Vanishing Point, page 8
part #7 of Birdcage Series
As the waiter left them from serving brandy, Sir Andrew said with a sudden impatience . . . at their age it was a thing quite unremarked, “Well now, why don’t you come to the bloody point, you old warhorse? You’ve been fiddling and farting around ever since we met, like an old aunt who’s suddenly taken a dislike to you and isn’t quite certain yet how to get into telling you she’s cut you out of her will.”
Warboys smiled then, and said, “Am I so dithery? Yes, I suppose I am. Well, old Father Time is not so many swathes away, scything at his own pace, Andrew. I like the old aunt bit. Fact is it’s rather like that. Well, it’s about the handsome conscience money you’ve been collecting from certain would-have-been unpatriotic gentlemen – save the word – for years. When the thing first started there was a gentleman’s agreement between you and the Establishment – us. You collected your tribute yearly from these high-placed bastards – and we just manipulated them now and then for our own purposes in the clandestine interests of the State. But now you are going to be cut out of the will. Time was when I could have given you an apt quotation to soften the blow. Trouble is when I search for one now – mostly all I get are tag ends of music hall songs. There was I waiting at the church . . .”
Sir Andrew laughed. “Would – Nullum sine auctoramento malum est – fit the bill?” “
“Clever boy. I knew you would help me. Yes, the compensation has to stop. You’ve seen it coming?”
“I suppose so. Three of the bastards have died and of the other four, two have decent sons with families.”
“And the other two have daughters – one married to the law, an eminent Q.C. —”
“And the other to a millionaire playboy so that in her own right she could probably pay the dole out of her dress allowance. I’ve no sympathy for any of the original bastards.”
“Unto the third and fourth generation?”
“No – just the first. Our generation. Because of what these people would have done so many of them are long dust. And think what would have happened if the thing they thought was inevitable and were prepared to support had happened?”
“I won’t be so ungracious as to suggest that you are worried on the money side.”
“Then you’re wrong, dear Warboys. I needed the money at first, before you knew anything. But I don’t now. But hundreds of others do. That’s where most of it goes – discreetly.” Sir Andrew laughed harshly. “Of course, I keep a percentage for handling charges and buying the odd picture now and again. But I don’t regard those as mine. They’re all being left to the nation. Are you really calling a halt?”
“Not me. I’m just the messenger boy. Oh, I still sit a few days during the week in Birdcage Walk, and go round keeping the boys and girls happy. But the real tiger you have yet to meet. . . will have to, in fact, when you hand the original stuff over.”
“Quint?”
“Oh, no. He retired last year. Got his K. Now lives on the Isle of Purbeck, with plenty of unattached companionship of the kind he always favoured – and collects fossils. I thought of applying to join his collection.” He sighed and looked around the restaurant. “Sometimes I come in here and before I even get to the sole tartare I long for the sight of a white face. Tempori parendum – I find that difficult.”
“And the real tiger?”
“A Quint protege, named Kerslake. Not our background. Humble origin. A moon-faced yokel from the leafy lanes of the West Country. Began life as a police constable in Barnstaple. Steady rise. Occasionally human out of office hours, but never in. A new kind of breed in the dark galleries of the underground complex of Her Majesty’s Service.”
“Well, these are changed days. You never know what’s coming out of the compost heap. You can’t be enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, then give yourself the pleasure of telling them that what I’ve got I keep. You’ve got photostats – let ’em be content with those.”
“They won’t like it.”
“Then they can lump it.”
“They’ll go for you – not red in tooth and claw, but just as unpleasant.”
“If they do I’ll throw it wide open. Der Spiegel. . . The Morning Star, or whatever the rag is. Perhaps The New York Times. And the French – they’ll love it, France Soir. Perjide Albion . . .”
“Sleep on it. I’ll give you time – and then, my dear Andrew, I frankly don’t care a damn. And between ourselves if I were the man I used to be – I still wouldn’t care a damn. I’m a stand-in messenger boy, and even at that I’m long tired of standing unless it’s on the banks of the Test and there’s a good hatch of fly going – and then in a few years as Izaak Walton once said – A quiet passage to a welcome grave.”
“Bloody nonsense. You’ll still be dining in here when Arabia is dry of oil and the Arabs have folded their tents and gone back to a wholesome diet of goat’s milk and dates. Tell them from me the answer is no let-up. Caesar insists on his tribute. Now I must be off to pick up Christine from her beauty parlour. Some women never give up you know – and damn right. And neither do I.”
Warboys watched him go, signalled for more brandy and, smiling to himself, let his fancy roam. Quint would have loved it. He might tell him some time. And that Johnny-come-lately, Kerslake in Birdcage Walk, jerking as the strings were pulled from above, how would he take it? Well, for one thing, not entirely like a gentleman. Not that he was a bad chap – time and tribulations would shape him.
* * * *
When Carla left her boutique Aldo was standing outside on the other side of the road. He signalled to her and – typical, she thought – waited for her to make her way between the traffic to him. After he had greeted her with a brotherly kiss, as automatic for him as probing at his teeth with a stuzzicadenti, she said, “You have come to see me safely home? Ah, carofratello – my knees go weak at such attention.”
“Shut up. We walk back to Maurice’s place. You have the key?”
“Yes, of course. Why do you want to go there?”
“Because, little sister, I can’t wait for him to come back. I must get someone else to finish the cleaning of the Zais.”
“And the copy?”
“No – how could I? There is no one but Maurice could do it. I write it off. In all businesses there are losses. One must be philosophical.”
“Certo – and now I know why you look different. Suddenly you are a philosopher. And Aldo – how it suits you. Though I do not think the toothpick sticking out of the corner of your mouth is the right touch.”
Disdainfully Aldo spat the toothpick into the road and with a surprising gentleness said, “Now you tell me . . . do you think Maurice will ever come back?”
“How should I know?”
“Women should know about their lovers.” He thumped his chest. “The heart. The heart is supposed to tell them.”
With a gentle exaggeration and flickering her eye-lids, she said, “My heart says nothing. Though it aches with love for him — even though he is pig of all pigs.”
“You find nothing in the flat about him? No letters, no nothing?”
“I’ve told you already – no. Maurice leaves nothing. No letters, nothing. How do you think I can find him if I know nothing?”
“There are telegrams he has from Switzerland. What about those? You never find any about the place?”
“You think I go round looking for something which is not there? Always they come over the telephone, and no confirmation. Or if they do come when I am out – then he destroys them, burns them. He never keeps anything like that. All I know is that they come from Switzerland where he once worked. What do you want me to do – go along to the maestro delle poste e telegrafi and say please go through the records and find out —” Aldo laughed suddenly. “Carla – you are brilliant. Why did I not think of that?”
“You mean you would do that?”
“Why not? But not to the top man – but I have friends who have sons or mistresses who work there. I must have — and then it is so simple . . .” He rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together in an expressive gesture.
“That is your business. But why on earth do you want Maurice so badly? You have made enough money out of him. Forget him.”
“Can you forget him?”
“That is of the heart – not the purse. What is there so special you want him for?”
Aldo beamed slyly. “Let us say there is a picture coming to be cleaned soon. Magnifico. . . and already I have a customer. More I cannot tell you. It would be indiscreet.”
“Oh, please don’t be that, Aldo. Think of your reputation as an honest man. Did you say something about buying me a drink?”
“I did, my dear sister – but the need for such generosity has now evaporated. But when I get what I want I will pay for a nice trip to Switzerland for you.” His face suddenly changed and he said soberly, “He would come back if we find him, surely? He loves you and wants to marry you and have his hands on your money. He would come back surely?”
They were crossing the Arno now and Carla stopped and nodded over the parapet at the waters below, saying, “You see the river that runs to the sea. You think it can turn and start to run back to the hills? You would like to make a bet on it? I tell you, I would sooner bet on that than on anything Maurice might or might not do.”
“And this is the man you love?”
“Why not? Married to someone as predictable as you I would grow moss in a fortnight. Ciao, Aldo. I go now to buy myself a little blouse I fancy, and I shall charge it up to your account. They will not be surprised. They know how generous you are to your family. . .”
* * * *
Two days later Sir Andrew and Lady Starr returned to Avoncourt Abbey. Sir Andrew went up to his bedroom to change his London clothes and the first thing he noticed was that the Augustus John painting of himself was missing.
He stood in silence for a moment or two, staring at the space where the picture had hung, noticing, even in his surprise and pleasure, that the wallpaper where the picture had been still retained much of its original colouring whereas that of the rest of the room had faded. Well, he would have to put another picture up. Then suddenly he began to laugh long and loudly.
The noise brought Lady Starr to him from her adjoining room.
“Andrew, what on earth is so amusing? And, dear, you do guffaw in the most common manner.”
“Never mind the way I laugh, my love. It comes from the heart and the humour of it all. Do you see what he’s done?”
“Who?”
“Our son, my dear. Our son. He’s gone – and he’s done me the greatest favour in the world. He’s taken the Augustus John.”
“Then you must put the police on to him. The wretch – after all our kindness.”
“Don’t be an ass, love. I told him he could take any picture he liked. And the sentimental lad chooses dear old Dad. By God – that rhymes, or does it?”
“Well, I must say I never really cared for it much. He’d given you a queer sly look about your face. Oh, I know you get it at times – but it’s not characteristic. Not at all. You really have a quite noble face when you try.”
“Bugger my face, love. All I’m concerned with is that he’s done me the biggest favour in the world. Oh, God – I can’t wait to let Warboys know. He will laugh his head off. Cheer up his dotage. Short of bringing the colour back into his cheeks it’ll do wonders for him. Make him a new man.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. He really has been such a miserable washed-out misery these last few years. Have you ever suggested he dyes his hair?”
“I could never do that.”
“Why not? You were at school together, and all through the war and then —”
Sir Andrew turned, smiled and gave a little sigh. Then he kissed her on the cheek and said, “The lad has the true Starr touch, you know. Not for him one of the Canalettos. But his Dad’s picture — not out of sentiment, I swear, but because he knew that it did neither me nor John credit. But there’s far more than that he’s done for me . . .”
“Well, I’m so glad to hear that. And don’t forget we’re dining with the Armstrongs tonight. Informal, nothing elaborate – that means she’s probably lost another cook and that bean-pole of a daughter of hers will do it and come rushing in oven-hot, breathless and awkward. They’ve quite given up any idea of getting her married, you know. . . such a shame. She really has a quite nice skin and there are times —”
“And there are times, my dear wife, when even unknown to you the gods smile on us.”
“Good. That’s nice to hear, dear.”
When she had gone Sir Andrew made a brief call to the Red Lion Hotel and then sent for his chauffeur.
When the man came, Sir Andrew said, “Have they got the station wagon fixed up yet, Lloyd?”
“Yes, Sir Andrew.”
“Good.” Sir Andrew pulled out his wallet and handed him a ten pound note, saying. “Take yourself off in it to the Red Lion in Salisbury tonight. Have a few drinks and a bite of food. Keep sober, and find out for me all you can about that French chap – Monsieur Crillon – who’s been up here lately doing the pictures. He’s probably left by now – but you know the kind of thing I want. Asked the desk about rail times or boat sailings, has he? Local girls up in his room, eh? You know the kind of stuff. The dirt, they call it.”
“Yes, Sir Andrew.” He put the note in his pocket and then went on, “Would it be all right if I take the wife, sir? She’s got a better way than I have for that kind of thing. Knows a couple of the girls down there, too, I think. Also, sir, she don’t drink so could drive back.”
“Excellent. Do that. Nothing like a well-organized marriage.”
When his chauffeur had gone Sir Andrew locked his bedroom door and then picked up the telephone by his bed and lay back on the pillows prepared to enjoy himself. He dialled Warboys’ home number.
When Warboys answered, Sir Andrew said, “Good – I thought you might still be at the Birdcage Walk offices tunnelling away at the foundations of ill-ordered civilization.”
“My presence, unlike the figure-head of a ship, worm-eaten as I may be, is not mandatory each day. Only when some knot of Gordian nature turns up and there’s no one there with courage and common-sense enough to take a knife to it. Has some petrol lorry fallen into the lovely Avon and polluted and ruined your fishing?”
“No. But I expect it daily. I’m calling apropos of our little chat, hinting that I might be about to have my arm twisted by the high gods, my birth-right taken from me, my family bereft. Always liked that word. Sounds like linen tearing.”
“Shroud cloth – is that why you’re so cheerful?”
“In a way. You must be psychic. You can forget any idea of my handing over the original stuff you – or rather the pretender to the throne about to unseat you – wants. At least as far as I am concerned.”
“Of course, you don’t mean you’ve destroyed it?”
“Good God . . . my dear Warboys, that’s not my style. Burn money, even though I no longer lack it? Destroy a set of character references to some of the highest in the land? Good God, no, old chap. I am nothing if not reasonably honourable. Anyway I’ve had all I want out of it.”
“Does anyone ever have enough?”
“Of money, yes. Of power, no. There’s the true drug which can never be forgone once taken. Thank God, I was happy to make no more than colonel. Field marshal – and there was one among them, as you know – was a rank I never coveted.”
“My dear Andrew – I love the way you never spit out the pips until you’ve sucked all the juice out of the orange. I’m delighted to hear you so happy. Let me share it. Bodily appetites decline, but intellectual joys endure as long as we do. Some of the nicest things have been the last words of worthy and unworthy people. Between the stirrup and the ground. Mercy I askt, mercy I found.”
“Nice – interpontem et fontem. And probably a four-pound trout scared by the splash. But do you want to hear this or not?”
“Of course. Brighten the tag end of a dull day for me.”
“Well. . .” Sir Andrew hesitated for a moment between truth and fiction and then decided – since no one could foresee the future – to stick to fiction.
“Well, what? Are you having second thoughts?”
“No, taking a long breath before going in off the deep end. Well, you see, it’s like this. Some time ago I met a young French chap – well young by our standards – who’d been going round the galleries and about the gardens. Saw him once or twice and then we struck up this acquaintance while talking about my paintings. Knew his stuff. . . turned out to be a bit of an artist himself, but more than that a first class restorer. So I got him to do one or two jobs . . . you know, touching up and cleaning and–”
“And a long preamble, so I presume I’m not getting the full truth. Can I hope for it some day?”
“Possibly. Anyway, I gave him the run of the place and a room to sleep in if he chose – though most of the time he preferred the Red Lion, and I don’t blame him – cistern noises all night here and bird banter from five o’clock on. And —”
“And when you got back you discovered that he had decamped with the under house-maid and the family jewels?”
“Far worse. He’s pinched the painting of me that Augustus John did – the one of me in my near twenties. You know it, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. And I never believed it was by John.”
“Oh, it was all right. But I agree far from one of his best. So I’m not really sorry to see it go.”
“Quite right. But don’t tell the insurance adjusters that.”
“Of course not. But that isn’t the point. Tucked away in the back of the picture are the originals of the stuff Birdcage now say they want to have and destroy. Splendid, isn’t it? Now they can’t wipe the bloody slate clean because the other side will —”
