A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Two black coffees,’ he said to a passing waiter, without giving Danny any choice. ‘Now, Sir Nicholas. I’m puzzled.’

  ‘Puzzled?’ said Danny, speaking for the first time.

  ‘I can’t work out why you let the de Coubertin come up for auction, and then allowed your uncle to outbid me for it. Unless you and he were working together, and hoped you could force me to go even higher.’

  ‘My uncle and I are not on speaking terms,’ said Danny, selecting his words carefully.

  ‘That’s something you have in common with your late grand-daddy,’ said Hunsacker.

  ‘You were a friend of my grandfather’s?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Friend would be presumptuous,’ said the Texan. ‘Pupil and follower would be nearer the mark. He once outfoxed me for a rare two penny blue way back in 1977 when I was still a rookie collector, but I learnt quickly from him and, to be fair, he was a generous teacher. I keep reading in the press that I have the finest stamp collection on earth, but it just ain’t true. That honour goes to your late grand-daddy.’ Hunsacker sipped his coffee before adding, ‘Many years ago he tipped me off that he’d be leaving the collection to his grandson, and not to either of his sons.’

  ‘My father is dead,’ Danny said.

  Hunsacker looked surprised. ‘I know – I was at his funeral. I thought you saw me.’

  ‘I did,’ said Danny, recalling Nick’s description of the vast American in his diary. ‘But they would only allow me to speak to my solicitor,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Hunsacker. ‘But I managed to have a word with your uncle and let him know that I was in the market should you ever want to dispose of the collection. He promised to keep in touch. That’s when I realized that he hadn’t inherited it, and that your grand-daddy must have kept his word and left the collection to you. So when Mr Blundell phoned to tell me that you’d put the de Coubertin up for sale, I flew back across the pond in the hope that we might meet.’

  ‘I don’t even know where the collection is,’ admitted Danny.

  ‘Maybe that explains why Hugo was willing to pay so much for your envelope,’ said the Texan, ‘because he has absolutely no interest in stamps. There he is now.’ Hunsacker pointed his cigar at a man standing at the reception desk. So that’s Uncle Hugo, Danny thought, taking a closer look at him. He could only wonder why he wanted the envelope so badly that he’d been willing to pay three times its estimated value. Danny watched as Hugo passed a cheque to Mr Blundell, who in return handed over the envelope.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ muttered Danny, rising from his place.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Hunsacker, the cigar falling out of his mouth.

  ‘Me, not you,’ said Danny quickly. ‘It’s been staring me in the face for the past two months. It’s the address he’s after, not the envelope, because that’s where Sir Alexander’s collection has to be.’

  Gene looked even more puzzled. Why would Nick describe his grandfather as Sir Alexander?

  ‘I have to go, Mr Hunsacker, I apologize. I should never have sold the envelope in the first place.’

  ‘I wish I knew what in hell’s name you were talking about,’ said Hunsacker, taking a wallet from an inside pocket. He passed a card across to Danny. ‘If you ever decide to sell the collection, at least give me first option. I’d offer you a fair price with no ten per cent deduction.’

  ‘And no twenty per cent premium either,’ said Danny with a grin.

  ‘A chip off the older block,’ said Gene. ‘Your grand-daddy was a brilliant and resourceful gentleman, unlike your uncle Hugo, as I’m sure you realize.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Hunsacker,’ said Danny as he tucked the card into Nick’s wallet. His eyes never left Hugo Moncrieff, who had just put the envelope into a briefcase. He walked across the lobby to join a woman Danny hadn’t noticed until that moment. She linked her arm in his and the two of them left the building quickly.

  Danny waited for a few seconds before following them. Once he was back on Bond Street, he looked left and then right, and when he spotted them he was surprised by how much ground they’d already covered. It was clear they were in a hurry. They turned right as they passed the statue of Churchill and Roosevelt sitting on a bench, and then left when they reached Albemarle Street, where they crossed the road and walked for a few more yards before disappearing into Brown’s Hotel.

  Danny hung around outside the hotel for a few moments while he considered his options. He knew that if they spotted him they would think it was Nick. He entered the building cautiously, but there was no sign of either of them in the lobby. Danny took a seat that was half concealed by a pillar, but still allowed him a clear view of the lifts as well as reception. He didn’t pay any attention to a man who had just sat down on the other side of the lobby.

  Danny waited for another thirty minutes, and began to wonder if he’d missed them. He was about to get up and check with reception when the lift doors opened, and out stepped Hugo and the woman pulling two suitcases. They walked across to the reception desk, where the woman settled the bill before they quickly left the hotel by a different door. Danny rushed out on to the pavement to see them climbing into the back of a black cab. He hailed the next one on the rank, and even before he had closed the door shouted, ‘Follow that cab.’

  ‘I’ve waited all my life to hear someone say that,’ the cabbie responded as he pulled away from the kerb.

  The taxi in front turned right at the end of the road and made its way towards Hyde Park Corner, through the underpass, along Brompton Road and on to the Westway.

  ‘Looks like they’re heading for the airport,’ said the cabbie. Twenty minutes later he was proved right.

  When the two cabs emerged from the Heathrow underpass, Danny’s driver said, ‘Terminal two. So they must be flying to somewhere in Europe.’ They both came to a halt outside the entrance. The meter read £34.50, and Danny handed over forty pounds but remained in the cab until Hugo and the woman had disappeared inside the terminal.

  He followed them in, and watched as they joined a queue of business-class passengers. The screen above the check-in desk read BA0732, Geneva, 13.55.

  ‘Idiot,’ Danny muttered again, recalling the address on the envelope. But where exactly in Geneva had it been? He looked at his watch. He still had enough time to buy a ticket and catch the plane. He ran across to the British Airways sales counter, and had to wait some time before he reached the front of the queue.

  ‘Can you get me on the 13.55 to Geneva?’ he asked, trying not to sound desperate.

  ‘Do you have any luggage, sir?’ asked the assistant behind the sales counter.

  ‘None,’ said Danny.

  She checked her computer. ‘They haven’t closed the gate yet, so you should still be able to make it. Business or economy?’

  ‘Economy,’ said Danny, wanting to avoid the section where Hugo and the woman would be seated.

  ‘Window or aisle?’

  ‘Window.’

  ‘That will be £217, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Danny as he passed over his credit card.

  ‘May I see your passport, please?’

  Danny had never had a passport in his life. ‘My passport?’

  ‘Yes, sir, your passport.’

  ‘Oh no, I must have left it at home.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you won’t be in time to catch the plane, sir.’

  ‘Idiot, idiot,’ said Danny.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Danny. ‘Me, not you,’ he repeated. She smiled.

  Danny turned round and walked slowly back across the concourse, feeling helpless. He didn’t notice Hugo and the woman leave through the gate marked Departures, Passengers only, but someone else did, who had been watching both them and Danny closely.

  Hugo pressed the green button on his mobile just as the tannoy announced, ‘Final call for all passengers travelling to Geneva on flight BA0732. Please make your way to gate nin
eteen.’

  ‘He followed you from Sotheby’s to the hotel, and then from the hotel to Heathrow.’

  ‘Is he on the same flight as us?’ asked Hugo.

  ‘No, he didn’t have his passport with him.’

  ‘Typical Nick. Where is he now?’

  ‘On his way back to London, so you should have at least a twenty-four-hour start on him.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s enough, but don’t let him out of your sight for a moment.’ Hugo turned off his phone, as he and Margaret left their seats to board the aircraft.

  ‘Have you come across another heirloom, Sir Nicholas?’ asked Mr Blundell hopefully.

  ‘No, but I do need to know if you have a copy of the envelope from this morning’s sale,’ said Danny.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Blundell. ‘We retain a photograph of every item sold at auction, in case a dispute should arise at some later date.’

  ‘Would it be possible to see it?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Blundell.

  ‘No,’ Danny replied. ‘I just need to check the address on the envelope.’

  ‘Of course,’ repeated Blundell. He tapped some keys on his computer, and a moment later an image of the envelope appeared on the screen. He swivelled the screen round so that Danny could see it.

  Danny copied down the name and address. ‘Do you by any chance know if Baron de Coubertin was a serious stamp collector?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Blundell. ‘But of course his son was the founder of one of the most successful banks in Europe.’

  ‘Idiot,’ said Danny. ‘Idiot,’ he repeated as he turned to leave.

  ‘I do hope, Sir Nicholas, that you are not dissatisfied with the result of this morning’s sale?’

  Danny turned back. ‘No, of course not, Mr Blundell, I do apologize. Yes, thank you.’ Another of those moments when he should have behaved like Nick, and only thought like Danny.

  The first thing Danny did when he arrived back at The Boltons was to search for Nick’s passport. Molly knew exactly where it was. ‘And by the way,’ she added, ‘a Mr Fraser Munro called, and asked you to phone him.’

  Danny retreated to the study, called Munro and told him everything that had happened that morning. The old solicitor listened to all his client had to say, but didn’t comment.

  ‘I’m glad you phoned back,’ he eventually said, ‘because I have some news for you, although it might be unwise to discuss it over the phone. I was wondering when you next expected to be in Scotland.’

  ‘I could catch the sleeper train tonight,’ said Danny.

  ‘Good, and perhaps it might be wise for you to bring your passport with you this time.’

  ‘For Scotland?’ said Danny.

  ‘No, Sir Nicholas. For Geneva.’

  46

  MR AND MRS MONCRIEFF were ushered into the boardroom by the chairman’s secretary.

  ‘The chairman will be with you in a moment,’ she said. ‘Would you care for coffee or tea while you’re waiting?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Margaret, as her husband began pacing around the room. She took a seat in one of the sixteen Charles Rennie Mackintosh chairs placed around the long oak table, and that should have made her feel at home. The walls were painted in a pale Wedgwood blue with full-length oil portraits of past chairmen hanging on every available space, giving an impression of stability and wealth. Margaret said nothing until the secretary had left the room and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Calm down, Hugo. The last thing we need is for the chairman to think we’re unsure about your claim. Now come and sit down.’

  ‘It’s all very well, old gal,’ said Hugo, continuing his perambulations, ‘but don’t forget that our whole future rests on the outcome of this meeting.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to behave in a calm and rational manner. You must appear as if you’ve come to claim what is rightfully yours,’ she said as the door at the far end of the room opened.

  An elderly gentleman entered the room. Although he stooped and carried a silver cane, such was his air of authority that no one would have doubted he was the bank’s chairman.

  ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Moncrieff,’ he said, and shook hands with both of them. ‘My name is Pierre de Coubertin, and it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he added. His English revealed no trace of an accent. He took a seat at the head of the table, below a portrait of an elderly gentleman who, but for a large grey moustache, was a reflection of himself. ‘How may I assist you?’

  ‘Rather simple, really,’ responded Hugo. ‘I have come to claim the inheritance left to me by my father.’

  Not a flicker of recognition passed across the chairman’s face. ‘May I ask what your father’s name was?’ he said.

  ‘Sir Alexander Moncrieff.’

  ‘And what makes you think that your father conducted any business with this bank?’

  ‘It was no secret within the family,’ said Hugo. ‘He told both my brother Angus and myself on several occasions about his longstanding relationship with this bank, which, among other things, was the guardian of his unique stamp collection.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence to support such a claim?’

  ‘No, I do not,’ said Hugo. ‘My father considered it unwise to commit such matters to paper, given our country’s tax laws, but he assured me that you were well aware of his wishes.’

  ‘I see,’ said de Coubertin. ‘Perhaps he furnished you with an account number?’

  ‘No, he did not,’ said Hugo, beginning to show a little impatience. ‘But I have been briefed on my legal position by the family’s solicitor, and he assures me that as I am my father’s sole heir following my brother’s death, you have no choice but to release what is rightfully mine.’

  ‘That may well be the case,’ confirmed de Coubertin, ‘but I must enquire if you are in possession of any documents that would substantiate your claim.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugo, placing his briefcase on the table. He flicked it open and produced the envelope he had bought from Sotheby’s the previous day. He pushed it across to the other side of the table. ‘This was left to me by my father.’

  De Coubertin spent some time studying the envelope addressed to his grandfather. ‘Fascinating,’ he said, ‘but it does not prove that your father held an account with this bank. It may be wise at this juncture for me to ascertain if that was indeed the case. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to excuse me for a moment?’ The old man rose slowly from his place, bowed low and left the room without another word.

  ‘He knows perfectly well that your father did business with this bank,’ said Margaret, ‘but for some reason he’s playing for time.’

  ‘Good morning, Sir Nicholas,’ said Fraser Munro as he rose from behind his desk. ‘I trust you had a comfortable journey?’

  ‘It might have been more comfortable if I hadn’t been painfully aware that my uncle is at this moment in Geneva trying to relieve me of my inheritance.’

  ‘Rest assured,’ responded Munro, ‘that in my experience Swiss bankers do not make hasty decisions. No, we will come to Geneva in good time. But for the moment, we must deal with more pressing matters that have arisen on our own doorstep.’

  ‘Is this the problem you felt unable to discuss over the phone?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Munro, ‘and I fear that I am not the bearer of glad tidings. Your uncle is now claiming that your grandfather made a second will, only weeks before his death, in which he disinherited you and left his entire estate to your father.’

  ‘Do you have a copy of this will?’ asked Danny.

  ‘I do,’ replied Munro, ‘but as I was not satisfied with a facsimile I travelled to Edinburgh to attend Mr Desmond Galbraith in his chambers in order that I could inspect the original.’

  ‘And what conclusion did you come to?’ asked Danny.

  ‘The first thing I did was to compare your grandfather’s signature with the one on the original will.’r />
  ‘And?’ said Danny, trying not to sound anxious.

  ‘I was not convinced, but if it is a fake, it’s a damned good one,’ replied Munro. ‘On a brief inspection, I could also find no fault with the paper or the ribbon, which appeared to be of the same vintage as those of the original will he executed on your behalf.’

  ‘Can it get any worse?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Munro. ‘Mr Galbraith also mentioned a letter purportedly sent to your father by your grandfather a short time before he died.’

  ‘Did they allow you to see it?’

  ‘Yes. It was typewritten, which surprised me, because your grandfather always wrote his letters by hand; he distrusted machinery. He described the typewriter as a new-fangled invention that would be the death of fine writing.’

  ‘What did the letter say?’ asked Danny.

  ‘That your grandfather had decided to disinherit you, and that he had accordingly written a new will, leaving everything to your father. Particularly clever.’

  ‘Clever?’

  ‘Yes. If the estate had been divided between both of his sons, it would have looked suspicious, because too many people were aware that he and your uncle hadn’t been on speaking terms for years.’

  ‘But this way,’ said Danny, ‘Uncle Hugo still ends up with everything, because my father left his entire estate to him. But you used the word “clever”. Does that mean that you have your doubts about whether my grandfather actually wrote the letter?’

  ‘I most certainly do,’ said Munro, ‘and not simply because it was typed. It was on two sheets of your grandfather’s personal stationery, which I recognized immediately, but for some inexplicable reason the first page was typed, while the second was handwritten and bore only the words, These are my personal wishes and I rely on you both to see they are carried out to the letter, your loving father, Alexander Moncrieff. The first page, the typewritten one, detailed those personal wishes, while the second was not only handwritten, but was identical in every word to the one that was attached to the original will. Quite a coincidence.’