Villa plot counterplot, p.7
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 7
“If you produce the goods, I expect you to have your cut. So—what are these worth—£40,000?”
“No. You can have these for £19,000. You might sell them for £18,000 tomorrow. More, if you found the right collector.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not thinking of selling tomorrow. It was merely a figure of speech. But why £19,000? I said £40,000.” Bellamy’s fingers pointed accusingly across the table. The dealer’s eyes were transfixed.
“It’s been very difficult for me, Mr Bellamy. Shall we say you can have these for £17,500 and forget the rest.”
“Forget nothing, Zimmer,” said Bellamy, his hands clasped tightly together, close to the chin of the older man, his eyes fixed like a cobra’s on the dealer’s, “Stop wasting my time! Produce stamps to the value of £40,000 or the deal is off!” He lashed out with his right hand. “And you may hear from me again in my own way.” The threat hung heavily in the air. “I didn’t come here to horse trade with the likes of you.” He crashed a fist onto the table.
The dealer blew loudly into his handkerchief. “O.K. I’m sorry. My fault! I do have more items but I wanted to keep them, hoping to fulfil the deal from elsewhere. Try as I might, try as I did, I failed. You see, what I will now show you . . . they were in my father’s collection. He was . . . well, shall we say he disappeared after the Germans invaded Austria. The stamp collection was the last thing he gave me as I fled. I wanted to keep the collection in the family. I’ve turned down many offers over the years.”
“Balls to sentiment, Zimmer! Just stick to the facts. Sell me the stamps or I’ll walk out of that door within thirty seconds. With my deposit. But your future will be short. Time is not on my side.”
Bellamy watched, while the Austrian hastily unlocked and extracted from a fire-proof box a deep brown, leather-backed album, lovingly preserved.
“Like most collectors, my father had many worthless items, valuable only to him. But there were some of quite exceptional value, which he’d cherished but not just for their worth. I knew that he had them, but,” the head nodded sadly, “he never spoke of them. I sensed they were part of his life, which was perhaps a secret, maybe even sacred. I don’t know how he saw it. But, when I saw the collection as my own for the first time, I learnt much. About the past. Yes . . . about my father too. That, as you will know, Mr Bellamy, is part of the great joy of this hobby, this way of life.”
Bellamy nodded. Almost despite himself he was intrigued. He’d read of stamps as social history but had been more interested in their proven investment record. Now, for the first time, he felt something more personal. “Go on. So what is the history?” He watched as Zimmer turned the pages of the album, stopping to point out three envelopes; three old, fading envelopes, worn, yet carefully preserved. Two of them were addressed to Cuxhaven: one bore three stamps, the other only one. The third envelope, addressed to Berlin, bore one only.
“Bergedorf 1861s?” exclaimed Bellamy.
“Yes,” replied Zimmer simply. “You’re looking at items of, I would say, very considerable rarity. A single Bergedorf on cover is enough. This trio may now be unique, particularly where two have the same Cuxhaven addresses and all three addressed to the same person, Klaus Zimmer. I have heard of nothing precisely similar. It is said, Mr Bellamy, that somewhere there are other covers bearing three stamps. I have yet to see them. They may exist.” He shrugged his shoulders to demonstrate his doubt.
“And how much do you want for them?”
“£30,000: a price which reflects their rarity. If you were to take simply one of these covers, the set would be devalued. So it is all three . . . or none! I cannot let you take just one. With the previous items you have seen, I’ll take £48,000. Not a penny less.”
Bellamy gazed at the writing on the envelopes; bold but faded with the passage of over one hundred years. “So, at last, we are talking of a real deal, Herr Zimmer. Good! Show me Michel’s Katalog.”
“Go ahead.” Zimmer pushed the well-thumbed German catalogue towards him. They worked through every detail, converting the price list from Marks into Sterling. On all except the Bergedorf covers Bellamy was content.
“£30,000 for these covers is too much. Your share of the action is excessive. It’s not on.” Bellamy was determined to beat down the dealer, although he was satisfied from Michel’s Guide that the price might not be unrealistic. With the Deutschmark so strong and roaring inflation, he was confident that their value would increase and, wherever he was in the world, he would get back his money . . . and more. But he didn’t say that. Instead he continued. “But £30,000 for these three Bergedorf covers? Your price owes too much to foolish sentimentality!” He stared hard at the Jew. “I am not paying you £30,000 for them and that’s flat! On the other hand, if I don’t have them then the deal’s off. Completely!” He lit another filter-tip, referred to the Guide once again and then continued. “My price is £40,000 for the lot. I’m well aware of these stamps and of their value. I know my offer is fair. Furthermore . . .” he leant across the table to press home his point . . . “They cost you nothing.”
“You are wrong! To sell them will cost me dearly! The blank pages in the album will, for ever, shame me, haunt me, for selling my father’s heritage. I shall regret it till I die.”
“Does it ease your conscience if you make an excessive profit on an honest bargain? Is that what you want?” Bellamy sneered. Zimmer looked into infinity, before sitting hunched at the table, almost foetal. He clasped his hands over his ears, shut his eyes tightly, whilst his whole body trembled as he wrestled with his emotions. Eventually his eyes reopened, damp with tears. He blew loudly into a large, blue handkerchief.
“I shall never forgive myself.” He raised his eyes towards Heaven. “But there are bills to pay, a family to keep. I want to go to Austria. Perhaps to retire. So . . . O.K. Cash, you said?”
“Cash,” said Bellamy. “But you’re forgetting something. I want to know that the items are genuine. After all, I am parting with a lot of money.”
“I hadn’t forgotten! You must and will be satisfied. As for these items, you’ll see that they have the usual type of expertiser’s mark.” He pointed out the small markings, stamped on the reverse side. “Each of these items has come to me through my dead client’s son. Each has been checked for authenticity—as you would expect. For the Bergedorf covers, equally, as you would expect, they have not been expertised. Until this week there was no question of them ever leaving my family. You know as well as I do how long it takes to get a decision.”
Bellamy nodded in understanding. “We’re dealing in a lot of money,” the dealer carried on, “and so I telephoned my contact in the Royal Philatelic Society, seeking a quick decision.”
“And?”
“It’s good news! It can be done within two months which, in the circumstances, is very favourable. I suggest that the Bergedorf items be sent to the Society today. The sale will, of course, then be conditional upon the Society confirming what I already know to be the case. But you will be the owner at once.”
Bellamy thought before replying. Two months, or anything approaching it, was out of the question. “You were going to tell me the history of these covers.”
“You’re right. So I was. It’s not a happy one. You see they bear the usual Bergedorf postal mark. Two of them were sent from there to Cuxhaven, the other to Berlin.” He blew again on the handkerchief. “The envelopes contained letters from my grandmother to my grandfather. You can see the letters if you wish. They’re here. My grandparents lived at Bergedorf, just outside Hamburg. But my grandfather was working at Cuxhaven—he was with a Hamburg shipping company. It’s not clear though why he visited Berlin; that was the first of the three letters. In December, 1861, my grandmother then wrote to him twice at Cuxhaven, talking of the child which was expected. That child was born on 17th December, 1861.” He wiped his eyes. “That child was my father!” The voice broke, as the dealer’s emotions overcame him. “In giving birth, my grandmother died. These were her last written words. That’s why my grandfather kept them!”
Zimmer opened the letters, wiping his eyes as he did so. “You’ll understand now why I want to keep them. My father moved to Vienna, where I was born. It was for the letters that first my grandfather, and then my father, my dear Pappi, kept the envelopes.”
“Yes. You keep the letters. They mean nothing to me.” It was said brusquely. Bellamy wasn’t keen on such shows of emotion, having broken all ties with his own parents years before, without remorse. The value of the covers would not be less without the letters anyway.
“Thank you! Thank you! My father married rather late in life, at the age of fifty-one. I was born in 1917, in Vienna, and that’s where I last saw him. In 1938. Before the invasion. The covers passed to me then.”
“O.K.! O.K.! Cut out the heart and flowers stuff.” He reached for his case and proceeded to count out the balance of the money. “Hey! How do I know these are 1861?” Bellamy’s left arm shielded the pile of money, while he fixed the dealer with a challenging stare. It was fundamental.
“Sorry!” exclaimed Zimmer. “I meant to turn the envelopes over. You see the transit stampings on each of them. Happily, they confirm the year—do you see? December 1861.”
“Thanks.” Bellamy finished counting the money.
“Have you had these bank notes expertised?” Zimmer tried a joke. He ought to have known better. Bellamy said nothing.
“Goodbye, Mr Bellamy. You must excuse my emotions.”
‘Emotions must never interfere with business.” And then Bellamy was gone, striding down the street and within twenty yards he’d dismissed the little man from his mind. Inside the shop, the little man had slumped in a chair and was sobbing uncontrollably at the table on which lay his father’s album and his grandmother’s letters.
ASTON CLINTON—6th MARCH
THURSDAY
In a bedroom in the Stable Block of the Bell Inn at Aston Clinton, Mandy dried herself after a luxuriously frothy bath. It was ten past seven. Paddy should have been back. She draped the negligée across her shoulders and flopped on to the bed.
7.35 p.m. She poured herself a Bloody Mary, lit a cigarette and peered into the darkness of the small garden. With the television off, the silence was like thunder. For a second she thought seriously about her joke of the morning. Perhaps he wasn’t coming back. There were moments, just fleeting moments, when she felt that she was no more than a good lay and a useful cog in the wheel of Paddy’s life. This was such a moment, as the wispy fog eddied through the trees. She shut the golden curtains and turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror, admiring her curves as they shimmered through the flimsy negligée.
“To Hell with him!” She said to herself. She knew that finding someone else would be no problem. She’d just poured another vodka when the door opened and Paddy was there, admiring the seemingly endless legs, which disappeared into the darkness of the negligée. He pulled her towards him and they kissed searchingly.
“Go O.K.?” she managed to say.
“Yes, it went well. I’ll tell you. Make me a Manhattan, can you? How did you get on, anyway? Are my clothes here?”
“Yes.”
“No problems in Tring?”
“Not when I left. All serene.” As she busied herself with the drink, Bellamy stripped from his City clothes, revealing a spread of lightly-tanned chest, with a gentle covering of dark hair. As she handed him the drink, she nuzzled her head against his shoulder.
“Mmm, that’s nice.”
“The drink?” She flashed her eyes at him.
“No.” Bellamy looked towards the shadowy bed and smiled. “I think we’ll enjoy ourselves here. Don’t you? But let’s have some dinner first. I’m starving.” Mandy just smiled for a moment.
“Alright then. Just so long as I know your priorities.” She backed away and spreadeagled herself across the bed, unashamedly available. A glance at the lips, the rampant breasts and the thighs was too much.
“O.K. You win. Last orders aren’t until 9.30.”
*
Scarcely a head turned as the couple took their seat in the tasteful opulence of the dining room. They sipped apéritifs as they waited for their salmon mousse. “Come on then,” Mandy asked. “Tell me all about it. What happened?”
“Went like a dream. When we get back I’ll show you some old envelopes worth over twenty Grand.” He waited to see the respect play around her lips, watched her eyes widen with surprise.
“So Zimmer did his stuff?”
“Yes. The little Jewish bastard worked pretty hard.”
“And the book?”
“Yes, I bought the latest John Macdonald, in hardback.”
“But, if it’s legal to take these stamps out of the country, why the book?”
“Belt and braces. Someone might suggest that I wasn’t intending to bring the stamps back. That would be exporting. Far better to play safe. Ah, here’s the waiter!”
“Here’s to Geneva then.” She raised her glass.
“And a better future beyond that.” Bellamy smiled. But it was a shade abstract.
“You’re sure we’re right, going on to Aix after Geneva? Wouldn’t it be better to disappear straight away?”
“But Aix is disappearing! Time’s on our side there. The meeting fixed with Kurt and Alain isn’t till the 27th at Geneva. That’s almost two weeks away. All we’re doing is moving our plans forward about a week. It’ll be the easiest thing in the world to change our identity at the cottage.”
“Yes.” But there was doubt in her voice. She was scared. During the day she’d realised that she was shielding a murderer. And she wondered whether it was worth it.
“At the cottage we change our appearance. Not easily done in a hotel. Exit Patrick Bellamy and Amanda Williams for ever!”
“What about the Police? What about Grummett? And that solicitor from Bristol?”
“Well, you can discount the solicitor for a start.”
“I’m not so sure. There was menace in his voice. I think he meant business.”
“Impossible!” He snapped. “By the time he’s blown the dust off ‘Everyman’s Home Lawyer’ we shall be gone. But we’d better clear the money from the Geneva bank account.”
“I hope you’re right. But what about the rest? What about the Police?”
“There’s nothing in the evening paper to link me with the killing. It’s big news, of course. But my name’s not mentioned.”
“Have the Police spoken to Peter Grummett?”
“Yes. Both the evening papers say that he had been questioned by the Police.”
“And?”
“It makes me confident that he said nothing to the Police. Nothing about me. If he had, there’d have been some action at Tring today. But there was nothing.”
“You’ve been back?” She stubbed out another cigarette.
“The taxi went past the flat. Not a sign of action. So you see, we’ve nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t agree. It means that Grummett’s after you himself.” She looked downwards and Bellamy thought that, for the first time ever, he was going to see her cry. “And I don’t like that. He’s a vicious bastard.”
Bellamy leant across the table, smiling reassuringly. His hand rested on Mandy’s wrist, gently at first and then more forcefully. “Stop worrying! There’s a great future ahead. Let’s drink to it. Forget the problems. Let’s drink to Padon Intercontinental and to all who are now sinking with her!” He laughed and she almost joined in.
BRISTOL—7th MARCH
FRIDAY
“Mr Harper on the line for you.”
“Martin! What happened?”
“Bounced like an Asdic beam. Had it specially cleared.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve just heard from my agents that they went to Bellamy’s office to serve the writ and there was no one there. And that was ten-past-four. That seems a pretty funny time to shut your office. Unless, of course, you’re a civil servant. It’s barely worth them opening!”
“So what now?”
“I’ve briefed Charlie Wilkinson to make some enquiries while we’re in Spain. He’s not the most likely agent to win Mastermind but he’s a real trier. He was a Police Constable before coming out. Good solid logic.”
“Is he expensive?”
“Money doesn’t enter his mind. Success does. Must dash! I’ll pick you up at 5.15.”
“That’s if I’m still alive. I haven’t told Maureen that the cheque bounced yet.”
PECKHAM—7th MARCH
FRIDAY
The drab, terraced house in South East London had been neglected for more than a generation. Even Peter Grummett, hard-bitten Londoner that he was, felt a shade uneasy as he knocked at the door. The small garden abounded with weeds and litter.
“Mr Grummett?” The door was opened by a man in his mid-forties. He wasn’t bald but he wasn’t far off it. The face was thin, almost gaunt, but the eyes were firm. Beneath the forehead were two lines of scars, where his head had gone through the windscreen in a car accident in New Cross the previous year. The man was tall and, because of his slim build, almost gangling.
“Yes. And you are?”
“Just call me Lloyd. It’ll do. Come in.” The voice was sharp, metallic. It was the voice of the hop fields of Kent in the days when droves of Londoners made their way to Paddock Wood and Staplehurst for their annual working holiday.
Grummett looked round the small front room with distaste. Everything was brown. Chairs, carpet, walls, curtains. Against such odds the single bulb was barely man enough for the job. But everything was opulent. It was just a question of taste. To Grummett the oppressiveness of it all was like a clamp. It was like a prison cell. With Lloyd’s past history, Grummett found this surprising.
“Beer?”
“Scotch please.”
