"May I present Mrs. Violet Dewey?"
He stepped back as she offered her hand to both of us in turn.
"Mrs. Dewey is English by birth, from the south coast near Christchurch, but has, for the past thirty years, been a subject of the crown of Canada in Manitoba. Her late husband was a farmer and a very entrepreneurial businessman." Whitcombe smiled. "'Entrepreneurial' is such a lovely word, isn't it? Reminds me a bit of 'interpretation.' It's such fun to come across a word where 'p' and 'r' and 'e' are bang-up together just so. Allows one to roll one's tongue, does it not?"
Marnie walked in right then, which was good, since Mrs. Dewey, Carter, and myself were all speechless. She seemed as overwhelmed by him as we were.
"Ah, coffee. That wonderfully American drink available at any time and anywhere to young and old, rich and penniless, stout and fair."
Marnie put the tray over on the coffee table and asked me, "Need anything else?"
I shook my head. "That's it, doll." Suddenly, I had a thought. "But, hold on." I looked at Whitcombe and asked, "Would you mind if my secretary joined us to take notes?" I had no idea why I wanted her to do that, but it seemed right.
"Not at all, my good man, not at all." He looked at Marnie and said, "I'll keep nattering away until you're good and ready, Mrs. LeBeau."
Marnie glanced at me with a slight grin and then bolted out the door.
"Mrs. Dewey, won't you have a seat?" That was Carter and his southern charm was pegging a solid five on a scale of one to five. He offered her one of the chairs facing the sofa.
She smiled and said, "Thank you, Mr. Jones." Her accent was a little British but mostly had a flat quality.
I said, "Help yourselves to coffee. We find that it's easier if everyone pours for themselves." If Carter was in his full-on southern charm, my high-hat voice was out the gate and we were off to the races.
Whitcombe took the seat next to Mrs. Dewey's and said, "Oh, do let me pour. I rarely get the chance and it really is quite fun. Now, if I remember correctly, Mrs. Dewey, you prefer your coffee as you prefer your tea. With milk."
She smiled briefly and said, "Spot on, Lord Gerald. I always thought you would have been very good working in a restaurant."
He grinned as he poured the milk in and then covered it with coffee. "I fear I have traveled too far down the road of my life, such as it is, to make any sudden changes. But, should it be needed, I'm glad to know I have something upon which to fall back."
By that time, Carter and I were seated on the sofa.
Whitcombe handed Mrs. Dewey her cup as Marnie came back in with her steno pad. She was good at dictation, but it had been a while since I'd asked her to take notes like this.
"Mrs. LeBeau? What is your pleasure?"
"Oh, I'm fine, Mr. Whitcombe."
He made a small clicking sound with his tongue. "Snubbed, I see." Looking up at Carter, he shook his head. "I do feel as if I've found my way to the top of the beanstalk, but I'm sure you hear that all the time, Mr. Jones, and I'm sure it's rather old, like what the cat dragged in last night. Sugar? Cream?" He turned to Marnie. "Or is it milk? In America, the milk and the cream look so very much alike I find it difficult to know the difference."
She replied, "It's milk."
Carter, who was blushing and seemed to have lost his ability to speak, looked at me. I said, "Black is how he likes it."
Whitcombe nodded and said, "Now, there's the mark of a sound relationship. I'm constantly having to remind my dear Charlotte of how she likes her tea. It's not old age or feeble-mindedness, although neither of us are the spring chickens we once were. No, it's simply that she usually pours at home and when we're out and about, she tends to forget how she likes it. Brilliant woman, in all respects. We share that quality, Mr. Williams. Loyalty and devotion to one's beloved, what?"
As he handed Carter his cup, it was my turn to be unable to talk as Whitcombe asked me, "Sugar? Milk?"
Carter took a sip and laughed. "Two sugars."
"Ah, yes," said Whitcombe. "Once again, such a perfect American device: the sugar cube. No measuring with spoons. No fuss or mess of any kind. Almost antiseptic. And the perfect device to make all that distasteful medicine more palatable for the sickly child."
I nodded as I took the cup he offered.
"For myself, I prefer a generous amount of milk. Reminds me of how coffee is served in the mornings in Rome, don’t you know. Half milk and half coffee and, with a hard biscuit, one has everything one needs to start the day." He picked up his cup and sipped. "Never can find a proper breakfast in Italy, except in the north, which is practically Austria. But in the south, the hot south, they simply don't serve breakfast. Perhaps an orange, cut into sections. But, the mid-day meal." He sighed and put his cup down on the coffee table. "That's an epicurean delight. Now, Mr. Williams, may I tell you why I am here with Mrs. Dewey?"
I nodded and said, "Sure."
He grinned. "I do so love America. Such economy of speech wherever one turns." He looked over at the window. "Have you thought of covering these lovely windows with some curtains? Offers some protection from prying eyes, what?" Looking at me, he pulled out a small envelope from his inner coat pocket and handed it to me. "Makes it so much harder for the photographer."
I could feel a knot in my stomach forming. I opened the envelope. There were five small photographs, all of which showed Carter and me in various states of getting to first base, and in one instance, moving in on second. I looked up at Whitcombe. "What's this?"
"This, you might say, is what is easily purchased by anyone looking for a spot of blackmail. Of course, it's a buyer's market since you're not particularly susceptible to blackmail, what? Notorious Nick Vanquishes Red Chinese. Notorious Nick And His Famous Flying Laconic Lumberjack. Pictures on page twelve. Nothing sells papers these days quite like Notorious Nick." He grinned at me and said in a practical tone of voice, "I bought those for less than a hundred bucks." He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "That's the word, is it not? Bucks?"
I nodded but didn't smile.
He immediately shook his head self-deprecatingly. "Oh, I seem to have put my foot in it, haven't I? I come here as a friend, I truly do."
I handed the photos to Carter who quickly looked through them. He asked, "How do we know that?"
"Well, I am afraid you have only my word on it. I am here, in your fair city, on an errand for one of the security branches of Her Majesty's government. I stopped in Winnipeg on my way to invite Mrs. Dewey to join me. I've long desired to ask her to be part of my small intelligence team..." He had been looking at her and suddenly turned to me. "Speaking of intelligence, shouldn't your Mr. Robertson be sitting in with us? And, perhaps, your Mr. Halversen?"
. . .
Once introductions had been made, we sat down again. Sam was on the sofa next to me while Mike was sitting across from him in a chair next to Whitcombe. Mike and Sam had seen the photos and had exchanged looks but said nothing.
"Now that we have the evidence laid out, I would like to tell you all about the reasons I am here."
I said, "Before you do that, Mr. Whitcombe, I'd like to know how you knew Sam's name."
He looked at me. "Yes, I suppose you would. And I note you don't wonder about Mr. Robertson but only about Mr. Halversen."
I folded my arms and nodded.
"Well, my little team back in London has been keeping your company under observation since that unfortunate incident in Hong Kong last February."
Mike shifted in his chair but didn't say anything.
Whitcombe looked at him. "I suppose you found us out, what?"
Mike nodded but didn't offer anything.
"Good egg. Don't tell me. Keeps us on our toes." He put his gloved hand to his mouth and coughed discreetly. "Now, as I was saying, we have been keeping eyes on you and, through this way and that, we found out quite a bit about your activities and your clients." Looking at me, he said, "And you're doing quite well in the market. Your team at Bank of America has d
one a bang-up job of not selling during the recent panic. Always go in for the long-run, that's my motto." He got a far-off look on his face and sighed. "I once had occasion to share a very amusing dinner in Paris with your uncle Paul. I had an uncle Rupert just like him. They were about the same age. And while your uncle bent in one direction, mine bent in the other, and to the same extreme, I might add. Extraordinary gentlemen, the both of them. I once considered introducing them to each other, but my uncle wasn't quite as broad-minded as one might want. Always had a nasty word to say about Oscar Wilde, which was so unnecessary. Why dance on a man's grave?"
I looked over at Marnie, who was taking notes furiously. Her eyes were about to pop out of her head.
Carter asked, "When was that?" Over the past few months, he'd read all of Uncle Paul's journals. Carter had a much better memory for names than I did.
Whitcombe sniffed. "I doubt you'll find it recorded anywhere, but, if you must know, it was in 1926 at a small cafe in Montmartre."
That vaguely rang a bell. Carter asked, "Suzie's?"
Whitcombe smiled. "Indeed. Suzie was quite the character as were most of her customers. I was there for a lark and met Mr. Williams, Mr. Paul Williams, that is, quite by accident. As had many other men in my youth, he first believed I was ripe for the picking, but when I made it clear in what direction my tree bent, he became quite friendly. He told me many stories of his conquests." Whitcombe grinned at me. "Financial, of course. He was the soul of discretion, which you may find it hard to believe." Looking over at Carter, he raised an eyebrow and asked, "So he did leave diaries, did he not?"
Carter nodded. Before either of us could say anything, Mike said, "And they're no longer in this office. That's how we found out, by the way."
Whitcombe shrugged and, in a very disappointed tone, said, "One does find it so hard these days to locate a truly capable thief. They all seem to have died out. Such a pity."
Sam asked, "How did you find out about me?"
"You're still on the list of state enemies in the Soviet Union. Whatever you did to comrade Stalin has never been forgotten." I could feel Sam stir next to me but he stayed quiet. "I suspect that is why no one in the F.B.I. has ever touched you, even though they do keep an eye on you, Mr. Halversen. If I were you, I wouldn't ever try to go behind the Iron Curtain."
I'd had enough. "Why are you here, Whitcombe?"
"Yes, enough of my nattering. I have two purposes. First and foremost, I want you to know you do have friends in high places."
Confused, I asked, "What does that mean?"
"Let us say there is a small, a very small, number of gentlemen in the House of Lords who share your proclivities and, in the course of my duties after the events in Hong Kong, they have asked my little team to do what we can to look out for you."
"So that includes breaking and entering?" asked Mike
"We're certainly not the only ones, but I presume you know that?"
Mike nodded. "Sure."
Whitcombe said, "Yes, from my last count, and since your Hong Kong adventure, you've been visited by the F.B.I., the Soviet K.G.B., and an East German intelligence unit. And, because of your activities in Sydney, you recently had a couple of visits from the Australian intelligence service, which has a name but I'm not allowed to speak it for security reasons. The only reason I'm able to speak of it is because I know Mr. Robertson is aware of its existence."
I looked over at Marnie who was still scribbling and shaking her head in disbelief. I couldn't blame her. I knew about some of what he was telling us, but not everything.
"What's the name of your team?" asked Carter.
Ignoring Carter completely, Whitcombe stood and walked over to the windows. "As I said, my first purpose was to come here and let you know you do have friends in high places." He turned and looked at me. "Not everyone in the world believes you are mentally ill by nature. But I'm sure, by now, you've made that discovery." He turned back to the window and looked down at Market Street. "It's odd, isn't it? Those of us who have no business in your affairs are often the first to speak of them and the loudest to declaim them. Perhaps I should start a society of Kinsey zero fellows like myself. We could walk up and down the streets, carrying placards which simply say, 'It Is None Of Our Affair'." He chuckled to himself. Grinning, he turned back and looked at me. "I suspect there are some in your own government who are also keeping a friendly eye out. We find traces of them, but haven't been able to identify them." He turned and looked at the back of Mike's head. "Mr. Robertson, have you concluded who they might be?"
Mike didn't reply. He looked down at the floor.
"Quite right. Now, my second purpose is to ask you to hire Mrs. Dewey and to assist in her immigration into the United States."
I glanced at the woman. She looked faintly embarrassed. "Why?" I asked.
"I need someone here in San Francisco for my own purposes, but I think you will find that she will make a helpful addition to your team. And, when you finally convince young Abati to come on board, you'll need a mother figure to take him under her wing."
I looked around the room, feeling as if I'd lost my mind. He seemed to know everything about us and had managed to tell us so in the most polite way I could imagine. "How—?"
Mike interrupted me. "That's fine. We'll do it. But we need something from you."
"Yours is only to ask and I rush to your side." Whitcombe laughed. "Metaphorically, of course."
Mike stood and walked over to Whitcombe. He towered above the man, but Whitcombe didn't seem intimidated at all. Mike put his hand on the man's neck and moved him away from us. They whispered for a few minutes.
As they did that, I looked at Mrs. Dewey. "What part of town would you like to live in? I think we have an opening in an apartment building on Russian Hill."
She smiled in a very friendly way. "I'm sure that would be quite lovely, Mr. Williams."
Carter said, "My mother is getting married on Saturday. Would you do us the honor of attending the wedding?"
Mrs. Dewey nodded and said, "I would be quite honored to attend, Mr. Jones. Thank you."
By that time Whitcombe was back. Mike had picked up the phone on my desk and was talking to someone in a very low tone of voice.
"It simply isn't done, but may I add myself to your guest list, Mr. Jones?"
Mrs. Dewey looked scandalized while Marnie softly giggled to herself.
Carter laughed. "Isn't that called, 'gate-crashing?'"
Whitcombe nodded. "Quite and it's simply the most boorish of behavior."
Carter shrugged and smiled. "Please do. The more, the merrier."
"Excellent. I shall look forward to the event with tremendous excitement." He actually did look very excited to be going.
. . .
Before they left, we gave Whitcombe and Mrs. Dewey our address and the time to arrive on Saturday, although I was pretty sure we didn't need to do either.
Once they were gone, Mike called Greg and asked him to come to my office.
Marnie asked, "Should I stay?"
I looked at Mike who nodded.
"More coffee?" she asked.
"If you don't mind, doll."
She picked up the tray and said, "What a morning, Nick."
Mike said, "It's only just getting started."
. . .
Once everyone was seated, Mike leaned in and said, "The reason I asked Greg here was because he was the one who first realized someone had tried to crack our safe. I've put him in charge of coming up with a complete security system, something we should have done when we moved in." Looking at the windows briefly, he said, "And I already knew about those photos. We've had three attempts at blackmail."
Carter asked, "What'd you do?"
"One was the Examiner. It wasn't really blackmail. They just wanted to know if we had any comments. We told them to publish. Nothing happened. The other two were just low-level scum. One of them was persistent. When I told him I would rent a billboard and put one of the photos on it
, that's when he finally went away."
I took in a deep breath and said, "Why am I—?"
Greg, who was sitting next to Mike, interrupted me. "Enough!"
I looked at him. I was beginning to simmer a little, but I figured he had a point. Besides, his face was turning red.
Greg stood and walked over to the windows. "I have been watching this twisted game of ping-pong and have just about had enough."
Mike said, "It's really—"
"No. Someone else is going to talk about this, now, Mike. And you can make me sleep on the couch or kick me out if you don't like it, but I've had enough of this mess."
Turning, he looked at me. "You."
I pointed a finger at my chest. For some reason, I was relieved that he was throwing the fit and not me.
He nodded vigorously. "Yeah, you. Stop being such a fucking baby. You gave Mike the job of running this company but you don't trust him."
I nodded slowly but didn't say anything. He was right, of course.
"And, you." He was looking at Carter. "You need to stop playing both ends against the middle. Part of the reason that Nick is a little paranoid is because you're batting for both teams. You know just as much as Mike does but you make Nick think you don't."
I turned and looked at Carter. He was red and was rubbing his chin.
"And you can come at me, if you want," added Greg, obviously aware of Carter's most blatant tell. "Come over here and knock me out if you dare try, but you might as well wait because I'm just getting started."
Mike stood and said, in a very scary voice, "I don't—"
"Sit the fuck down, Michael Robertson. For once in your life, you need to listen to me and not talk and just take your medicine like a man."
The Childish Churl (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 15) Page 9
