“I’m
relieved to hear it,” said Cathy. “But right now I need Charlie’s advice on a
more urgent matter.”
“And
what’s that?”
“Cigars,”
said Cathy. “I had David Field on the Shone earlier to say that his father
would like a dozen boxes of his usual brand and not to bother to send them
round to the Connaught because he’ll be only too happy to pick them up when he
comes to dinner tonight.”
“So
what’s the problem?”
“Neither
David Field nor the tobacco department has the slightest idea what his father’s
usual brand is. It seems Charlie always dealt with the order personally.”
“You
could check the old invoices.”
“First
thing I did,” said Cathy. “But there’s no record of any transaction ever taking
place. Which surprised me, because if I remember correctly old Mr. Field
regularly had a dozen boxes sent over to the Connaught whenever he came to London.”
Cathy’s brow furrowed again. “That was something I always considered curious.
After all, when you think about it, he must have had a large tobacco department
in his own store.”
“I’m
sure he did,” said Becky, “but it wouldn’t have stocked any brands from Havana.”
“Havana?
I’m not with you.”
“Some
time in the fifties U.S. Customs banned the import of all Cuban cigars into
America and David’s father, who had been smoking a particular brand of Havanas
long before anyone had heard of Fidel Castro saw no reason why he shouldn’t be
allowed to continue to indulge himself with what he considered was no more than
his ‘goddamned right.’”
“So
how did Charlie get round the problem?”
“Charlie
used to go down to the tobacco department, pick up a dozen boxes of the old man’s
favorite brand, return to his office, remove the bands around each cigar then
replace them with an innocuous Dutch label before putting them back in an
unidentifiable Trumper’s box. He always made sure that there was a ready supply
on hand for Mr. Field in case he ever ran out. Charlie felt it was the least we
could do to repay all the hospitality the Fields had lavished on us over the
years.”
Cathy
nodded her understanding. “But I still need to know which brand of Cuban cigar
is nothing more than Mr. Field’s ‘goddamned right.’”
“I’ve
no idea,” admitted Becky. “As you say Charlie never allowed anyone else to
handle the order.”
“Then
someone’s going to have to ask Charlie, either to come in and complete the
order himself or at least tell us which brand Mr. Field is addicted to. So
where can I expect to find the Life President at eleven-thirty on a Monday
morning?”
“Hidden
away in some committee room at the House of Lords would be my bet.”
“No,
he’s not,” said Cathy. “I’ve already phoned the Lords and they assured me he
hadn’t been seen this morning and what’s more they weren’t expecting him again
this week.”
“But
that’s not possible,” said Becky. “He virtually lives in the place.”
“That’s
what I thought,” said Cathy. “Which is why I called down to Number 1 to ask for
your help.”
“I’ll
sort this out in a trice,” said Becky. “If Jessica can put me through to the
Lords, I know exactly the right person to speak to.”
Jessica
returned to her office, looked up the number and, as soon as she had been
connected, put the call through to the chairman’s desk, where Becky picked up
the receiver.
“House
of Lords?” said Becky. “Message board please... Is Mr. Anson there? No, well, I’d
still like to leave an urgent message for Lord Trumper... of Whitechapel...
Yes, I think he’s in an agricultural subcommittee this morning... Are you sure?...
That can’t be possible... You do know my husband?... Well, that’s a relief...
Does he... ? How interesting... No, thank you... No, I won’t leave a message
and please don’t trouble Mr. Anson. Goodbye.”
Becky
replaced the phone and looked up to find Cathy and Jessica staring at her like
two children at bedtime waiting to hear the end of a story.
“Charlie
hasn’t been seen in the Lords this morning. There isn’t an agricultural
subcommittee. He’s not even a member of the full committee, and what’s more
they haven’t set eyes on him for the past three months.”
“But
I don’t understand,” said Cathy. “How have you been getting through to him in
the past?”
“With
a special number supplied by Charlie that I keep by the hall phone in Eaton
Square. It connects me to a Lords messenger called Mr. Anson, who always seems
to know exactly where Charlie can be found at any time of the day or night.”
“And
does this Mr. Anson exist?” asked Cathy.
“Oh,
yes,” said Becky. “But it seems he works on another floor of the Lords and on
this occasion I was put through to general inquiries.”
“So
what happens whenever you do get through to Mr. Anson?”
“Charlie
usually rings back within the hour.”
“So
there’s nothing to stop you phoning Mr. Anson now?”
“It’d
rather not for the moment,” said Becky. “I think I’d prefer to find out what
Charlie’s been up to for the past two years. Because one thing’s for certain,
Mr. Anson isn’t going to tell me.”
“But
Mr. Anson can’t be the only person who knows,” said Cathy. “After all, Charlie
doesn’t live in a vacuum.” They both swung round to face Jessica.
“Don’t
look at me,” said Jessica. “He hasn’t had any contact with this office since
the day you banned him from Chelsea Terrace. If Stan didn’t come into the
canteen for lunch from time to time I wouldn’t even know Charlie was still
alive.”
“Of
course,” said Becky, snapping her fingers. “Stan’s the one person who must know
what’s going on. He still picks up Charlie first thing in the morning and
brings him home last thing at night. Charlie couldn’t get away with anything
unless his driver was fully in his confidence.”
“Right,
Jessica,” said Cathy as she checked her diary. “Start by canceling my lunch
with the managing director of Moss Bros., then tell my secretary I’ll take no
calls and no interruptions until we find out exacdy what our Life President has
been up to. When you’ve done that, go down and see if Stan’s in the canteen,
and if he is phone me back immediately.”
Jessica
almost ran out of the room as Cathy turned her attention back to Becky.
“Do
you think he might have a mistress?” said Becky quiedy.
“Night
and day for nearly two years at the age of seventy? If he has, we ought to
enter him as the Bull of the Year at the Royal Agricultural Show.”
“Then
what can he be up to?”
“My
bet is that he’s taking his master’s degree at London University,” said Cathy. “It’s
always riled Charlie whenever you tease him about never properly completing his
education.”
“But
I’d have come across the relevant books and papers all over the house.”
“You
already have, but they were only the books and papers he intended you to see.
Don’t let’s forget how cunning he was when he took his BA. He fooled you for
eight years.”
“Perhaps
he’s taken a job with one of our rivals.”
“Not
his style,” said Cathy. “He’s far too loyal for that. In any case, we’d know
which store it was within days, the staff and management alike would be only
too happy to keep reminding us. No, it has to be simpler than that.” The
private phone rang on Cathy’s desk. She grabbed the receiver and listened
carefully before saying, “Thank you, Jessica. We’re on our way.
“Let’s
go,” she said, replacing the phone and jumping up from behind her desk. “Stan’s
just finishing his lunch.” She headed towards the door. Becky quicldy followed
and without another word they took the lift to the ground floor where Joe, the
senior doorman, was surprised to see the chairman and Lady Trumper hail a taxi
when both their drivers were patiently waiting for them on meters.
A
few minutes later Stan appeared through the same door and climbed behind the
wheel of Charlie’s Rolls before proceeding at a gentle pace towards Hyde Park
Corner, oblivious of the taxi that was following him. The Rolls continued down
Piccadilly and on through Trafalgar Square before taking a left in the
direction of the Strand.
“He’s
going to King’s College,” said Cathy. “I knew I was right it has to be his
master’s degree.”
“But
Stan’s not stopping,” said Becky, as the Rolls passed the college entrance and
weaved its way into Fleet Street.
“I
can’t believe he’s bought a newspaper,” said Cathy.
“Or
taken a job in the City,” Becky added as the Rolls drove on down towards the
Mansion House.
“I’ve
got it,” said Becky triumphantly, as the Rolls left the City behind them and
nosed its way into the East End. “He’s been working on some project at his boys’
club in Whitechapel.”
Stan
continued east until he finally brought the car to a halt outside the Dan
Salmon Center.
“But
it doesn’t make any sense,” said Cathy. “If that’s all he wanted to do with his
spare time why didn’t he tell you the truth in the first place? Why go through
such an elaborate charade?”
“I
can’t work that one out either,” said Becky. “In fact, I confess I’m even more
baffled.”
“Well,
let’s at least go in and find out what he’s up to.”
“No,”
said Becky, placing a hand on Cathy’s arm. “I need to sit and think for a few
moments before I decide what to do next. If Charlie is planning something he
doesn’t want us to know about, I’d hate to be the one who spoils his bit of
fun, especially when it was me who banned him from going into Trumper’s in the
first place.”
“All
right,” said Cathy. “So why don’t we just go back to my office and say nothing
of our little discovery? After all, we can always phone Mr. Anson at the Lords,
who as we know will make sure Charlie returns your call within the hour. That
will give me easily enough time to sort out David Field and the problem of his
cigars.”
Becky
nodded her agreement and instructed the bemused cabbie to return to Chelsea
Terrace. As the taxi swung round in a circle to begin its journey back towards
the West End, Becky glanced out of the rear window at the center named after
her father. “Stop,” she said without warning. The cabbie threw on the brakes
and brought the taxi to a sudden halt.
“What’s
the matter?” asked Cathy.
Becky
pointed out of the back window, her eyes now fixed on a figure who was walking
down the steps of the Dan Salmon Center dressed in a grubby old suit and flat
cap.
“I
don’t believe it,” said Cathy.
Becky
quickly paid off the cabdriver while Cathy jumped out and began to follow Stan
as he headed off down the Whitechapel Road.
“Where
can he be going?” asked Cathy, as they kept Stan well within their sights. The
shabbily dressed chauffeur continued to march along the pavement, leaving any
old soldier who saw him in no doubt of his former profession while causing the
two ladies who were pursuing him to have occasionally to break into a run.
“It
ought to be Cohen’s the tailor’s,” said Becky. “Because heaven knows the man
looks as if he could do with a new suit.”
But
Stan came to a halt some yards before the tailor’s shop. Then, for the first
time, they both saw another man, also dressed in an old suit and flat cap,
standing beside a brand-new barrow on which was printed the words: “Charlie
Salmon, the honest trader. Founded in 1969.”
“I
don’t offer you these at two pounds, ladies,” declared a voice as loud as that
of any of the youngsters on the pitches nearby, “not one pound, not even fifty
pence. No, I’m going to give ‘em away for twenty pence.”
Cathy
and Becky watched in amazement as Stan Russell touched his cap to Charlie, then
began to fill a woman’s basket, so that his master could deal with the next
customer.
“So
what’ll it be today, Mrs. Bates? I’ve got some lovely bananas just flown in
from the West Indies. Ought to be selling ‘em at ninety pence the bunch, but to
you, my old duck, fifty pence, but be sure you don’t tell the neighbors.”
“What
about those tatoes, Charlie?” said a heavily made-up, middle-aged woman who
pointed suspiciously at a box on the front of the barrow.
“As
I stand ‘ere, Mrs. Bates, new in from Jersey today and I’ll tell you what I’ll
do. I’ll sell ‘em at the same price as my so-called rivals are still peddling
Their old ones for. Could I be fairer, I ask?”
“I’ll
take four pounds, Mr. Salmon.”
“Thank
you, Mrs. Bates. Serve the lady, Stan, while I deal with the next customer.”
Charlie stepped across to the other side of barrow.
“And
‘ow nice to see you this fine afternoon, Mrs. Singh. Two pounds of figs, nuts
and raisins, if my memory serves me right. And how is Dr. Singh keeping?”
“Very
busy, Mr. Salmon, very busy.”
“Then
we must see that ‘e’s well fed, mustn’t we?” said Charlie. “Because if this
weather takes a turn for the worse, I may need to come and seek ‘is advice
about my sinus trouble. And ‘ow’s little Suzika?”