colleagues handle the sword and I said of course. Well, he said, would five thousand pounds be enough and would it be all right if he sent it around later that afternoon in cash, because under the circumstances, cash would be better than a check. I nearly fell off my chair, of course. I was expecting something like three hundred pounds. But still that didn’t satisfy my immediate needs. Sexual needs, I mean. So I said that would be fine, but could he spare fifty or a hundred quid now and he smiled and said, of course, and handed me over a hundred pounds. I went out that afternoon and got fucked most delightfully and does my crude way of speaking offend you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Good. Well, a day or so later I met the Nitry brothers and aren’t they the odd pair?”
“They are that,” I said.
“Yes. Well, they gave me a little lecture on what the sword really was and congratulated me and told me that they had had it authenticated—I believe that was the word they used—by some chap in Maida Vale, of all places. They now intended to enter into negotiations for its sale. I said splendid and would it be possible to advance me a bit more money. They said Eddie would take care of that so Eddie and I came to an agreement. He would provide me with pocket money of a couple hundred pounds a week and guarantee my losses for up to fifty thousand pounds at Shields. I’ve very nearly reached that limit already.”
“How long has it taken you?”
“Only a couple of weeks.”
“And then the sword was stolen.”
“That’s right. The sword was stolen and I was shattered.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’m not sure that you really can, Mr. St. Ives.”
I nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“And you’re going to get it back for us.”
“I’m going to try.”
He rose and stretched. His manners were too good to permit him a yawn. “Well, if you go about your calling the same way that you play poker, I feel that I’m in the best of hands. Thank you very much for breakfast, and now I think I’d better let you get some sleep.”
“All right,” I said, rising.
He paused at the door. “Eddie will be in touch with me when there’re any developments, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think I could ever learn to play good poker?” From the wistful note in his voice, I knew that he wanted me to say yes.
“Maybe,” I said. “At least there’s one thing you have going for you.”
“What?”
“A few million pounds. If you lose all that, you’ll know for sure.”
Chapter Thirteen
I WAS IN BED BY 5:45 that morning and probably asleep by 5:49 and the phone didn’t ring until 6:01. I let it ring for a while on the theory that whoever was calling would give up or die, but when they didn’t and since I never sleep too well with a phone ringing, I finally answered it with a snarling hello.
“We want the money this morning,” the voice said. It was the same voice that had invited me down to the Black Thistle for Scotch and morphine. It was a man’s voice and so neutral in tone and inflection that I couldn’t tell whether he was American or English. He sounded as if he had acquired his accent in the middle of the Atlantic.
“I was asleep,” I said, just to let him know that I tried to keep fairly decent hours.
“You’re awake now. We want the money at seven sharp.”
“That’s less than an hour from now.”
“And you’re wasting time, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know whether I can get it.”
“You can get it,” the voice said.
“All right. Where?”
“Highgate Cemetery. Do you know it?”
“Ah, Jesus,” I said.
“Do you know it?”
“I know it.”
“All right. Here’s what you do. Enter from Swain’s Lane. Proceed to the statue of Marx and turn right. Do you have that?”
“Turn right at Marx,” I said and thought about making some wise-ass remark, but decided that it was too early. Far too early.
“Proceed down the path until you come to the tombstone
“Not in the least.”
“Good. Well, a day or so later I met the Nitry brothers and aren’t they the odd pair?”
“They are that,” I said.
“Yes. Well, they gave me a little lecture on what the sword really was and congratulated me and told me that they had had it authenticated—I believe that was the word they used—by some chap in Maida Vale, of all places. They now intended to enter into negotiations for its sale. I said splendid and would it be possible to advance me a bit more money. They said Eddie would take care of that so Eddie and I came to an agreement. He would provide me with pocket money of a couple hundred pounds a week and guarantee my losses for up to fifty thousand pounds at Shields. I’ve very nearly reached that limit already.”
“How long has it taken you?”
“Only a couple of weeks.”
“And then the sword was stolen.”
“That’s right. The sword was stolen and I was shattered.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’m not sure that you really can, Mr. St. Ives.”
I nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“And you’re going to get it back for us.”
“I’m going to try.”
He rose and stretched. His manners were too good to permit him a yawn. “Well, if you go about your calling the same way that you play poker, I feel that I’m in the best of hands. Thank you very much for breakfast, and now I think I’d better let you get some sleep.”
“All right,” I said, rising.
He paused at the door. “Eddie will be in touch with me when there’re any developments, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think I could ever learn to play good poker?” From the wistful note in his voice, I knew that he wanted me to say yes.
“Maybe,” I said. “At least there’s one thing you have going for you.”
“What?”
“A few million pounds. If you lose all that, you’ll know for sure.”
Chapter Thirteen
I WAS IN BED BY 5:45 that morning and probably asleep by 5:49 and the phone didn’t ring until 6:01. I let it ring for a while on the theory that whoever was calling would give up or die, but when they didn’t and since I never sleep too well with a phone ringing, I finally answered it with a snarling hello.
“We want the money this morning,” the voice said. It was the same voice that had invited me down to the Black Thistle for Scotch and morphine. It was a man’s voice and so neutral in tone and inflection that I couldn’t tell whether he was American or English. He sounded as if he had acquired his accent in the middle of the Atlantic.
“I was asleep,” I said, just to let him know that I tried to keep fairly decent hours.
“You’re awake now. We want the money at seven sharp.”
“That’s less than an hour from now.”
“And you’re wasting time, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know whether I can get it.”
“You can get it,” the voice said.
“All right. Where?”
“Highgate Cemetery. Do you know it?”
“Ah, Jesus,” I said.
“Do you know it?”
“I know it.”
“All right. Here’s what you do. Enter from Swain’s Lane. Proceed to the statue of Marx and turn right. Do you have that?”
“Turn right at Marx,” I said and thought about making some wise-ass remark, but decided that it was too early. Far too early.
“Proceed down the path until you come to the tombstone
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