The Vivero Letter

I

It was only at the inquest that I found out the name of the dead man. It was Victor Niscemi, and he was an American national.

The proceedings didn’t take long. First, there was a formal evidence of identification, then I told the story of how I had found the body of Niscemi and my brother dying in the farmhouse kitchen. Dave Goosan then stepped up and gave the police evidence, and the gold tray and the shotguns were offered as exhibits.

The coroner wrapped it up very quickly and the verdict on Niscemi was that he had been killed in self defence by Robert Blake Wheale. The verdict on Bob was that he had been murdered by Victor Niscemi and a person or persons unknown.

I saw Dave Goosan in the narrow cobbled street outside the Guildhall where the inquest had taken place. He jerked his head at two thick-set men who were walking away. ‘From Scotland Yard,’ he said. ‘This is in their bailiwick now. They come in on anything that might be international.’

‘You mean, because Niscemi was an American.’

‘That’s right. I’ll tell you something else, Jemmy. He had form on the other side of the Atlantic. Petty thieving and robbery with violence. Not much.’

‘Enough to do for Bob,’ I said viciously.

Dave sighed in exasperated agreement. ‘To tell you the truth, there’s a bit of a mystery about this. Niscemi was never much of a success as a thief; he never had any money. Sort of working class, if you know what I mean. He certainly never had the money to take a trip over here — not unless he’d pulled off something bigger than usual for him. And nobody can see why he came to England. He’d be like a fish out of water, just the same as a Bermondsey burglar would be in New York. Still, it’s being followed up.’

‘What did Smith find out about Halstead and Gatt, the Yanks I turned up?’

Dave looked me in the eye. ‘I can’t tell you that, Jemmy. I can’t discuss police work with you even if you are Bob’s brother. The super would have my scalp.’ He tapped me on the chest. ‘Don’t forget that you were a suspect once, lad.’ The startlement must have shown on my face. ‘Well, dammit; who has benefited most by Bob’s death? All that stuff about the tray might have been a lot of flummery. I knew it wasn’t you, but to the super you were just another warm body wandering about the scene of the crime.’

I let out a deep breath. ‘I trust I’m not still on his list of suspects,’ I said ironically.

‘Don’t give it another thought, although I’m not saying the super wont. He’s the most unbelieving bastard I’ve ever come across. If he fell across a body himself he’d keep himself on his own list.’ Dave pulled on his ear. ‘I’ll give you this much; it seems that Halstead is in the clear. He was in London and he’s got an alibi for when he needs it.’ He grinned. ‘He was picked up for questioning in the Reading Room of the British Museum. Those London coppers must be a tactful lot.’

‘Who is he? What is he?’

‘He says he’s an archeologist,’ said Dave, and looked over my shoulder with mild consternation. ‘Oh, Christ; here come those bloody reporters. Look, you nip into the church — they won’t have the brazen nerve to follow you in there. I’ll fight a rear-guard action while you leave by the side door in the vestry.’

I left him quickly and slipped into the churchyard. As I entered the church I heard the excited yelping as of hounds surrounding a stag at bay.

The funeral took place the day after the inquest. A lot of people turned up, most of whom I knew but a lot I didn’t. All the people from Hay Tree Farm were there, including Madge and Jack Edgecombe who had come back from Jersey. The service was short, but even so I was glad when it was over and I could get away from all those sympathetic people. I had a word with Jack Edgecombe before I left. ‘I’ll see you up at the farm; there are things we must discuss.’

I drove to the farm with a feeling of depression. So that was that! Bob was buried, and so, presumably, was Niscemi, unless the police still had his body tucked away somewhere in cold storage. But for the loose end of Niscemi’s hypothetical accomplice everything was neatly wrapped up and the world could get on with the world’s futile business as usual.

I thought of the farm and what there was to do and of how I would handle Jack, who might show a countryman’s conservative resistance to my new-fangled ideas. Thus occupied I swung automatically into the farmyard and nearly slammed into the back of a big Mercedes that was parked in front of the house.

I got out of the car and, as I did so, so did the driver of the Mercedes, uncoiling his lean length like a strip of brown rawhide. It was Fallon, the American Nigel had pointed out at the Cott. He said, ‘Mr. Wheale?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I know I shouldn’t intrude at this moment,’ he said. ‘But I’m pressed for time. My name is Fallon.’

He held out his hand and I found myself clutching skeletally thin fingers. ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Fallon?’

‘If you could spare me a few minutes — it’s not easy to explain quickly.’ His voice was not excessively American.

I hesitated, then said, ‘You’d better come inside.’

He leaned into his car and produced a briefcase. I took him into Bob’s — my — study and waved him to a chair, then sat down facing him, saying nothing.

He coughed nervously, apparently not knowing where to begin, and I didn’t help him. He coughed again, then said, ‘I am aware that this may be a sore point, Mr. Wheale, but I wonder if I could see the gold tray you have in your possession.’

‘I’m afraid that is quite impossible,’ I said flatly.

Alarm showed in his eyes. ‘You haven’t sold it?’

‘It’s still in the hands of the police.’

‘Oh!’ He relaxed and flicked open the catch of the brief-case. ‘That’s a pity. But I wonder if you could identify these photographs.’

He passed across a sheaf of eight by ten photographs which I fanned out. They were glossy and sharp as a needle, evidently the work of a competent commercial photographer. They were pictures of the tray taken from every conceivable angle; some were of the tray as a whole and there was a series of close-up detail shots showing the delicate vine leaf tracery of the rim.

‘You might find these more helpful,’ said Fallon, and passed me another heap of eight by tens. These were in colour, not quite as sharp as the black and whites but perhaps making a better display of the tray as it really was.

I looked up. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘The police might think so,’ I said tightly. ‘This tray has figured in a murder, and they might want to know how you came by these excellent photographs of my tray.’

‘Not your tray,’ he said gently. ‘My tray.’

‘That be damned for a tale,’ I said hotly. ‘This tray has been used in this house for a hundred and fifty years that I am aware of. I don’t see how the devil you can claim ownership.’

He waved his hand. ‘We are talking at cross purposes. Those photographs are of a tray at present in my possession which is now securely locked in a vault. I came here to find out if your tray resembled mine at all. I think you have answered my unspoken question quite adequately.’

I looked at the photographs again, feeling a bit of a fool. This certainly looked like the tray I had seen so often, although whether it was an exact replica would be hard to say. I had seen the tray briefly the previous Saturday morning when Dave Goosan had shown it to me, but when had I seen it before that? It must have been around when I had previously visited Bob, but I had never noticed it. In fact, I had never examined it since I was a boy.

Fallon asked, ‘Is it really like your tray?’

I explained my difficulty and he nodded understandingly, and said, ‘Would you consider selling me your tray, Mr. Wheale? I will give you a fair price.’

‘It isn’t mine to sell.’

‘Oh? I would have thought you would inherit it.’

‘I did. But it’s in a sort of legal limbo. It won’t be mine until my brother’s will is probated.’ I didn’t tell Fallon that Mount had suggested selling the damned thing; I wanted to keep him on a string and find out what he was really after. I never forgot for one minute that Bob had died because of that tray.

‘I see.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘I suppose the police will release it into your possession.’

‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t.’

He smiled. ‘Mr. Wheale, will you allow me to examine the tray — to photograph it? It need never leave the house: I have a very good camera at my disposal.’

I grinned at him. ‘I don’t see why I should.’

The smile was wiped away from his face as though it had never been. After a long moment it returned in the form of a sardonic quirk of the corner of his mouth. ‘I see you are... suspicious of me.’

I laughed. ‘You’re dead right. Wouldn’t you be in my place?’

‘I rather think I would,’ he said. ‘I’ve been stupid.’ I once saw a crack chess player make an obviously wrong move which even a tyro should have avoided. The expression on his face was comical in its surprise and was duplicated on Fallon’s face at that moment. He gave the impression of a man mentally kicking himself up the backside.

I heard a car draw up outside, so I got up and opened the casement. Jack and Madge were just getting out of their mini. I shouted, ‘Give me a few more minutes, Jack; I’m a bit tied up.’

He waved and walked away, but Madge came over to the window. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That seems a good idea. What about you, Mr. Fallon — would you like some tea?’

‘That would be very nice,’ he said.

‘Then that’s it, Madge. Tea for two in here, please.’ She went away and I turned back to Fallon. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you told me what you are really getting at.’

He said worriedly, ‘I assure you I have absolutely no knowledge of the events leading to your brother’s death. My attention was drawn to the tray by an article and a photograph in the Western Morning News which was late in getting to me. I came to Totnes immediately, arriving rather late on Friday evening...’

‘...and you booked in at the Cott Inn.’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes, I did. I intended going to see your brother on the Saturday morning but then I heard of the... of what had happened...’

‘And so you didn’t go. Very tactful of you, Mr. Fallon. I suppose you realize you’ll have to tell this story to the police.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Don’t you? Then I’ll tell you. Don’t you know that the man who killed my brother was an American called Victor Niscemi?’

Fallon seemed struck dumb and just shook his head.

‘Didn’t you read the report on the inquest this morning? It was in most of the papers.’

‘I didn’t read the newspaper this morning,’ he said weakly.

I sighed. ‘Look. Mr. Fallon; an American kills my brother and the tray is involved. Four days before my brother is murdered two Americans try to buy it from him. And now you come along, an American, and also want to buy the tray. Don’t you think you’ve got some explaining to do?’

He seemed to have aged five years and his face was drawn, but he looked up alertly. ‘The Americans,’ he said. ‘The ones who wanted to buy the tray. What were their names?’

‘Perhaps you can tell me,’ I said.

‘Was one of them Halstead?’

‘Now you have got some explaining to do,’ I said grimly. ‘I think I’d better run you down to the police station right now. I think Superintendent Smith would be interested in you.’

He looked down at the floor and brooded for a while, then raised his head. ‘Now I think you are being stupid, Mr. Wheale. Do you really think that if I was implicated in this murder I would have come here openly today? I didn’t know that Halstead had approached your brother, and I didn’t know the housebreaker was an American.’

‘But you knew Halstead’s name.’

He flapped his hand tiredly. ‘I’ve been crossing Halstead’s trail all over Central America and Europe for the last three years. Sometimes I’d get there first and sometimes he would. I know Halstead; he was a student of mine some years ago.’

‘A student of what?’

‘I’m an archeologist,’ said Fallon. ‘And so is Halstead.’

Madge came in with the tea, and there were some scones and strawberry jam and clotted cream. She put the tray on the desk, smiled at me wanly and left the room. As I offered the scones and poured the tea I reflected that it made a cosy domestic scene very much at odds with the subject of discussion. I put down the teapot, and said, ‘What about Gatt? Did you know him?’

‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Fallon.

I pondered awhile. One thing struck me — I hadn’t caught out Fallon in a lie. He’d said that Halstead was an archeologist, and that was confirmed by Dave Goosan. He’d said he arrived at the Cott on Friday, and that was confirmed by Nigel. I thought about that and made a long arm to pull the telephone closer. Without saying anything I dialled the Cott and watched Fallon drink his tea.

‘Oh, hello, Nigel. Look, this chap Fallon — what time did he arrive last Friday?’

‘About half-past six in the evening. Why, Jemmy?’

‘Just something that’s come up. Can you tell me what he did that night?’ I stared unblinkingly at Fallon, who didn’t seem at all perturbed at the trend of the questions. He merely spread some cream on a scone and took a bite.

‘I can tell you everything he did that night,’ said Nigel. ‘We had a bit of an impromptu party which went on a bit. I talked to Fallon quite a lot. He’s an interesting old bird; he was telling me about his experiences in Mexico.’

‘Can you put a time on this?’

Nigel paused. ‘Well, he was in the bar at ten o’clock — and he was still there when the party broke up. We were a bit late — say, quarter to two in the morning.’ He hesitated. ‘You going to the police with this?’

I grinned. ‘You weren’t breaking the licensing laws, were you?’

‘Not at all. Everyone there was staying at the Cott Guests’ privileges and all that.’

‘You’re sure he was there continuously?’

‘Dead sure.’

‘Thanks, Nigel; you’ve been a great help.’ I put down the phone and looked at Fallon. ‘You’re in the clear.’

He smiled and delicately dabbed his fingertips on a napkin. ‘You’re a very logical man, Mr. Wheale.’

I leaned back in my chair. ‘How much would you say the tray is worth?’

‘That’s a hard question to answer,’ he said. ‘Intrinsically not very much — the gold is diluted with silver and copper. Artistically, it’s a very fine piece and the antiquarian value is also high. I daresay that at auction in a good saleroom it would bring about £7,000.’

‘What about the archeological value?’

He laughed. ‘It’s sixteenth-century Spanish; where’s the archeological value in that?’

‘You tell me. All I know is that the people who want to buy it are archeologists.’ I regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Make me an offer.’

‘I’ll give you £7,000,’ he said promptly.

‘I could get that at Sotheby’s,’ I pointed out. ‘Besides, Halstead might give me more or Gatt might’

‘I doubt if Halstead could go that much,’ said Fallon equably. ‘But I’ll play along, Mr. Wheale; I’ll give you £10,000.’

I said ironically, ‘So you’re giving me £3,000 for the archeological value it hasn’t got. You’re a very generous man. Would you call yourself a rich man?’

A slight smile touched his lips. ‘I guess I would.’

I stood up and said abruptly, ‘There’s too much mystery involved in this for my liking. You know something about the tray which you’re not telling. I think I’d better have a look at it myself before coming to any firm decision.’

If he was disappointed he hid it well. ‘That would appear to be wise, but I doubt if you will find anything by a mere inspection.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Mr. Wheale, I have made you a most generous offer, yet I would like to go further. May I take an option on the tray? I will give you a thousand pounds now, on condition that you let no one else, particularly Dr. Halstead, inspect it. In the event of your deciding to sell me the tray then the thousand pounds is in addition to my original offer. If you decide not to sell it then you may keep the thousand pounds as long as you keep your side of the bargain.’

I drew a deep breath. ‘You’re a real dog in the manger, aren’t you? If you can’t have it, then nobody else must. Nothing doing, Mr. Fallon. I refuse to have my hands tied.’ I sat down. ‘I wonder what price you’d go to if I really pushed you.’

An intensity came into his voice. ‘Mr. Wheale, this is of the utmost importance to me. Why don’t you state a price?’

‘Importance is relative,’ I said. ‘If the importance is archeological then I couldn’t give a damn. I know a fourteen-year-old girl who thinks the most important people in the world are the Beatles. Not to me they aren’t.’

‘Equating the Beatles with archeology hardly demonstrates a sensible scale of values.’

I shrugged. ‘Why not? They’re both concerned with people. It just shows that your scale of values is different from hers. But I just might state my price, Mr. Fallon; and it may not be in money. I’ll think about it and let you know. Can you come back tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I can come back.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘And what about Dr. Halstead? What will you do if he approaches you?’

‘I’ll listen to him,’ I said promptly. ‘Just as I’ve listened to you. I’m prepared to listen to anyone who’ll tell me something I don’t know. Not that it’s happened noticeably yet.’

He did not acknowledge the jibe. Instead, he said, ‘I ought to tell you that Dr. Halstead is not regarded as being quite honest in some circles. And that is all I am going to say about him. When shall I come tomorrow?’

‘After lunch; would two-thirty suit you?’ He nodded, and I went on, ‘I’ll have to tell the police about you, you know. There’s been a murder and you are one coincidence too many.’ ‘I see your point,’ he said wearily. ‘Perhaps it would be as well if I went to see them — if only to clear up a nonsense. I shall go immediately; where shall I find them?’

I told him where the police station was, and said, ‘Ask for Detective-Inspector Goosan or Superintendent Smith.’

Inexplicably, he began to laugh. ‘Goosan!’ he said with a gasp, ‘My God, but that’s funny!’

I stared at him. I didn’t see what was funny. ‘It’s not an uncommon name in Devon.’

‘Of course not,’ he said, choking off his chuckles. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr. Wheale.’

I saw him off the premises, then went back to the study and rang Dave Goosan. ‘There’s someone else who wants to buy that tray,’ I said. ‘Another American. Are you interested?’

His voice was sharp. ‘I think we might be very interested.’

‘His name is Fallon and he’s staying at the Cott. He’s on his way to see you right now — he should be knocking on your door within the next ten minutes. If he doesn’t it might be worth your while to go looking for him.’

‘Point taken,’ said Dave.

I said, ‘How long do you intend holding on to the tray?’

‘You can have it now if you like. I’ll have to hold on to Bob’s shotgun, though; this case isn’t finished yet.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll come in and pick up the tray. Can you do me a favour, Dave? Fallon will have to prove to you who and what he is; can you let me know, too? I’d like to know who I’m doing business with.’

‘We’re the police, not Dun and Bradstreet. All right, I’ll let you know what I can, providing it doesn’t run against regulations.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and rang off. I sat motionless at the desk for a few minutes, thinking hard, and then got out the papers concerning the reorganization of the farm in preparation to doing battle with Jack Edgecombe. But my mind wasn’t really on it.

II

Late that afternoon I went down to the police station to pick up the tray, and as soon as Dave saw me he growled, ‘A fine suspect you picked.’

‘He’s all right?’

‘He’s as clean as a whistle. He was nowhere near your farm on Friday night. Four people say so — three of whom I know and one who is a personal friend of mine. Still, I don’t blame you for sending him down here — you couldn’t pass a coincidence like that.’ He shook his head. ‘But you picked a right one.’

‘What do you mean?’

He grabbed a sheaf of flimsies from his desk and waved them under my nose. ‘We checked him out — this is the telex report from the Yard. Listen to it and cry: John Nasmith Fallon, born Massachussetts, 1908; well educated — went to Harvard and Göttingen, with post-graduate study in Mexico City. He’s an archeologist with all the letters in the alphabet after his name. In 1936 his father died and left him over 30 million dollars, which fortune he’s more than doubled since, so he hasn’t lost the family talent for making money.’

I laughed shortly. ‘And I asked him if he considered himself a rich man! Is he serious about his archeology?’

‘He’s no dilettante,’ said Dave. ‘The Yard checked with the British Museum. He’s the top man in his field, which is Central America.’ He scrabbled among the papers. ‘He publishes a lot in the scientific journals — the last thing he did was “Some Researches into the Calendar Glyphs of Dzi... Dzibi...” I’ll have to take this one slowly... “Dzibilchaltun.” God-almighty, he’s investigating things I can’t even pronounce! In 1949 he set up the Fallon Archeological Trust with ten million dollars. He could afford it since he apparently owns all the oil wells that Paul Getty missed.’ He tossed the paper on to the desk. ‘And that’s your murder suspect.’

I said, ‘What about Halstead and Gatt?’

Dave shrugged. ‘What about them? Halstead’s an archeologist, too, of course. We didn’t dig too deeply into him.’ He grinned. ‘Pun not intended. Gatt hasn’t been checked yet.’

‘Halstead was one of Fallon’s students. Fallon doesn’t like him.’

Dave lifted his eyebrows. ‘Been playing detective? Look, Jemmy; as far as I am concerned I’m off the case as much as any police officer can be. That means I’m not specifically assigned to it. Anything I’m told I pass on to the top coppers in London; it’s their pigeon now, and I’m just a messenger boy. Let me give you a bit of advice. You can do all the speculating you like and there’ll be no harm done but don’t try to move in on the action like some half-baked hero in a detective story. The boys at Scotland Yard aren’t damned fools; they can put two and two together a sight faster than you can, they’ve got access to more sources than you have, and they’ve got the muscle to make it stick when they decide to make a move. Leave it to the professionals; there are no Roger Sherringhams or Peter Wimseys in real life.’

‘Don’t get over-heated,’ I said mildly.

‘It’s just that I don’t want you making a bloody idiot of yourself.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll get the tray — it’s in the safe.’

He left the office and I picked up the telex message and studied it. It was in pretty fair detail but it more or less boiled down to what Dave had said. It seemed highly improbable that a man like Fallon could have anything in common with a petty criminal like Niscemi. And yet there was the tray — they were both interested in that, and so were Halstead and Gatt. Four Americans and the tray.

Dave came back carrying it in his hands. He put it on the desk. ‘Hefty,’ he said. ‘Must be worth quite a bit if it really is gold.’

‘It is.’ I said. ‘But not too pure.’

He flicked the bottom of the tray with his thumbnail. ‘That’s not gold — it looks like copper.’

I picked up the tray and examined it closely for, perhaps, the first time in twenty years. It was about fifteen inches in diameter and circular; there was a three-inch rim all the way round consisting of an intricate pattern of vine leaves, all in gold, and the centre was nine inches in diameter and of smooth copper. I turned it over and found the back to be of solid gold.

‘You’d better have it wrapped,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll find some paper.’

‘Did you take any photographs of it?’ I asked.

‘Lots,’ he said. ‘And from every angle.’

‘What about letting me have a set of prints?’

He looked pained. ‘You seem to think the police are general dogsbodies for Jemmy Wheale. This isn’t Universal Aunts, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jemmy; the negatives were sent to London.’

He rooted around and found an old newspaper and began to wrap up the tray. ‘Bob used to run his own darkroom. You have all the gear at home for taking your own snaps.’

That was true. Bob and I had been keen on photography as boys, he more than me. He’d stuck to it and I’d let it drop when I left home to go to university, but I thought I remembered enough to be able to shoot and develop a film and make some prints. I didn’t feel like letting anyone else do it. In view of the importance Fallon had attached to examining the tray I wanted to keep everything under my own hand.

As I was leaving, Dave said, ‘Remember what I said, Jemmy. If you feel any inclination to go off half-cocked come and see me first. My bosses wouldn’t like it if you put a spoke in their wheel.’

I went home and found Bob’s camera. I daresay he could have been called an advanced amateur and he had good equipment — a Pentax camera with a good range of lenses and a Durst enlarger with all the associated trimmings in a properly arranged darkroom. I found a spool of unexposed black and white film, loaded the camera and got to work. His fancy electronic flash gave me some trouble before I got the hang of it and twice it went off unexpectedly, but I finally shot off the whole spool and developed the film more or less successfully. I couldn’t make prints before the film dried, so I went to bed early. But not before I locked the tray in the safe.

III

The next morning I continued the battle with Jack Edgecombe who was putting up a stubborn resistance to new ideas. He said unhappily, ‘Eighty cows to a hundred acres is too many, Mr. Wheale, sir; we’ve never done it like that before.’

I resisted the impulse to scream, and said patiently, ‘Look, Jack: up to now this farm has grown its own feedstuff for the cattle. Why?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s always been like that.’

That wasn’t an answer and he knew it. I said, ‘We can buy cattle feed for less than it costs us to grow it, so why the devil should we grow it?’ I again laid out the plan that had come from the computer, but giving reasons the computer hadn’t. ‘We increase the dairy herd to eighty head and we allocate this land which is pretty lush, and any extra feed we buy.’ I swept my hand over the map. ‘This hill area is good for nothing but sheep, so we let the sheep have it. I’d like to build up a nice flock of greyface. We can feed sheep economically by planting root crops on the flat by the river, and we alternate the roots with a cash crop such as malting barley. Best of all, we do away with all this market garden stuff. This is a farm, not an allotment; it takes too much time and we’re not near enough to a big town to make it pay.’

Jack looked uncomprehendingly stubborn. It wasn’t done that way, it never had been done that way, and he didn’t see why it should be done that way. I was in trouble because unless Jack saw it my way we could never get on together.

We were interrupted by Madge. ‘There’s a lady to see you, Mr. Wheale.’

‘Did she give a name?’

‘It’s a Mr.s Halstead.’

That gave me pause. Eventually I said, ‘Ask her to wait a few minutes, will you? Make her comfortable — ask her if she’d like a cuppa.’

I turned back to Jack. One thing at a time was my policy. I knew what was the matter with him. If he became farm manager and the policy of the farm changed radically, he’d have to take an awful lot of joshing from the neighbouring farmers. He had his reputation to consider.

I said, ‘Look at it this way, Jack: if we start on this thing, you’ll be farm manager and I’ll be the more-or-less absentee landlord. If the scheme falls down you can put all the blame on me because I’ll deserve it, and you’re only doing what I tell you to. If it’s a success — which it will be if we both work hard at it — then a lot of the credit will go to you because you’ll have been the one who made it work. You are the practical farmer, not me. I’m just the theoretical boy. But I reckon we can show the lads around here a thing or two.’

He contemplated that argument and brightened visibly — I’d offered him a way out with no damage to his self-esteem. He said slowly, ‘You know, I like that bit about doing away with the garden produce; it’s always been a lot of trouble — too much hand work, for one thing.’ He shuffled among the papers. ‘You know, sir, if we got rid of that I reckon we could work the farm with one less man.’

That had already been figured out — by the computer, not me — but I was perfectly prepared to let Jack take the credit for the idea. I said, ‘Hey, so we could! I have to go now, but you stay here and go through the whole thing again. If you come up with any more bright ideas like that then let me know.’

I left him to it and went to see Mr.s Halstead. I walked into the living-room and said, ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’ Then I stopped dead because Mr.s Halstead was quite a woman — red hair, green eyes, a nice smile and a figure to make a man struggle to keep his hands to himself — even a grey little man like me.

‘That’s all right, Mr. Wheale,’ she said. ‘Your housekeeper looked after me.’ Her voice matched the rest of her; she was too perfect to be true.

I sat opposite her. ‘What can I do for you, Mr.s Halstead?’

‘I believe you own a gold tray, Mr. Wheale.’

‘That is correct.’

She opened her handbag. ‘I saw a report in a newspaper. Is this the tray?’

I took the clipping and studied it. It was the report that had appeared in the Western Morning News which I had heard of but not seen. The photograph was a bit blurred. I said, ‘Yes, this is the tray.’

‘That picture is not very good, is it? Could you tell me if your tray is anything like this one?’

She held out a postcard-size print. This was a better picture of a tray — but not my tray. It appeared to have been taken in some sort of museum because I could see that the tray was in a glass case and a reflection somewhat ruined the clarity of the picture. Everyone seemed to be pushing photographs of trays at me, and I wondered how many there were. I said cautiously, ‘It might be something like this one. This isn’t the best of pictures, either.’

‘Would it be possible to see your tray, Mr. Wheale?’

‘Why?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Do you want to buy it?’

‘I might — if the price were right.’

I pushed her again. ‘And what would be a right price?’

She fenced very well. ‘That would depend on the tray.’

I said deliberately, ‘The going price has been quoted as being £7,000. Could you match that?’

She said evenly, ‘That’s a lot of money, Mr. Wheate.’

‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘It was, I believe, the amount offered by an American to my brother. Mr. Gatt said he’d pay the price at valuation.’

Perhaps she was a little sad. ‘I don’t think that Paul... my husband... realized it would be as much as that.’

I leaned forward. ‘I think I ought to tell you that I have had an even higher offer from a Mr. Fallon.’

I watched her closely and she seemed to tighten, an almost imperceptible movement soon brought under control. She said quietly, ‘I don’t think we can compete with Professor Fallon when it comes to money.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘He seems to have a larger share than most of us.’

‘Has Professor Fallon seen the tray?’ she asked.

‘No, he hasn’t. He offered me a very large sum, sight unseen. Don’t you find that odd?’

‘Nothing that Fallon does I find odd,’ she said. ‘Unscrupulous, even criminal, but not odd. He has reasons for everything he does.’

I said gently, ‘I’d be careful about saying things like that, Mr.s Halstead, especially in England. Our laws of slander are stricter than in your country.’

‘Is a statement slanderous if it can be proved?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to sell the tray to Fallon?’

‘I haven’t made up my mind.’

She was pensive for a while, then she stirred. ‘Even if it is not possible for us to buy it, would there be any objection to my husband examining it? It could be done here, and I assure you it would come to no harm.’

Fallon had specifically asked that Halstead should not be shown the tray. To hell with that! I said, ‘I don’t see why not.’

‘This morning?’ she said eagerly.

I lied in my teeth. ‘I’m afraid not — I don’t have it here. But it could be here this afternoon. Would that suit you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, and smiled brilliantly. A woman has no right to be able to smile at a man like that, especially a man involved in tricking her into something. It tends to weaken his resolution. She stood up. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time this morning, Mr. Wheale; I’m sure you’re a busy man. What time should we come this afternoon?’

‘Oh, about two-thirty,’ I said casually. I escorted her to the door and watched her drive away in a small car. These archeological boffins seemed to be a queer crowd; Fallon had imputed dishonesty to Halstead, and Mr.s Halstead had accused Fallon of downright criminality. The in-fighting in academic circles seemed to be done with very sharp knives.

I thought of the chemistry set I had when a boy; it was a marvellous set with lots of little bottles and phials containing powders of various hue. If you mixed the powders odd things were likely to happen, but if they were kept separate they were quite inert.

I was tired of meeting with inertness from Fallon and the Halsteads — no one had been forthright enough to tell why he wanted the tray. I wondered what odd things were likely to happen when I mixed them together at two-thirty that afternoon.

IV

I went back and had another go at Jack Edgecombe. If he hadn’t actually caught fire, at least he was a bit luminous around the edges, which made arguing with him less of an uphill struggle. I chipped at him a bit more and managed to strike another spark of enthusiasm, and then packed him off to look at the farm with a new vision.

The rest of the morning was spent in the darkroom. I cut up the length of 35 mm film, which was now dry, and made a contact print just to see what I had. It didn’t seem too bad and most of the stuff was usable, so I settled down and made a series of eight by ten prints. They weren’t as professional as those that Fallon had shown me, but they were good enough for comparison with his.

I even printed out my failures including those that had happened when the electronic flash popped off unexpectedly. One of those was very interesting — to the point of being worthy of scrutiny under a magnifying glass. It was a real puzzler and I badly wanted to set up the tray and take more pictures, but there wasn’t time to do it before my visitors arrived.

The Halsteads came fifteen minutes early, thus demonstrating their eagerness. Halstead was a man of about thirty-five who seemed to be living on his nerves. I suppose he was handsome in an odd sort of way if you go for the hawklike visage; his cheekbones stood out prominently and his eyes were deep sunk in dark sockets so that he looked as though he were recovering from a week’s binge. His movements were quick and his conversation staccato, and I thought he’d be a wearing companion if one had to put up with him for any length of time. Mr.s Halstead seemed to manage all right and maintained a smooth outward serenity which shed a calmness over the pair of them and compensated for Halstead’s nerviness. Maybe it was something she worked hard at.

She introduced her husband and there was the briefest of social chit-chat before a sudden silence. Halstead looked at me expectantly and twitched a bit. ‘The tray?’ he enquired in a voice which rose a bit more than was necessary.

I looked at him blandly. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I have some photographs here in which you might be interested.’ I gave them to him and noted that his hands were trembling.

He flicked through them quickly, then looked up and said sharply, ‘These are pictures of your tray?’

‘They are.’

He turned to his wife. ‘It’s the right one — look at the vine leaves. Exactly like the Mexican tray. There’s no doubt about it.’

She said doubtfully, ‘It seems to be the same.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ he snapped. ‘It is the same. I studied the Mexican tray long enough, for God’s sake! Where’s our picture?’

Mr.s Halstead produced it and they settled down to a comparison. ‘Not an identical replica,’ pronounced Halstead. ‘But close enough. Undoubtedly made by the same hand — look at the veining in the leaves.’

‘I guess you’re right.’

‘I am right,’ he said positively, and jerked his head round to me. ‘My wife said you’d let me see the tray.’

I didn’t like his manner — he was too damned driving and impolite, and perhaps I didn’t like the way he spoke to his wife. ‘I told her there wasn’t any reason why you shouldn’t see it. At the same time there doesn’t seem any reason why you should. Would you care to enlighten me?’

He didn’t like resistance or opposition. ‘It’s a purely professional and scientific matter,’ he said stiffly. ‘It forms part of my present research; I doubt if you would understand it.’

‘Try me,’ I said softly, resenting his superior and condescending attitude. ‘I can understand words of two syllables — maybe words of three syllables if you speak them very slowly.’

Mr.s Halstead chipped in. ‘We would be very grateful if We could see the tray. You would be doing us a great service, Mr. Wheale.’ She wouldn’t apologize for her husband’s unfortunate manner, but she was doing her best to drop some polite social oil into the works.

We were interrupted by Madge. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr. Wheale.’

I grinned at Halstead. ‘Thank you, Mr.s Edgecombe; show him in, will you?’

When Fallon walked in Halstead gave a convulsive jerk. He turned to me and said in a high voice, ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Professor Fallon is here on my invitation, as you are,’ I said sweetly.

Halstead bounced to his feet. ‘I’ll not stay here with that man. Come along, Katherine.’

‘Wait a minute, Paul. What about the tray?’

That brought Halstead to a dead stop. He looked uncertainly at me, then at Fallon. ‘I resent this,’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘I resent it very much.’

Fallon had been as astonished to see Halstead as Halstead had been to see him. He stood poised in the doorway and said, ‘You think I don’t resent it, too? But I’m not blowing my top about it like a spoiled child. You were always too explosive, Paul.’ He advanced into the room. ‘May I ask what you think you’re doing, Wheale?’

‘Maybe I’m holding an auction,’ I said easily.

‘Umph! You’re wasting your time; this pair hasn’t two cents to rub together.’

Katherine Halstead said cuttingly, ‘I always thought you bought your reputation, Professor Fallon. And what you can’t buy, you steal.’

Fallon whirled. ‘Goddammit! Are you calling me a thief, young lady?’

‘I am,’ she said calmly. ‘You’ve got the Vivero letter, haven’t you?’

Fallon went very still. ‘What do you know about the Vivero letter?’

‘I know it was stolen from us nearly two years ago — and I know that you have it now.’ She looked across at me. ‘What conclusions would you draw from that, Mr. Wheale?’

I looked at Fallon speculatively. The chemicals were mixing nicely and maybe they’d brew a little bit of truth. I was all for stirring up the broth. I said, ‘Do you have this letter?’

Fallon nodded reluctantly. ‘I do — I bought it quite legally in New York, and I have a receipt to prove it. But, hell, these are a fine pair to talk about theft. What about the papers you stole from me in Mexico, Halstead?’

Halstead’s nostrils pinched in whitely. ‘I stole nothing from you that wasn’t mine. And what did you steal from me — just my reputation, that’s all. There are too many thieving bastards like you in the profession, Fallon; incompetents who build their reputations on the work of others.’

‘Why, you son of a bitch!’ roared Fallon. ‘You had your say in the journals and no one took any notice of you. Do you think anyone believes that poppycock?’

They were facing each other like fighting cocks and in another minute would have been at each other’s throats had I not yelled at the top of my voice, ‘Quiet!’ They both turned, and I said in a calmer voice, ‘Sit down both of you. I’ve never seen a more disgraceful exhibition by two grown men in my life. You’ll behave yourselves in my house or I’ll turn the lot of you out — and neither of you will ever get to see this bloody tray.’

Fallon said sheepishly, ‘I’m sorry, Wheale, but this man got my goat.’ He sat down.

Halstead also seated himself; he glared at Fallon and said nothing. Katherine Halstead’s face was white and she had pink spots in her cheeks. She looked at her husband and tightened her lips and, when he maintained his silence, she said, ‘I apologize for our behaviour, Mr. Wheale.’

I said bluntly, ‘You do your own apologizing, Mr.s Halstead; you can’t apologize for others — not even your husband.’ I paused, waiting for Halstead to say something, but he maintained a stubborn silence, so I ignored him and turned to Fallon. ‘I’m not particularly interested in the ins-and-outs of your professional arguments, although I must say I’m surprised at the charges that have been made here this afternoon.’

Fallon smiled sourly. ‘I didn’t start the mud-throwing.’

‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ I said. ‘You people are incredible. You’re so wrapped up in your tuppenny-ha’penny professional concerns that you forget a man has been murdered because of that tray. Two men are already dead, for God’s sake!’

Katherine Halstead said, ‘I’m sorry if we appear so heartless; it must seem peculiar to you.’

‘By God, it does! Now, listen to me carefully — all of you. I seem to have been dealt a high card in this particular game — I’ve got the tray that’s so damned important. But nobody is going to get as much as a sniff at it until I’m told the name of the game. I’m not going to operate blindfolded. Fallon, what about it?’

He stirred impatiently. ‘All right, it’s a deal. I’ll tell you everything you want to know — but privately. I don’t want Halstead in on it.’

‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Anything you want to tell me, you do it here and now in this room — and that applies to you, Halstead, too.’

Halstead said in a cold rage, ‘This is monstrous. Am I to give away the results of years of research to this charlatan?’

‘You’ll put up or you’ll shut up.’ I stuck out a finger. The door’s open and you can leave any time you like. Nobody is keeping you here. But if you go, that leaves Fallon with the tray.’

Indecision chased over his face and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of the chair. Katherine Halstead took the decision from him. She said firmly, ‘We accept your conditions. We stay.’ Halstead looked at her with a sudden air of shock, and she said, ‘It’s all right, Paul; I know what I’m doing.’

‘Fallon — what about you?’

‘I guess I’m stuck with it,’ he said, and smiled slowly. ‘Halstead talks about years of research. Well, I’ve put in quite a few years myself. It wouldn’t surprise me if we both know all there is to know about the problem. Heaven knows, I’ve been falling over this pair in every museum in Europe. I doubt if the pooling of information is going to bring up anything new.’

‘I might surprise you,’ said Halstead sharply. ‘You have no monopoly on brains.’

‘Cut it out,’ I said coldly. ‘This confessional is going to be run under my rules, and that means no snide comments from anyone. Do I make myself quite clear?’

Fallon said, ‘You know, Wheale, when I first met you I didn’t think much of you. You surprise me.’

I grinned. ‘I surprise myself sometimes.’ And so I did! Whatever had happened to the grey little man?