The Vivero Letter

I let out a deep breath. ‘I trust I’m not still on his list of suspects,’ I said ironically.

‘Don’t give it another thought, although I’m not saying the super wont. He’s the most unbelieving bastard I’ve ever come across. If he fell across a body himself he’d keep himself on his own list.’ Dave pulled on his ear. ‘I’ll give you this much; it seems that Halstead is in the clear. He was in London and he’s got an alibi for when he needs it.’ He grinned. ‘He was picked up for questioning in the Reading Room of the British Museum. Those London coppers must be a tactful lot.’

‘Who is he? What is he?’

‘He says he’s an archeologist,’ said Dave, and looked over my shoulder with mild consternation. ‘Oh, Christ; here come those bloody reporters. Look, you nip into the church – they won’t have the brazen nerve to follow you in there. I’ll fight a rear-guard action while you leave by the side door in the vestry.’

I left him quickly and slipped into the churchyard. As I entered the church I heard the excited yelping as of hounds surrounding a stag at bay.

The funeral took place the day after the inquest. A lot of people turned up, most of whom I knew but a lot I didn’t. All the people from Hay Tree Farm were there, including Madge and Jack Edgecombe who had come back from Jersey. The service was short, but even so I was glad when it was over and I could get away from all those sympathetic people. I had a word with Jack Edgecombe before I left. ‘I’ll see you up at the farm; there are things we must discuss.’

I drove to the farm with a feeling of depression. So that was that! Bob was buried, and so, presumably, was Niscemi, unless the police still had his body tucked away somewhere in cold storage. But for the loose end of Niscemi’s hypothetical accomplice everything was neatly wrapped up and the world could get on with the world’s futile business as usual.

I thought of the farm and what there was to do and of how I would handle Jack, who might show a countryman’s conservative resistance to my new-fangled ideas. Thus occupied I swung automatically into the farmyard and nearly slammed into the back of a big Mercedes that was parked in front of the house.

I got out of the car and, as I did so, so did the driver of the Mercedes, uncoiling his lean length like a strip of brown rawhide. It was Fallon, the American Nigel had pointed out at the Cott. He said, ‘Mr Wheale?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I know I shouldn’t intrude at this moment,’ he said. ‘But I’m pressed for time. My name is Fallon.’

He held out his hand and I found myself clutching skeletally thin fingers. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Fallon?’

‘If you could spare me a few minutes – it’s not easy to explain quickly.’ His voice was not excessively American.

I hesitated, then said, ‘You’d better come inside.’

He leaned into his car and produced a briefcase. I took him into Bob’s – my – study and waved him to a chair, then sat down facing him, saying nothing.

He coughed nervously, apparently not knowing where to begin, and I didn’t help him. He coughed again, then said, ‘I am aware that this may be a sore point, Mr Wheale, but I wonder if I could see the gold tray you have in your possession.’

‘I’m afraid that is quite impossible,’ I said flatly.

Alarm showed in his eyes. ‘You haven’t sold it?’

‘It’s still in the hands of the police.’

‘Oh!’ He relaxed and flicked open the catch of the brief-case. ‘That’s a pity. But I wonder if you could identify these photographs.’

He passed across a sheaf of eight by ten photographs which I fanned out. They were glossy and sharp as a needle, evidently the work of a competent commercial photographer. They were pictures of the tray taken from every conceivable angle; some were of the tray as a whole and there was a series of close-up detail shots showing the delicate vine leaf tracery of the rim.

‘You might find these more helpful,’ said Fallon, and passed me another heap of eight by tens. These were in colour, not quite as sharp as the black and whites but perhaps making a better display of the tray as it really was.

I looked up. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘The police might think so,’ I said tightly. ‘This tray has figured in a murder, and they might want to know how you came by these excellent photographs of my tray.’

‘Not your tray,’ he said gently. ‘My tray.’

‘That be damned for a tale,’ I said hotly. ‘This tray has been used in this house for a hundred and fifty years that I am aware of. I don’t see how the devil you can claim ownership.’

He waved his hand. ‘We are talking at cross purposes. Those photographs are of a tray at present in my possession which is now securely locked in a vault. I came here to find out if your tray resembled mine at all. I think you have answered my unspoken question quite adequately.’

I looked at the photographs again, feeling a bit of a fool. This certainly looked like the tray I had seen so often, although whether it was an exact replica would be hard to say. I had seen the tray briefly the previous Saturday morning when Dave Goosan had shown it to me, but when had I seen it before that? It must have been around when I had previously visited Bob, but I had never noticed it. In fact, I had never examined it since I was a boy.

Fallon asked, ‘Is it really like your tray?’

I explained my difficulty and he nodded understandingly, and said, ‘Would you consider selling me your tray, Mr Wheale? I will give you a fair price.’

‘It isn’t mine to sell.’

‘Oh? I would have thought you would inherit it.’

‘I did. But it’s in a sort of legal limbo. It won’t be mine until my brother’s will is probated.’ I didn’t tell Fallon that Mount had suggested selling the damned thing; I wanted to keep him on a string and find out what he was really after. I never forgot for one minute that Bob had died because of that tray.

‘I see.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘I suppose the police will release it into your possession.’

‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t.’

He smiled. ‘Mr Wheale, will you allow me to examine the tray – to photograph it? It need never leave the house: I have a very good camera at my disposal.’

I grinned at him. ‘I don’t see why I should.’

The smile was wiped away from his face as though it had never been. After a long moment it returned in the form of a sardonic quirk of the corner of his mouth. ‘I see you are … suspicious of me.’

I laughed. ‘You’re dead right. Wouldn’t you be in my place?’

‘I rather think I would,’ he said. ‘I’ve been stupid.’ I once saw a crack chess player make an obviously wrong move which even a tyro should have avoided. The expression on his face was comical in its surprise and was duplicated on Fallon’s face at that moment. He gave the impression of a man mentally kicking himself up the backside.

I heard a car draw up outside, so I got up and opened the casement. Jack and Madge were just getting out of their mini. I shouted, ‘Give me a few more minutes, Jack; I’m a bit tied up.’

He waved and walked away, but Madge came over to the window. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That seems a good idea. What about you, Mr Fallon – would you like some tea?’

‘That would be very nice,’ he said.

‘Then that’s it, Madge. Tea for two in here, please.’ She went away and I turned back to Fallon. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you told me what you are really getting at.’

He said worriedly, ‘I assure you I have absolutely no knowledge of the events leading to your brother’s death. My attention was drawn to the tray by an article and a photograph in the Western Morning News which was late in getting to me. I came to Totnes immediately, arriving rather late on Friday evening …’

‘… and you booked in at the Cott Inn.’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes, I did. I intended going to see your brother on the Saturday morning but then I heard of the … of what had happened …’

‘And so you didn’t go. Very tactful of you, Mr Fallon. I suppose you realize you’ll have to tell this story to the police.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Don’t you? Then I’ll tell you. Don’t you know that the man who killed my brother was an American called Victor Niscemi?’

Fallon seemed struck dumb and just shook his head.

‘Didn’t you read the report on the inquest this morning? It was in most of the papers.’

‘I didn’t read the newspaper this morning,’ he said weakly.

I sighed. ‘Look. Mr Fallon; an American kills my brother and the tray is involved. Four days before my brother is murdered two Americans try to buy it from him. And now you come along, an American, and also want to buy the tray. Don’t you think you’ve got some explaining to do?’

He seemed to have aged five years and his face was drawn, but he looked up alertly. ‘The Americans,’ he said. ‘The ones who wanted to buy the tray. What were their names?’

‘Perhaps you can tell me,’ I said.

‘Was one of them Halstead?’

‘Now you have got some explaining to do,’ I said grimly. ‘I think I’d better run you down to the police station right now. I think Superintendent Smith would be interested in you.’

He looked down at the floor and brooded for a while, then raised his head. ‘Now I think you are being stupid, Mr Wheale. Do you really think that if I was implicated in this murder I would have come here openly today? I didn’t know that Halstead had approached your brother, and I didn’t know the housebreaker was an American.’

‘But you knew Halstead’s name.’

He flapped his hand tiredly. ‘I’ve been crossing Halstead’s trail all over Central America and Europe for the last three years. Sometimes I’d get there first and sometimes he would. I know Halstead; he was a student of mine some years ago.’

‘A student of what?’

‘I’m an archeologist,’ said Fallon. ‘And so is Halstead.’

Madge came in with the tea, and there were some scones and strawberry jam and clotted cream. She put the tray on the desk, smiled at me wanly and left the room. As I offered the scones and poured the tea I reflected that it made a cosy domestic scene very much at odds with the subject of discussion. I put down the teapot, and said, ‘What about Gatt? Did you know him?’

‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Fallon.

I pondered awhile. One thing struck me – I hadn’t caught out Fallon in a lie. He’d said that Halstead was an archeologist, and that was confirmed by Dave Goosan. He’d said he arrived at the Cott on Friday, and that was confirmed by Nigel. I thought about that and made a long arm to pull the telephone closer. Without saying anything I dialled the Cott and watched Fallon drink his tea.

‘Oh, hello, Nigel. Look, this chap Fallon – what time did he arrive last Friday?’

‘About half-past six in the evening. Why, Jemmy?’

‘Just something that’s come up. Can you tell me what he did that night?’ I stared unblinkingly at Fallon, who didn’t seem at all perturbed at the trend of the questions. He merely spread some cream on a scone and took a bite.

‘I can tell you everything he did that night,’ said Nigel. ‘We had a bit of an impromptu party which went on a bit. I talked to Fallon quite a lot. He’s an interesting old bird; he was telling me about his experiences in Mexico.’

‘Can you put a time on this?’

Nigel paused. ‘Well, he was in the bar at ten o’clock – and he was still there when the party broke up. We were a bit late – say, quarter to two in the morning.’ He hesitated. ‘You going to the police with this?’

I grinned. ‘You weren’t breaking the licensing laws, were you?’

‘Not at all. Everyone there was staying at the Cott Guests’ privileges and all that.’

‘You’re sure he was there continuously?’

‘Dead sure.’

‘Thanks, Nigel; you’ve been a great help.’ I put down the phone and looked at Fallon. ‘You’re in the clear.’

He smiled and delicately dabbed his fingertips on a napkin. ‘You’re a very logical man, Mr Wheale.’

I leaned back in my chair. ‘How much would you say the tray is worth?’

‘That’s a hard question to answer,’ he said. ‘Intrinsically not very much – the gold is diluted with silver and copper. Artistically, it’s a very fine piece and the antiquarian value is also high. I daresay that at auction in a good saleroom it would bring about £7,000.’

‘What about the archeological value?’

He laughed. ‘It’s sixteenth-century Spanish; where’s the archeological value in that?’

‘You tell me. All I know is that the people who want to buy it are archeologists.’ I regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Make me an offer.’

‘I’ll give you £7,000,’ he said promptly.

‘I could get that at Sotheby’s,’ I pointed out. ‘Besides, Halstead might give me more or Gatt might’

‘I doubt if Halstead could go that much,’ said Fallon equably. ‘But I’ll play along, Mr Wheale; I’ll give you £10,000.’

I said ironically, ‘So you’re giving me £3,000 for the archeological value it hasn’t got. You’re a very generous man. Would you call yourself a rich man?’

A slight smile touched his lips. ‘I guess I would.’

I stood up and said abruptly, ‘There’s too much mystery involved in this for my liking. You know something about the tray which you’re not telling. I think I’d better have a look at it myself before coming to any firm decision.’

If he was disappointed he hid it well. ‘That would appear to be wise, but I doubt if you will find anything by a mere inspection.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Mr Wheale, I have made you a most generous offer, yet I would like to go further. May I take an option on the tray? I will give you a thousand pounds now, on condition that you let no one else, particularly Dr Halstead, inspect it. In the event of your deciding to sell me the tray then the thousand pounds is in addition to my original offer. If you decide not to sell it then you may keep the thousand pounds as long as you keep your side of the bargain.’

I drew a deep breath. ‘You’re a real dog in the manger, aren’t you? If you can’t have it, then nobody else must. Nothing doing, Mr Fallon. I refuse to have my hands tied.’ I sat down. ‘I wonder what price you’d go to if I really pushed you.’

An intensity came into his voice. ‘Mr Wheale, this is of the utmost importance to me. Why don’t you state a price?’

‘Importance is relative,’ I said. ‘If the importance is archeological then I couldn’t give a damn. I know a fourteen-year-old girl who thinks the most important people in the world are the Beatles. Not to me they aren’t.’

‘Equating the Beatles with archeology hardly demonstrates a sensible scale of values.’

I shrugged. ‘Why not? They’re both concerned with people. It just shows that your scale of values is different from hers. But I just might state my price, Mr Fallon; and it may not be in money. I’ll think about it and let you know. Can you come back tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I can come back.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘And what about Dr Halstead? What will you do if he approaches you?’

‘I’ll listen to him,’ I said promptly. ‘Just as I’ve listened to you. I’m prepared to listen to anyone who’ll tell me something I don’t know. Not that it’s happened noticeably yet.’

He did not acknowledge the jibe. Instead, he said, ‘I ought to tell you that Dr Halstead is not regarded as being quite honest in some circles. And that is all I am going to say about him. When shall I come tomorrow?’

‘After lunch; would two-thirty suit you?’ He nodded, and I went on, ‘I’ll have to tell the police about you, you know. There’s been a murder and you are one coincidence too many.’ ‘I see your point,’ he said wearily. ‘Perhaps it would be as well if I went to see them – if only to clear up a nonsense. I shall go immediately; where shall I find them?’

I told him where the police station was, and said, ‘Ask for Detective-Inspector Goosan or Superintendent Smith.’

Inexplicably, he began to laugh. ‘Goosan!’ he said with a gasp, ‘My God, but that’s funny!’

I stared at him. I didn’t see what was funny. ‘It’s not an uncommon name in Devon.’

‘Of course not,’ he said, choking off his chuckles. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr Wheale.’

I saw him off the premises, then went back to the study and rang Dave Goosan. ‘There’s someone else who wants to buy that tray,’ I said. ‘Another American. Are you interested?’

His voice was sharp. ‘I think we might be very interested.’

‘His name is Fallon and he’s staying at the Cott. He’s on his way to see you right now – he should be knocking on your door within the next ten minutes. If he doesn’t it might be worth your while to go looking for him.’

‘Point taken,’ said Dave.

I said, ‘How long do you intend holding on to the tray?’

‘You can have it now if you like. I’ll have to hold on to Bob’s shotgun, though; this case isn’t finished yet.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll come in and pick up the tray. Can you do me a favour, Dave? Fallon will have to prove to you who and what he is; can you let me know, too? I’d like to know who I’m doing business with.’

‘We’re the police, not Dun and Bradstreet. All right, I’II let you know what I can, providing it doesn’t run against regulations.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and rang off. I sat motionless at the desk for a few minutes, thinking hard, and then got out the papers concerning the reorganization of the farm in preparation to doing battle with Jack Edgecombe. But my mind wasn’t really on it.

II

Late that afternoon I went down to the police station to pick up the tray, and as soon as Dave saw me he growled, ‘A fine suspect you picked.’

‘He’s all right?’

‘He’s as clean as a whistle. He was nowhere near your farm on Friday night. Four people say so – three of whom I know and one who is a personal friend of mine. Still, I don’t blame you for sending him down here – you couldn’t pass a coincidence like that.’ He shook his head. ‘But you picked a right one.’

‘What do you mean?’

He grabbed a sheaf of flimsies from his desk and waved them under my nose. ‘We checked him out – this is the telex report from the Yard. Listen to it and cry: John Nasmith Fallon, born Massachussetts, 1908; well educated – went to Harvard and Göttingen, with post-graduate study in Mexico City. He’s an archeologist with all the letters in the alphabet after his name. In 1936 his father died and left him over 30 million dollars, which fortune he’s more than doubled since, so he hasn’t lost the family talent for making money.’

I laughed shortly. ‘And I asked him if he considered himself a rich man! Is he serious about his archeology?’

‘He’s no dilettante,’ said Dave. ‘The Yard checked with the British Museum. He’s the top man in his field, which is Central America.’ He scrabbled among the papers. ‘He publishes a lot in the scientific journals – the last thing he did was “Some Researches into the Calendar Glyphs of Dzi … Dzibi … ” I’ll have to take this one slowly … “Dzibilchaltun.” God-almighty, he’s investigating things I can’t even pronounce! In 1949 he set up the Fallon Archeological Trust with ten million dollars. He could afford it since he apparently owns all the oil wells that Paul Getty missed.’ He tossed the paper on to the desk. ‘And that’s your murder suspect.’

I said, ‘What about Halstead and Gatt?’

Dave shrugged. ‘What about them? Halstead’s an archeologist, too, of course. We didn’t dig too deeply into him.’ He grinned. ‘Pun not intended. Gatt hasn’t been checked yet.’

‘Halstead was one of Fallon’s students. Fallon doesn’t like him.’

Dave lifted his eyebrows. ‘Been playing detective? Look, Jemmy; as far as I am concerned I’m off the case as much as any police officer can be. That means I’m not specifically assigned to it. Anything I’m told I pass on to the top coppers in London; it’s their pigeon now, and I’m just a messenger boy. Let me give you a bit of advice. You can do all the speculating you like and there’ll be no harm done but don’t try to move in on the action like some half-baked hero in a detective story. The boys at Scotland Yard aren’t damned fools; they can put two and two together a sight faster than you can, they’ve got access to more sources than you have, and they’ve got the muscle to make it stick when they decide to make a move. Leave it to the professionals; there are no Roger Sherringhams or Peter Wimseys in real life.’

‘Don’t get over-heated,’ I said mildly.

‘It’s just that I don’t want you making a bloody idiot of yourself.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll get the tray – it’s in the safe.’

He left the office and I picked up the telex message and studied it. It was in pretty fair detail but it more or less boiled down to what Dave had said. It seemed highly improbable that a man like Fallon could have anything in common with a petty criminal like Niscemi. And yet there was the tray – they were both interested in that, and so were Halstead and Gatt. Four Americans and the tray.

Dave came back carrying it in his hands. He put it on the desk. ‘Hefty,’ he said. ‘Must be worth quite a bit if it really is gold.’

‘It is.’ I said. ‘But not too pure.’

He flicked the bottom of the tray with his thumbnail. ‘That’s not gold – it looks like copper.’

I picked up the tray and examined it closely for, perhaps, the first time in twenty years. It was about fifteen inches in diameter and circular; there was a three-inch rim all the way round consisting of an intricate pattern of vine leaves, all in gold, and the centre was nine inches in diameter and of smooth copper. I turned it over and found the back to be of solid gold.

‘You’d better have it wrapped,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll find some paper.’

‘Did you take any photographs of it?’ I asked.

‘Lots,’ he said. ‘And from every angle.’

‘What about letting me have a set of prints?’

He looked pained. ‘You seem to think the police are general dogsbodies for Jemmy Wheale. This isn’t Universal Aunts, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jemmy; the negatives were sent to London.’

He rooted around and found an old newspaper and began to wrap up the tray. ‘Bob used to run his own darkroom. You have all the gear at home for taking your own snaps.’

That was true. Bob and I had been keen on photography as boys, he more than me. He’d stuck to it and I’d let it drop when I left home to go to university, but I thought I remembered enough to be able to shoot and develop a film and make some prints. I didn’t feel like letting anyone else do it. In view of the importance Fallon had attached to examining the tray I wanted to keep everything under my own hand.

As I was leaving, Dave said, ‘Remember what I said, Jemmy. If you feel any inclination to go off half-cocked come and see me first. My bosses wouldn’t like it if you put a spoke in their wheel.’

I went home and found Bob’s camera. I daresay he could have been called an advanced amateur and he had good equipment – a Pentax camera with a good range of lenses and a Durst enlarger with all the associated trimmings in a properly arranged darkroom. I found a spool of unexposed black and white film, loaded the camera and got to work. His fancy electronic flash gave me some trouble before I got the hang of it and twice it went off unexpectedly, but I finally shot off the whole spool and developed the film more or less successfully. I couldn’t make prints before the film dried, so I went to bed early. But not before I locked the tray in the safe.

III

The next morning I continued the battle with Jack Edgecombe who was putting up a stubborn resistance to new ideas. He said unhappily, ‘Eighty cows to a hundred acres is too many, Mr Wheale, sir; we’ve never done it like that before.’