Invited to offer an alternative explanation of events, Postgate just shook his head and repeated, "No, it beats me. Beats me. All I know is that young Chris here doesn't have a dishonest bone in him. Now, what can I do to help?"
Change your story, thought Joe. Though it was probably too late for even that to help.
He said, "Could you explain exactly what happened?"
"I was sitting in my chair here, reading my evening paper, when there was a splash, and when I looked into the pool I saw a ball. Fished it out and recognized it as one of Chris's. No surprise there."
"You weren't surprised?" said Joe, puzzled.
"No! Takes a big hitter and Chris is one of the longest hitters in the club. It's a carry of at least three hundred yards. Even though it was well off line, I thought Chris would be quite chuffed to hear he'd got that distance when I tossed the ball back to him in the clubhouse. If I'd known the bother it was going to cause, I'd have kept my mouth shut!"
Joe studied the pool then looked up at the trees towering high around the level lawns of the garden. He turned to Porphyry, who was enjoying his lemonade as if he hadn't a care in the world, and said, "Thought you heard your ball clattering among the trees?"
"Yes, I did."
"You hear that?" he asked Postgate.
"No, but I'm a little deaf these days," said the man cheerfully. "OK up to a dozen or so yards, but after that it's the silent land."
There seemed little else to learn here and Joe was beginning to find his host's cheery demeanor and his client's hopeful gaze equally oppressive.
"I'm done here," he said, adding without any great conviction, "for now."
They took their leave of Postgate and headed round the front of the house. Joe was quite lost by now but Porphyry told him they were walking back toward the clubhouse up the third fairway. Then he added, "So, Joe, now you know as much about the business as I know, what do you think?"
I think you're in freefall, mate, and the only way you're going to stop is when you hit the ground, thought Joe.
"I'm pondering it," he said. "Ponder first, speak last, that's my rule."
The truth was that, despite his earlier resolution that just coming out here and seeing how the other one percent lived had earned him the money in his back pocket, he was beginning to feel bad about it again. There was nothing he could even pretend to be doing. It wasn't a question of Porphyry's guilt or innocence, though the notion had crept into his mind that maybe when it came to golf the guy was so focused on winning that it blinded him to the truth of his own behavior. Games could do this to people. Joe's taxi-driving buddy, Merv Golightly, was a case in point. A lovely guy, loyal in friendship, generous and kind in nature, a total sweetie-till you came up against him competitively, that was. Then he couldn't lose. He would cheat his young nephew at snap. Snooker balls rearranged themselves to give him an easier pot. Needing a double to win at darts, he would follow his arrow to the board and pluck it out with a cry of triumph before you could see for sure which side of the wire it had clipped. And if challenged, his protestations of innocence were so clearly genuine that Joe had long since concluded he really believed them.
No, the trouble was Joe couldn't see anywhere else to go, even to pretend he was doing something. Time to break away. The only question was, how much of the two hundred did he feel he could legitimately take with him.
"You earned any of it, Joseph?" he could hear Aunt Mirabelle asking.
"Not exactly."
"Then you give it all back, boy," she said sternly. "You know I'm right."
The Bermuda Triangle were still sitting on the terrace. As they passed their table, Latimer waved a glass and called, "Chris, why don't you and Joe join us?"
Not waiting for Porphyry to reply, Joe said, "Look, I need to get back to town. Got an urgent appointment, running late already."
"Pity," said Porphyry. "Thanks anyway, Tom. Oh, Colin… something I had to tell you… what was it? Sorry… a bit distracted lately…"
Impatient to be away, Joe chipped in. "Wasn't it about some worker who's gone missing? Waring or something?"
"Well remembered, Joe," said Porphyry, regarding him proudly. "Only here two minutes and you know more about things than I do. Colin. I've just been talking to Davie. He reckons Steve Waring's bilked his landlady and done a runner. Can't believe it of the lad myself, but Davie's really keen to get a replacement."
"OK, I'll give him the go-ahead, though where we'll get someone any good in the middle of the summer, heaven knows," said Rowe.
"Bye, Joe," said Latimer. "Don't forget that game you've promised us."
"You bet I won't. Keep listening for them butterflies, boys," said Joe, light-hearted at the thought that this was probably the last time he'd see the Triangle.
His attempt at a golfing joke produced only polite smiles, but what the shoot did he care? He was out of here. But he soon found his sense of finality wasn't shared.
As they made their way toward the car park, Porphyry said, "Sorry you have to go, Joe. Hoped you'd stay for a spot of lunch. But Willie warned me you were in great demand. So, what's our next move?"
His tone held nothing of despondence. It was the voice of a man confident in the expertise of the man he'd hired to help him.
Joe sighed. It was beginning to feel like disillusioning this guy would involve a full refund after all. And Willie Woodbine wouldn't be pleased. Presumably his application for membership would be buried in blackballs if his sponsor got done for cheating.
But it wasn't the anticipated wrath of the policeman that bothered Joe most, it was the look of bewildered disappointment that his turn-down would probably bring to the Young Fair God's young fair features.
Best to do it when he was already in his car, ready for a quick take-off before he could weaken.
To pass the time till he did the deed, he said, "So what happens now?"
"It's in the hands of the Four Just Men-that's what we call our Rules Committee. They'll consider the evidence at their next meeting in a fortnight's time, then hand down their vedict. I know I'll get a fair hearing, but as things stand…"
That note of uncertainty caught at Joe's heart, but his mind was made up. He'd got a plan and he was going to stick to it. In the car, hand back the money, say sorry, and off! It was the best thing for all concerned.
But like a lot of Joe's plans, it didn't turn out as easy as that.
The Morris's resemblance to a tramp who had strayed into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot was now underscored by the fact that its front offside tire was completely flat.
"Oh shoot," said Joe, not realizing he was on the edge of another 'fonly or he might have set off walking down the drive.
"Oh dear," said Porphyry. "How long have you got, Joe?"
"What?"
It took a moment to work out this wasn't an inquiry about his general state of health but a reference to his mythical urgent appointment.
He made a show of looking at his watch and said, "Five minutes. I'm going to be late."
"No problem," said Porphyry. "Here, take mine."
Again it required a little time to grasp his precise meaning, which not even the sight of the car keys in Porphyry's outstretched hand could affirm absolutely.
"You mean," said Joe turning his gaze to rest on the Volante, "you mean, like, I should drive your car?"
"Yes. I'll get yours sorted, we can meet and exchange later."
Joe's heart was full. This was like the moment when Rev. Pot asked him to sing the Priest in Gerontius, or the first time Beryl Boddington asked him to babysit her young son. This was big trust time. OK, so Porphyry must be loaded to afford such wheels, but he didn't seem the kind of plonker who drove a Volante just to tell the world how rich he was. He'd bought the car because he loved it, and Joe didn't doubt for a moment that the club terrace was full of folk the YFG wouldn't have dreamed of offering his keys. It was certainly full of folk who wouldn't dream of offering their keys to Joe Sixsmith!
Ho
w could he tell a guy like this there was no way to prove he wasn't a lousy cheat?
His other equally urgent problem was to resist the temptation to accept the loan of the Aston. He could see himself driving slowly round the streets of Luton, waving casually to his jaw-dropped acquaintance, letting Merv check out the engine, inviting Beryl out for a spin…
Then as on a split screen his mental projector ran parallel footage of him crushing one of those immaculate wings against a concrete bollard, or coming out of his office to find that some lowlife had scratched his envy across the bonnet with a Stanley knife.
His mind said No but his hand was stretched to receive the keys when Chip appeared pushing a mobile hydraulic jack before him.
"Hi, Mr. Sixsmith," he said cheerily. "Checked back to see how that tire was doing and when I saw it had really gone, I looked for you on the terrace to get your key so that I could put your spare on. No sign of you, so I thought I'd make a start anyway and get the wheel off."
"Hey, man, this is real service," said Joe.
"That's what we aim to give our members, right, Mr. Porphyry?"
"That's right, Chip. Well done," said the YFG. "Joe, if five minutes is going to make a difference, my offer still stands."
"No thanks, Chris," said Joe reluctantly. "It'll be fine."
"If you're sure. I'll leave you in Chip's safe hands then. By the by, Chip, you've not seen anything of Steve Waring recently, have you? Not round here-he hasn't shown for work since last week-I meant in one of those clubs or pubs you wild young things frequent, maybe?"
"No, sorry, Mr. Porphyry. I'll keep my eyes open though."
"Thanks, Chip."
He put his arm round Joe's shoulder and led him a few steps away. "You'll ring me later, let me know how things are going, Joe? It's such a load off my mind, knowing I've got you on the case." He smiled as he spoke. Now was the moment to put him straight. But it would have been like telling the sun not to rise. Joe turned back to the young assistant pro who already had the wheel off. As he helped Chip maneuver the spare into place, Joe said, "Nice chap." "Mr. Porphyry? Oh yes, one of the best." "Yeah. Pity about this bother…" "Bother?" said Chip. "Oh, that. Nothing to worry about there, Mr. Sixsmith. Anyone who knows Mr. Porphyry knows there's as much chance of him cheating as there is of Ian Paisley becoming Pope. But I don't need to tell a close friend that, do I?" "No, well, there's close and close," Joe bumbled. "I mean, we're pretty close, I suppose…" "He was going to let you drive his car, wasn't he?" Chip laughed. "Now that's what I call close." "He's a generous man," said Joe. "You don't need to tell me," said Chip. "He's really pushing the boat out on my tour fund and where he goes, the rest will follow." "Must like you." "Yeah, but he's like that with all the staff." "Certainly seems bothered about this guy, Waring," said Joe. "What's all that about?" Before Chip could answer, a voice said, "Hi there, Joe. Need any help?" He turned to see Colin Rowe had come up behind him, his open friendly face wreathed in smiles. "No. Chip here's doing a grand job." "Glad to hear it. We have high hopes of young Chip, but you don't get to be Open champion without being willing to get your hands dirty, right, Chip?" "Right, Mr. Rowe." "You go in for vintage, do you, Joe?" said Rowe, examining the Morris. "Lovely old girl, this. Grand for running around locally, eh? Means you can save the big gas-guzzler for the motorway." "Yeah, that's right," agreed Joe. Rowe moved away and got into a silver Audi A8 Quattro. He'd evidently come out to make a phone call. Good rule that, thought Joe. All the big money people who were members of the Hoo, it could be like the belfry at St. Monkeys if they didn't make them switch their phones off. He stood and watched as the young assistant pro completed the job with graceful efficiency and placed the wheel with the flat in the boot. "There you go, Mr. Sixsmith. Done and dusted," said Chip. Joe said, "Thanks a lot. That's real service." "That's what Hoo members pay for." The youth grinned. "Yeah, but I'm not a member." "Anyone with Mr. Porphyry behind them can order his tie straight away," said Chip confidently. Rowe had finished his call and got out of the Audi. "All done? Good. Chip, any word on that new travel case I ordered?" "Should be here tomorrow, Mr. Rowe." "Why don't we go up to the shop and you can check with the suppliers?" He began to walk away with the youngster, then glanced back over his shoulder and called, "Don't forget that game you promised us, Joe. Look forward to seeing you again soon." "Who can tell?" said Joe. And as he drove away he heard Aunt Mirabelle's usual response to that question. Only the Lord, and sometimes He speaks awful soft and low.
9
A Royal Summons
Aunt Mirabelle had imprinted in Joe's heart a faith in a benevolent deity that it would have taken surgery to remove, but when it came to everyday practicalities, he paid as much attention to Sod's as God's Law.
All that stuff about the lilies of the field and taking no thought for the morrow was fine, but any fool knew that a man driving around with a flat in his boot was bound to have another blow-out pretty damn quick, so on his way back to town he pulled into Ram Ray's garage on the ring road. Ram wasn't around, and he had to deal with the head mechanic, Scrapyard Eddie, who'd got his nickname because it was said that if you fell out with him, that was where your vehicle was likely to end up. Joe had recently been foolish enough to second-guess Eddie on a fuel pump fault in the old Morris, and now the mechanic seemed disinclined to admit the possibility of fixing the spare before the weekend.
Fortunately Ram's highly efficient and very desirable secretary, Eloise, who had a soft spot for Joe, came out to say hello. When she heard his problem she said, "Do it, Eddie," in a tone that reduced the mechanic to fawning co-operation, and invited Joe into the office for a cool cola.
"Don't you just love this weather, Joe?" she asked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, a maneuver that made Joe glad he already had an excuse for sweating.
"Yeah, it's got its attractions," he said. High among which was Eloise's abandonment of outerwear just this side of decency, or a long way that side if you were Aunt Mirabelle.
"So how's business?" she asked.
"So so. And how's George? Saw him demolish Ernie Jagger last month. He's on a real winning streak!"
George was Eloise's boyfriend. A rising star in the boxing world, he stood two meters high, about the same across the shoulders, with fists like bunches of petrified bananas. Known in the sporting columns as Jurassic, the image of George was a good thing to keep in mind when talking to Eloise.
"Not with me, he ain't," said Eloise. "All that training, he takes it so seriously. Me, I like a sporting guy, but not when it turns him into a monk. No, George is out. Got myself a new sport, only Chip don't let it interfere with his time off."
"Chip?" said Joe. "So what's his game?"
"Golf, among other things," laughed Eloise. "He's assistant pro out at the Royal Hoo."
Joe wasn't particularly surprised. Coincidences that would have had others running to the parapsycholo- gists he took in his stride. Butcher had once said to him, "Sixsmith, you're in a job you've got no particular talent for, and you go at it in a half-assed way, but you've got a strike rate Willie Woodbine would die for. Serendipity, that's what it's called. That's what you've got, Joe."
"Can I get treatment on the NHS?" he'd asked.
"Don't joke about it!" she'd retorted sternly. "It's probably the only thing keeping you alive!"
Joe had thought about it later, then he'd sent it to the Recycle Bin to join all the other stuff that looked likely to stretch the period between his head hitting the pillow and sleep hitting his head by more than five seconds.
"Chip Harvey," he said. "I've just been talking to him. Nice lad."
"You've been to the Royal Hoo?" said Eloise. She was too nice to make cracks about getting a job in the kitchen or sweeping up leaves from the course, but Joe's musical ear detected the harmonics of surprise in her tone.
It occurred to him he'd have done better to keep his mouth shut. But no point crying over spilt milk, said Mirabelle.
Anyway, as Whitey added, may
be spilt milk to you, but it's manna from heaven to me.
"Yeah. I'm on a case. Working for a member called Porphyry. Look, he's told people he was showing me around with a view to applying for membership, so that's what Chip thinks. When you talk to him, make sure he keeps it to himself, OK?"
A lesser man might have tried to swear Eloise to secrecy, but Joe had had it drummed into him as a child, never ask for what you know you can't get!
The young woman didn't seem to have heard his plea.
"Christian Porphyry? You're working for Christian Porphyry?"
Here we go, thought Joe, recalling Beryl's reaction to the Young Fair God.
"That's right."
"I met him couple of days back," she said, dreamy eyed. "First time I went out with Chip. He took me back to his flat out at the Hoo. He was showing me round, shouldn't have been, really, but it was a dead quiet time, then we bumped into Mr. Porphyry. He was just so nice! Anyone else and Chip might have been in bother. He says some of the members there act around him like he was invisible, like a footman in one of those big old houses you see on the telly. But not Mr. Porphyry. What are you doing for him, Joe?"
"Sorry, can't tell you that, El," said Joe. "Mr. Porphyry wants it kept confidential. You'll make sure Chip understands that, won't you?"
This got through.
"Sure, Joe. Chip thinks he's great. If that's what Mr. Porphyry wants, you can rely on Chip."
Whereas if it's just what I want…
Joe pushed the unhelpful thought away and looked for upsides.
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