Who Is Simon Warwick? Read online

  Tentatively, Rosalie said, “Wouldn’t Humberton have…?”

  “We’ve seen the letters from Humberton,” Ambrose said. “But the actual adoption must have been done over here.”

  “So what about the birth certificate?”

  “Exactly. Now, if Simon had actually been the Finches’ child, born in England while his father was on active service, he’d have had a British birth certificate, a British passport if he wanted one, and the option of dual nationality or of deciding one way or the other when he came of age. But there was no way the Finches could get a British birth certificate for Simon in their name. As we know, it’s still on the British files in the name of Warwick.”

  “They must have realized the problem,” said Rosalie.

  “Certainly they must. They must have put it to the lawyer who acted for them here. And I’m just asking myself—if I had been that lawyer, what would I have advised?”

  Rosalie said thoughtfully, “If he’d been their natural child—”

  “That’s it!” interrupted Ambrose, triumphantly.

  “What’s it?”

  “Naturalization. In the most literal sense of the word. I’ll bet it could be arranged, and I bet they did it, and there must be a record of it somewhere!”

  There was. Simon Alexander Finch, son of Alice (née Bartlett) and Captain John Finch, born to them in London, England, on October 8, 1944, had been naturalized as a United States citizen in 1945. His mother had taken American nationality upon her marriage, as she was entitled to do, and in the circumstances the statutory fourteen years’ residency clause had been suspended in the case of the child. Simon Alexander Warwick, Englishman, had become Simon Alexander Finch, U.S. citizen.

  “There you are!” Ambrose said to Rosalie, as they sat in their hotel room looking out over the lights of Washington and listening to cars skidding into each other on the frozen streets. “Everything tallies, and it works on the psychological level, too.”

  “How do you mean, darling?”

  “Well, the machismo father who sounds a frightful brute, with his gimpy leg, trying to lead a vicarious life of brawn and brawls through his son. The gentle English mother, trying to mediate between them. The boy must have been unhappy enough by the time he found those papers, which told him for the first time that these people were not his parents at all. It’s no wonder he stole the documents and ran away. The father then flies into a rage and destroys all other papers and photographs, except the snapshots, which the mother manages to hide.” Ambrose, warming to his theme, had dropped into the historical present—a device he liked to use in court. “But his mother does not tell Grady that the passport was destroyed—only that she cannot find it. What happened to it? Nobody exactly knows, but I intend to find out. Somehow or other, it falls into the hands of the boy Harold Benson. After all, Leesburg is not so far from McLean. The boys are the same age, and from the same social background. Maybe they go to summer camp together. Perhaps Simon Finch discovers his passport before he finds the letters, and takes it to show to his friend.”

  Interrupting the flow, Rosalie said, “You’re quite certain aren’t you, Ambrose?”

  “Certain about what?”

  “That Simon Finch is Simon Warwick.”

  “I don’t see how there can be any doubt about it. I’ve enough proof for any court of law. What I intend to do now is to find out just how Benson got that passport, and to expose him for what he is—a fraud, and an impostor.”

  “And Simon Finch will get Lord Charlton’s money?”

  “I shall lay the matter before the judiciary,” said Ambrose.

  “You do sound pompous, darling.”

  “Sorry, darling. What I mean is, I’ll consult with Bertie Hamstone, and if he agrees we’ll go to the courts and present the evidence. After that, the will can be proved and the estate handed over.”

  “And Simon Finch-Warwick will take over one of the biggest textile businesses in Europe.”

  “He won’t take over, idiot. He’ll be the major shareholder.”

  Rosalie yawned, stretching her arms above her head. Then she got up and walked over to the window. “I can’t help feeling sorry for them, Ambrose.”

  “For whom?”

  “All those lovely charities who would have got the money. I bet they were counting on it.”

  “Well, they’ll have to look elsewhere,” said Ambrose, “because we’ve found Simon Warwick.”

  Rosalie turned, smiled, and held out her arms. “How clever you are, darling. He’s sure to be grateful, isn’t he?”

  Ambrose embraced his wife. “He bloody well ought to be,” he said.

  The question of a second visit to Charlottesville was never even mentioned. The Quinces flew back to London with the documentary evidence of naturalization, a statement by Bernard Grady, school attendance records, and death certificates. The search for Simon Warwick was over.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A FEW DAYS after they got back to England, Ambrose and Rosalie Quince gave a small dinner party. The food and drink were excellent—Rosalie employed a professional caterer to do the food, and hired help in the kitchen for the dishes and serving—but nevertheless the atmosphere was not exactly festive, nor was the occasion purely social. The guest list consisted of Sir Percy and Lady Diana Crumble, Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Hamstone, Miss Cecily Smeed, and Mr. Denton Westbury.

  After dinner, when the hired help had removed the last dirty dish and had served coffee and liqueurs at the dinner table, Ambrose brought the meeting to order.

  “My friends,” he said, “I asked you here this evening not only for the great pleasure of your company, but to tell you something which I feel you should be the first to know. After all, you were all connected in one way or another with the late Lord Charlton, and you all know the circumstances of his most recent will, and the job with which I was entrusted. Well, I am delighted to tell you that my mission has been accomplished. I have found Simon Warwick.”

  The announcement was greeted in silence. Bertie Hamstone, who knew already and had told his wife, Elizabeth, merely settled back into his chair and fiddled with the band of his cigar. The other guests, however, sat up tensely, waiting for details.

  Ambrose went on. “I say that I am delighted, and of course I am in the sense that it was Lord Charlton’s dearest wish that his nephew should inherit. He wanted, I think, both to make up for his previous indifference to his brother’s son, and also to make sure that control of the Warwick businesses remained in family hands.”

  At that, Sir Percy Crumble let out something very like a snort, and Lady Diana started to say something and then thought better of it.

  “Now,” said Ambrose, “as I said, we are all involved in some way. Bertie and I, of course, are the executors of the will. We have agreed to submit the evidence which we have collected to a court of law, and have it legally recognized that our candidate is, in fact, Simon Warwick. I may say that, in my view, the evidence is incontestable. You agree, Bertie?”

  Bertram Hamstone, florid and fifty and a pillar of a small but exclusive London bank, grunted his assent.

  Ambrose went on. “As for the rest of you, I am afraid this may not come as tidings of great joy. Cecily, as we all know, spent her life in Alexander Warwick’s service, acting as his confidential secretary for more than thirty years.”

  He smiled warmly down the table at Cecily Smeed. She gave him an angry little nod, displaying the unbending lack of emotion that had intimidated not only her inferiors at Warwick Industries, but many of her nominal superiors as well. She was a tall, handsome woman in her fifties—gray haired, beautifully groomed, certainly not dowdy. Just formidable.

  “Under Lord Charlton’s previous will,” Ambrose continued relentlessly, “Cecily Smeed stood to inherit…a sizable sum. Under the present will, she gets the silver inkwell which always stood on Lord Charlton’s desk, and which he hopes she will keep as a memento of her work with him.”

  The look which Cecily Smeed directe
d at Ambrose would have reduced most men to quivering silence, but Ambrose did not appear to notice it. At least, it checked the irreverent giggle which Rosalie hastily suppressed. She had never liked Cecily Smeed, and had always been afraid of her.

  “Sir Percy and Lady Diana,” Ambrose went on, “are in a different position. As managing director of Warwick Industries, Sir Percy has virtually been running the whole concern for years. His chairman of the board, Lord Charlton, was elderly and in failing health, and was prepared to delegate his authority. It remains to be seen what Simon Warwick, as principal shareholder, will do. I realize that the coming months are bound to be an anxious time for all top executive management in the group.”

  Surprisingly, Sir Percy gave a booming laugh. “Noon o’ your bizness, yoong Quince,” he said, giving full rein to his thick North Country accent. Percy Crumble had risen through the ranks of Warwick Industries, and it took more than a milksop of a London lawyer to rattle him. For all his Savile Row suits and aristocratic wife, Percy Crumble was still essentially the lean, shrewd, quick-witted young man who had nipped up the career ladder by a combination of hard work, acumen, and complete ruthlessness.

  Ambrose smiled and bowed briefly in his direction. “I realize that, Sir Percy,” he said. “I just thought that everybody here should know all the facts.” He paused, and changed gears. “As for my friend Denton Westbury, I am afraid the picture is not bright. As you may know, Lord Charlton agreed several years ago to the appointment of Denton as president of the Charlton Foundation, which was to administer the very considerable charitable funds resulting from Lord Charlton’s bequests. He and I have been working together for quite some time, making all preparations so that the foundation could come into being as soon as possible after Lord Charlton’s death. Denton, dear boy, I very much fear that you are out of a job.”

  Denton Westbury smiled—a smile that, like the rest of him, was short and thin. “That has always been a possibility, Ambrose,” he said.

  “A possibility, yes. Now it seems to be an inevitability.”

  Rosalie Quince frowned. It seemed to her that Ambrose was being unnecessarily spiteful. The party had been given simply to give these people advance news of the discovery of Simon Warwick. The fact that neither she nor Ambrose particularly liked any of them was neither here nor there.

  “Well,” said Ambrose, “there you have it. Forewarned is forearmed. All of us around this table are going to have to adjust…first, to the fact that Simon Warwick exists, and secondly, to the man himself. I think we should drink a toast. To Simon Warwick.”

  He raised his glass. There was dead silence. It was Percy Crumble who voiced the spirit of the meeting when, instead of drinking, he said bluntly, “ ’Oo is the bastard?”

  Ambrose grinned broadly, and at once the atmosphere relaxed and became almost conspiratorial.

  “He’s a man in his thirties,” he said, “who currently goes by the name of Simon Finch. Through the good offices of an English solicitor called Alfred Humberton, he was privately adopted in 1944 after the death of his parents by a Captain and Mrs. Finch. Captain Finch was an American soldier married to an English girl, and Simon traveled to the United States with them, as their child, at the end of 1944. However, at the age of fifteen he ran away from home and returned to England. He is now completely Anglicized—you would never take him for an American. He is unmarried, and he strikes me as being shy and somewhat nervous, but not stupid. I can’t see him planning any forceful takeover of the affairs of Warwick Industries. I think that you will be able to work harmoniously with him, Sir Percy.”

  Cecily Smeed said, “Are you absolutely convinced, Mr. Quince, that you have the right man?”

  “The evidence is all there,” said Ambrose. “That is—all except one small detail, which I intend to sort out in my office on Saturday morning.”

  “What’s that? What detail?” Diana Crumble leaned forward across the table, her long, thin face thrust toward Ambrose.

  Easily, Ambrose said, “This has all been completely confidential up to now, but in fact there have been two claimants whom I was forced to take seriously. One was Simon Finch. He is most certainly our man. He was able to produce not only the accurate story of his life, which has been corroborated by independent witnesses in the United States, but also all the relevant documents—except one—which he took with him when he ran away from home.”

  “What documents?” demanded Sir Percy.

  “Letters from Humberton to the Finches arranging details of the adoption.”

  “Could they have been forged?”

  “I’m afraid not, Sir Percy. They are written on Humberton’s die-stamped office stationery, and an expert has confirmed that the paper is at least thirty years old. Even more conclusive, among Lord Charlton’s personal papers I chanced upon a letter from Humberton, written in 1943 on a different matter altogether. There is no doubt that it was typed on the same machine.”

  “Hm.” Sir Percy grunted. “But you say one document is missing. What is it?”

  “The passport which was issued to the infant Simon Warwick to enable him to leave England with the Finches in 1944.”

  “Well, it was probably—”

  Ambrose held up his hand. “You misunderstand me, Sir Percy. I did not say that it was missing. It is, in fact, in the possession of the other claimant. That was why I had to investigate him seriously. However, once Rosalie and I got to America and started making inquiries, it was easy enough to blow his story to shreds. He is a brash, forceful, plausible young man named Harold Benson, Jr. And I may say,” Ambrose added with a smile, “that if I were connected with Warwick Industries, I would be extremely glad that I was not going to have him as my chairman of the board. Happily, there is no fear of that.”

  “But how did he get hold of the passport?” asked Cecily.

  “I don’t know,” said Ambrose, “but I intend to find out. The two families lived not too far from each other in Virginia, and the boys were the same age. Personally, I am convinced that they knew each other, and that Benson somehow acquired the passport from Finch. Until today, neither knew of the other’s claim. Each thought that I had gone to America solely to investigate him. However, I have a little surprise lined up for ten o’clock on Saturday morning. I have invited both young men to come to my office in order to confront a rival candidate. I am quite sure that they will recognize each other, and in the shock of that moment I shall be able to find out exactly what happened to that passport. It is the final piece of the jigsaw.”

  Elizabeth and Bertram Hamstone were the last to leave the dinner party. At the front door, Hamstone took Ambrose by the arm, and said, “You certainly let them have it from the shoulder, Ambrose.”

  Ambrose shrugged. “No point in mincing words. They have to know, and make up their minds to accept the situation. I’m sorry for Cecily and Denton. Percy’s as tough as old boots. He won’t have any trouble disposing of poor Mr. Finch.”

  Susan Benedict, Ambrose Quince’s secretary, arrived at the offices of Quince, Quince, Quince and Quince at nine o’clock on Saturday morning. She opened up the main door from the corridor, and then the door into Ambrose’s own suite. She took off her coat and hung it up in the outermost office, which was her own domain. Then she walked through the waiting room and into Ambrose’s office, where she satisfied herself that all was in order before unlocking the door that led directly onto the corridor, and that was marked PRIVATE on the outside.

  Susan was a tall blonde with a round, babyish face, who traveled up to town every morning from Wimbledon, where she shared a flat with two other girls. She had been romantically and hopelessly in love with Ambrose ever since she had come to work for Quince, Quince, Quince and Quince as a junior typist, five years ago. Her first promotion had been to the post of secretary to Mr. Silverstein, but by cautious maneuvering she had inveigled herself into the job of Ambrose’s secretary when Miss Bunting—who had worked for forty years for Ambrose’s father—finally doddered into re
luctant retirement.

  Ambrose knew perfectly well that Susan Benedict was in love with him, and used the fact to his advantage. After all, he had never encouraged the girl in any way—and she must know that she never had a chance against the dark, nubile, intelligent Rosalie. From a practical point of view, however, the situation had great benefits. Miss Benedict was never too busy to stay and work late at the office—by herself, naturally. Miss Benedict was only too ready to do a little shopping for Ambrose (it was really for Rosalie, but that fact was never mentioned) during her lunch hour. Above all, Miss Benedict was only too pleased to come in on Saturday mornings, when Ambrose frequently liked to talk with clients in the quiet atmosphere of an almost deserted office building. Ambrose always insisted that Miss Benedict should be compensated for Saturday work, either with extra money or time off; Susan ritually refused both, but occasionally indulged in the luxury of a protracted lunch hour when her mother came up from the country on a shopping trip. She persisted in regarding these few-and-far-between leaves of absence during office hours as a tremendous favor, whereas in fact they were considerably less than her due. As Rosalie often remarked to friends, Ambrose had an absolute treasure of a secretary.

  Susan returned to her own office and sat down at the desk. She glanced at her watch. Only ten past nine. The two clients were not due until ten o’clock, and Ambrose would arrive even later. There was, as Susan knew, an element of one-upmanship in keeping people waiting. Pent in the small, gloomy waiting room—little more than a corridor linking Susan’s office with Ambrose’s—clients became nervous and irritated and therefore malleable. They would not realize that Ambrose was merely late, for he would go directly into his office through the door marked PRIVATE, and then buzz through to Susan that he was ready for his appointment.