Copper, Gold and Treasure

by David Williams

  ‘You said on the telephone you’d do anything to keep the Rudyard Clubs going, Miss Spotter.’ The Major’s tone was serious.

  ‘My dear Major, anything.’ She was trying to suppress a giggle. ‘A rope-ladder might be more practical, Mr Gold.’ She and Benny laughed aloud as Florence demonstrated the shortness of her hair.

  The Major was not amused. The others looked reprovingly at one another.

  ‘Sorry, Major. This is no time for hilarity,’ said Florence, steeling herself to think of indigent old gentlemen incapable of mounting even step-ladders. ‘Tell us what we can do. Pru’s quite dug in, as you’ve seen. It could have worked—your coming here, I mean.’

  ‘But Mr Crow-Patcher . . .’

  ‘Everard feels guilty. I’m sure he feels guilty about the whole thing, which is why he hasn’t turned up. Apart from that, he and I haven’t hit it off since he left Cicely.’

  ‘I was in Sicily,’ offered Benny, feeling he should atone by saying something.

  ‘No, no. Cicely, his first wife . . .’

  ‘You feel even if your aunt relented, Everard’s a dead loss?’ the Major put in quickly to avoid any more comic cross-talk. ‘If he feels guilty surely he might . . .’

  Florence shook her head. ‘You don’t know his second wife, Dina. American. Hard as nails.’ She sighed. ‘So you see, it’s all rather hopeless . . .’

  ‘Not completely,’ said Copper.

  ‘You mean Stephen Spotter may yet materialize and be on our side? Two against two. You think the Trustees . . . ?’

  ‘Not even that, Miss Spotter.’ The Major hesitated, glancing at Benny before continuing. ‘You see, we have a plan of action that could save the Clubs without involving the family at all. At least, not in an obvious way. Only if one member . . . that is, only if you wanted to help.’ Benny was nodding furiously. ‘To help us raise half a million so the books balance again.’

  ‘You could do that? It’s a huge sum. I think I could manage a little, but . . .’ Florence’s voice faltered.

  ‘No, dear lady. It’s not your money we need. It’s . . . it’s . . .’ This time it was the Major who was lost for words.

  ‘Help in other ways. Like there’s two ways of killing a chicken? So we’re using the other way. Only our way’s not strictly kosher. Like it’s a tiny bit irregular,’ Benny stated firmly.

  ‘We believe we have a potential benefactor, Miss Spotter. Someone who’ll provide the money—not willingly perhaps . . .’

  ‘But Major, why should anyone give money unwillingly?’

  ‘So taxpayers pay willingly?’ Benny opened his palms in a gesture of surprise. ‘Or people being blackmailed? I mean, that’s an extreme case, but . . .’

  The Major cleared his throat loudly.

  ‘Is there anyone we could blackmail?’ enquired Miss Spotter earnestly. ‘It’s a jolly good cause. It’d need to be someone rich and very, very evil. An absolute blackguard who should be made to make up for his sins. You’ve someone like that in mind?’

  ‘Certainly not. Figure of speech by Mr Gold.’

  ‘I suppose blackmail is against the law, Major.’

  ‘Exactly, Miss Spotter.’

  ‘So is . . .’

  What ever it was Benny had intended to say he left unsaid after an urgent signal from Copper, who had stood up, walked to the north window, then turned to face the others.

  ‘Our plan is a last resort, Miss Spotter.’ The easel was beside him. On it was a half-finished drawing of Oily the Octopus engaged in a clog dance—in eight clogs. In his mind’s eye the drawing had already become a campaign map indicating encircling movements against the enemy. He straightened his back hoping the light behind might be accentuating the trim silhouette. His feet were spread apart, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘To recap, then. The Rudyard Headquarters staff is powerless. We’ve tried the Trustees and drawn a blank. With no disrespect to you, Miss Spotter, there’s precious little hope of help from the family. Yet we have a just cause . . .’

  ‘A humanitarian one,’ Florence interrupted, nodding at the Major and then at Benny.

  ‘Indeed, ma’am, which is why we’ve been offered help. Source unusual.’ The Major had begun rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. His voice had risen a shade: the intonation had become more nasal, reminding Benny of someone. ‘Our helper’s a young man. Very young. Fine boy, Pierre Cruba. Son of ex-President Cruba of Ngonga. Listened to our problem. Immediately came up with a solution.’

  ‘He’s getting his father to give us the money. And they are very rich?’ Miss Spotter had scarcely heard of Ngonga and never of President Cruba.

  ‘Not as simple as that.’ Benny had cut in. ‘We need help with him and that’s why we said to each other, “If Miss Spotter is kind and helpful like she sounds on the telephone . . .” ’

  ‘That we’d enlist your aid, dear lady.’

  ‘Well, enlist away, Major. I’m all ears.’

  ‘We need what in Intelligence we call a safe house,’ continued Copper, whose knowledge of Intelligence was gleaned entirely from television. ‘A house well insulated from the outside world. A place where a chap could lay up for a day or two. No fear of discovery. In fact, with one reservation, house like this.’

  ‘Montgomery! General Montgomery. That’s who you sound like, Roderick. Doesn’t he sound like Montgomery, Miss Spotter? You should have heard him at the Alamein Reunions.’

  ‘Who, the Major?’

  ‘No, the General.’

  Copper shot Benny an irritated glance and, ignoring the interruption, continued, ‘Fly in the ointment, of course. Your aunt.’

  Florence shook her head. ‘Not at all, Major. If you want to come here for a bit she’d never need know.’

  ‘Not us, Miss Spotter. It’d be Pierre Cruba.’

  ‘Well, whoever it is can come round the back of the drive, in through the window behind you, sleep in the room upstairs, and so long as he keeps to this side of the house and grounds Pru’d be none the wiser. She never goes out. The people she sees are the ones who come to the front door.’

  ‘And your cleaning lady, Mrs . . . er . . .’

  ‘Mrs Smith. Nine to twelve daily, and not weekends. She’s only in here one morning, and never upstairs. Pru and I generally eat separately. I prepare it all.’ She smiled eagerly. ‘Come, do tell me. Why is the stay secret? Is the young man planning to run away?’

  ‘Not exactly, Miss Spotter. You’re close though, isn’t she Roderick? Very good. Very quick.’

  ‘To be quite truthful, dear lady, the young man is planning to be, er . . . to be kidnapped.’

  CHAPTER 6

  YVONNE, THE THIRD MRS CRUBA, GAZED sleepily around the master bedroom in her big South Kensington home. Her eyes focused on the digital alarm clock on her husband’s side of the six-foot-wide bed.

  It was not quite a quarter to seven. The morning sunshine was piercing through the curtains. For Mrs Cruba the sunshine was symbolic. It was such a special Saturday morning: Maytime in London, and she was very much in love.

  It had been hot during the night. They had discarded all the bedclothes except the sheet: now she pushed that aside too.

  She stretched her firm, ebony-coloured body, looking it over with pride. She never wore a nightdress.

  ‘Chéri?’ Winding both her legs around one of his, she began tracing the folds of his face with the tip of her forefinger.

  He stirred but did not open his eyes. ‘The time?’ he asked as she withdrew her exploring lips from his, which up to then had remained unmoved.

  'Sept heures moins le quart, chéri. Chéri?’ she finished insistently and began lightly scratching the hairy part of his chest.

  ‘In English,’ he muttered automatically. ‘Go back to sleep, woman. Hell, it’s too early.’

  She sighed, rolled on to her back and began to make soft moaning noises. That did no good either—not that she really minded for the moment: not after last night.

  The
re was plenty of time. She had ordered breakfast downstairs for 8.30. The maid, who lived in the basement, would not rise before 7.30. Pierre, on the other side of the house, slept as long and as soundly as this one beside her: they were very much alike in some ways—both handsome, intelligent and engaging.

  Her English was near perfect but it was not a language she cared to use in bed. They both urged her to use English all the time while they were in London: she smirked.

  She enjoyed lying awake in this room. It was a rich room. The whole house looked rich: it had been done over to her taste before they moved in. That German diplomat’s wife had called it nouveau riche when she thought Yvonne was out of earshot. That was before the cow had seen this room. Pity—the mirrored ceiling must have really given her something to talk about.

  Yvonne tried never to think of going back to Ngonga. Here there was everything she wanted—well, almost everything—entertainment, parties, the house, the money, the social position.

  If she hadn’t married François Cruba she would probably have lived here anyway—here or in Paris; possibly New York for part of the year. She had done modelling assignments for Vogue even before she had left the American School in Paris five years ago.

  She was still being pressed to work for designers on both sides of the Channel—and in America. People said she personified ‘black is beautiful’. She sat up, posing at the mirrors around her dressing-table: people were right.

  She smoothed one hand over her stomach. It was tight still and there were not going to be any stretch marks to spoil it—not for a very long time if she continued to have her way.

  She swung round, kneeling on the bed, staring down at his tranquil face. She wished she understood him as much as she adored him. After the power he’d enjoyed of course he had to return to Ngonga if the chance came—she accepted the inevitability of that. His fulfilment, his true destiny, had to lie in Africa. Yet there were times when he insisted only the two of them mattered. She wanted so much to believe he meant that, because there was no long-term future for them in Africa or anywhere else unless . . .

  ‘When does that plane land?’ His eyes had opened a fraction.

  She lay down close to him again. ‘Ten o’clock. Sometimes they’re early this time of year.’

  ‘Tail wind. Personally I hate night flights.’

  ‘I enjoyed this one.’

  ‘Hussy. You have plans for the morning?’

  ‘Immediate or long-term, like half an hour from now?’ She bit into the flesh of his shoulder.

  ‘I mean after,’ He chuckled. ‘After breakfast.’

  ‘Taking Pierre to Harrods.’ She moved across him to bite the other shoulder.

  ‘Pierre asked you to go with him? That’s nice. You two made a truce?’ He looked into her eyes. ‘You’re getting heavier.’

  ‘Pig.’ She grimaced. ‘He needs me to sign the account.’ She glanced again at the clock. ‘And why do we still waste time? Soon you’ll be fussing to take precious Pierre jogging, Mmm . . . such stamina. I’ll see you get a good breakfast.’

  ‘I’m invited, Madame Cruba?’ He pulled her to him.

  ‘It depends how well you behave before then, Monsieur Opac.’

  Later they ail three breakfasted together—Yvonne, Pierre—and Gérard Opac, the ex-Trade Minister of Ngonga, who normally occupied the intercommunicating apartment at the top of the house.

  Opac was even early at Heathrow where he drove to meet François Cruba off the plane from Washington DC.

  ‘It isn’t the driving. It’s just I don’t sleep so good.’ Benny Gold looked around the breakfast table at all four members of the Potts family in turn. ‘Anyway, I like cornflakes. We both like cornflakes best, don’t we, Kathy?’ He could always rely on support from his seven-year-old granddaughter. She nodded vigorously.

  ‘You usually have All-Bran, Grandpa.’ That was Peter. He was nine. Peter always knew better.

  ‘So Grandpa decided on a change today.’ George Potts wished his wife hadn’t raised the subject in the First place. They all knew her father had made a mistake with the cereal packets: it wasn’t a criminal offence.

  ‘But, Dad, you were tired yesterday too.’

  George tried to signal his wife to drop it.

  ‘For a couple of nights it’s been too hot to sleep. So I should take to a wheelchair?’ Benny countered.

  7 was hot,’ claimed Kathy loyally.

  ‘Heat-wave in mid-May. Takes some getting used to. Tonight I’ll be acclimatized.’

  ‘Bet it cools down again. I’ve turned off all the heating,’ said George ruefully. ‘Always the way.’

  Denise was unconvinced. ‘I still think the driving’s too much. More coffee, Dad?’

  ‘Fifty years I’ve been driving a cab. Eight, nine hours a day. Longer sometimes. So all of a sudden it makes me tired doing a few mornings a week to help a friend? And I’m enjoying it yet.’

  ‘Fifty years ago I don’t believe you were seventy years of age, Dad.’

  ‘Mummy, how could Grandpa have been seventy when he was . . .’

  ‘Peter, eat. Mummy was using a figure of speech,’ said his father.

  ‘So now seventy is too old to drive? You can be Prime Minister at seventy. President of the United States of America at seventy . . .’

  ‘Chairman of British Steel.’ Peter sometimes had his uses.

  ‘That’s right, Peter. And Churchill saved his country when . . .’

  ‘Churchill wasn’t driving a cab, Dad.’

  ‘He didn’t have a licence. Count your blessings Churchill didn’t have a cab licence. He might have been pushing a hack instead of saving the country.’

  Benny and George enjoyed the older man’s joke; Kathy pretended to even though she didn’t understand what they were all laughing at.

  ‘Maybe they won’t renew your licence this August.’

  Benny shrugged his shoulders at Denise’s comment. ‘Three years ago I passed the medical Al. Perhaps last year it wouldn’t have been so easy. So I got lucky. The medical’s every three years. Today I’m fit again.’

  ‘It’s worth the trouble and expense? Renewing it again.’ George enquired, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Expense? What expense? It costs 15 pence to renew a London cab-driver’s licence for three years. 5p a year. Some expense, I don’t think. You know what it costs to be a cab-driver in New York? Thirty, forty thousand dollars. That’s a once for all payment, but that's an expense.’ He nodded sagely. ‘So I should pass up the privilege for 15p?’

  ‘I got 15p. Can I be a cab-driver, Grandpa?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Have; not got,’ her mother put in automatically.

  ‘You could do worse, chicken,’ said Benny, then, figuring that wouldn’t please Denise, he added, ‘But then you could do a whole lot better.’

  ‘Is Harry Katz still sick?’ asked George.

  ‘He’s mending.’ It was Katz’s cab Benny was using. ‘He’s glad of the money we split till his back gets better. They say he’ll be driving again in a week or so.’ He grimaced playfully at his daughter. ‘He’s only seventy-four yet.’

  ‘Dad, you’re incorrigible.’ She smiled. ‘So you won’t be here to lunch?’

  He shook his head. ‘Spending the morning picking up rich tourists in the West End. I should be so lucky’—or so impious if he had really intended working on the Sabbath, he thought. It was strange Denise hadn’t noticed. ‘Later I’m meeting the Major for a snack.’

  ‘You bringing him back for tea again, Dad? He’s welcome.’ Denise approved of the Major.’

  ‘Not today. Expect me when you see me, OK?’ He knew, deep down, they would be glad to have a Saturday to themselves with the children.

  ‘OK, Dad. But no overdoing it.’

  ‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ added George.

  Benny smiled bravely. If he wasn’t about to do something George wouldn’t do he’d be sleeping nights.

  At weekends breakfast at the Paragon Priva
te Hotel started officially at 7.30 if you liked cold coffee, 7.40 if you preferred it hot. The Major had been back in his room well before eight. He had not waited for his egg or the second lot of fresh toast. All this sacrifice had been in a good cause. Today, Exercise Rudy took precedence over creature comforts—a phrase that loosely embraced breakfast at the Paragon.

  They had settled on Exercise Rudy because of the first four letters in Rudyard and because Benny had a cousin called Rudy who owned a successful shoe store in Toronto—the significance of which had escaped Copper and appealed to Benny because it gave him a chance to mention a prosperous relative. Both had felt that the royal cypher ‘ER’ seemed appropriate for an undertaking by two men who had held the Queen’s Commission—or would have done if the Monarch at the relevant time hadn’t been a King.

  The Major had returned hot-foot to his room to be sure the radio weather forecast at 07.55 hours was no different from the one he had heard at 06.55: it wasn’t. One left as little as possible to chance. He could now be reasonably certain there would be no rain to slow up traffic at the critical zero hour—nor, according to the BBC, for the several uncritical days immediately following zero hour. He again considered the unchanging, cloudless blue sky through his open window and gave a calculated nod.

  He next checked his special equipment—dark glasses and a supply of 10p coins for telephones and parking meters. There was no call in the plan for using either: once more, he was ensuring against all contingencies.

  The glasses looked appropriate for the day and, he thought, subtly altered his appearance—even his character. Without them the tweed cap, dark blazer and grey flannels made him immediately recognizable as an English Gentleman dressed for the weekend. Add the affected dark glasses and it would be easy to mistake him—he felt sure—for an American or even an Arab wishing to be taken for English. It was all in the eyes.

  The only problem was the glasses he had bought to encompass his whole disguise were so dark he had difficulty seeing anything through them. Well, nothing is ever perfect, as his dear mother . . .

  He took off the glasses to look at the time. It was 08.21 hours exactly. He had checked their watches after the dummy run the day before. This was an action of no lasting significance since Benny had forgotten to wind his later and had started it going again in the morning a minute—or it might have been two—after hearing a church clock strike.