securo, telephone number supplied. In the middle of those the paper ran out. I brought the rest of the stored information up onto the screen and scrolled through it, but there was nothing else disturbing.

I switched off both baby machines and reread the long curling strip of printing from the beginning, afterward flattening it out and folding it to fit a shirt pocket. Then I dressed, packed, breakfasted, waited for Brad and traveled to London hopefully.

The telephone calls to Antwerp had to be done from the Saxony Franklin premises because of the precautionary checking back. I would have preferred more privacy than Greville’s office but couldn’t achieve it, and one of the first things I asked Annette that morning was whether my brother had had one of those gadgets that warned you if someone was listening to your conversation on an extension. The office phones were all interlinked.

“No, he didn’t,” she said, troubled.

“He could have done with one,” I said.

“Are you implying that we listened when he didn’t mean us to?”

“Not you,” I assured her, seeing her resentment of the suggestion. “But yes, I’d think it happened. Anyway, at some point this morning I want to make sure of not being overheard, so when that call comes through perhaps you’ll all go into the stockroom and sing ‘Rule Britannia.’ ”

Annette never made jokes. I had to explain I didn’t mean sing literally. She rather huffily agreed that when I wanted it, she would go round the extensions checking against eavesdroppers.

I asked her why Greville hadn’t had a private line in any case, and she said he had had one earlier but they now used that for the fax machine.

“If he wanted to be private,” she said, “he went down to the yard and telephoned from his car.”

There, I supposed, he would have been safe also from people with sensitive listening devices, if he’d suspected their use. He had been conscious of betrayal, that was for sure.

I sat at Greville’s desk with the door closed and matched the three unknown Antwerp names from the Wizard with the full list June had provided, and found that all three were there.

The first and second produced no results, but from the third, once I explained who I was, I got the customary response about checking their files and calling back. They did call back, but the amorphous voice on the far end was cautious to the point of repression.

“We at Maarten-Pagnier cannot discuss anything at all with you, monsieur,” he said. “Monsieur Franklin gave express orders that we were not to communicate with anyone in his office except himself.”

“My brother is dead,” I said.

“So you say, monsieur. But he warned us to beware of any attempt to gain information about his affairs and we cannot discuss them.”

“Then please will you telephone to his lawyers and get their assurance that he’s dead and that I am now managing his business?”

After a pause the voice said austerely, “Very well, monsieur. Give us the name of his lawyers.”

I did that and waited for ages during which time three customers telephoned with long orders which I wrote down, trying not to get them wrong from lack of concentration.

Then there was a frantic call from a nearly incoherent woman who wanted to speak to Mr. Franklin urgently.

“Mrs. P.?” I asked tentatively.

Mrs. P. it was. Mrs. Patterson, she said. I gave her the abysmal news and listened to her telling me what a fine nice gentleman my brother had been, and oh dear, she felt faint, had I seen the mess in the sitting room?

I warned her that the whole house was the same. “Just leave it,” I said. “I’ll clean it up later. Then if you could come after that to vacuum and dust, I’d be grateful.”

Calming a little, she gave me her phone number. “Let me know, then,” she said. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

Finally the Antwerp voice returned and, begging him to hold on, I hopped over to the door, called Annette, handed her the customers’ orders and said this was the moment for securing the defenses. She gave me a disapproving look as I again closed the door.

Back in Greville’s chair I said to the voice, “Please, monsieur, tell me if my brother had any dealings with you. I am trying to sort out his office but he has left too few records.”

“He asked us particularly not to send any records of the work we were doing for him to his office.”

“He, er, what?” I said.

“He said he could not trust everyone in his office as he would like. Instead, he wished us to send anything necessary to the fax machine in his car, but only when he telephoned from there to arrange it.”

“Um,” I said, blinking, “I found the fax machine in his car but there were no statements or invoices or anything from you.”

“I believe if you ask his accountants, you may find them there.”

“Good grief.”

“I beg your pardon, monsieur?”

“I didn’t think of asking his accountants,” I said blankly.

“He said for tax purposes...”

“Yes, I see.” I hesitated. “What exactly were you doing for him?”

“Monsieur?”

“Did he,” I asked a shade breathlessly, “send you a hundred diamonds, color H, average uncut weight three point two carats, to be cut and polished?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Oh.” My disappointment must have been audible.

“He sent twenty-five stones, monsieur, but five of them were not diamonds.”

“Cubic zirconia,” I said, enlightened.

“Yes, monsieur. We told Monsieur Franklin as soon as we discovered it. He said we were wrong, but we were not, monsieur.”

“No,” I agreed. “He did leave a note saying five of the first batch were CZ.”

“Yes, monsieur. He was extremely upset. We made several inquiries for him, but he had bought the stones from a sightholder of impeccable honor and he had himself measured and weighed the stones when they were delivered to his London house. He sent them to us in a sealed Euro-Securo courier package. We assured him that the mistake could not have been made here by us, and it was then, soon after that, that he asked us not to send or give any information to anyone in his... your... office.” He paused. “He made arrangements to receive the finished stones from us, but he didn’t meet our messenger.”

“Your messenger?”

“One of our partners, to be accurate. We wished to deliver the stones to him ourselves because of the five disputed items, and Monsieur Franklin thought it an excellent idea. Our partner dislikes flying, so it was agreed he should cross by boat and return the same way. When Monsieur Franklin failed to meet him he came back here. He is elderly and had made no provision to stay away. He was... displeased... at having made a tiring journey for nothing. He said we should wait to hear from Monsieur Franklin. Wait for fresh instructions. We have been waiting, but we’ve been puzzled. We didn’t try to reach Monsieur Franklin at his office as he had forbidden us to do that, but we were considering asking someone else to try on our behalf. We are very sorry to hear of his death. It explains everything, of course.”

I said, “Did your partner travel to Harwich on the Koningin Beatrix?”

“That’s right, monsieur.”

“He brought the diamonds with him.”

“That’s right, monsieur. And he brought them back. We will now wait your instructions instead.”

I took a deep breath. Twenty of the diamonds at least were safe. Five were missing. Seventy-five were... where?

The Antwerp voice said, “It’s to be regretted that Monsieur Franklin didn’t see the polished stones. They cut very well. Twelve teardrops of great brilliance, remarkable for that color. Eight were not suitable for teardrops, as we told Monsieur Franklin, but they look handsome as stars. What shall we do with them, monsieur?”

“When I’ve talked to the jeweler they were cut for, I’ll let you know.”

“Very good, monsieur. And our account? Where shall we send that?” He mentioned considerately how much it would be.

“To this office,” I said, sighing at the prospect. “Send it to me marked ‘Personal.’ ”

“Very good, monsieur.”

“And thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“At your service, monsieur.”

I put the receiver down slowly, richer by twelve glittering teardrops destined to hang and flash in sunlight, and by eight handsome stars that might twinkle in a fantasy of rock crystal. Better than nothing, but not enough to save the firm.

Using the crutches, I went in search of Annette and asked her if she would please find Prospero Jenks, wherever he was, and make another appointment for me, that afternoon if possible. Then I went down to the yard, taking a tip from Greville, and on the telephone in my car put a call through to his accountants.

Brad, reading a golfing magazine, paid no attention.

Did he play golf? I asked.

No, he didn’t.

The accountants helpfully confirmed that they had received envelopes both from my brother and from Antwerp, and were holding them unopened, as requested, pending further instructions.

“You’ll need them for the general accounts,” I said. “So would you please just keep them?”

Absolutely no problem.

“On second thought,” I said, “please open all the envelopes and tell me who all the letters from Antwerp have come from.”

Again no problem: but the letters were all either from Guy Servi, the sightholder, or from Maarten-Pagnier, the cutters. No other firms. No other safe havens for seventy-five rocks.

I thanked them, watched Brad embark on a learned comparison of Ballesteros and Faldo, and thought about disloyalty and the decay of friendship.

It was restful in the car, I decided. Brad went on reading. I thought of robbery with violence and violence without robbery, of being laid out with a brick and watching Simms die of a bullet meant for me, and I wondered whether, if I were dead, anyone could find what I was looking for, or whether they reckoned they now couldn’t find it if I were alive.

I stirred and fished in a pocket and gave Brad a check I’d written out for him upstairs.

“What’s this?” he said, peering at it.

I usually paid him in cash, but I explained I hadn’t enough for what I owed him, and cash dispensers wouldn’t disgorge enough all at once and we hadn’t recently been in Hungerford when the banks were open, as he might have noticed.

“Give me cash later,” he said, holding the check out to me. “And you paid me double.”

“For last week and this week.” I nodded. “When we get to the bank I’ll swap it for cash. Otherwise, you could bring it back here. It’s a company check. They’d see you got cash for it.”

He gave me a long look. “Is this because of guns and such? In case you never get to the bank?”

I shrugged. “You might say so.”

He looked at the check, folded it deliberately and stowed it away. Then he picked up the magazine and stared blindly at a page he’d just read. I was grateful for the absence of comment or protest, and in a while said matter-of-factly that I was going upstairs for a bit, and why didn’t he get some lunch.

He nodded.

“Have you got enough money for lunch?”

“Yerss.”

“You might make a list of what you’ve spent. I’ve enough cash for that.”

He nodded again.

“OK, then,” I said. “See you.”

Upstairs, Annette said she had opened the day’s mail and put it ready for my attention, and she’d found Prospero Jenks and he would be expecting me in the Knightsbridge shop any time between three and six.

“Great.”

She frowned. “Mr. Jenks wanted to know if you were taking him the goods Mr. Franklin bought for him. Grev — he always calls Mr. Franklin Grev. I do wish he wouldn’t. I asked what he meant about goods and he said you would know.”

“He’s talking about diamonds,” I said.

“But we haven’t...” She stopped and then went on with a sort of desperate vehemence. “I wish Mr. Franklin was here. Nothing’s the same without him.”

She gave me a look full of her insecurity and doubt of my ability and plodded off into her own domain and I thought that with what lay ahead I’d have preferred a vote of confidence: and I too, with all my heart, wished Greville back.

The police from Hungerford telephoned, given my number by Milo’s secretary. They wanted to know if I had remembered anything more about the car driven by the gunman. They had asked the family in the family car if they had noticed the make and color of the last car they’d seen coming toward them before they rounded the bend and crashed into the Daimler, and one of the children, a boy, had given them a description.

They had also, while the firemen and others were trying to free me, walked down the row of spectator cars asking them about the last car they’d seen coming toward them. Only the first two drivers had seen a car at all, that they could remember, and they had no helpful information. Had I any recollection, however vague, as they were trying to piece together all the impressions they’d been given.

“I wish I could help,” I said, “but I was talking to Mr. and Mrs. Ostermeyer, not concentrating on the road. It winds a bit, as you know, and I think Simms had been waiting for a place where he could pass the car in front, but all I can tell you, as on Sunday, is that it was a grayish color and fairly large. Maybe a Mercedes. It’s only an impression.”

“The child in the family car says it was a gray Volvo traveling fast. The bus driver says the car in question was traveling slowly before the Daimler tried to pass it, and he was aiming to pass also at that point, and was accelerating to do so, which was why he rammed the Daimler so hard. He says the car was silver gray and accelerated away at high speed, which matched what the child says.”

“Did the bus driver,” I asked, “see the gun or the shots?”

“No, sir. He was looking at the road ahead and at the Daimler, not at the car he intended to pass. Then the Daimler veered sharply, and bounced off the wall straight into his path. He couldn’t avoid hitting it, he said. Do you confirm that, sir?”

“Yes. It happened so fast. He hadn’t a chance.”

“We are asking in the neighborhood for anyone to come forward who saw a gray four-door sedan, possibly a Volvo, on that road on Sunday afternoon, but so far we have heard nothing new. If you remember anything else, however minor, let us know.”

I would, I said.

I put the phone down wondering if Vaccaro’s shot-down pilots had seen the make of car from which their deaths had come spitting. Anyone seeing those murders would, I supposed, have been gazing with uncomprehending horror at the falling victims, not dashing into the road to peer at a fast-disappearing license plate.

No one had heard any shots on Sunday. No one had heard the shots, the widow had told Greville, when her husband was killed. A silencer on a gun in a moving car... a swift pfftt... curtains.

It couldn’t have been Vaccaro who shot Simms. Vaccaro didn’t make sense. Someone with the same antisocial habits, as in Northern Ireland and elsewhere. A copycat. Plenty of precedent.

Milo’s secretary had been busy and given my London number also to Phil Urquhart, who came on the line to tell me that Dozen Roses had tested clean for barbiturates and he would give a certificate of soundness for sale.

“Fine,” I said.

“I’ve been to examine the horse again this morning. He’s still very docile. It seems to be his natural state.”

“Mm.”

“Do I hear doubt?”

“He’s excited enough every time cantering down to the start.”

“Natural adrenaline,” Phil said.

“If it was anyone but Nicholas Loder...”

“He would never risk it,” Phil said, agreeing with me. “But look... there are things that potentiate adrenaline, like caffeine. Some of them are never tested for in racing, as they are not judged to be stimulants. It’s your money that’s being spent on the tests I’ve had done for you. We have some more of that sample of urine. Do you want me to get different tests done, for things not usually looked for? I mean, do you really think Nicholas Loder gave the horse something, and if you do, do you want to know about it?”

“It was his owner, a man called Rollway, who had the baster, not Loder himself.”

“Same decision. Do you want to spend more, or not bother? It may be money down the drain, anyway. And if you get any results, what then? You don’t want to get the horse disqualified, that wouldn’t make sense.”

“No... it wouldn’t.”

“What’s your problem?” he asked. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“Fear,” I said. “Nicholas Loder was afraid.”

“Oh.” He was briefly silent. “I could get the tests done anonymously, of course.”

“Yes. Get them done, then. I particularly don’t want to sell the Ostermeyers a lemon, as she would say. If Dozen Roses can’t win on his own merits, I’ll talk them out of the idea of owning him.”

“So you’ll pray for negative results.”

“I will indeed.”

“While I was at Milo’s this morning,” he said, “he was talking to the Ostermeyers in London, asking how they were and wishing them a good journey. They were still a bit wobbly from the crash, it seems.”

“Surprising if they weren’t.”

“They’re coming back to England, though, to see Datepalm run in the Hennessy. How’s your ankle?”

“Good as new by then.”

“Bye, then.” I could hear his smile. “Take care.”

He disconnected and left me thinking that there still were good things in the world, like the Ostermeyers’ faith and riding Datepalm in the Hennessy, and I stood up and put my left foot flat on the floor for a progress report.

It wasn’t so bad if I didn’t lean any weight on it, but there were still jabbingly painful protests against attempts to walk. Oh well, I thought, sitting down again, give it another day or two. It hadn’t exactly had a therapeutic week and was no doubt doing its best against odds. On Thursday, I thought, I would get rid of the crutches. By Friday, definitely. Any day after that I’d be running. Ever optimistic. It was the belief that cured.

The overworked telephone rang again, and I answered it with “Saxony Franklin?” as routine.

“Derek?”

“Yes,” I said.

Clarissa’s unmistakable voice said, “I’m in London. Could we meet?”

I hadn’t expected her so soon, I thought. I said, “Yes, of course. Where?”

“I thought... perhaps... Luigi’s. Do you know Luigi’s bar and restaurant?”

“I don’t,” I said slowly, “but I can find it.”

“It’s in Swallow Street near Piccadilly Circus. Would you mind coming at seven, for a drink?”

“And dinner?”

“Well...”

“And dinner,” I said.

I heard her sigh, “Yes. All right,” as she disconnected, and I was left with a vivid understanding both of her compulsion to put me where she had been going to meet Greville and of her awareness that perhaps she ought not to.

I could have said no, I thought. I could have, but hadn’t. A little introspection revealed ambiguities in my response to her also, like did I want to give comfort, or to take it.

By three-thirty I’d finished the paperwork and filled an order for pearls and another for turquoise and relocked the vault and got Annette to smile again, even if faintly. At four, Brad pulled up outside Prospero Jenks’s shop in Knightsbridge and I put the telephone ready to let him know when to collect me.

Prospero Jenks was where I’d found him before, sitting in shirtsleeves at his workbench. The discreet dark-suited man, serving customers in the shop, nodded me through.

“He’s expecting you, Mr. Franklin.”

Pross stood up with a smile on his young-old Peter Pan face and held out his hand, but let it fall again as I waggled a crutch handle at him instead.

“Glad to see you,” he said, offering a chair, waiting while I sat. “Have you brought my diamonds?” He sat down again on his own stool.

“No. Afraid not.”

He was disappointed. “I thought that was what you were coming for.”

“No, not really.”

I looked at his long, efficient workroom with its little drawers full of unset stones and thought of the marvels he produced. The big notice on the wall still read NEVER TURN YOUR BACK TO CUSTOMERS. ALWAYS WATCH THEIR HANDS.

I said, “Greville sent twenty-four rough stones to Antwerp to be cut for you.”

“That’s right.”

“Five of them were cubic zirconia.”

“No, no.”

“Did you,” I asked neutrally, “swap them over?”

The half-smile died out of his face, which grew stiff and expressionless. The bright blue eyes stared at me and the lines deepened across his forehead.

“That’s rubbish,” he said. “I’d never do anything stupid like that.”

I didn’t say anything immediately and it seemed to give him force.

“You can’t come in here making wild accusations. Go on, get out, you’d better leave.” He half-rose to his feet.

I said, not moving, “When the cutters told Greville five of the stones were cubic zirconia, he was devastated. Very upset.”

I reached into my shirt pocket and drew out the print-out from the Wizard.

“Do you want to see?” I asked. “Read there.”

After a hesitation he took the paper, sat back on the stool and read the entry:

“Greville used to write his thoughts in a notebook,” I said. “In there, it says ‘Infinite sadness is not to trust an old friend.’ ”

“So what?”

“Since Greville died,” I said, “someone has been trying to find his diamonds, to steal them from me. That someone had to be someone who knew they were there to be found. Greville kept the fact that he’d bought them very quiet for security reasons. He didn’t tell even his staff. But of course you yourself knew, as it was for you he bought them.”

He said again, “So what?”

“If you remember,” I said, still conversationally, “someone broke into Greville’s office after he died and stole things like an address book and an appointments diary. I began to think the thief had also stolen any other papers which might point to where the diamonds were, like letters or invoices. But I know now there weren’t any such papers to be found there, because Greville was full of distrust. His distrust dated from the day the Antwerp cutters told him five of his stones were cubic zirconia, which was about three weeks before he died.”

Pross, Greville’s friend, said nothing.

“Greville bought the diamonds,” I went on, “from a sightholder based in Antwerp who sent them by messenger to his London house. There he measured them and weighed them and signed for them. Then it would be reasonable to suppose that he showed them to you, his customer. Or showed you twenty-five of them, perhaps. Then he sent that twenty-five back to Antwerp by the Euro-Securo couriers. Five diamonds had mysteriously become cubic zirconia, and yes, it was an entirely stupid thing to do, because the substitution was bound to be discovered almost at once, and you knew it would be. Had to be. I’d think you reckoned Greville would never believe it of you, but would swear the five stones had to have been swapped by someone in the couriers or the cutters in Antwerp, and he would collect the insurance in due course, and that would be that. You would be five diamonds to the good, and he would have lost nothing.”

“You can’t prove it,” he said flatly.

“No, I can’t prove it. But Greville was full of sorrow and distrust, and why should he be if he thought his stones had been taken by strangers?”

I looked with some of Greville’s own sadness at Prospero Jenks. A likable, entertaining genius whose feelings for my brother had been strong and long-lasting, whose regret at his death had been real.

“I’d think,” I said, “that after your long friendship, after all the treasures he’d brought you, after the pink and green tourmaline, after your tremendous success, that he could hardly bear your treachery.”

“Stop it,” he said sharply. “It’s bad enough...”

He shut his mouth tight and shook his head, and seemed to sag internally.

“He forgave me,” he said.

He must have thought I didn’t believe him.

He said wretchedly, “I wished I hadn’t done it almost from the beginning, if you want to know. It was just an impulse. He left the diamonds here while he went off to do a bit of shopping, and I happened to have some rough CZ the right size in those drawers, as I often do, waiting for when I want special cutting, and I just... exchanged them. Like you said. I didn’t think he’d lose by it.”

“He knew, though,” I said. “He knew you, and he knew a lot about thieves, being a magistrate. Another of the things he wrote was ‘If laws are inconvenient, ignore them, they don’t apply to you.’ ”

“Stop it. Stop it. He forgave me.”

“When?”

“In Ipswich. I went to meet him there.”

I lifted my head. “Ipswich. Orwell Hotel, P. three-thirty P.M.,” I said.

“What? Yes.” He seemed unsurprised that I should know. He seemed to be looking inward to an unendurable landscape.

“I saw him die,” he said.