Joe said, ‘My head’s hurting.’
Porphyry said anxiously, ‘It must be the sun. You should have worn a hat. Would you like to sit down for a minute?’
‘No, I’m fine. We any nearer the cheating?’
‘Nearly there,’ said the YFG, heading back into the woods in the direction of the house. ‘What happened was that Syd was a bit demoralized. Getting a birdie and still losing the hole can do that. I won the next two holes so we ended up all square.’
‘Like a draw?’
‘That’s it. But you can’t have a draw in a knock-out competition, so we went down the first again.’
‘To play another eighteen holes, you mean?’ said Joe aghast.
‘Oh no. First man to win a hole wins the match,’ said Porphyry.
‘Like a penalty shoot-out?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I won that hole too, so we headed back to the clubhouse for a drink. My treat, of course, being the winner. We were standing at the bar. Syd was telling everyone who came in that I must have sacrificed a virgin to the devil or something, coming back from dormy three to win. He was particularly eloquent on my incredible luck on the sixteenth, clattering my drive into the woods, and yet still somehow managing to come up with an eagle to beat his birdie. He’d just repeated the story for the third or fourth time when Jimmy Postgate came in. That’s Jimmy from Penley Farm, the house I showed you on the far edge of these woods. He speaks quite loudly, Jimmy, because he’s a touch deaf. So everyone in the bar heard it loud and clear when he took a golf ball out of his pocket and tossed it to me, saying, “Here’s the one you lost at the sixteenth, Chris. Plopped right into my swimming pool! Good job there was no one in there or it might have been a burial-at-sea job!”’
Trust
Now the Young Fair God fell silent, clearly reliving what even Joe with his weak grasp on the finer points of the game could see must have been a devastating moment.
But just to be quite sure he said, ‘So if that was your ball went into the swimming pool, no way you could have found it sitting nice and handy right at the edge of the fairway. No way except one, that is?’
‘Except one?’
The YFG was regarding him with hope brightening his face. Poor sod thinks I’m going to pull a rabbit out of the hat, thought Joe. Willie Woodbine must really have sold him the notion I’m some kind of voodoo priest. Well, it was disillusion time.
He said, ‘The except one being that you put it there.’
The light died.
‘Of course. That’s the obvious conclusion everyone reached.’
‘Not everyone, surely?’
‘Oh, one or two like Jimmy tell me they find it impossible to believe, but I wouldn’t blame them if even they had doubts. Let’s face it, what other explanation can there be?’
‘Only that you were fitted up,’ said Joe.
‘Fitted up?’
It was hard to believe in this wall-to-wall TV cop-show age that anybody could still be ignorant of the jargon.
‘That it’s a fix,’ said Joe. ‘That someone wants you to be accused of cheating.’
‘Oh,’ said the YFG, sounding disappointed again. ‘That’s what Willie suggested.’
‘Willie Woodbine? You called in the police?’
‘Good lord, no. I didn’t do anything. I really thought it was so absurd it would just go away, some simple explanation would present itself, we’d all have a laugh and that would be that. But as the days went by, it became clear it wasn’t going away.’
‘People were accusing you, you mean?’
‘Of course not. No, it was people coming up to me and assuring me they didn’t believe a word of it that made me realize how much everyone was talking. I’d invited Willie along for a game on Saturday – I’m putting him up for membership, you know – and while we were playing, it just sort of came up. I suppose I was hoping his professional expertise might be able to show me a way out. He was very sympathetic, but didn’t see how he could help officially. That was when he recommended you, Joe. So that’s why I came to see you yesterday.’
‘Yeah. Great. But Willie did reckon it might be an attempt to frame you?’
‘Or a bad joke, perhaps, that went wrong. That’s what he said. Told me to ask myself who might be capable of doing such a thing.’
‘And?’
‘I haven’t been able to think of a soul.’
‘You got no enemies then?’ said Joe doubtfully.
‘Not that I know of.’
That figured. Joe too had once had a similar sunny confidence in human kind, till his chosen profession showed him flaws in his argument. Now he knew, sadly, that the fact that Porphyry thought everyone loved him would be enough to make those who didn’t hate him even more.
So no help with who? Which meant that the poor sod wasn’t going to be much help with why? either. How? was the easy one. Porphyry hit his ball into the wood. A lurking plotter hurled a similar ball into Postgate’s swimming pool, then placed the original one, or a third ball, if he couldn’t find the original, on the fringe of the fairway.
Or maybe this guy Postgate himself had orchestrated the whole thing. That would make life a lot simpler.
A few minutes later Joe was scrubbing this particular theory.
Porphyry now led him to Penley Farm, entering the long rear garden by a wicket gate. A man was dozing on a cane chair by a small swimming pool. He had a mop of vigorous white hair and a sun-browned complexion. As they got near, Porphyry called out, ‘Hello, Jimmy,’ and the man opened his eyes, looking rather disorientated and extremely ancient. But when he saw who it was, a smile lit up his face, reducing him to a healthy eighty-year-old, and he rose to greet them.
‘Chris, good to see you,’ he said, shaking the YFG’s hand vigorously.
‘You too, you’re looking well, Jimmy. This is Joe Sixsmith. He’s a private detective. Joe, meet Jimmy Postgate, last of his kind – more’s the pity.’
Joe, who’d been expecting his role as prospective member to be maintained everywhere in the club, was a bit taken aback by Porphyry’s sudden attack of directness, but Postgate seemed to take it in his stride.
‘Private detective, eh?’ he said. ‘Never met one of them before. You look a bit overheated to me, Joe. Fancy a glass of lemonade? Or do you chaps only drink straight bourbon?’
‘Lemonade would be great,’ said Joe.
They sat by the pool and drank their lemonade which was home-made and delicious, but it soon became apparent to Joe that it was going to be the only profitable part of the visit, unless you could count Postgate’s uncompromising assertion of his undentable belief in Porphyry’s innocence. Coming from a man who had inadvertently provided the cornerstone of the case against him, this struck Joe as a bit of a paradox, which he defined as something that didn’t make sense or made more sense than at first appeared, but whether it helped or hindered him he couldn’t say so he sent it to the Recycle Bin.
Invited to offer an alternative explanation of events, Postgate just shook his head and repeated, ‘No, it beats me. Beats me. All I know is that young Chris here doesn’t have a dishonest bone in him. Now, what can I do to help?’
Change your story, thought Joe. Though it was probably too late for even that to help.
He said, ‘Could you explain exactly what happened?’
‘I was sitting in my chair here, reading my evening paper, when there was a splash, and when I looked into the pool I saw a ball. Fished it out and recognized it as one of Chris’s. No surprise there.’
‘You weren’t surprised?’ said Joe, puzzled.
‘No! Takes a big hitter and Chris is one of the longest hitters in the club. It’s a carry of at least three hundred yards. Even though it was well off line, I thought Chris would be quite chuffed to hear he’d got that distance when I tossed the ball back to him in the clubhouse. If I’d known the bother it was going to cause, I’d have kept my mouth shut!’
Joe studied the pool then looked up at the trees towering
high around the level lawns of the garden. He turned to Porphyry, who was enjoying his lemonade as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and said, ‘Thought you heard your ball clattering among the trees?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You hear that?’ he asked Postgate.
‘No, but I’m a little deaf these days,’ said the man cheerfully. ‘OK up to a dozen or so yards, but after that it’s the silent land.’
There seemed little else to learn here and Joe was beginning to find his host’s cheery demeanour and his client’s hopeful gaze equally oppressive.
‘I’m done here,’ he said, adding without any great conviction, ‘for now.’
They took their leave of Postgate and headed round the front of the house. Joe was quite lost by now but Porphyry told him they were walking back towards the clubhouse up the third fairway. Then he added, ‘So, Joe, now you know as much about the business as I know, what do you think?’
I think you’re in freefall, mate, and the only way you’re going to stop is when you hit the ground, thought Joe.
‘I’m pondering it,’ he said. ‘Ponder first, speak last, that’s my rule.’
The truth was that, despite his earlier resolution that just coming out here and seeing how the other one per cent lived had earned him the money in his back pocket, he was beginning to feel bad about it again. There was nothing he could even pretend to be doing. It wasn’t a question of Porphyry’s guilt or innocence, though the notion had crept into his mind that maybe when it came to golf the guy was so focused on winning that it blinded him to the truth of his own behaviour. Games could do this to people. Joe’s taxi-driving buddy, Merv Golightly, was a case in point. A lovely guy, loyal in friendship, generous and kind in nature, a total sweetie – till you came up against him competitively, that was. Then he couldn’t lose. He would cheat his young nephew at snap. Snooker balls rearranged themselves to give him an easier pot. Needing a double to win at darts, he would follow his arrow to the board and pluck it out with a cry of triumph before you could see for sure which side of the wire it had clipped. And if challenged, his protestations of innocence were so clearly genuine that Joe had long since concluded he really believed them!
No, the trouble was Joe couldn’t see anywhere else to go, even to pretend he was doing something. Time to break away. The only question was, how much of the two hundred did he feel he could legitimately take with him.
‘You earned any of it, Joseph?’ he could hear Aunt Mirabelle asking.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Then you give it all back, boy,’ she said sternly. ‘You know I’m right.’
The Bermuda Triangle were still sitting on the terrace. As they passed their table, Latimer waved a glass and called, ‘Chris, why don’t you and Joe join us?’
Not waiting for Porphyry to reply, Joe said, ‘Look, I need to get back to town. Got an urgent appointment, running late already.’
‘Pity,’ said Porphyry. ‘Thanks anyway, Tom. Oh, Colin…something I had to tell you…what was it? Sorry…a bit distracted lately…’
Impatient to be away, Joe chipped in. ‘Wasn’t it about some worker who’s gone missing? Waring or something?’
‘Well remembered, Joe,’ said Porphyry, regarding him proudly. ‘Only here two minutes and you know more about things than I do. Colin. I’ve just been talking to Davie. He reckons Steve Waring’s bilked his landlady and done a runner. Can’t believe it of the lad myself, but Davie’s really keen to get a replacement.’
‘OK, I’ll give him the go-ahead, though where we’ll get someone any good in the middle of the summer, heaven knows,’ said Rowe.
‘Bye, Joe,’ said Latimer. ‘Don’t forget that game you’ve promised us.’
‘You bet I won’t. Keep listening for them butterflies, boys,’ said Joe, light-hearted at the thought that this was probably the last time he’d see the Triangle.
His attempt at a golfing joke produced only polite smiles, but what the shoot did he care? He was out of here. But he soon found his sense of finality wasn’t shared.
As they made their way towards the car park, Porphyry said, ‘Sorry you have to go, Joe. Hoped you’d stay for a spot of lunch. But Willie warned me you were in great demand. So, what’s our next move?’
His tone held nothing of despondence. It was the voice of a man confident in the expertise of the man he’d hired to help him.
Joe sighed. It was beginning to feel like disillusioning this guy would involve a full refund after all. And Willie Woodbine wouldn’t be pleased. Presumably his application for membership would be buried in blackballs if his sponsor got done for cheating.
But it wasn’t the anticipated wrath of the policeman that bothered Joe most, it was the look of bewildered disappointment that his turn-down would probably bring to the Young Fair God’s young fair features.
Best to do it when he was already in his car, ready for a quick take-off before he could weaken.
To pass the time till he did the deed, he said, ‘So what happens now?’
‘It’s in the hands of the Four Just Men – that’s what we call our Rules Committee. They’ll consider the evidence at their next meeting in a fortnight’s time, then hand down their vedict. I know I’ll get a fair hearing, but as things stand…’
That note of uncertainty caught at Joe’s heart, but his mind was made up. He’d got a plan and he was going to stick to it. In the car, hand back the money, say sorry, and off! It was the best thing for all concerned.
But like a lot of Joe’s plans, it didn’t turn out as easy as that.
The Morris’s resemblance to a tramp who had strayed into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot was now underscored by the fact that its front offside tyre was completely flat.
‘Oh shoot,’ said Joe, not realizing he was on the edge of another ’fonly or he might have set off walking down the drive.
‘Oh dear,’ said Porphyry. ‘How long have you got, Joe?’
‘What?’
It took a moment to work out this wasn’t an enquiry about his general state of health but a reference to his mythical urgent appointment.
He made a show of looking at his watch and said, ‘Five minutes. I’m going to be late.’
‘No problem,’ said Porphyry. ‘Here, take mine.’
Again it required a little time to grasp his precise meaning, which not even the sight of the car keys in Porphyry’s outstretched hand could affirm absolutely.
‘You mean,’ said Joe turning his gaze to rest on the Volante, ‘you mean, like, I should drive your car?’
‘Yes. I’ll get yours sorted, we can meet and exchange later.’
Joe’s heart was full. This was like the moment when Rev Pot asked him to sing the Priest in Gerontius, or the first time Beryl Boddington asked him to babysit her young son. This was big trust time. OK, so Porphyry must be loaded to afford such wheels, but he didn’t seem the kind of plonker who drove a Volante just to tell the world how rich he was. He’d bought the car because he loved it, and Joe didn’t doubt for a moment that the club terrace was full of folk the YFG wouldn’t have dreamt of offering his keys.
It was certainly full of folk who wouldn’t dream of offering their keys to Joe Sixsmith!
How could he tell a guy like this there was no way to prove he wasn’t a lousy cheat?
His other equally urgent problem was to resist the temptation to accept the loan of the Aston. He could see himself driving slowly round the streets of Luton, waving casually to his jaw-dropped acquaintance, letting Merv check out the engine, inviting Beryl out for a spin…
Then as on a split screen his mental projector ran parallel footage of him crushing one of those immaculate wings against a concrete bollard, or coming out of his office to find that some lowlife had scratched his envy across the bonnet with a Stanley knife.
His mind said No but his hand was stretched to receive the keys when Chip appeared pushing a mobile hydraulic jack before him.
‘Hi, Mr Sixsmith,’ he said cheerily. ‘C
hecked back to see how that tyre was doing and when I saw it had really gone, I looked for you on the terrace to get your key so that I could put your spare on. No sign of you, so I thought I’d make a start anyway and get the wheel off.’
‘Hey, man, this is real service,’ said Joe.
‘That’s what we aim to give our members, right, Mr Porphyry?’
‘That’s right, Chip. Well done,’ said the YFG. ‘Joe, if five minutes is going to make a difference, my offer still stands.’
‘No thanks, Chris,’ said Joe reluctantly. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘If you’re sure. I’ll leave you in Chip’s safe hands then. By the by, Chip, you’ve not seen anything of Steve Waring recently, have you? Not round here – he hasn’t shown for work since last week – I meant in one of those clubs or pubs you wild young things frequent, maybe?’
‘No, sorry, Mr Porphyry. I’ll keep my eyes open though.’
‘Thanks, Chip.’
He put his arm round Joe’s shoulder and led him a few steps away.
‘You’ll ring me later, let me know how things are going, Joe? It’s such a load off my mind, knowing I’ve got you on the case.’
He smiled as he spoke. Now was the moment to put him straight. But it would have been like telling the sun not to rise.
He turned back to the young assistant pro who already had the wheel off.
As he helped Chip manoeuvre the spare into place, Joe said, ‘Nice chap.’
‘Mr Porphyry? Oh yes, one of the best.’
‘Yeah. Pity about this bother…’
‘Bother?’ said Chip. ‘Oh, that. Nothing to worry about there, Mr Sixsmith. Anyone who knows Mr Porphyry knows there’s as much chance of him cheating as there is of Ian Paisley becoming Pope. But I don’t need to tell a close friend that, do I?’
‘No, well, there’s close and close,’ bumbled Joe. ‘I mean, we’re pretty close, I suppose…’
The Roar of the Butterflies Page 6
