The Valentine Estate

by Stanley Ellin

  ‘Why right now?’ he said. ‘Why not later?’

  ‘Because it’s only four o’clock here, but it’s already nine in England. Look, Marty, you once told me you had big-shot contacts in London who’d be glad to show me around any time I was there. I don’t need them to show me around. I need them to get me some information inside the next six or seven hours. If you phone them now, they might be able to do it.’

  ‘Information about what?’

  ‘About a millionaire named Clive Valentine in England who died lately. Especially about any relatives or partners he might have put in his will.’

  ‘Why is he your business?’

  ‘That’s part of the favour. You’d have to do it without knowing why.’

  ‘Sonny, I got big news for you. I wouldn’t do a favour under such conditions for the Pope himself.’

  ‘Not even if he alibied you for the Zucker killing and got marked lousy from here to Jacksonville for it?’

  McClure smiled like a death’s head.

  ‘All you did was tell the truth,’ he said through the smile.

  ‘All I had to do was tell the cops what they wanted me to tell them, that I was too drunk to remember when we were belting the ball around that night, and I could have been Mayor of Miami Beach the next day.’

  The way McClure sat there looking at him with those bloodshot eyes, Chris knew, it was touch and go. Just a question of whether McClure would hire someone to teach him manners or do it himself. Then McClure pointed to the phone on the night table.

  ‘Get me the overseas operator,’ he said.

  Whoever his contacts were in London, they were quick and efficient. At ten o’clock, Chris was paged to the phone in the tennis shop. Luckily, Frenchy was out on the verandah holding court. Chris locked the door of the shop’s office behind him and then picked up the phone.

  ‘I got what I could,’ McClure told him. ‘One thing you’re wrong about to start with. He didn’t die lately. He died last May which is almost a year ago. And they didn’t find any will yet, but there was a note in his diary about making one out, so they’re still looking. Meanwhile, the estate’s being handled by Chancery, whatever the hell that is. Probably like the surrogate here.’

  ‘Were your people in London able to turn up any partners or relatives?’

  ‘Two partners he had a lot of trouble with. One lawyer, very legitimate. One girl friend.’

  ‘A girl friend?’ Chris tried to fit this in with the puritan image of Clive Valentine.

  ‘Yeah. Dame name of Katia Danska. She’s still living in his place out in the sticks somewhere. You got a pencil and paper handy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you can put down her address. The place is called Monkshood. It’s in Sunningdale, Berkshire County. The lawyer’s name is Simon Warburton. He’s got an office in Middle Temple Court in London. You wrote all that down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then one more little item. If you want to find this lawyer right now, try the Columbus Hotel over in Miami, because his office says that’s his forwarding address. And don’t tell me that’s any surprise to you either. Now what’s it all about? You looking for a cut of the Valentine dough?’

  ‘I’m doing this for a friend, Marty. Some day I’ll tell you the whole story. Meanwhile, I’m counting on you to keep what you know under your hat.’

  ‘Sure. If I feel like it.’

  ‘Marty, up to now I feel like sticking to what I told the cops about that night Zucker was killed. Want to keep it that way?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘We’ll keep it that way,’ McClure said at last, and put down the receiver with an almost inaudible click which was even more menacing than the ear-shattering bang Chris had been braced for.

  An hour later, Hilary showed up to report on her library research.

  ‘This Clive was a real mystery man,’ she said. ‘For all their chasing around, those nice librarians could only dig up two things about him. First that he was listed as owner of Valentine Enterprises, printers and publishers, in a British business directory five years ago. So then they looked up British publishers and found he was listed as Honourable Treasurer of The Valentine Society, but there was nothing about the Society except that it did publish books.’

  ‘No newspaper or magazine articles about him anywhere?’

  ‘Nowhere, nohow. Looks like any time a reporter knocked on the door and asked for Clive, he just turned the dogs loose. Sorry.’

  ‘No, you’ve done fine.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. How about paying me off with another ride tonight? Maybe down to Key West. It might give us a chance to meet some more policemen.’

  ‘I’d just as soon not take the chance right now. By the way, did you see Elizabeth this morning?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘How was her mood?’

  ‘You mean after catching us getting ready for the take-off last night? Pale and sullen. You’ll have an interesting lunch with her and Warburton. I told her you were the one who wanted us to go for that ride.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now don’t lose your sense of humour about it, Christopher dear. After all, if she’s starting to take this marriage bit seriously, it’s only a kindness to straighten her out right off, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not when I’m the one having lunch with her,’ said Chris.

  The main branch of the Miami Library was in Bayfront Park across the street from the Columbus Hotel, and he spent an hour there doing some research of his own before he entered the hotel.

  He found what he was looking for among the obituaries in the London Times for May 5th the year before, the notice of Clive Valentine’s death. And not far from it in a small box, a personal tribute to the deceased from his colleagues in T.V.S., Henry Gardenhire and Anton Teodorescu.

  Those initials, suggesting something to do with television, threw him for a moment, then he realized what they stood for. So if Valentine had been Honourable Treasurer of The Valentine Society, it seemed likely that Henry Gardenhire and Anton Teodorescu had been its more or less honourable board of directors.

  He entered the Columbus well-primed for the meeting with Warburton.

  8

  He phoned Warburton’s room from the lobby, and Warburton said a table had been reserved in the dining-room on the roof and that he’d be up there shortly. At the table Chris found Elizabeth. Considering her sunburn she could hardly be called pale, but she was certainly sullen.

  The view from the glassed-in roof took in most of Miami Beach across the bay. When Chris sat down opposite her, Elizabeth fixed her attention on this view.

  ‘Oh, knock it off,’ he said.

  She looked at him startled, then her face set again.

  ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘This is all getting complicated enough without your making it worse.’

  ‘I? Look, anyone who has an affair with Hilary finds out very soon –’

  ‘I’m talking about your affair with Clive Valentine’s estate. Wait a second. Did Hilary tell you we were having an affair?’

  ‘Yes.’ Elizabeth took in his broad grin with dawning realization, then smiled weakly herself. ‘Just the way she told you how I – that I found you very attractive. I don’t mind that now, as long as you know I didn’t intend her to pass the information along.’

  ‘I see. She sure is the competitive type, isn’t she? You name the game, and she’s out to beat you at it.’

  ‘It isn’t hard for her to do,’ Elizabeth said bitterly. ‘When you look like that –’

  ‘Miss Jones, did you ever think what you’d look like if you stopped drooping like a wilted lily and tried sitting tall in the saddle for a change?’

  Involuntarily, the girl sat up straight and squared her shoulders. Then her sunburn reddened a shade deeper.

  ‘If you so much resent my taking orders from Mr Prendergast,’ she said in a strained voice, ‘what makes you think –?’

  Her voice trailed off. Warburton was
standing there, beaming down on them.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said cheerfully, ‘not a sign of alcohol on the festive board. Clive would have approved of you two.’ He settled his girth comfortably in a chair. ‘What a splendid view from here. I did some of Miami on foot this morning. Amazingly Spanish sort of place, isn’t it? I believe I heard more Spanish than English on the streets.’

  ‘Refugees,’ Chris said. ‘Courtesy of Castro.’

  ‘That’s right, come to think of it. But let’s steer clear of politics, shall we? This little lunch was intended to be purely a social occasion, and politics are most definitely not on the menu. Besides, Elizabeth’s good fortune offers a much pleasanter subject.’

  ‘In some ways,’ Chris said.

  Warburton held up a hand in protest.

  ‘Young man, if you are now going to gloomily philosophize about how wealth corrupts –’

  ‘No,’ Chris said. ‘I’m going to be a lot less high-toned.’

  After he had described the episode of the little man in the hallway outside the girl’s room and the encounter with the police and their mysterious passenger on the beach, Warburton nodded soberly.

  ‘It would seem to be more than coincidence,’ he admitted.

  ‘A lot more. That’s why I took the trouble of digging up some stuff about Valentine you didn’t bother to mention yesterday. It’s not much, but it is enough to show you might be playing your cards a little too close to your vest.’

  ‘In what way?’ Warburton said, stiffly.

  ‘For one thing, since you still haven’t reported to the authorities that Valentine’s will has turned up –’

  ‘The will was unearthed only two weeks ago, Mr Monte. If submitted to Chancery at once, it would have invited difficulties for Elizabeth. This short delay settles them.’

  ‘I know all that. What I’m getting at is that you have the only copy of the will in existence. What if anything happened to you, and it disappeared?’

  ‘Small chance.’

  ‘Not with a million dollars at stake. Somebody paid that man to listen outside Elizabeth’s door yesterday, and somebody turned the police loose on me last night. I’ve got a feeling that whoever it is knows your business here. And that it’s someone who was close to Clive Valentine and believes he’d have a right to the estate if no will turns up. Or if Elizabeth and her husband didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Mr Monte, intuition is hardly –’

  ‘You warned about other claimants yesterday.’

  ‘Only the usual cranks and troublemakers.’

  ‘I see. Not people like Henry Gardenhire, Anton Teodorescu, and Katia Danska?’

  Warburton looked literally stunned. His jaw dropped. His eyes fixed wide and glassy on Chris. Then he recovered himself.

  ‘How did you learn about them?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Those are the people you were hinting about, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do all three have claims that might stand up in court if Elizabeth doesn’t get the estate?’

  Warburton shrugged. ‘The vital point is that they believe they do.’

  ‘Which,’ remarked Elizabeth, ‘is more than I believe about myself. I still find all of this highly unreal. Especially anybody with a name like Katia Danska.’

  ‘Oh, she’s very real, dear girl,’ Warburton said wryly. ‘Frighteningly so.’

  ‘You mean,’ Chris said, ‘that as Valentine’s girl friend, she figures she has the strongest claim on his estate?’

  The ghost of a smile showed on Warburton’s lips.

  ‘Katia could hardly be classified as anyone’s girl friend, Mr Monte. She is at least old enough to be your mother, perish the thought, and with all the charm of an aroused cobra. She and Clive loathed each other.’

  ‘Then what was their relationship?’

  ‘Much of the estate’s value lies in works of art. Several dozen fine canvases of the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist schools, ranging from early Monets to late Van Goghs. It was Katia who, over the years, acted as Clive’s adviser and agent in obtaining them. Unpaid adviser and agent, I should say. She once remarked to me in his presence that she could tolerate being exploited by him because eventually the pictures would be hers anyhow. He didn’t contradict this. Nor did he ever propose bequeathing them to a museum. What with one thing and another, by now she is convinced she has a valid claim to them.’

  ‘And Teodorescu and Gardenhire? I already know they belong to The Valentine Society, whatever that was.’

  ‘It was the plutocrat’s version of a book club. Clive had always been obsessed with the idea of producing the finest possible editions of his favourite books. Immediately after the war, he decided to undertake the project. He provided the presses and bindery and financing, Henry Gardenhire was art director in charge of designing the books, and Anton Teodorescu saw to it that they were offered to ardent bibliophiles around the world. Personalities aside, they made a splendid team. In the ten years following the war, The Valentine Society produced six books a year in editions of two hundred volumes each. They sold, believe it or not, for prices ranging between two and three hundred pounds.’

  ‘Each book?’ said Elizabeth incredulously.

  ‘Each individual, single book. Which, by simple arithmetic, meant an income for the Society of about three hundred thousand pounds a year. Even deducting the huge amounts that went for expenses, it left a staggering profit.’

  ‘But where could you sell books at such prices?’ Elizabeth said. ‘Who bought them?’

  ‘Wealthy and fanatic private collectors on every continent. I can’t name any because they invariably dealt through agents, and the only one who knew these agents was Teodorescu. He jealously kept their identities a secret from everyone. In a way, he was wise to do so. After all, his whole stock in trade was his list of clients. Clive was utterly ruthless. He would have heaved Teodorescu out of the Society in a minute if he could have got hold of that list, and Teodorescu was well aware of this. The Society’s charter was all in Clive’s favour. When the others demanded their share of profits, Clive pointed out that the Charter granted him, as treasurer, the sole right to handle its monies, and they could jolly well go whistle for anything they thought they had coming to them.’

  ‘Why didn’t they go to court?’ Chris asked. ‘Were those books pornographic?’

  Warburton’s stout, ruddy face creased with mirth.

  ‘No, Mr Monte, unless you consider works like The Pilgrim’s Progress or The Swiss Family Robinson pornographic. When you’re in England you two must see the book I wangled from Clive in part payment for my services to the Society. It’s a sixteenth century tract by John Knox titled Blasts of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women and is moral enough to make your teeth ache. But it is handprinted, hand-bound in tooled leather thick as a cushion, and absolutely one of the most magnificent examples of book manufacture you could ever lay eyes on. No, the reason Clive’s partners didn’t take him to court was simply that they didn’t have enough of a case.’

  ‘Do they now?’

  ‘With the will disposing of the estate, no.’ Warburton shook his head with conviction. ‘But I understand what you’re getting at. It’s whether Gardenhire or Teodorescu or Katia Danska could be capable of trying to prevent the will from entering probate. Or, once it is, of trying to keep Elizabeth from claiming the estate.’

  ‘Even more specifically,’ Chris said, ‘I’m wondering if any of those three were behind that snooper yesterday or the cops last night.’

  Warburton thought that over.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘when it comes to dirty work I’d have to rule out Gardenhire. He’s violently emotional, but really rather a decent sort.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘They’re a proper pair of hyenas, I’m sorry to say. Teodorescu especially. The story about him goes that when he was still a Rumanian national during the heyday of the Nazi régime he catered to Nazi book collector
s just as other agents catered to art collectors like Hermann Goering. The details of how he laid his hands on certain rare books makes a really revolting narrative. Clive closed his eyes to this, but he never forgot for a moment that Teodorescu was the most dangerous sort of associate. He felt much the same way about Katia. I think that’s why he kept his will a secret even from me. And why it’s imperative to settle it as quickly as possible. Anyhow, under its time limit we have only a few weeks left for that. It’ll be a close call at best.’

  ‘Very close,’ said Chris. ‘So close it makes me wonder about something else.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Whether you really turned up the will a couple of weeks ago, or had it locked away since Valentine’s death last year and only took it out after you located Elizabeth.’

  Warburton’s face seemed to freeze over.

  ‘That is not for you to wonder about, Mr Monte. Your only concern is to arrange for a prompt marriage and a passport to England.’ He cut the subject short by burying himself behind his menu. ‘Now what about lunch? I’m famished.’

  From the way he had dodged the question, Chris conjectured, it was highly likely the man had been in possession of the will from the time it was drafted and had kept it out of sight until he had managed to track down Elizabeth and turn the prize over to her. In which case, Warburton really had something to worry about aside from the way he had cut legal corners. If Katia and Teodorescu, that dangerous team, knew what he had done – or even suspected it – they’d have a fat score to settle with him.

  It was a silent, uncomfortable lunch. When it was over and they were at the elevator, Warburton said to Chris, ‘One thing. Proof of identity will be necessary when I submit the documents to Chancery, and your being adopted and all that enters the question. Make sure I have a copy of your birth certificate and adoption papers to take back with me. You have such records, I trust.’

  ‘I have. And a passport.’