The New Collected Short Stories (65 page)

‘You may well prove to be right, Mr Lomax,’ said Alan. ‘But I shall be recommending to your insurance broker that they settle for two million.’

‘Two million?’ said Lomax. ‘And when did you come up with that Mickey Mouse figure?’

‘When I discovered that you hadn’t spent the last ten days in Corfu.’

‘You’d better be able to prove that, sunshine,’ snapped Lomax, ‘because I’ve got hotel receipts, plane tickets, even the hire car agreement. So I wouldn’t go
down that road if I were you, unless you want to add a writ for libel to the one you’ll be getting for non-payment of a legally binding contract.’

‘Actually, I admit that I don’t have any proof you weren’t in Corfu,’ said Alan. ‘But I’d still advise you to settle for two million.’

‘If you don’t have any proof,’ said Lomax, his voice rising, ‘what’s your game?’

‘What we’re discussing, Mr Lomax, is your game, not mine,’ said Alan calmly. ‘I may not be able to prove you’ve spent the last ten days disposing of over six
thousand pairs of shoes, but what I
can
prove is that those shoes weren’t in your warehouse when you set fire to it.’

‘Don’t threaten me, sunshine. You have absolutely no idea who you’re dealing with.’

‘I know only too well who I’m dealing with,’ said Alan as he bent down and removed four boxes of Roger Vivier shoes from the Harrods bag and lined them up at Lomax’s
feet.

Lomax stared down at the neat little row of boxes. ‘Been out buying presents, have we?’

‘No. Gathering proof of your nocturnal habits.’

Lomax clenched his fist. ‘Are you trying to get yourself thumped?’

‘I wouldn’t go down that road, if I were you,’ said Alan, ‘unless you want to add a charge of assault to the one you’ll be getting for arson.’

Lomax unclenched his fist, and Alan unscrewed the cap on the petrol can and poured the contents over the boxes. ‘You’ve already had the fire officer’s report, which confirms
there was no suggestion of arson,’ said Lomax, ‘so what do you think this little fireworks display is going to prove?’

‘You’re about to find out,’ said Alan, suddenly cursing himself for having forgotten to bring a box of matches.

‘Might I add,’ said Lomax, defiantly tossing his cigarette stub on to the boxes, ‘that the insurance company has already accepted the fire chief’s opinion.’

‘Yes, I’m well aware of that,’ said Alan. I’ve read both reports.’

‘Just as I thought,’ said Lomax, ‘you’re bluffing.’

Alan said nothing as flames began to leap into the air, causing both men to take a pace back. Within minutes, the tissue paper, the cardboard boxes and finally the shoes had been burnt to a
cinder, leaving a small cloud of black smoke spiralling into the air. When it had cleared, the two men stared down at all that was left of the funeral pyre – eight large metal buckles.

‘It’s often not what you do see, but what you don’t see,’ said Alan without explanation. He looked up at Lomax. ‘It was my wife,’ continued Alan, ‘who
told me that Catherine Deneuve made Roger Vivier buckles famous when she played a courtesan in the film
Belle de Jour.
That was when I first realized you’d set fire to your own
warehouse, Mr Lomax, because if you hadn’t, according to your manifest, there should have been several thousand buckles scattered all over the site.’

Lomax remained silent for some time before he said, ‘I reckon you’ve still only got a fifty-fifty chance of proving it.’

‘You may well be right, Mr Lomax,’ said Alan. ‘But then, I reckon you’ve still only got a fifty-fifty chance of not being paid a penny in compensation and, even worse,
ending up behind bars for a very long time. So as I said, I will be recommending that my client settles for two million, but then it will be up to you to make the final decision,
sunshine.’

‘So what do you think?’ asked Penfold as a bell sounded and the players began to stroll back out on to the field.

‘You’ve undoubtedly beaten the odds,’ I replied, ‘even if I was expecting a slightly different ending.’

‘So how would you have ended the story?’ he asked.

‘I would have held on to one pair of Roger Vivier shoes,’ I told him.

‘What for?’

‘To give to my wife. After all, it was her first case as well.’

T
HE SCENT OF JASMINE
was the first clue: a woman.

I was sitting alone at my usual table when she came and sat down at the next table. I knew she was alone, because the chair on the other side of her table hadn’t scraped across the floor,
and no one had spoken to her after she’d sat down.

I sipped my coffee. On a good day, I can pick up the cup, take a sip and return it to the saucer, and if you were sitting at the next table, you’d never know I was blind. The challenge is
to see how long I can carry out the deception before the person sitting next to me realizes the truth. And believe me, the moment they do, they give themselves away. Some begin to whisper, and, I
suspect, nod or point; some become attentive; while a few are so embarrassed they don’t speak again. Yes, I can even sense that.

I hoped someone would be joining her, so I could hear her speak. I can tell a great deal from a voice. When you can’t see someone, the accent and the tone are enhanced, and these can give
so much away. Pause for a moment, imagine listening to someone on the other end of a phone line, and you’ll get the idea.

Charlie was heading towards us. ‘Are you ready to order, madam?’ asked the waiter, his slight Cornish burr leaving no doubt that he was a local. Charlie is tall, strong and gentle.
How do I know? Because when he guides me back to the pavement after my morning coffee, his voice comes from several inches above me, and I’m five foot ten. And if I should accidentally bump
against him, there’s no surplus weight, just firm muscle. But then, on Saturday afternoons he plays rugby for the Cornish Pirates. He’s been in the first team for the past seven years,
so he must be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Charlie has recently split up with his girlfriend and he still misses her. Some things you pick up from asking questions, others are
volunteered.

The next challenge is to see how much I can work out about the person sitting at the next table before they realize I cannot see them. Once they’ve gone on their way, Charlie tells me how
much I got right. I usually manage about seven out of ten.

‘I’d like a lemon tea,’ she replied, softly.

‘Certainly, madam,’ said Charlie. ‘And will there be anything else?’

‘No, thank you.’

Thirty to thirty-five would be my guess. Polite, and not from these parts. Now I’m desperate to know more, but I’ll need to hear her speak again if I’m to pick up any further
clues.

I turned to face her as if I could see her clearly. ‘Can you tell me the time?’ I asked, just as the clock on the church tower opposite began to chime.

She laughed, but didn’t reply until the chimes had stopped. ‘If that clock is to be believed,’ she said, ‘it’s exactly ten o’clock.’ The same gentle
laugh followed.

‘It’s usually a couple of minutes fast,’ I said, staring blankly up at the clock face. ‘Although the church’s perpendicular architecture is considered as fine an
example of its kind as any in the West Country, it’s not the building itself that people flock to see, but the
Madonna and Child
by Barbara Hepworth in the Lady Chapel,’ I added,
casually leaning back in my chair.

‘How interesting,’ she volunteered, as Charlie returned and placed a teapot and a small jug of milk on her table, followed by a cup and saucer. ‘I was thinking of attending the
morning service,’ she said as she poured herself a cup of tea.

‘Then you’re in for a treat. Old Sam, our vicar, gives an excellent sermon, especially if you’ve never heard it before.’

She laughed again before saying, ‘I read somewhere that the
Madonna and Child
is not at all like Hepworth’s usual work.’

‘That’s correct,’ I replied. ‘Barbara would take a break from her studio most mornings and join me for a coffee,’ I said proudly, ‘and the great lady once
told me that she created the piece in memory of her eldest son, who was killed in a plane crash at the age of twenty-four while serving in the RAF.’

‘How sad,’ said the woman, but added no further comment.

‘Some critics say,’ I continued, ‘that it’s her finest work, and that you can see Barbara’s devotion for her son in the tears in the Virgin’s eyes.’

The woman picked up her cup and sipped her tea before she spoke again. ‘How wonderful to have actually known her,’ she said. ‘I once attended a talk on the St Ives School at
the Tate, and the lecturer made no mention of the
Madonna and Child
.’

‘Well, you’ll find it tucked away in the Lady Chapel. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.’

As she took another sip of tea, I wondered how many out of ten I’d got so far. Clearly interested in art, probably lives in London, and certainly hasn’t come to St Ives to sit on the
beach and sunbathe.

‘So, are you a visitor to these parts?’ I ventured, searching for further clues.

‘Yes. But my aunt is from St Mawes, and she’s hoping to join me for the morning service.’

I felt a right chump. She must have already seen the
Madonna and Child
, and probably knew more about Barbara Hepworth than I did, but was too polite to embarrass me. Did she also realize
I was blind? If so, those same good manners didn’t even hint at it.

I heard her drain her cup. I can even tell that. When Charlie returned, she asked him for the bill. He tore off a slip from his pad and handed it to her. She passed him a banknote, and he gave
her back some coins.

‘Thank you, madam,’ said Charlie effusively. It must have been a generous tip.

‘Goodbye,’ she said, her voice directed towards me. ‘It was nice to talk to you.’

I rose from my place, gave her a slight bow and said, ‘I do hope you enjoy the service.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied. As she walked away I heard her say to Charlie, ‘What a charming man.’ But then, she had no way of knowing how acute my hearing is.

And then she was gone.

I sat waiting impatiently for Charlie to return. I had so many questions for him. How many of my guesses would turn out to be correct this time? From the buzz of cheerful chatter in the
café, I guessed there were a lot of customers in that morning, so it was some time before Charlie was once again standing by my side.

‘Will there be anything else, Mr Trevathan?’ he teased.

‘There most certainly will be, Charlie,’ I replied. ‘For a start, I want to know all about the woman who was sitting next to me. Was she tall or short? Fair or dark? Was she
slim? Good-looking? Was she—’

Charlie burst out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded.

‘She asked me exactly the same questions about you.’

N
OW, YOU'VE ALL HEARD
the story about the beautiful young nurse who takes care of a bedridden old man, convinces him to change his will in her favour,
and ends up with a fortune, having deprived his children of their rightful inheritance. I confess that I thought I’d heard every variation on this theme; at least that was until I came across
Miss Evelyn Beattie Moore, and even that wasn’t her real name.

Miss Evelyn Mertzberger hailed from Milwaukee. She was born on the day Marilyn Monroe died, and that wasn’t the only thing they had in common: Evelyn was blonde, she had the kind of figure
that makes men turn and take a second look, and she had legs you rarely come across other than in an ad campaign for stockings.

So many of her friends from Milwaukee commented on how like Marilyn Monroe she looked that it wasn’t surprising when as soon as Evelyn left school she bought a one-way ticket to Hollywood.
On arrival in the City of Angels, she changed her name to Evelyn Beattie Moore (half Mary Tyler Moore and half Warren Beatty), but quickly discovered that, unlike Marilyn, she didn’t have any
talent as an actress, and no number of directors’ couches was going to remedy that.

Once Evelyn had accepted this – not an easy thing for any aspiring young actress to come to terms with – she began to look for alternative employment – which was difficult in
the city of a thousand blondes.

She had spent almost all of her savings renting a small apartment in Glendale and buying a suitable wardrobe for auditions, agency photographs and the endless parties young hopefuls had to be
seen at.

It was after she’d checked her latest bank statement that Evelyn realized a decision had to be made if she was to avoid returning to Milwaukee and admitting she wasn’t quite as like
Marilyn as her friends had thought. But what else could she do?

The idea never would have occurred to Evelyn if she hadn’t come across the entry while she was flicking through the Yellow Pages looking for an electrician. It was some time before she was
willing to make the necessary phone call, and then only after a final demand for the last three months’ rent dropped through her mailbox.

The Happy Hunting agency assured Evelyn that their escorts were under no obligation to do anything other than have dinner with the client. They were a professional agency that supplied charming
young ladies as companions for discreet gentlemen. However, it was none of their business if those young ladies chose to come to a private arrangement with the client. As the agency took 50 per
cent of the booking fee, Evelyn got the message.

She decided at first that she would only sleep with a client if she felt there was a chance of their developing a long-term relationship. However, she quickly discovered that most men’s
idea of a long-term relationship was about an hour, and in some cases half an hour. But at least her new job made it possible for her to pay off the landlord, and even to open a savings
account.

When Evelyn celebrated – or, to be more accurate, remained silent about – her thirtieth birthday, she decided the time had come to take revenge on the male
species.

While not quite as many men were turning to give her a second look, Evelyn had accumulated enough money to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. But not enough to ensure that that lifestyle would
continue once she reached her fortieth birthday, and could no longer be sure of a first look.