Birdcage Page 11

  “I’ve brought your tea, love.”

  Folding the cheque without haste and putting it into his inside pocket he smiled pleasantly. “Thanks, my old dear.”

  “How was his lordship?”

  “Nice enough. Just an old-times’-sake chat as he happened to be up this way. By the by, I meant to tell you—I’ve got to go up to town for a few days. Why don’t you pop over and stay with that sister of yours?”

  “Oh, that would be nice. I haven’t seen Vi for ages.”

  “Fine. Have a good old girls’ natter. I’ll be staying at the club.”

  Watching her pour his tea, chattering away without expecting an answer, he thought. . . nice, a real comfortable handful, knew all the tricks. But she was no filly any longer. Even at his age a man needed that now and again. Young flesh. Now, if only it had been seventy instead of seven thousand he’d have put her out to grass permanently and been free to look around . . . Eheu fugaces!

  * * * *

  Two pigeons, but not the same ones, were in the plane tree. Quint had a solitary sprig of winter jasmine in his buttonhole. It was a clear, brisk sunny morning. He was breathing easily and his face was touched with a rare crease of a smile worked there by an inner glow of well-being. Looking up from the papers on his desk he killed the smile. Kerslake’s eyes turned from the window to Quint’s face.

  Quint said pleasantly, “You like seeing them there, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. My father used to breed them.”

  “I know—but that wouldn’t surprise you would it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ve got an appointment at three o’clock today. A Mr Arnold Geddy of Geddy, Parsons and Rank, solicitors, The Avenue, Cheltenham. Know Cheltenham?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It isn’t what it was. Mr Geddy will brief you. Tomorrow morning, ten—Lord Bellmaster will see you. He will further brief you for Portugal—the Villa Lobita. You’ll leave the following day. TAP to Lisbon. Car down to Monchique. Get the latest briefing—if any— from the Lisbon office. Make your own hotel arrangements according to the lie of the ground. On no account stay at the villa if invited. When your business is done take three days’ holiday. Genuine. You have a free rein from us. You understand that, of course?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Quint was silent for a while, keeping his eyes on Kerslake and then with a nod of his head as he resolved some inner doubts, he said, “You’d better know. Geddy—a long time ago —was here. Wartime only. Not much good on the ground but an excellent seat-polisher. He wouldn’t mention this, of course —but I thought you’d like to see that some of us finish up happy. Well, that’s it. Run away and start pretending you’re a very junior partner in a prosperous provincial firm of solicitors. Make a nice change.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, of course, if Bellmaster gives you a different briefing from mine—and he knows what I’m going to give you—and asks you to keep it under your hat then do as he says. We want him to think that you’re corruptible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which all men are, of course. And don’t say ‘Yes, sir’ to that.”

  “No, sir.”

  Quint looked briefly out of the window. “Your birds have gone. Honeymoon flight perhaps. All right. Of you go to the last haven of all retiring service people.”

  The next morning at ten o’clock Kerslake went to see Lord Bellmaster at Claremount Mansions. He was in his dressing gown, bathed and shaved, taking his breakfast of coffee and toast. Kerslake accepted a cup of coffee where he would normally have refused. Without any positive instruction from Quint now, but knowing that he had to shade himself to the role which Bellmaster could have in mind for him, he felt it could do no harm to show the smallest edge of pleasure at the possible birth of a private understanding between them, a slight flicker of self-interest and ambition. To his surprise he soon sensed that Bellmaster was proceeding as though it were now a matter of course that they had a purely private understanding, that he would fit snugly into Bellmaster’s pocket and Bellmaster would look after him.

  “What did you make of dear old Geddy?”

  “A very pleasant man, sir.”

  “And very able. Of course, he told you that in fact the settlement for Miss Branton was really coming from me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But not why?” Bellmaster refilled his cup with half coffee and half cream.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, at Birdcage Walk it’s no secret to some. She’s my daughter. The marriage to Colonel Branton was one of convenience—with a large consideration to him, of course. Long since squandered. I had to pay him to agree to this arrangement now. A useless fellow. I can tell you that just to get his consent to the settlement in his name has cost me some thousands. Know why I’m talking frankly to you like this?”

  Kerslake studied the Russell Flint painting for a few moments, his face, he hoped, giving the impression of careful thought. . . some hesitation on the brink of self-interest, if that were possible. But the plain fact was that he already knew his reply and was thinking to himself that one of the women on the poolside had breasts which were just like Margaret’s . . . he saw her lying back on the sand dunes, her bikini bra loose in one hand.

  He said slowly, to show that he needed to pick his words carefully, that he wanted no offence to shadow the understanding which was to grow between them, “I understand that when you were at Birdcage her mother was—though not officially—of considerable help to you there for many years.”

  Bellmaster laughed. “Until her death. I can tell you. She was pure Borgia, solid cinquecento. Also the kind of woman who, if you crossed her, never forgot and never forgave and would find a way of striking back—alive or dead. There isn’t any man living who doesn’t have some part of his past make him vulnerable. So now you know why I’m talking like this to you.”

  “Frankly no, my lord.” All right, Kerslake thought; he might be giving a good performance of a lighdy hooked fish, but there was no sense in coming too easily to the net.

  “A little less than frankly, I think. But let it go. The game must have some rules. The truth is she could still be a danger to me and not one that Birdcage might consider they need show too much concern over. They have their interests and I have mine. The advantage is mine because I have a foot in two worlds. Theirs—and the openly political world. Do I have to say more?”

  “No, sir. I read the political gossip columns. But you know my only loyalty is to Birdcage. That’s the only career I want, too.”

  “And so it shall be. But even if you sit at the top at Birdcage you have a string round your waist which is pulled—or can be —from higher up. You’ve got nothing to fear if you do me a small personal service and it becomes known—after the fact.”

  “My brief, sir, is to take my instructions from you in this matter.”

  “But to report everything to them?”

  “Naturally, sir.”

  “Then there’s no problem. You send your reports fully and frankly. Anything I ask you to do—you do, and then eventually —a word which is capable of many interpretations—let them know about it. You agree?”

  “Yes, sir. Except in one instance where I must get prior authorisation from Birdcage before I act.”

  Showing no surprise, Lord Bellmaster pushed his coffee cup away, leaned back in his chair and slowly lit a cigarette. He sat gently fingering the chasing of his gold case and then with a laugh said, “My dear Kerslake, did you really think you were going swimming in such deep waters? There’s nothing like that about this. This by no stretch of imagination could come to an elimination exercise. There’s no possibility of putting anyone to the sword. At the most this would come to a burning of the book or books.” Standing up and moving to the fireplace, he tightened the belt about his dressing gown. “I just want to know exactly what was in that parcel which Sarah Branton collected from the Hotel Globo at Estoril. And knowing that. . . well, it’s c
onceivable that I might want to have possession of all or part of the contents. That’s your brief. Find out and let me know immediately. Before you leave I’ll give you three telephone numbers—one or other will always find me, no matter what time of day. As a matter of interest—how have you been on elimination?”

  “I’ve never been assigned so far, sir.”

  “Well, if you live long enough you will. And I can tell you— the first time you won’t like it. But, for God’s sake, put the idea from your head so far as this matter is concerned.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kerslake was tempted to add—Thank you—but refrained. He would come to an elimination one day and there was something to be said for sooner rather than later.

  “Good. So let’s get this clear. You go down there and you find out about the parcel. I don’t have to brief you on that. If there was anything in the shape or form of letters or a diary or diaries—get them. Naturally you’ll cover yourself on that. I don’t care how. But get them and let me have them. The odds are I shan’t want to keep anything you find. But if I do—well, that’s our secret and I shall see you get the kind of reward you want. Birdcage need never know that you discovered anything. So you see, the whole thing is a simple exercise and I’m not asking you to step far out of line. Anyway, it’s quite possible that I’m letting old fears get to me.” He began to move away towards the window. “I don’t have to tell you that most men who get to the top have scandals . . . dark periods in their lives . . . which they don’t want brought into the light. There’ve been times when I wish I’d stuck to Castle Conary and just looked after myself and mine own. But there it is, either God or the Devil gets to you. Pity that the prospectus of the first isn’t as attractively laid out as that of the second.” He turned abruptly, smiling. “Well, there it is, young Kerslake. I’m only asking you possibly to step a little out of line for me. A little concession, shall we say, to your future prospects.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “A pleasant trip tomorrow. You’ll like the villa. I’ve had some mixed moments there.”

  When Kerslake reported back to Quint he heard him out without interruption, smiling, and then said, “He’ll make a good ambassador, won’t he? You don’t know whether you’re coming or going, do you?”

  “His fine is a bit hard to follow, sir.” The evening light was throwing long shadows over the courtyard and through the slightly open window came the low, throaty grumble of London traffic.

  “He meant it to be. One moment you think he’s asking you to do nothing out of line. The next you think you’re agreeing to play some game—disloyal—with him . . . on a promise of future fast promotion. Oh, dear, oh, dear! What a man. Yes, he’d make an excellent ambassador or whatever else it is he’s got his eye on—but the trouble is some people want him as far away from what is popularly called “the corridors of power” as possible. Fortunately for him he’s still useful to us at times—and fortunately for us he’s flawed because he always overlooks something. When you get to the Lisbon office tomorrow pick up a camera. If there is a diary or diaries, you photograph every page and detail before you call him. Dear Lady Jean—she’s really got under his skin from beyond the veil. He must have done a lot of things for other people than ourselves. All right. Off you go and bon voyage.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FARLEY DROVE LEISURELY, the sunshine roof pushed back, enjoying the morning air. Beside him on the other seat, wrapped in a newspaper held with rubber bands, was the golden girdle in its long case. He had thought that Sarah would want to come for the drive, but she had preferred to stay at the villa. Perhaps she had felt that it would be good for him to be on his own so that he could think things over. Maybe she was right. He really did have to come to some positive decision about the girdle. Taking it to François Norbert for a valuation was only a delaying tactic. There was a touch of stubborn fanaticism almost in her determination to help him. He grinned. Something to put him back on his feet again. The point she missed was that he had never been off his feet. He was the way he was, always had been and was quite content to carry on being so. The ristorante thing had been a bolt out of the blue, a one-off diversion which had arisen simply because an impulse to play the tables—which form of activity had no real appeal for him—had proved profitable and then Herman had talked him into opening Il Gallo. What she did not seem to understand was that by making this big thing about helping him she was not going to repay any debt—she owed him nothing—but moving to put him under an unwanted obligation to her. He had saved her life. Fine. Finish. But now she wanted him to make her happy by accepting a gift out of all proportion to the service which time and chance and his own natural responses had thrust on him. Well, perhaps it was right what they said about women. Once their emotions were stirred logic went out of the window. Usually the bedroom window, too. Happily, for all her affection, she had shown no signs of that. Well, the only solution he could think of for the moment was to spin things out and hope that something would turn up to free him from . . . what? Not her importunities. No, rather this schoolgirl almost passion to see him as a hero, her saviour, and to mark her gratitude by turning lady bountiful—ignoring the obvious fact that he was no bounty-hunter.

  He overtook a mule cart, heavily loaded with cork oak bark strips from an early cutting. An old man was driving, a transistor radio playing at his side, and two women walked behind herding a couple of goats. He smiled to himself. There was a lot to be said for keeping women in their proper place.

  The Norbert villa was a few miles to the east of Albufeira and stood on high ground overlooking the not-far-distant sea. It was surrounded by trees except on the seaward side. Flanking the short drive were two long strips of carefully tended lawn of which François was very proud. He managed lawns and shrubs while his wife, Elise, had charge of the flower beds. François—French-Swiss—had retired from his business in Zurich early because of a weak chest which had made him settle in Portugal to avoid cold winters. Elise, much younger than François,, was German-Swiss, blonde, plump and a magnificent Hausfrau. After he had made his greetings she disappeared into the kitchen region of the villa and—although it was only mid-morning—he caught the aroma of sardines being grilled and knew that soon a dish would be put between himself and François where they sat under a plumbago-laced terrace overlooking the lawns, a carafe of dry white wine already on the table. François was gentle and genial, and ate like a horse and never put on weight—Elise’s ambition for him, to which she dedicated herself without stint or despair.

  After they had made their greetings and lifted their glasses to one another, François nodded to the newspaper-wrapped parcel on the table. “That’s it?”

  “Yes. It was left to a friend of mine by her mother. I told her you might kindly give us some idea of its value.”

  François smiled. “For you, anything. Let us see. You permit?”

  When Farley nodded, François began to unwrap the case. He did it without hurry, folding the newspaper neatly before he opened the case. He lifted the belt out and ran it slowly through his hands, link by link, his long face untouched by any expression. From his pocket he produced a jeweller’s optic and gave the girdle a closer inspection and then finally laid it carefully back in the case, and said, “It is a most beautiful piece of work. Beautiful. You know its history?”

  “Well, I understand it was given to my friend’s mother as a birthday present, or something like that. It’s supposed to have been made by someone called Legare donkey’s years ago.”

  “I might question Legare. How long has your friend had it?”

  “She’s only recently acquired it. According to the mother it was valued around thirty thousand pounds in nineteen forty-eight.”

  “This friend, is she an old friend of yours?”

  “No.”

  François smiled. “Beautiful?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “She needs money badly—quickly?”

  “I don’t think so. She just wants some i
dea, François. Could be for insurance purposes. I said you were the man.”

  “Indeed I am. But to do the job properly I need some time. Say three or four days. Modern jewellery is easy. Old stuff. . . the craftsmanship and the history . . . well, one must be very careful. You would be happy to leave it with me?”

  “Of course. It’s good of you to offer to do it.”

  “No trouble. And now—as you know from many visits at this hour—there is no escaping the grilled sardines of Elise.” The charcoal-grilled fresh sardines were brought in and white wine was poured. They sat eating them, holding them by head and tail and nibbling away down one side and then the other to leave head-and-tailed skeletons which, Farley thought, had he been with Marsox or Herman they would have put between two pieces of bread to press and then discard leaving the flavoured bread to eat with the last of the wine as the true people of this country did.

  François walked with him to his car and, as Farley sat waiting to drive off, he said, “There is talk that you have rescued a beautiful girl from the sea and taken her off to live with you in the mountains. For myself I do not care if you are living with a mermaid so long as you are happy. But I promised Elise to ask. Life is very even here—a little gossip cheers her up.”

  Farley laughed. “Something like that. But I am not living with her.”

  “But you like her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is the one of the gold belt?”

  “Yes.”

  “She will wish to sell it eventually?”

  “I imagine so. Could you handle that?”

  François gave a little shrug of his shoulders. “Well. . . I am retired, but not so retired that I would not oblige a beautiful lady. I will think about it. It is a most interesting piece.”

  As Farley drove off François stood watching him, tweaking absently at the tip of his long nose. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the veranda. His wife was standing by the table looking at the belt in its case.