I leaned back in my chair. ‘How much would you say the tray is worth?’
‘That’s a hard question to answer,’ he said. ‘Intrinsically not very much—the gold is diluted with silver and copper. Artistically, it’s a very fine piece and the antiquarian value is also high. I daresay that at auction in a good saleroom it would bring about £7,000.’
‘What about the archeological value?’
He laughed. ‘It’s sixteenth-century Spanish; where’s the archeological value in that?’
‘You tell me. All I know is that the people who want to buy it are archeologists.’ I regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Make me an offer.’
‘I’ll give you £7,000,’ he said promptly.
‘I could get that at Sotheby’s,’ I pointed out. ‘Besides, Halstead might give me more or Gatt might’
‘I doubt if Halstead could go that much,’ said Fallon equably. ‘But I’ll play along, Mr Wheale; I’ll give you £10,000.’
I said ironically, ‘So you’re giving me £3,000 for the archeological value it hasn’t got. You’re a very generous man. Would you call yourself a rich man?’
A slight smile touched his lips. ‘I guess I would.’
I stood up and said abruptly, ‘There’s too much mystery involved in this for my liking. You know something about the
tray which you’re not telling. I think I’d better have a look at it myself before coming to any firm decision.’
If he was disappointed he hid it well. ‘That would appear to be wise, but I doubt if you will find anything by a mere inspection.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Mr Wheale, I have made you a most generous offer, yet I would like to go further. May I take an option on the tray? I will give you a thousand pounds now, on condition that you let no one else, particularly Dr Halstead, inspect it. In the event of your deciding to sell me the tray then the thousand pounds is in addition to my original offer. If you decide not to sell it then you may keep the thousand pounds as long as you keep your side of the bargain.’
I drew a deep breath. ‘You’re a real dog in the manger, aren’t you? If you can’t have it, then nobody else must. Nothing doing, Mr Fallon. I refuse to have my hands tied.’ I sat down. ‘I wonder what price you’d go to if I
really
pushed you.’
An intensity came into his voice. ‘Mr Wheale, this is of the utmost importance to me. Why don’t
you
state a price?’
‘Importance is relative,’ I said. ‘If the importance is archeological then I couldn’t give a damn. I know a fourteen-year-old girl who thinks the most important people in the world are the Beatles. Not to me they aren’t.’
‘Equating the Beatles with archeology hardly demonstrates a sensible scale of values.’
I shrugged. ‘Why not? They’re both concerned with people. It just shows that your scale of values is different from hers. But I just might state my price, Mr Fallon; and it may not be in money. I’ll think about it and let you know. Can you come back tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I can come back.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘And what about Dr Halstead? What will you do if he approaches you?’
‘I’ll listen to him,’ I said promptly. ‘Just as I’ve listened to you. I’m prepared to listen to anyone who’ll tell
me something I don’t know. Not that it’s happened noticeably yet.’
He did not acknowledge the jibe. Instead, he said, ‘I ought to tell you that Dr Halstead is not regarded as being quite honest in some circles. And that is all I am going to say about him. When shall I come tomorrow?’
‘After lunch; would two-thirty suit you?’ He nodded, and I went on, ‘I’ll have to tell the police about you, you know. There’s been a murder and you are one coincidence too many.’ ‘I see your point,’ he said wearily. ‘Perhaps it would be as well if I went to see them—if only to clear up a nonsense. I shall go immediately; where shall I find them?’
I told him where the police station was, and said, ‘Ask for Detective-Inspector Goosan or Superintendent Smith.’
Inexplicably, he began to laugh. ‘Goosan!’ he said with a gasp, ‘My God, but that’s funny!’
I stared at him. I didn’t see what was funny. ‘It’s not an uncommon name in Devon.’
‘Of course not,’ he said, choking off his chuckles. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr Wheale.’
I saw him off the premises, then went back to the study and rang Dave Goosan. ‘There’s someone else who wants to buy that tray,’ I said. ‘Another American. Are you interested?’
His voice was sharp. ‘I think we might be very interested.’
‘His name is Fallon and he’s staying at the Cott. He’s on his way to see you right now—he should be knocking on your door within the next ten minutes. If he doesn’t it might be worth your while to go looking for him.’
‘Point taken,’ said Dave.
I said, ‘How long do you intend holding on to the tray?’
‘You can have it now if you like. I’ll have to hold on to Bob’s shotgun, though; this case isn’t finished yet.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll come in and pick up the tray. Can you do me a favour, Dave? Fallon will have to prove to you who
and what he is; can you let me know, too? I’d like to know who I’m doing business with.’
‘We’re the police, not Dun and Bradstreet. All right, I’II let you know what I can, providing it doesn’t run against regulations.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and rang off. I sat motionless at the desk for a few minutes, thinking hard, and then got out the papers concerning the reorganization of the farm in preparation to doing battle with Jack Edgecombe. But my mind wasn’t really on it.
Late that afternoon I went down to the police station to pick up the tray, and as soon as Dave saw me he growled, ‘A fine suspect you picked.’
‘He’s all right?’
‘He’s as clean as a whistle. He was nowhere near your farm on Friday night. Four people say so—three of whom I know and one who is a personal friend of mine. Still, I don’t blame you for sending him down here—you couldn’t pass a coincidence like that.’ He shook his head. ‘But you picked a right one.’
‘What do you mean?’
He grabbed a sheaf of flimsies from his desk and waved them under my nose. ‘We checked him out—this is the telex report from the Yard. Listen to it and cry: John Nasmith Fallon, born Massachussetts, 1908; well educated—went to Harvard and Göttingen, with post-graduate study in Mexico City. He’s an archeologist with all the letters in the alphabet after his name. In 1936 his father died and left him over 30 million dollars, which fortune he’s more than doubled since, so he hasn’t lost the family talent for making money.’
I laughed shortly. ‘And I asked him if he considered himself a rich man! Is he serious about his archeology?’
‘He’s no dilettante,’ said Dave. ‘The Yard checked with the British Museum. He’s the top man in his field, which is Central America.’ He scrabbled among the papers. ‘He publishes a lot in the scientific journals—the last thing he did was “Some Researches into the Calendar Glyphs of Dzi…Dzibi…” I’ll have to take this one slowly…“Dzibilchaltun.” God-almighty, he’s investigating things I can’t even pronounce! In 1949 he set up the Fallon Archeological Trust with ten million dollars. He could afford it since he apparently owns all the oil wells that Paul Getty missed.’ He tossed the paper on to the desk. ‘And that’s your murder suspect.’
I said, ‘What about Halstead and Gatt?’
Dave shrugged. ‘What about them? Halstead’s an archeologist, too, of course. We didn’t dig too deeply into him.’ He grinned. ‘Pun not intended. Gatt hasn’t been checked yet.’
‘Halstead was one of Fallon’s students. Fallon doesn’t like him.’
Dave lifted his eyebrows. ‘Been playing detective? Look, Jemmy; as far as I am concerned I’m off the case as much as any police officer can be. That means I’m not specifically assigned to it. Anything I’m told I pass on to the top coppers in London; it’s their pigeon now, and I’m just a messenger boy. Let me give you a bit of advice. You can do all the speculating you like and there’ll be no harm done but don’t try to move in on the action like some half-baked hero in a detective story. The boys at Scotland Yard aren’t damned fools; they can put two and two together a sight faster than you can, they’ve got access to more sources than you have, and they’ve got the muscle to make it stick when they decide to make a move. Leave it to the professionals; there are no Roger Sherringhams or Peter Wimseys in real life.’
‘Don’t get over-heated,’ I said mildly.
‘It’s just that I don’t want you making a bloody idiot of yourself.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll get the tray—it’s in the safe.’
He left the office and I picked up the telex message and studied it. It was in pretty fair detail but it more or less boiled down to what Dave had said. It seemed highly improbable that a man like Fallon could have anything in common with a petty criminal like Niscemi. And yet there was the tray—they were both interested in that, and so were Halstead and Gatt. Four Americans and the tray.
Dave came back carrying it in his hands. He put it on the desk. ‘Hefty,’ he said. ‘Must be worth quite a bit if it really is gold.’
‘It is.’ I said. ‘But not too pure.’
He flicked the bottom of the tray with his thumbnail. ‘That’s not gold—it looks like copper.’
I picked up the tray and examined it closely for, perhaps, the first time in twenty years. It was about fifteen inches in diameter and circular; there was a three-inch rim all the way round consisting of an intricate pattern of vine leaves, all in gold, and the centre was nine inches in diameter and of smooth copper. I turned it over and found the back to be of solid gold.
‘You’d better have it wrapped,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll find some paper.’
‘Did you take any photographs of it?’ I asked.
‘Lots,’ he said. ‘And from every angle.’
‘What about letting me have a set of prints?’
He looked pained. ‘You seem to think the police are general dogsbodies for Jemmy Wheale. This isn’t Universal Aunts, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jemmy; the negatives were sent to London.’
He rooted around and found an old newspaper and began to wrap up the tray. ‘Bob used to run his own darkroom. You have all the gear at home for taking your own snaps.’
That was true. Bob and I had been keen on photography as boys, he more than me. He’d stuck to it and I’d let it drop when I left home to go to university, but I thought I remembered enough to be able to shoot and develop a film and make some prints. I didn’t feel like letting anyone else do it. In view of the importance Fallon had attached to examining the tray I wanted to keep everything under my own hand.
As I was leaving, Dave said, ‘Remember what I said, Jemmy. If you feel any inclination to go off half-cocked come and see me first. My bosses wouldn’t like it if you put a spoke in their wheel.’
I went home and found Bob’s camera. I daresay he could have been called an advanced amateur and he had good equipment—a Pentax camera with a good range of lenses and a Durst enlarger with all the associated trimmings in a properly arranged darkroom. I found a spool of unexposed black and white film, loaded the camera and got to work. His fancy electronic flash gave me some trouble before I got the hang of it and twice it went off unexpectedly, but I finally shot off the whole spool and developed the film more or less successfully. I couldn’t make prints before the film dried, so I went to bed early. But not before I locked the tray in the safe.
The next morning I continued the battle with Jack Edgecombe who was putting up a stubborn resistance to new ideas. He said unhappily, ‘Eighty cows to a hundred acres is too many, Mr Wheale, sir; we’ve never done it like that before.’
I resisted the impulse to scream, and said patiently, ‘Look, Jack: up to now this farm has grown its own feedstuff for the cattle. Why?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s always been like that.’
That wasn’t an answer and he knew it. I said, ‘We can buy cattle feed for less than it costs us to grow it, so why the devil should we grow it?’ I again laid out the plan that had come from the computer, but giving reasons the computer hadn’t. ‘We increase the dairy herd to eighty head and we allocate this land which is pretty lush, and any extra feed we buy.’ I swept my hand over the map. ‘This hill area is good for nothing but sheep, so we let the sheep have it. I’d like to build up a nice flock of greyface. We
can
feed sheep economically by planting root crops on the flat by the river, and we alternate the roots with a cash crop such as malting barley. Best of all, we do away with all this market garden stuff. This is a farm, not an allotment; it takes too much time and we’re not near enough to a big town to make it pay.’
Jack looked uncomprehendingly stubborn. It wasn’t done that way, it never had been done that way, and he didn’t see why it should be done that way. I was in trouble because unless Jack saw it
my
way we could never get on together.
We were interrupted by Madge. ‘There’s a lady to see you, Mr Wheale.’
‘Did she give a name?’
‘It’s a Mrs Halstead.’
That gave me pause. Eventually I said, ‘Ask her to wait a few minutes, will you? Make her comfortable—ask her if she’d like a cuppa.’
I turned back to Jack. One thing at a time was my policy. I knew what was the matter with him. If he became farm manager and the policy of the farm changed radically, he’d have to take an awful lot of joshing from the neighbouring farmers. He had his reputation to consider.
I said, ‘Look at it this way, Jack: if we start on this thing, you’ll be farm manager and I’ll be the more-or-less absentee landlord. If the scheme falls down you can put all the blame on me because I’ll deserve it, and you’re only doing what I tell you to. If it’s a success—which it will be if we both work
hard at it—then a lot of the credit will go to you because you’ll have been the one who made it work. You are the practical farmer, not me. I’m just the theoretical boy. But I reckon we can show the lads around here a thing or two.’
He contemplated that argument and brightened visibly—I’d offered him a way out with no damage to his selfesteem. He said slowly, ‘You know, I like that bit about doing away with the garden produce; it’s always been a lot of trouble—too much hand work, for one thing.’ He shuffled among the papers. ‘You know, sir, if we got rid of that I reckon we could work the farm with one less man.’