Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

Maeve departed, and Sandy turned back to the private detective. "What is it you want, Mr. Morris?"

"Well, sir, that sort of thing," he indicated the photographs again, "would likely bring around ten thousand pounds sterling from the appropriate publication, at the very least. I mean, involving a countess and all."

"Ten thousand pounds?" Sandy asked.

"Oh, at the very least," Morris replied. "And then there's the earl, of course; he might be willing to go a good deal more to keep the countess's countenance out of the tabs."

"Exactly what is your proposition, Mr. Morris?"

"Well, I'm not a greedy man, sir, and I certainly don't want to go about causing a lot of trouble for members of the aristocracy, not to mention yourself and your business, so I'd happily accept a consideration of ten thousand pounds sterling, in cash of course, in return for all the negatives and prints." His face suddenly went from obsequious to serious. "And not a farthing less, sir."

Sandy's shoulders slumped. "You told my wife that was what you were selling," he said.

"Well, sir, let's just call that an oversight, shall we? This time, you'll have everything, and you have my word on it."

Sandy glanced at his watch. "I can't manage it until later today."

Morris laid a card on the desk. "Why you just take your time, sir. You can deliver the sum to my premises no later than close of business today. That's 5:00 p.m. After that, there'd still be time to make the morning editions, you see."

"All right," Sandy said, defeated.

"Nothing larger than a twenty quid note," Morris said, rising. "I dislike larger bills."

Sandy nodded, and Morris left his office.

"I'll see myself out, sir," the man said. "And I do hope I'll see you by five."

Sandy sat for a while, massaging his temples.

Sandy got out of the cab in front of the Garrick Club, paid the cabbie, and walked inside. A doorman in a small oak and glass booth saw him coming, looked him up and down, decided he wasn't a member.

"Yes, sir? May I help you?"

"My name is Kinsolving; I'm meeting Sir John Drummond," Sandy said.

"Yes, sir; upstairs, in the bar."

Sandy climbed the stairs of the grand old club, past portraits and busts, mostly of ancient actors, and on the next floor found his man. Sir John Drummond was resting most of his two hundred and fifty pounds against the bar, a glass of something in his hand.

"Sandy," Drummond cried, clapping him soundly on the back. "How good to see you. What are you having?"

"I think I'd better have a single malt, Johnny," he said.

Drummond blinked, then ordered the drink. He was impeccably dressed in a pinstriped suit from a fine tailor, a heavy gold watch chain arcing across his middle from vest pocket to vest pocket. "If you need whisky at lunchtime, let's leave the bar and go straight to a table," he said. "More privacy." He grabbed both his drink and Sandy's and led the way downstairs.

Sandy had met John Drummond more than ten years before, at a dinner party, and they had made a habit of seeing each other regularly when Sandy was in London. Drummond was a retired barrister, but he had always had his fingers in a number of British pies. Sandy had never known anyone who knew so many people in so many walks of life so very well.

Downstairs, they took a table in a corner of the high-ceilinged dining room, its tobacco-stained walls holding still more portraits of old actors and scenes from old West End productions. It was only half past twelve, and the room was uncrowded, since most of the members came to lunch at one or later. Sandy had been here many times, always with Sir John. Drummond handed him a menu, and a waitress quickly appeared to take their order. When she had gone, Drummond turned to him. "Sorry to hear about Jock and Joan. A shock to lose them both within so short a time."

"Yes, thank you, Johnny. The worst is over, I'm glad to say."

"Then tell me how I can help you, my boy."

"You're the only person I know to whom I could go for advice in a case like this," Sandy said.

"A case like what?" Drummond demanded.

"I'm being blackmailed, Johnny."

Drummond's heavy eyebrows shot upward. "Details?"

"Well-"

Drummond held up a cautionary hand. "No names, if you please; I don't like to know more than I have to about these things."

"Short and simple. Joan put a London private detective on me, and he got photographs of me in bed with a lady… or two."

"Or two?"

"I'm afraid so. One of them rather well known about town. The detective is threatening to go to the tabloids with the photos unless I pay him ten thousand pounds before five o'clock today. Joan had apparently already paid him, but he kept copies."

"Mmmm," Drummond grumbled.

"I'd pay him the money and be done with him, Johnny, but I simply don't think that would be the end of it."

"Quite right, my dear fellow," Drummond said. He waved over a waitress, and they placed their orders, then Sir John stood. "Will you excuse me for a moment? Call of nature."

"Of course."

Drummond got up and left the table.

Sandy sipped his drink and glanced idly around the room, which was slowly filling with barristers, actors, journalists, and government officials.

Drummond returned just as the first course arrived. "Well, done any sailing lately?" he asked, digging into some smoked mackerel pate.

"Only once this season, at Edgartown."

"You must come down to Cowes this summer, my boy; do some racing with us."

"I'd love that. This is a short trip, but maybe later in the summer."

"Come to Cowes for a week, first week in August, bring a girl; I'll put you up."

"Sounds wonderful; can I let you know next week?"

"Surely."

"I'm buying a vineyard in California, and I have to get that sewed up and organized before I can make a commitment for August."

"Quite right."

"I'll send you some bottles, when we have our first vintage."

"Look forward to trying the vino."

The main course arrived, and the two men began eating. Drummond had still said nothing about Sandy's problem. They finished, declined dessert, ordered coffee.

Drummond tossed his down, hauled a gold watch from his vest pocket and regarded it glumly. "Got to run, my boy. Look forward to hearing from you next week." The two men rose and shook hands. "Go and have a pee," Drummond said, "to give me time to get out, then meet an acquaintance of mine, who's waiting for you in a taxi outside; he's aware of the gist of the problem; you tell him anything else he needs to know. Stop by your bank and cash a check for five hundred quid; give it to the fellow when the problem's been satisfactorily solved."

"Thank you, Johnny," Sandy said gratefully. "I'll be in touch." They parted at the dining room door; Drummond went toward the street, and Sandy found the men's room down the back hall.

When he emerged from the club into the sunlight, a taxi was waiting at the curb, and a hand motioned him inside.

Sandy got into the cab. A hefty man in a tweed suit and a trilby hat stuck out his hand. "Good day," he said.

Sandy shook his hand. "I'm-"

"Names are unnecessary, sir," the man said quietly. He reached forward and closed the glass partition separating them from the driver. "Now, sir, who is this private copper?"

Sandy handed him Morris's card, and the man grimaced.

"Know the bugger well," he said. He opened the partition again and gave the driver Morris's address in the London suburb of Clapham.

"Oh," Sandy said to the driver, "I'd like to stop for a moment at Cadogan Place and Sloane Street." He sat back as the cab pulled into traffic. He and the other man made small talk about the weather and sports until the cab stopped in front of Sandy's bank. He went inside, cashed a check for five hundred pounds, returned to the cab and the journey resumed.