The Proprietor's Daughter Page 5

  “Until next month, when the term ends.”

  “What will he do then?”

  “I’ll ask around the newspaper for him. He rides a moped, so maybe there’ll be an opening for a messenger. Keep him out of trouble, at least.” Archie drew on his pipe and trickled smoke from his mouth. “You have to understand, Miss Eagles, he’s not really a bad lad, but he’s taken to hanging around with a rotten mob. This crowd he meets up with at the football games every week. The ones who start all the trouble, the fights. Skinheads they used to call themselves —”

  “We still use that name,” Katherine said, referring to the press. In popular-newspaper parlance, the world skinhead had become synonymous with soccer hooliganism.

  “Well, since they stopped practically shaving their heads, grew their hair a bit, the skinhead name’s died,” Archie said. “That’s what Brian tells me. But they still all dress the same, like they’re in some kind of uniform.”

  Just then, a tremendous hammering erupted. The common wall between the living room and the adjacent apartment shuddered. Archie leaped from his chair just in time to grab the display case full of military decorations before it crashed to the floor. “The builders,” he said unnecessarily, “reminding us that they’re hard at work.”

  “And by some chance, they have to work right next door to the only occupied flat.” Katherine jotted down shorthand symbols on a small pad. “I’d like a picture of you saving that display case, and one of the junk in the hallway. Our photographer’s sitting twenty yards up the street in his car.”

  The builders left shortly after eleven o’clock, and silence descended. Katherine summoned the Eagle photographer, a burly man named Sid Hall, who, coincidentally, happened to be a judo black belt. Under Katherine’s direction, Hall photographed the litter in the hallway and Archie saving the display case. Earlier, the photographer had taken exterior shots to show the building’s neglected state.

  At midnight, Hall drove Katherine home. She found Franz occupying an armchair in the library. Next to him, on a mahogany side table, rested a pile of business reports. “Staying up late to work?” Katherine asked as she kissed him. “Or to check that your wife’s still in one piece?”

  “A little of both.” He ran his eyes over her, as if to make certain she was really unharmed. “You look like a schoolgirl, with your hair like that, and in those clothes. A schoolgirl should not be out so late.”

  “I had good protection.” She described Sid Hall, the Eagle’s picture-taking judoka. On the way upstairs, she told Franz what had happened that night, breaking into the story only to look in on Henry and Joanne, and plant a kiss on the forehead of each sleeping child.

  As they settled in bed, Katherine gave Franz the most gentle of kisses, nothing more than a brush of her lips against his, followed by the words “Thanks for keeping a light burning in the window.”

  He returned the kiss. “Do you really think I could go to bed without knowing you were all right?”

  They fell asleep in a better humor than they had done two nights earlier.

  Katherine found Sid Hall’s photographs on her desk when she arrived at the office the next morning. She carried them to a meeting that afternoon with Gerald Waller and Sally Roberts.

  “Not bad for a night’s work,” Waller said as he sifted through the pictures. “What’s next on the agenda?”

  “Get the other side of the story.”

  “How do you propose doing that?” Sally asked. “By seeing the man who runs the management company? What was his name?”

  “Hawtrey. Nigel Hawtrey. Of course I’m not going to visit him. I’d give away the fact that I’m working on a story if I did. Instead, I’ll make him come to me.”

  That evening, Katherine again made the journey to Islington with Archie Waters. The noise from the next apartment provided a steady accompaniment to the evening meal. It seemed to increase as Archie watched television with his grandson, who had stayed in. By nine-thirty, the noise had reached a crescendo, a frenzy of hammering that shook the walls.

  Katherine removed a slip of paper from her purse. “Archie, ring this number. It’s the home of Nigel Hawtrey, the managing director of Cadmus Property Company.”

  “How did you get that? It’s ex-directory.”

  “Power of the press.” She swore she spotted a flicker of interest in Brian’s dark eyes. It was the first positive sign she had seen from the boy.

  Archie dialed the number. “Mr. Hawtrey! This is Archie Waters from Cadmus Court!” He had to yell to make himself heard over the noise from next door. “I want you to listen to something!” He dragged the telephone over to the front door, flung it open, and thrust the receiver out into the hallway. The noise, if it were at all possible, seemed even louder out there. “Do you hear that, Mr. Hawtrey? That’s what I’ve got to put up with at nine-thirty at night. If I can’t get any peace and quiet then, by damn, neither will you!”

  Ten minutes later, on Katherine’s instructions, Archie dialed the number again. “Mr. Hawtrey, it’s still as noisy as ever!” Once more he held the receiver out in the hallway. “The moment your men stop disturbing me, I’ll stop disturbing you.”

  When Archie telephoned a third time, there was no answer. Either Nigel Hawtrey was refusing to lift the receiver, or, as Katherine hoped, he was on his way to Cadmus Court.

  After thirty minutes, the noise from the next apartment ceased. The heavy silence that followed was broken at last by a loud, authoritative knock on the front door. Archie pulled it back. Outside stood a tall, fat man in his late thirties. An open-necked shirt, blue sportcoat, and black trousers strained to contain his girth. His curly brown hair was tangled, and his watery blue eyes blinked rapidly from behind horn-rimmed glasses.

  “How the bloody hell did you get my phone number?”

  “That’s my business!” Archie replied with equal vehemence. “I just wanted you to hear the racket I have to live with.”

  Nigel Hawtrey squeezed through the doorway to tower over Archie. He took no notice of Katherine and Brian, who stood behind the elderly man. “Don’t blame me for your troubles, Mr. Waters. You’re your own worst enemy. Whatever’s happened here, you brought it on your own head.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You had the opportunity to move out and be paid for it. You decided not to. That was your prerogative, but now you can’t blame me for trying to make a profit on this building. I want to knock it into shape, then sell it. The other tenants saw the sense of getting out, but you, the old soldier, you had to dig in, didn’t you? Fine, if you want to carry on living here, paying a tiny portion of the true rental value, go right ahead. But you’re going to have to put up with a little inconvenience now and then.”

  “A little inconvenience?” Katherine echoed. “Any dictionary worth its sale would define this as harassment.”

  Hawtrey’s eyes darted past Archie to Katherine. “And who would you be — some do-gooder from the Citizen’s Advice Bureau?”

  “I’m Mr. Waters’s niece. I’m living with my uncle while I find a job in London.”

  “His niece, eh? Well let me tell you something about your uncle. It’s him who’s harassing me. Lives here for next to nothing and expects roses, too.” Hawtrey swung back to Archie. “If you want to speak to me again, you call me during office hours, at my office. You ever call me at home again, and you’ll find out what harassment is!” He spun around and left. Within a minute, the noise from the next apartment picked up again. It did not cease until after midnight, as if the builders had been told to work even longer hours. A little extra aggravation for the Cadmus Court holdout . . .

  Late Thursday night, long after Katherine had been taken back to Hampstead by Sid Hall, a lone marksman stood in the park behind Cadmus Court and flung rocks through every rear-facing window of Archie Waters’s home. The first missile crashed through the window of Brian’s bedroom, showering the boy with glass as he lay in bed. The next went through Archie’s bedroom window. A third sha
ttered the kitchen window, and a fourth and fifth accounted for the bathroom and toilet. No other apartment suffered damage. Whoever threw the rocks was very familiar with the layout of the building.

  Sid Hall rushed to Islington the following morning to take photographs of the damage. That same afternoon, clutching an envelope full of barely dry prints, Katherine took a taxi from Fleet Street to St. James’s Square, between Piccadilly and Pall Mall. The taxi set her down on the south side of the square. Through a revolving door, she entered a modern six-story building which proclaimed itself, in gold-colored block capitals, to be Saxon House. The first five floors were leased to a variety of tenants: an advertising agency, a public relations firm, accountants, quantity surveyors, publishers, importers. Katherine punched the elevator button for the sixth floor, where Saxon Holdings had its head office.

  The elevator halted. She stepped out into a reception area, facing a desk at which sat a stern-faced, gray-haired woman. The wall behind the desk displayed pictures of the company’s many properties. Katherine recognized several of the buildings. What had her father said? Commercial property on the best streets, luxury residential buildings in Mayfair and Knightsbridge. It made no sense for a top company like this to be involved with a place like Cadmus Court. Or with a fat bully like Nigel Hawtrey!

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Saxon.”

  “Your name?”

  She took Archie’s surname. “Katherine Waters.”

  The receptionist checked a large desk diary. “You don’t have an appointment, do you? I’m sorry, but Mr. Saxon is a very busy man. If you’d like to leave a message for him —”

  Katherine cut the woman off by dropping the envelope full of photographs onto her desk. “Just make sure he sees these. They’re pictures of damage done to the home of my uncle, Archie Waters, who’s a tenant in Cadmus Court, a building owned by one of Mr. Saxon’s companies. You can also tell Mr. Saxon that the damage was authorized by the man who runs the company for him, Nigel Hawtrey.” She swung around, walked to the elevator and jabbed the button. The elevator arrived immediately. As the door closed, Katherine saw the receptionist scurrying from her desk, the envelope in her hand.

  Katherine left the elevator at the ground floor and headed for the revolving door. She noticed the doorman sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. As she neared the door, the man put down the receiver and chased after her.

  “Miss Waters!” Katherine stopped and turned around. “Mr. Saxon would like to see you. Would you please go back upstairs?”

  “Thank you.” She returned to the elevator. This time, when it opened on the top floor, the receptionist was not at her desk. She was standing by the elevator door, waiting for Katherine.

  “Please come with me, Miss Waters.” The woman’s tone was as unctuous now as it had been abrasive before. She led Katherine through a long corridor flanked by glass-fronted offices. They reached a heavy oak door. The receptionist opened it. “Mr. Saxon, we managed to catch the young lady.”

  Katherine entered the office. John Saxon, standing by open French windows that led out to a narrow wrought-iron balcony, was gazing down at St. James’s Square. Katherine remained in the center of the large office, wondering when the man would acknowledge her presence.

  At last, he turned around. “I was hoping it would be you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She began to feel flustered.

  “Come here.” Saxon took her arm and propelled her to the balcony. “My front garden, that’s how I think of St. James’s Square. When I’m not busy, I like to stand on the balcony and look out over my front garden, especially at this time of year when everything’s so green. Wonderful sight, isn’t it?”

  Saxon continued talking as Katherine looked down. “Those are plane trees in the square, very tall. And that equestrian statue of William the Third, erected in 1807, you know.” He lifted his hand to indicate buildings. “The architectural mix describes London’s history. Those Georgian town houses on the north and west sides of the square, the nineteenth- and twentieth-century buildings on the other two sides. It’s a Who’s Who of London, the people who’ve lived here. Why, number ten St. James’s Square alone has been the residence of three prime ministers, William Pitt, Edward Stanley, and Gladstone.”

  Katherine finally found her voice. “Thank you for the history lesson, but that is not the reason I came to see you.”

  Saxon seemed not to hear. “A couple of minutes ago, I saw a taxi stop. A blond woman, holding a large envelope, got out.” Still holding Katherine’s arm, he guided her to his desk, where Sid Hall’s pictures were spread out. “Then, when these were given to me, left here by a young and very angry blond, I just put two and two together and figured it had to be you.”

  Katherine freed herself of Saxon’s grip. She had time to take stock of him now. She judged him to be in his late thirties or early forties, not quite six feet tall, and slim enough to look like a clotheshorse for the lightweight tan suit he wore. Light brown hair was parted high on the right side, and his brown eyes had a hint of warmth and humor in them, as if he were enjoying some private joke. Perhaps he was, Katherine reflected. Having seen her climb from the taxi, he’d been proven right about her identity. He was allowed to smile at that, to congratulate himself for his perception.

  “Is that the only reason you sent the doorman after me? Because you . . . you . . .”

  “Fancied you?” Saxon suggested as he sat on a leather couch by the windows. “Can you think of a better reason?”

  “Yes, I most certainly can. Like sending the doorman after me because you were ashamed of the disgusting treatment meted out to my uncle by one of your companies.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Waters, but I’m not ashamed of anything. It is preposterous to believe that Mr. Hawtrey of Cadmus Property Company could be responsible for the damage depicted in those photographs.”

  “Take my word for it — he was.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Saxon gave Katherine a hint that temper lay just below sophistication. “Those windows look out onto a park. Any drunk on his way home from the pub could have done it. Any little delinquent who likes to hear the sound of breaking glass could have been responsible.”

  “Then how do you explain why only my uncle’s windows were hit? The only occupied flat in the building.”

  “Maybe someone has a grudge against your uncle.”

  “Yes, your Mr. Hawtrey. And what about the other harassment to which my uncle has been subjected?”

  Saxon went to his desk and flicked the switch on the intercom. Moments later, a young woman entered the office and gave Saxon a file. Scanning through it, he asked Katherine: “What harassment are we talking about?”

  “Garbage in the hallways. Breakdowns that weren’t fixed. Renting to rowdy tenants. And now builders who work next door until midnight.”

  “The garbage in the hallways . . . it’s an open building, Miss Waters; anyone can walk in and vandalize the place. Breakdowns are always rectified as soon as it’s humanly possible. The noisy tenants were evicted after we had complaints, and as quickly as the legal processes allowed us to perform the eviction. And as for builders working late, Mr. Hawtrey is under instructions to have Cadmus Court renovated and on the market at the earliest possible time.”

  Katherine was about to argue that breakdowns had not always been fixed. She was about to ask why, when tenants had been paid to leave, an apartment had been let to a crowd of troublemakers. But Saxon cut her off with an imperious wave of the hand.

  “The board of directors of Saxon Holdings has the utmost faith in Mr. Hawtrey’s ability to get the job done. And to get it done within the confines of law and decency.”

  The humorous glint in Saxon’s eyes was a mirage, Katherine decided. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Saxon. Our meeting has been an enlightening experience.”

  She left Saxon House thinking deeply about the man after whom it
was named. John Saxon was every bit as charming as her father had said he was. She’d seen that in the first few minutes when he had talked so knowingly, and so lovingly, of St. James’s Square. He was a man to whom historical surroundings were important. He was proud to be a part of them. Proud, she thought, to be English. But that charm served only to camouflage a heart of ice.

  Or did it? What about her father’s other comment: the brigadier not knowing what every corporal in the brigade was up to? Was it possible that Saxon did not know the truth about Hawtrey? She hoped that was the case, because, for some reason, she did not want Saxon to be involved in anything so despicable.

  *

  By Friday evening, all the broken windows had been replaced. Katherine had little doubt that her visit to John Saxon had prompted the hasty repair.

  Friday and Saturday evening at Cadmus Court passed without incident. Brian went out on his moped both nights, each time returning as his grandfather was escorting Katherine to Sid Hall’s car. Katherine questioned how much longer she would be able to justify monopolizing the staff photographer. Nothing was happening. Even the renovation noise had been toned down, and the builders ceased work at six each evening. Had she, by seeing Saxon, killed her own story?

  On Sunday, Katherine and Franz took the children to Erica and Cliff Bentley’s farm. Katherine went out of her way to compensate Henry and Joanne for her absences. While the other three adults rode, Katherine remained with the children, balancing them carefully on a chestnut pony. By the time they returned home in the late afternoon, Katherine knew that the children had forgiven her for any neglect they might have felt. More important, she had squared her own conscience.

  In the evening, as she traveled to Islington to resume the role of Archie Waters’s niece, she made up her mind to end the assignment that night. Realistically, she had finished it by going to see John Saxon. She had put him in the picture, and he had corrected the problem. . . .

  There were times when a newspaper did not need to print a story to settle a matter, she explained to Archie, after informing him of her decision. “I didn’t even have to tell Mr. Saxon that I was with the Eagle to make him act. He may have defended Hawtrey, for appearance’s sake, but he took swift action, didn’t he? Your windows were repaired the same day, and for the past couple of nights there has been no noise.”