The Matarese Countdown (30 page)

“Let’s get to the bottom line, Mr. Noyes,” said Leslie firmly. “The reason we’re here. What’s the explanation for the ‘miscellaneous’ on the bill Roger Brewster paid you in cash? Something over fourteen hundred pounds, I believe.”

“
Christ
almighty, I knew that’d come up sooner or later! And I tell you truthful-like, I got really pissed off! Excuse my language, miss. I carried that charge on my books for damn near eighteen months! Henshaw said he’d pay it, but if I sent it to the Westminster people, I’d never see him or his business again. Finally, I was so fuckin’ mad—excuse me—”

“Excused, go on.”

“I was so angry, I told Henshaw over the phone—I
thought
it was Henshaw—that he either paid it or no red Jaguar!”

“What was it
for?
” continued Montrose.

“Mind you, I swore I’d never say anythin’ to anybody.”

Geoffrey Waters reached into his pocket and withdrew his MI-5 identification for a second time; he flipped it open and spoke. “I think you should speak now, old boy, or be charged with crimes against the Crown.”

“
Crimes
, not
me!
I’m a member of the civil guards!”

“They were disbanded ten years ago.”

“
Talk
,” added Pryce.

“
Awright
, I don’t want no trouble with your types.… About two years ago Henshaw told me he wanted a first-class safe, a small vault, in fact, hidden under the steel floor of the Jaguar’s boot, that looked like part of the undercarriage. It took over a week at full speed, although he said he wanted it in two days. We had to put everything else on hold—I charged him
right
, I did! Especially since he had another garage install the switch for the boot plate. Can’t tell where the bloody thing is without it!”

“Did you ever see the man from the merchant bank again?” asked Cameron.

“Not himself, but lots of his associates.”

“How so?”

“Whenever the Jag was picked up and fixed, one of the blokes would come in and check our repairs. I tell you, I resented that, just like I took offense about the boot plate. I’ve got a hell of a good reputation, trustworthy to a fault.”

“Were those men ever alone with the car?”

“Have no idea, I was usually busy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Noyes,” said MI-5’s Geoffrey Waters. “You’ve been most cooperative. The Crown appreciates it.”

“Thank heavens!”

The red Jaguar was in the three-car garage at the rear of the house on Belgrave Square. Roger Brewster had dragged out his deceased father’s massive tool case, finding an acetylene torch in another section of the workshop area. Pryce held the plans they had taken from Alfred Noyes’s files as the Brewster son opened the boot of the red Jaguar.

“I used to sit on the bench watching my dad for hours as he tinkered with his cars,” said Roger. “I don’t know if he was a good mechanic or not, but he was usually good at whatever he tried because he concentrated so.… Here we go,” he announced, ripping out the carpeting of the boot down to the metal and reaching for the acetylene torch and
the goggles. “Chalk out the section, will you please, Mr. Pryce.”

“You sure you don’t want me to do that?” said Cameron. He was holding a box of white chalk and the plans from St. Albans.

“No, for a couple of reasons,” replied the son. “If there’s anything here, I want to nail the son of a bitch myself, and how better to do it than with my father’s tools?”

Roger Brewster went to work, the bluish-white flame progressively melting the steel of the boot in a perfect rectangle. When the process was completed, the teenager poured cold water over the area; the sizzling sent small clouds of steam up into the hood of the boot. He then picked up a hammer and tapped the outline; it fell away into the darkness below. With tongs from the tool case, Roger reached in and pulled the metal slab from its recess, dropping it on the floor. Revealed was a small, thick vault with a soiled black-and-white dial in the center. Pryce again studied the plans from St. Albans Motor Works, reading what Gerald Henshaw never remotely considered: the sequence of numbers for the combination lock as printed by the Manchester Vault and Safe Company.

They removed the contents and placed them in a row on the workbench. Included were a short pile of bearer bonds, redeemable on progressive dates, the first negotiable as of seven weeks ago, the morning of the killing of Lady Alicia; four keys for four separate doors, presumably flats for Henshaw’s various paramours; a number of post-dated traveler’s checks; coded, wrinkled notes that revealed nothing, to be deciphered only by a man who had vanished and could be presumed dead.

“It’s a bloody hodgepodge!” cried Waters. “Where can these things really lead us?”

“To begin with,” replied Pryce, “this is how they paid him—the people behind the kidnapping and Lady Alicia’s murder. An obscure automobile-repair shop far outside of London, owned by a none-too-bright, hard-working guy who’s inordinately impressed by his so-called betters.”

“Yes, that’s rather apparent, old man, but Noyes was quite open with us, cooperative, in fact. I don’t think he was concealing anything.”

“You didn’t give him a choice, Geoffrey,” said Montrose.

“So we’ve unearthed an extremely clever method of communication, but not one we can track down. No identities, no descriptions, no clues whatsoever. They’ve all gone
ppfft!
”

“I agree with you,” interrupted Leslie, “that Mr. Noyes didn’t withhold anything consciously, but I was bothered by something.”

“What was it?” asked Cameron.

“He repeated several times what a good business he had, what a fine reputation he enjoyed, how, essentially, he wasn’t pressed for money—”

“That’s not the way
I
heard it,” broke in Roger Brewster. “He kept whining about how stony he was and couldn’t keep up with his bills and his payrolls. He damned near fell to his knees when I showed him the twenty-six hundred pounds.”

“That sounds more like the truth to me,” continued Montrose. “I mean, if he was as successful as he led us to believe, why wasn’t his garage larger, with more space for more cars? And I only saw two other mechanics inside; that’s hardly a staggering payroll.”

“So maybe he lied to impress us,” said Pryce. “What with Geoffrey’s ID, it would fit.”

“Granted, but there’s a real contradiction here. He talked about the Brewsters’ Westminster accountants in almost glowing terms. They had their jobs to do, he had his, so why make a fuss?”

“To keep Henshaw’s business,” replied Waters rhetorically. “Where’s the contradiction?”

“Because that’s not the way things are, Geoffrey. Since my husband died, I’ve had my share of bouts with car repairs. Those people are a pretty aggressive breed, and I can’t believe it’s much different over here.”

“No sexism intended,” said Pryce, “but those people, as
you call them, tend to be a little rougher on women, figuring your knowledge of their work is limited.”

“That’s my point, or part of it. When Jim didn’t come back, a friend of ours, a CPA with his own accounting firm, took care of all our finances until I could get things together. Because I was transferred several times, the arrangement lasted almost a year—”

“What is your point, Leslie?” asked an impatient Cameron.

“I was in several accidents, one my fault for lack of concentration, the other two fairly minor bashes in parking lots. Joe Gamble—he’s our accountant and even he agrees it’s a hell of a name for a CPA—told me the worst part of his job was the car-repair bills. Not only were the insurance adjusters impossible, but the shop owners, whose bills were outrageous, dunned for their money, constantly swearing at him like Vikings.”

“My dear girl,” interjected Geoffrey Waters, “on such a flimsy coincidence you’re inferring some parallel
here?
”

“Not a parallel, a contradiction, an inconsistency.”

“Which is?”

“Alfred Noyes’s benign appreciation of the Brewster accountants. They regularly delayed paying him on time, frequently argued with him over his charges, and all he could say was ‘They has their jobs to do’?”

“I restate my opinion that plainspoken old Alfie didn’t care to risk losing Henshaw as a customer.”

“Alfie may be plainspoken, Geof, but he isn’t stupid to the cube,” said Pryce. “He was providing a valuable confidential service arranged by a stranger. As long as he followed the rules, he wasn’t going to lose Henshaw. I think he was assured of that.”

“What are you all
talking
about?” interrupted Angela Brewster. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” said the brother.

“How well do you two know the accounts people at the Westminster House?” asked Leslie. “Whom do you deal with there?”

Again the Brewster offspring looked at each other, frowning.

“We went down with Mum a couple of years ago to sign some papers,” said the sister. “We met the head of the firm, a Mr. Pettifrogge—I remember the name because I thought it was wild—and everyone was very nice and polite, but then people were usually like that around our mother.”

“Did Henshaw go with you?” asked Waters.

“No, he didn’t,” answered the brother, “and I recall that clearly. Don’t you remember, Angela? Mum said there was no reason to tell Gerry that we’d all been down there.”

“Of course I do. The papers were very confidential.”

“What were they?” said Cameron. “If they’re not too confidential.”

“Something about the disposal of selected properties—in the event of … et cetera, et cetera,” replied Roger softly. “I didn’t read them too carefully.”

“Well, I read them more carefully than ‘et cetera, et cetera,’ ” said Angela firmly. “There were several pages of inventory—paintings, tapestries, furniture—that were to remain in the Brewster family and not be removed from the premises without the consent of Rog and me under the supervision of Mum’s solicitors.”

Pryce whistled quietly. “
Whoa
, one Gerald Henshaw was efficiently locked out.”

“No, sir,” countered the younger sister, “the inventory was locked in. There was a clause—an order really—that in case our mother’s whereabouts couldn’t be verified after forty-eight hours of trying to locate her, the house was to be put under guard, nothing was to be removed.”

“Parental discretion just got a new definition,” said Cam.

“Certainly she began to have her suspicions about Mr. Charm, at least,” Angela said.

“However,” broke in Geoffrey Waters, “there was no one specific person at the firm that you were to reach in case it was necessary?”

“No, but a number have been around since Mother’s death,” replied Roger. “Old Pettifrogge came over once,
more as a condolence call than anything else; he’s so ancient you can picture him with a quill. The man who seemed to be in charge, who kept checking the inventory list, was a fellow named Chadwick. He introduced himself as an assistant managing director whose major duties concerned Mother’s accounts as well as the Wildlife’s.”

“I’d say the Westminster House of Finance should be our next stop, wouldn’t you, chaps?” said the man from MI-5.

The Westminster House was exactly what it proclaimed. A narrow, venerated eighteenth-century city dwelling of brownstone, six stories high and lovingly renovated, in Carlisle Place. The tasteful brass plaque to the right of the entrance of thick glass double doors clarified its identity.

WESTMINSTER HOUSE
ESTABLISHED 1902
PRIVATE FINANCIAL SERVICES

The building itself emanated an image of understated strength, and bespoke generations, even dynasties, of the wealthy and the powerful as clients. The Westminster House had enjoyed nearly a century of quiet influence in London’s financial circles, justified by its acuity and unquestioned integrity. It had built a near-impenetrable wall of total respectability around itself.

As the MI-5 vehicle with Waters, Pryce, and Montrose sped toward Carlisle Place, that wall was about to experience a crack in its stone, a fissure so wide that Westminster House would be subject to insidious speculation.

Geoffrey Waters turned right on Victoria Street into Carlisle; he and his colleagues were astonished at what they saw. In front of Westminster House were two police cars and an ambulance, their red lights flashing. Together, the two intelligence officers and the U.S. Army colonel leaped out of the car and raced into the crowd in front of the building. The MI-5 chief of security, showing his credentials,
bulldozed his way through the onlookers, Leslie and Cameron behind him.

“
I.S.—MI-Five!
” yelled Waters. “This is Crown business, let me and my two associates
in
there!”

Inside, the pandemonium was electric, all were in a state of shock. Executives, secretaries, file personnel, and maintenance crews were hysterical. Finally, after shoving aside and shoulder-blocking the crowd, Geoffrey Waters confronted a man in a vested dark suit, his superior position apparent. “My name’s Waters, MI-Five, in service of the Crown! What
happened?
”

“Oh,
what?
Everything’s so confused—”

“What
happened?
” yelled Cameron.

“It’s so terrible, so absolutely
terrible!
”

“
What
is?” cried Montrose.

“Brian Chadwick, our first vice president and the chap we all knew would run the firm someday, just committed
suicide!
”

“All police
officers!
” shouted Sir Geoffrey Waters. “Seal off the office of the deceased!”

Bahrain, two o’clock in the afternoon.

I
n an alabaster villa on the shores of the Persian Gulf, a young man of fifteen sat at a desk in a white-walled room with bars covering the windows. It was both a cell and not a cell, for he had private toilet facilities, a comfortable bed, a television set, and whatever books and writing materials he requested. His name was James Montrose Jr., his nickname, Jamie.

His schedule, such as it was, was self-imposed within limits. He was free to walk around the grounds of the walled estate as long as he was accompanied by a guard, and he had full use of the swimming pool as well as the tennis backboard—the two courts were useless as there were no other “guests” to play against. Also, he could order the meals he favored. It was an odd sort of captivity, but it was captivity nevertheless. He could not be driven into the capital of Manama or any other area of the independent archipelago. He was confined to the villa, with no communication to the outside world.