As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Well, yes,” began Charlie, “but—”

  “Stolen from you when my wife and I made a trip to see the Silver Jubilee. So consider me at your service, sir.”

  The two detectives were now smiling.

  That night Becky and Charlie joined the Bloomingdales at their brownstone house on Sixty-first and Madison for dinner, and John Bloomingdale answered all Charlie’s many questions until the early hours.

  The following day Charlie was given an official tour of “my little store” by its owner while Patty Bloomingdale introduced Becky to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick, pumping her with endless questions about Mrs. Simpson, to which Becky was unable to offer any answers as she had never heard of the lady before they’d set foot in America.

  The Trumpers were sorry to say goodbye to the Bloomingdales before they continued their journey on to Chicago by train, where they had been booked into the Stevens. On their arrival in the windy city they found their room had been upgraded to a suite and Mr. Joseph Field, of Marshall Field, had left a handwritten note expressing the hope that they would be able to join him and his wife for a meal the following evening.

  Over dinner in the Fields’ home on Lake Shore Drive, Charlie reminded Mr. Field of his advertisement describing his store as one of the biggest in the world, and warned him that Chelsea Terrace was seven feet longer.

  “Ah, but will they let you build on twenty-one floors, Mr. Trumper?”

  “Twenty-two,” countered Charlie, without the slightest idea of what the London County Council was likely to permit.

  The next day Charlie added to his growing knowledge of a major store by seeing Marshall Field’s from the inside. He particularly admired the way the staff appeared to work as a team, all the girls dressed in smart green outfits with a gold “MF” on their lapels and all the floor walkers in gray suits, while the managers wore dark blue double-breasted blazers.

  “Makes it easy for customers to spot a member of my staff when they’re in need of someone to help them, especially when the store becomes overcrowded,” explained Mr. Field.

  While Charlie became engrossed in the workings of Marshall Field, Becky spent countless hours at the Chicago Art Institute, and came away particularly admiring the works of Wyeth and Remington, whom she felt should be given exhibitions in London. She was to return to England with one example of each artist tucked into newly acquired suitcases, but the British public never saw either the oil or the sculpture until years later, because once they had been unpacked Charlie wouldn’t let them out of the house.

  By the end of the month they were both exhausted, and sure of only one thing: they wanted to return to America again and again, though they feared they could never match the hospitality they had received, should either the Fields or the Bloomingdales ever decide to turn up in Chelsea Terrace. However, Joseph Field requested a small favor of Charlie, which he promised he would deal with personally the moment he got back to London.

  The rumors of the King’s affair with Mrs. Simpson that Charlie had seen chronicled in such detail by the American press were now beginning to reach the ears of the English, and Charlie was saddened when the King finally felt it necessary to announce his abdication. The unexpected responsibility was suddenly placed on the unprepared shoulders of the Duke of York, who became King George VI.

  The other piece of news that Charlie followed on the front pages was the rise to power of Adolf Hitler in Nazi Germany. He could never understand why the Prime Minister, Mr. Chamberlain, didn’t use a little street sense and give the man a good thump on the nose.

  “Neville Chamberlain’s not a barrow boy from the East End,” Becky explained to her husband over breakfast. “He’s the Prime Minister.”

  “More’s the pity,” said Charlie. “Because that’s exactly what would happen to Herr Hitler if he ever dared show his face in Whitechapel.”

  Tom Arnold didn’t have a great deal to report to Charlie on his return, but he quickly became aware of the effect that the visit to America had had on his chairman, by the ceaseless rat-tat-tat of orders and ideas that came flying at him from all directions during the days that followed.

  “The Shops Committee,” Arnold warned the chairman at their Monday morning meeting, after Charlie had finished extolling the virtues of America yet again, “is now talking seriously of the effect a war with Germany might have on business.”

  “That lot would,” said Charlie, taking a seat behind his desk. “Appeasers to a man. In any case, Germany won’t declare war on any of Britain’s allies—they wouldn’t dare. After all, they can’t have forgotten the hiding we gave them last time. So what other problems are we facing?”

  “At a more mundane level,” replied Tom from the other side of the desk, “I still haven’t found the right person to manage the jewelry shop since Jack Slade’s retirement.”

  “Then start advertising in the trade magazines and let me see anyone who appears suitable. Anything else?”

  “Yes, a Mr. Ben Schubert has been asking to see you.”

  “And what does he want?”

  “He’s a Jewish refugee from Germany, but he refused to say why he needed to see you.”

  “Then make an appointment for him when he gets back in touch with you.”

  “But he’s sitting in the waiting room outside your office right now.”

  “In the waiting room?” said Charlie in disbelief.

  “Yes. He turns up every morning and just sits there in silence.”

  “But didn’t you explain to him I was in America?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Tom. “But it didn’t seem to make a blind bit of difference.”

  “Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe,” murmured Charlie. “Show the man in.”

  A small, bent, tired-looking figure whom Charlie suspected was not much older than himself entered the office and waited to be offered a seat. Charlie rose from behind his desk and ushered his visitor into an armchair near the fireplace before asking him how he could help.

  Mr. Schubert spent some time explaining to Charlie how he had escaped from Hamburg with his wife and two daughters, after so many of his friends had been sent off to concentration camps, never to be heard of again.

  Charlie listened to Mr. Schubert’s account of his experiences at the hands of the Nazis without uttering a word. The man’s escape and his description of what was taking place in Germany could have come straight off the pages of a John Buchan novel and was far more vivid than any newspaper report of recent months.

  “How can I help?” asked Charlie when Mr. Schubert appeared to have finished his sad tale.

  The refugee smiled for the first time, revealing two gold teeth. He picked up the little briefcase by his side, placed it on Charlie’s desk and then slowly opened it. Charlie stared down at the finest array of stones he had ever seen, diamonds and amethysts, some of them in the most magnificent settings. His visitor then removed what turned out to be nothing more than a thin tray to reveal loose stones, more rubies, topaz, diamonds, pearls and jade filling every inch of the deep box.

  “They are but a tiny sample of what I had to leave behind, in a business that was built up by my father and his father before him. Now I must sell everything that is left to be sure that my family doesn’t starve.”

  “You were in the jewelry business?”

  “Twenty-six years,” replied Mr. Schubert. “Man and boy.”

  “And how much are you hoping to get for this lot?” Charlie pointed to the open case.

  “Three thousand pounds,” Mr. Schubert said without hesitation. “That is far less than they are worth, but I am no longer left with the time or the will to bargain.”

  Charlie pulled open the drawer by his right hand, removed a checkbook and wrote out the words “Pay Mr. Schubert three thousand pounds.” He pushed it across the desk.

  “But you have not checked their value,” said Mr. Schubert.

  “Not necessary,” said Charlie, as he rose from his chair. “Becaus
e you’re going to sell them as the new manager of my jewelry shop. Which also means that you’ll have to explain to me personally if they don’t fetch the price you claim they are worth. Once you’ve repaid the advance, then we’ll discuss your commission.”

  A smile came over Mr. Schubert’s face. “They teach you well in the East End, Mr. Trumper.”

  “There are a lot of you down there to keep us on our toes,” replied Charlie with a grin. “And don’t forget, my father-in-law was one.”

  Ben Schubert stood up and hugged his new boss.

  What Charlie hadn’t anticipated was just how many Jewish refugees would find their way to Trumper’s the Jeweler, closing deals with Mr. Schubert that ensured Charlie never had to worry about the jewelry side of his business again.

  It must have been about a week later that Tom Arnold entered the chairman’s office without knocking. Charlie could see what an agitated state his managing director was in so he simply asked, “What’s the problem, Tom?”

  “Shoplifting.”

  “Where?”

  “Number 133—women’s clothes.”

  “What’s been stolen?”

  “Two pairs of shoes and a skirt.”

  “Then follow the standard procedure as laid down in company regulations. First thing you do is call in the police.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Of course it’s that easy. A thief is a thief.”

  “But she’s claiming—”

  “That her mother is ninety and dying of cancer, not to mention the fact that her children are all crippled?”

  “No, that she’s your sister.”

  Charlie rocked back in his chair, paused for a moment and then sighed heavily. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing yet. I told the manager to hold on to her while I had a word with you.”

  “Then let’s get on with it,” said Charlie. He rose from behind his desk and began to march towards the door.

  Neither man spoke again until they had reached Number 133, where an agitated manager was waiting for them by the front door.

  “Sorry, Chairman,” were Jim Grey’s opening words.

  “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, Jim,” said Charlie as he was led through to the back room where they found Kitty sitting at a table, compact in hand, checking her lipstick in a hand mirror.

  The moment she saw Charlie she clicked the compact lid closed and dropped it into her bag. On the table in front of her lay two pairs of fashionable leather shoes and a purple pleated skirt. Kitty clearly still liked the best, as her selection was all from the top price range. She smiled up at her brother. The lipstick didn’t help.

  “Now that the big boss himself has arrived you’ll find out exactly who I am,” said Kitty, glaring at Jim Grey.

  “You’re a thief,” said Charlie. “That’s what you are.”

  “Come on, Charlie, you can afford it.” Her voice showed no sign of remorse.

  “That’s not the point, Kitty. If I—”

  “If you put me up in front of the beak claimin’ I’m a tea leaf the press’ll ’ave a field day. You wouldn’t dare ’ave me arrested, Charlie, and you know it.”

  “Not this time, perhaps,” said Charlie, “but it’s the last occasion, that I promise you.” He turned to the manager and added, “If this lady ever tries to leave again without paying for something, call in the police and see that she is charged without any reference to me. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Grey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. Don’t worry yourself, Charlie, I won’t be botherin’ you again.”

  Charlie looked unconvinced.

  “You see, I’m off to Canada next week where it seems there’s at least one member of our family who actually cares about what happens to me.”

  Charlie was about to protest when Kitty picked up the skirt and both pairs of shoes and dropped them in the bag. She walked straight past the three men.

  “Just a moment,” said Tom Arnold.

  “Bugger off,” said Kitty over her shoulder as she marched through the shop.

  Tom turned towards the chairman, who stood and watched his sister as she stepped out onto the pavement without even looking back.

  “Don’t bother yourself, Tom. It’s cheap at the price.”

  On 30 September 1938 the Prime Minister returned from Munich where he had been in talks with the German Chancellor. Charlie remained unconvinced by the “peace in our time, peace with honor” document that Chamberlain kept waving in front of the cameras, because after listening to Ben Schubert’s firsthand description of what was taking place in the Third Reich, he had become convinced that war with Germany was inevitable. Introducing conscription for those over twenty had already been debated in Parliament, and with Daniel in his last year at St. Paul’s waiting to sit his university entrance papers, Charlie couldn’t bear the thought of losing a son to another war with the Germans. When a few weeks later Daniel was awarded a scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge, it only added to his fears.

  Hitler marched into Poland on 1 September 1939, and Charlie realized that Ben Schubert’s stories had not been exaggerated. Two days later Britain was at war.

  For the first few weeks after the declaration of hostilities there was a lull, almost an anticlimax, and if it hadn’t been for the increased number of men in uniforms marching up and down Chelsea Terrace and a drop in sales Charlie might have been forgiven for not realizing Britain was engaged in a war at all.

  During this time only the restaurant came up for sale. Charlie offered Mr. Scallini a fair price, which he accepted without question before fleeing back to his native Florence. He was luckier than some, who were interned for no more reason than that they possessed a German or an Italian name. Charlie immediately locked up the restaurant because he wasn’t sure what he could do with the premises—eating out was hardly a top priority for Londoners in 1940. Once the Scallini lease had been transferred only the antiquarian bookshop and the syndicate chaired by Mr. Wrexall still remained in other traders’ hands; but the significance of Mrs. Trentham’s large block of unoccupied flats became more obvious for all to see as each day went by.

  On 7 September 1940 the false lull ended when the Luftwaffe carried out its mass raid on the capital. After that Londoners started to emigrate to the country in droves. Charlie still refused to budge, and even ordered that “Business as Usual” signs be placed in every one of his shop windows. In fact, the only concessions he made to Herr Hitler were to move his bedroom to the basement and have all the curtains changed to black drape.

  Two months later, in the middle of the night, Charlie was woken by a duty constable to be told that the first bomb had fallen on Chelsea Terrace. He ran all the way from the Little Boltons down Tregunter Road in his dressing gown and slippers to inspect the damage.

  “Anyone killed?” he asked while on the move.

  “Not that we know of,” replied the constable, trying to keep up with him.

  “Which shop did the bomb land on?”

  “Can’t tell you the answer to that, Mr. Trumper. All I know is that it looks as if the whole of Chelsea Terrace is on fire.”

  As Charlie turned the corner of Fulham Road he was confronted by bright flames and dark smoke soaring up into the sky. The bomb had landed right in the middle of Mrs. Trentham’s flats, completely demolishing them, while at the same time shattering three of Charlie’s shop windows and badly damaging the roof of hats and scarves.

  By the time the fire brigade finally departed from the Terrace all that was left of the flats was a gray, smoldering bombed-out shell, right in the middle of the block. As the weeks passed, Charlie became only too aware of the obvious—Mrs. Trentham had no intention of doing anything about the heap of rubble that now dominated the center of Chelsea Terrace.

  In May 1940 Mr. Churchill took over from Mr. Chamberlain as Prime Minister, which gave Charlie a little more confidence about the future. He even talked to Be
cky of joining up again.

  “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” asked his wife, laughing.

  “I could get fit again, I know I could,” said Charlie, pulling in his stomach. “In any case they don’t only need troops for the front line.”

  “You can do a far more worthwhile job by keeping those shops open and stocked up for the general public.”

  “Arnold could do that just as well as me,” said Charlie. “What’s more, he’s fifteen years older than I am.”

  However, Charlie reluctantly came to the conclusion that Becky was right when Daphne came round to tell them that Percy had rejoined his old regiment. “Thank God they’ve told him he’s too old to serve abroad this time,” she confided in them. “So he’s landed a desk job at the War Office.”

  The following afternoon, while Charlie was carrying out an inspection of repairs after another night of bombing, Tom Arnold warned him that Syd Wrexall’s committee had begun to make noises about selling the remaining eleven of their shops, as well as the Musketeer itself.

  “There’s no hurry to do anything about them,” said Charlie. “He’ll be giving those shops away within a year.”

  “But by then Mrs. Trentham could have bought them all at a knockdown price.”

  “Not while there’s a war on, she won’t. In any case, the damned woman knows only too well that I can’t do a lot while that bloody great crater remains in the middle of Chelsea Terrace.”

  “Oh, hell,” said Tom as the Klaxon whine of the siren started up. “They must be on their way again.”

  “They certainly are,” said Charlie, as he looked towards the sky. “You’d better get all the staff into the basement—sharpish.” Charlie ran out onto the street, to find an Air Raid Patrol man cycling down the middle of the road, shouting instructions that everyone should head for the nearest Underground as quickly as possible. Tom Arnold had trained his managers to lock up the shops and have all the staff and customers safely in the basement with their torches and a small supply of food within five minutes. It always put Charlie in mind of the general strike. As they sat in the large storeroom under Number 1 waiting for the all-clear, Charlie looked around the gathering of his fellow Londoners and became aware of just how many of his best young men had already left Trumper’s to join up; he was now down to fewer than two-thirds of his permanent staff, the majority of whom were women.