and we saluted each other over the glasses.
“You know, Harry, Jimmy had a hundred schemes. His whole life was one great treasure hunt. Every week he had found, almost found, the location of a treasure ship from the Armada or a sunken Aztec city, a buccaneer wreck—? she shrugged. “I have a built-in resistance to believing any of it. But this one-” She sipped the wine.
“Let’s go over what we have,” I suggested. We know that Goodchild was very concerned that his agent receive five cases of luggage and put it into safe keeping. We know that he was going to ship it aboard Dawn Light and he sent advance notice, probably through a personal friend, the captain of the naval frigate Pandker.”
“Good,“she agreed.
“We know that those cases were listed on the ship’s manifest.
That the ship was lost, presumably with them still on board. We know the exact location of the wreck. We have had it confirmed by the ship’s bell.”
“Still good.”
“We only do not know what those cases contained.”
“Dirty socks,“she said.
“Four tons of dirty socks?” I asked, and her expression changed.
The weight of the cargo had not meant anything to her.
“Ah,” I grinned at her, “it went over your head. I thought so.
You read so fast you only take in half of it She pulled a face at me.
“Four tons, my darling girl, is a great deal of something whatever it is.”
“All right,“she agreed. “Figures don’t mean much to me, I admit.
But it sounds a lot.”
“Say the same weight as a new Rolls-Royce - to put it in terms you might understand,” and her eyes widened and turned a darker blue.
“That is a lot.”
“Jimmy obviously knew what it was, and had proof sufficient to convince some very hard-headed backers. They took it seriously.”
“Seriously enough to, and she stopped herself. For an instant I saw the old grief for Jimmy’s death in her eyes. I was embarrassed by it, and I looked away, making a show of taking the letter out of my inner pocket.
Carefully I spread it on the table top between us. When I looked at her, she had recovered her composure once more.
The pencilled note in the margin engaged my attention again.
“B. Muse.6914(8).” I read it aloud. “Any ideas?”
“Bachelor of Music.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I applauded.
“You do better,” she challenged, and I folded the letter away with dignity and ordered two more drinks.
“Well, that was a good run on that scent,” I said when I had paid the waiter. “We have an idea what it was all about. Now, we can go on my other lead.”
She sat forward and encouraged me silently.
“I told you about your impostor, the blonde Sherry North?” and she nodded. “On the night before she left the island she sent a cable to London.” I produced the flimsy from my wallet and handed it to Sherry. While she read it, I went on: “This was clearly an okay to her principal, Manson. He must be the big man behind this. I am going to start moving in on him now.” I finished my Vermouth. “I’ll drop you back with your martial uncle, and contact you again tomorrow.”
Her lips set in a line of stubbornness which I had not seen before and there was a glint in her eyes like the blue of gun-metal.
“Harry Fletcher, if You think you are going to ditch me just when things start livening up, you must be off your tiny head. The cab dropped us in Berkeley Square and I led her into Curzon Street.
“Take my arm quickly,” I muttered, glancing over my shoulder in a secretive manner. Instantly she obeyed, and we had gone fifty yards before she whispered, why? “Because I like the feel of it,” I grinned at her and spoke in a natural voice.
“Oh, you!” She made as if to pull away, but I held her and she capitulated. We sauntered up the street towards Shepherd Market, stopping now and then to window-shop like a pair of tourists.
No. 97 Curzon Street was one of those astronomically expensive apartment blocks, six storeys of brick facing, and an ornate street door of bronze and glass beyond which was a marbled foyer guarded by a uniformed doorman. We went on past it, up as far as the White Elephant Club and there we crossed the street and wandered back on the opposite pavement.
“I could go and ask the doorman if Mr. Manson occupied Flat No.
5,” Sherry volunteered.
“Great,” I said. “Then he says “yes”, what do you do then? Tell him Harry Fletcher says hello?”
“You are really very droll,” she said, and once more she tried to take her hand away.
“There is a restaurant diagonally opposite No. 97.” I prevented her withdrawal. “Let’s get a table in the front window, drink some coffee and watch for a while.”
It was a little past three o’clock when we settled at the window seat with a good view across the street, and the next hour passed pleasantly. I found it not a difficult task to keep Sherry amused, we shared a similar sense of humour and I liked to hear her laugh.
I was in the middle of a long, complicated story when I was interrupted by the arrival outside No. 97 of a Silver Wraith Rolls-Royce. It pulled to the kerb and a chauffeur in a smart dove-grey uniform left the car and entered the foyer. He and the doorman fell into conversation, and I resumed my story.
Ten minutes later, there was sudden activity opposite. The elevator began a series of rapid ascents and descents, each time discharging a load of matching crocodileskin luggage. This was carried out by the doorman and chauffeur and packed into the Rolls. It seemed endless, and Sherry remarked, “Somebody is off on a long holiday.” She sighed wistfully.
“How do you fancy a tropical island with blue water and white sands, a thatched shack amongst the Palms—” “Stop it,” she said. “On an autumn day in old London, I just can’t bear the thought.”
I was about to move into a stronger position when the footman and chauffeur stood to attention and once more the glass doors of the lift opened and a man and woman stepped out of it.
The woman wore a full-length honey mink and her blonde hair was piled high on her head in an elaborate lacquered Grecian style. Anger struck me like a fist in the guts as I recognized her.
It was Sherry North, the First. The nice lady who had blown Judith and wave Dancer to the bottom of Grand Harbour.
With her was a man of medium height with soft brown hair fashionably long and curly over his ears. He had a light tan, Probably from a sun lamp, and he was dressed too well. Very expensively, but as flamboyantly as an entertainment personality.
He had a heavy jaw and a long fleshy nose with soft gazelle eyes, but his mouth was pinched and hungry. A greedy mouth that I remembered so well.
“Manson!” I said. “Jesus! Manson Resnick - Manny Resnick.” He would be-just the one Jimmy North would find his way to with his outrageous proposition. In exactly the same way that so long ago I had gone to him with my plans for the gold heist at Rome Airport. Manny was an underworld entrepreneur, and he had clearly climbed a long way up the ladder since our last meeting.
He was keeping great style now, I thought, as he crossed the pavement and entered the back seat of the Rolls, settling down next to the mink-clad blonde.
“Wait here,” I told Sherry urgently, as the Rolls pulled away towards Park Lane.
I ran out on to the pavement and searched wildly for a cab to follow them. There were none and I ran after the Rolls praying desperately for the sight of a big black cab with its top light burning, but ahead of me the Rolls swung right into South Audley Street and accelerated smoothly away.
I stopped at the corner and it was already far ahead, infiltrating the traffic towards Grosvenor Square.
I turned and ambled disappointedly back to where Sherry waited. I knew that Sherry had been correct. Manny and the blonde were off on a long journey. There was no point in hanging around No. 97 Curzon Street any longer.
