As the Crow Flies Read online

  “Well, yes,” began Charlie, “but—”

  “Stolen from you when my wife and I made a trip to see the Silver Jubilee. So consider me at your service, sir.”

  The two detectives were now smiling.

  That night Becky and Charlie joined the Bloomingdales at their brownstone house on Sixty-first and Madison for dinner, and John Bloomingdale answered all Charlie’s many questions until the early hours.

  The following day Charlie was given an official tour of “my little store” by its owner while Patty Bloomingdale introduced Becky to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick, pumping her with endless questions about Mrs. Simpson, to which Becky was unable to offer any answers as she had never heard of the lady before they’d set foot in America.

  The Trumpers were sorry to say goodbye to the Bloomingdales before they continued their journey on to Chicago by train, where they had been booked into the Stevens. On their arrival in the windy city they found their room had been upgraded to a suite and Mr. Joseph Field, of Marshall Field, had left a handwritten note expressing the hope that they would be able to join him and his wife for a meal the following evening.

  Over dinner in the Fields’ home on Lake Shore Drive, Charlie reminded Mr. Field of his advertisement describing his store as one of the biggest in the world, and warned him that Chelsea Terrace was seven feet longer.

  “Ah, but will they let you build on twenty-one floors, Mr. Trumper?”

  “Twenty-two,” countered Charlie, without the slightest idea of what the London County Council was likely to permit.

  The next day Charlie added to his growing knowledge of a major store by seeing Marshall Field’s from the inside. He particularly admired the way the staff appeared to work as a team, all the girls dressed in smart green outfits with a gold “MF” on their lapels and all the floor walkers in gray suits, while the managers wore dark blue double-breasted blazers.

  “Makes it easy for customers to spot a member of my staff when they’re in need of someone to help them, especially when the store becomes overcrowded,” explained Mr. Field.

  While Charlie became engrossed in the workings of Marshall Field, Becky spent countless hours at the Chicago Art Institute, and came away particularly admiring the works of Wyeth and Remington, whom she felt should be given exhibitions in London. She was to return to England with one example of each artist tucked into newly acquired suitcases, but the British public never saw either the oil or the sculpture until years later, because once they had been unpacked Charlie wouldn’t let them out of the house.

  By the end of the month they were both exhausted, and sure of only one thing: they wanted to return to America again and again, though they feared they could never match the hospitality they had received, should either the Fields or the Bloomingdales ever decide to turn up in Chelsea Terrace. However, Joseph Field requested a small favor of Charlie, which he promised he would deal with personally the moment he got back to London.

  The rumors of the King’s affair with Mrs. Simpson that Charlie had seen chronicled in such detail by the American press were now beginning to reach the ears of the English, and Charlie was saddened when the King finally felt it necessary to announce his abdication. The unexpected responsibility was suddenly placed on the unprepared shoulders of the Duke of York, who became King George VI.

  The other piece of news that Charlie followed on the front pages was the rise to power of Adolf Hitler in Nazi Germany. He could never understand why the Prime Minister, Mr. Chamberlain, didn’t use a little street sense and give the man a good thump on the nose.

  “Neville Chamberlain’s not a barrow boy from the East End,” Becky explained to her husband over breakfast. “He’s the Prime Minister.”

  “More’s the pity,” said Charlie. “Because that’s exactly what would happen to Herr Hitler if he ever dared show his face in Whitechapel.”

  Tom Arnold didn’t have a great deal to report to Charlie on his return, but he quickly became aware of the effect that the visit to America had had on his chairman, by the ceaseless rat-tat-tat of orders and ideas that came flying at him from all directions during the days that followed.

  “The Shops Committee,” Arnold warned the chairman at their Monday morning meeting, after Charlie had finished extolling the virtues of America yet again, “is now talking seriously of the effect a war with Germany might have on business.”

  “That lot would,” said Charlie, taking a seat behind his desk. “Appeasers to a man. In any case, Germany won’t declare war on any of Britain’s allies—they wouldn’t dare. After all, they can’t have forgotten the hiding we gave them last time. So what other problems are we facing?”

  “At a more mundane level,” replied Tom from the other side of the desk, “I still haven’t found the right person to manage the jewelry shop since Jack Slade’s retirement.”

  “Then start advertising in the trade magazines and let me see anyone who appears suitable. Anything else?”

  “Yes, a Mr. Ben Schubert has been asking to see you.”

  “And what does he want?”

  “He’s a Jewish refugee from Germany, but he refused to say why he needed to see you.”

  “Then make an appointment for him when he gets back in touch with you.”

  “But he’s sitting in the waiting room outside your office right now.”

  “In the waiting room?” said Charlie in disbelief.

  “Yes. He turns up every morning and just sits there in silence.”

  “But didn’t you explain to him I was in America?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Tom. “But it didn’t seem to make a blind bit of difference.”

  “Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe,” murmured Charlie. “Show the man in.”

  A small, bent, tired-looking figure whom Charlie suspected was not much older than himself entered the office and waited to be offered a seat. Charlie rose from behind his desk and ushered his visitor into an armchair near the fireplace before asking him how he could help.

  Mr. Schubert spent some time explaining to Charlie how he had escaped from Hamburg with his wife and two daughters, after so many of his friends had been sent off to concentration camps, never to be heard of again.

  Charlie listened to Mr. Schubert’s account of his experiences at the hands of the Nazis without uttering a word. The man’s escape and his description of what was taking place in Germany could have come straight off the pages of a John Buchan novel and was far more vivid than any newspaper report of recent months.

  “How can I help?” asked Charlie when Mr. Schubert appeared to have finished his sad tale.

  The refugee smiled for the first time, revealing two gold teeth. He picked up the little briefcase by his side, placed it on Charlie’s desk and then slowly opened it. Charlie stared down at the finest array of stones he had ever seen, diamonds and amethysts, some of them in the most magnificent settings. His visitor then removed what turned out to be nothing more than a thin tray to reveal loose stones, more rubies, topaz, diamonds, pearls and jade filling every inch of the deep box.

  “They are but a tiny sample of what I had to leave behind, in a business that was built up by my father and his father before him. Now I must sell everything that is left to be sure that my family doesn’t starve.”

  “You were in the jewelry business?”

  “Twenty-six years,” replied Mr. Schubert. “Man and boy.”

  “And how much are you hoping to get for this lot?” Charlie pointed to the open case.

  “Three thousand pounds,” Mr. Schubert said without hesitation. “That is far less than they are worth, but I am no longer left with the time or the will to bargain.”

  Charlie pulled open the drawer by his right hand, removed a checkbook and wrote out the words “Pay Mr. Schubert three thousand pounds.” He pushed it across the desk.

  “But you have not checked their value,” said Mr. Schubert.

  “Not necessary,” said Charlie, as he rose from his chair. “Becaus