Flyaway

His grin had turned reptilian. It is if Charlie votes with me – and he will. It seems he's been a trifle worried lately -his financial affairs have become somewhat disordered and it's definitely in his interest to increase the profitability of the company. It fell to me to point out that simple fact.'

'I don't suppose you had anything to do with his financial disorder,' I said acidly. Brinton's grin widened as I turned to Charlie and asked quietly, 'Will you vote with him?'

He swallowed. 'I must!'

'Well, by God! What a bloody pair you are. I was prepared for his lordship to pull a fast one, but I didn't think it of you, Charlie.' He reddened. 'You came to see me at my club just before I left. I thought then that you wanted something but I couldn't figure what it was. Now I know. You wanted to find out if I was still going on holiday even though I'd left Gloria.' I jerked my thumb at Brinton. 'He sent you to find out. No wonder both of you were urging me to go. You were giving me the fast shuffle so that Brinton could grab Gloria's shares.'

Brinton chuckled. 'It was her idea, really. She came and offered them to me. Max, you're a simpleton. You don't think I'd let all the valuable information in your files go to waste. A man could make millions with what you've got here.'

'You let me build up the reputation of the company, and now you're going to rape it. Is that it?'

'Something along those lines,' he said carelessly. 'But legally – always legally.'

I said, 'Brinton, I have something for your ears only -something I don't think you'd like Charlie to know about.'

There's nothing you can say to me that anyone can't hear. If you have something in your gullet, spit it out.'

'All right,' I said. 'Kissack won't be coming back.'

'What the devil are you talking about?' he demanded. 'Kissack? Who the hell is he?'

I hadn't scored with that one. Of course, he might not know of Kissack who was pretty low on the totem pole – a hired hand. I tried again. 'Lash won't be coming back, either.'

That got to him! I knew by the fractional change in the planes of his face. But he kept his end up well. 'And who is Lash?'

'Lash is the man who hired the men who beat me up,' I said deliberately. 'Lash is the man who hired Kissack to k-'

Brinton held up his hand abruptly. 'I can't stay here all day. I have things to do at my place. You can come with me and get rid of this nonsense there.' He got to his feet creakily.

I cheered internally. I had the old bastard by the short hairs, and he knew it. He went ahead of me and I paused at the door and looked back at Charlie. 'You louse!' I said. 'I'll deal with you later.'

I went with Brinton to the basement and we solemnly drove two blocks to the basement of another building and ascended to his penthouse where the coal fire still blazed cheerfully. All the time he didn't say a thing, but once on his own ground, he said, 'Stafford, you'd better be careful with your statements or I'll have your balls!'

I grinned, walked past him and sat in an armchair by the fire, and put down my briefcase. He didn't like that; he didn't like not being in control, and that meant he'd have to follow me. He sank into an opposing chair. 'Well, what is it?'

'I'd like to tell you a story about a bright, ambitious young engineer who married a woman who had just come into money. She hadn't won the pools or anything like that, but the life of her previous husband had been insured for a hundred thousand pounds. This was in 1937, so that's a lot more money than it sounds like now – maybe half a million in our terms.'

I stopped but Brinton made no comment. He merely stared at me with cold eyes. 'But what this woman didn't know was that this bright young engineer who, incidentally, was Canadian like yourself, had murdered her husband. His name was John Grenville Anderson, but he was commonly known as Jock. He was born in 1898 which, by another coincidence, would make him exactly as old as you.'

Brinton whispered, 'If you repeat those words in public I'll take you to court and strip you naked.'

'It was the name that foxed me,' I said. 'We've had quite a few Canadian peers but none of them have tried to hide behind a name. Beaverbrook was obviously Canadian; Thomson of Fleet not only retained his own name but advertised his newspaper connection. But Brinton doesn't mean a damned thing, either here or in Canada. There's a little place called Brinton in Norfolk but you've never been near it to my knowledge.'

I leaned down and opened the briefcase. 'Exhibit One – a photocopy of a page from Whitaker's Almanack.' I read the relevant line.' "Created 1947, Brinton (1st) John Grenville Anderson, born 1898." A most anonymous title, don't you think?'

'Get on with this preposterous nonsense.'