The Feathery (12 page)

Just as he was about to leave the room Scott noticed a small display case shrouded by a black cloth. He lifted the cloth. There was an item sitting alone inside the case. It was a narrow strip of stained maple wood with four recessed indentations. Three golf balls were on display there, resting in each of the three recesses, but the fourth one was empty. Under each ball, including the empty place, was a small gold plaque with letters inscribed on them in black. He moved closer to the case and read the engraved names and numbers: AL
GEIBERGER-59
…
CHIP BECK-59
…
DAVID DUVAL59
.
They were familiar names as well as the record tournament scores made by each of those PGA players. He was surprised and somewhat puzzled when reading the inscription under the empty slot left for a
fourth ball. The black letters on gold under that empty space spelled out the name
HUGH McNAIR
.
It was followed by the number
78
.
Scott stared at the name and number quite some time before replacing the black cloth back over the glass case.

He spent over an hour examining the rest of the collection and left with much more to see. Scott hurried down the spiral stairway to Sarah’s office, and when he entered, she was seated behind the desk typing on her computer keyboard.
"Any news from Scotland Yard?" he asked.
"Oh, hello, Scott." She swiveled her chair around toward him and smiled. "Nothing from Chief Inspector Bradshaw, but it’s early in his investigation. Did you enjoy my Saint Andrews collection?"

"Yeah, it was real cool." Scott sat in a chair in front of her desk.
"I saw the golf balls of Geiberger, Beck and Duval with their record scores of 59 beside them. Are they really the balls they used during those rounds?" Scott thought her grin before she answered was a weird one, and her face took on a slight blush.
"Oh, you uncovered that case?" Her attractive face changed to an ugly scowl of disapproval. "It was the ball those players finished their record round with." Her eyes narrowed and she sent him a strange look. There was a pause before she spoke again. "I expended an immense effort and great
expense to acquire those golf balls. I’m sure you noticed the inscription under the missing ball." Again, her smile was more like a smirk.

"Yeah, I saw the empty slot for my McNair-78 feathery ball."

"Do you realize what it would mean to me to fill that fourth slot?" Sarah’s inquiry sounded like a whine. And she answered her own question before Scott could. "I would have in my possession the balls played during the three record rounds in modern day golf, joined with the one used during a record round at Saint Andrews in the nineteenth century."

"A big deal and worth a lot of money, Sarah."
She glared at him with narrowed eyes. "Prestigious and priceless. It was a deep disappointment when you withdrew the feathery from my auction. You see, I was determined to outbid all the other collectors for it." She leaned forward with her elbows on the desk and gazed intensely at Scott. "My question to you, Mr. Beckman, is, If the McNair feathery is recovered, will you accept my offer of one million dollars for it?"

"I’m sorry. If I do get it back, I’ve still decided to keep it now that I can afford to."
It was like a cloud passed over her face before she forced a smile. "Very well. If the McNair feathery is recovered, I’ll expect Covington Gallery to collect twenty percent of its appraisal value prior to auction. According to my barrister, the penalty for removing it from auction will be two-hundred thousand dollars."
Scott didn’t possess the legal knowledge at hand to refute her threat, so he simply countered it with, "Whatever." Moreover, he thought her threat was deserving of that wise ass answer. "When will the other antiques in the collection be auctioned?"
"I plan to proceed with the auction as scheduled without the feathery and the bronze statuette. It will take place a week from today."

On their walk from her office to the lobby Sarah regained some of the congenial attitude she had before Scott denied her offer for the feathery. When they reached the door she held out her hand. "My very best wishes go to you during your play at the Open. I’ve some antique business there, and I’ll be staying at my cottage in Portpatrick. I’ll look you up in Turnberry."

Scott thought it was time to mention Matt. "My caddie used to work for you…Matt Kemp."
Sarah’s congeniality suddenly disappeared. When she recovered she said, "oh, what a coincidence. He was very good, but I had to fire him."
"Why did you fire him if he was that good?" Scott asked.
Sarah hesitated for a moment. "He was spending too much time with an opposing player."
Scott’s reaction to her reason was a blank stare. "Matt Kemp is an excellent caddie and my best friend."
She was silent after he said that. Scott took the hand she offered and left the gallery, relieved to be out of there. The cold rain falling in dark, dank London town fit well with his feelings about the sad news of today.

Matt enjoyed a lunch of fish and chips in a Trafalgar Square restaurant. The English specialty was served in a wicker basket lined with pages from Fleet Street tabloids. The newsprint carried stories of the infidelity and impropriety of naughty men and women from British royalty and parliament. It served the dual purpose of absorbing the grease from the fried fish and chips and obliterating some of those shocking revelations.

After his lunch, Matt entered a Barkley’s Betting Shop. He’d been walking around enjoying the sights and sounds of London and decided to make a wager on the Open. The room was full of bettors hunched over their racing forms. Smoke from cigarettes as thick as a London fog made it difficult for them to clearly see the televisions displaying a variety of sporting events around the world.

Matt approached a clerk wearing a green visor who sat behind a caged enclosure and asked him for a British Open betting line. The clerk handed Matt a sheet with the odds beside each player’s name. He skimmed down through the names on the list, ranging from the favorite to the long shot, Scott Beckman. The odds on Scott to win were at 200 to 1 as calculated by the Barkley odds-makers ten days before the tournament would start.

It didn’t take long for Matt to make his bet. He told the clerk, "Five hundred pounds to win on Scott Beckman at the British Open."

Matt passed the money through a space under the cage, and the clerk repeated the bet with a bewildered expression on his face. The dismay came because the Yank in front of him was wagering the equivalent of 880 United States dollars on a virtually unknown golfer to win a major golf tournament…the bloody British Open. The clerk’s look at Matt was askance when he handed him the betting slip saying, "good luck, mate."

When Matt returned to the hotel room he struggled with the idea of making a call, but finally picked up the phone and dialed a London number on a small paper he’d kept in his wallet for a long time.

"Hello, Jennifer Lawton."
"Matt, is that you? Where are you?"
"In London. Can you make it for dinner tonight?"
There was a pause. "Oh, Matt, I’m trying to sort things out with a friendship I’m in, and the timing for us to get together is just not right. It’s a lady friend who sponsored me when I first started on tour. She would like to move in with me. I don’t want that. I’m meeting with her tonight to explain and try to remain her friend".

Matt didn’t want his disappointment to show, so he changed the subject. "Are you still on the European tour?"
"Yes, but I’ve qualified to play on the LPGA in America. I’m leaving for there in a fortnight. Want a job?"
"No thanks. I’m employed and headed for the Open with a good player and best friend."
"Great, good luck there. Are you coming back through London on your way home?"
"Yes, I am."
"Good, I would like to see you then. It’ll be a better time than now." She paused again. "Matt, I’ve never forgot us."
"Me neither, Jennifer. I’ll see you here in London in about two weeks."
"Always, Matt."
After she said that, there was a click and the call ended. Matt held the phone for ten seconds while staring at the ear piece.

Matt was stretched out on a twin bed watching golf on the BBC when Scott entered the room. "Long meeting at the gallery? How’s the wicked witch of the East?"

"About the same as you described her. And you’re not going to believe what’s come down in the last twenty-four hours." He told Matt about the murder in New York and the shooting and robbery at Heathrow.

When Scott finished, Matt shook his head. "Man, the gallery guard in New York gets killed over the Feathery. A real bummer. And that bronze statue of the lady golfer went with the feathery?"

"Yeah, but the police here think the robbery and murder were all for the feathery."
Matt’s concern showed. "But the loss of that statuette cuts into your future bankroll, doesn’t it?"
"Right, but we’ve got enough to play Turnberry. And the money from Covington’s auction of the other stuff next week will keep us in a few more tournaments even if I miss the cut at the Open."
"Hey, I’m betting you’ll not only make the cut, but win the damn thing." Matt reached in his shirt pocket and handed Scott a small piece of paper, saying, "You’re in for half of this."
Scott looked at the betting slip, shook his head, and said, "five hundred pounds on me to win at 200 to one? You are one crazy dude." His smile was the first in hours.

I
’m having trouble coming to grips with why a person would commit murder and attempt to kill someone else over a golf ball!" New York City Detective Francis X. Riley, said while trying to subdue his Brooklyn accent in front of a group of proper English speaking inspectors. He was seated at a conference table in Scotland Yard headquarters, and included in the group of inspectors were three representatives from the Yard’s Art and Antique Squad. Riley was in London following his initial investigation of a murder at Covington Galleries in New York City.

"But, Detective Riley, this isn’t
just
a golf ball," replied Chief Inspector Trevor Bradshaw in his clipped accent. "This is
the
golf ball, the feathery, the Holy Grail of golf balls. This is the ball Hugh McNair shot an astounding 78 with at Saint Andrews in 1849. A record score then, and perhaps the equivalent of a 58 that would break the current record of 59 set in our primary modern golf tournaments."

"What kinda money we talking about?"
"Priceless, detective."
"Priceless? A golf ball?"
"To put it in perspective, what would the first baseball Babe Ruth hit for a home run be worth?"
Riley shook his head. "Hard to say."
"I read recently, Detective Riley, that Ruth’s bat, the one he used to hit the first home run in your Yankee Stadium, sold at auction for over one million dollars. Now, imagine if you owned both the first and last home run balls Babe Ruth hit. Well, baseball started in your country and its been adopted as a national pastime, so those baseballs would be dear to American collectors, but golf started here, and is our national pastime. In point of fact, the game has spread over much of the world, so perhaps this feathery has a broader value worldwide than those Babe Ruth baseballs." Bradshaw gave an inquisitive glance. "Do you have my point, Detective Riley?"

Riley nodded slowly. And those seated around the table looked at one another for a moment before an inspector sitting next to Riley broke their silence. "So where do we begin, Chief Inspector?"

"After lunch I’ll brief you all on the history of this feathery golf ball and how we’ll proceed with the investigation. Detective Riley will report on his interview with a person of interest in New York City by the name of Carrabba.. We shall recess and return here in two hours. During my lunch I’ll read a newspaper article written in 1849 for background. It’s part of a journal put together by Hugh McNair and tells about his record round on the links of Saint Andrews while playing with this feather and leather ball of antiquity fame."

The inspectors seated at the table knew Bradshaw’s briefings relating to golf memorabilia and antiques were never brief because the history of the game of golf was his hobby. Their hope was that the article in the journal might move the afternoon session along more rapidly.

The inspectors with Detective Riley left the building and headed to the local pub for lunch. Bradshaw entered his office. He went to a safe, spun the combination dial a few times, and removed the McNair Journal. He put on a pair of latex gloves, sat down at his desk, and propped the journal up on a book-stand, then took a ham sandwich out of a brown bag and poured a cup of tea from a thermos. His habit of adeptly handling evidence and the like while eating lunch was his rare breach of Yard protocol…a flamboyant and purposeful departure from the discipline imposed by his office. Even though the journal was not evidence but a valuable antique document, this divergence and time saving habit was retained.

Bradshaw searched the journal pages until he located an article written by Alistair Beddington in 1849. He put his feet up on the desk, took a bite from the sandwich in his left hand while turning the pages with his right.