The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"Oh, yes, I remember the young chap as if it was yestiday, I do. Bit of a surprise he wasn't his old man."

"Then you expected Mr. Henshaw, his stepfather?" asked Waters, who had displayed his intimidating MI-5 credentials.

"Indeed, I did, sir. Our arrangement was that we was off-limits, if y'know what I mean."

"I don't," said Pryce, introduced obscurely as an American consultant to British intelligence.

"Tell me, Mr. Noyes."

"I don't want to get m'self in any trouble, I don't. I didn't do nothin' wrong."

"Then tell me. What was this arrangement?"

"Well, it was maybe two or three years ago, somewhere in between, it was, this chap come to me and says he's got a new customer for me, a rich bloke who has some domestic al problems. A lot of prominent folk do, y'know-" "The arrangement, please."

"There was nothin' illegal, I wouldn't put up with anything like that, I wouldn't! It was just a professional courtesy for a prominent chap from a very upstandin' family. That's what it was, and I swear on m'mother's grave that's all it was."

"The professional courtesy, Mr. Noyes?"

"Well, it was as simple as ABC, it was. Y'see, whenever he had trouble with the red Jag, he called us and we'd drive a truck down to wherever he was and pick it up."

"These were accidents, am I correct?"

"A few, yes, not all."

"Oh?" Geoffrey Waters's eyebrows shot up.

"A few?"

"Surely, sir. He's a nervous driver, he is, like a ... hypochondric-y'get the sniffles, it must be the vapors, y'know what I mean?"

"I'm not sure I do," said the man from MI-5. "Explain, if you will?"

"Well, like he might say there's a knock in the engine when there's nothin' wrong, or he hears a squeak in a window, which wasn't there when we got it-probably a little rain in the rubber rims. I tell you, gentlemen, he could be a pain in the arse, but we sent the trucks and he paid the bills."

"Let's get to the bills," said Leslie Montrose, standing deferentially to the left of Cameron.

"I gather you had trouble with Henshaw's-the Brewster family's-accounting firm."

"Oh, that would be the Westminster House, but I wouldn't call it trouble, ma'am. They has their job to do and we has ours. They weren't too quick to pay off, but I could live with that, I got a good business, I do. Eventually they'd cough up, so you don't complain too much, not with an account like Mr. Henshaw's."

"What was the name of the man who came to see you two or three years ago?" asked Waters.

"If he gave it, he was so quiet I didn't catch it. He said he represented a private merchant bank that looked after Henshaw's interests."

"Which bank?"

"He never said."

"Didn't it occur to you to ask him why you couldn't send the bills to him, since he was Henshaw's banker?"

"Oh, he was very clear about that, sir. There wasn't to be any public connection between him or the bank and Mr. Henshaw."

"Didn't that strike you as odd, old chap?"

"Indeed, it did, it did. But as he explained, quite clearly in fact, wealthy families have their odd ways where husbands, wives, and kiddies are concerned.. .. Y'know, all them trust funds and inheritance rules, stuff the likes of us wouldn't have a clue about."

"So what were you supposed to do?"

"Whatever Henshaw told me. He was on his own in that department. . Sure, I padded a few bills to back up his complaints, but that was only to pay for the trucks and the drivers, I swear it! The whole situation was a bit crazy, but we don't usually have customers the likes of Henshaw and the Brewsters. I mean, blimey, you read about 'em all the time in the newspapers-the respectful ones."

"Let's get to the bottom line, Mr. Noyes," said Leslie firmly.

"The reason we're here. What's the explanation for the 'miscellaneous' on the bill Roger Brewster paid you in cash? Something over fourteen hundred pounds, I believe."

"Christ almighty, I knew that'd come up sooner or later! And I tell you truthful-like, I got really pissed off! Excuse my language, miss. I carried that charge on my books for damn near eighteen months!

Henshaw said he'd pay it, but if I sent it to the Westminster people, I'd never see him or his business again. Finally, I was so fuckin' mad excuse me-" "Excused, go on."

"I was so angry, I told Henshaw over the phone-I thought it was Henshaw-that he either paid it or no red Jaguar!"

"What was it for?" continued Montrose.

"Mind you, I swore I'd never say anythin' to anybody."

Geoffrey Waters reached into his pocket and withdrew his MI-5 identification for a second time; he flipped it open and spoke.

"I think you should speak now, old boy, or be charged with crimes against the Crown."

"Crimes, not me! I'm a member of the civil guards!"

"They were disbanded ten years ago."

"Talk," added Pryce.

"Awright, I don't want no trouble with your types.. .. About two years ago Henshaw told me he wanted a first-class safe, a small vault, in fact, hidden under the steel floor of the Jaguar's boot, that looked like part of the undercarriage. It took over a week at full speed, although he said he wanted it in two days. We had to put everything else on hold-I charged him right, I did! Especially since he had another garage install the switch for the boot plate. Can't tell where the bloody thing is without it!"

"Did you ever see the man from the merchant bank again?" asked Cameron.

"Not himself, but lots of his associates."

"How so?"

"Whenever the Jag was picked up and fixed, one of the blokes would come in and check our repairs. I tell you, I resented that, just like I took offense about the boot plate. I've got a hell of a good reputation, trustworthy to a fault."

"Were those men ever alone with the car?"

"Have no idea, I was usually busy."

"Thank you, Mr. Noyes," said MI-5's Geoffrey Waters.

"You've been most cooperative. The Crown appreciates it."

"Thank heavens!"

The red Jaguar was in the three-car garage at the rear of the house on Belgrave Square. Roger Brewster had dragged out his deceased father's massive tool case, finding an acetylene torch in another section of the workshop area. Pryce held the plans they had taken from Alfred Noyes's files as the Brewster son opened the boot of the red Jaguar.

"I used to sit on the bench watching my dad for hours as he tinkered with his cars," said Roger.

"I don't know if he was a good mechanic or not, but he was usually good at whatever he tried because he concentrated so.... Here we go," he announced, ripping out the carpeting of the boot down to the metal and reaching for the acetylene torch and the goggles.

"Chalk out the section, will you please, Mr. Pryce."

"You sure you don't want me to do that?" said Cameron. He was holding a box of white chalk and the plans from St. Albans.

"No, for a couple of reasons," replied the son.

"If there's anything here, I want to nail the son of a bitch myself, and how better to do it than with my father's tools?"

Roger Brewster went to work, the bluish-white flame progressively melting the steel of the boot in a perfect rectangle. When the process was completed, the teenager poured cold water over the area; the sizzling sent small clouds of steam up into the hood of the boot. He then picked up a hammer and tapped the outline; it fell away into the darkness below. With tongs from the tool case, Roger reached in and pulled the metal slab from its recess, dropping it on the floor. Revealed was a small, thick vault with a soiled black-and-white dial in the center.

Pryce again studied the plans from St. Albans Motor Works, reading what Gerald Henshaw never remotely considered: the sequence of numbers for the combination lock as printed by the Manchester Vault and Safe Company.

They removed the contents and placed them in a row on the workbench. Included were a short pile of bearer bonds, redeemable on progressive dates, the first negotiable as of seven weeks ago, the

morning of the killing of Lady Alicia; four keys for four separate doors, presumably flats for Henshaw's various paramours; a number of postdated traveler's checks; coded, wrinkled notes that revealed nothing, to be deciphered only by a man who had vanished and could be presumed dead.

"It's a bloody hodgepodge!" cried Waters.

"Where can these things really lead us?"

"To begin with," replied Pryce, "this is how they paid him-the people behind the kidnapping and Lady Alicia's murder. An obscure automobile-repair shop far outside of London, owned by a none-too bright hard-working guy who's inordinately impressed by his so-called betters."

"Yes, that's rather apparent, old man, but Noyes was quite open with us, cooperative, in fact. I don't think he was concealing anything."

"You didn't give him a choice, Geoffrey," said Montrose.

"So we've unearthed an extremely clever method of communication, but not one we can track down. No identities, no descriptions, no clues whatsoever. They've all gone ppfft!"

"I agree with you," interrupted Leslie, "that Mr. Noyes didn't withhold anything consciously, but I was bothered by something."

"What was it?" asked Cameron.

"He repeated several times what a good business he had, what a fine reputation he enjoyed, how, essentially, he wasn't pressed for money-" "That's not the way I heard it," broke in Roger Brewster.