Villa plot counterplot, p.15
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 15
OLD GLOUCESTER STREET, LONDON—16th MAY 1980
TUESDAY
Zimmer had been elated at outwitting Bellamy. He’d disliked the man, had distrusted him. That Bellamy had hot money and knew little of stamps had been evident to the expert. Having failed to satisfy the order legitimately, it proved a small step from dealer to creator. The chance of a huge profit at Bellamy’s expense had been irresistible.
The five Bergedorf stamps in his father’s collection were of little value. But, carefully applied to original envelopes, their worth was transformed. He’s realised that by this simple expedient a fortune could be made.
Creating the rubber stamps, marking five parallel lines on the envelopes had been simple. The date stamps which he’d scavenged during the War had done the rest. The envelopes had been written by his grandmother—but not in 1861. By good fortune, she’d simply dated the letters 3rd, 10th and 12th December, without stating the year. In fact, Bellamy had hardly given the letters a second glance, concerned only to check the year on the envelopes. Zimmer had anticipated that. To an amateur, the fakes were convincing; to a specialist their true status was barely hidden. For this reason he’d been anxious to retain the letters which linked the covers so firmly to him. Nevertheless, his family name still appeared on the envelopes.
After Bellamy had gone, he’d had no qualms about the Police. But when he thought of Bellamy, it was a niggle. Gradually the niggle had grown into a doubt, the doubt into an obsession. The nightmare was that Bellamy would return, seeking vengeance. For a time sleep had become a luxury, his head nodding faster than ever, the rivulet wrinkles becoming gullies, the eyes disappearing between hooded folds of pallid skin. He determined to retire to Austria at once and disappear before Bellamy discovered the truth. He’d work in a small way of business in Vienna and research the trail of his lost parents.
But then the position changed. He remembered that Friday in March well. Every newspaper reported the discovery of the bodies at Le Tholonet. But he’d taken little notice until the Monday, when Bellamy’s photograph had appeared. He’s spent the morning in the public library, reading every newspaper. He did the same for a week. Even after the discovery of the killers’ car, nowhere had there been any mention of any stamps. He wondered where the stamps had gone. With Bellamy dead he shelved his plans to retire. He decided instead to take a long holiday in the Autumn.
Today, 16th May, the sun was nearly high enough to reach the pavement in the narrow street. In the playground the children were shrieking noisily. Today, like every day, he’d thought of Vienna, savouring the sights, sounds and smells which had once been so familiar and which he was going to enjoy once again. The world was indeed sweet when the telephone rang.
“Heinrich Zimmer. Good morning,” he said.
“Mr Zimmer. It’s Fenton White here. How are you?” Zimmer knew White. Trading just off The Strand, he specialised in Great Britain stamps and, over the years, they’d acquired a mutual respect. “You are well? Yes? And business is good? But of course. With German stamps you can’t fail!”
“I never grumble, Mr White,” laughed the Austrian. “German stamps are going well. One day, perhaps, they’ll be unfashionable. But I doubt it! Anyway. How can I help you this beautiful day?”
“I’ve got a problem. I’d value your opinion on some stamps which I’ve received. I’ll put them forward officially later but I wanted a quick opinion. They look rather special but, as they’re German, I can’t be positive.” Zimmer wasn’t surprised at the request. It was not unusual.
“Mr White . . . of course. I should be glad. Tell me more.”
“Well, they’re a set of three covers, with five Bergedorf in total. 1861, apparently.” Fenton White was immediately aware of the silence at the other end. “Are you still there?” he enquired.
At last Zimmer replied. “Yes, yes, I’m still here. I was taken aback. Five stamps, you said? And on cover?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“I thought that’s what you said. That’s very rare. If genuine, they are extremely valuable. Have you bought them?”
“Good Lord, no! I’m to advise the owner as to the value.”
“There are some fakes about. You must be careful.” Zimmer had recovered his poise.
“Would you like to see them?”
“Very much. Come now if you want.”
Zimmer put down the phone and stood by the window. Suddenly Vienna seemed a long way away. But then, what had changed? Who was this person who now owned the stamps? A friend of Bellamy’s, perhaps. Someone looking for trouble? Keep cool.
Shortly before 3.00 p.m. Fenton White arrived and after the usual pleasantries, placed the familiar Bergedorfs on the Pembroke table. Zimmer showed no sign of recognition.
“They look alright to me,” volunteered White.
‘Extraordinary! And yet not extraordinary at all. I see the envelopes are all addressed to Klaus Zimmer. I had a relative with that name. It would be interesting to see if it were the same person. But I doubt it! In Germany that name is about as common as John Smith here. Do you have the letters? That would give me a clue as to whether it’s my relative.” He saw the shake of the head in reply. “A shame,” he concluded, as he pored over them, head nodding. A decision came quickly. “They’re fakes! Bad ones at that! The crude work of a cheap-jack amateur.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive! Look, let me show you. To be genuine, these stamps had to be applied and used in 1861. The stamps themselves are genuine. The values are right for destinations at Cuxhaven and Berlin. The cancellation mark for Bergedorf looks authentic. Judging by the faded writing and condition of the envelopes, I’d say they were genuine.”
“But what’s wrong?”
“Just look at the transit stamps! Not only do they look all wrong, what’s worse even at a glance you can see they’ve got a 24 hour date stamp!” Zimmer’s voice was mocking and derisive. “That wasn’t introduced until over 60 years later, in the 1920s. The so-called transit stamps are modern date stamps, so the covers are of relatively little value.”
“A disappointment.”
“Indeed, yes. But I’d heard there were some Bergedorf fakes on offer in Berlin recently. Possibly your client picked them up there? But I never thought they were as badly faked as this! What do you know about the owner?”
“Nothing really. He’s a publican in Bath.”
“They’re crude enough to have been bodged up by him after closing time, I should think. The temptation to do so with Bergedorf 1861s can be hard to resist.” Zimmer smiled. “I hope your publican friend did not pay the going rate for these.” Zimmer had not forgotten the newspapers, the television. Harper had been the publican who had visited the French cottage.
“Why?”
“Because, if genuine, he should have paid about £20,000 for them.”
“My God! So what do you recommend?”
“They’re of interest now as fakes. To me perhaps they have a special interest as they bear the same name as my grandfather. I’d be interested to buy them and then try to trace their history. Of course, your publican may not be interested in selling at the type of price I have in mind. But, if he is, then I’ll split the profit with you.”
“Perhaps, if I could use your phone? I could speak to him from here. Break the news to him. See if we can set up a deal.”
“Go ahead.” Zimmer showed him the phone on the sideboard.
Half an hour later it was over. The publican had been surprisingly philosophical. He’d been given the stamps by a customer. Hadn’t expected any great value. Yes, of course. £100. Sure. Send a cheque. Thanks anyway.
“A disappointment, Mr White. To have come across a genuine set of covers would have been the highlight of my career. And now . . .” he sighed deeply but then brightened, “perhaps tomorrow I shall see a genuine set. One never knows.”
“Goodbye, Mr Zimmer. And thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Zimmer closed the door thoughtfully and locked it. He’d had enough for one day.
CARACAS, VENEZUELA—9th MAY 1980
FRIDAY
It was a quiet time. The guests were nearly all in bed and so the Night Porter at La Casa Grande Hotel decided to tidy the locker beneath his desk. The accumulated litter of coat checks, outdated telephone messages and old envelopes was quickly scooped into a plastic sack.
Amongst the items was a newspaper, posted in Aix, and addressed to Mr Robert Sayers. Its date of arrival had been stamped upon it: 2nd April. He checked in the Register. Yes. A Mr Robert Stevens had been booked to arrive in March, for two weeks. The booking had not been cancelled but the guest had never turned up. No point in keeping it any longer. He started to open it but, on seeing it was a French newspaper, lobbed it into the sack.
In the morning the hotel handyman emptied the sack into the boiler in the basement. The most valuable copy of Le Figaro available was consumed in a moment; tucked inside, was the remainder of Bellamy’s stamp collection.
BATH—3rd JUNE
TUESDAY
The Harpers faced breakfast, he with string vest hanging over a pair of jeans; she in a rose-patterned dressing-gown, with the third cigarette of the day pincered in narrow, unpainted lips. The only noise came from the dripping tap and the creaks from the evil-smelling gas cooker. Both preferred the silence, knowing that the first snarling exchange would brim over until bedtime. Since his return from France they’d been like caged lions. The story, sold to a Sunday newspaper by Miss T-shirt about Harper’s attempts to chat her up in Benidorm, had not been helpful. The mocking tone of the article had dampened the flamboyant tales which he’d been telling in the public bar. Trade had dropped off. Worse still, Maureen had been sneeringly triumphant, encouraging jokes from the regulars, which he’d found in rather poor taste.
There was a clatter as the post arrived and Harper went to collect it. “One from Alistair Duncan. The other from Officialdom.” He sat down again and opened the solicitor’s letter. “Just my bloody luck! The money’s been traced to Bellamy’s Liechtenstein bank but now they’re being bloody awkward—secretive about it. Duncan says it may be months, years or maybe never before I get anything back. The Bank won’t even say if there’s any money in the account—let alone how much.”
“I’m not surprised. Bellamy was bad news. Had to be. You liked him, admired him, sang his praises.” She tossed her head dismissively and the black ringlets of hair danced like serpents. “And the other letter?” Her early morning voice was rough, croaky, emphasising the flatness of the accent.
“The bloody Taxman! Wants us to call in. Says he noticed we’d bought a Spanish property and wants to discuss the circumstances. In view of the business accounts he wonders from where the money came!”
“So much for your low profile! Duncan warned you, didn’t he! Said the Revenue would be after you if you didn’t watch it. But you had to be the bloody hero going to Aix. Play the tough guy. Get the headlines. When Duncan warned you to be quick, what did you do? Only go chasing that lump of scum in the T-shirt.”
“Belt up!” he shouted. “At least she was worth chasing! You just make me want to run the other way. But you’re right about Duncan. He did warn us about the Taxman. But he also said that we’d be jointly liable to prosecution or backtax. He’s usually right. I hope he is. Then the bastards can get you too.” He liked that.
“It’s all your fault. You can see them alone.” It was an order.
“O.K. If that’s what you want, Maureen. I’ll go alone.” He smiled at her. “I’ll go alone,” he repeated. “You just wait and see what I’m going to tell them about you!” He knew that, for the moment, he was top dog. It wouldn’t last. Maureen returned to her magazine, planning her riposte. Harper sat wondering what he could tell the Taxman about Maureen. There must be something.
Douglas Stewart, Villa Plot, Counterplot
