The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper(82)

“My son lives in Australia. He’s invited me out there.”

“Well, you should spend that cash. Blow it all on something that makes you happy. You can make memories out of money, but you can’t make money out of memories, unless you’re an antiques dealer. Bear that in mind, Arthur, my old son.”

*

Next Arthur took the tube across London. He knocked on the door of De Chauffant’s house but there was no reply. The upstairs curtains were closed. He had separated off some money in his pocket for Sebastian.

A woman appeared on the doorstep next door. She carried a briefcase under one arm and a Chihuahua under the other. “I hope you’re not a bloody journalist,” she snapped, setting both dog and case down on the ground.

“No. Not at all. I have a friend who lives here.”

“The writer?”

“No. Sebastian.”

The woman jerked her head. “Young lad with a European accent?”

“Yes. That’s him.”

“He moved out a couple of weeks back.”

“Oh.”

“He had a lucky escape if you ask me. He was arm in arm with an older man. Smartly dressed. They seemed very much together, if you know what I mean.”

Arthur nodded. He had visions of Sebastian still being locked in servitude. It sounded as if he had met someone else.

“Better than looking after that narcissistic old bastard,” the woman said.

“So you knew them both?”

“The walls are paper thin. I heard their rows often enough. The way that writer shouted at that poor young boy was despicable. He died this morning. It’s not been on the news yet.”

“De Chauffant? He’s dead?”

The woman nodded. “A cleaner found him. He was a young thing, terribly shocked. He knocked on my door and we phoned for an ambulance. He vanished as soon as it arrived. So now I’m waiting for the journos and fans to turn up. I thought you were one of them.”

“No. I’m just Arthur. Arthur Pepper.”

“Well, Arthur Pepper. It goes to show that you never know what goes on in people’s lives, huh?”

“No. That’s right. May I trouble you for an envelope and paper?”

The lady shrugged, reentered her house and then handed over the stationery. “There’s a stamp there, too, if you need it.”

Arthur sat on De Chauffant’s top step and put four fifty-pound notes in the envelope. He wrote a brief note. “For tiger food, from Arthur Pepper.”

He wrote out the address for Lord and Lady Graystock and dropped the envelope into a postbox.

For his next port of call, Arthur headed first to the tube station where he had encountered Mike for the first time. He felt like a seasoned traveler now with his training shoes, backpack and wallet wedged firmly into his pocket. He listened for the lilting sound of flute music but instead all he heard was a guitar. A girl with a face full of piercings sat cross-legged on the ground. Her stripy woolen scarf doubled as a guitar strap. Her rendition of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” was hauntingly beautiful. Arthur dropped twenty pounds into her guitar case and then took the bus to Mike’s apartment.

His friend wasn’t there.

Arthur stood in the corridor in National Trust statue mode. He listened carefully and looked around him to ensure he was alone. The corridor was empty. He could hear the faint noise of a television from one of the upstairs apartments. It sounded like a game show. His heart pounded as he rang the doorbell on the apartment next door to Mike’s. He waited but no one answered. Good. Just what he hoped for. He pressed the buzzer again for good measure. He crouched and took his box of tricks out of his rucksack. Sifting through it he took out a set of picks. Studying each in turn, he selected the most apt one for the job. He used to be a good locksmith. He jiggled it into the keyhole, listening, turning, feeling. There was a click, then a louder one. He had done it.

“Hello,” he called gently, sticking his head around the door. He thought back to how scared he had felt the night of his surprise party when he thought intruders were in the house and hoped that no one was home. He wasn’t here to scare or confront. He just wanted to do what was right.

The layout of the apartment was the mirror image to Mike’s next door. Firstly he pulled a chair and wedged it under the handle. If anyone did come home it would give him time. The flat was on the second floor of the building and with his weak ankle he could hardly risk jumping out. He had to move quickly.

As he moved around the apartment, he slid out books and opened drawers. He stood on tiptoes to look on top of cupboards and slid his hand under the mattress and felt around. His search yielded a pile of Nuts magazines. Perhaps Mike was wrong when he thought his neighbor had stolen his gold Rolex. If it was here, he would find it.

He did find suspicious piles of jewelry dotted around. There was a clump of gold chains on the bathroom windowsill, a stack of laptops on the kitchen table. The bedroom yielded an array of designer handbags neatly laid out on the duvet as if ready to be photographed. Then he spotted a small black box in the bedside cabinet. Inside sat a gold Rolex. He took it out and looked on the back. The engraving was as Mike had described: Gerald. He slipped it into his pocket. In the front room he picked up his rucksack, zipped it up and slung it on his back.

It was then that he heard a noise. A rattle. The sound of keys sliding into a keyhole and then trying to open the lock. Oh, God. His body froze. Only his eyes moved, sliding from one side to the other as he thought what to do.