Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

"Wait for us," the man said to the driver.

They got out of the cab in front of a small grocery. Sandy looked upstairs and saw, painted on the window, "J. Morris, Private Enquiries."

"You go up first," the man said to Sandy. "There's a woman who works there; tell Morris to get rid of her, and when I see her leave I'll come up. Show him some money, but don't give it to him."

Sandy nodded, found the stairs and walked up a flight and rapped on an opaque glass door.

"Come in," a woman's voice sang.

Sandy opened the door and found a plump, motherly woman, sitting behind a small desk, knitting.

"He's waiting for you, luv," she nodded toward an open door, then went back to her knitting.

Sandy walked into the rear office. Morris was sitting behind an impressive desk, refilling a lighter with fluid.

"Ah, Mr. Kinsolving," Morris said, beaming. He got up, went to the door and looked around. "All alone, are we?"

"See that we are," Sandy said, nodding toward the secretary.

"Mavis," Morris said to the woman, "Go down to Woolsey's and get me some pipe tobacco, will you? Take half an hour to do it."

The woman put down her knitting and left the office. Morris returned, sat behind his desk, and began stuffing a pipe with tobacco.

"Let's see the negatives," Sandy said.

"Well, sir, let's see the money," Morris replied, beaming at him. "If you would be so kind."

Sandy produced an envelope with the five hundred pounds he had gotten from his bank, flashed the bills at Morris, and returned them quickly to his pocket.

Morris stood up. Both sides of his office were occupied with storage cabinets and files. He went to a drawer, took out an envelope, and spread the prints and some negatives on his desk. "There you are," he said, "all the remaining goods."

"Glad to hear it, Jerry," a voice said from behind Sandy. "And where are the rest?"

Morris's face fell. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Sir John Drummond's acquaintance walked into the room, seemingly unconcerned with Morris. He walked around the desk slowly, looking at the ceiling, then stopped. "Ah, there we are," he said, pointing at a small camera fixed to a corner above the molding.

"You're not the law anymore, my friend," Morris said. "You have no business here."

The former policeman was walking along one side of the room, looking into cabinets. "Where are the real negatives, Jerry?" he asked.

Morris looked at Sandy. "Is he with you?"

"He is," Sandy said. "If I were you, I'd give him the negatives."

The ex-cop was fiddling with a panel, and suddenly, it came open. "Ah ha ha!" he crowed. "Look what we have here!"

Sandy stood up and looked into the little closet. A video cassette recorder was running silently, and the walls were lined with videotapes.

"Jerry, I won't ask you again," the ex-cop said.

"That's the lot, damn you," Morris said, gesturing at the photographs on the desk.

The ex-cop shook his head. He picked up the can of lighter fluid on the desk, walked to the video closet, removed the cassette from the recorder and began spraying the fluid over the tape and all the other equipment inside.

"Goddamit, you stop that!" Morris cried. "I'll have the police on you."

"I'm sure the boys would love viewing those tapes," the ex-cop said. "Why don't you phone them?"

Morris stood, fuming, behind his desk, but he did nothing for a moment. Then he went to another file drawer, extracted another envelope, and tossed it onto his desk.

The ex-cop turned to Sandy. "See if that's what we're looking for, will you?"

Sandy shook out the contents of the envelope. He held the negatives up to the light, then scooped all the prints and negatives into the envelope. "That's it," he said.

"Is it everything, Jerry?" the ex-cop said to Morris. "Absolutely everything?"

"It's everything!" Morris cried. "I swear it."

"Uh oh," the ex-cop said. He picked up the lighter from the desk, flicked it and tossed it into the closet. There was a muffled noise, then the closet burst into flame.

"Last chance, Jerry," the ex-cop said.

Morris, whose eyes were very nearly bugging out of his head, ran to yet another filing cabinet, grabbed yet another envelope, and tossed it at Sandy.

Sandy caught it, inspected the contents, then took all the negatives and prints and tossed them into the flames. "I think we're done here," he said to the ex-cop.

"Good; we'll be running along then, shall we? Jerry, you can get your fire extinguisher out now. And if this gentleman ever hears from you again, or hears from someone who heard from you, I'll be back, and next time, I'll toss you in there," he indicated the flaming closet, "before I light the match."

Sandy and his companion walked down the stairs.

"You take the cab, sir; I'll get another one," the ex-cop said.

Sandy took the cash envelope from his pocket and pressed it into the man's hand. "I can't thank you enough," he said.

The two men shook hands and parted.

At precisely eight-thirty they were seated at a corner table on the street side of the Connaught Restaurant, a spacious room with candlelight reflecting from polished mahogany paneling and tables set with snow-white cloths and gleaming silver and crystal. Half an hour earlier Sandy had met Angus's girlfriend, whose name was Maggie Fox, and Angus had met Cara. Any early awkwardness had passed after a bottle of Veuve Cliquot '66, and by the time the first course arrived they were the best of friends. Sandy, ever the good host, had ordered for all of them.

"It's beautiful," Maggie said as a small plate was set before her. "What is it?"

"Two versions of the same dish," Sandy said, pleased that she had asked. "Croustade d'oef de caille-one called Maintenon, the other Christian Dior. Maintenon is quail's eggs in a little pastry boat covered in a cold white sauce and sprinkled with Beluga caviar; Christian Dior is the same, but on a bed of duxelles of mushrooms and covered with hollandaise sauce. There's no polite way to eat them, just gobble them up."

Maggie did just that. She was tiny, not much more than five feet, of slender build, with large eyes, perfect teeth, and short hair as thick as fur. "Oh, God," she murmured. "I've never had anything like it."

Cara and Angus had similar remarks to utter, but Sandy was concentrating on pleasing Maggie. "Which do you like best?" he asked.

"I can't decide," she sighed.

"No one I know has ever been able to make that decision," Sandy said.

"And what's the wine?" she asked, sipping from the glass of white.

"A Puligny Montrachet, Les Combettes, 70," he replied.

"It goes beautifully with the quail's eggs."

"Thank you," he said, beaming at her.

The main course was Noisettes d'Agneau Edward VII, little filets of lamb on fried bread, and a slice of pate with a brown sauce.

"This is perfectly wonderful," Maggie said. "And the wine?"

"A red Bordeaux, or as the English like to call it, a claret. This one is a Chateau Palmer '78, one of my favorites."

"The perfect accompaniment," she said, raising her glass to him.

"Thank God you're not a vegetarian and a teetotaler," Sandy said. "I'd have to deny you my son."

She laughed aloud. "What a relief!" she crowed. "Anyway, I don't think a surgeon can be a vegetarian. It's not appropriate, somehow."

"I see your point. Will you practice general surgery?"

"Certainly not. I plan to lead a civilized life, and that doesn't include getting up in the middle of the night to perform emergency appendectomies. In the fall I'm entering a residency for plastic surgery, specializing in the face. You see, when I was a little girl I was something of a tomboy, and I broke my nose falling out of a tree. It was repaired by the most marvelous surgeon, and my fate was set, as well as my nose."