As the Crow Flies

“He already has,” Richard warned her. “Dropped in last Thursday on his way to the Lords, put a reserve on three lots and even found time to complain about our estimates. Claimed he had bought a large Renoir oil from you called L’homme à la pêche only a few years ago for the price I was now expecting him to pay for a small pastel by Pissarro that was nothing more than a study for a major work.”

“I suspect he might be right about that,” said Becky as she flicked through the catalogue to check the different estimates. “And heaven help your balance sheet if he finds out that you failed to reach the reserve price on any picture he’s interested in. When I ran this department he was always known as ‘our loss leader.’”

As they were chatting an assistant walked over to join them, nodded politely to Lady Trumper and handed Richard a note. He studied the message before turning to Becky. “The chairman wonders if you would be kind enough to drop in and see her before you leave. Something she needs to discuss with you fairly urgently.”

Richard accompanied her to the lift on the ground floor, where Becky thanked him once again for indulging an old lady.

As the lift traveled grudgingly upwards—something else that Cathy wanted to change as part of the refurbishment plan—Becky pondered on why the chairman could possibly want to see her and only hoped that she wasn’t going to have to cancel dinner with them that night, as their guests were to be Joseph and Barbara Field.

Although Cathy had moved out of Eaton Square some eighteen months before into a spacious flat in Chelsea Cloisters they still managed dinner together at least once a month, and Cathy was always invited back to the house whenever the Fields or the Bloomingdales were in town. Becky knew that Joseph Field, who still sat on the board of the great Chicago store, would be disappointed if Cathy was unable to keep her appointment that night, especially as the American couple was due to return home the following day.

Jessica ushered Becky straight through to the chairman’s office, where she found Cathy on the phone, her brow unusually furrowed. While she waited for the chairman to finish her call, Becky stared out of the bay window at the empty wooden bench on the far side of the road and thought of Charlie, who had happily swapped it for the red leather benches of the House of Lords.

Once Cathy had replaced the receiver, she immediately asked, “How’s Charlie?”

“You tell me,” said Becky. “I see him for the occasional dinner during the week and he has even been known to attend breakfast on a Sunday. But that’s about it. Has he been seen in Trumper’s lately?”

“Not that often. To be honest, I still feel guilty about banning him from the store.”

“No need to feel any guilt,” Becky told her. “I’ve never seen the man happier.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Cathy. “But right now I need Charlie’s advice on a more urgent matter.”

“And what’s that?”

“Cigars,” said Cathy. “I had David Field on the phone earlier to say that his father would like a dozen boxes of his usual brand and not to bother to send them round to the Connaught because he’ll be only too happy to pick them up when he comes to dinner tonight.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Neither David Field nor the tobacco department has the slightest idea what his father’s usual brand is. It seems Charlie always dealt with the order personally.”

“You could check the old invoices.”

“First thing I did,” said Cathy. “But there’s no record of any transaction ever taking place. Which surprised me, because if I remember correctly old Mr. Field regularly had a dozen boxes sent over to the Connaught whenever he came to London.” Cathy’s brow furrowed again. “That was something I always considered curious. After all, when you think about it, he must have had a large tobacco department in his own store.”

“I’m sure he did,” said Becky, “but it wouldn’t have stocked any brands from Havana.”

“Havana? I’m not with you.”

“Some time in the fifties U.S. Customs banned the import of all Cuban cigars into America and David’s father, who had been smoking a particular brand of Havanas long before anyone had heard of Fidel Castro, saw no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to continue to indulge himself with what he considered was no more than his ‘goddamned right.’”

“So how did Charlie get round the problem?”

“Charlie used to go down to the tobacco department, pick up a dozen boxes of the old man’s favorite brand, return to his office, remove the bands around each cigar, then replace them with an innocuous Dutch label before putting them back in an unidentifiable Trumper’s box. He always made sure that there was a ready supply on hand for Mr. Field in case he ever ran out. Charlie felt it was the least we could do to repay all the hospitality the Fields had lavished on us over the years.”

Cathy nodded her understanding. “But I still need to know which brand of Cuban cigar is nothing more than Mr. Field’s ‘goddamned right.’”

“I’ve no idea,” admitted Becky. “As you say, Charlie never allowed anyone else to handle the order.”

“Then someone’s going to have to ask Charlie, either to come in and complete the order himself or at least tell us which brand Mr. Field is addicted to. So where can I expect to find the Life President at eleven-thirty on a Monday morning?”

“Hidden away in some committee room at the House of Lords would be my bet.”

“No, he’s not,” said Cathy. “I’ve already phoned the Lords and they assured me he hadn’t been seen this morning—and what’s more they weren’t expecting him again this week.”

“But that’s not possible,” said Becky. “He virtually lives in the place.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Cathy. “Which is why I called down to Number 1 to ask for your help.”