Copper, Gold and Treasure

by David Williams

  Yvonne Cruba lay alone in the centre of the immense bed. She was naked and restless. She pouted at her reflection in a sequence of mirrors. How much longer would he be?

  She had played the distraught wife for long enough this evening. She might still have to do the prostrate widow bit tomorrow. Those cheerful medical bulletins were almost certainly meant just to keep her spirits up—hers and Pierre’s—till her husband’s fifty-fifty chance of survival swung one way or the other.

  Should she feel guilty about not feeling guilty? She had been through this before in her imagination: often. Now it was for real and—yes, she could live with it. More: if François died she could live with it, knowing the other possibility had had no flavour—now, this minute, but . . . Che sarà, sarà.

  She had not asked for the marriage in the first place. She had never been in love until Gérard Opac came into her life. Then what could she do?

  The front door was closed noisily. A car drew away from the house. That would be Mark Treasure leaving.

  She had begged François not to deliver that money himself: everybody knew that. Instead he had walked into danger—a trap set by his adored, indulged son. Never mind who sprung it: never? Again she steeled her mind.

  He didn’t knock—just stepped into the room, closed the door swiftly and stood leaning against it. The strain was evident in his eyes—so was his longing for her. It was the First time they had been alone since the meeting at the hospital. There had been doctors, policemen, well-meaning friends—always someone around right up to the time Treasure had brought back Pierre.

  Yvonne had slapped the boy hard across the face. Then she had come straight up to the bedroom.

  She was not sure why she had hit so hard. She knew why she had hit that sanctimonious woman’s son: planned to hit him. It had been a gesture she was sure Treasure would judge logical—emotionally justified. But it had been intended as an act, not something she had expected especially to enjoy.

  As for Pierre, he had taken the punishment without flinching but also without any expression of remorse. It was as though he knew she was playing a part in what was a charade for her but a tragedy for him. His expression said he knew.

  ‘I don’t think I should stay. Are you all right?’ Opac spoke quietly.

  She scrambled off the bed and rushed across the room to him, throwing her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest, pulling him to her. ‘Stay. Stay. Then I’ll be all right.’

  ‘If he dies . . .’ He hesitated, putting his hand under her chin and lifting her face so that she was looking at him.

  ‘If he dies,’ she repeated in a whisper, ‘if he dies you did it for me. That’s all.’

  He took hold of her shoulders and held her away from him. ‘You think I did it?’

  She nodded slowly: there was no ignoring the utter conviction in her eyes.

  So how long would it be before others . . . ?

  CHAPTER 15

  MOLLY TREASURE TOUCHED HER HUSBAND lightly on the shoulder. ‘Stay where you are. I’ll get it.’ She took his empty glass and filled it from the second can of lager he had brought from the kitchen. He had been back only a few minutes.

  They were in the first-floor drawing-room at Cheyne Walk. Freddy Hinterton was with them: he had arrived half an hour before to wait for Treasure. It was just after midnight: the banker appeared tired.

  ‘Mark, you must be sick of the whole thing. Would you rather I shoved off now? Let you get to bed?’ Freddy, with teacup in hand, looked every bit as earnest as he sounded—and pastoral with it.

  ‘No,’ Treasure protested firmly. ‘I’ve given you my story, now I want yours: in detail.’ He took the glass from Molly. ‘By the way, I meant to ask, did you come through the back door disguised as a meter reader?’

  Freddy showed polite amusement. ‘I don’t believe anyone saw us in the Mall and I thought it safer to drop in here than arrange to meet in the morning—especially after what’s happened.’

  ‘My Mr Gold saw us. Took you for a top copper.’ Treasure smiled at his wife who was now studying a scrawled message in her own handwriting. She had it at arm’s length as the alternative to finding and donning her glasses. ‘Problems, darling?’

  ‘I forgot to tell you, Florence Spotter rang, in a tizz. Said to tell you Stephen Spotter asked for Mr Miff’s private address before he left on Saturday. Seemed to think it important and . . . oh yes, she didn’t have the address.’

  ‘It’s in the book. Gérard Opac just looked it up for me.’ Her husband frowned; so did their guest. ‘And then there were three,’ Treasure mused aloud but without explanation. ‘Mmm . . . So. Come on, Freddy. To the scene of the crime. What did you find out?’

  ‘There were two men besides this Major chap. They could’ve been working separately or . . . or . . .’

  ‘Together?’ Suggested Molly with wide-eyed, affected innocence.

  ‘Very likely. In collusion. Difficult to decide, really.’ Freddy’s serious expression deepened. ‘One came down the steps. He was tall, in a trench-coat, hat pulled over his eyes. He got the case from Cruba.’

  ‘There was a witness to that?’ asked Treasure sharply. ‘Not exactly. You see they all sort of had their heads down—or under brollies. It was pelting, as you know . . .'

  ‘Not even the Major? He didn’t see this fellow take the case?’

  Freddy shook his head. ‘He’s not sure, Mark, he only knows he saw the chap beetle down past Cruba. Definitely had an attaché case in one hand . . .’

  ‘Like the one Opac said Cruba was carrying—hard-cornered job?’

  ‘That’s right. Chap was using it to barge his way through the people. Several said so . . . ’

  ‘The people from the gallery?’ Treasure asked.

  ‘Yes, but the Major—his name’s Copper—’

  ‘Bad casting,’ declared Molly.

  ‘Not necessarily. He’s kind of on our side now,’ her husband put in drily.

  ‘Major Copper,’ said Freddy loudly, pausing to regather his audience, ‘he was quite close to Cruba, five or six steps behind, when the first man went past him going down and someone else came by fast from below. So he says.’

  ‘Short? Tall? Young? Was he white or black?’ Treasure pressed.

  ‘Problem there. He could well be the killer but no one got a sight of his features. He was wearing a long plastic mac—voluminous thing, with a hood. Not transparent, though.’

  ‘He had the hood up, and he was going in the direction of everybody else,’ Molly speculated. ‘And as you said, they were all looking down anyway.’

  ‘That’s it exactly. He could have been tall and stooping . . .’

  ‘You mean the Major said he looked short?’ she asked.

  ‘He and the other witnesses didn’t seem to agree about that, but yes, the Major thought he was probably shortish.’

  ‘And he got between Copper and Cruba . . .’

  ‘When Copper was nearly in touching distance. Assume he did the stabbing, then ran like hell. Copper didn’t know what had happened but saw Cruba start to crumple . . .’

  ‘He was sure the first man couldn’t have had the knife?’ This was Treasure. ‘I mean, obviously it all happened very quickly.’

  ‘Copper wasn’t sure of anything, but Cruba was stabbed in the back. It’s possible, of course, the first man . . .’

  ‘But unlikely, come to think of it. It almost has to be the second chap, unless . . . But go on, Freddy.’

  ‘Copper says he tried to hold up Cruba, couldn’t manage the weight, lowered him on to the steps, then saw the knife . . .’

  ‘What sort of knife?’

  ‘No idea. Never saw it. Didn’t ask—suppose I should have done. Copper took hold of the handle. Was going to pull it out.’

  ‘I wonder they let him go with his fingerprints on . . .'

  ‘Natural reflex action on his part,’ put in Molly unexpectedly.

  ‘Retired nurse in the crowd stopped him,’ Freddy continued. �
�Possibly saved Cruba’s life, it seems.’

  ‘That’s right.’ It was Molly again: knowingly. ‘Might have bled to death otherwise.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’ asked her husband.

  ‘Red Cross classes.’ The patrician nose was tilted upwards.

  ‘On how to cope with malicious stabbings? I don’t believe it. You only went to one.’

  ‘I expect that was the one.’ She made a face at her husband. ‘Well, perhaps it was Ngaio Marsh, then.’ She smiled at Freddy. ‘So the short-tall-fat-thin man of unknown race, creed or colour got clean away?’

  ‘Anyone see which way?’ Treasure asked. ‘Unfortunately no. Everyone too surprised . . .’

  ‘Or too late,’ said the banker without thinking.

  ‘I’m very sorry . . .’

  ‘I didn’t mean your people, Freddy. When did Opac appear?’

  The visitor looked up sharply. ‘Didn’t he tell you?'

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause. ‘See what you mean. I think he got there after me. Told the police he was getting his car—it was parked in Waterloo Place. He noticed the commotion . . .’

  ‘Ho, ho,’ Molly interrupted confidently. ‘So he could have done the deed, skipped and come back again.'

  ‘Highly unlikely, of course,’ observed her husband— but thoughtfully.

  ‘He left the dinner before the speeches were over.’ Freddy faltered, before adding, ‘Sounds boorish, I know, but I rang someone else who was there. Old friend. Strictest confidence and all that.’ He looked from one to the other for approval. ‘He says Opac slipped out around nine-forty-five. No later.’

  ‘That’s about what he told me,’ Treasure commented. ‘Against Cruba’s wishes, he intended to be at the steps . . .’

  ‘So why did it take him so long?’ asked Molly.

  ‘He left the dinner between speeches. He didn’t want to risk upsetting the next speaker by leaving in the middle.’

  ‘Quite proper,’ said Freddy. ‘Nothing worse than people who . . .’

  ‘He found it was still raining.’ Treasure had nodded to show he accepted his guest’s intended homily on after-dinner etiquette without the need to hear it. ‘He got his coat, then hung about ready to make a dash for the Mall at ten-fifteen.’

  ‘Which sounds about right,’ confirmed Freddy as though still anxious to excuse his checking on Opac in the first place.

  ‘Anyone see him “hanging about”, I wonder?’ asked Molly innocently. ‘I mean, was he chatting up the porter at the Reform, or counting raindrops in the porch, or ordering taxis on the telephone?’ She paused for effect—and got some. ‘Half an hour’s a jolly long time . . .’

  ‘Whatever he was doing, according to him, he stayed in the Club, which means someone must have seen him.’ Treasure seemed to be thinking aloud. ‘Should be possible to find out what time that taxi was ordered. Mr Gold noted the number.’

  ‘Is Gérard Opac a member of the Reform? Would he be known?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Treasure answered his wife. ‘But he’s an impressive chap, as you know. He was wearing a dinner-jacket . . . and he is black. If he’s telling the truth he shouldn’t have difficulty finding witnesses. If he’s lying he’d have cooked up a better story.’

  ‘Advantage Opac.’ Molly smiled and began smoothing the folds from the black and gold silk kaftan she was wearing. ‘How was Yvonne Cruba dressed?’

  ‘Trouser suit. Dark linen, I think,’ her husband replied. ‘Rather stunning. Obviously made an effort despite . . .’

  ‘Desolate with worry, I expect.’

  There was silence for a moment after this barbed observation from Molly.

  ‘Good Lord. D’you think it’s a case of cherchez la femme?’ enquired the forty-two-year-old bachelor Freddy in surprise.

  ‘Well if it is, we don’t need to search very far.'

  ‘Yvonne is shocked and . . . and not completely rational. Understandable, I should have thought.’ Treasure fixed his wife with a look that implied, ‘Don’t push slanderous insinuations at a time like this.’ He received an answering glare meant to read, ‘I get all my best insinuations from you.’

  ‘You said she wasn’t in when you rang the house after leaving me?’ began Freddy, aware that silent exchanges were going on and determined to air a vocal one.

  ‘Opac says he phoned her from the hospital as soon as he got there,’ said Treasure. ‘She’d cried off going to the dinner herself. Opac was supposed to have taken her.'

  ‘So she threw something over her rather stunning trouser suit and pointed her fleet-footed Merc eastwards—let’s hope only once this evening,’ Molly commented, watching the expressions on the faces of the men. She paused. ‘No, somehow I can’t see Yvonne in an off-the-peg plastic mac. Not in any circumstances.’ Treasure frowned. ‘Whoever stabbed Cruba did it either for political reasons—and that doesn’t dismiss Opac—or else to stop him giving money to the Rudyard Trust tomorrow.’

  ‘But politically Opac and Cruba are on the same side?’ Molly intended to sound ingenuous.

  ‘What Mark means is Opac may have tried a short route to assuming Cruba’s mantle,’ put in Freddy, worried. ‘He stands for all the things Cruba does in the eyes of Ngongans but he’s . . . well . . . clean. He didn’t get rich by dubious means. Cruba’s—er—martyrdom might actually improve the chances of the elected government being recalled—with Opac as leader.’

  ‘So he’d get the job and the . . . the trimmings?’ asked Molly lightly, and without attempting to enlarge on the implications in the question.

  ‘Risky but conceivable,’ said her husband. In fact, he had found Freddy’s premise difficult to credit—but then the man from the FO was supposed to be the expert. ‘I’d have thought it’d make more sense if we tried pinning the crime on the present government . . .’

  ‘Whose agents don’t know about the kidnap or the opportunity it offered.’

  ‘Quite right, Freddy.’ Treasure shrugged his shoulders. ‘Which brings us to those we might say had a charitable motive. Members of the Rudyard family—or, more likely, the inexplicable Miff.’

  ‘Why him in preference to a Rudyard?’ This was Molly.

  ‘Because he seems to have been working harder than any of them to put the Trust out of business, and because every Rudyard—excluding Prudence—seems to have known about the kidnap and where Pierre was being held.’

  ‘And Prudence doesn’t matter?’

  ‘No, darling, she doesn’t. One of the other Rudyards must have tipped off the Egham Police tonight. Any of them could’ve done that and avoided the drastic alternative of trying to murder Cruba.’

  ‘Which leaves Miff,’ said Freddy with deepening interest.

  ‘Who we’re guessing didn’t know about the kidnap but who certainly knew about the imminence of Cruba’s gift.’ Treasure studied his glass for a moment. ‘Spotter may have been to see him with the idea of buying his cooperation over liquidating the Trust. Seems to have been bending everybody else’s ear.’

  ‘It’d be natural to assume the Director would be opposed to the thing folding,’ Freddy offered.

  ‘In which case the opportunist Spotter was in for a pleasant surprise,’ said Treasure.

  ‘If Miff confessed he’d been running down the Clubs,’ his wife added.

  ‘Drastic revelations prompting Spotter to cough up a few of his own. Trouble is, if Miff was told about the kidnap he could’ve rung the police too.’

  ‘There’s a middle possibility,’ said Freddy slowly. ‘That Spotter at some point told Miff where Cruba would be at the right time tonight— on the Duke of York steps. I don’t know why Miff is so anxious to have the Trust liquidated . . .’

  ‘But whatever the reason, he learned nine hours ago that years of shameful effort have been wasted.’ Treasure spoke deliberately. ‘Jonkins delivered the witnessed declaration to Miff himself. It states Cruba is giving half a million tomorrow afternoon—and the gift’s irrevocable.’

&nbs
p; ‘Miff’s a lawyer.’

  Treasure nodded at his guest. ‘Probably not a very good one, and almost certainly a crooked one.’

  Molly raised a hand. ‘Please sir, or sirs, when does a gift become irrevocable?’

  ‘In this case when it’s been executed,’ her husband replied, smiling. ‘We took extra trouble with the drafting for obvious reasons.’

  ‘And if the giver . . . the donor . . . if he dies before it’s executed!’ Molly pressed.

  ‘His heirs could plead for it to be set aside. If it went to Court they’d almost certainly win—especially if it came out the thing was drawn up under duress.’

  ‘You think we’re on to something, Mark?’ Freddy’s tone was rhetorical.

  ‘Tell you more in the morning. I’ve a date to see friend Miff in his office at 8.30. Nearly cancelled it while I was with Opac. Original intention was to go over the immediate disposition of the new funds . . .’

  ‘Which won’t be materializing.’

  ‘No, Freddy, they won’t. Opac was anxious I should see Miff anyway to tell him, get that declaration back, and browbeat him into keeping his mouth shut. I think that’s right.’ Treasure smirked. ‘I’ll assess his potential as a murderer at the same time.’

  ‘You’ll be careful, darling?’

  ‘Don’t worry. From what Jonkins told me, Miff’s in no condition for fisticuffs—nor, I suppose, for mounting steps at the double, which bruises our hypothesis a bit. Still . . .’ he paused. ‘Freddy, what are the police doing about the assault? They seem to have given you all the confidences deserved by a Foreign Office mogul.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Freddy a touch bashfully but evidently aware he had pulled rank with some success. ‘It was knowing Cruba that did it. The Inspector at Cannon Row Station seemed grateful. Their theory’s very simple. Pair of hit-and-run thieves. One got the bag, the other’s job to stop pursuit. Common enough crime these days, apparently, the violence not excepted. They’re not specially hopeful about catching the culprits.'