William Bankier: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 110, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 673 & 674, September/October 1997

And he had wanted it so badly, he thought as the Marshall entourage drove away. For the very first time, he had really, really wanted it.

As Harvard was finishing breakfast, a bellhop delivered a sealed envelope to him. Inside, on hotel stationery, was a handwritten note from Henry Marshall.

Dear James,

Adriana told me the truth about her “kidnapping.” You could have threatened me with that fact last night, but you didn’t. I admire you for that. When you run out of money again, my job offer still holds.

Sincerely,

Included with the note was Henry Marshall’s certified check for five hundred thousand dollars.

Later in the day, after he had checked out of the hotel, Harvard went to the concierge desk looking for Georgette.

“I am sorry, monsieur,” said the person on duty, “but Georgette is off for the rest of the week. She and her fiancé suddenly decided to get married. They eloped to Paris.”

On impulse, Harvard signed a credit-card advance for five thousand dollars and instructed that it be given anonymously to Georgette when she returned. “Monsieur is extremely generous,” the duty concierge praised.

“Monte Carlo was very good to me,” Harvard said. “I made a lot of money.”

Smiling, his new life ahead of him, Harvard left for the airport.

The only flight Harvard could get to Chicago had a change of planes in London. During his two-hour layover, while strolling idly around Heathrow, he happened to pass the British Air desk for commuter flights to Northern Ireland. Stopping, he stared intently at the schedule of flights, his eyes riveted, expression grave. After several moments, he walked up to the desk and purchased a seat on the next flight over to Belfast.

At the end of the business day that evening, Harvard was standing on the steps of Northern Ireland’s Government House when a group of civil servants emerged. Among them was Harvard’s old Notre Dame roommate, Tyrone Buchanan.

“Hello, Ty,” said Harvard.

“Why, hello, Jimmy! This is a surprise.”

“I can imagine. Have your people in Monaco told you what happened yet?”

Buchanan frowned. “My people in Monaco? I don’t understand—”

“I think you do, Ty. It had to be you. You’re the only one who knew I was staying at the Midland Hotel the other day. You’re the only one who could have sent that panel truck after my taxi on the way to the airport.”

Buchanan smiled tightly. “Quite the detective, aren’t you, Jimmy?”

“How long have you been a member of the INF, Ty?”

“Since the day it started,” Buchanan replied coldly. “I founded the organization, Jimmy. But you’ll never be able to prove it.”

“Won’t I?” Harvard opened his coat. There was a miniature microphone clipped to his shirt pocket. “Did you get all that, gentlemen?” he asked, speaking into the microphone.

Turning, Harvard looked down the broad steps of Government House and saw Chief Warden Charnley and three other officers on their way up to get Buchanan.

“So long, Ty,” Harvard said, and walked down the steps.

Late that night, Harvard was back at Heathrow. He had missed the last connection of the day to Chicago. It would be eight hours before there was another flight.

Walking outside into the chilly night, he turned up his collar in back and stood thinking about Georgette, probably making love in Paris, and Adriana, back safely with her father in suburban Chicago by now, and his brothers and their wives and children, all going about their lives in separate wings of the Harvard mansion.

And he thought of the four million dollars he had gambled away since receiving his inheritance. Thankfully, he would be able to make that back in his new life, having his stock in Harvard Mills again, helping his brothers run the business.

Shaking his head, he laughed softly at himself. What a losing streak he’d had! It was almost unimaginable. Yet it had happened, really happened. Four million!

Still, he reasoned, it was only a losing streak. They came along every once in a while and you just had to ride them out. A streak was just a streak; it could be broken.

A little black London taxi pulled to the curb in front of him. “Cab, guv nor?” the driver asked.

Harvard smiled. Why not? After all, he had a certified check for half a million dollars in his pocket and eight hours to kill.

Getting into the taxi, he said, “Take me to the International Club. It’s on Berkeley Square in Mayfair.”

The taxi pulled out into the night toward London. In the backseat, Harvard felt the old thrill beginning.

Poem © 1997 Peggy Wysong

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