Twelve Red Herrings Part 7

Victor glanced at his watch. "How far away is it?" he asked.

"Just across the road, in Bond Street, my darling,"

Consuela replied. "I shouldn't have to delay you for too long." She knew exactly what was going through her husband's mind.

"Good. Then let's go and look at this little bauble without delay," he said as he did up the b.u.t.tons on his shirt.

While Victor finished dressing, Consuela, with the help of the Financial Times, skilfully guided the conversation back to his triumph of the previous day. She listened once more to the details of the takeover as they left the hotel and strolled up BondStreet together arm in arm.

"Probably saved myself several million," he told her yet again.

Consuela smiled as she led him to the door of the House of Graff.

"Several million?" she gasped. "How clever you are, Victor." The security guard quickly opened the door, and this time Consuela found that Mr. Graff was already standing by the table waiting for her. He bowed low, then turned to Victor. "May I offer my congratulations on your brilliant coup, Mr. Rosenheim." Victor smiled. "How may I help you ?"

"My husband would like to see the Kanemarra heirloom,"

said Consuela, before Victor had a chance to reply.

"Of course, madam," said the proprietor. He stepped behind the table and spread out the black velvet cloth. Once again the a.s.sistant removed the magnificent necklace from its stand in the third window, and carefully laid it out on the centre of the velvet cloth to show the jewels to their best advantage. Mr. Graff was about to embark on the piece's history, when Victor simply said, "How much is it?" Mr. Graff raised his head. "This is no ordinary piece of jewellery.

I feel ... '

"How much?" repeated Victor.

"Its provenance alone warrants ... ' "How much ?""The sheer beauty, not to mention the craftsmanship involved ... ' "How much?" asked Victor, his voice now rising.

^" ... the word unique would not be inappropriate."

"You may be right, but I still need to know how much it's going to cost me," said Victor, who was beginning to sound exasperated.

"One million pounds, sir," Graff said in an even tone, aware that he could not risk another superlative.

TI1 settle at half a million, no more," came back the immediate reply.

"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," said Victor. "I repeat my offer.

Half a million."

"I fear that in this case, sir ... ' "I feel confident that you'll see things my way, given time," said Victor.

"But I don't have that much time to spare this morning, so I'll write out a cheque for half a million, and leave you to decide whether you wish to cash it or not."

"I fear you are wasting your time, sir," said Graff. "I cannot let the Kanemarra heirloom go for less than one million." Victor took out a chequebook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top of hisfountain pen, and wrote out the words "Five Hundred Thousand Pounds Only' below the name of the bank that bore his name. His wife took a discreet pace backwards.

Graff was about to repeat his previous comment, when he glanced up, and observed Mrs. Rosenheim silently pleading with him to accept the cheque.

A look of curiosity came over his face as Consuela continued her urgent mime.

Victor tore out the cheque and left it on the table. TII give you twenty-four hours to decide," he said. "We return to New York tomorrow morning - with or without the Kanemarra heirloom. It's your decision." Graff left the cheque on the table as he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim to the front door and bowed them out onto Bond Street.

"You were brilliant, my darling," said Consuela as the chauffeur opened the car door for his master.

"The bank," Rosenheim instructed as he fell into the back seat.

"You'll have your little bauble, Consuela. He'll cash the cheque before the twenty-four hours are up, of that I'm sure."

The chauffeur closed the back door, and the window purred down as Victor added with a smile, "Happy birthday, darling." Consuela returned his smile, and blew him a kiss as the car pulled out into the traffic and edged its waytowards Piccadilly.

The morning had not turned out quite as she had planned, because she felt unable to agree with her husband's judgement - but then, she still had twenty-four hours to play with.

Consuela returned to the suite at the Ritz, undressed, took a shower, opened another bottle of perfume, and slowly began to change into the second outfit she had purchased the previous day.

Before she left the room she turned to the commodities section of the Financial Times, and checked the price of green coffee.

She emerged from the Arlington Street entrance of the Ritz wearing a double-breasted navy blue Yves Saint Laurent suit and a wide-brimmed red and white hat. Ignoring her chauffeur, she hailed a taxi, instructing the driver to take her to a small, discreet hotel in Knightsbridge. Fifteen minutes later she entered the foyer with her head bowed, and after giving the name of her host to the manager, was accompanied to a suite on the fourth floor. Her luncheon companion stood as she entered the room, walked forward, kissed her on both cheeks and wished her a happy birthday.

After an intimate lunch, and an even more intimate hour spent in the adjoining room, Consuela's companion listened to her request and, having first checked his watch, agreed to accompany her to Mayfair. He didn't mention to her that he would have to be back in his office byfour o'clock to take an important call from South America.

Since the downfall of the Brazilian president, coffee prices had gone through the roof.

As the car travelled down Brompton Road, Consuela's companion telephoned to check the latest spot price of green coffee in New York (only her skill in bed had managed to stop him from calling earlier).

He was pleased to learn that it was up another two cents, but not as pleased as she was.

Eleven minutes later, the car deposited them outside the House of Graff.

When they entered the shop together arm in arm, Mr. Graff didn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Carvalho," he said. "I do hope that your estates yielded an abundant crop this year." Mr. Carvalho smiled and replied, "I cannot complain."

"And how may I a.s.sist you ?" enquired the proprietor.

"We would like to see the diamond necklace in the third window,'

said Consuela, without a moment's hesitation.

"Of course, madam," said Graff, as if he were addressing a complete stranger.

Once again the black velvet cloth was laid out on the table, and once again the a.s.sistant placed the Kanemarra heirloom in its centre.This time Mr. Graff was allowed to relate its history, before Carvalho politely enquired after the price. "One million pounds," said Graff.

After a moment's hesitation, Carvalho said, "I'm willing to pay half a million."

"This is no ordinary piece of jewellery," replied the proprietor.

"I feel ... '

"Possibly not, but half a million is my best offer," said Carvalho.

"The sheer beauty, not to mention the craftsmanship involved ..

"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 thisafternoon.

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.

TI1 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.

Rosenhelm.'

DOUGIE MORTON'S RIGHT ARM!

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 97os, 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 Britishappreciate 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 x9o7, -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 experrs 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, a.s.suming 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 demandingcriterion.

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.