Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

Once Cathy had replaced the receiver, she immediately asked, "How's Charlie?"

"You tell me," said Becky. "I see him for the occasional dinner during the week and he has even been known to attend breakfast on a Sunday. But that's about it. Has he been seen in Trumper's lately?"

"Not that often. To be honest, I still feel guilty about banning him from the store."

"No need to feel any guilt," Becky told her. "I've never seen the man happier."

"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 phone 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 exactly 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 quietly.

"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 quietly 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.