Eric remembered that an incautious female companion of Tony’s had once told him that he looked like a Lebanese rug merchant who had struck oil. Tony Saxe had shown his appreciation for her humor by smiling and putting out his cigar on the back of her hand.
“But, Eric, you haven’t been in touch with this kid, not even a postcard, for eight years,” he had said. “With that kind of money, there’ll be vultures flocking down from everywhere. Who do you think you’ll fool?”
“I expect that. I’m prepared for it.”
“And so far, I’ve only got your word on what the stuff’s worth, the jades and antiques and all.”
“Check it out. Check with your friendly neighborhood shylocks — just show them those pictures of Easter Hill.”
“Then how do we pull the handle on the slot machine? How do we cash in our chips?”
“We’ll need a crooked cop or two in Belfast and an international fence. You should be able to set that up, Tony.”
“So all you’re asking is that I finance the deal to ease your way into that kid’s life?”
“You’d be a fool if you didn’t, Tony. And Maudie insists you’re no fool.”
Tony Saxe had stared hard at the photographs of Jessica and Dalworth taken at the race course of the Curragh, and then at the entrance to Easter Hill where a gray-haired butler held open the door of a Daimler.
He said then, “What I’m staking my loot on is whether you’ll keep your mind on the job, Eric. You gotta play a role, no slip-ups, stay nice and sober for as long as it takes. What it comes down to, pal, is whether you want it bad enough.”
And it was at that moment that Maud burst into the room, like some howling Cassandra — Eric recalled with amusement — accompanied by Benny Stiff, Saxe’s professional muscle. She had just remembered Miss Scobey, the way they’d treated her, the things they’d said eight years ago, with Miss Scobey’s busy little fountain pen taking down every word of it.
Studying the skyline of Philadelphia, Eric savored the memory of their faces, Tony Saxe’s and Maudie’s and Benny Stiffs, when he had said blandly and casually, “You needn’t worry yourselves about that. I’ll take care of Miss Scobey. I’ve already set up an appointment with the good lady.”
And yet, as he sat beside the social worker’s desk, fingering the cross in his lapel and watching the pigeons flying their strafing runs above City Hall, and yet — his thoughts drifting without direction — there was something unappealing, in fact, downright distasteful, about these sordid details. To be forced to include such brazen thugs as Tony Saxe and Benny Stiff, to con a pious gullible fool, to soil himself with talk of theft and crooked art dealers and alibis. What the devil did he need alibis for? How could he, in fact, “steal” what practically belonged to him as the child’s only blood relative?
Still, Eric thought, there was a catch to that, a brutal, frustrating flaw to his claim. While he had certain “rights” to Easter Hill, it came down to that — they could only be exercised at the whim of distant fates, far far down the long roads of chance, when Jessica — perhaps an old, old woman by then — might die and leave her estate to the next of kin. But, and God, what a bleak thought this was, where would he and Maud be then? Long past any hope of enjoying the monies, the luxuries of Easter Hill, of savoring that life with its privileges.
And even if Jessica wanted to throw them a bone out of charity’s sake, she wouldn’t be in a legal position to do so until she was twenty-one, years and years from now. And Tony was right. With lawyers and administrators watching her estate, shrewdly eyeing those millions, there was no way they’d appoint him her executor or legal guardian, no way that could ever happen. But as a favored uncle, a needed and trusted companion, a beloved mentor, he might be a guest at Easter Hill... At least until he had won her confidence and set up the scheme he had let Tony Saxe in on, the deal that would give them all a load of loot from Easter Hill.
But still it was enraging, thought Eric, to have to settle for a pittance of what he felt was rightfully his... His middle name was hardly a coincidence; Boniface, the Irish saint, the confidant of kings and popes; Boniface, the legendary patron of inns and hostels, a name that symbolized a spirit of grandness in style, lavishness in hospitality, connoisseur of all gracious material pleasures.
That was his birthright, what was owed him by the covenant of primogeniture, not the role of petty thief snatching up a crust of bread with the silverware and fleeing from his own estates with the dogs after him...
He smiled at these reflections but when he heard Miss Scobey’s brisk footsteps, Eric Griffith quickly composed his features into an expression of suitable gravity.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffith,” she said, sitting down behind her desk. “What you’re asking is simply not possible. All of those files and notes are confidential, under the seal of the Court which presided over the child’s adoption.”
Eric Griffith sighed and said, “Well, I imagine I was hoping for some kind of miracle, Miss Scobey. I was clutching at straws. If I must lose Maud, well—” He smiled directly at Miss Scobey, feeling with an actor’s gratification the cool glint of tears in his eyes. “You must understand how desperately and terribly I need the hope, for myself and for my dear wife, that she will be in heaven when I join her with our Lord Jesus Christ...”
Miss Scobey was suspicious, but troubled by his obvious pain and misery. It was difficult for her to relate this unhappy and shattered human being with the whiskey-drinking braggart she had encountered at their first meeting eight long years ago. Now the bogus tweeds and foxhead tie pin had been replaced by a plain black suit with shiny elbows, a dark narrow tie, a pale blue shirt. The thinning blond hair was neatly combed. Even his eyes seemed different to her, luminous and moist behind wire-framed glasses. In his lapel was a tiny silver cross with a filigree of metal forming a Crown of Thorns around it.
Elizabeth Scobey had deliberately chosen a profession which gave her a constant and ample opportunity to help people — childless couples, abandoned infants, lonely children, all the helpless and needy of the world, that’s what this warm, stout-hearted woman felt she had been put on earth to do something about.
“Mr. Griffith,” she said impulsively, “could you bring your wife to this office? Maybe, just maybe I can have an exception made in this case and have the files transferred here.”
Eric stared down at his hands. “I’ve waited too long. Even a month ago, she might have— But she’s bedridden now, weaker every day.”
“Mr. Griffith, you have my sympathy. I do hope you understand, however, that I can’t do anything about the regulations.”
“Of course. This was just—” He sighed wearily. “...a last chance, a plea to St. Dismas.” Standing, Eric smiled into her troubled eyes and then, with a gesture that surprised and moved her, he patted her hand. “You mustn’t worry about us, Miss Scobey. But there is something you could do for both of us which would be a great kindness.”
“Certainly, Mr. Griffith, if I can.”
“Would you pray for us? Please...”
Miss Scobey felt a sting of tears in her eyes. “Of course, I will, Mr. Griffith. Of course, I will.”
“Thank you, Miss Scobey. God bless you.”
But before he had taken two steps away from her desk, the social worker was on her feet, a quick, restraining hand on his arm. Despite her earlier skepticism, her religious impulses overcame her. “I’ll arrange to have your wife look at those files. We are all on this earth to do the work of the Lord. I feel our dear Lord would want me to—” Her quick min’d was already managing the details. Adam Greene was still Judge William’s bailiff at Court J-11. There would be no need for a formal requisition.