“I’m learning, Magda. And thanks. See you in LA.”
“Take care, honey.”
I went red. I’d never been called honey before, not properly.
“And you, love. You too, Zole.”
“Here, Lovejoy.” He gave me what looked like a pencil case. I waved them through the gate, patting Sherman to show I wasn’t scared and he was to guard them until we met up.
Heading for my boarding gate, I opened Zole’s present. It was a throwing knife. I dropped the bloodcurdling implement into the litter bin. The flight was on time at New York.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
« ^ »
I’VE HEARD of America.” Major Lister had ogled the skyline all the way from the airport. He made the announcement as a concession to fashion. “Truly amazing.”
We’d rehearsed his part until we were both word perfect. He had the photograph, silver framed, and a parchment citation, sealing wax, everything. I was really proud of the craftsman I’d sent him to.
“Vertigo ask much?” I worried uneasily.
“He says you still owe him. Some lady in Morton.”
“I’ll pay.” She’d been keen to have a bonfire of all her possessions, in order to sell them. I’d fixed it for her, with a little bit of help from my friends. We call it a tinder job in the trade. (A tragic house fire loses you all your precious antiques, only it’s fakes which get crisped, see? You sell the untraceable genuine antiques at some far-flung auction, and get the insurance as a bonus). I’d taken three months to fake all her stuff. I’d worked like a dog. Vertigo had done three marvellous portraits.
“This gentleman expecting us, Lovejoy?”
“Aye. It may only be his assistants, but it’ll be as useful.”
Maynooth Tower was the great Thomas Maynooth’s gift to the great city of New York—his phraseology, nobody else’s. We gave John Lister’s name, and were ushered up to the upper triplex where Maynooth’s think tank never closed. Its beacons shone ceaselessly to inform the universe of Tommy Dynamite’s unflagging zeal in quest of the American dream.
A smoothie of each sex welcomed us, with clones. Opulence ruled. I felt positively shoddy, but then I always do. John Lister’s bearing carried him through, spick and span.
“This is Major Lister,” I explained. “Rutland Orphanage. I called you earlier.”
The lead lass shook hands with aggression-filled doubt. The others stood aloof with threat.
“We have no record of the appointment, Major Lister. Nor of a contribution from Mr Maynooth to your orphanage. Also, Mr Maynooth’s real busy right now and —”
“The citation, Wilkins,” John commanded. I leapt to obey. “Miss, will you let me conduct the ceremony here? We fully comprehend. Mr Maynooth’s time is of the essence.”
“Ceremony?” The clones swapped glances.
“Of thanks. I have a citation, and a small acknowledgement of Mr Maynooth’s generosity. It saved our orphanage.”
Lister cleared his throat, conducted the head lady from behind her desk, produced the scroll.
“In the name of the Rutland Orphanage, of Maltan Lees, in testimony of the generosity of —”
“Hold it, please.”
An anxious gent disappeared from the anteroom. We waited. It took two minutes, and we were ushered into an office as broad as the bridge of an ocean liner. The whole of Manhattan was spread out before us. We actually looked down on skyscrapers. My head swam.
The man at the desk rose. Fortyish, smooth and easy, with eyes that had once known humour, but no longer. He shook our hands. I deferred to Major Lister. We explained our purpose, Maynooth nodding and listening. Then he lit a cigar, took three rapid puffs, extinguished it with regret into an ashtray piled with enormous remnants of aborted smokes. He waved his aides out, and we were alone.
“Wilkins?” he asked me directly. I was standing near Lister’s chair.
“That’s me.”
He said no more for quite a few minutes. During them he extracted and read the citation. Then he examined the photograph, carefully perusing the dates on the reverse.
“What do you get out of this, Wilkins?” he asked eventually. His calm was a delight to see. I glowed with admiration of America and all her great businessmen. Hardly a single clue, and he susses out every nuance of the baffling problem instantly. Great.
“A contribution from others, Mr Maynooth.”
“You putting me on?”
“No, Mr Maynooth.
He swung his chair, practising, perhaps never having done it before. He wasn’t in showbusiness, this
