Fortune Is a Woman

by Winston Graham

  ‘‘There’s no reason why he should be! It was clear enough to everyone else, I guess.”

  I sipped my drink. ‘‘Could you tell me how it all started, Mr. Croft?’’

  He said: ‘‘D’you mind if I ring Highbury first—just to make sure he’s no objection to my telling you?’’

  ‘‘Not in the least.”

  He put his glass down and looked at me. ‘‘No.… Maybe I shouldn’t. I think you’re O.K. I think I can trust you.… There were just the four of us: Charles and Janet—that’s his wife, Janet Vale, you know—and Joy—that’s mine—and we had them in for the evening. I’d met them in Hollywood last year. We had them in to drinks and a meal, and afterwards we played Canasta. You know it?’’

  I said I did.

  ‘‘Of course we gambled a bit—nothing to get excited about—and Charles and Janet lost a few pounds; I think nine or ten pounds between them. The last game or two they began to pick on each other, the way husbands and wives do. I winked at Joy, as much as to say: the screen lovers aren’t above that. Then we finished and had a few more drinks and they got more and more kind of fretful with each other. And they were just going—Janet had put on her coat and they were in the hall—that little hall you came in by—and suddenly they started in to fight. There wasn’t room to do the thing properly, but he bit her hand and kicked her ankle, and she suddenly connected with a beautiful straight right to the eye. I remember when he went down she said: ‘Take that, you great big canary,’ and walked out. He was with us till two o’clock, and then we got him in a taxi and sent him home.”

  I finished my drink. ‘‘Thank you very much, Mr. Croft. That more or less confirms.… I’m much obliged to you.”

  ‘‘It was mighty embarrassing for us. We’d never entertained them before. After she’d gone he told us all his matrimonial troubles for the past twelve years. And there were plenty of them. I suppose it happens to us all, one time or another, but I’ve never actually gone in for that sort of thing with my wife; have you?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ I said.

  He seemed a nice fellow, and, now that the first fence was over, anxious to talk. So I sat over a second drink, chatting with him and wondering whether this new angle was really going to help in any way. It wasn’t till I got up to go that I saw the picture.

  It was at the end of the room and I’d glanced at it absentmindedly once before, feeling there was something about it that I knew. This time I saw it was a water colour of Lowis Manor. I moved a bit nearer now, still chatting. The thing was painted very much from where Sarah and I had rested after the horse ride, except that it was lower down. The rear of the house was in the left background, and the foreground was taken up by a mill and a wood. That seemed wrong because I knew the mill had been gone a good many years.

  ‘‘Admiring my water colour?’’ He’d followed my eyes and broken off what he was saying.

  ‘‘Yes.… I know the house.”

  ‘‘Do you? That’s interesting. I’m very proud of it because I never owned anything like a Bonington before.”

  There was a good cube of ice left in my glass; and just for a moment I felt as if a piece of it had gone down my collar.

  ‘‘A Bonington?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I picked it up about twenty months ago. It’s called ‘The Mill and Spinney’, but that’s not very illuminating. Where did you say it was located?’’

  ‘‘I’m not certain. I may be mistaken. Is it signed?’’

  ‘‘Oh, surely. You see there in the corner.”

  ‘‘You bought it from your usual dealer?’’

  ‘‘No.… No, I didn’t. Why?’’

  ‘‘It’s—there’s a man I know. Makes a study of Bonington. I thought he’d be interested.”

  ‘‘No.… I had it through a dealer in Chelsea. He put me in touch with a young woman—who had it to sell. At the time I was going to take it home with me to the States; but then I got this appointment so I thought I’d keep it right here.”

  ‘‘Yes,’’ I said. ‘‘But what——?’’

  ‘‘Apparently she was acting for the owners who wanted to sell it privately: they were short of cash, hit by the war, wanted to realize on it without publicity—that sort of set up. Of course I didn’t fancy parting with twenty-five hundred dollars for a fake, so I had it verified before I paid the money. I’ve often wondered about it, because she asked for the money in cash.” He looked at me sharply. ‘‘Don’t tell me the thing was stolen.”

  ‘‘Oh, no.… At least, not as far as I know.” I swallowed something. ‘‘What was the woman like?’’

  At that moment the telephone rang, and for about five nasty-tasting minutes I stood and stared at the picture and listened to him talking to his wife. The whole business of Charles Highbury and his troubles had been knocked right out of my mind. They might never have existed.

  He came back at last. ‘‘You’ll pardon me, I hope. My wife is in Essex. You see——’’

  I said: ‘‘ What was the woman like?’’

  ‘‘What woman?’’ He looked at me. ‘‘ Oh, the one who sold me the picture.… Young. About twenty-five or six. Quite a looker.”

  ‘‘Was she tall and dark, slight but not thin, curly dark hair with a touch of bronze, and a very clear fine skin? Eyes nearly black in some lights, but in others a sort of deep hazel?’’

  ‘‘That’s the girl.” He smiled. ‘‘So you know her well? She seemed pretty much of a lady. Don’t tell me she’s a crook.”

  I forced out some sort of an answering smile. ‘‘No. You’re safe enough. The story she told you was more than half true.”

  I drove back to the garage and parked the car, but then instead of going home I walked through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. I suppose I must have walked seven or eight miles. I got in about eleven and went up and switched on the light and looked round. It all looked just the same: the faded green carpet and the two green plush easy chairs; the gas fire with a bit chipped out of one tier; some magazines and books I’d been reading which had been piled carelessly and had spilled on the floor; a half empty packet of cigarettes half open on the sham antique writing-desk that I was always intending to change and never did. I went over and opened a drawer and then aimlessly shut it again. It wasn’t only desks that were sham.

  Two days since Sarah had been in here—like a coloured bird making all the drab things drabber. It was only two days since all that had happened.

  I sat on the divan-cum-bed and lit a cigarette and then went into the kitchen and fished out a bottle of whisky. I don’t drink whisky often because I don’t much like the taste, but I’d been started on that to-night. I flipped off the top and slopped a good lot in a glass. One bad taste and another.

  I thought: take it quietly; there are degrees of enormity, aren’t there? Insurance companies are fair game, and they know it. Is that what it is? Is that all it is?

  I sat for a long time, until Big Ben sounded faintly on somebody’s radio nearby. Then I got up and pulled back the coverlet of the divan and undressed and got into bed. Suspicion is a queer thing. So long as your mind is fool proof against it you don’t feel it at all. You don’t know it exists. But let the smallest puncture be made.… About three I got up again and lit the fire and sat by it in my pyjamas chain-smoking.

  After a bit I must have dozed off in the chair because when I woke it was coming light and there was the first murmur outside of the morning traffic.

  The weather had been unsettled since Monday, but to-day looked fair enough. The sky was a pale primrose colour with windy streaks between the jutting wings of the building opposite. It was going to be a bright day for some people, but I didn’t feel it would be a good one for me.

  Because of the fire claim I knew that Tracey insured through Burton & Hicks, the brokers, of whom Fred McDonald was the claims manager. I’d not seen a lot of McDonald since I stopped going out with his daughter, but I made an excuse to call in and see him about a fire claim on a Southampton wharf. As
I was leaving I said: ‘‘ Oh, I suppose you still handle Tracey Moreton’s business, do you? D’you know if he’s increased the insurance on Lowis Manor recently?’’

  McDonald rubbed his second chin with a fat thumb. ‘‘Moreton? Isn’t he——? Oh, I remember. There was a small claim on it, wasn’t there, a year or so ago? I think he has. Why d’you ask?’’

  ‘‘It’s not important, but when I saw him a few months ago I told him I thought he wasn’t covered on present-day prices.”

  McDonald pressed a bell. ‘‘Yes … when the policies came up for renewal—about last October. I’m not sure of the exact terms. Can soon let you know if you like.”

  I made noises not quite strong enough to discourage him, and when his typist came back with the file he said rather unamiably:

  ‘‘Contents cover he increased from £30,000 to £40,000. I suggested that he increased the cover on the house but he didn’t seem to think that necessary.”

  With a feeling of sudden relief I said: ‘‘What is it? I don’t remember off hand.”

  ‘‘£25,000. I’ve never been down but it’s quite a gem, I suppose.”

  ‘‘Yes.… If I see him again I’ll suggest that he brings it up by fifty per cent.”

  ‘‘All right. Good-bye, Branwell.”

  I went out of the office into the shadow and sun of Gracechurch Street. So suspicion had got out of hand. It wasn’t as bad as the bogies of the early hours had whispered.

  All the same there was enough to be going on with.

  When I got to Abercrombies the typist said: ‘‘Mr. Lawrence of Haskells has been phoning. He wanted to know what the latest information was on the Highbury case. I’ve also put some papers from Berkeley Reckitt on your desk.”

  I went in and read the papers from Reckitt and picked up the telephone to get Haskells at Lloyds. Then I put it back. My mind wouldn’t run to sick film stars. I knew I ought to do something about what I’d learned last night, but the tailpiece had knocked me over.

  I picked up the phone again and asked the girl to get me Sladen 35. While I was waiting I took out a pencil and put some figures down, but after a minute or two I made squares round them and began jabbing at the paper.

  Sarah answered the phone. When she knew who it was her voice seemed to change. Perhaps it was my fancy.

  ‘‘I thought I’d ring,’’ I said. ‘‘How are you?’’

  ‘‘I’m fine, thank you.”

  ‘‘And Tracey?’’

  ‘‘Not awfully well.”

  I stared at the telephone. ‘‘I’d like to see you again sometime pretty soon. I—want to see you both. Would it be convenient if I came down to-morrow?’’

  There was a pause. ‘‘We’re just getting ready to go away. We leave on Saturday morning, you know.”

  ‘‘Oh.… I’d forgotten.… What about to-morrow evening?’’

  There was a sound of a muffled conversation. ‘‘We’re only going for a week,’’ she said. ‘‘ Is it urgent?’’

  Was it urgent? ‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘I suppose not. Will you phone me as soon as you get back?’’

  ‘‘Of course.” Her voice was very guarded to-day.

  ‘‘There’s one thing I wanted to ask Tracey,’’ I said. ‘‘Where is it he has his pictures cleaned—the Constable and the Lippi, for instance? I was talking to an American last night. I said I’d get the name.”

  I heard her ask Tracey and heard Tracey say: ‘‘ What does he want to know for?’’ and Sarah’s explanation. ‘‘It’s Barber & Curry. They’re in Bond Street, half way up on the right hand side, Tracey says.”

  ‘‘Right. Thank you. Enjoy your holiday. Good-bye.…”

  ‘‘Good-bye.”

  I looked at the receiver as if it had done me an injury and then slowly put it back on its rest. It was nearly lunch time and I’d done nothing useful all morning. I sat thinking for about ten minutes, then pulled a sheet of the firm’s notepaper towards me and wrote ‘‘Messrs. Griggs Agency, Private and Confidential. Dear Sirs, We should consider it a favour if you would give us information as to the business record, if any, and financial stability of Mr. Tracey Moreton, of Lowis Manor, Sladen, Kent. Yours faithfully, for and on behalf of Abercrombie & Co. O. Branwell.”

  I stuck it in an envelope and slid out of the office without being accosted. I caught a No. 23 bus and dropped off at the top of Bond Street and walked down. Barber & Curry is one of those shops which show a solitary discreet Old Master on an easel in the corner of their window with a tapestry curtain for a background.

  The manager was at lunch, but another man in a white coat seemed to know everything, so I said I’d called about a picture I wanted restored. He said vaguely, oh, yes, what was my picture? I said, an early Bonington, but first could he possibly give me some idea of the work they had carried out for Mr. Tracey Moreton of Lowis Manor, who had recommended me, and the cost of the work to him.

  The man in the white coat said: ‘‘ What name was it? And what were the pictures?’’

  ‘‘T. Moreton,’’ I said. ‘‘One picture was a Constable and another was a Lippi. Possibly a Watteau as well.”

  ‘‘I don’t remember them personally, but I’ll look that up.”

  He went away, and then came back to say that the only client he could trace was a Viscountess Morecambe. What was the year? Last year, I told him, knowing now all I could know but having to make a tactful exit.

  So in five minutes he was back again, with a wooden face this time, as if he suspected there was a confidence trick in it somewhere but couldn’t quite see where. They’d done no work for Mr. Moreton—nor had they handled a Lippi in recent years. If I would care to wait until the manager came back.… I said no, I’d see Mr. Moreton before going further, and a minute later I found myself out on the pavement again.

  Chapter Eleven

  I knew I had to get the Highbury thing off my chest before the week-end, and I knew now what I wanted to do, but I could no longer bring any interest to it. I felt sick to the depths of my stomach.

  I went round to the Dorchester and asked to see him on urgent business. Fortunately his secretary was out, and a typist who was deputizing wasn’t so tough to get by. Charles Highbury was up but still in his bedroom, in a magnificent black silk dressing-gown with gold lapels.

  When he saw me he smiled faintly. ‘‘Oh, the insurance gentleman. Do come in. I’m afraid I was rude to you last Friday, but my nerves were all to pieces at the time. These agents and producers simply give one no moment’s peace. Cigarette?’’

  I said: ‘‘I thought nothing of it. Glad to see you looking so much better.” The black eye had completely mended.

  ‘‘I’m far from well yet, but Dr. Aymar thinks another ten days will see me fit to go back to work. They’re filthy little studios anyhow. One is choked with dust, and the camera men have no idea.”

  We chatted for a bit. He was turning on the charm this evening. It flowed from him as easily as warm water from a tap. You could see he loved himself for being so nice.

  But I couldn’t meet him half way. This time it was I who wasn’t feeling so good.

  I said: ‘‘Up to now, Mr. Highbury, we’ve simply made out short interim reports to the underwriters on the progress of this case, but it’s time they got a fuller account. That’s really what I came to see you about. I’d rather hoped I’d be able to give them a definite date for your return.”

  ‘‘Well, you can, old boy. A week on Monday. Aymar says it will be all right by then.”

  ‘‘But what do you say? It’s very hard on Foster with what’s-her-name off to the States and … I was wondering if you thought you could possibly manage this coming Monday?’’

  ‘‘Foster will get over it. He’s had worse headaches. You don’t realize what a complete collapse I had.”

  ‘‘That’s just the point,’’ I said. ‘‘I do.”

  He smoothed a crease in his dressing-gown. ‘‘ Just what is that remark in aid of?’’

  �
�‘Do I need to go into details?’’

  ‘‘By all means if you have something more to say.” The charm supply was drying to a trickle.

  I said: ‘‘When a famous film star is suddenly taken ill it’s natural to make inquiries. That’s all. And when his wife over-stays her time in Edinburgh …”

  ‘‘And what good will this—this vulgar prying into my private life do you?’’

  I said: ‘‘If there’s been a fire in a warehouse, it’s my job to say if I can tell how the fire started. If a man goes sick, and the sickness costs someone a lot of money, it’s just as much my job to find out how things got that way.”

  He stood up slowly. He’d the shoulders of a prize-fighter and the waist of a professional dancer.

  ‘‘Run away, Mr. Snooper. You don’t amuse me.”

  I got up too. ‘‘ Isn’t it true that you’re known as the he-man of pictures?’’

  ‘‘So what?’’

  ‘‘If I have to make an interim report at this stage I shall be forced to say that Mr. Highbury is still suffering from the effects of a blow received from his wife on the second of May last, which knocked him out and has so far kept him in bed a week. These reports are confidential, of course, but they have to pass through the hands of quite a number of people, and it’s not impossible that somebody should talk to the Press——’’

  ‘‘Go to hell,’’ he said.

  ‘‘All right. I’ll not be making out the report till to-morrow. Let me know if there’s any change in your plans.”

  He had had his finger on the bell for some time. He looked white and rather savage.

  ‘‘Miss Grey, show this gentleman out. And see that he isn’t admitted again—under any circumstances.…”

  I went out and down, and out of the hotel and walked slowly up Park Lane. I’d done what I could now. It was up to him to capitulate or to call my bluff. I was relieved that I’d done what I could because now I could forget it. I was relieved to the depths that now I could concentrate on the only important thing on my mind. It nagged at me like a raw toothache that wouldn’t let me alone a minute of the day or night.