by Bob Cook
“Yes,” Beauchamp said. “More than I know about Chinese pottery, in fact.”
“There is a grandfather clock in my husband’s study. I know nothing about it. Would you mind…”
“I’d be delighted,” Beauchamp grinned.
“It was my father-in-law’s,” she said, as she led Beauchamp into the study. “I know it’s English, but that’s all.”
Beauchamp took a long appreciative stare at the clock, like a gourmet drinking in the sight of a sumptuous haute cuisine dish.
“Gorgeous,” he said quietly. “Quite—gorgeous.”
“What do you know about it?”
Beauchamp examined the movement, and took a look inside. It was in perfect condition.
“This,” he said finally, “is a walnut longcase clock made by a Manchester firm called Thomas Bolton. It was made in 1790, or thereabouts. I would hesitate to value it…”
For the first time, Beauchamp saw a flicker of life in Mrs Lemiers’ eyes.
“A rough guess,” she suggested.
“Four thousand pounds sterling? Probably more. You see, it’s a year or two since I dealt in these things, and prices have soared recently. But it’s a fabulous piece, and you must have it properly valued at once. The chances are you’ve under-insured it.”
“I think you’re right,” Mrs Lemiers nodded. “Thank you very much.”
“Thank you,” Beauchamp said. “You’ve no idea how much pleasure I get from seeing these things.”
Mrs Lemiers gazed thoughtfully at her husband’s desk.
“I wish I could help you with your search,” she said. “You’ve come all this way.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Beauchamp said.
“The police took away all my husband’s papers. They’ve sent most of them back, and the rest should be returned next week. Apparently they contain nothing of interest to them, but you’re welcome to look at what there is.”
She opened the desk drawer and took out several packets of papers which were tied together with string.
“The main order-books are at the company office in Rotterdam. These are various single orders sent in by clients for chemicals.”
Beauchamp glanced through them and shook his head. “Means nothing to me,” he admitted. “Did your husband keep a diary, by any chance?”
“Of course,” Mrs Lemiers said. “Here.”
He looked through the most recent entries, most of which were terse little reminders, such as “Antwerp GTM, 11.30” and “HD Lyons—100 tons H2SO4”. There were some names and phone numbers, as well, but not those of Carter or anybody else whom Beauchamp was interested in. Nor was there any evidence of a shipment from Naples to England, or anywhere else.
“These notes,” Beauchamp said, “I take it they were made during phone calls.”
“Yes,” Mrs Lemiers nodded. “They’re mostly appointments. The rest are orders.”
“The orders normally came by phone?”
“Yes, and they’d send written confirmation by post.”
“The system worked well, I suppose?”
“Usually,” Mrs Lemiers said. “There was a difficult period several months ago with some bad payers. The bank grew nervous, but Pieter managed to sort it out.”
“Cash flow,” Beauchamp said understandingly. “I know the problem well.”
He took another look at the order forms and said, “Presumably, each of the firms in the diary can be identified by looking at the orders. For example, this ‘HD Lyons’ would be Herschel Daumier S.A. of Lyons, and so on.”
“I guess so,” Mrs Lemiers said.
Beauchamp put the papers down.
“I wonder if I could ask a favour of you?” he said. “I’m practically convinced that your husband isn’t the Lemiers I’m looking for. There seems to be nothing to connect him with my friend. But if I had enough time, I could make quite sure, by looking through this diary and working out where he was on certain dates.”
Mrs Lemiers pointed to an armchair.
“Take as long as you want,” she said. “You won’t be disturbing me.”
“That’s awfully kind,” Beauchamp said. “But it would be a lot easier if I took photocopies of the diary and these orders, and went through them in my own time. I know that business documents are supposed to be confidential, but I promise you I wouldn’t—”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she interrupted. “Copy as much as you want.”
She opened a filing cabinet and took out a small domestic photocopier.
“My gosh,” Beauchamp exclaimed. “That’s jolly handy.”
“My husband was very efficient,” she said simply. “Since he died, I’ve been wondering if he wasn’t perhaps a little too efficient for his own good.”
“What do you mean?”
She plugged in the photocopier, loaded it with paper, and then looked Beauchamp in the face.
“You say he dealt in arms—”
“I don’t know,” Beauchamp said hastily. “And I now doubt—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Somebody had a reason for killing him. It may have been a burglar, of course. But it wouldn’t surprise me if it had something to do with his business.”
She took one of the orders and tested the photocopier. It worked.
“I don’t think Pieter was a bad man,” she said thoughtfully. “But he wasn’t totally honest with me. Don’t misunderstand, Mr Beauchamp: I’m not angry with him. It’s too late for that, anyway, and Pieter gave me little to complain about. We had no children, but there’s money and security and…”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Beauchamp said, and he meant it.
“I’m just trying to say that I don’t know everything about Pieter’s business life, and it’s quite possible that—Anyway, see what you can find.”
“Thank you,” Beauchamp said, and he began to work through the papers. Mrs Lemiers moved towards the door, and then stopped.
“If you like…” she said hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“I mean, if you have time, you could stay for dinner. It’s—nice to talk.”
Beauchamp looked at his watch. The next flight home was in two hours, but there would be others.
“Thank you,” he smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
Chapter Twenty-six
THE LAIRD DRANK THE LAST of his grappa and asked the waiter for the bill. It had been a pleasant meal, made doubly enjoyable by the article in the Telegraph, which the Laird must have re-read at least fifty times.
Of course, the Laird understood that this was a piece of KGB trouble-making: someone in Moscow was merely capitalising on the British government’s discomfiture over the Ogden memoirs. The man in the photograph was probably not the real Akhmatov, and the whole thing was almost certainly the work of some cold-blooded bureaucrat in the disinformation department.
But there was a small chance that a retired Soviet spy—a mischievous old codger like Ogden—had understood the point of the hoax and decided to play along, just for the fun of it. The Laird fervently hoped so, and he wished the fellow well.
But not everything was going smoothly, and the Laird was uncomfortably aware of the fact. The meeting with Captain Salvucci that morning had left him feeling baffled and frustrated. What did it all mean? Carter had been diddled—by Lemiers, presumably. But how? How could Lemiers have persuaded Carter that he was a genuine arms dealer? Carter must have found someone who could vouch for the Dutchman—but whom? As Blake had said, nobody in the arms trade had ever heard of Lemiers.
Furthermore, Carter had definitely expected the arms to arrive in Southampton. But according to the captain, Carter had arranged the shipment to Turkey over the phone. This was the most inexplicable part of the whole story. If Carter had sent the ship to Turkey, how could he possibly have been surprised when it failed to appear in Southampton? But if Carter was supposed to be sending arms to an American client, why did he ship them to Turkey? The Laird could only conclude that Carte
r had somehow swindled himself, but he accepted that this was not a terribly satisfactory explanation.
And what of the Dutchman? It was strange that the captain had never mentioned Lemiers, since according to Blake it was he, and not Carter, who was supposed to have organised the shipment. But according to Captain Salvucci, his only dealings had been with Carter.
Of course, the Laird reflected, the captain had never actually said that. He had simply failed to mention Lemiers at all.
“Damn and blast,” the Laird muttered. “I suppose I should have raised it with him.”
He glanced at his watch. It was eleven-thirty—a little late to disturb the captain, who was probably taking an early night. But this was the Laird’s last opportunity to speak to the man. After tonight, Salvucci could be away for weeks—months, possibly. And the captain had given the Laird his hotel address…
“Sod it,” the Laird decided. “I’ll pay him a visit. If he gets upset, I’ll just buy the man a drink.”
He paid his bill and left the restaurant. A passer-by gave him the directions for the Borgo dei Cappuccini, and ten minutes later he was standing in the reception of the Hotel San Marino. There was nobody at the desk, but he could hear sounds coming from a nearby room. He tapped on the door, and found the proprietor and his wife watching a television programme.
“Hello,” said the Laird. “Do you speak English, by any chance?”
The man nodded.
“No rooms,” he said. “All full.”
“Don’t want a room,” the Laird said. “I’m looking for someone who’s staying here. A Captain Salvucci.”
“Yes, he is here. But he is asleep. Not to disturb.”
“That’s all right,” the Laird coughed. “He’s—em—he’s expecting me.”
The proprietor grunted sceptically and tapped his wrist-watch.
“Late,” he said.
“He won’t mind,” the Laird persisted. “It’s quite important, see? Molto importante.”
The proprietor exchanged glances with his wife, and sighed in resignation.
“Okay,” he said. “Come with me.”
They went up to the third floor, and the proprietor tapped on the captain’s door. There was no reply.
“Sleeping,” the proprietor observed.
The Laird rapped hard on the door, but there was still no response.
“Maybe he take pill to sleep,” the proprietor suggested.
“Wouldn’t have thought so,” the Laird said. “Those things give you a fuzzy head in the morning, and Salvucci’s got a ship to run.”
He knocked even harder on the door, but to no avail. The proprietor began to look worried.
“I get key,” he muttered. “Wait here.”
“All right,” the Laird nodded, and he took out his pipe. A minute later, the proprietor was back with the spare key. He opened the door, and turned on the light. Nothing happened. The proprietor went inside, and cursed as he stumbled into something. Then he found the bedside lamp, and switched it on.
“Porcodio!” he exclaimed.
“Christ Almighty,” the Laird breathed, and he dropped his pipe on the floor.
The main light had failed to work because the bulb had been removed from it. Its cord now served as a noose, from which the unfortunate Captain Salvucci was swinging over the middle of the room.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” Stringer muttered.
He was reading the transcript of a telephone-tap he had requested some weeks before. It was not a particularly urgent tap, and Stringer had been busy of late, so this was his first opportunity to give the transcript a thorough perusal. He was perplexed by what he read.
The tap had been placed on the phone of a man called Blake, in whom Stringer’s department was interested. Sure enough, the opening pages of the transcript consisted of phone calls to and from Mr Blake. But at a certain point, Mr Blake no longer used his own phone, and his voice was replaced by that of someone called Sharon.
Apart from this sudden alteration to the personae dramatis, there was a marked change in the subject matter of the phone calls. Mr Blake’s conversations had been largely concerned with his illness, and consisted of complaints, hospital appointments, and requests for renewed prescriptions.
But most of Sharon’s calls were about a very different subject. It seemed that Sharon was something of a sexual athlete, who distributed her favours among a large crowd of admirers. As one of the phone tappers had noted in an excited marginal comment, “24 of them!!! Where does she get the juice?”
Sharon’s stamina was matched by a taste for the esoteric. She and her friends apparently spent a substantial part of their incomes on various Scandinavian appliances whose merits and demerits they discussed in mind-boggling detail. And apart from this mail-order exotica, Sharon had discovered some fascinating new uses for such mundane domestic items as pepper-pots, cheese-graters and marmalade.
After recovering from the initial shock caused by Sharon’s lurid conversations, Stringer tried to establish who she was. At first he assumed that she was Blake’s daughter, or some other relation, but a quick inspection of Blake’s file ruled this out.
Blake’s daughter was called Annabel, and she lived in Scotland. He had a niece called Janet, who lived abroad. His ex-wife was called Patricia, and she lived in Newcastle. Sharon was not a member of the Blake clan.
It then occurred to Stringer that Sharon was probably a nurse or home-help. But if so, would Blake permit her to make such extraordinary calls, and so many of them, on his phone? It seemed unlikely. Besides, there was no indication in Blake’s original calls that anyone called Sharon was about to move into his home.
The one remaining possibility was that Blake had gone away, and that Sharon was some sort of holiday tenant or house-minder. This would certainly explain why Sharon never referred to Blake in her calls, or even alluded to him. But this too seemed improbable. Once again, Blake’s calls gave no indication that he was about to leave home, and there was no mention of any future tenant.
In short, Sharon was a complete mystery. Stringer phoned the tapping centre, and asked to speak to Kevin, who was responsible for this particular piece of surveillance.
“Hello?” Kevin said.
“This is Stringer, in Curzon Street. Are you the man in charge of the Blake tap?”
“That’s me.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Stringer demanded. “I asked for a transcript, not a pornographic novel.”
Stringer could make out a muffled snigger at the other end of the line.
“Not my fault, guv,” Kevin said. “What you’ve got is what we heard.”
“I know that,” Stringer said. “I’m not accusing you of making it up—”
“I couldn’t, guv,” Kevin giggled. “I doubt if anyone could.”
“I’m just saying there’s been some kind of mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
Stringer took a deep breath.
“Look,” he said patiently, “we asked for a tap on a guy called Blake, right?”
“Right.”
“And we got one—until page twelve. Then Blake disappears, and we get some nymphomaniac called Sharon instead.”
“What about it?”
“Well, didn’t it occur to you that Sharon’s on another line? That you’ve been tapping the wrong phone?”
There was a pause, and Kevin said, “No, guv. To tell the truth, it didn’t.”
Stringer’s eyeballs rolled upwards in exasperation.
“It does occur to me, Kevin,” he said heavily. “And it occurs to me that there’s been a cock-up.”
“You think so?” Kevin said. “I can’t see how, myself. We got the right phone, didn’t we? That’s Blake at the beginning of the sheet. Now nobody’s moved the tap—”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Kevin snorted. “That exchange is in the middle of nowhere, guv. Since we fitted the tap,
none of our people’s been round there. We’ve never done a job there before, and we’ll probably never do one again.”
“Perhaps it was one of the exchange staff,” Stringer suggested, “tinkering round with the wires.”
“Seems unlikely,” Kevin said. “The line was given the standard red fuse, meaning ‘do not touch’. And if they did tamper with it, they’d have disconnected it, not transferred it somewhere else.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Course I am. And I can tell you, guv, nothing like that’s ever happened before.”
Stringer paused for thought. Kevin was clearly an oaf, but he presumably knew his business. And Stringer, too, had never heard of such a case before. But the tap had better be checked, just in case.
“I’m sorry, Kevin, but you’ll just have to go back and look in the exchange—”
“Oh, leave it out, guv,” Kevin groaned.
“Kevin…”
“Have you any idea how busy we are? We’re overloaded with orders, guv, and we can’t handle what we’ve got. I can’t afford to send a man on a trip down to Kent just for one inspection.”
“Please, Kevin.”
“I tell you what,” Kevin said, “day after tomorrow, we’ve got a bloke going to Folkestone. If you can hang on ’til then…”
“All right,” Stringer conceded. “But I want to hear immediately, understand? The minute he knows.”
“Yeah, guv. Will do.”
“Thanks,” Stringer said.
“But I can tell you now,” Kevin added, “there’s nothing wrong.”
“Let’s see, shall we?”
“Yeah. But I bet there’s a really simple answer to all this. One you’ve never thought of.”
“Really,” Stringer said drily. “Any suggestions?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Kevin said. “Me and the lads have been giving it some thought, and…”
“Go on.”
“Well, we think Blake’s had a sex-change operation.”
“What?”
“A sex-change,” Kevin repeated, “and he’s now called Sharon—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake…”
