Peril in London

Peril in London

I loved my girlfriend, Regina. We had been together for two years. I wanted to show my gratitude to her. She had taught me how to paint better, how to write better, how to kiss better. She had made me feel like a prince in his castle. I knew little before she came along, I was humbled to admit. 

Yet she flew to England to study literature, and I missed her so much my bones ached. I stared out the window for hours on end.

Now I had only a few days before classes started for the semester. If I missed one class, I would be far behind. I had to make the first day of class. Yet . . . I wondered. I resolved to visit her in London.

I bought an engagement ring and tickets, and took the next jet out. I changed planes in Chicago, stopped in New York for an hour, and hopped on a jet to London. A fat man in a suit had the window seat. I sat in the aisle seat. 

We were over the Atlantic Ocean when I patted my pocket to make sure the ring was safe in there. A stewardess leaned over me. She was a blonde, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. “You keep patting your pocket,” she said. “What’s in it?”

“A ring for my girlfriend,” I said.

She smiled. “What kind of ring?” she asked.

“A diamond ring. I’m going to marry her.”

“Marvelous. Does she reside in London?”

“Not far outside it.”

“I wish you the best,” she said, and she continued down the aisle.

After that, we entered the middle of a thunderstorm and had to stay in our seats. I took a sleeping pill, and I didn’t wake up until after we had landed. When I disembarked, I went to Customs, expecting to breeze through. “I only have this to declare,” I said, and reached into my pocket. No ring. I patted my other pockets and looked on the carpet. No ring. I thought back. The stewardess! I asked the Customs man to wait while I returned to the jet. After the last passenger disembarked, she came out rolling her suitcase. I ran up to her. “Have you seen my diamond ring?” I asked. 

She paused a moment and said, “No. Did you lose it?”

“No,” I said, “you stole it! I know you did!” I shoved my hands into her suit coat and the pockets in her pants. She screamed. The pilot and the co-pilot manhandled me. They brought me to my knees while the stewardess complained how rough I had been. “We’ll take care of him,” each one told her. They took care of me, all right.

My cell in the London jail was cold. My blanket was thinner than a soda cracker. My bruises throbbed. I had no cell mates, unless you count the big rat that snooped around the corner of the wall, looking for crumbs. Dinner was mush inside mush with a side of potato mush.

At night, a prisoner down the hallway screamed for his mother. Another prisoner banged sticks together, which would have been all right if he had had a sense of rhythm. The rat tried to climb onto my bed, and I beat it down several times. I didn’t want to kill the creature. I only wanted some sleep with dreams of my beloved, which was my escape from this dank environment.

Next morning, a guard unlocked my cell and threw the door open. “Lucky you,” he said. “You’re free.” 

When I checked out, a guard returned my suitcase to me. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m grateful.”

I stepped from the jail and looked up and down a gray street. My sudden freedom was a shock. I walked a block, sat on a bench with my suitcase between my legs, and indulged in a session of self-pity. A woman stopped and stood in front of me. “Are you all right?” she asked.

I lifted my head and scrutinized her. “You!” I snarled. “The stewardess who put me in jail!”

“Let me explain,” she said. “May I sit down beside you?” 

I pulled the suitcase up and set it between us. “Keep this where it is,” I said.

She glared at me for several seconds. I noticed that she had bright hazel eyes and small hands. “All right,” she said, “I understand. You hurt me, you know.”

“I surprised and shocked you,” I said. “Your goons hurt me.”

“Then we’re even,” she said, “and they weren’t goons. They were the pilot and co-pilot. Are we good?” She extended a hand toward me.

I hesitated then took her hand. “We’re even.” It was silent for a while. “Why are you here?” I asked her.

“I want to set things right,” she said. “I know who stole your ring.”

A red double-decker bus shot past us. A Rolls-Royce with tinted windows rolled the other way. 

She said, “You were sitting in Row 19. The man in the window seat, the fat man, he takes the New York-London flights a lot. Every time, some passenger complains about missing property.” Her eyes pled with me to believe her story.

“That’s not enough evidence to convict a cartoon rat,” I said. A man walked by, carrying an umbrella.

“That’s not all.” She leaned over the suitcase. “While you slept, he brushed by you four times because he went to the bathroom twice. I admit, I didn’t see him slip his hand into your pocket, but he went close to you.”

This was getting nowhere, and I admit I still held a grudge against her. People who commit crimes often blame others for what they did. “Don’t you have to take a flight back to New York?” I asked. I didn’t wait for her answer. I got up and walked as fast as I could down the street, and turned in at a pub, where I ordered fish and chips and a beer. The pub owner said he would hold my suitcase for me. 

Minutes later, she entered the pub. She looked around in the dim light until she noticed me. When she came to my table, I said, “I’m busy with my lunch.”

She frowned. “May I sit down?” she asked.

“I can’t stop you,” I said and sipped my beer.

She sat and said, “Let’s start over. I’m Marissa.”

“I’m Jason,” I muttered.

“I took a leave of absence because I wanted to help you. I did have them drop the charges against you. You have to give me credit for that.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m grateful I don’t have to share my meal with a rat.”

“You’ll take a room in London?” she asked.

I bit into my fish and chips. The pub was crowded. It smelled of alcohol and sweat. Old men hovered over their drinks. Businessmen talked about deals. Looming over them was a large poster of England’s king. In an American bar, it would be a football player, usually a quarterback. “Don’t you have some place to go?” I asked.

“Look, Jason,” she said, “this is bigger than you and me and your diamond ring.” She leaned in closer. “This is a serious investigation.”

I scooted back on my stool. The dark wood panels seemed to close in around me. “I want that ring so I can propose to my girlfriend. That’s serious enough for me.” The background music was a song about a lost love.

“I’ll help you find it,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. Behind her, an unshaved man in a shabby suit tapped her on the shoulder. He stuck an wrinkled envelope in her hand and left the pub. She put it in her purse.

I finished my meal and gulped the last of my beer. I stuck out my hand. “Nice to know you,” I said. “London has fine jewelers. I’ll buy another ring and I’ll propose to my girlfriend.”

She held up the envelope in a small hand. “Do you know what’s in here?” she asked. I shook my head. “The Fat Man’s address and a key to his apartment.”

“I don’t want to trespass,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”

She grabbed my arm and whispered, “What if you can make $50,000.00?”

I sat. My three credit cards were maxed. I didn’t know how I’d pay for another ring, or even a hotel room. I was famous in my family for my big plans on few dollars. I would have to ask a friend back home to wire me some money.

“I’m listening,” I told her.

“We need to talk somewhere else,” she said. “Too many ears in this place.”

The lost-love song ended, and an upbeat dance song began. We went out without a word, and walked a mile before she turned into an alley. She whispered to me, “Surveillance cameras are everywhere. Hard to know who the good guys are.”

The fog was starting to come in, and the alley looked forbidding. I had read too many Sherlock Holmes stories, too much about Jack the Ripper. I was getting nervous from the surroundings and this odd woman. 

I came to the point. “Can I get an advance on that 50 grand?”

She paused. “First, I’ll loan you enough for a room in London.” 

“And second? What is this about?”

She said, “I’m an investigator for the airline. Stewardess is my cover. I was called in on this case from the Palace. The airline recommended me.”

“The Palace? You don’t mean Buckingham? Where they have butlers and tea parties and frozen soldiers as guards?”

“Look, you have to keep your mouth shut. Will you swear to keep the secrets I tell you?” I hesitated a minute and said yes.

“I do mean Buckingham Palace. They hired me through the airline to find a jewel, a crown jewel.”

“I haven’t seen anything about missing crown jewels.”

“It’s not in the media. The royalty want it hush-hush. This jewel was one that Cromwell took when he became the leader. It’s been in a Palace vault for hundreds of years. Now it’s gone.”

“How does a thief take a jewel from a vault at Buckingham Palace/?” I asked, my voice hitting high notes.

A businessman walked by. He wore a red bow tie and carried a briefcase. He glanced at us and walked on.

“Calm down,” she said. “We don’t know how they did it. At least they haven’t told me, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is to retrieve the jewel.”

“When do we start?” I asked.

“Now,” she said. She gave me a credit card that had a few thousand pounds of credit on it. “I need you because nobody knows who you are. They do know who I am.”

“I supposed you wanted my good looks, too,” I said.

“Your twisted nose, your pimples, your paunch, and your hair that won’t stay down,” she teased.

“I feel better now.”

“That’s only the start,” she said, smiling.

“I do box,” I said, “and I was a lifeguard.”

We stood at a bus stop. “The other reason is this could get rough and I’ll need some muscle.”

A bus pulled up and we got on. She paid the fare. We sat in the back, away from the other passengers, and she filled me on the other facts in the investigation. I told her that when we stopped, I had to call my girlfriend. 

I don’t know London from Beijing. We went down several different streets, round and round on roundabouts, by bobbies who waved their arms, by various landmarks.

When we got off, she said, “Don’t bother looking for a phone booth. They’re scarce. Use my cell phone.”

I called Regina. She was excited to hear from me, and thrilled to hear I was in London. She invited me to come over any time to her dorm room at the university. I said I had two stops to make first, then I would come see her. We exchanged telephone kisses.

“Where now?” I asked Marissa.

“The Fat Man,” she said.

“No, I want to buy another ring for Regina,” I said. We took a cab to a jewelry store she knew about. After some scrutiny, and some hints from the store clerks that Marissa was the intended ring-wearer–after all, she was the woman who tried the rings on–I bought one similar to the one I had bought in Denver.

Next stop, the Fat Man.

After Marissa handed him a tip, the hotel clerk told us that he had not gone out. Two men had gone up to visit him, and they had left a few minutes before our arrival, without him. We walked up two flights of stairs and down the hall. Marissa knocked on his door. No answer. She knocked again. No answer. She used the key that had been in the envelope passed her in the pub. 

The Fat Man lay on the bed with his belt around his neck and two gunshot wounds in the chest. He was dead, and he had soiled himself. We scoured the room for the missing jewel. No luck. No wallet, no I.D., nothing but rumpled clothes in the closet.

A door knock startled us. “Maid service.”

Marissa and I looked at each other. She opened the door and said, “We found a dead body.”

The maid put a hand to her mouth but didn’t scream, as I expected. I asked her if she had seen or heard anything. “I heard a ruckus in this room. I thought a couple was fighting. It happens all the time.”

“Did you see anyone?” Marissa asked.

“Two big men came out about fifteen minutes ago. One had a gun by his side. They looked at me like they were ready to beat me up. They took the stairs down.” She looked us over. “I wouldn’t mess with them if I were you. They’re like heavies from the movies” She shook her head. “Now get out of the way. I have to call the desk clerk about this.”

“Did they say anything?” I asked.

“I suggest you stick around. The police will want to know who you are.” She dialed the desk and said, “We need police in Room 309.” Pause. “Dead body. Murder.” She hung up.

“They mentioned Tower Bridge, for what it’s worth.”

Marissa and I ran down the stairs two steps at a time. She ran into a well-dressed man,

probably the manager, on her way down. She tried to go around him, and he grabbed her arm.

She squealed. 

“You’re a witness in a murder case. Come with me,” he said.

I continued down the stairs. She yelled after me, “Find those men!”

I hit the landing, ran through the lobby, and hailed a cab. I told the cabby to take me to Tower Bridge. Once I had gained entry, I walked back and forth for half an hour on a glass walkway which was more than 100 feet above the River Thames. I saw no burly man. I chatted with an American tourist, then I spotted the two men . They looked like twins. Having no idea what to do, I figured the direct approach would produce results. I stood in front of them and asked, “Have you seen the Fat Man?”

“Who are you?” one asked.

“You’re a punk,” the other said.

“I may be,” I said, “but you haven’t answered my question.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said one, who elbowed me.

I punched his gut and his chin. He reeled back. The other one picked me up like I was a piece of toast and held me over his head. “Hope you know how to swim,” he said, nearing the rail.

A man who looked like an American football player charged from the crowd of tourists. With his head, he smashed the man’s back, and both of us went over the rail. We hit the water with force. I swam toward the surface as fast I could manage. The burly man splashed water. “I can’t swim!” he cried. “Help me!”

“You killed the Fat Man. Admit it!”

“Help me, punk!”

“No,” I said, “you’re a murderer.”

“All right, I killed him,” he said. 

“Tell me where the jewel is,” I said.

He splashed, sank, resurfaced, splashed. A trawler approached us. “Help me, and I’ll tell you!” 

“Where?”

He sank and fought back to the surface. His eyes bulged. He told me.

The trawler was a minute away. “I’m grateful,” I said. I swam to shore, sure the fishermen would scoop him from the water.

I found the jewel in a small box behind a telephone in an out-of-order telephone box. To my delight, my engagement ring was in the box, too. I hurried to the jail and had the pleasure of bailing out Marissa. She accompanied me to the college, and witnessed me fall on my knees and propose to Regina–who, thankfully, accepted. I was grateful.

A week later, we had dinner at the palace. The King congratulated us for bringing back the jewel to the Palace, where it belonged. He said the two criminals were in jail, awaiting trial on burglary and murder charges. The charges against Marissa had been dropped. 

Under my plate I found an envelope. Inside it was a check to me for $50,000.00. I showed it to Regina, who said that should about cover the cost of the wedding. Then she winked.

  Marissa sat with us. One of the guards kept eyeing her, and she eyed him, so I chatted with him. I told him she would make a fine wife, and gave him the other engagement ring. “When the time is right, propose to her and give her this ring,” I said.

He said, “I’m grateful.”

***