“Transferred ninety per cent of my shares into your name, five years ago; just in time to avoid death duties.
“Estate tax, they call it nowadays, but we must be realistic. I’m dying, whatever the doctors may say and death doesn’t frighten me. Seen too much of it to care, and you’ll be the boss of the firm before a week’s out.
“You already are on paper, actually, though you never guessed it. Just imagined you were signing a dividend slip, but that signature and mine gives you full control, which is what I want to talk about.” Vale left the porthole and sat down on the edge of his bunk.
“Blood may be thicker than water, but its not half as thick as thieves, and there’ll be only two thieves you can trust before long. Peter Kent and Billy Mackenzie will teach you the business and you’ll listen to them and learn the trade. Hard work, but you’ll soon start to enjoy it, because you’re my niece, my adopted daughter and my heir.
“Sorry, heiress of course.” He smiled faintly and lifted his legs up onto the bunk. “Always been a chauvinistic male pig, Janet, and I never taught you a single useful thing.
“Never let you learn, if it comes to that. ‘University, Janet?’ He changed his tone and mocked himself. “Why should Miss Vale need an education? She’s got enough brass of her own to keep her happy.
“ ‘Teachers training colleges – art classes and schools of domestic economy. Fiddlesticks – what use are they to Janet Vale, Sir Simon’s adopted daughter?’
“Yes, always a bloody pig, Jan. Thought I knew best, but was usually wrong.” His normal voice returned, though it was very weak and barely audible. “But you mustn’t worry, my darling. Certainly don’t fret over that damned book. Have the last copy tomorrow and then – can’t hurt – either of us again.” Vale’s head slumped back on the pillow, his eyes closed and his lips stopped moving.
“The book, Uncle? Men of Courage?” Memories of what she had heard from Tom and Mott hammered Janet’s brain and she was suddenly terrified. Was it possible? Could she be involved in at least four murders?
“Please, Uncle – please try to tell me. What is there about that book which can harm us?” She shook Vale’s arm, but there was no response. As Willy Mackenzie had remarked, “The chief was having one of his bad turns again.”
“That’s the lot, Mayne.” Mott laid a row of photographs on the desk. “Those are copies of the illustrations taken from Men of Courage, so have a squint and tell me if you see anything interesting, anything worth committing murder for?”
“No – no – no.” Tom peered at the prints. There were thirty in all, and though they were mostly dramatic, he could see nothing incriminating. “But just a moment, isn’t that Simon Vale, Janet’s uncle?”
“It is indeed, though taken a long time ago.” Mott craned over his shoulder. “Nineteen fifty-seven or eight when Sir Simon was the sole survivor of a motor accident. Old Simon was in the back seat when the car driven by his brother, Ted, hit the embankment near Barnes. Ted and his wife, Janet’s parents, were thrown through the windscreen into the Thames, and in spite of cuts and bruises, Simon plunged in after ’em. A gallant but vain rescue attempt, because they were both dead and a police launch recovered the bodies an hour or two later.
“Proves that Simon deserves a place in the book though, as does the exhibit beside it.” He pointed at the bows of a sinking ship and read the caption below the picture. ‘The last moments of the frigate, River Madoc, photographed from Sam and Helen’s lifeboat, shortly before the start of her epic voyage.’
“Yes, old Sir Simon Vale is an extremely brave man, Mayne, but where has it got him? Just a step on his road to dusty death?
“Anything else which might seem significant?”
“Not a thing.” Tom had come to the end of the collection and he looked up. “But you – you’ve got an idea, Mr Mott, and I’d like to hear it.”
“Oh no, not yet.” Mott shook his head ponderously. “I’ve already suspected one innocent man unjustly and I’m not making accusations against what may be a perfectly respectable group of people. But I’ve got an idea – a theory – and I hope to Christ I am wrong.
“Your lucky escape the other night gave me the notion, son, but let me be mistaken. Pray that J. Molden-Mott is just a stupid, credulous fool, because if I’m right, this joker didn’t just kill for books. He wanted money and power and love – such a lot of all three possessions.” Mott paused and started to refill his pipe again. “Must be wrong – have to be, though we’ll know tomorrow, Mayne, so wait till then.
“You see, if I’m not a fool and I don’t think I am – ” A match to the bowl, smoke to the ceiling and a lowering of the voice. “If I’m right, Little Miss Vale will be in trouble – dead trouble!”
Thirteen
“Yes, a motor accident which took place in September 1957 or ’58, Mr Mott. That is quite some time ago, but I remember the incident fairly well, as I was attached to Barnes when it happened.” Mott had finally pocketed his pride and contacted the police, and an old friend, Detective Chief Superintendent Brant, spoke to him on the telephone. “As far as I can recall, witnesses stated that the car was travelling far too fast and the driver was probably drunk, though no blood test was made of course. Very lax, we were in those days.” The superintendent paused to clear his throat. “However accidents can happen and they frequently do, more’s the pity, and no blame can be attached to Sir Simon Vale. He acted most heroically in fact, and I was proud to shake him by the hand afterwards.
“No, speed and alcohol just don’t go together and I’d step up the penalties accordingly. That is probably what happened in Miss Vale’s case and she and Mr Mayne had an exceptionally lucky escape.
“A book – my book, Mr Mott. You’ve read the manuscript already?” Brant’s spirits rose, but they were soon deflated. “Oh, a work called Men of Courage, which is up for sale at Foden’s tomorrow.
“I know nothing about that, so please fill me in.” He listened to the story and made a note in his jotting pad. “Not really our affair without definite evidence, though I wish you the best of luck, of course.
“But, Mr Mott, don’t – please don’t start suspecting Sir Simon Vale of anything dishonest. He may be ill, he may talk strangely, but he’s just about the finest Englishman I’ve ever known.
“Very nice to have spoken to you, and goodbye for the present. Let’s meet before too long.” Brant replaced the receiver, but his fingers still hovered over the cardboard cover. The super had literary ambitions, though he hadn’t decided on a title as yet. My Fight against Crime might appeal to the serious, but Life as a Rozzer had a popular ring. Mott already had the script and if he read it he might try to find him a publisher, but there were other individuals to be considered.
“The finest Englishman I’ve ever met.” That might be true and Vale certainly had an interest in three publishing firms, but what about Superintendent Brant’s own future?
Super was not a bad rank to retire at, but chief constable or commissioner would be far better. Beside, he’d given the man his word, and the man was a dangerous man to trifle with.
Very dangerous! For just over two minutes, Brant considered his course of action and then he lifted the telephone again and dialled a number. A further minute passed before a crippled hand picked up another instrument and a voice answered him.
“Thank you, Mr Brant. Thank you very much indeed and you won’t find me ungenerous.” Two fingers lowered a receiver onto its rest and their owner smiled. “A long, long time, Sergeant,” he said. “But if all goes well, we should be almost home and dry at last.” He paused and thought about the trail he had followed for over thirty years, and the men and women who had guided him on the way.
A clerk at a government office – a friend at a foreign embassy. A high-ranking officer and a Scotland Yard commander. Inspector Pounder, Superintendent Brant,
Mr Mott and Thomas Mayne. He hardly knew Tom Mayne, but all those people had helped and with any luck revenge would be sweet.
“The Book of the Dead, Sergeant,” he said. “That’s what I called the volume and tomorrow I should see it. The Foden Gallery at about three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” He still smiled, but there was no mirth or good humour in his expression. His face looked as if a gargoyle was grinning. “See the book, or see the person who tries to buy it. Doesn’t really matter which. All I want is revenge, and that’s supposed to be sweet.”
“A first, ladies and gentlemen. Lot 25 must surely be one of the rarest and most sought-after books in the world.” Mr Gordon Glover nodded to a porter who held up a slim, faded volume for the audience’s benefit. “You are looking at an authentic first edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, or Alice Underground as Dr Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) originally called it.” Glover cleared his throat and wished that the cover wasn’t so faded, the binding so loose and the interior so grimy. “I realize of course that this specimen can hardly be described as ‘fine’ but it bears the signature, C.L. Dodgson, on the flyleaf and all the pages are intact. What may I start at please?
“Thank you, Mr Latimer. I have three thousand pounds, which is a very modest sum indeed for such an item. Mrs Budd – four. Mr Latimer – four and a half.
“Any advance on four and a half, ladies and gentlemen? Ah, thank you, Doctor.” A valued customer at the back of the room spread out his fingers, and Glover banged down the hammer quickly. “Sold to Dr Howard Gotlieb of Boston University Libraries for five thousand pounds sterling.” Not really a bad price, he thought. Alice might be rare, she might be signed, but it would take the Libraries’ Restoration Department a long time to make her look presentable.
“And now for a novelty, my friends.” He watched the porter raise a thick wad of yellow papers. “Lot 26 is the supposed diary of Heinrich Himmler, compiled during the last three years before the poor – ” Glover had been about to say, “before the poor man committed suicide,” but checked himself in time.
“ – before this poor vile wretch took his own life by swallowing cyanide to avoid retribution in May, 1945.
“A coward’s way out, and we at Foden Gallery make no claim that the manuscript is genuine of course, though it was discovered in a ruined building near Flensburg; Himmler’s last official headquarters in Northern Germany.”
“Get on, man.” “Sell that pile of rubbish.” “Put up the last lot and show the truth.” “Whoever is hurt, I’ve got to face it.” At the right hand side of the room, Tom and Mott and Janet waited impatiently. As soon as Himmler was disposed of, Men of Courage would be offered for sale and the murderer might reveal himself.
They looked forward to that revelation with varied feelings, and Tom’s were mixed. He didn’t know exactly what Molden-Mott’s theory might be, but he suspected. If those suspicions were proved correct, someone he had grown very fond of was going to be badly hurt and he didn’t want Janet to be hurt – he didn’t want that at all.
Janet’s emotions consisted of dumb misery and acceptance. She had no idea what secret the book contained, but she was almost certain that her family had been involved in some scandal. She wanted to know the truth, but the truth terrified her. A car which happened to crash, Simon Vale had said that in the Bully Boy’s cabin. Uncle had never cared for her parents and he admitted his dislike openly. Did the crash just happen, or had he arranged it?
Mott, on the other hand, appeared totally unconcerned. Like a decadent Roman emperor, he leaned on his stick and waited for the Christians to enter the arena, and watch the real fun begin. In a very few minutes, Glover would offer the book for sale and a mass murderer must show his hand. If only Glover would stop talking and get on with his job. He listened to the man’s fruity voice and tapped the floor impatiently with his ferrule.
“No, we of the Foden make no claim that these diaries were actually written by Himmler himself, though the handwriting and the paper both tally. And even if they are forgeries, the forger apparently knew Reichführer Himmler personally. There is a most interesting account of his relationship with Adolf Eichmann. The implications are quite Freudian.” Glover paused and chuckled, “What can we start at?
“One pound!” A small bespectacled man had raised a single finger and the mirth ceased. “I’m afraid you must be joking, sir. We do not accept bids of under ten pounds at the Foden.
“Ah, one thousand pounds. That is more accurate.” The bidder had corrected his mistake and Glover’s frown faded. “I have one thousand, so do I hear any advance on that figure?
“No, then sold to Mr . . .” He appealed to the purchaser for help. “I’m afraid, I do not know your name, or address, sir. Thank you. Sold to Herr Stinkentroüser of Garmish-Partenkirchen for the sum of one thousand pounds.”
“Not Stinkentroüser – Steinehauser.” The German protested, but Mott hardly heard him. The big moment was approaching and he stared around the room while Glover consulted his catalogue. With any luck, he might spot the suspect before the bidding opened.
But what was wrong – what was happening? Why was no porter holding up his copy of Men of Courage? Why didn’t Glover call out the lot number? Why had he risen to his feet, taken a sip of water and smiled?
“Well, my friends. I’m afraid that that concludes our business for the present,” he said. “All that remains is for me to thank you for your amicable co-operation and hope that we shall meet again shortly. The practice of holding book sales on Thursday afternoons has become quite a feature of Foden’s recently and I’m sure you will agree that it has been a most satisfactory arrangement.
“I beg your pardon, Fred.” His clerk had whispered to him and leaned forward. “Ah yes, and you were quite right to remind me.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” He cleared his throat and spoke as blandly as before. “The final lot advertised in our catalogue, which is a Raeburn Press limited edition of a book entitled Men of Courage, was withdrawn by its owner, shortly before the sale opened. I sincerely hope that this has caused no one any disappointment or inconvenience, but the proprietor’s wishes must always be observed.”
“What the devil!” Mott gave a hollow groan and his hand gripped Tom’s arm like a vice. “Did you tell Glover to withdraw the copy, Mayne, and if not, what went wrong?”
“Of course I didn’t tell him anything of the kind.” Tom was almost as astounded as Mott by the announcement. “You handed me the book at eleven o’clock and I delivered it to Glover at half-past with our written instructions.” Tom pulled his arm free. “There can only be one explanation. Someone bribed Glover and got at him first.”
“Yes, that seems likely, and Mr Gordon Glover is going to have a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry. Come on, Mayne. Out of the way, sir. Let me pass, madam.” Mott grasped the end of his stick and strode forward with Tom at his heels. He elbowed aside everyone who blocked their way and reached the dais just as Glover was about to step down.
“Now, Mr Glover, just what explanation have you to offer?” Mott mounted the steps and his face glowed like a great, scarlet ball of indignation. “I happen to be the owner of that book and I gave no orders for its withdrawal, so answer me.”
“I don’t understand.” For a moment Glover responded bravely enough. A bishop defying the pagan hoards from his altar and then he asked a question which was to be his undoing. “Is your friend a lunatic, Mr Mayne?”
“A lunatic!” Mott’s fury increased. “You dare call me that, you murderer, accessory, Iscariot.” His stick swung out and caught the auctioneer’s kneecap. Glover screamed and then bolted for his door like a panic-stricken black rabbit, but he did not get far. The handle of the stick seemed to leap forward and encircle his neck and he fell to the floor with a crash that shook the room.
From her place by the wall, Janet watched the tumult, as though it was a sc
ene from some early slapstick comedy. Three porters had hurled themselves on Mott in an attempt to drag him back and the public were starting to panic. She just stared fascinated till a hand clutched her arm.
“Let’s get out of this beargarden, Miss Janet.” The voice at her side sounded worried and sad. “I’ve brought bad news, I’m afraid; the worst news of all. The chief is dead and it’s time you faced the truth at last,” said Peter Kent.
“I certainly intend to prefer charges, Sergeant. I have been outraged, humiliated and physically injured.” Glover lay on a sofa in his office and he no longer looked urbane or pompous. His coat was torn, his right eye was starting to swell and there was a long graze down one side of his face. His breath came in gasps and he resembled a huge dying fish that has been too long out of water.
“This young man instructed me to sell an almost valueless book and put a reserve on the price at two thousand pounds.” He pointed a shaky finger at Tom. “Well, that’s what I got for it, Mayne. The cash is in my safe, and our commission will be used to cover the costs of this hooligan’s trial.” He stared at Mott with a mixture of dread and indignation. “And the assault took place in public too – in the gallery itself – before the very eyes of my audience.” He raised his hand to rub a tear from his own swollen eye. “The shame, disgrace and humilation! Never be able to hold up my head again.”
“Why, you puffed-up nonentity!” Mott appeared to be about to attack again, but the presence of three policemen deterred him. “Your reputation no longer exists, Mr Gordon Glover, and we want to know what happened to that book. My book, which was entrusted to you to offer for public auction.” His fist thumped a table to drive home the point. “Well, what became of it? Who did you sell the copy to?”
“I was about to tell you, if you’d only give me the chance. I did sell it. About half an hour before the sale opened a man came in here and said that he wished to buy Men of Courage privately. We never do business like that usually of course, but when I told him the reserve Mayne had placed on the thing, he opened his brief-case and produced a stack of twenty-pound notes. I counted them of course, and checked the serial numbers for duplicates. All quite genuine, and two thousand pounds in cash. Thought you’d have been pleased, Mayne, but instead you bring a hired bully along to assault me.”
A Book of the Dead Page 12
