The Ponzi Men

by David Chilcott

  Chapter 33

  McBride and Miller left the major still drinking his beer. They had decided to drive back to the palace, rather than stay another night at the camp.

  Miller was due back on duty, and had spoken to the king on the phone. McBride decided to accompany him. Basically to thank the king for his hospitality, and to present him with a painting as a parting gift. He made a visit to Belinda, and promised he would get in touch with her when she got back to England.

  They piled their luggage into the Range Rover, and had set off by three in the afternoon. That meant they would get three hours of daylight, and most of their journey over. The king had invited them to dine with him.

  Meanwhile, Bo had been released from hospital with his ankle in a plaster cast, and a pair of aluminum crutches.

  The nurse who had admitted him signed off his papers. “Goodbye Jacob,”

  she said. Bo had looked round instinctively to see who she was addressing, then realized it was him. Jacob Naidoo. It was a long time since he had looked at the false driving license he carried. False to him, but there was a man of that name who had sold him the identification.

  “Don’t put any weight on that leg until you come back in a fortnight,” she said.

  Bo was not aiming to return, but said, “Yes, I’ll see you again” and swung away on his crutches. He took a taxi to the airport. He would steal an automatic car there.

  When Bo got to the Kruger Park in his Lexus 460, he saw the Range Rover coming out of the campsite, and recognized Miller who was driving. The man beside him must be McBride. He managed to turn the car round and follow them. When they turned on to the N4, he knew they were going either to Jo’burg, or maybe back to Maswatiland. He followed not directly behind, but leaving a car or two between his car and theirs. When eventually they turned for the border crossing to Maswatiland, Bo was sure that they would be heading for Mawabane.

  He let other cars in front of him, and then the Range Rover was signaling a left turn. He saw a service station, and thought that was a good idea. He had not eaten except for a snack at the hospital while he was waiting for the plaster cast to be put on his leg.

  He parked a fair way from Miller’s car, and when he entered the café, he made sure to be at the other side of the room. Even so, during the meal, he saw Miller and presumably McBride in conversation, and looking his way. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stopped. The trouble was his leg plaster and crutches that gave the game away. He stayed on in the café for half an hour after Miller and his colleague had left. He didn’t need to trail them now he knew where they were going.

  When he emerged in the sunlight and made for his car, Bo saw that the Range Rover had changed position and was now parked in the row directly behind the Lexus. They were on to him, so he climbed into the car after putting his crutches into the back seat. He started the car, drove out on to the road and continued in the direction of the border crossing.

  Miller and McBride were surprised to see the Lexus move away.

  “Perhaps it isn’t Bo after all. It might be a coincidence, a black man with a plaster cast on his left leg. It isn’t a BMW he’s driving,” said McBride.

  “I still say it looks like him. We could phone the major and tip him off.”

  “And wouldn’t he be delighted when the man turned out to be a rich industrialist, who would give the major a very hard time.”

  “Okay, okay. We don’t do anything at all. Even if it is Bo, he wouldn’t dare do anything while we’re both together, and tonight we’ll both be spending the night in the palace. No-one could break in there I’ll bet.”

  Miller and McBride reached the palace an hour after sundown, an hour before their dinner with the king. McBride was staying the night in the same apartment as previously, and Miller, of course was in his apartment above the Mess.

  “What do you think I should wear?” asked McBride.

  “Usually when I dine with the king, unless it’s a formal dinner, the king usually wears a sports jacket, open neck shirt.”

  “See you later then.” And McBride made his way to his apartment.

  There was a message on the table adjacent to the door. It was typed, and said: Telephone message from Mr Ian Smith. Would you please phone him when convenient. It was dated the previous morning. McBride looked at his watch. He would get changed first, and see if he had enough time to phone before dinner.

  He showered, shaved for the second time that day, and put on grey trousers, white shirt and a blue blazer. There was still a half hour before he need be down in the hallway waiting for Miller. Even Smith couldn’t make a phone call last that long, could he? Maybe he could, but he would cut him off if necessary, and blame the Maswatiland telephone service. Even though that was unfair.

  Ian lifted up the phone after only a couple of minutes.

  “John McBride here. You were trying to get hold of me?”

  “Hello there. Not too urgent. Just wanted to say that the limited edition I got rushed through, and they’re ready for you to sign. You could visit me when you get back, because I want to see your animal paintings. Then you could sign the limited edition at my house. Don’t want to get them creased or damaged by moving them around too much. What do you say?”

  “I’m catching a plane back tomorrow night, be back in Manchester the morning after. If you like, I could come direct from the airport, save me going up to Yorkshire, then coming down again.”

  “Capital,” said Ian Smith.

  “One proviso, I’ll need to get some clothes laundered. A suitcase full.”

  “No problem. My charlady will sort that out as soon as you arrive. How many paintings have you done?”

  “Not counting. I would think at least a dozen.”

  McBride got down to the entry hall, and there was Dusty Miller, just coming in from outside.

  “Hi, couldn’t have timed it better,” said Dusty.

  They walked together to the king’s private dining room. The king himself was sitting at the table with a drink. Looked like gin and tonic, which was his usual tipple. He was reading a newspaper.

  “Hello there. Welcome back. I got the money transferred, and then we didn’t need the ransom. Jolly good.” He stood up and shook their hands. Put the newspaper on a side table. Went over to pour drinks for them both. Aperitifs.

  By the time they started dinner, which was, surprise, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by ice cream with treacle toffee pudding, the king was outlining his idea for putting to good use the money duped out of Markham.

  “My idea,” he said, leaning back in his chair, wiping his mouth on his napkin, “is to set up a charitable trust. Firstly we pay back the money you invested in this Ponzischeme. I believe that you, John, lost one

  hundred thousand pounds, and you Dusty, twice as much. That payment would be for recovering the ten million pounds. Which is a fair commission. No-one could complain about that.”

  “Then I co-opt several investors onto the committee. The aim will be to repay a percentage of everybody’s losses, based on need. For example, very rich investors could be persuaded, I hope, to forego their share in favour of poorer pensioners who could ill afford to lose their money. We would list the amounts repaid, and have the accounts audited by one of the big five accounting firms. I hope that they would do it for a token fee. We don’t want to add expense to the allotment of the cash. Whilst we make arrangements for the payments, we could invest the cash in UK government gilts, or something similar. I would hope we have the whole thing wrapped up, and the scheme closed within twelve months. What do you both think about that?”

  Miller and McBride, agreed wholeheartedly. They were impressed by the king’s scheme.

  Over coffee and brandy they told the king how Miller had escaped, and returned to find Markham, and save McBride’s life.

  “So, I did find Miller’s whereabouts, but he had sorted his escape by then. You’ve got a resourceful man there, Sir.” McBride thought he ought to put a good word in for h
is friend. “Also, I am leaving tomorrow afternoon. I’ll catch the plane from here that links with the Amsterdam flight. Before I go, I wanted to thank you for the hospitality. I wonder whether you will accept one of my animal paintings that I did while I have been in Africa. If I just pop up to my apartment, I bring them down for you to choose.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I’ve enjoyed having you visit.”

  So McBride dashed upstairs to the apartment, returned with his portmanteau.

  “Here we are, Sir.” He unzipped the case. “Where shall we lay them out?”

  The king got up and went to the far end of the dining room. There was an extra table against the wall, empty but for a large vase of flowers.

  The king looked at Dusty. “If you can just put this vase on the floor, against the wall.” And McBride put his paintings one by one on the table. The king stood by and examined every one, nodding when he wanted to see the next. Half an hour went by. McBride had been mistaken when he told Smith he might have a dozen. He counted twenty-six.

  “Put them back, one by one,” said the king. “I know the one I would like, and I will tell you when you reach it.”

  The painting he chose was one he had painted in the king’s safari park when he had first arrived. The one with the lioness and her two cubs drinking at the waterhole. “This painting sums up our country, and I will be proud to hang it here, in the palace.”

  McBride shook him by the hand, and Dusty got his phone out and photographed them both, with the painting propped against the wall.