“Yes.”
“Have you suffered serious aftereffects?”
“No.”
“Did you see a doctor?”
“No.”
He pondered some more. “On a practical level you’d find it difficult to get a conviction, even if the prosecution service would bring charges of actual bodily harm. You couldn’t swear to the identity of your assailant if you didn’t see him at the time, and as for the other man, conspiracy to commit a crime is one of the most difficult charges to make stick. As you didn’t consult a doctor, you’re on tricky ground. So, hard as it may seem, my advice would be that the case wouldn’t get to court.”
I sighed. “Thank you,” I said.
“Sorry not to have been more positive.”
“It’s all right. You confirmed what I rather feared.”
“Fine then,” he said. “I rang to thank you for sending the Vaccaro notes. We held the committee meeting and turned down Vaccaro’s application, and now we find we needn’t have bothered because on Saturday night he was arrested and charged with attempting to import illegal substances. He’s still in custody, and America is asking for him to be extradited to Florida where he faces murder charges and perhaps execution. And we nearly gave him a gambling license! Funny old world.”
“Hilarious.”
“How about our drink in the Rook and Castle?” he suggested. “Perhaps one evening next week?”
“OK.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll call you.”
I put the phone down thinking that if Vaccaro had been arrested on Saturday evening and held in custody it was unlikely he’d shot Simms from a moving car in Berkshire on Sunday afternoon. But then, I’d never really thought he had.
Copycat. Copycat, that’s what it had been.
Pross hadn’t shot Simms either. Had never tried to kill me. The Peter Pan face upon which so many emotions could be read had shown a total blank when I’d asked him what he was doing on Sunday afternoon.
The shooting of Simms, I concluded, had been random violence like the other murders in Hungerford. Pointless and vicious; malignant, lunatic and impossible to explain.
I picked up the huge check and looked at it. It would solve all immediate problems: pay the interest already due, the cost of cutting the diamonds and more than a fifth of the capital debt. If I didn’t take it we would no doubt sell the diamonds later to someone else, but they had been cut especially for Prospero Jenks’s fantasies and might not easily fit necklaces and rings.
A plea. A bargain. A chance that the remorse was at least half real. Or was he taking me again for a sucker?
I did some sums with a calculator and when Annette came in with the day’s letters I showed her my figures and the check and asked her what she thought.
“That’s the cost price,” I pointed. “That’s the cost of cutting and polishing. That’s for delivery charges. That’s for loan interest and tax. If you add those together and subtract them from the figure on this check, is that the sort of profit margin Greville would have asked?”
Setting prices was something she well understood, and she repeated my steps on the calculator.
“Yes,” she said finally, “it looks about right. Not overgenerous, but Mr. Franklin would have seen this as a service for commission, I think. Not like the rock crystal, which he bought on spec, which had to help pay for his journeys.” She looked at me anxiously. “You understand the difference?”
“Yes,” I said. “Prospero Jenks says this is what he and Greville agreed on.”
“Well then,” she said, relieved, “he wouldn’t cheat you.”
I smiled with irony at her faith. “We’d better bank this check, I suppose,” I said, “before it evaporates.”
“I’ll do it at once,” she declared. “With a loan as big as you said, every minute costs us money.”
She put on her coat and took an umbrella to go out with, as the day had started off raining and showed no signs of relenting.
It had been raining the previous night when Clarissa had been ready to leave, and I’d had to ring three times for a taxi, a problem Cinderella didn’t seem to have encountered. Midnight had come and gone when the wheels had finally arrived, and I’d suggested meanwhile that I lend her Brad and my car for going to her wedding.
I didn’t need to, she said. When she and Henry were in London, they were driven about by a hired car firm. The car was already ordered to take her to the wedding, which was in Surrey. The driver would wait for her and return her to the hotel, and she’d better stick to the plan, she said, because the bill for it would be sent to her husband.
“I always do what Henry expects,” she said. “Then there are no questions.”
“Suppose Brad picks you up from the Selfridge after you get back?” I said, packing the little stone bears and giving them to her in a carrier. “The forecast is lousy and if it’s raining you’ll have a terrible job getting a taxi at that time of day.”
She liked the idea except for Brad’s knowing her name. I assured her he never spoke unless he couldn’t avoid it, but I told her I would ask Brad to park somewhere near the hotel. Then she could call the car phone’s number when she was ready to leave, and Brad would beetle up at the right moment and not need to know her name or ask for her at the desk.
As that pleased her, I wrote down the phone number and the car’s license plate so that she would recognize the right pumpkin, and described Brad to her, going bald, a bit morose, an open-necked shirt, a very good driver.
I couldn’t tell Brad’s own opinion of the arrangement. When I’d suggested it in the morning on the rainy way to the office he had merely grunted, which I’d taken as preliminary assent.
When he’d brought Clarissa, I thought as I looked through the letters Annette had given me, he could go on home, to Hungerford, and Clarissa and I might walk along to the restaurant at the end of Greville’s street where he could have been known but I was not, and after an early dinner we would return to Greville’s bed, this time for us, and we’d order the taxi in better time... perhaps.
I was awoken from this pleasant daydream by the ever-demanding telephone, this time with Nicholas Loder on the other end spluttering with rage.
“Milo says you had the confounded cheek,” he said, “to have Dozen Roses dope-tested.”
“For barbiturates, yes. He seemed very sleepy. Our vet said he’d be happier to know the horse hadn’t been tranquilized for the journey before he gave him an all-clear certificate.”
“I’d never give a horse tranquilizers,” he declared.
“No, none of us really thought so,” I said pacifyingly, “but we decided to make sure.”
“It’s shabby of you. Offensive. I expect an apology.”
“I apologize,” I said sincerely enough, and thought guiltily of the further checks going on at that moment.
“That’s not good enough,” Nicholas Loder said huffily.
“I was selling the horse to good owners of Milo’s, people I ride for,” I said reasonably. “We all know you disapproved. In the same circumstances, confronted by a sleepy horse, you’d have done the same, wouldn’t you? You’d want to be sure what you were selling.”
Weigh the merchandise, I thought. Cubic zirconia, size for size, was one point seven times heavier than diamond. Greville had carried jewelers’ scales in his car on his way to Harwich, presumably to check what the Koningin Beatrix was bringing.
“You’ve behaved disgustingly,” Nicholas Loder said. “When did you see the horse last? And when next?”
“Monday evening, last. Don’t know when next. As I told you, I’m tied up a bit with Greville’s affairs.”
“Milo’s secretary said I’d find you in Greville’s office,” he grumbled. “You’re never at home. I’ve got a buyer for Gemstones, I think, though you don’t deserve it. Where will you be this evening, if he makes a definite offer?”