The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  A few moments later, Arabella was standing outside De Beers. The door was opened immediately: the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace, the Balenciaga bag and the Chanel watch all suggested that this lady was not in the habit of being kept waiting.

  ‘I want to look at some engagement rings,’ she said shyly before stepping inside.

  ‘Of course, madam,’ said the doorman, and led her down the corridor.

  During the next hour, Arabella carried out almost the same routine as Jeremy, and after much prevarication she told Mr Crombie, ‘It’s hopeless, quite hopeless. I’ll have to bring Archie in. After all, he’s the one who’s going to foot the bill.’

  ‘Of course, madam.’

  ‘I’m joining him for lunch at Le Caprice,’ she added, ‘so we’ll pop back this afternoon.’

  ‘We’ll look forward to seeing you both then,’ said the sales associate as he closed the jewel box.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Crombie,’ said Arabella as she rose to leave.

  Arabella was escorted to the front door by the sales associate without any suggestion that she should take her clothes off. Once she was back on Piccadilly, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Lowndes Square. She checked her watch, confident that she would be back at the flat long before her father, who would never find out that his watch and cufflinks had been borrowed for a few hours, and who certainly wouldn’t miss one of his old school ties.

  As she sat in the back of the taxi, Arabella admired the flawless yellow diamond. Jeremy had carried out her instructions to the letter. She would of course have to explain to her friends why she’d broken off the engagement. Frankly, he just wasn’t one of our set, never really fitted in. But she had to admit she would quite miss him. She’d grown rather fond of Jeremy, and he was very enthusiastic between the sheets. And to think that all he’d get out of it was a pair of silver collar stiffeners and an old Etonian tie. Arabella hoped he still had enough money to cover the bill at the Ritz.

  She dismissed Jeremy from her thoughts and turned her attention to the man she’d chosen to join her at Wimbledon, whom she had already lined up to assist her in obtaining a matching pair of earrings.

  When Mr Crombie left De Beers that night, he was still trying to work out how the man had managed it. After all, he’d had no more than a few seconds while his head was bowed.

  ‘Goodnight, Doris,’ he said as he passed a cleaner who was vacuuming in the corridor.

  ‘Goodnight, sir,’ said Doris, opening the door to the viewing room so she could continue to vacuum. This was where the customers selected the finest gems on earth, Mr Crombie had once told her, so it had to be spotless. She turned off the machine, removed the black velvet cloth from the table and began to polish the surface; first the top, then the rim. That’s when she felt it.

  Doris bent down to take a closer look. She stared in disbelief at the large piece of chewing gum stuck under the rim of the table. She began to scrape it off, not stopping until there wasn’t the slightest trace of it left, then dropped it into the rubbish bag attached to her cleaning cart before placing the velvet cloth back on the table.

  ‘Such a disgusting habit,’ she muttered as she closed the viewing-room door and continued to vacuum the carpet in the corridor.

  THE QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY TELEGRAM*

  2

  Her Majesty the Queen sends her congratulations to Albert Webber on the occasion of his 100th birthday, and wishes him many more years of good health and happiness.

  ALBERT WAS STILL SMILING after he’d read the message for the twentieth time.

  ‘You’ll be next, ducks,’ he said as he passed the royal missive across to his wife. Betty only had to read the telegram once for a broad smile to appear on her face too.

  The festivities had begun a week earlier, culminating in a celebration party at the town hall. Albert’s photograph had appeared on the front page of the Somerset Gazette that morning, and he had been interviewed on BBC Points West, his wife seated proudly by his side.

  His Worship the Mayor of Street, Councillor Ted Harding, and the leader of the local council, Councillor Brocklebank, were waiting on the town hall steps to greet the centenarian. Albert was escorted to the mayor’s parlour where he was introduced to Mr David Heathcote-Amory, the local Member of Parliament, as well as the local MEP, although when asked later he couldn’t remember her name.

  After several more photographs had been taken, Albert was ushered through to a large reception room where over a hundred invited guests were waiting to greet him. As he entered the room he was welcomed by a spontaneous burst of applause, and people he’d never met before began shaking hands with him.

  At 3.27 p.m., the precise minute Albert had been born in 1907, the old man, surrounded by his five children, eleven grandchildren and nineteen great-grandchildren, thrust a silver-handled knife into a three-tier cake. This simple act was greeted by another burst of applause, followed by cries of speech, speech, speech!

  Albert had prepared a few words, but as quiet fell in the room, they went straight out of his head.

  ‘Say something,’ said Betty, giving her husband a gentle nudge in the ribs.

  He blinked, looked around at the expectant crowd, paused and said, ‘Thank you very much.’

  Once the assembled gathering realized that was all he was going to say, someone began to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, and within moments everyone was joining in. Albert managed to blow out seven of the hundred candles before the younger members of the family came to his rescue, which was greeted by even more laughter and clapping.

  Once the applause had died down, the mayor rose to his feet, tugged at the lapels of his black and gold braided gown and cleared his throat, before delivering a far longer speech.

  ‘My fellow citizens,’ he began, ‘we are gathered together today to celebrate the birthday, the one hundredth birthday, of Albert Webber, a much-loved member of our community. Albert was born in Street on the fifteenth of April 1907. He married his wife Betty at Holy Trinity Church in 1931, and spent his working life at C. and J. Clark’s, our local shoe factory. In fact,’ he continued, ‘Albert has spent his entire life in Street, with the notable exception of four years when he served as a private soldier in the Somerset Light Infantry. When the war ended in 1945, Albert was discharged from the army and returned to Street to take up his old job as a leather cutter at Clark’s. At the age of sixty, he retired as Deputy Floor Manager. But you can’t get rid of Albert that easily, because he then took on part-time work as a night watchman, a responsibility he carried out until his seventieth birthday.’

  The mayor waited for the laughter to fade before he continued. ‘From his early days, Albert has always been a loyal supporter of Street Football Club, rarely missing a Cobblers’ home game, and indeed the club has recently made him an honorary life member. Albert also played darts for the Crown and Anchor, and was a member of that team when they were runners-up in the town’s pub championship.

  ‘I’m sure you will all agree,’ concluded the mayor, ‘that Albert has led a colourful and interesting life, which we all hope will continue for many years to come, not least because in three years’ time we will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It’s hard to believe, looking at her,’ said the mayor, turning towards Mrs Webber, ‘that in 2010 she will also be one hundred.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said several voices, and Betty shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.

  After several other dignitaries had said a few words, and many more had had their photograph taken with Albert, the mayor accompanied his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting Rolls-Royce, and instructed the chauffeur to drive Mr and Mrs Webber home.

  Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not in one driven by a chauffeur.

  By the time the car drew up outside their council house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon sandwiches
and birthday cake that it wasn’t long before they retired to bed.

  The last thing Albert murmured before turning out his bedside light was, ‘Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and I’m determined to live another three years so we can celebrate your hundredth together.’

  ‘I don’t want all that fuss made over me when my time comes,’ she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.

  Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber’s life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing life-threatening, and the birth of their first great-great-grandchild, Jude.

  When the historic day approached for the second Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty insisted the party be held at their home and only include the family. Albert reluctantly agreed, and didn’t tell his wife how much he’d been looking forward to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor’s Rolls-Royce.

  The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he’d anticipated that the occasion would guarantee his photograph appearing on the front page of the local paper.

  When the great day dawned, Betty received over a hundred cards, letters and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert’s profound dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed the Post Office was to blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn’t.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Albert,’ Betty insisted. ‘Her Majesty is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.’

  But Albert did fuss, and when no telegram arrived the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirit. However, after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time had come to take the matter into his own hands.

  Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just window shopping, as Betty couldn’t believe the prices the shops had the nerve to charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a week was a working wage.

  That Thursday Albert waited for them to leave the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared around the corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little den, where he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was put through.

  After a little while, and once he felt he was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit number.

  ‘Directory Enquiries. What number do you require?’

  ‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Albert, hoping his voice sounded authoritative.

  There was a slight hesitation, but the operator finally said, ‘One moment please.’

  Albert waited patiently, although he quite expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.

  ‘Can you please repeat that?’ asked a surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro. ‘Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three zero zero. ‘Thank you,’ he said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it up again. Albert dialled the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing tone and was just about to put the phone back down when a woman’s voice said, ‘Buckingham Palace, how may I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to someone about a one hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorized.

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Mr Albert Webber.’

  ‘Hold the line please, Mr Webber.’

  This was Albert’s last chance of escape, but before he could put the phone down, another voice came on the line.

  ‘Humphrey Cranshaw speaking.’

  The last time Albert had heard a voice like that was when he was serving in the army. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

  ‘I certainly will if I can, Mr Webber,’ replied the courtier.

  ‘Three years ago I celebrated my hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, returning to his well-rehearsed script.

  ‘Many congratulations,’ said Cranshaw.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Albert, ‘but that isn’t the reason why I’m calling. You see, on that occasion Her Majesty the Queen was kind enough to send me a telegram, which is now framed on the wall in front of me, and which I will treasure for the rest of my life.’

  ‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Webber.’

  ‘But I wondered,’ said Albert, gaining in confidence, ‘if Her Majesty still sends telegrams when people reach their hundredth birthday?’

  ‘She most certainly does,’ replied Cranshaw. ‘I know that it gives Her Majesty great pleasure to continue the tradition, despite the fact that so many more people now attain that magnificent milestone.’

  ‘Oh, that is most gratifying to hear, Mr Cranshaw,’ said Albert, ‘because my dear wife celebrated her hundredth birthday some two weeks ago, but sadly has not yet received a telegram from the Queen.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Webber,’ said the courtier. ‘It must be an administrative oversight on our part. Please allow me to check. What is your wife’s full name?’

  ‘Elizabeth Violet Webber, née Braithwaite,’ said Albert with pride.

  ‘Just give me a moment, Mr Webber,’ said Cranshaw, ‘while I check our records.’

  This time Albert had to wait a little longer before Mr Cranshaw came back on the line. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Webber, but you’ll be pleased to learn that we have traced your wife’s telegram.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Albert. ‘May I ask when she can expect to receive it?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the courtier said, ‘Her Majesty sent a telegram to your wife to congratulate her on reaching her hundredth birthday some five years ago.’

  Albert heard a car door slam, and moments later a key turned in the lock. He quickly put the phone down, and smiled.

  HIGH HEELS*

  3

  I WAS AT LORD’S for the first day of the Second Test against Australia when Alan Penfold sat down beside me and introduced himself.

  ‘How many people tell you they’ve got a story in them?’ he asked.

  I gave him a closer look before I replied. He must have been around fifty years old, slim and tanned. He looked fit, the kind of man who goes on playing his chosen sport long after he’s past his peak, and as I write this story, I recall that his handshake was remarkably firm.

  ‘Two, sometimes three a week,’ I told him.

  ‘And how many of those stories make it into one of your books?’

  ‘If I’m lucky, one in twenty, but more likely one in thirty.’

  ‘Well, let’s see if I can beat the odds,’ said Penfold as the players left the field for tea. ‘In my profession,’ he began, ‘you never forget your first case.’

  Alan Penfold put the phone gently back on the hook, hoping he hadn’t woken his wife. She stirred when he slipped stealthily out of bed and began to dress in yesterday’s clothes, as he didn’t want to put the light on.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going at this time in the morning?’ she demanded.

  ‘Romford,’ he replied.

  Anne tried to focus on the digital clock on her side of the bed.

  ‘At ten past eight on a Sunday morning?’ she said with a groan.

  Alan leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Go back to sleep, I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.’ He quickly left the room before she could question him any further.

  Even though it was a Sunday morning, he calculated that it would take him about an hour to get to Romford. At least he could use the time to think about the phone conversation he’d just had with the duty report
s officer.

  Alan had joined Redfern & Ticehurst as a trainee actuary soon after he’d qualified as a loss adjuster. Although he’d been with the firm for over two years, the partners were such a conservative bunch that this was the first time they’d allowed him to cover a case without his supervisor, Colin Crofts.

  Colin had taught him a lot during the past two years, and it was one of his comments, oft repeated, that sprang to Alan’s mind as he headed along the A12 towards Romford: ‘You never forget your first case.’

  All the reports officer had told him over the phone were the basic facts. A warehouse in Romford had caught fire during the night and by the time the local brigade had arrived, there wasn’t a lot that could be done other than to dampen down the embers. Old buildings like that often go up like a tinderbox, the reports officer said matter-of-factly.

  The policy holders, Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd, had two insurance policies, one for the building, and the other for its contents, each of them for approximately two million pounds. The reports officer didn’t consider it to be a complicated assignment, which was probably why he allowed Alan to cover the case without his supervisor.

  Even before he reached Romford, Alan could see where the site must be. A plume of black smoke was hovering above what was left of the hundred-year-old company. He parked in a side street, exchanged his shoes for a pair of Wellington boots and headed towards the smouldering remains of Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd. The smoke was beginning to disperse, the wind blowing it in the direction of the east coast. Alan walked slowly, because Colin had taught him that it was important to take in first impressions.

  When he reached the site, there was no sign of any activity other than a fire crew who were packing up and preparing to return to brigade headquarters. Alan tried to avoid the puddles of sooty water as he made his way across to the engine. He introduced himself to the duty officer.