by Thomas Swan
“I’ve no reason to doubt you are a very gifted astrologer,” Jonas replied, “but I know nothing of it and cannot take it seriously.”
“Many feel as you, until they hear what I have found in their chart. Keep an open mind, Mr. Kalem. Listen to my words.”
Jonas shifted his weight back into the chair. He sensed a strange power flowing from the small woman. She was confident; he saw that in her eyes looking intently into his. Madame Sun opened the ornately tooled leather cover and removed several sheets, which she carefully placed on the table. Her hands moved gracefully and with practiced assurance. Her lips moved as if in prayer, and she hummed. Then she spoke in a soft voice, speaking in a rhythmic cadence that had a hypnotic effect.
“The time, day, month, and year are your four Pillars of Fate. Your animal sign is the Horse. This means you have strong masculine traits and are more comfortable with men. The Horse may fear members of the opposite sex, ignore them, or worship them, but rarely can the Horse relate to them. The Horse personality requires that you achieve success and be recognized by your peers. I find this particularly true in your case. You find social contact important, and in fact you are very happy to be with other people, and are particularly pleased when you are asked to speak to a group.
“We are in the year of the Dragon when the time is ripe for extravagant schemes and flamboyant gestures. It often is a time of increased activities in the arts. It can be a profitable time for the Horse because there will be exciting challenges and opportunities. But it may also be a year when the Horse may exceed his abilities and become involved in unplanned difficulties.
“All of what I have said merely puts very broad brush strokes on your astrological canvas. It is a very large canvas with many events occurring at a time when I feel great caution is required on your part.”
Madame Sun unfolded a large parchmentlike sheet and turned it so Jonas could see the Chinese characters and the colorful symbols that filled the page. The images did not focus clearly. The drinks were taking effect.
“Ming Shu provides you with five elements that are determined by your four Pillars of Fate.” She handed Jonas a bright orange card on which were printed Chinese characters and under each the words “Wood, Water, Fire, Metal, Earth.”
“Each element represents a personality trait. There are twelve element positions and the frequency each element appears in your birth chart determines personality strengths or in some cases severe weaknesses. I find the dominant element in your chart is Metal. Metal is the sign of harvest and business conflicts. In plainest terms, Metal means money and your Metal rating of four is quite high.”
Jonas nodded. So long as Madame Sun spoke of positive matters, he would listen.
“But Metal indicates the sharpness of a knife, particularly when Fire has a high rating. I find a Fire rating of three, which signals danger. It is real danger, the danger of death. It is not clear if it will be someone close to you. But you will know.”
The comfort he was feeling vanished. He drained his glass and no sooner did he put it down than James picked it up. Jonas waved as if to signal that he did not want the glass refilled, then just as quickly indicated he would take another. Madame Sun waited until Jonas was holding a fresh drink.
“Throughout your chart I find the contradictions of good fortune and troubling periods when you shall incur serious losses. Your Fortune Stems chart reveals nothing of particular concern, but your Branch Stems fall on the chart to indicate disharmony and conflict.”
Jonas swallowed nearly half of his drink before realizing it tasted different. It was bitter. A trickle of the liquid fell down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He smelled the glass and couldn’t detect anything unusual. Then, for nearly a full minute, he stared at his chart filled with Chinese writing, circles, and odd-shaped boxes. What was the message? he wondered.
“All that you have said might be true for anyone. I cannot run a business without conflict. And people die. I’m happy to know I am a Horse, that’s better than a Rat. And I’m most pleased to learn I rank high in Metal and Metal means money.” He looked at his glass and decided that paranoia had attacked him briefly and he was drinking straight Dewars with a dash of water. He downed the rest of his drink but held on to the glass.
“You’ve obviously gone to great lengths to find I am a Horse dominated by Metal and fear women, which is an outright absurdity. Yet you haven’t told me what you want from me.”
“It should be clear, Mr. Kalem. My husband and I are interested in your discovery of the Leonardos, and if the manuscripts are authentic, we are prepared to offer you a very significant price. My knowledge of Ming Shu has allowed me to know what is happening in your life and be forewarned of any reasons why we should not begin a relationship with you.”
Jonas hesitated for an instant, then asked, “And you have found none?”
“To the contrary, there are many troubling signs. Death hovers over your chart. Who dies, or why, I cannot say. In the Dragon year there may be many conflicts.” She pointed to a group of Chinese characters. “I see that more than once you have extended yourself into schemes of bad judgment.”
“Now you are making judgments . . . wrong ones at that.” Jonas stood, but found he was unsteady. He knew he had been given strong drinks and suspected there had been more than his favorite scotch in the glass. “You asked me here to talk about the Leonardo manuscripts, read my horoscope, and ply me with drinks made with some sort of Korean sorcery.” He took one step and was overcome by an awful dizziness. James saw the huge body begin to sway and he quickly was by Jonas’s side and caught the nearly three hundred pounds before it sagged to the floor. James showed he had the strength of several powerful men. He eased Jonas back to his chair. “Why are you doing this to me?” Jonas said in an almost disconnected way.
“The sorcery you allude to, Mr. Kalem, was merely an amount of alprazolam, which you Americans consume in alarming quantities. No harm will come to you, but it was important that you learn of our interest in the Leonardos, and also that you hear the wisdom of Ming Shu. We have listened to your speeches and followed you and your associates from New York to London. We will continue to observe your progress.” She rose up and moved to Jonas’s side.
“We shall do what is necessary to add a Leonardo to our collection.”
Without another word, Madame Sun and James walked from the room, leaving Jonas alone with his astrological chart on the table before him.
Chapter 14
On the seventh day of the investigation, Walter Deats concluded that Sarah Evans had been murdered. The evidence was circumstantial, but abundant. A strong feeling in his gut had a lot to do with it.
The media had grown impatient with the noncommittal communiqués issued by the Windsor police, and Deats was anxious to make some sort of announcement to stop the bizarre speculation cropping up in the newspapers. Before releasing a statement announcing his murder theory, Deats knew he must positively identify Gregory Hewlitt. Not until four days after the accident was Deats certain that Hewlitt’s disappearance went beyond coincidence.
A waitress in the Old House remembered seeing Sarah and Hewlitt, and Sarah’s mother recognized the police artist’s drawing, adding that the beard and hair were grayer and that her granddaughter’s dog bit his hand. Reginald Streeter reluctantly noted seeing the bleeding hand of the man who had worked with such dedication “to preserve the valuable heritage of the Royal Library.”
Deats interviewed Barbara Randall at Heldwicke Air-Control Systems but neither the dismayed personnel manager nor Hewlitt’s file shed light on the impostor’s true identity. The papers Hewlitt submitted to Heldwicke were sent to C3 at the Yard for fingerprint evaluation. Deats supplied other samples of Hewlitt’s prints found in the library.
Deats concluded that Hewlitt had driven, or at the least had been in, Sarah’s car the night of the accident. He was so positive that when a fingerprint examination of the car turned up only a few of Sarah�
�s smudged prints, he became even more convinced that Hewlitt had wiped the car clean before sending it on its death run. The fact that the car was so clean of prints prompted Deats to demand that it be reinspected for “even the slightest trace of the bastard’s marks . . . and if it’s not admissible in court, it will be good enough for me.”
At two in the afternoon on Friday, Deats learned he was no longer searching for Gregory Hewlitt. Elliot Heston phoned.
“I just got a complete file on your man from CRO and confirmed by C3. You’re looking for Anthony Waters alias Douglas Laurie alias Brian Purcell alias a dozen other characters who ran some of the best con operations the Fraud Squad ever tried to close down. Freddie Conklin heads that up and he’ll give a month’s free beer to the man who puts a claim on Waters.”
Heston had cut through the Yard’s departmental maze; C3 in the Criminal Investigation Department is closely linked with the Criminal Record Office known as C4 or CRO. Tony Waters’s records were released from CRO after fingerprint identification linked Hewlitt to Waters and his well-documented con exploits. The Fraud Squad, C6 in the alphanumeric identifying system, kept their books open on Waters, but the oldtimers gave long odds on his capture. With some admiration they had given him the code name “Chameleon.” Duplicate files were delivered to Heston’s office and after a quick perusal he called Deats with the news.
“Anthony Waters.” Deats repeated the name softly. “Any arrests?”
“None by the Yard, but according to the file, City of London Police picked up his trail off a report from the emergency ward at St. George’s Hospital. That’s when they added a scarred right hand to his ID. They were zeroing in on him when he vanished. That was two years ago.”
Two-year-old reports were of little use, Deats thought. “What are you going to do about all this?”
“Issue an all-branches notice and release everything we’ve got on him. Standard stuff but a necessary first step. We’ll cover all exit points immediately.”
“You know nothing will come of it,” Deats said emphatically. “By now he’s become a Hasidic rabbi.”
“Have a better idea?”
“You’re stuck with the rule book, but can you forget your ruddy damned policy for two days?”
“Two days I can handle, but what sort of miracle are you planning to pull off in forty-eight hours?”
“I don’t honestly know, but as soon as Waters learns we’re onto him he’s going to put more distance between us. I’m coming over to see those files.”
When Deats arrived at Heston’s office, he learned there had been an important development since the two talked less than ninety minutes earlier.
“Good news, Walter. We found his car at the Semly Place Car Park near Victoria Station. A crew’s gone to check it out.”
“I want to check it, too. I don’t know why, but for some reason I think it’s important.”
Deats was driven to the garage by one of Heston’s men and waited while a crew from the forensic lab examined the old Morris wagon. There was little that could be done beyond search for prints, extract soil samples from the tire treads and carpet, and determine when the car had been abandoned. Deats sat behind the wheel making audio notes of all the seemingly inconsequential details, which when all lumped together might suggest something in Tony Waters’s personality that he could take action on. Why was the car parked near Victoria Station? Did it matter? The garage was as close to several international airlines terminals and bus stations as it was to the rail station and the underground. Perhaps he would be back for it? These were the fragments of information that Deats recorded. He was disappointed; he had hoped for more. He tapped the tape recorder against the palm of his hand, then turned it on again.
“Waters’s car is clean and doesn’t tell us much. I’ll request that it be impounded in the event there’s something we should be looking for and as yet haven’t put our finger on.”
Deats flicked off the recorder and sat silently. He stared straight ahead, his eyes focusing on the rearview mirror. From the mirror he shifted his glance to the sun visor and, with an idle wave of his hand, flipped the visor and discovered a piece of paper wedged between the welting and the ceiling fabric. He grabbed at the paper, unfolded it, and saw that it was imprinted “Dukes Hotel—St. James Place.” Penciled below was the name and address of a tire shop.
He put in a call to Heston. “I just found something, Elliot. Maybe nothing but worth the check. I’m going to look into it before coming back to the Yard.”
Deats ordered the driver to the Dukes Hotel. His luck was holding a little better now. The young concierge did not recognize the note, but the doorman did. Deats introduced himself, eliciting the talkative Irishman’s name and working schedule.
“I ain’t talked to a Windsor policeman in nearly four years. Not since me and the missus was up to see the Castle and some bloke was tryin’ to hold up the passengers on the bus we was on.” Patrick was in an expansive mood.
Deats smiled. “I remember. He almost got away with it, too. He was more frightened than the passengers.” He waited patiently while the doorman recounted his experience. Then he held out the police artist’s drawing of Tony Waters. “Recognize this face?”
“I certainly do,” Patrick said without hesitation. “That’s Mr. Waters. He was here about a week ago. Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“You recognize him with the beard?”
“Oh, sure. I knew it was Mr. Waters when he showed because there’s a way about him that I know. Maybe the eyes or how he walks. It’s my job to remember people. I know Mr. Anthony Waters, all right.”
“We’d like to talk with Mr. Waters, but he’s disappeared. Do you know where he might have gone?”
“No, I can’t help, Superintendent. Fact is, I never did know where he lived. I do recall him once sayin’he was goin’to the States. That’s right, but I wouldn’t know where.”
Deats held out the paper he found over the sun visor. “Know anything about this?”
“’Course I do. I wrote that name down for Mr. Waters the night he was here. Nasty weather that night. He had a flat. That’s right, a flat on the M4 and he wanted to know where to get a new tire. I told him I’d put it all down on a note. I figured he’d know where to look for it.”
“Did he stay at Dukes often?”
“Well now, he didn’t stay here this last time. He was with an American gentleman, the same one he’d been with on other visits. But I know Mr. Waters from before. Always very generous, he was.” Patrick winked and rubbed a thumb and forefinger together.
“How do you mean ‘from before’?” Deats asked.
“It goes back some years. Mr. Waters had a business in London. Successful was my guess. At least he would come here and spend the night with some expensive ladies. All very proper to talk to, all dressed fit for the queen’s ball. But whores, they was.”
“The American. Tell me about him.”
“He’s a big man with a deep voice. Wears glasses, thick ones.” Patrick frowned. “They stayed in the Duke of Gloucester suite.”
“They? He wasn’t alone?”
“There was one other. I didn’t see much of him. He stayed cooped up in the rooms most of the time.”
“That’s strange, or didn’t you think so?”
“Not so strange as all the special packages and boxes that was delivered up there.”
“What kind of boxes? What was in them?”
“None of the hotel staff could touch them. The people that brought them in took every one up to the suite, then the same blighters took’em out.”
“Any visitors?”
“Not on your life. They was particular about who went through the doors and they blocked off one of the bedrooms and no one was allowed there the entire while they was ’ere. You can ask Mrs. Palmer about that, all right. She’s in charge of housekeeping on that floor.”
“When did the big American leave?”
“Only this morning. Too bad I wasn’
t on duty. He was generous, too.” Patrick looked sad.
“And the other American?”
“He left on my day off. Bad luck all around for me. That was the day they took all the cartons out of the suite.”
Patrick had been cooperative and had made no bones about trading his information for coin of the realm. Deats handed him several pounds.
“Not a word of our conversation to anyone,” Deats said gravely, fully aware that Patrick would break his silence a dozen times before nightfall. “Here’s my card. Phone immediately if any of the men who were in those rooms comes back.”
Before returning to Scotland Yard, Deats met with the manager, a Mr. Proquitte, and the senior concierge. They added little to Patrick’s testimony. The dour concierge, who had more the air of an important guest than one who wore crossed keys, described the cartons that were delivered by a crew from Kalem’s London office. Mr. Proquitte reluctantly divulged Jonas Kalem’s business address in New York.
“Waters didn’t stay at the Dukes and I don’t have the foggiest notion where he’s been staying. I doubt it would help if we did know.” Deats summed up his findings for Elliot Heston with a final conundrum. “The big man named Kalem obviously has something to do with whatever Waters is up to and the gang of them were using the hotel for some hush-hush purpose. Last anyone knows, he was off to Heathrow.”
“We can put a trace on him but don’t count on fast results,” Heston said. “We’ll do better picking up on him in New York.”
“I’m not sure he went to New York. No one at the hotel handled his tickets. I have a hunch he went to Paris. He has an office there, too.”
“We can check both offices. We can do it by phone.”
“Anonymously, I hope.”
“By all means.”
“There’s a third man. Curtis Stiehl returned to New York on the twelfth. Monday. The hotel confirmed his reservation.”
