Villa plot counterplot, p.5
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 5
“What do you think?” enquired Harper.
“A pretty hard-boiled cookie at the other end. Hard to say. But there’s a chance. You just might get a cheque. At least you’ve got a crust to throw to Maureen now. But even if you get a cheque, it’ll probably bounce.”
“You mean that?”
“Just that.”
“So, if the cheque bounces?” Harper’s eyes narrowed. They almost disappeared between the heavy eyebrows and the uncontrollable sideboards.
“. . . or doesn’t arrive at all,” continued Duncan drily. “You’ve got to take action.”
“What if I just sat back and relied on the contract?”
“You’d do better sitting on a whoopee cushion than that contract.”
“O.K. We go to Spain.” There was a glint in the publican’s eyes.
“Serious?”
“Never more so. If there’s no money then we’ll go down to Calpe and see what he’s up to. Make a few enquiries. Check the title like you said when we came to see you the first time.”
“It’s your money. It might do some good. But . . .” Duncan was interrupted.
“But nothing. It’ll be a fair old piss-up. You’ll love it. Bit of hot sun. A few birds maybe. Perhaps a little bit of work.”
“You’ll be bringing Maureen?” It was said in such a throwaway fashion that Harper was not sure whether the solicitor was joking.
“No way. She can run the pub for a while.”
“With a bit of luck we can string out these enquiries for a couple of months. I’ve been looking for a good excuse not to go to Birmingham Crown Court.” Alistair Duncan rocked back in his chair and stretched luxuriously.
“Steady on, Alistair! If we stay there that long, you’ll be handling my petition.”
“Divorce . . . or Bankruptcy?”
“Both, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Duncan glanced at his desk diary. “Don’t worry. I can barely spare any time away. But, if that cheque’s not on my desk on Thursday, then we sue.” He raised his hand to stop the interruption. “No publicity. We’re not going to Court. Just start an action. Show him we mean business.”
“And, in the meantime, have a shufty in Spain.”
“You’ve got me almost hoping that the cheque doesn’t turn up.”
AYLESBURY—27th FEBRUARY
WEDNESDAY
After lunch in Aylesbury, boss and secretary walked arm-in-arm back to the hotel. They’d decided to keep away from the flat as much as possible. They’d never slept there since Bellamy’s return from Geneva. Obtaining illegal access to the flat-cum-office was too easy to make expenditure on security worthwhile. Old style sash windows and a flimsy front door lock were no hindrance to a determined assailant.
Suddenly, while they walked along the busy street, Mandy let out a yelp as they passed a toy shop. The yelp was almost a scream.
“What’s the matter?”
But Mandy couldn’t speak. She managed, however, to point to a selection of full-head masks on sale in the shop. She pointed to one in particular. It was a red and green faced devil. She started to cry, turning her head and burying it in Bellamy’s shoulder. Sobbing uncontrollably, she was hurried away by Bellamy to the hotel, where he took her to their room.
“I’ll leave you here. Order a cup of tea. I’ll be back when I’ve made a few enquiries.”
“Don’t be long. I’m so frightened.”
“I won’t.”
He wasn’t. Minutes later he was back. “It’s as I guessed. The shop-keeper tells me that those masks are supplied by none other than Grummetts Wholesalers, of Ealing.” Bellamy stared out of the window but saw nothing. “So at last we can move.”
“But . . .” Mandy started.
Bellamy interrupted. “But . . . nothing. A visit from him is long overdue and I’m not risking that.”
“Mr Grummett?” Bellamy spoke down the phone.
“Speaking.”
“You won’t know me. But you’ll have heard of my company—‘Warboys for Toys’. We’re big, very big States-side.” The accent was American. “Lou, Lou Katzner’s my name. I’m Chief Executive. You’ll have read in the papers we’re opening a chain of new stores in the U.K. You haven’t! Where do you live, Mr Grummett? The North Pole?” The speaker laughed at his joke. “Sorry about that, Mr Grummett. Anyway, to get to the point, we’ve heard of you even if you haven’t heard of us! I’m interested in making your acquaintance. We’re looking for a partner in the U.K. We might even give him a share of the action. I’m told that you’re pretty big round London?”
“Yes. We’ve creamed a big share of the market. My company could be interested. Depends what you’re offering.”
“Of course. Well. It could be big. If all goes well, we might think about a deal for the U.S. market. Anyway, Mr Grummett, I thought you might like to meet me. We could talk about it while I’m in London.”
“Sure. I’m prepared to talk.” Grummett sounded off-hand.
“That’s what I like! The old campaigner. Not too eager! O.K. Sure. Let’s meet. I’ve got a suite at the Inn on the Park. Can you manage next Wednesday evening? Say 8.00 p.m.? Ask for me at Reception.”
“O.K. I’ll be there.”
“So long.”
Bellamy turned to Mandy. “That’s him hooked. Now it’s up to you to get me a suite at the Inn on the Park. Book the room in the name of Lou Katzner. Say that he’s flying in from Seattle. He’ll check in by noon.”
Mandy didn’t like it but she nodded.
“I’ve got a few arrangements to make. But it should be long enough.”
LONDON, W.C.1.—28th FEBRUARY
THURSDAY
In his tailored overcoat and flared, modern-cut grey suit, he entered Old Gloucester Street, oblivious to the dust-flecked wind which funnelled down the drabness of the Holborn side-street. Bellamy’s thoughts were only of the project in hand and even the scheme for the Inn on the Park was pigeon-holed for the moment.
Since his last trip to Geneva he’d fretted constantly about movement of valuables from country to country, over frontier and frontier. For this was to be his life-style in the future. Several ideas had been considered and dismissed. Money in a Swiss bank was one thing. What he needed was an easily hidden asset of proven international value, something which would always be with him, something which could be realised for cash at short notice. It had been Mandy who had provided the solution.
Over dinner at the Waterside Inn at Bray, she’d mentioned that the value of her brother’s stamp collection had risen faster than inflation. Her remark was only a germ but it led to several long sessions with Seymour, her brother. Hours had been spent in the Public Library. Now, as he walked up the grimy street, he was familiar with the world of covers, first-day covers, cachets, expertisers, German catalogues. To get to sleep he had counted the pages of Stanley Gibbons’.
Seymour had recommended German stamps for investment. He had also suggested that Heinrich Zimmer of 208b, Old Gloucester Street, would be a suitable specialist in such stamps. Seymour knew nothing of Bellamy’s business affairs. Bellamy had kept it that way and, for this reason, had rejected Seymour’s offer of help, although the decision was born of conceit as much as caution.
The premises were set in a Regency terrace of three storeys. At the front was a display window. Inside, Heinrich Zimmer awaited the man who had telephoned.
Zimmer had fled from Vienna in February, 1938 and had come to London; his main asset, a stamp collection given to him by his father at a tearful separation. A nerve palsy and fading sight had prevented the old man from travelling. Zimmer had never seen nor heard of him again. The Nazi régime had seen to that. But, to his son, the old man lived on through the items, lovingly collected for over seventy years.
And now, forty years on, Zimmer had the yearning to visit his homeland, to learn the truth of the massacre of his family.
In 1945 he’d been part of the Allied offensive and had searched in the ruins of humbled cities for jewellery, watches and stamps. In the remains of a post office he’d pocketed a pile of scorched, torn envelopes addressed to destinations which they were never to reach, and a couple of old date stamps. Hardened by hatred, looting had come easily.
After the War he’d developed his stamp business in Holborn, specialising in European and German stamps.
“My name is Bellamy. I telephoned.” Crisp, businesslike, cold.
“Yes. I’d not forgotten, and you are right on time,” replied Zimmer, hurt at the formal imperiousness of the visitor.
“Do we do business, I mean in the front of the shop, or do we go into a back room?”
“That depends. I don’t know you.” Zimmer was not going to be brow-beaten. “With whom have I the pleasure of doing business?” He tried not to sound as offensive as he felt.
“You have my name. Check my credentials if you like. But it’s a cash deal I have in mind, and a big one, if you are able to deal with it.” The visitor’s eyes flickered contemptuously around the extremities of the room which were highlighted by a neon strip light. The Austrian noticed the sneer.
“I’m not interested in paper references. I have plenty of business. Who recommended you?”
“Seymour Williams,” replied Bellamy, giving Mandy’s brother’s name.
“Mr Williams!” exclaimed the Jew, spreading his arms in a spontaneous gesture of goodwill. “Then it must be O.K.” He stopped. “But I’ll telephone anyway, if you don’t mind. Do sit down, won’t you?” He waved to a cracked, leather-covered chair which had been old for so long that it could never have been new. Bellamy waited impatiently. Nevertheless, he was impressed with the man’s care. He could just hear the passable, but still broken, English as the dealer spoke on the telephone. Then the curtains at the back of the shop were pulled aside and a face, half-rim spectacled, peered through.
“It’s fine, Mr Bellamy. Shall we do business in the parlour here? My wife will deal with casual callers but it’s not a busy time anyway.”
Bellamy stretched to his full height and towered over the dealer, whose shoulders were slumped with too many years of poring over the minutiae of his trade. The two men sat opposite each other at a much abused Pembroke table.
“I must apologise for the formality but you must understand that I have some stamps here . . .” he paused “of perhaps some little value. One must be careful.” He shrugged his shoulders so that the man’s entire body seemed to quiver in unison.
“Of course,” Bellamy smiled for the first time. He watched Zimmer’s head, which nodded irritatingly like a doggy mascot in a car’s rear window.
“German stamps, you said on the phone.”
“Yes.”
“Any particular ones?”
“I have ideas,” Bellamy fenced. “But before we talk in detail, you must understand this. I have a lot of money available. Not less than £40,000. I think it opportune to invest in stamps. It seems to me that the market is right.” The line of chat, carefully devised, sounded plausible enough.
“I see. You want a veritable mountain of stamps.” The Austrian nodded his head repeatedly, but with a mark of respect in his voice. The brown eyes behind the spectacles looked impressed.
“No.” Bellamy replied sharply. “I don’t want quantity, I want quality. The best! The rarest! Say twenty or thirty stamps. Some on cover—of course.”
“My life! A tall order for a small man! So why not go to Stanley Gibbons? Why not go to a major International dealer?”
“Because I was recommended to come to see you. You’re an expert and a specialist in German stamps? So . . . I want German stamps.”
“Well . . .”
Bellamy interrupted. “If this deal is outside your league, then I’ll go elsewhere.” The visitor picked up his briefcase but was hastily motioned to sit down.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. I said that it was a tall order. It will be difficult, very difficult. But I have friends, contacts.” Bellamy became irritated at the nodding head. “I can get stamps of any value,” the Austrian concluded proudly.
“Right. Then I want stamps to the value of £40,000 to £50,000 by next Thursday. If I like them and I’m satisfied they’re genuine, I’ll pay cash.”
“Next Thursday!” exclaimed the dealer. “A week! I can’t guarantee it.” Zimmer was amazed at the urgency. He’d never come across such instructions before. Cash too! Most unusual.
“You must guarantee it,” emphasised Bellamy with curt authority, “otherwise the deal’s off.” He stared hard at the pained expression on the dealer’s wrinkled face. The skin round the eyes was yellowed and cracked.
“But why? Stamps are a good investment, I know that. But a week! An extra week won’t make any difference.” He glanced at his audience but Bellamy’s face was fixed in a dispassionate stare.
“I’m not here to enquire into your business. Kindly ignore mine. You have a week. Eight days to be precise. 3.15 p.m. next Thursday. Cash—but take it or leave it. The decision is yours but you must make it now.”
“Can’t I think about it?” The arms expressed the helplessness, whilst the eyebrows arched towards the receding hairline.
“I’m sorry, but no. I haven’t time.”
The dealer’s inner tension showed in the way in which he stubbed out the cigarette and then ground it under his thumb in a much-used ashtray, whilst drumming the fingers of his other hand nervously against the table’s edge. Then he rose and stared out of the window at the derelict, concrete garden and the blackened brickwork on Southampton Row. He stood motionless for several minutes.
Then he turned. “I guarantee it. It can be done. But I want £3,500 cash down as a sign of good faith. Some stamps I may have. Others I shall have to impose on friends to obtain. Suppose you don’t turn up! My reputation! I must always think of my reputation! I cannot afford to buy and then not sell the stamps quickly.”
The man had a point. “£2,000 down. No more. I want no stamps today. Just a receipt.” Zimmer opened his mouth to negotiate but thought better of it.
“You’re a hard man, Mr Bellamy.” There was no challenge in the voice, only the acceptance of the iron will of the caller. “I have some ideas about stamps.”
“The choice is yours. But they must be rare and valuable. I want as few as possible. For example, what about the five stamps of Bergedorf 1861? Have you access to any of them?” Bellamy knew that anyone could get hold of five Bergedorf 1861 but to acquire them on cover was extremely rare.
“Totally unsuitable. They are of little value,” said the dealer, testing his visitor.
“On cover!” snapped Bellamy.
Zimmer took off his glasses. “Such rare stamps are hard to obtain quickly, if at all.”
“Mr Zimmer; if they were as common as wet days at Lord’s they wouldn’t be so expensive.” The smile showed no trace of warmth. Bellamy leant on the table, dominating it; dominating the room with a show of determination.
The little man reached for his catalogue. “Eight days!” he muttered to himself. But the thought of £40,000 in cash was business. It was big business and he was sure it was worth the extra effort. But could he trust Bellamy? Maybe. So long as he paid cash. No cheques, he told himself. But how to satisfy the order? Unless . . . unless he could break into his father’s collection. It was unthinkable! He cast the thought from his mind, ashamed of himself.
For an hour and a half the two men talked, interrupted occasionally by the telephone. Then Bellamy handed over £2,000 in cash, which the dealer stuffed into a drawer.
“Goodbye, then.”
“Goodbye, Mr Zimmer. 3.15 p.m. Thursday.” Bellamy swung the faded, velvet curtain aside and left the shop. The litter in the street was still dancing pointless tangoes in the wind. Zimmer shut the door behind the caller and put on the ‘closed’ sign.
Instantly he regretted taking on the deal, but then £40,000! It meant a trip to Austria—the one he’d always promised himself. He sighed long and hard before returning to his desk to list the contacts who might be in a position to sell valuable stamps. If the price were right. The list wasn’t a long one! He reached for the telephone to try the first number.
LONDON—5th MARCH
WEDNESDAY
Small suitcase in hand, Bellamy arrived at the Inn on the Park, signing himself Lou Katzner, of North 47th Street, Seattle. At a glance his mother would not have recognised him. The physique was the same but the blonde wig, en brosse, and the pince-nez glasses made a rapid transformation. The gloves he wore hadn’t looked out of place in the sub-zero temperature of Park Lane. To anyone watching him padding about the elegant luxury of his suite, the gloves would have looked distinctly odd. But there was no one watching.
He poured himself a Scotch. A large one. Lots of ice. Before drinking, he balanced the glass on the back of his hand, held out straight in front of him. The ice never tinkled. Not a hint of nerves. He even surprised himself at this. For a first venture into violence he was doing well, although the Chivas Regal slipped away, almost unnoticed.
Around the comfort of the lounge he scattered some toy brochures which he had picked up during the morning. In the corner he placed a toy man on a clockwork bicycle, a kite and a stuffed dog. He laid out a notepad, biro and a few bits of paper containing scribbled figures. In the bedroom he placed pyjamas beneath the pillow and a dressing gown and washing kit in the bathroom. A copy of the Herald Tribune concluded the set. Task complete, he settled down in the armchair with the ice bucket and whisky close at hand, smoking Havana cigars until the air was heavy with the smell and the ashtray full to the brim with giant dollops of rounded ash. The television was boring but it was better than nothing. At six o’clock he stationed himself by the window, knowing that, if he sat in the chair drinking Scotch any longer, he’d drop off. It had been so easy and he could see it all now, step by step. The hands went round the clock to seven o’clock. He put the last finishing touches to his plan.
