Highbinders Page 3

  Myron Greene nodded his agreement at that. “Well, it seems that a work of art has been stolen from a party or parties that Mr. Apex is representing. The thieves are willing to sell it back for one hundred thousand pounds. The owner—or owners, I’m not sure which because Apex would sometimes say ‘they’ and sometimes ‘he’ when referring to whomever it was stolen from—anyway, they or he are willing to engage your services as go-between for the usual ten percent. At this point, of course, we started negotiating. I asked for your expenses. Mr. Apex declined, but countered with an offer of earnest money—ten percent of your fee to be deposited in your bank here. I told him that I thought fifteen percent of your fee in advance would be far more in line in view of the fact that you would be paying your own expenses. We settled for twelve and a half percent in advance. I must say that Apex seems quite good at doing large sums in his head.”

  “He didn’t say what had been stolen?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Or from whom?”

  “No.”

  “It’s probably hot then.”

  “Really? What makes you think so?” It was obvious that Myron Greene would be delighted if it were. Shady dealings always fascinated him.

  “Let’s look at it this way,” I said. “Firstly, Eddie Apex is involved. I don’t think I need a secondly.”

  “You said he retired.”

  “He retired from the con, not from crime.”

  “He certainly sounds straightforward,” Myron Greene said.

  “He hasn’t lost his touch then. You notice he didn’t say what was stolen or from whom. You know as well as I do, Myron, that when any valuable art is stolen, the first to be notified is the insurance company and the second is the police. And usually it’s the insurance company or another lawyer who calls you. Or maybe the thieves themselves. But here we’ve got an ex-con artist calling on behalf of clients unnamed about an unmentionable work of art that somebody has stolen and is willing to sell back for nearly a quarter of a million dollars. That means that its true market value must be close to a million or more. But no insurance company seems to be involved. No lawyer. And certainly no police. That makes it sound hot to me.”

  “Possibly,” Myron Greene said. “You present a good case. However, it may be that whatever was stolen was uninsurable—or even that whoever stole it threatened to destroy it, if the police were brought in. We’ve known cases like that before.”

  “Kidnappings mostly.”

  We sat there at the poker table in silence for a while until I got up and mixed us both another drink. “I perhaps neglected to mention that the earnest money that Apex agreed to advance is nonreturnable,” he said.

  My admiration for Myron Greene’s ability as a skilled negotiator rose several more degrees. “You talked Eddie Apex out of that?”

  Myron Greene smiled for perhaps the first time that day, the day that he became a millionaire. “He did take a bit of convincing,” he said as modestly as he could. “Of course, it means that you’ll have to go to London to find out what the deal is. If you don’t like it, you can turn it down and, except for your expenses, you’ll have made twelve hundred and fifty pounds or approximately three thousand dollars.”

  “Apex won’t talk about it over the phone?”

  “No.”

  “Why doesn’t he just write us a letter?”

  Myron Greene smoothed his hair. “There’s a time factor.”

  “What time factor?”

  “You have to be there tomorrow night.”

  We shared another silence and after a few moments I said, “Well, London should be pleasant this time of year.”

  “You lived there once, didn’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. A long time ago for about a year. It was when the paper thought that I might do the same thing for London that Buchwald was doing for Paris. It didn’t work out though.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got homesick.”

  Chapter Five

  AT TEN MINUTES TO nine on the morning after the night that I had lodged in jail, I was sitting on a bench in along brown and green hall just off the Marlborough Street Magistrates courtroom, sharing out my cigarettes with about thirty or so other bums, layabouts, wifebeaters, and meth drinkers. Metropolitan police flowed up and down the hall, stopping now and again to exchange a friendly word or two with what seemed to be some fairly regular customers.

  I was shaved, showered, breakfasted, and suited up in a glen plaid number with a black knit tie that I hoped would make me look respectable and even, with luck, a bit stuffy. I sat there on the bench, half-listening to a tall, thin Australian, bony as a sackful of antlers, counsel me that if I really wanted to do some serious drinking, I should drop down around Earls Court where the pommy bastards would leave you alone, at least most of the time.

  I was nodding away at this when a police constable stopped in front of me. He had blond hair, sideburns, and pale blue eyes that were still no friendlier than they had been the evening before in front of the Black Thistle.

  “Well, Mr. St. Ives, you’re looking a bit better this morning.”

  I nodded. “Constable Wilson, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, sir. I must say you were coming on a bit strong yesterday, what with your karate chops and all.”

  “I don’t know any karate chops,” I said. “I thought I was being mugged.”

  “In broad daylight?” Constable Wilson seemed almost shocked at the idea.

  “Sorry,” I said, “I keep forgetting that it can’t happen here.”

  “Well, certainly not can’t, but when it does, it’s usually the coloreds involved.”

  “Why a night in the pokey and a day in court?” I said. “Why didn’t you just pour me in a taxi and ship me home?”

  “Huh,” he said. “Put you in the hands of that lot in your condition and you would’ve been mugged. Or worse.”

  “I thought all London taxi drivers were polite. Friendly.”

  He grinned, but I couldn’t detect much humor in it. “Like all London bobbies, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, we might have done, if you hadn’t come on with that karate.”

  “I don’t know any karate,” I said.

  Finally, my name was called and I was in the courtroom, standing in the dock, feeling something like a latterday Jack the Ripper, and there was Constable Wilson presenting his case, telling everybody how drunk I had been, but that I didn’t have any previous record, and the magistrate, not really caring, asked me how I chose to plead, and after I said that I chose to plead guilty, I was told to step down and pay the man.

  The man was back down the long hall and up a flight of stairs that led to the Chief Clerk’s office where a friendly-looking type who was about forty pounds overweight kept up a steady line of chatter with what, for the most part, seemed to be an old and valued clientele.

  When he got to me, I said, “St. Ives, Philip,” and he ran his finger down a list and said, “Yes, sir, Mr. St. Ives. That’ll be fifty pence, no checks accepted, and we hope everything has been satisfactory.”

  “It’s been perfect,” I said and handed him a pound. He gave me the change, a receipt, and a “Thank you very much, come again.”

  It was ten o’clock by the time I came out on to Marlborough and the gray Rolls was waiting right where it was supposed to be. The uniformed chauffeur held the door for me, I got in, and Eddie Apex said, “How did it go?”

  “I was fined about a dollar twenty. I guess there’s something to British justice after all.”

  “You’d better tell me about it again,” he said.

  “I’ve already told you about it.”

  “You sounded groggy when I talked to you this morning.

  “Has this thing got a bar?” I said.

  “Of course. Whisky?”

  “Whisky’s fine.”

  It was a fitted bar with cut-glass bottles and crystal tumblers. Eddie Apex poured me a drink, but didn’t fix one for himsel
f. “Still a bit early for me.”

  “By jet lag it’s four in the afternoon,” I said and took a sip of the drink. It was good Scotch, possibly the best, but with my cigarette palate, I couldn’t be sure.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s go over it again.”

  I looked out the window. We were on Edgware Road and turning west into Bayswater Road at Marble Arch. “Well go to my place,” he said. “Okay. I’ll run it by again. I got into Heathrow on Pan Am at around nine yesterday morning. I caught a cab and went to the Hilton. I called you and told you I’d arrived and we agreed to meet at eight that evening. After that, I ordered up breakfast and a couple of drinks and then I went to bed. At four o’clock my phone rang. It was a man. He didn’t try to disguise his voice. He said that he represented the people that you were dealing with and since they were now going to be dealing with me, they’d like to look me over. I said fine. They told me to buy a carnation, wear it in my lapel, and be at the Black Thistle on New Cavendish Street at six-fifteen sharp. I called you, but the guy who answered your phone said you were out and wouldn’t be back until seven. Well, the Hilton didn’t have a red carnation, so I bought a pink one and arrived at the pub about ten minutes early. I bought a drink, but before I could take a swallow, a rather tweedy type knocked it out of my hand with his elbow.”

  “What did he look like?” Apex said. “The tweedy type.”

  “Late twenties, running to fat, about six feet tall, bald and blond, pinkfaced, with a two-inch scar on his crown. The scar was puckered. Mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, he insisted on buying me another drink. I agreed and that was my mistake. He doped the drink. I know that there’s nothing that’s supposed to work that fast, but it did.”

  “Chloral hydrate won’t work like that,” Apex said.

  “It wasn’t chloral hydrate. Chloral hydrate just makes you go to sleep. This stuff caused awful cramps, then nausea, and then euphoria.”

  “Then you got into the fight with the coppers.”

  “That’s right—and spent the night in jail.”

  “What do you think?” Apex said.

  “What do I think? For Christ’s sake, Eddie, it’s your territory. What do you think?”

  “I’ve never been in on one like this before. That’s why I asked what you think.”

  I finished my drink. “You haven’t told me anything yet. You haven’t told me what’s been stolen or from whom. In fact, you haven’t told me anything at all except welcome to London.”

  “We really haven’t had a chance to talk, have we?”

  “No. We haven’t.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “About last night?”

  “ Yes.”

  “Well, I think you’re dealing with some people who don’t quite trust you,” I said.

  Apex nodded. “I already know that.”

  “And they wanted to find out whether they could trust me. So they tell me to be at a certain pub at a certain time, drug my drink, and watch me get arrested.”

  “Do you think the cops were in on it?”

  “Not in on it, but they would have been involved sooner or later. I would have passed out in the gutter if they hadn’t come along when they did. And that must have been the object of it all—to get me arrested.”

  “Sort of a test, right?”

  “I can’t think of anything else. If I’d kicked up a fuss and started talking about drugged drinks and why I’m here and demanding to see the ambassador, the thieves would probably tell you to find yourself another go-between. But since I took it and kept my mouth shut, they’ll probably figure that we can do business.”

  “Have you ever been through one like this before?” Apex said.

  “No, but I’ve dealt with a lot of nervous types who’ve wanted to run a check on me. Usually it’s meant nothing more than standing around some phone booth in a busy supermarket parking lot waiting for a call that never came. A lot of thieves, the amateurs especially, like to look the go-between over.”

  “What do you think of these, from what you’ve seen so far?” Apex said.

  “I don’t know what they’ve stolen yet, do I?”

  “No, but what do you think? About the thieves, I mean.”

  “Well, they don’t trust you, do they, Eddie?”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Then I don’t think they’re amateurs.”

  Chapter Six

  THE GRAY ROLLS DREW up in front of a four-story town-house which was painted that peculiar thick London cream that can mask a lot of age as well as a lot of decay. We were in Knightsbridge and the house faced one of those well-cared-for little green squares that have a fence around them with locked gates to keep out the riffraff.

  It was an expensive neighborhood, not too far from Harrods and even closer to Beauchamp Place where all the trendy shops were, and the Rolls looked right at home and, for that matter, so did English Eddie Apex.

  He had aged well during the ten or eleven years since I had last seen him. He was a bit thicker around the middle, but the genius who had tailored his suit out of tiny gray worsted herringbones made you forget about the waist and concentrate on the marvelous thing that had been done for the shoulders. Apex wore a blue striped shirt with a white collar and cuffs and what could only have been a club tie because it was such a tatty blue and black. I estimated that he was wearing close to £150 on his back and maybe another £40 on his feet in the form of a pair of black loafers that shone like waxed marble.

  He wasn’t wearing a hat, and I could understand why. It might have mussed his hair which had been a deep, shining yellow when I had last seen him, the color of old gold—or perhaps new brass, since it belonged to Eddie Apex. Now it was a softly shining gray, the same shade as old, well-cared-for silver. Or new pewter.

  Worn just long enough to be fashionable, his hair was almost the only thing about Apex that had changed. He was a little heavier, but not much, and there might have been a new line or two in his face, which was still as open as church and as honest as truth. Now in his early forties, Eddie Apex looked both distinguished and important enough to be a cabinet member, or a seasoned diplomat, or at least somebody who might be trusted to read the evening news over BBC. For some reason I found myself hoping very hard that Eddie Apex was still retired.

  With the aid of the chauffeur, who looked almost old enough to be my grandfather, we got out of the Rolls, walked up a short curving flight of iron steps, through what may have been an Adams door, and into the center hall that was furnished with some stiff chairs and useless tables that looked uncomfortable and rickety enough to be antiques, although a lot of English furniture looks that way to me.

  The elderly chauffeur had relinquished his care of us at the car and a stooped, thin man who might have been his uncle took over in the hall. He murmured, “Good morning, sir,” to Apex, and ran his filmy blue eyes over me with what seemed to be disapproval, or perhaps disappointment over my not having anything to hand him such as a hat and cane.

  “Jack, would you tell my wife that we’ll be in the drawing room,” Apex said, just as if he had been saying it all his life.

  “Yes, sir,” said Jack, the butler, and moved away with a surprisingly spry step for a man whose age I estimated to be around 102.

  “You have any trouble with all this kid help of yours?” I said.

  “They came with my wife,” Apex said, opening a door for me.

  “When did you get married?”

  “About six years ago.”

  “That’s about the time I got divorced,” I said.

  The drawing room was better than the center hall, in my opinion. It was modern, if you still happen to think that 1937 was modern. It was an oblong room, not quite narrow, and held an overabundance of chunky angular furniture heavily upholstered in some rather garish shades such as caution orange, schoolbus yellow, and roadmap green. There was a dark brown carpet on the floor and on the walls some flam
ing abstract paintings that I didn’t much like either. Tucked away in the fireplace was that peculiar British invention, an electric space heater, which on a cold day might bring the room up to a cozy forty-seven degrees.

  “Would you like something?” Apex said.

  “What, for instance?”

  “Another drink?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Tea?”

  “Tea would be fine.”

  Apex moved over to the fireplace and pushed a button in a wall speaker that looked as if it had been recently installed—around 1951. “We would like some tea, please, Jack.”

  The box squawked something tinny that sounded very much like “Right away, sir.”

  I sat down in an orange chair with wide arms and Apex chose a yellow one. “Well,” he said, “it’s been a long time.”

  I looked around the room. “You’re a long way from Cadillac Square.”

  “Yes, I am, aren’t I.”

  “You like it here, I take it.”

  Apex nodded. “It’s civilized.”

  “That’s what they used to say about the Choctaws, until they got them riled or drunk or both.”

  “You don’t find it so? Civilized, I mean?”

  “I don’t think London is any more civilized than any other big city. In many ways London is just like New York. They’re both falling apart at the same places and if you’re poor, they’re both rotten places to live. If you’re rich—well, if you’re rich, almost anywhere is a good place to live.”

  “Strange you should say that,” Apex said. “Most Americans like London.”

  “That’s because a quaint brand of English is spoken here. If they spoke French here, you wouldn’t get five tourists a year.”

  Eddie Apex smiled. “You exaggerate.”

  “Not much,” I said. “Think it over while you’re deciding when you’re going to tell me why you got me over here.”

  “We brought you over here, Mr. St. Ives, to get our sword back.” It was a drawling, husky voice and it came from behind me and it belonged to a woman. I rose and turned. She was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, smiling a little, and gazing at me with eyes that reminded me of a cat’s, the half-wild kind that hasn’t lived around the hearth too long. But it was her high cheekbones and her artful makeup that probably caused her eyes to look that way, that and the fact that, like a cat, she didn’t seem to blink very often.