A Prisoner of Birth by Jeffrey Archer
Danny was the last to climb out of the taxi. He heard himself saying, ‘Let me get this one,’ quite expecting Paul’s reply to be, Certainly not.
‘Thanks, Nick,’ said Paul, as he and Charlotte strolled into the hotel. Danny took out his wallet and parted with another ten pounds he could ill afford – one thing was certain, he would be walking home tonight.
Katie hung back and waited for Nick to join her. ‘Paul tells me this is the second time you’ve seen the show,’ she said as they made their way into the hotel.
‘I came on the off-chance you’d be playing Gwendolen,’ said Danny with a grin.
She smiled and kissed his cheek. Something else Danny hadn’t experienced for a long time. ‘You’re sweet, Nick,’ she said as she took his hand and led him into the ballroom.
‘So what are you hoping to do next?’ asked Danny, almost having to shout above the noise of the crowd.
‘Three months of rep with the English Touring Company.’
‘Understudying again?’
‘No, they can’t afford understudies on tour. If anyone falls out, the programme seller takes your place. So this is going to be my chance to be on stage, and your chance to come and see me.’
‘Where will you be performing?’ asked Danny.
‘Take your choice – Newcastle, Sheffield, Birmingham, Cambridge or Bromley.’
‘I think it will have to be Bromley,’ said Danny as a waiter offered them champagne.
He looked around the overcrowded room. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Those that weren’t were drinking champagne, while others continually moved from person to person, hoping to impress directors, producers and casting agents in an endless quest to land their next job.
Danny let go of Katie’s hand, recalling that, not unlike the out-of-work actors, he had a purpose for being there. He slowly scanned the room in search of Lawrence Davenport, but there was no sign of him. Danny assumed that he would make an entrance later.
‘Bored with me already?’ asked Katie, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
‘No,’ said Danny unconvincingly, as a young man joined them.
‘Hi, Katie,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Have you got another job lined up or are you resting?’
Danny took a sausage from a passing tray, remembering that he wouldn’t be having anything else to eat that night. Once again he looked around the room in search of Davenport. His eyes rested on another man he should have realized might be there that evening. He was standing in the centre of the room chatting to a couple of girls who were hanging on his every word. He wasn’t as tall as Danny remembered from their last encounter, but then, it had been in an unlit alley, and his only interest had been in saving Bernie’s life.
Danny decided to take a closer look. He took a pace towards him, and then another, until he was just a few feet away. Spencer Craig looked straight at him. Danny froze, then realized Craig was looking over his shoulder, probably at another girl.
Danny stared at the man who had killed his best friend and thought he’d got away with it. ‘Not while I’m still alive,’ said Danny, almost loud enough for Craig to hear. He took another pace forward, emboldened by Craig’s lack of interest. Another pace, and a man in Craig’s group, who had his back to Danny, instinctively turned round to see who was invading his territory. Danny came face to face with Gerald Payne. He’d put on so much weight since the trial that it was a few seconds before Danny recognized him. Payne turned back, uninterested. Even when he had appeared in the witness box, he hadn’t given Danny a second look – no doubt part of the tactics Craig had advised him to adopt.
Danny helped himself to a smoked salmon blini while listening to Craig’s conversation with the two girls. He was delivering an obviously well-rehearsed line about the courtroom being rather like the theatre, except that you never know when the curtain will fall. Both girls dutifully laughed.
‘Very true,’ said Danny in a loud voice. Craig and Payne both looked at him, but without a flicker of recognition, despite the fact that they had seen him in the dock only two years before, but at that time his hair had been a lot shorter, he had been unshaven and wearing prison clothes. In any case, why should they give Danny Cartwright a thought? After all, he was dead and buried.
‘How are you getting on, Nick?’ Danny turned to find Paul standing by his side.
‘Very well, thank you,’ said Danny. ‘Better than I expected,’ he added without explanation. Danny took a pace closer to Craig and Payne so that they could hear his voice, but nothing seemed to distract them from their conversation with the two girls.
A burst of applause erupted around the room, and all heads turned to watch Lawrence Davenport as he made his entrance. He smiled and waved as if he were visiting royalty. He made his way slowly across the floor, receiving plaudits and praise with every step he took. Danny remembered Scott Fitzgerald’s haunting line: While the actor danced, he could find no mirrors, so he leant back to admire his image in the chandeliers.
‘Would you like to meet him?’ asked Paul, who had noticed that Danny couldn’t take his eyes off Davenport.
‘Yes, I would,’ said Danny, curious to discover if the actor would treat him with the same indifference as his fellow Musketeers.
‘Then follow me.’ They began to make slow progress across the crowded ballroom, but before they reached Davenport, Danny came to a sudden halt. He stared at the woman the actor was addressing, with whom it was clear he was on intimate terms.
‘So good-looking,’ said Danny.
‘Yes he is, isn’t he,’ agreed Paul, but before Danny could correct him, he said, ‘Larry, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Nick Moncrieff.’
Davenport didn’t bother to shake hands with Danny; he was just another face in the crowd hoping for an audience. Danny smiled at Davenport’s girlfriend.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Sarah.’
‘Nick. Nick Moncrieff,’ he replied. ‘You must be an actress.’
‘No, far less glamorous. I’m a solicitor.’
‘You don’t look like a solicitor,’ said Danny. Sarah didn’t respond. She had clearly heard that dull response before.
‘And are you an actor?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be whatever you want me to be,’ Danny replied, and this time she did smile.
‘Hi, Sarah,’ said another young man, putting an arm round her waist. ‘You are without question the most gorgeous woman in the room,’ he said before kissing her on both cheeks.
Sarah laughed. ‘I’d be flattered, Charlie, if I didn’t know that it’s my brother you really fancy, not me.’
‘Are you Lawrence Davenport’s sister?’ said Danny in disbelief.
‘Someone has to be,’ said Sarah. ‘But I’ve learnt to live with it.’
‘What about your friend?’ said Charlie, smiling at Danny.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sarah. ‘Nick, this is Charlie Duncan, who produced the play.’
‘Pity,’ said Charlie, and turned his attention to the young men surrounding Davenport.
‘I think he fancies you,’ said Sarah.
‘But I’m not . . .’
‘I’d just about worked that out,’ said Sarah with a grin.
Danny continued to flirt with Sarah, aware that he no longer needed to bother with Davenport when his sister could undoubtedly tell him everything he needed to know.
‘Perhaps we might—’ began Danny, when another voice said, ‘Hi, Sarah, I was wondering if . . .’
‘Hello, Spencer,’ she said coldly. ‘Do you know Nick Moncrieff ?’
‘No,’ he replied, and after a cursory handshake, he continued his conversation with Sarah. ‘I was just coming across to tell Larry how brilliant he was when I spotted you.’
‘Well, now’s your chance,’ said Sarah.
‘But I was also hoping to have a word with you.’
‘I was just about to leave,’ said Sarah, checking her watch.
‘Bu
‘I’m afraid not, Spencer. I need to go over some papers before briefing counsel.’
‘It’s just that I was hoping . . .’
‘Just as you were on the last occasion we met.’
‘I think we got off on the wrong foot.’
‘I seem to remember it being the wrong hand,’ said Sarah, turning her back on him.
‘Sorry about that, Nick,’ said Sarah. ‘Some men don’t know when to take no for an answer, while others . . .’ She gave him a gentle smile. ‘I hope we’ll meet again.’
‘How do I—’ began Danny, but Sarah was already halfway across the ballroom; the kind of woman who assumes that if you want to find her, you will. Danny turned back to see Craig looking more closely at him.
‘Spencer, good of you to come,’ said Davenport. ‘Was I all right tonight?’
‘Never better,’ said Craig.
Danny thought it was time to leave. He no longer needed to talk to Davenport, and like Sarah, he also had a meeting he had to prepare for. He intended to be wide awake when the auctioneer called for an opening bid for Lot 37.
‘Hi, stranger. Where did you disappear to?’
‘Ran into an old enemy,’ said Danny. ‘And you?’
‘The usual bunch. So boring,’ said Katie. ‘I’ve had enough of this party. How about you?’
‘I was just leaving.’
‘Good idea,’ said Katie, taking him by the hand. ‘Why don’t we jump ship together?’
They walked across the ballroom and headed towards the swing doors. Once Katie had stepped out on to the pavement, she hailed a taxi.
‘Where to, miss?’ asked the driver.
‘Where are we going?’ Katie asked Nick.
‘Twelve The Boltons.’
‘Right you are, guv,’ said the cabbie, which brought back unhappy memories for Danny.
Danny hadn’t even sat down before he felt a hand on his thigh. Katie’s other arm draped around his neck, and she pulled him towards her.
‘I’m sick of being the understudy,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take the lead for a change.’ She leant across and kissed him.
By the time the taxi drew up outside Nick’s home, there were very few buttons left to undo. Katie jumped out of the cab and ran up the drive as Danny paid for a second taxi that night.
‘I wish I was your age,’ remarked the cabbie.
Danny laughed and joined Katie at the front door. It took him some time to get the key in the lock, and as they stumbled into the hall she pulled off his jacket. They left a trail of clothes all the way from the front door to the bedroom. She dragged him on to the bed and pulled him on top of her. Something else Danny hadn’t experienced for a long time.
45
DANNY JUMPED OFF the bus and began walking up Bond Street. He could see a blue flag fluttering in the breeze, boldly displaying in gold the legend Sotheby’s.
Danny had never attended an auction before, and was beginning to wish he’d sat in on one or two other sales before he lost his virginity. The uniformed officer on the door saluted him as he walked in, as if he were a regular who thought nothing of spending a few million on a minor Impressionist.
‘Where is the stamp sale being held?’ Danny asked the woman behind the reception desk.
‘Up the stairs,’ she said, pointing to her right, ‘on the first floor. You can’t miss it. Do you want a paddle?’ she asked. Danny wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘Will you be bidding?’
‘No,’ said Danny. ‘Collecting, I hope.’
Danny climbed the stairs and walked into a large, brightly lit room, to find half a dozen people milling around. He wasn’t certain if he was in the right place until he spotted Mr Blundell talking to a man in smart green overalls. The room was filled with rows and rows of chairs, although only a few were occupied. At the front, where Blundell was standing, was a highly polished circular podium, from which Danny assumed the auction would be conducted. On the wall behind it was a large screen giving the conversion rates of several different currencies, so that any bidders from abroad would know how much they were expected to pay, while on the right-hand side of the room a row of white telephones were evenly spaced on a long table.
Danny hung around at the back of the room as more people began to stroll in and take their places. He decided to sit at the far end of the back row so that he could keep his eye on all those who were bidding, as well as the auctioneer. He felt like an observer rather than a participant. Danny leafed through the pages of the catalogue, although he had already read it several times. His only real interest was Lot 37, but he noticed that Lot 36, an 1861 Cape of Good Hope four penny red, had a low estimate of £40,000 and a high of £60,000, making it the most expensive item in the sale.
He looked up to see Mr Prendergast from Stanley Gibbons enter the room and join a small group of dealers who were whispering among themselves at the back of the room.
Danny began to relax as more and more people carrying paddles strolled in and took their seats. He checked his watch – the one Nick’s grandfather had given him for his twenty-first birthday – it was ten to ten. He couldn’t help noticing when a man who must have weighed over twenty-five stone waddled into the room, carrying a large unlit cigar in his right hand. He made his way slowly down the aisle before taking a seat on the end of the fifth row that appeared to have been reserved for him.
When Blundell spotted the man – not that he could have missed him – he left the group he was with and walked across to greet him. To Danny’s surprise they both turned and looked in his direction. Blundell raised his catalogue in acknowledgement, and Danny nodded. The man with the cigar smiled as if he recognized Danny, and then continued his conversation with the auctioneer.
The seats were quickly beginning to fill as seasoned customers appeared only moments before Blundell returned to the front of the sale room. He mounted the half-dozen steps of the podium, smiled down at his potential customers, and then filled a glass with water before checking the clock on the wall. He tapped his microphone and said, ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our biannual auction of rare stamps. Lot number one.’ An enlarged image of the stamp displayed in the catalogue appeared on the screen by his side.
‘We begin today with a penny black, dated eighteen forty-one, in near mint condition. Do I see an opening bid of one thousand pounds?’ A dealer standing in Prendergast’s small group at the back raised his paddle. ‘One thousand two hundred?’ This was met by an immediate response from a bidder in the third row who, six bids later, ended up purchasing the stamp for £1,800.
Danny was delighted that the penny black had sold for a far higher price than its estimate, but as each new lot came under the hammer, the prices achieved were inconsistent. There seemed no reason to Danny why some of them exceeded the high estimate, while others failed to reach the low, after which the auctioneer said quietly, ‘No sale.’ Danny didn’t want to think about the consequences of ‘no sale’ when it came to Lot 37.
Danny occasionally glanced at the man with the cigar, but there was no sign that he was bidding for any of the early lots. He hoped his interest was in the de Coubertin envelope, otherwise why would Blundell have pointed him out?
By the time the auctioneer had reached Lot 35, an assortment of Commonwealth stamps which was disposed of in less than thirty seconds for £1,000, Danny was becoming increasingly nervous. Lot No. 36 caused an outbreak of chatter, which made Danny check his catalogue once again: the 1861 Cape of Good Hope four penny red, one of only six known in the world.
Blundell opened the bidding at £30,000, and after some dealers and a few minor collectors had dropped out, the only two bidders left appeared to be the man with the cigar and an anonymous telephone bidder. Danny watched the man with the cigar very closely. He didn’t seem to give any sign that he was bidding, but when Blundell finally received a shake of the head from the woman on the phone, he turned back t
Danny had become so engrossed in the bidding war that had just taken place that he was taken by surprise when Blundell announced, ‘Lot number thirty-seven, a unique envelope showing an 1896 first edition of a stamp issued by the French government to celebrate the opening ceremony of the modern Olympic Games. The envelope is addressed to the founder of the Games, Baron Pierre de Coubertin. Do I have an opening bid of a thousand pounds?’ Danny was disappointed that Blundell had started the bidding at such a low figure, until he saw several paddles being raised around the room.
‘Fifteen hundred?’ Almost as many.
‘Two thousand?’ Not quite as many.
‘Two thousand five hundred?’ Mr Hunsacker kept the unlit cigar in his mouth.
‘Three thousand?’ Danny craned his neck and peered around the room, but couldn’t see where the bidding was coming from.
‘Three thousand five hundred?’ The cigar remained in the mouth.
‘Four thousand. Four thousand five hundred. Five thousand. Five thousand five hundred. Six thousand.’ Hunsacker removed his cigar and frowned.
‘Sold, to the gentleman in the front row, for six thousand pounds,’ said the auctioneer as he brought the hammer down. ‘Lot thirty-eight, a rare example of . . .’
Danny tried to see who was seated in the front row, but he couldn’t work out which one of them had bought his envelope. He wanted to thank them for bidding three times the high estimate. He felt a tap on his shoulder, and looked round to see the man with the cigar towering over him.
‘My name is Gene Hunsacker,’ he said in a voice almost as loud as the auctioneer’s. ‘If you’d care to join me for a coffee, Sir Nicholas, it’s possible that we may have something of mutual interest to discuss. I’m a Texan,’ he said, shaking Danny by the hand, ‘which may not come as a big surprise as we met in Washington. I had the honour of knowing your grand-daddy,’ he added as they left the room and walked down the stairs together. Danny didn’t say a word. Never offer hostages, he had learnt since he had begun playing the role of Nick. When they reached the ground floor, Hunsacker led him into the restaurant and headed for another seat that appeared to be his by right.