The Vivero Letter

'That's right. I'll tell you something else, Jemmy. He had form on the other side of the Atlantic. Petty thieving and robbery with violence. Not much.'

'Enough to do for Bob,' I said viciously.

Dave sighed in exasperated agreement. 'To tell you the truth, there's a bit of a mystery about this. Niscemi was never much of a success as a thief; he never had any money. Sort of working class, if you know what I mean. He certainly never had the money to take a trip over here -- not unless he'd pulled off something bigger than usual for him. And nobody can see why he came to England. He'd be like a fish out of water, just the same as a Bermondsey burglar would be in New York. Still, it's being followed up.'

'What did Smith find out about Halstead and Gatt, the Yanks I turned up?'

Dave looked me in the eye. 'I can't tell you that, Jemmy. I can't discuss police work with you even if you are Bob's brother. The super would have my scalp.' He tapped me on the chest. 'Don't forget that you were a suspect once, lad.' The startlement must have shown on my face. 'Well, dammit; who has benefited most by Bob's death? All that stuff about the tray might have been a lot of flummery. I knew it wasn't you, but to the super you were just another warm body wandering about the scene of the crime.'

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 won't. 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 briefcase. 'That's a pity. But I wonder if you could identify these photographs.'