A very good Germanic morning to you, sir. You may recall we met when you defended my good friend, Clifford Simpson, before Sir Bartholomew Roberts when Clifford was accused of murder. I can still remember how you made a young goat out of the Prosecutor; you certainly were able to teach him a thing or two!
(“Sir Percival loves flattery,” Carruthers explained. “That’s all in there to put him in a good mood, to make him receptive.” “Spread it on with a trowel if it makes him happy,” Clarence said, reading over his shoulder, “just get him here!” “Right,” Carruthers said, and went on.)
My reason for writing is that we have come into possession of a rather interesting bit of parchment which we feel could benefit from your expert interpretation.
If you would be so kind as to accompany the gentleman who presents this note, I am sure we would be most appreciative. There will be a payment for your time, of course.
I know you prefer traveling in a German Karte, but unfortunately, all the man has is an English car.
A very good day to you, sir.
Sincerely,
(“How’s that?” Carruthers asked. “Satisfactory?” “It is if it brings him here,” Clarence said flatly, folding the note and tucking it into its envelope. “Otherwise it’s garbage.” “I assure you it will bring him,” Carruthers said. “You have my word for it.” “That and a dime will get you coffee,” Clarence said brusquely, and came to his feet, raising his voice. “Hall”)
Sir Percival Pugh was a handsome, well-built man in his middle forties, a trifle above average in height, with extremely sharp dark blue eyes which he could mask with innocence at a moment’s notice, with fair hair combed a bit longer than the style over a wide brow that had a slight bulge, as if requiring the additional room for the massive intelligence lodged behind it. Sir Percival had just completed a late breakfast and had gone into his study to practice his card tricks — for prestidigitation and amateur magic were two of Sir Percival’s most ardent hobbies — when his butler appeared to announce they had a visitor with a message for Sir Percival which he refused to hand over to any surrogate.
The butler’s tone indicated (a) that if the visitor had to appear at all, he should have used the servants’ entrance rather than the front hall; (b) that the visitor should have parked that sad example of the automobilemaker’s art around the corner rather than in his lordship’s driveway where people might see it and think it pertained to the house; and (c) that if he, the butler, that is, had raised any of these points with the visitor, it would have been suicidal. Sir Percival, well accustomed to reading both his butler’s tone as well as his expression, frowned and bade the butler to allow the gentleman in. He then sat back and awaited developments.
After his butler’s unspoken comments, Sir Percival was really not surprised when Harold appeared in the doorway, clutching the note in one large, sweating hand. This was, of course, the large man who had hustled William Carruthers into that wretched little car at the airport; the muscle in the kidnaping. He was here, therefore, with a note from Carruthers, since there was no other possible link between them. He accepted the note from Harold, and glanced first at the signature, not at all surprised that he had been correct in his surmise; Sir Percival was not accustomed to being wrong. He was pleased to see that although the kidnapers had obviously learned by now that Carruthers and his friends were penniless, at least they had not punished him for his poverty. Or at least they had not broken his arms, since he was able to write. Well, possibly the note might further clarify the situation. He went back to the top of the page and began reading.
His first feeling was one of irritation at Carruthers. Pugh’s family was about as Germanic as Yorkshire pudding; he could trace his ancestry back eighteen generations in Wales and a few centuries in Ireland before that. He understood the necessity for this fiction, however, in order for Carruthers to bring up the German Morgen for morning, obviously the closest poor Carruthers had been able to come to the name “Morgan.” He even forgave Carruthers the “young goat” for Kidd, and the use of Bartholomew Roberts’ name, when actually Lord Justice Pomeroy had presided at Simpson’s trial. But when the man went to such infantile lengths to bring in the name “Teach,” it was too much! It was a wonder he hadn’t said something about a witness with a black beard! And that “A very—” at the end was the final straw!
Pugh was a man who required extremely few clues; his mammoth brain rebelled at having too many hints thrust at it, as if suggesting that his giant intellect needed them to solve any mystery. Still, the hints had gone over the head of the brains behind the kidnaping — for Sir Percival had known from the day at the airport that the large man in the room with him had only been the muscle — but it was still taking chances to put so much down on paper, and Pugh disliked any unnecessary chances.
He went back and read the note a second time, although its message was firmly imprinted on his brain. German Karte, indeed! So obviously Carruthers had unearthed some bit of parchment which was a pirate map, or which purported to be a pirate map, or which — most probably — was neither, but which Carruthers wished him to authenticate as a pirate map, no matter what it was. At that moment Sir Percival could not see where there was any profit in it for him — the mention of a fee did not sound substantial — and profit for Sir Percival came first in all his calculations. On the other hand, Carruthers should have been well aware of this trait of Sir Percival’s character, and should scarcely have written the note to him without taking this factor into account. In any event, he had nothing else to do that afternoon, and it would be pleasant to see Billy-Boy Carruthers again. But first he wished more information, and went about getting it in the manner he knew best. He smiled genially at Harold.
“One word, if I may,” he said politely. “There is mention in this note of payment for my services. You’ll pardon me for being frank, but in all honesty — while I am sure your other attributes outshine this minor failing — you do not look as if you could afford to pay a very large fee.”
Harold had been standing first on one foot and then on the other, quite uncomfortable in this fine house, but Sir Percival’s words brought him from his embarrassment.
“Me? I ain’t goin’ to pay nothin’,” he said disdainfully. “If you’re lookin’ for dough, you better look to Clare.”
“Clare? Your wife?”
“Naw! Clarence, my partner. I just call him Clare for short, like he calls me Hal. Well,” Harold added, some of Simpson’s tendency toward honesty having rubbed off on him the past day or so, “he’s actually more my boss than a partner. Mainly on account of he’s got all the dough.”
“As good a reason as any and better than most, as I’m sure any captain of industry would agree. But when you say, in your quaint fashion, that your friend has — and I quote — ‘all the dough,’ does that mean he had sufficient to pay me a reasonable fee?”
“Who, Clare?” Harold waved away any doubts with one of his basket-sized hands. “He’s got enough unless you’re out of your mind for what you charge.”
“Oh?” Sir Percival sounded dubious.
“Yeah! Clare’s got almost sixty grand stashed away in a safe at the house. He thinks I don’t know, but I do. As if I couldn’t open that box with a piece of boiled spaghetti the worst day I ever seen! Only thing is,” he added sadly, “I wouldn’t rob Clare. He’s my partner.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Pugh said graciously, “and one that does you credit.” Almost sixty grand, the man said; roughly thirty thousand pounds. And this naughty man Clarence was greedy enough to try to get more by kidnaping an elderly gentleman. Well, Pugh thought, possibly we can teach this Clarence the error of his ways — at a slight charge, of course. But lessons of that nature never came cheap; if they did, people would never learn. It would take a bit of planning, but Pugh had no doubts on that score. He looked up.