I had been to the Dover a few times in the past. It is a pleasant hostelry, slightly shabby but boasting a friendly staff and moderate rates for its less than posh rooms and suites.
The lounge was sparsely peopled when I entered a few minutes after three. I removed my cap and looked about. A woman seated alone at a corner table raised her hand and I walked toward her wondering why my initial impression was “motherly type” when she was not, I judged, more than forty. Well, perhaps forty-five, but with an air of alertness and a marvelous complexion.
“Ma’am,” I said, “I am Archibald McNally.”
“Had to be,” she said, laughing. “Surely there can’t be two men in America with the swagger to wear a jacket in that shade. And yes, I am Mrs. Penelope Blakely-Jones, but it’s such a mouthful I think it would be simpler if you called me Penny. I’d prefer it to ‘ma’am.’”
“That makes me Archy,” I said, delighted with her informality. “Penny, I see your glass is almost empty. Before I sit down please let me fetch you a refill. What are you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic, thank you,” she said. “And do ask the barkeep to lighten up on the ice. A cube or two is quite enough.”
I returned from the bar with two gin and tonics, both prepared in the manner she had requested. I sampled mine and found it too warm.
I sat opposite and as she sipped I had an opportunity to observe her more closely. If she was indeed forty or forty-five the years had treated her gently. She had sparkly eyes, thick well-brushed hair, smile lines at the corners of a wide mouth. I found her lack of starchiness a comfort and guessed she was a physically passionate woman. She was wearing a lightweight tweed suit with a white jabot and had an old cameo pinned to her lapel. No frippery or flash; more style than fashion.
“Penny,” I said, “I want first to thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I must also confess I find it difficult to think of you and the late Sydney Smythe as cousins. I mean the disparity in your ages. He seemed so ancient.”
“It is odd, isn’t it. But it’s the way it worked out in our rather large family. You know, I only saw Syd three or four times in my life. When I first met him I was just a tyke and he seemed fearfully old to me even then. I thought, this old man cannot possibly be my cousin; he must be an uncle at least or someone’s grandfather.”
“I can’t claim to have been a close friend—I don’t believe he had any—but I bought several things—mostly antique jewelry—in his shop and stopped by occasionally just to chat. I found him good company: friendly, witty, and obviously well educated.”
“Yes, he was all that. I can’t tell you how shocked and depressed I was when I saw his shop and the horrid hovel where he lived. We exchanged letters three or four times a year and he never once wrote how badly things were going for him.”
“Didn’t ask for financial assistance?”
“Never! His letters were always cheerful, with funny stories about some of his customers. He remembered my children’s birthdays and always sent them little gifts: unusual things from his stock which delighted them.”
“Like you, I was surprised to learn of his poverty. I had just assumed he was doing well. Not amassing a fortune, you understand, but getting along. After all, he was on Worth Avenue, you know.”
“What a horrible crime,” she said, and shuddered. “Why would anyone kill an old man like Syd? The police seem to have no leads.”
“They’re very competent,” I told her. “I’m sure sooner or later they’ll find who did it. Penny, your cousin never spoke of his past, what he did before he came to America, and how he ended up with an antique shop in Palm Beach. I’d be grateful for anything you can tell me about him.”
She took a deep swallow of her drink and then stared over my head for a long silent moment.
“I can’t see where it would do any harm,” she said finally. “But I must tell you, most of what I know about Syd was told to me by my mum because I wasn’t even born when much of it happened.”
“He had an eventful life?” I suggested, eager to keep her talking.
“Two lives actually. He was, as you said, well educated. He wanted to be an art historian and after he took his degree at Balliol began to write monographs on Celtic art, which were very well received. But of course one can’t become wealthy doing that kind of work. Syd had inherited a small sum and that enabled him to get by. He married a young woman who worked as a typist and her income helped. About a year after their marriage she had a son who died in childbirth. Apparently it devastated them. I can understand that; it happened to me too.”
She drained her glass and, without asking, I went to the bar to get us refills. This time I asked for more ice in mine. When I returned to the table she said, “Thank you. I better stop with this one or I’ll get tiddly.” Her smile was enchanting.
“About Sydney...” I prompted.
“Oh yes,” she said, and took up her story again. “Well, then the war came along and Syd signed up. And you know, he became a hero, he really did—that slight, mild darling. He fought in Africa, Italy, and France. Wounded three times. Won a chestful of medals. Mum kept all the newspaper stories about him. After the war was over he came home to more honors. But his wife had been killed in one of the air raids.”
“Good lord,” I said, “he had his share of sorrows.”
“He did,” she said, nodding. “And they changed him. The deaths of his son and wife and what he had endured in battle, all made him a different man. He never wrote another monograph but he opened an antique shop on Bond Street and it was an immediate success. Mum says he became obsessed with making money.”
“Why do you suppose that was?” I asked her.
“Oh, Archy, no one acts from a single motive. It only happens in Russian novels. But I think he had lost his faith in religion, his country, the future. The only thing real for him was money and the power it bought. I’m sure there were other reasons as well but he did become money-hungry, almost pathologically so. And he did make a lot. He had marvelous taste, you know, and his shop became the in place to find lovely things, rare things: jewelry, furniture, art, and even antiquities. Syd became so wealthy he was able to buy a town house in Mayfair. He was simply swimming in filthy lucre, buying big cars and small cars, bespoke clothing without end, even a yacht, champagne dinners and all that. The lush life. And he was very generous to family members I must say. But then he was arrested.”
I was about to take a sip of my drink but set the glass down. “Arrested?” I said, astonished. “What on earth for?”
“I was old enough by then to read newspapers and watch the telly, so I learned firsthand of what happened. He was arrested for being a fence. The police said many of those beautiful things he sold had been stolen. Apparently Syd had been buying thieves’ loot for pence and selling it for pounds. Hundreds of pounds.”
“Incredible.”
“But that wasn’t the worst of it. He was also accused of blackmail. In the privacy of the shop’s back room he would tell a potential customer the art object or antique wanted had been purloined and would have to be kept in the privacy of his home, shown only to trustworthy friends, and never loaned for exhibition. You’d be surprised at how many people accepted those conditions and bought stolen items. Several buyers were well-known, reputable men and women in government, law, banking, and so forth.”
“Where does the blackmail come in?”
“While Syd was telling them the truth about what was for sale he was secretly recording the conversation on tape. Then if they bought—and most of them did—he had evidence of their complicity and blackmailed them later. The majority paid up. They were famous, you see, and wanted to avoid a scandal at all costs. But one, a theatrical producer, was outraged by the attempted extortion and went to the police. They investigated and Syd was finished.”
Then I took a deep swallow of my drink. “Astonishing,” I said. “Did he do time?”
“No, but he was wiped out. Forced to make restitution
and pay horrendous fines. I think the only reason he wasn’t imprisoned was because of his war record. He had been a genuine hero, you know, and that counted for something. So he wasn’t jailed but I suspect the authorities told him they’d be happy if he chose to emigrate—which he did.”
“And ended up dead in Palm Beach,” I said. “What a story! And what a picaresque life he had.”
“Yes,” Penny agreed. “And the amazing thing was to all appearances he was a meek little man, giving the impression of being weak-willed. But he was far from that. Well, I think I’ve talked quite enough for one afternoon. You must think me a frightful chatterbox.”
“Most certainly not,” I said. “I am fascinated by what you’ve told me and I thank you for it.”
“I think my drink is gone and so must I be,” she said. “I hope to leave in a few days, and still have to make final arrangements for Syd’s cremation. It’s been so nice meeting you, Archy.”
My opportunity was slipping away and almost desperately I grabbed for it. I ignored her farewell remark and said, “You know, Mr. Smythe occasionally mentioned art books he owned, and on Saturday I drove out to his motel hoping to find and buy anything he had on antique jewelry, which is of particular interest to me. But all I found was an old history of pistols.”
“I know,” she said sadly. “Apparently he was forced to sell off most of his library just to subsist. I took four books only because they’re illustrated and I thought my daughter might like to clip some of the pictures to make an album on antiques. She already has albums on cars, castles, and rock stars.”
“Really?” I said, trying not to seem too eager. “What are the subjects of the books you have?”
“Two on furniture: Victorian and Hepplewhite. One on Greek coins. And yes, the fourth is on jewelry. I leafed through it. Royal crowns, gold from Tut’s tomb, and similar things. Is that what you were looking for?”
“It may be,” I said. “Would it be presumptuous to ask if I might take a look at it?”
“I’ll do better than that,” Penny said. “You may have the book—a small gift for your having been such an attentive listener.”
“Oh no,” I protested. “It’s very kind of you but I couldn’t possibly accept it. After all, it’s one of your few remembrances of your cousin. But if you would be willing to lend the book to me for a short time I promise to return it to you in person if you are still here or by airmail to your home in England.”
“A good idea,” she said. “I’ll just pop up to my room and bring it down. Thank you again for the drinks, Archy.”
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
Fifteen minutes later, having bid Penelope Blakely-Jones good-bye, I was driving homeward with an oversized art book on the seat beside me. The thick volume was Fantastic Jewelry of Royalty. The title dismayed me until I recalled Fabergé Imperial eggs had been made for the Romanovs. And my scheming to obtain the book had not been entirely a blue-sky venture. I’m sure you remember Smythe offering to check out my imaginary “surprise” in his library.
When I arrived home I was in such a hurry to get upstairs I didn’t even pause to tip my cap to Hobo. Nor did I bother removing cap or lilac jacket when I sat at my desk and slipped on my reading specs to examine my treasure. I softly sang, “Luck, be a lady tonight...” as I turned first to the index. I was disappointed to find only two pages devoted to Fabergé eggs, but even a little something is better than a big nothing. I flipped hurriedly to the designated pages—and there it was!
I saw a full-page color photo exactly like the one Natalie Westmore had shown me, exactly like the one she had filched from her mother’s desk, exactly like the one given to Edythe by Frederick Clemens, who claimed it was the Fabergé Imperial egg in Paris awaiting her purchase.
The brief inscription on the facing page stated the jeweled ovoid pictured was called the Coronation Egg and was a masterpiece of the Forbes Magazine Collection.
Game, set, and match!
CHAPTER 30
I READ THE COPY hastily and learned the Coronation Egg had been given to Alexandra by Czar Nicholas II in 1897. But that became of peripheral interest when I closely examined the color photo of the egg itself. I discovered the page on which it was printed had been oh so carefully cut from the book, probably with a single-edge razor blade, and then just as carefully reinserted into the book and reattached with a narrow strip of transparent Scotch tape.
It was as obvious to me as I trust it is to you what had happened. The page bearing the image of the Coronation Egg had been neatly sliced from the book and a color copy made at a photo shop. The original had been taped back into the book. The exact reproduction had been given to Mrs. Edythe Westmore as “proof’ the egg she was being gulled into buying actually existed. It was an elegant con, breathtaking in its simplicity, as effective and convincing as a goldbrick (an ingot of lead covered with gold leaf).
I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff immediately to tell him what I had found but was informed he was busy and couldn’t come to the phone. I left a message asking him to call me back when he had a free moment. Then I took off cap and jacket and donned suitable duds for the family cocktail hour and dinner. My father is offended by my more daring sartorial selections. But what do you expect from a man who wears garters?
I refrained from phoning Rogoff again that evening, not wanting to be thought a nudge—or as they say in New York, a noodge. I worked steadily on my journal and eventually Al called a little after nine o’clock. He sounded weary.
“What a day,” he said. “I haven’t stopped for twelve hours. I’m ready for the sack.”
“Can you stop by before you go home?” I asked. “I want to hear the latest and I have something to show you.”
“Can’t it wait?” he pleaded. “I’m wiped out.”
“I hate to use the old chestnut ‘Time is of the essence,’” I said, “but time is of the essence. Al, the swindle has to be stopped before Wednesday or Mrs. Westmore is out half a mil and Clemens and Katz disappear back in the woodwork.”
“All right,” he said, sighing heavily, “I’ll stop by for a few minutes. Do I have to bring my own beer?”
“I don’t think it’ll be necessary,” I told him. “There’s a six-pack of Coors Light in the fridge.”
“A good start,” he said. “See you soon.”
By the time his pickup skidded to a stop on our graveled turnaround I was in the kitchen with beer and glasses ready. I had also brought down the art book borrowed from Penelope Blakely-Jones.
Rogoff clumped in, removed his gun belt, and collapsed onto a chair at the enameled kitchen table. He looked drained.
“Hungry?” I asked him.
“Nah. I had a couple of chili burgers about an hour ago. Maybe that’s why I’m so thirsty.”
We poured glasses of cold beer and he went to work on his at once.
“Anything new on Clemens and Katz?” I asked him.
He nodded. “A lot. They’re not full-time partners but they’ve teamed up on several capers in the past. Clemens is always the front man, a smoothy who deals directly with the marks. Katz provides muscle if it’s needed and acts as collector. Now listen to this one; it’s a doozy. Last year, before they came to Florida, they’re in L.A. and they buy a dinky two-by-nothing store selling cameras, radios, TVs, and stuff like that. I didn’t get the name of the place. Call it XYZ Electronics. The store is just a front for Clemens and Katz, so all their out-of-pocket is the down payment. The reason they want this joint is because it’s been okayed by credit card companies and can accept all kinds of plastic.”
He paused to open a second beer and loosen the waistband of his trousers. Al is getting quite a paunch; every time I see him I vow to start a diet—soon.
“All right,” he continued, “so now our villains own a store which can accept credit cards. You know a lot of guys in L.A.—and elsewhere of course—go to bordellos or patronize call girls. And many of the Johns use plastic to pay because they don’t want to car
ry cash. The madams and the call girls—even streetwalkers—will take a credit card rather than lose a sale. The crunch comes when the stud’s credit card bill arrives. He doesn’t want it to show he paid X dollars to the Whoopie Club or to some unidentified woman, in case his wife or boss sees the bill and asks questions.”
“I’m beginning to get it,” I said.
“Sure,” Rogoff said. “Clemens and Katz went to all the madams and call girls and said look, do all your credit card billing through XYZ Electronics. And if you haven’t got a credit card machine we’ll get you one. We’ll take ten percent off the top and return to you ninety percent of the cash received from the credit card companies. We’ll keep records you can inspect anytime you want to be sure we’re playing straight. And you can raise your rates to cover the surcharge. The Johns won’t object because their bills will show they made a purchase at XYZ Electronics.”
“And it worked?”
“Like a charm. They must have signed up every bawd in L.A. These two guys hit it big. You could write a book about them.”
“I intend to,” I said. “What ended their bonanza?”
“The IRS. They did an audit, checked the credit card receipts of XYZ Electronics, and levied a big tax plus interest and penalties. So Clemens and Katz, who were using phony names for the scam, skedaddled and came to Florida.”
“Beautiful,” I said. “But I’ve got a story that almost matches it. Listen to this....”
And I gave him a condensed account of what Mrs. Blakely-Jones had told me of the past history of Sydney Smythe, war hero and blackmailer. When I finished, Sgt. Rogoff shook his head in wonderment. “As you like to say, Archy, one never knows, do one?”
“You know what I’m thinking, Al?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’m thinking the same thing. If Smythe was a blackmailer in England he might have tried the same stunt over here by putting the screws on Clemens and Katz. More money in return for his silence.”
“Right. Which would give them another reason for putting him down. He just didn’t realize how vicious they are.”
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