“We push fish slices in their throats, we drop them down elevator shafts,” Briggs went on, “and you cavil at selling insurance to a bunch of blokes who ought to know better than to risk their lives flying in the first place—?”
“Tim may be right,” Simpson said thoughtfully. “Think of all the money you and I took from those card sharpers on board the Sunderland, Billy-Boy. I know at the moment you claimed it was all right because it was merely the biter-bit ploy, but—” He shrugged.
“Money we didn’t even get to keep,” Briggs said bitterly. “That so-called captain impounded it for evidence, and that was the last we saw of it! And as for that bloody, blithering, blaggedy blister of a bleary American writer!” he added hotly.
“Enough!” Carruthers raised his hand over the table again, but lowered it in deference to the suddenly cringed shoulders of the prawn-eater, watching defensively from the corner of his eye. “There will be no further discussion,” Carruthers said quietly but firmly. “Our investments in the Namibian Chartered Mines” — he tapped the money belt about his middle that contained the certificates of the shares, for Carruthers had not trusted banks since he had investigated them in 1922 for a book he was doing entitled Vaulted Vultures — ”give us sufficient returns to handle our meager needs. There is no necessity for doing anything not completely legitimate. From now on we will live the easy and blameless lives men our age are supposed to live. I myself shall probably take up the growing of roses. I would suggest daisies for you, Tim, as they grow closer to the ground. And possibly sunflowers for you, Cliff.”
He drew a pocket watch from the depths of a vest pocket of his bilious suit and consulted it. His eyes came up.
“And now I suggest we begin gathering together our effects. We should not care to miss a final libation at the airport before embarking. And when we do, we shall toast” — he paused for a stern look at his two companions — “we shall drink to an end to malfeasance, at least on our part. For one thing, we’re too old. We shall toast the start of the peaceful, the relaxed, the rewarding life...”
Chapter 3
“I don’t get it, Clare,” Harold said, puzzled. “We ask the old men to come and visit us? Here at the farm? Why?”
“Because I say so.”
“Yeah, but I mean, why would they come?” Harold suddenly smiled, exhibiting teeth like polished sugar cubes. The dentist who had done the job, even Harold had to admit, had been an artist; it was simply that Harold’s reaction upon receiving the bill had been automatic and had led, first, to his most recent term for assault and battery, and finally to his joining Clarence in his exile. “I ain’t complainin’, though,” he added, not wishing to be misunderstood. “I kinda like the idea. I ain’t never had a father, you know.”
Clarence did not take the time to point out the physical improbability of this statement.
“Not all the old men,” he said with a patience that was beginning to wear thin. He had a feeling he was repeating himself. “Just one of them.”
“One at a time, you mean, Clare? Hey, that would be nice!” Harold suddenly frowned. “Only they always stick together, it said in the papers—”
“Not one at a time. Just the one of them. For just the one visit,” Clarence said, trying not to grit his teeth. His teeth were the material of nature, and not the plastic masterpieces that graced Harold’s gums, and he knew that gritting them could lead to problems later in life. Still, it was difficult to refrain from grinding them. There were times when Clarence wished he had been more selective in his choice of associates. Certainly Harold’s chief attribute, that of brute strength, would be of small use in the present caper; an eight-year-old girl with two broken arms, Clarence felt, should be able to handle any one of the three old men, if not all three together. At the moment what he wished he had was an associate with a little more imagination, plus a little more toughness, because Clarence had a feeling if he explained his true plan, Harold might object. And the kidnaping, as Clarence saw it, required two men if it were to be successful. Not that he felt Harold would object to kidnaping in principle; only where these particular three old men were concerned. It was, Clarence thought, what came of never having had a father.
Clarence had decided on kidnaping for several reasons. One, it was a crime almost unknown in England as far as he could determine, and the constabulary precautions against such malfeasance were therefore undoubtedly relatively debile, although it is doubtful he would have expressed it in exactly those words. Two, if the three old men really sacrificed everything each for the other à la Dumas’ musketeers, as the newspapers claimed, then they certainly would not let a small matter of money stand between one of them and his freedom, or even his health, if it came to that. And lastly, kidnaping had a simplicity about it that Clarence admired in any scheme; it required no equipment and small expense, other than a little food for a few days.
Clarence had already taken most of the preliminary steps to assure a minimum of difficulties in the execution of the plan; he had already informed their sleep-out help, a certain Mrs. Southington, that Harold had come down with a virulent case of tertiary morosis which was highly contagious, and that it would be safer if she remained away until further notice. He had also laid in a goodly supply of food, including many pounds of tea, which he was sure would be necessary sustenance for an English old man. The problem, however, was to break the basic idea of the kidnaping to Harold without the big man getting the feeling that he would be, in essence, sequestering his own unknown father in surrogate.
“Hey, Clare,” Harold said suddenly, hitting himself on the forehead for not having thought of it sooner, and instantly rubbing the injured spot, for he had a hand like the bumper on a gravel truck, “I got a great idea!”
“Yes,” Clarence said absently, and went on checking off the points of his plan in his mind. He had already seen to it that their car, rented by the month at the cheapest rate possible — for though Clarence had money and was willing to expend a portion of it to further any scheme that could bring back a buck, he did not throw it away — had been properly filled with fuel; he had made sure there were sufficient bedclothes and blankets around, as it would be counterproductive to let the old man die of pneumonia, at least until they collected the ransom. He ticked the points off in his head and then nodded to himself. The essentials had been met; the only thing left was to figure out some way to get Harold to go along with the scheme without being aware of his role until it was too late to back out. That would take a bit more thinking, but there was still an hour or so before the car had to leave to meet the flight from Gibraltar, and if he, Clarence, couldn’t think of a way to confuse Harold in that span of time, then he promised himself to retire and take up honest labor.
“Yeah!” Harold said with enthusiasm, unaware that he had lost his audience. “Why don’t we just snatch one of them old men?”
“Yes,” Clarence said without consciously hearing a word. Maybe if he told Harold the old geezer was really a long-lost relative, an uncle, maybe, on his grandfather’s side, only the old geezer didn’t know it and he didn’t want to spring it on him too suddenly, as old geezers notably had weak hearts — no, that didn’t sound as if it could pass even with Harold—
“Hey, Clare, you ain’t listening!” Harold sounded aggrieved. “I said I just had me a great idea. Why don’t we simply put the old snatcheroo on one of the old—”
“Yes,” Clarence said, and pressed his brain for a decent answer. Possibly if he told Harold he needed the old man’s help in figuring out the plot of one of the old mysteries in the Avery farm library — after all, according to that Sunday supplement all three of them had once been mystery writers — he suddenly looked up, startled. “What did you say?”