Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

“Nevertheless, I am not willing to go above half a million.”

“… the word unique would not be inappropriate.”

“Half a million, and no more,” insisted Carvalho.

“I am sorry to say, sir,” said Graff, “that with this particular piece there is no room for bargaining.”

“There’s always room for bargaining, whatever one is selling,” the coffee grower insisted.

“I fear that is not true in this case, sir. You see …”

“I suspect you will come to your senses in time,” said Carvalho. “But, regrettably, I do not have any time to spare this afternoon. I will write out a cheque for half a million pounds, and leave you to decide whether you wish to cash it.”

Carvalho took a chequebook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top of his fountain pen, and wrote out the words “Five Hundred Thousand Pounds Only”. Consuela looked silently on.

Carvalho tore out the cheque, and left it on the counter.

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide. I leave for Chicago on the early evening flight tomorrow. If the cheque has not been presented by the time I reach my office …”

Graff bowed his head slightly, and left the cheque on the table. He accompanied them to the door, and bowed again when they stepped out onto the pavement.

“You were brilliant, my darling,” said Consuela as the chauffeur opened the car door for his employer.

“The Exchange,” said Carvalho. Turning back to face his mistress, he added, “You’ll have your necklace before the day is out, of that I’m certain, my darling.”

Consuela smiled and waved as the car disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly, and on this occasion she felt able to agree with her lover’s judgement. Once the car had turned the corner, she slipped back into the House of Graff.

The proprietor smiled, and handed over the smartly wrapped gift. He bowed low and simply said, “Happy birthday, Mrs Rosenheim.”

Robert Henry Kefford III, known to his friends as Bob, was in bed with a girl called Helen when he first heard about Dougie Mortimer’s right arm.

Bob was sorry to be leaving Cambridge. He had spent three glorious years at St John’s, and although he hadn’t read as many books as he had done for his undergraduate degree at the University of Chicago, he had striven every bit as hard to come head of the river.

It wasn’t unusual for an American to win a rowing blue in the early 1970s, but to have stroked a victorious Cambridge eight for three years in a row was acknowledged as a first.

Bob’s father, Robert Henry Kefford II, known to his friends as Robert, had travelled over to England to watch his son take part in all three races from Puthey to Mortlake. After Bob had stroked Cambridge to victory for the third time, his father told him that he must not return to his native Illinois without having presented a memento to the University Boat Club that they would remember him by.

“And don’t forget, my boy,” declared Robert Henry Kefford II, “the gift must not be ostentatious. Better to show that you have made an effort to present them with an object of historic value than give them something that obviously cost a great deal of money. The British appreciate that sort of thing.”

Bob spent many hours pondering his father’s words, but completely failed to come up with any worthwhile ideas. After all, the Cambridge University Boat Club had more silver cups and trophies than they could possibly display.

It was on a Sunday morning that Helen first mentioned the name of Dougie Mortimer. She and Bob were lying in each other’s arms, when she started prodding his biceps.

“Is this some form of ancient British foreplay that I ought to know about?” Bob asked, placing his free arm around Helen’s shoulder.

“Certainly not,” Helen replied. “I was simply trying to discover if your biceps are as big as Dougie Mortimer’s.” As Bob had never known a girl talk about another man while he was in bed with her, he was unable to think of an immediate response.

“And are they?” he eventually enquired, flexing his muscles.

“Hard to tell,” Helen replied. “I’ve never actually touched Dougie’s arm, only seen it at a distance.”

“And where did you come across this magnificent specimen of manhood?”

“It hangs over the bar at my dad’s local, in Hull.”

“Doesn’t Dougie Mortimer find that a little painful?” asked Bob, laughing.

“Doubt if he cares that much,” said Helen. “After all, he’s been dead for over sixty years.”

“And his arm still hangs above a bar?” asked Bob in disbelief. “Hasn’t it begun to smell a bit by now?”

This time it was Helen’s turn to laugh. “No, you Yankee fool. It’s a bronze cast of his arm. In those days, if you were in the University crew for three years in a row, they made a cast of your arm to hang in the clubhouse. Not to mention a card with your picture on it in every packet of Player’s cigarettes. I’ve never seen your picture in a cigarette packet, come to think of it,” said Helen as she pulled the sheet over his head.

“Did he row for Oxford or Cambridge?” asked Bob.

“No idea.”

“So, what’s the name of this pub in Hull?”

“The King William,” Helen replied, as Bob took his arm from around her shoulder.

“Is this American foreplay?” she asked after a few moments.

Later that morning, after Helen had left for Newnham, Bob began searching his shelves for a book with a blue cover. He dug out his much-thumbed History of the Boat Race and flicked through the index, to discover that there were seven Mortimers listed.

Five had rowed for Oxford, two for Cambridge. He began to pray as he checked their initials. Mortimer, A.J. (Westminster and Wadham, Oxon), Mortimer, C.K. (Uppingham and Oriel, Oxon), Mortimer, D.J.T. (Harrow and St Catharine’s, Cantab), Mortimer, E.L. (Oundle and Magdalen, Oxon). Bob turned his attention to Mortimer, D.J.T., biography page 129, and flicked the pages backwards until he reached the entry he sought. Douglas John Townsend Mortimer (St Catharine’s), Cambridge 1907, -08, -09, stroke. He then read the short summary of Mortimer’s rowing career.

DOUGIE MORTIMER stroked the Cambridge boat to victory in 1907, a feat which he repeated in 1908. But in 1909, when the experts considered Cambridge to have one of the finest crews for years, the light blues lost to an Oxford boat that was regarded as the rank outsider.

Although many explanations were suggested by the press at the time, the result of the race remains a mystery, to this day. Mortimer died in 1914.

Bob closed the book and returned it to the shelf, assuming the great oarsman must have been killed in the First World War. He perched on the end of the bed, considering the information he now possessed. If he could bring Dougie Mortimer’s right arm back to Cambridge and present it to the Club at the annual Blues’ Dinner, it would surely be a prize that met his father’s demanding criterion.

He dressed quickly and went downstairs to the pay phone in the corridor. Once directory enquiries had given him the four numbers he required, he set about trying to remove the next obstacle.

The first calls he made were to the King William — or, to be precise, the King Williams, because the directory had supplied him with the numbers of three pubs in Hull which bore that name. When he was put through to the first, he asked, “Does Dougie Mortimer’s right arm hang above your counter?” He couldn’t quite make out every word of the broad northern accent that replied, but he was left in no doubt that it didn’t.