And Thereby Hangs a Tale

“No, I’d prefer to see him on site.”

Alan woke early on Wednesday morning and dressed without waking his wife. She’d already supplied him with all the information he required. He set off for Romford soon after breakfast, allowing far more time for the journey than was necessary. He made one stop on the way, dropping into his local garage to refill the spare petrol can.

When Alan drove into Romford he went straight to the site and parked on the only available meter. He decided that an hour would be more than enough. He opened the boot, took out the Harrods bag and the can of petrol, and walked onto the middle of the site where he waited patiently for the chairman of Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd. to appear.

Des Lomax drove up twenty minutes later and parked his brand-new red Mercedes E-Class Saloon on a double yellow line. When he stepped out of the car, Alan’s first impression was that he looked remarkably pale for someone who’d just spent ten days in Corfu.

Lomax walked slowly across to join him, and didn’t apologize for being late. Alan refused his outstretched hand and simply said, “Good morning, Mr. Lomax. I think the time has come for us to discuss your claim.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” said Lomax. “My policy was for four million, and as I’ve never missed a payment, I’m looking forward to my claim being paid in full, and sharpish.”

“Subject to my recommendation.”

“I don’t give a damn about your recommendation, sunshine,” said Lomax, lighting a cigarette. ?

?Four million is what I’m entitled to, and four million is what I’m going to get. And if you don’t pay up pretty damn quick, you can look forward to our next meeting being in court, which might not be a good career move, remembering that this is your first case.”

“You may well prove to be right, Mr. Lomax,” said Alan. “But I shall be recommending to your insurance broker that they settle for two million.”

“Two million?” said Lomax. “And when did you come up with that Mickey Mouse figure?”

“When I discovered that you hadn’t spent the last ten days in Corfu.”

“You’d better be able to prove that, sunshine,” snapped Lomax, “because I’ve got hotel receipts, plane tickets, even the hire car agreement. So I wouldn’t go down that road if I were you, unless you want to add a writ for libel to the one you’ll be getting for non-payment of a legally binding contract.”

“Actually, I admit that I don’t have any proof you weren’t in Corfu,” said Alan. “But I’d still advise you to settle for two million.”

“If you don’t have any proof,” said Lomax, his voice rising, “what’s your game?”

“What we’re discussing, Mr. Lomax, is your game, not mine,” said Alan calmly. “I may not be able to prove you’ve spent the last ten days disposing of over six thousand pairs of shoes, but what I can prove is that those shoes weren’t in your warehouse when you set fire to it.”

“Don’t threaten me, sunshine. You have absolutely no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“I know only too well who I’m dealing with,” said Alan as he bent down and removed four boxes of Roger Vivier shoes from the Harrods bag and lined them up at Lomax’s feet.

Lomax stared down at the neat little row of boxes. “Been out buying presents, have we?”

“No. Gathering proof of your nocturnal habits.”

Lomax clenched his fist. “Are you trying to get yourself thumped?”

“I wouldn’t go down that road, if I were you,” said Alan, “unless you want to add a charge of assault to the one you’ll be getting for arson.”

Lomax unclenched his fist, and Alan unscrewed the cap on the petrol can and poured the contents over the boxes. “You’ve already had the fire officer’s report, which confirms there was no suggestion of arson,” said Lomax, “so what do you think this little fireworks display is going to prove?”

“You’re about to find out,” said Alan, suddenly cursing himself for having forgotten to bring a box of matches.

“Might I add,” said Lomax, defiantly tossing his cigarette stub onto the boxes, “that the insurance company has already accepted the fire chief’s opinion.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” said Alan. “I’ve read both reports.”

“Just as I thought,” said Lomax, “you’re bluffing.”

Alan said nothing as flames began to leap into the air, causing both men to take a pace back. Within minutes, the tissue paper, the cardboard boxes, and finally the shoes had been burned to a cinder, leaving a small cloud of black smoke spiraling into the air. When it had cleared, the two men stared down at all that was left of the funeral pyre—eight large metal buckles.

“It’s often not what you do see, but what you don’t see,” said Alan without explanation. He looked up at Lomax. “It was my wife,” continued Alan, “who told me that Catherine Deneuve made Roger Vivier buckles famous when she played a courtesan in the film Belle de Jour. That was when I first realized you’d set fire to your own warehouse, Mr. Lomax, because if you hadn’t, according to your manifest, there should have been several thousand buckles scattered all over the site.”

Lomax remained silent for some time before he said, “I reckon you’ve still only got a fifty-fifty chance of proving it.”