Copper, Gold and Treasure

by David Williams

  ‘This lady’s a nurse, aren’t you, Rene? Where’s Dorothy with that torch?’

  ‘Dorothy, over here with the torch, dear. That’s better . . . Oh Lord . . . there’s . . . there’s something . . . there’s a knife in his back.’

  ‘No, leave it in.’ This was Rene, the nurse. The Major nervously took his hand from the handle. ‘Better to leave it in. It may be holding the bleeding.’

  He could see the blood on his hands even in the feeble light of the pencil torch. It never occurred to him to run: this was Pierre’s father.

  He was still kneeling beside the quivering, moaning victim a minute later when the two policemen came clattering down.

  Treasure was furious about the time they had lost. He was out of the Rolls the instant it stopped. His eyes were well enough used to the darkness: the rain had stopped and there was no difficulty defining the silhouette of a stretcher party at the top of the steps— and no resisting an awful presentiment.

  The figure that had separated from the knot of people and hurried down towards him was Freddy Hinterton.

  ‘I was watching for your car.’ The man from the FO for once had no inhibitions about acknowledging his friend. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Somebody stabbed Cruba.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘No. Not yet anyway. Taking him to the Westminster. Opac’s with him.’

  ‘What about your men? Were they . . . ?’

  ‘Too late. It happened so early. Must have been ten minutes ago. We weren’t expecting . . . Mark, I’m sorry. Let the side down.’

  ‘Did anyone see?’

  ‘Not any of my lot. They’ve dispersed, by the way. Bit self-conscious about public appearances. You understand? Officially they weren’t here.’

  Treasure nodded. ‘And other people?’

  ‘Plenty about. Police are gathered in strength sorting them out. A group had just come out of the Institute of Contemporary Arts.’

  ‘Any real witnesses?’ The two had walked to the foot of the steps.

  ‘The coppers are hanging on to an elderly chap, military type, moustache, no raincoat. He’s standing on the right. Can you see?’ The clouds were rapidly clearing and moonlight was now fitfully lighting the scene.

  ‘I think so. He saw the stabbing?’

  ‘Worse, he may have done it. Seemed confused.’

  The siren of the departing ambulance was a kind of reassurance.

  ‘How have you explained . . . ?’ Treasure began.

  ‘Said who I was, that I was passing, stopped to help, and recognized Cruba.’

  ‘Who fetched Opac? You know he was at the Reform?'

  ‘Yes. Don’t know who got him. Seemed to pop up. We’ve hardly spoken.’

  ‘Has that chap got the money? Cruba left with it in a case.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Oh, look, they’re taking him away. They’re from Cannon Row.’

  The Major was being led up the steps by a man in plain clothes. Treasure made to go forward to join the officiallooking group, then stopped, catching the other’s arm.

  ‘Listen, I think I’ll stay out of this, at least for the moment,’ he said. Freddy, now more composed, looked relieved. ‘If the kidnap’s gone wrong they’ll be phoning The Boltons. There’s only Yvonne there. Do the police know . . . ?’

  ‘About the kidnap? I don’t think so. Not from me . . .’

  ‘Then don’t tell them. Get as much information as you can. Ring me at Cruba’s later.’ Treasure turned on his heel.

  As the banker neared his car Pink nodded towards the round little man who had been standing by the taxi parked nearby.

  ‘Excuse me . . . Mr Treasure, isn’t it? Grenwood, Phipps? Your chauffeur said . . . That is, he was good enough . . . Can you help me, Mr Treasure? I don’t know what to do. It’s about Pierre . . . Pierre Cruba.’

  ‘Please go on.’ The utter distress in the man’s tone was reflected in his face—a face that Treasure seemed to know: that and the tartan cap.

  ‘They say there’s been an accident on the steps.’

  ‘I understand Mr Cruba’s been assaulted. You know anything about that?’ Now he remembered—the comedians in the taxi on Saturday: it was the cap that triggered it.

  ‘No. Nothing,’ Benny nearly shouted. ‘And the police have taken Roderick, that’s Major Copper? I saw him go with someone . . .’

  ‘Slim, older man, no raincoat? Yes, I think he’s been taken for questioning. May have been a witness.’

  ‘Oy, oy, oy. The Major said if anything went wrong I shouldn’t get involved. Stay out of it. Leave it to him, he said. Only if they find out about Pierre? Mr Treasure, you’re the boss—above Mr Edwards—and I’m telling you there was no harm intended. It’s just everything’s gone wrong. Like Mr Cruba took the wrong taxi . . .’

  ‘At The Boltons. The Major got into yours. We were just behind.’ Treasure decided to back a hunch—that the man before him was no desperado. ‘Is the Major anything to do with the Friends of the Rudyard Trust?’ he enquired; another hunch.

  ‘Roderick and me. We are the Friends of the Rudyard Trust. We wrote to Grenwood, Phipps, Mr Treasure.'

  ‘And we weren’t much use. But Pierre Cruba’s helping you raise money?’

  There were tears in the other’s eyes. ‘On my daughters’ lives, Mr Treasure, that’s the truth. Now we’ll be up for murder I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Mr Cruba isn’t dead. Could you take me to Pierre now? Can I get him home tonight?’

  Benny nodded vigorously. ‘It’s only half an hour from here.’ Then his face clouded again. ‘I should leave the Major at a time like this?’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t think you have the option,’ Treasure commented briskly and implying an official justification for his own design which was entirely unwarranted. ‘D’you want to park that cab somewhere? We’re not awfully good at following taxis, and anyway, I’d rather you stayed with me until further notice Mr . . . Mr . . ?'

  ‘Gold. Benjamin Gold, sir.’ Benny hesitated. ‘Lieutenant, Royal Army Service Corps, sir. Retired, of course,’ he added lamely.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘SORRY TO HAVE BROUGHT YOU SUCH ROTTEN news Pierre,’ said Treasure. ‘Remember the hospital stressed he’s come through surgery remarkably well . . .’

  ‘And now he’s in intensive care.’

  ‘People usually are for a bit after an operation. The Westminster really is one of the best outfits in the country.’

  They were alone in the bedroom above Florence Spotter’s studio. Treasure had the only chair: the boy was sitting on the end of the bed.

  ‘You think he’ll live, sir?’

  ‘Since he’s survived so far, I’d say every chance.’

  ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘If that’s what you choose to believe. From what I’ve been told about you, you’re too intelligent for that.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have been there if . . .’

  ‘If someone hadn’t altered your plan for him to be somewhere else. Look, your kidnap scheme was well meaning but bloody irresponsible. You’ll cop it from your father for that when this is all over, but he won’t be blaming you for his being assaulted. It’s pretty obvious your plan was used as a ready-made set-up by someone else—we’ve yet to know who. That is if you don’t believe Mr Gold and his friends are hoodlums or terrorists.’

  The boy smiled for the first time. The two had never met before. Treasure had insisted on being shown to the room almost on arrival—immediately after telephoning the hospital. He had left a crestfallen Benny Gold below trying to explain things to a bewildered Florence Spotter.

  It had hardly seemed the appropriate time to start berating the boy for the trouble he had caused. In any case, his supposedly more mature confederates deserved a good deal of the blame.

  ‘We phoned your house on the way down. Couldn’t get an answer. Imagine your mother, sorry, stepmother had already left for the hospital. Strange, though . . .’

  ‘It’s usually
the maid’s day off, Monday. If Yvonne wasn’t there.’ Pierre finished with a shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘I see. Look, I want you home as quickly as possible. We’ll leave pretty soon, but I’m hoping for a call from Gérard Opac or another friend first. I’ve left urgent messages to ring me here.’

  ‘Couldn’t I go straight to the hospital, sir?

  ‘I doubt there’ll be any point. We’ll get Mr Opac’s view if he rings, but I wouldn’t think there’d be a chance of seeing your father till tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like to be there when . . .’

  ‘I understand. The thing is . . . getting you home will be the surest way of quashing the whole kidnap episode, and that’s something I want to do fast.’

  ‘To save my skin, sir?’

  ‘Not specially. Mostly to protect your father’s wishes—that and other considerations. If what took place tonight was a political act, the culprit may be aiming to focus the blame on a kidnapper if he knows there’s one handy.’

  ‘Not on a mugger, sir?’

  ‘Because they’re always handy? A kidnapper sounds more credible. Anyhow, the worst hasn’t happened.’ Treasure was glad to be discussing François Cruba’s survival as something factual: he just hoped the supposition was justified. ‘The point is, we can do without the embarrassment of the kidnap story, and we can stop it providing a smokescreen.’

  ‘You don’t think it could have been a mugger, sir?’

  ‘Who got lucky and grabbed a case with fifty thousand pounds in it? Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? It almost has to be someone who knew about the kidnap arrangements. Whether he was using them for political or personal advantage we don’t know.’

  ‘If it was political why didn’t they just . . .’

  ‘Take a pot shot any time? You should know your father’s too popular in Ngonga again for his opponents to risk that. The new government would certainly have been blamed . . .’

  ‘Correctly,’ the boy put in sternly.

  ‘Mmm . . . Well if that was proved they’d have been risking a counter-coup.’

  ‘Gérard could lead one.’

  ‘Well, that’s very speculative, of course.’ Even so, it was a scenario that had crossed Treasure’s mind already. ‘Let’s assume it wasn’t political. Tell me who knew about the money besides Mr Gold and his Major friend.’

  ‘Miss Stopper knew . . . Er . . . did Mr Gold mention anyone else?’ Pierre enquired tentatively.

  ‘I asked the question first. All right, the answer’s yes, to stop you breaking a confidence. He mentioned the curious Mr Stephen Spotter who wishes to remain unheard of.’

  ‘Good. Then there’s someone called Crow-Patcher, another sort of relative. He was here yesterday morning.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘No, I nipped up here, not that it made much difference. Miss Stopper told me afterwards she’d let on about the kidnap because she thought he knew already—from Stephen Spotter who’d been to see him. Miss Spotter was pretty angry about Stephen.’

  ‘For blowing your story?’

  ‘No. Well, that too, sir, but mostly for telling Mr Crow-Patcher not to co-operate in schemes to save the Rudyard Trust. Oh, and for telling him not to contact her. Not to let on he knew Stephen was in England—not for a few days.’

  ‘But the chap had been down here first.’

  ‘I know, sir. It’s crazy. And when he was here he pretended to be all for saving the Trust.’

  ‘But he didn’t actually do anything to help, and when he saw Crow-Patcher he was busy hindering.’

  ‘And he must have known he’d be found out eventually. Miss Spotter could have rung Crow-Patcher, or vice versa.’

  ‘Mmm. What he wanted was a few days’ grace. Mr Gold said he talked as though he were immensely rich. An oil baron.’

  ‘I didn’t believe him, sir.’

  ‘No, neither did Gold.’ Treasure smiled. ‘So far as you know, only Mr Gold and the Major knew the trip to the Mall was just a blind?’

  ‘That’s right, sir, but one of the others could have twigged it of course, or pre . . . pre . . .’

  ‘Pre-empted it?’

  ‘Thank you. That’s right, sir. Sent another taxi earlier, guessing my father wouldn’t suspect anything. He wouldn’t have, either. He said he was doing everything we asked.’ There was shame in the boy’s voice as he added, ‘That’s all he had to say at the end of the taped messages I phoned yesterday and this afternoon.’

  ‘I heard about those,’ said Treasure without emphasis. He looked at the time. ‘I need a word with Miss Spotter, and one of those calls should be through about now. Why don’t you pack up your things and join us downstairs?’

  ‘I haven’t heard from Stephen since he left here on Saturday afternoon, Mr Treasure.’ Florence was very downcast.

  ‘In your car, and without telling you which Airport hotel he was in.’

  ‘We could check. There aren’t so many,’ Benny offered.

  ‘Assuming he’s using his real name,’ said Treasure, who was seated at the desk. The other two were on the sofa.

  ‘Also assuming he’s staying in one,’ added Benny.

  Florence burst into tears at the probably justified imputations. ‘He was such a dear little boy.’ She produced a large mauve handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She blew her nose loudly. ‘Such a disappointment. One naturally accepts people at their face value—especially relatives.’ She blew her nose again.

  ‘Stephen nobbled Miss Rudyard on the quiet,’ Benny explained in an aggrieved tone: he supported the generalization about relatives. ‘He said the same things to Mr Crow-Patcher.’

  ‘Indeed he did,’ said Florence with a sniffle.

  Pierre appeared through the turret door. ‘Ready, sir.’ He smiled awkwardly at Benny, then sat on the edge of one of the upright chairs, dangling his Harrods’ carrier bag.

  ‘So far as we know, Spotter wasn’t planning on seeing anyone else?’ asked Treasure.

  Florence shook her head as the telephone started to ring. Treasure’s responses during the call were brief but he smiled encouragingly at Pierre several times.

  ‘That was Gérard Opac. Mr Cruba is out of immediate danger. It’s very good news, Pierre. Opac is taking your stepmother home and that’s where I’m delivering you. Your father won’t be seeable till tomorrow at the earliest. It seems also that Major Copper is free. Cleared by other witnesses. The Police must be pretty certain to have let him go.’

  ‘He’s not under arrest!’ Benny exclaimed.

  ‘Evidently not.’ Treasure’s smile signified more charity than he actually felt.

  ‘Your Royal Highness.’ The quavering greeting emanated from the threshold of Florence’s bedroom: the double doors had been thrown open dramatically. Poised in the opening was Miss Prudence Rudyard. She threw a deep curtsey in Treasure’s direction. It went well enough going down but it subsequently became evident that rising again presented difficulties. There was a moment when a rally to the upright seemed possible, but the moment passed as Prudence sank back slowly to the floor. She was a study in ballooning red velvet—and a white silken toque crookedly embellished with a jewelled tiara.

  She looked about her with the jerky neck movements of an affronted broody hen. Benny and Pierre hastened to her aid.

  ‘Pray forgive the tardiness in my appearing, sire,’ Prudence recited with a rich tremelo while affecting not to notice she was being assisted from the floor—lopsidedly since Pierre was applying more strength than his partner. ‘The servants omitted to advise me of your Royal Highness’s arrival.’ She directed a meaningful glare at Florence. ‘It wasn’t until I observed your conveyance and retinue in the drive . . .’ She blinked at Benny who was now well below her eye-level but still affecting to prop her up. She shook her arm from his, then turned her attention to Pierre, raising her lorgnette while retaining his still necessary support. ‘The Royal Blackamoor, I perceive.’ Pierre grinned amicably. ‘Wi
th your Royal Highness’s permission, I’ll take that chair.’

  Pierre guided his charge to the seat he had just vacated.

  ‘This is my aunt, Miss Rudyard,’ offered Florence. ‘Pru, this is Mr Treasure, Mr Mark Treasure,’ She repeated the surname with especial clarity.

  ‘Indeed? A most remarkable likeness.’ Prudence nodded loyally, acknowledging that if the Prince of Wales chose to travel incognito his secret was safe with her.

  ‘Mr Treasure is to do with the Trust, Pru.’

  ‘Naturally he’s august. Have I not shown the proper deference to Mister Treasure. Oh, very droll,’ She savoured her private joke, then enquired: ‘You have been offered refreshment, sire?’

  ‘Thank you, yes, Miss Rudyard,’ Treasure answered untruthfully. Florence put a hand to her mouth in dismay at the omission. ‘We can’t stay, I’m afraid,’ the banker continued hastily but carefully articulating every syllable. ‘I hear your two great-nephews have been visiting you. Mr Spotter and Mr Crow-Patcher.’

  ‘Nobody told me.’

  ‘Stephen and Everard, Pru. They were here at the weekend. You remember?’ Florence shouted desperately.

  ‘Not deaf. Want to close down the Rudyard Trust. Quite right too. Very nearly a nasty accident. With the secateurs.’ Prudence completed this unrelated sequence by staring accusingly at Benny. ‘Florence could have been impaled,’ came as an afterthought.

  ‘Nothing of the sort, Pru,’ her niece put in quickly. ‘She insisted on getting up Saturday afternoon. Took Stephen upstairs to admire the stairway and the hall from above.’

  ‘But not the guest suite?’ Treasure asked, raising his eyebrows at Pierre who shook his head.

  ‘I’d stupidly left the secateurs on the balustrade after doing the flowers. Stephen said Pru . . . I mean, someone accidentally knocked them over. I happened to be standing underneath. No harm done. They missed . . . didn’t hit anything, I mean.’ Florence finished in some confusion.

  There was a moment’s silence dramatically shattered by a loud hammering from outside.

  ‘The front door,’ Florence confirmed. ‘But it’s after eleven-thirty. Whoever could . . .’