The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  ‘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 on to 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 burnt to a cinder, leaving a small cloud of black smoke spiralling 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.’

  ‘You may well be right, Mr Lomax,’ said Alan. ‘But then, I reckon you’ve still only got a fifty-fifty chance of not being paid a penny in compensation and, even worse, ending up behind bars for a very long time. So as I said, I will be recommending that my client settles for two million, but then it will be up to you to make the final decision, sunshine.’

  ‘So what do you think?’ asked Penfold as a bell sounded and the players began to stroll back out on to the field.

  ‘You’ve undoubtedly beaten the odds,’ I replied, ‘even if I was expecting a slightly different ending.’

  ‘So how would you have ended the story?’ he asked.

  ‘I would have held on to one pair of Roger Vivier shoes,’ I told him.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To give to my wife. After all, it was her first case as well.’

  BLIND DATE

  4

  THE SCENT OF JASMINE was the first clue: a woman.

  I was sitting alone at my usual table when she came and sat down at the next table. I knew she was alone, because the chair on the other side of her table hadn’t scraped across the floor, and no one had spoken to her after she’d sat down.

  I sipped my coffee. On a good day, I can pick up the cup, take a sip and return it to the saucer, and if you were sitting at the next table, you’d never know I was blind. The challenge is to see how long I can carry out the deception before the person sitting next to me realizes the truth. And believe me, the moment they do, they give themselves away. Some begin to whisper, and, I suspect, nod or point; some become attentive; while a few are so embarrassed they don’t speak again. Yes, I can even sense that.

  I hoped someone would be joining her, so I could hear her speak. I can tell a great deal from a voice. When you can’t see someone, the accent and the tone are enhanced, and these can give so much away. Pause for a moment, imagine listening to someone on the other end of a phone line, and you’ll get the idea.

  Charlie was heading towards us. ‘Are you ready to order, madam?’ asked the waiter, his slight Cornish burr leaving no doubt that he was a local. Charlie is tall, strong and gentle. How do I know? Because when he guides me back to the pavement after my morning coffee, his voice comes from several inches above me, and I’m five foot ten. And if I should accidentally bump against him, there’s no surplus weight, just firm muscle. But then, on Saturday afternoons he plays rugby for the Cornish Pirates. He’s been in the first team for the past seven years, so he must be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Charlie has recently split up with his girlfriend and he still misses her. Some things you pick up from asking questions, others are volunteered.

  The next challenge is to see how much I can work out about the person sitting at the next table before they realize I cannot see them. Once they’ve gone on their way, Charlie tells me how much I got right. I usually manage about seven out of ten.

  ‘I’d like a lemon tea,’ she replied, softly.

  ‘Certainly, madam,’ said Charlie. ‘And will there be anything else?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Thirty to thirty-five would be my guess. Polite, and not from these parts. Now I’m desperate to know more, but I’ll need to hear her speak again if I’m to pick up any further clues.

  I turned to face her as if I could see her clearly. ‘Can you tell me the time?’ I asked, just as the clock on the church tower opposite began to chime.

  She laughed, but didn’t reply until the chimes had stopped. ‘If that clock is to be believed,’ she said, ‘it’s exactly ten o’clock.’ The same gentle laugh followed.

  ‘It’s usually a couple of minutes fast,’ I said, staring blankly up at the clock face. ‘Although the church’s perpendicular architecture is considered as fine an example of its kind as any in the West Country, it’s not the building itself that people flock to see, but the Madonna and Child by Barbara Hepworth in the Lady Chapel,’ I added, casually leaning back in my chair.

  ‘How interesting,’ she volunteered, as Charlie returned and placed a teapot and a small jug of milk on her table, followed by a cup and saucer. ‘I was thinking of attending the morning service,’ she said as she poured herself a cup of tea.

  ‘Then you’re in for a treat. Old Sam, our vicar, gives an excellent sermon, especially if you’ve never heard it before.’

  She laughed again before saying, ‘I read somewhere that the Madonna and Child is not at all like Hepworth’s usual work.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ I replied. ‘Barbara would take a break from her studio most mornings and join me for a coffee,’ I said proudly, ‘and the great lady once told me that she created the piece in memory of her eldest son, who was killed in a plane crash at the age of twenty-four while serving in the RAF.’

  ‘How sad,’ said the woman, but added no further comment.

  ‘Some critics say,’ I continued, ‘that it’s her finest work, and that you can see Barbara’s devotion for her son in the tears in the Virgin’s eyes.’

  The woman picked up her cup and sipped her tea before she spoke again. ‘How wonderful to have actually known her,’ she said. ‘I once attended a talk on the St Ives School at the Tate, and the lecturer made no mention of the Madonna and Child.’

  ‘Well, you’ll find it tucked away