Chapter 20: Plates

I was, as it is sometimes put, tired and overwrought, face down in the gutter and highly intoxicated – at not quite nine-thirty p.m. How that embarrassing situation came about is a matter that requires some explaining.

I’d set out that morning with no thought of an impending cataclysm, and had strolled into the office to face another day’s work, or rather to hope for it, as I didn’t have a case in progress. Not that the prospect of temporary professional idleness bothered me unduly. Over any reasonable period – say, three months on a running basis – I usually hauled in enough income to keep me going, though more often than not it was a close call. When I had no client, I occupied myself in my own unremunerative but demanding way. At the time, I was into languages. It was all very well, I thought, that English was spanning the globe, though I’d have been quite happy with a resurrection of Latin, or whatever – anything that lets us communicate.

During my stint in the RAF I’d acquired passable German, largely because I was in the police branch of the service and needed to liaise with the civilian authorities in North Rhine-Westphalia. I was wondering what next. Spanish looked like a good candidate. Perhaps it would be as well to grapple with something more taxing at the same time. I considered Chinese. There must be a case for ideographs. After all, they’ve served their users for many centuries and don’t seem to be an obstacle to advancement. Yes, I thought, let’s make it Spanish and Mandarin. Here, you might like to know that I made some progress with the former and am about to tackle the latter any year now. Well, there’s a limit to what any of us can achieve in one lifetime. We all have to deal with the trifling matter of getting by, don’t we?

My cranial gymnastics were interrupted by the phone. I’d begun to think that I’d done enough for one day, but a glance at the wall clock showed that it was 10.20. Having arrived at 9.35, I hadn’t yet given full measure.

I tried to get in my usual introductory spiel, but had barely started when I was interrupted. “Barney Shadbolt here.” It was a booming voice, suggesting that I should know something about the speaker.

“Excellent,” I said.

“What do you mean, excellent?”

“Well, it’s always nice to hear from someone who knows who he is in this confusing world.”

This brought a little harrumphing at the other end, then: “You talk funny.”

“No,” I snapped. “It’s most of the other people in this country who do that. I’m all right. As it happens, I was just thinking about language, but I’ll put that on hold if you have business in mind.” Okay, I was feeling baulky. I knew my telephonic skills needed a little work, but didn’t think this was the right moment.

My man huffed. “Fine. I’m Shadbolt, you’re Potts, right?”

“Yes. We’re shoulder to shoulder here. Not a glimmer of daylight between us. We really shouldn’t have to piece it together like this, but now that we’ve been properly introduced, who are you – apart from being Barney Shadbolt?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“How many more ways can I say it?”

“All right. No need to labour the point. Now, you’re maybe the second-best sleuth in this city, so I guess it’s time for you to get acquainted with your only superior. I run the XL Agency. Am I getting through?”

I’d heard good things about XL – the oldest outfit in town – but didn’t know that this man was in charge there. Maybe a little deference was in order, but I couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m with you,” I said. “You’re Barney Shadbolt, you run XL and you think you’re number one. I acknowledge no betters, but would you be so kind as to get to the point, assuming you have one?”

He laughed. “Pretty fair line of patter for an upstart, and a British one at that, if I’m any judge.” I liked the implication that he’d divined my background from a few words, when he’d probably known the score before calling. “Now, I bring you nothing but good news. I had a man in this morning, probably before you got out of the feathers” – ooh, that hurt – “and I’m too busy to handle his problem. I sent him along to you, and I hope you’ll remember that when you rake in the shekels.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries which I don’t remember verbatim, the upshot being that I was to bate my breath and await a possible customer.

The man arrived twenty minutes after Shadbolt and I had diverted ourselves. Ignoring my admittedly ignorable waiting room, he entered the office. He was, I guessed, sixty-odd, about five-seven, with longish wispy white hair, a crumpled mid-brown suit, light-blue shirt, plain-front laced black shoes that hadn’t seen polish for some time and the sort of loud tie that some men of his vintage buy when they’re too shy to get a plaid shirt and too poor to acquire a red sports car. He was lugging a big brown-paper bag. The lined face wore a nervous look. I was pleased to note that he didn’t cast a disparaging eye over my layout. “You’re Potts?” he said.

I waved him to a chair. “Correct. I’ve been expecting you, if you’re from Shadbolt.”

“I am. “They couldn’t cope at XL and said you’re the next-best.”

That didn’t amuse me. “Okay. I’m just above bottom of the barrel. Thank you for the boost to my self-esteem.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I guess that came out wrong, but when you know what’s on my mind, you’ll understand. I have worries.”

I gave him the mini-nod. “Could be my province. Who are you?”

He muttered something about Monday night.

“Monday night?” I said, noting that this was a Wednesday morning and thinking that some patience might be required. “No. It’s your name I’m after.”

“That’s it. Mundy Knight.” He spelled it out. “Don’t bother with the cracks. I’ve heard them all. Some sense of humour my parents had.”

I sensed that as far as conversation was concerned we were getting out of the urban thicket and approaching the open road. Knight’s voice had the cracked edge that denotes severe stress. It was a little early, but I reckoned a drink would do no harm. Anyway, I’d be eating in a couple of hours, so we could call it a sort of aperitif. I took the sherry bottle and glasses from a desk drawer, poured two generous snorts and handed one to him. “Now, calm down.” I said. “You’re safe here. Have a nip and tell me all.”

While I was showing admirable restraint in toying with my glass, he knocked back his dose at one gulp. That seemed to indicate a refill, so I obliged, not without thought of the cost – the stuff from my preferred bodega wasn’t cheap. He took another belt, which seemed to settle him. Sighing, he delved into his bag, pulled out an oblong wooden box and shoved it across the desk. “Open that and you’ll see what it’s all about.”

I lifted the lid and saw an array of rectangular slabs of metal, intricately patterned. “Hmn,” I said, assuming my intense gaze. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but these seem to be plates for twenty-dollar and fifty-dollar bills.”

“Right,” he said. “They’re probably the best ever and they’re my work.”

“Okay. You seem to be in a position to make your own money. How do I come in?”

He showed me splayed hands. “Look, I’m an engraver by trade. I made these purely out of interest. I’d no thought of anything illegal. It was just a challenge. Then I happened to mention it at a little get-together of people in my business. Next thing I knew, Barton Stokes was leaning on me.”

I shook my head. “Barton Stokes?”

“You mean you don’t know him?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Are you going to start now?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I grunted. “It’s just that I’ve already been through this ‘don’t you know’ thing today. Tell me about Stokes.”

“Well, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’s a big operator on the wrong side, around Hanbury, which is where I live. To keep it short, he wants my plates and he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to get them. Like I said, I did this for amusement. Now I have heavies on my back. I don’t know what to do.”

“What about the police?” I said, knowing the answer in advance.

His eyebrows went up half an inch. “You can’t be serious. Imagine what they’d say to a man who produced this stuff. I’d never be able to convince them that it was no more than an artistic effort.”

“So,” I said, “we’re getting to the point. You can’t talk to the authorities, but you don’t fancy Stokes’ ideas of persuasion.”

He shuddered. “That’s it. Now, what can you do?”

This was a new one to me, but I prided myself that I wasn’t too disconcerted. “I can do plenty, Mr Knight. But there’s the question of my fees” – I hated that bit as much as ever.

He waved a hand. Don’t worry. I’m good for any costs. Just get me out of this.”

“All right,” I said. “I can see how money would be no problem to you if you can print it.” I hadn’t been wasting time as we’d talked. An idea was forming in my mind. “Okay, I’ll take the job. Now, have you booked in anywhere here?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have a room at the Parkway. Will that do?”

His choice was good; expensive but strong on security. “It’s fine,” I said. “Now, you’d better tell me how I contact this Stokes fellow, then leave the plates here and get back to your den. Stay put until you hear from me.”

He left and I pondered. It wasn’t too difficult. I knew little of these murky matters, but recalled that my old sparring partner Stan Hodges had, before he became an insurance investigator, spent some years with the police, mostly dealing with embezzlement, fraud and associated matters. He was sure to know something. I mentioned elsewhere in these tales that we’d been able to economise on effort now and then by exchanging tiresome errands. Time for a call – and for a little badinage with Stan, who lived in the boondocks well north of me and as it happened, not far from my client’s home town. Stan was as near to a hermit as a man can be, if he wants to make a conventional living.