It was New Year’s Eve, 1953. Normally the Duke de Richleau would have been occupying a suite at the Reserve at Beaulieu; for it was his custom to leave England shortly after Christmas and spend a month or so in the South of France. But this year he had other plans that had temporarily delayed his departure.
Usually, too, Richard Eaton would have been playing host to a carefree party of neighbours down at his ancient and gracious home in Worcestershire, Cardinal’s Folly. But his wife—that enchanting pocket Venus, the Princess Marie-Lou, whom he and his friends had brought out of Russia some years before the war–had had to have an hysterectomy. So, after the Christmas festivities, they had come to London, and Marie-Lou was in King Edward VII Nursing Home, having had the operation four days earlier. Their daughter, Fleur, was about to enter London University, so had been installed in a flat she was to share with two other girl students, and Richard was staying with his friend, Simon Aron.
It was at a pleasant little Georgian house in Pond Street, Hampstead, which Simon had bought shortly after the war, that the three of them had dined that night, and they were still sitting round the table.
Simon and de Richleau delighted in producing for each other epicurean meals and fine wines. The dinner had consisted of smoked cods’ roe, beaten up with cream and served hot on toast, after being put under the grill, followed by a Bisque d’Homard fortified with sherry, a partridge apiece, stuffed with foie-gras, and an iced orange salad laced with crème de menthe. With the roes they had had a glass of very old Madeira, with the soup a Marco-brunner Kabinet ’33, with the partridge a Château Latour ’28, and with the orange salad a small cup of cold China tea. Now, having cleared their palates with the tea, and as they lit up the eight-inch-long Hoyo de Monterreys which were the Duke’s favourite cigars, Simon was giving them an Imperial Tokay of 1908.
Sitting there, they made a very diverse trio who, to a casual observer, would have appeared to have little in common.
De Richleau was in his seventies: a Frenchman who had long since made his home in England and acquired British nationality. He was of medium height and spare figure. The exercises he did each morning, learned from a Japanese, had kept him in excellent trim and, for his age, his muscles still concealed surprising strength. His lean features were those of a born aristocrat: a broad forehead beneath neatly brushed white hair; a haughty, aquiline nose; firm mouth and chin; grey eyes flecked with yellow which, at times, could flash with piercing brilliance and, above them, upward-slanting ‘devil’s’ eyebrows.
Simon was also slim, with a frailer body and narrow shoulders. His sloping forehead, great beak of a nose and slightly receding chin would have called to mind the head of a bird of prey had it not been for his gentle and often smiling expression. When young he had been afflicted with adenoids, and his parents had neglected to have them removed until his early teens. By then the growth had caused him to keep his full-lipped mouth always a little open, and it was a habit he had never lost. His hair was black, his eyes dark and short-sighted, so that he tended to peer at people, unless he was wearing his spectacles. He was descended from Spanish Jews; but his family had lived in England for many generations and had a high reputation as merchant bankers.
Richard was a typical English country gentleman. In recent years he had put on weight; but hunting and shooting saved him from a middle-aged spread, and the worst weather never shook his nerve when flying his private aircraft. His eyes were brown, as was his hair which came down to his forehead in a ‘widow’s peak’ with attractive wings of grey above the ears. He had a good, straight nose, a mouth with laughter lines on either side of it, and a chin that suggested that, on occasion, he could be very aggressive.
It was de Richleau who picked up the Tokay bottle, looked at the label and raised an eyebrow. ‘By Jove! 1908 Essence; the last vintage that old Franz-Joseph thought good enough to have bottled at the Hofberg. What a treat you are giving us, Simon.’
‘Must have cost you a packet,’ added Richard. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Justerini’s,’ Simon replied in his jerky fashion. ‘You’re right about the stuff costing a packet these days. Still, what’s the good of “mun”, except for what it’ll buy you? Like to give you a toast. Here’s luck to all of us in 1953 and—er—specially to old Rex. ’Fraid he needs it.’
His words carried the thoughts of the others to Rex Van Ryn, the great, hulking American with the enormous sense of fun. Before the war he had been the most popular playboy between Paradise Beach in the Bahamas and Juan les Pins, and a record-breaking airman. During the war he had been one of the pilots who, in 1939, had volunteered to fight for Britain, formed the Eagle Squadron and had covered themselves with glory. He was the fourth of that gallant little company, christened by him ‘we Modern Musketeers’. In Russia, Spain, the Balkans, the West Indies and many other places, they had adventured together and survived many perils.
As Simon sipped the thick, richly-scented, honey-coloured wine, his companions followed suit; but his reference to Rex had taken their minds off the wine. De Richleau was recalling Rex’s dictum about cocktails, ‘Never give a guy a large one; make ’em small and drink ’em quick. It takes a fourth to get an appetite.’ He looked a question at his host. Richard anxiously voiced it.
‘What’s this, Simon? You imply that Rex is in trouble. Have you just heard from him?’
‘Ner.’ Simon shook his bird-like head as he used the negative peculiar to him, owing to his failing to fully close his mouth. ‘Not from, but about. Old Rex must be in a muddle–a really nasty muddle. He’s embezzled a million dollars.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Richard. ‘I don’t believe it. This is some absurd rumour you’ve picked up in the City. It’s the most utter nonsense.’
De Richleau had raised his pointed eyebrows in amazement, and said more slowly, ‘It is almost impossible to credit. As we all know, apart from the nouveau riche Texan oil kings, the Van Ryns are one of the richest families in the United States. Rex inherited several million from his father, and is one of the biggest stockholders in the Chesapeake Banking and Trust Corporation. What possible reason could he have had for doing such a thing?’
‘Don’t know,’ Simon shrugged. ‘Could have gone haywire and tried to beat the market.’
‘No,’ de Richleau declared firmly. ‘Rex has risked his neck a score of times in making long-distance flights, in battle, and in private ventures when he has been with us. But he has never been a gambler where money is concerned.’
Simon nodded vigorously. ‘You’re right there. Can only tell you what I’ve heard. Family is keeping it dark, of course. They’d never prosecute. But we bankers have our special sources—better very often than those of the “cloak and dagger” boys in M.I.6. A fortnight or so ago Rex disappeared, and he made off with a million.’
‘He’s been in Buenos Aires for the past year or so, hasn’t he?’ Richard asked. ‘Was it from there that he absconded?’
‘Umm. The Chesapeake have big interests in South America. You’ll recall that, when the old man died, Rex’s cousin, Nelson Van Ryn, became President. It was after the war that Rex decided to cease being a playboy and take an active part in the family business. In the autumn of ’49, Nelson asked him to take over their South American interests. Good man for the job, Rex. Gets on with everybody. The Latin tycoons were soon eating out of his hand. He made his H.Q. in Buenos Aires, but did a round of Brazil, Chile, Bolivia and the rest. Made excellent connections. Now this. But why? God alone knows.’
Richard took another sip of the Tokay, then said with a worried frown, ‘It’s past belief. Simply incredible. But I know your intelligence on this sort of thing can be graded A1. And one thing sticks out like a sore thumb. To have chucked everything and made off into the blue with a wad of his bank’s funds, Rex must be in very serious trouble.’
‘There can be no doubt of that,’ de Richleau agreed. ‘And I won’t be happy until I know that he is out of it.’
Simon’s dark eyes flickered from one to the other. Covering his mouth with the hand that held the long cigar, he gave a little titter. ‘Yes, Rex must be in a muddle—a really nasty muddle. Felt sure that when I told you about it, you’d agree that it’s up to us to get him out. We’ll have to take a little trip to South America.’