And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

Bryant leaped off the top bunk and, towering over Benny, their noses almost touching, shouted, “Tell me. Tell me. I’ll do anything to get even with that bastard!”

  “Well, if you don’t want to wait twelve years before you next bump into him, you’ve got it in your power to make him come to you.”

  “Stop talking in fuckin’ riddles,” said Bryant. “How can I get Abbott to come to Belmarsh? He’s hardly likely to apply for a visiting order.”

  “I was thinking of something more permanent than a visit,” said Benny. It was Bryant’s turn to wait impatiently for his cellmate to continue. “You told me the judge offered to reduce your sentence if you told where you stashed the diamonds.”

  “That’s right. But have you forgotten they ain’t diamonds no more?” shouted Bryant, inching even closer toward him.

  “Exactly my point,” said Benny, not flinching, “so it shouldn’t take the police long to work out that they’ve been taken for a ride, while Abbott has ended up with ten million of insurance money in exchange for two pounds of paste.”

  “You’re fuckin’ right,” said Bryant, clenching his fist.

  “As soon as the police realize the diamonds aren’t kosher, they’re gonna throw the book at Abbott: fraud, theft, criminal deception, not to mention perverting the course of justice. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was sent down for at least ten years.” Benny lit a cigarette and slowly inhaled before he added, “And there’s only one place he’s heading once he leaves the Old Bailey.”

  “Belmarsh!” said Bryant, punching his fist in the air as if Manchester United had just won the Cup.

  The physical instruction officer at Belmarsh had never seen this particular con in the gym before, despite the fact that he clearly needed some exercise, nor, for that matter, the police officer he was deep in conversation with, who clearly didn’t. The governor had told him to lock the gym door and make sure that no one, screw or con, entered while the two men were together.

  “Bryant has made a full confession,” said Detective Inspector Matthews, “including where we’d find the diamonds. Half a dozen of them were missing, of course. I presume there’s no chance of retrieving them.”

  “None,” said Benny with a sigh. “It broke my heart to watch him flushing them down the toilet. But, Inspector Matthews, I was thinking of the bigger picture.”

  “The one where you leave this place in a few weeks’ time?” suggested the detective inspector.

  “I admit it had crossed my mind,” said Benny. “But I’m still curious to know what happened to the rest of the diamonds?”

  “The insurance company sold them back to Mr. Abbott at a slightly reduced price, on the understanding that neither side would refer to the matter again.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Benny, “because I’ve got a favor to ask you, Inspector Matthews.”

  “Isn’t two years off your sentence enough to be going on with?”

  “It certainly is, Inspector Matthews, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but it won’t be long before Bryant works out the reason you haven’t arrested Abbott is because the diamonds are kosher, and I double-crossed him.”

  “Go on,” said the detective inspector.

  “I just wondered if you could find it in your heart, Mr. Matthews, if I was ever foolish enough to be found wanting again, to make sure that I’m never sent back to Belmarsh.”

  Matthews rose from the bench at the far end of the gym and looked down at the old con. “Not a hope, Benny,” he said with a grin. “I can’t think of a better way of ensuring that you finally get yourself a proper job and stay on the straight and narrow. And by the way, there may even come a time when you want to come back to Belmarsh.”

  “You must be joking, Mr. Matthews. Why would I ever want to come back to this shit hole?”

  “Because the judge was as good as his word,” said Matthews. “He’s cut Bryant’s sentence in half. So, with good behavior, he should be out in a couple of years’ time. And when he is, Benny, I have a feeling it won’t be Mr. Abbott he comes looking for.”

  “I WILL SURVIVE”*

  7

  When the doorbell rang, Julian Farnsdale looked up.

  The first decision he always had to make was whether to engage a potential customer in conversation, or simply leave them to browse. There were several golden rules that you adopted after so many years in the trade. If the customer looked as if he needed some assistance, Julian would rise from behind his desk and say either, “Can I help you?” or, “Would you prefer just to browse?” If they only wanted to browse, he would sit back down, and although he would keep an eye on them, he wouldn’t speak again until they began a conversation.

  Julian wasn’t in any doubt that this customer was a browser, so he remained seated and said nothing. Browsers fall into three categories: those simply passing the time of day who stroll round for a few minutes before leaving without saying anything; dealers who know exactly what they are looking for but don’t want you to know they’re in the trade; and, finally, genuine enthusiasts hoping to come across something a little special to add to their collections.

  This particular customer unquestionably fell into the third category.

  Julian studied him out of the corner of one eye, an art he had perfected over the years. He decided he was probably an American—the tailored blazer, neatly pressed chinos, and striped preppy tie. The man may have been a browser but he was a browser with real knowledge and taste because he only stopped to consider the finest pieces: the Adam fireplace, the Chippendale rocking chair, and the Delft plate. Julian wondered if he would spot the one real treasure in his shop.

  A few moments later, the customer came to a halt in front of the egg. He studied the piece for some time before looking across at Julian. “Has it been signed by the master?”

  Julian rose slowly from his chair. Another golden rule: don’t appear to be in a hurry when you’re hoping to sell something very expensive.

  “Yes, sir,” said Julian as he walked toward him. “You’ll find Carl Fabergé’s signature on the base. And of course the piece is listed in the catalog raisonné.”

  “Date and description?” inquired the customer, continuing to study the egg.

  “Nineteen hundred and ten,” said Julian. “It was made to celebrate the Tsarina’s thirty-eighth birthday, and is one of a series of Easter eggs commissioned by Tsar Nicholas the Second.”

  “It’s magnificent,” said the customer. “Quite magnificent. But probably out of my price range.”

  Julian immediately recognized the bargaining ploy, so he mentally added 20 percent to the asking price to allow a little room for maneuver.

  “Six hundred and eighty thousand,” he said calmly.

  “Pounds?” asked the man, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” said Julian without further comment.

  “So, about a million dollars,” said the customer, confirming that he was American.

  Julian didn’t reply. He was distracted by a screeching sound outside, as if a car was trying to avoid a collision. Both men glanced out of the window to see a black stretch limousine that had come to a halt on the double yellow line outside the shop. A woman dressed in a stylish red coat and wearing a diamond necklace, matching earrings, and dark glasses stepped out of the back of the car.

  “Is that who I think it is?” asked Julian.

  “Looks like it is,” said the customer, as the woman stopped to sign an autograph.

  “Gloria Gaynor.” Julian sighed as she disappeared into the jewelry shop next door. “Lucky Millie,” he added without explanation.

  “I think she’s doing a gig in town this week,” said the customer.

  “She’s performing at the Albert Hall on Saturday,” said Julian. “I tried to get a ticket but it’s completely sold out.”

  The customer was clearly more interested in the jewel-encrusted egg than the jewel-covered pop star so Julian snapped back into antique-dealer mode.

  “What’s the lowest price you
’d consider?” asked the American.

  “I suppose I could come down to six hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “My bet is that you’d come down to five hundred thousand,” said the American.

  “Six hundred and twenty-five thousand,” said Julian. “I couldn’t consider a penny less.”

  The American nodded. “That’s a fair price. But my partner will need to see it before I can make a final decision.” Julian tried not to look disappointed. “Would it be possible to reserve the piece at six twenty-five?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” Julian pulled open a drawer in his desk, removed a small green sticker and placed it on the little description card fixed to the wall. “And when might we expect to see you again, sir?”

  “My partner flies in from the States on Friday, so possibly Friday afternoon. But as he suffers badly from jetlag it’s more likely to be Saturday afternoon. What time do you close on Saturdays?”

  “Around five, sir,” said Julian.

  “I’ll make sure we’re with you before then,” said the American.

  Julian opened the door to allow his customer to leave just as Miss Gaynor walked out of the jewelry shop. Once again she stopped to sign autographs for a little group that had gathered on the pavement outside. The chauffeur ran to open the door of the limousine and she disappeared inside. As the car slipped out into the traffic, Julian found himself waving, which was silly because he couldn’t see a thing through the smoked-glass windows.

  Julian was about to return to his shop when he noticed that his next-door neighbor was also waving. “What was she like, Millie?” he asked, trying not to sound too much like an adoring fan.

  “Charming. And so natural,” Millie replied, “considering all that she’s been through. A real star.”

  “Did you learn anything interesting?” asked Julian.

  “She’s staying at the Park Lane Hotel, and she’s off to Paris on Sunday for the next leg of her tour.”

  “I already knew that,” said Julian. “Read it in Londoner’s Diary last night. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “On the day of a concert she never leaves her room and won’t speak to anyone, even her manager. She likes to rest her voice before going on stage.”

  “Fascinating,” said Julian. “Anything else?”

  “The air conditioning in her room has to be turned off, because she’s paranoid about catching a cold and not being able to perform. She once missed a concert in Dallas when she came off the street at a hundred degrees straight into an air-conditioned room, and ended up coughing and sneezing for a week.”

  “Why’s she staying at the Park Lane,” asked Julian, “and not Claridges or the Ritz where all the big stars stay?”

  “It’s only a five-minute drive from the Albert Hall and she has a dread of being held up in a traffic jam and being late for a concert.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like an old friend,” said Julian.

  “Well, she was very chatty,” said Millie.

  “But did she buy anything?” asked Julian, ignoring a man carrying a large package who strolled past him and through the open door of his antique shop.

  “No, but she did put a deposit down on a pair of earrings and a watch. She said she’d be back tomorrow.” Millie gave her next-door neighbor a warm smile. “And if you buy me a coffee, I’ll tell her about your Fabergé egg.”

  “I think I may already have a buyer for that,” said Julian. “But I’ll still get you a coffee, just as soon as I’ve got rid of Lenny.” He smiled and stepped back into his shop, not bothering to close the door.

  “I thought you might be interested in this, Mr. Farnsdale,” said a scruffily dressed man, handing him a heavy helmet. “It’s Civil War, circa 1645. I could let you have it for a reasonable price.”

  Julian studied the helmet for a few moments.

  “Circa 1645 be damned,” he pronounced. “More like circa 1995. And if you picked it up in the Old Kent Road, I can even tell you who made it. I’ve been round far too long to be taken in by something like that.”

  Lenny left the shop, head bowed, still clutching the helmet. Julian closed the door behind him.

  Julian was bargaining with a lady over a small ceramic figure of the Duke of Wellington in the shape of a boot (circa 1817). He wanted 350 pounds for the piece but she was refusing to pay more than 320 pounds, when the black stretch limousine drew up outside. Julian left his customer and hurried over to the window just in time to see Miss Gaynor step out onto the pavement and walk into the jewelry shop without glancing in his direction. He sighed and turned to find that his customer had gone, and so had the Duke of Wellington.

  Julian spent the next hour standing by the door so he wouldn’t miss his idol when she left the jewelry shop. He was well aware that he was breaking one of his golden rules: you should never stand by the door. It frightens off the customers and, worse, it makes you look desperate. Julian was desperate.

  Miss Gaynor finally strolled out of the jewelry shop clutching a small red bag, which she handed to her chauffeur. She stopped to sign an autograph, then walked straight past the antique shop and into Art Pimlico, on the other side of Julian’s shop. She was in there for such a long time that Julian began to wonder if he’d missed her. But she couldn’t have left the gallery because the limousine was still parked on the double yellow lines, the chauffeur seated behind the wheel.

  When Miss Gaynor finally emerged she was followed by the gallery owner, who was carrying a large Warhol silk-screen print of Chairman Mao. Lucky Susan, thought Julian, to have had a whole hour with Gloria. The chauffeur leaped out, took the print from Susan, and placed it in the boot of the limousine. Miss Gaynor paused to sign a few more autographs before taking the opportunity to escape. Julian stared out of the window and didn’t move until she’d climbed into the back of the car and had been whisked away.

  Once the car was out of sight, Julian joined Millie and Susan on the pavement. “I see you sold the great lady a Warhol,” he said to Susan, trying not to sound envious.

  “No, she only took it on appro,” said Susan. “She wants to live with it for a couple of days before she makes up her mind.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a risk?” asked Julian.

  “Hardly,” said Susan. “I can just see the headline in the Sun: Gloria Gaynor steals Warhol from London gallery. I don’t think that’s the kind of publicity she’ll be hoping for on the first leg of her European tour.”

  “Did you manage to sell her anything, Millie?” asked Julian, trying to deflect the barb.

  “The earrings and the watch,” said Millie, “but far more important, she gave me a couple of tickets for her concert on Saturday night.”

  “Me, too,” said Susan, waving her tickets in triumph.

  “I’ll give you two hundred pounds for them,” said Julian.

  “Not a chance,” said Millie. “Even if you offered double, I wouldn’t part with them.”

  “How about you, Susan?” Julian asked desperately.

  “You must be joking.”

  “You may change your mind when she doesn’t return your Chairman Mao,” said Julian, before flouncing back into his shop.

  The following morning, Julian hovered by the door of his shop, but there was no sign of the stretch limousine. He didn’t join Millie and Susan in Starbucks for coffee at eleven, claiming he had a lot of paperwork to do.

  He didn’t have a single customer all day, just three browsers and a visit from the VAT inspector. When he locked up for the night, he had to admit to himself that it hadn’t been a good week so far. But all that could change if the American returned on Saturday with his partner.

  On Thursday morning the stretch limousine drove up and parked outside Susan’s gallery. The chauffeur stepped out, removed Chairman Mao from the boot and carried the Chinese leader inside. A few minutes later he ran back onto the street, slammed the boot shut, jumped behind the steering wheel, and drove off, but not before a parking ticket had been placed
on his windscreen. Julian laughed.

  The next morning, while Julian was discussing the Adam fireplace with an old customer who was showing some interest in the piece, the doorbell rang and a woman entered the shop.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said in a gravelly voice. “I just want to look round. I’m not in any hurry.”

  “Where did you say you found it, Julian?”

  “Buckley Manor in Hertfordshire, Sir Peter,” said Julian without adding the usual details of its provenance.

  “And you’re asking eighty thousand?”

  “Yes,” said Julian, not looking at him.

  “Well, I’ll think about it over the weekend,” said the customer, “and let you know on Monday.”

  “Whatever suits you, Sir Peter,” said Julian, and without another word he strode off toward the front of the shop, opened the door, and remained standing by it until the customer had stepped back out onto the pavement, a puzzled look on his face. If Sir Peter had looked round, he would have seen Julian close the door and switch the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  “Stay cool, Julian, stay cool,” he murmured to himself as he walked slowly toward the lady he’d been hoping to serve all week.

  “I was in the area a couple of days ago,” she said, her voice husky and unmistakable.

  I know you were, Gloria, Julian wanted to say. “Indeed, madam,” was all he managed.

  “Millie told me all about your wonderful shop, but I just didn’t have enough time.”

  “I understand, madam.”

  “Actually, I haven’t come across anything I really like this week. I was hoping I might be luckier today.”

  “Let’s hope so, madam.”

  “You see, I try to take home some little memento from every city I perform in. It always brings back so many happy memories.”

  “What a charming idea,” said Julian, beginning to relax.

  “Of course, I could hardly fail to admire the Adam fireplace,” she said, running a hand over the marble nymphs, “but I can’t see it fitting into my New York condo.”