Forget truth and justice, my dear. Charm is definitely The American Way

Harry hesitated. “There can be only one reason why this has surfaced now. There must have been another death.” He turned to the screen but the news had finished and, in place of the hotel, there was a weather map. Liz frowned. “Perhaps Sweden wasn’t such a good choice of location, Mags.”

“Oh come on, show me a country that doesn’t have murders. Anyway, we won’t be anywhere near Stockholm.”

“I told you we should have gone for a beach holiday.”

“You did not, you lying toad,” I said, grinning. I turned to Harry, hoping to engage him as my ally, but he was staring at a point behind me. His eyes were wide with excitement. I turned round.

Two men had entered.

Both were tall, six foot or more, and well built. The older was dressed impeccably, the cut of his clothes hinting that they’d been tailor-made. His green Harris Tweed jacket was buttoned over a cream rollneck sweater, which he was fingering at the neck as though too tight. His trousers, which lacked the usual faded look of brown corduroy, were sharply creased, the creases saying more about him than anything else.

He held his head confidently, studying the room with an air of boredom like a well-fed lion surveying his territory. As he moved his head, our eyes locked for a second, but he looked past me immediately, not interested in what he’d seen.

He had the pale, unlined skin of someone who stays out of the sun, and a thin mouth set in a sneer as though nothing were up to his usual standard. His hair, styled to disguise a receding hairline, was the same salt-and-pepper colour as Harry’s. There was an unmistakable aura about him. It took me only a second to recognise it. It was power. And he reeked of it.

His companion, casually dressed in sports clothes, had the same hooked nose and brown eyes, but darker hair. He seemed nervous and fumbled in his carry-on bag, dropping his mobile phone with a clatter.

The Foundation

“He’s here,” said Harry, reverence in his voice. “He’s actually here. I’m in the same room as Wilson Bibby.”

“Wilson who?” I said.

“Wilson Bibby III.” His eyes were riveted on the men. “Of the Bibby Foundation.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” I said, my curiosity rising. “Is it a charity?”

“I prefer to call it a charitable foundation,” he said stiffly. He seemed unsure whether to continue. “Years ago, I applied to the Foundation for a grant. They looked kindly on my application, and have been funding my research ever since.”

“I take it you’re talking about the older man,” said Liz. “He looks terribly serious. Have you met him?”

“Good heavens, one simply doesn’t meet a man like Wilson Bibby. He’s far too important.”

“If he’s that important, why is he in an airport café like everyone else?” I said.

“I think, my dear, it’s because he’s travelling incognito. He’s been the victim of several failed kidnap attempts. And there was a well-publicised stalking case a couple of years ago.”

I studied Wilson Bibby with growing interest. He wasn’t acting like a man afraid of being kidnapped. “What else does he do apart from giving money to deserving academics?”

“He’s a benefactor in other ways. He’s used some of his millions to establish a charity for poor children in South Carolina.”

“Why South Carolina?”

“His family hails from Charleston. They go back several generations. I think one of them fought at Gettysburg. At least, that’s what Bibby claims. But then, every American I’ve met from the south has an ancestor who fought at Gettysburg.”

Marcellus

Wilson was speaking into a mobile phone. His call finished, he handed the phone to the younger man, who snapped it shut.

“His manners are said to be impeccable.” Harry smiled knowingly. “Forget truth and justice, my dear. Charm is definitely The American Way. He’s a real southern gentleman. And he keeps a stable of mistresses. But, then, you’d expect that of a real southern gentleman.”

The men made for a nearby table, Wilson in the lead, his companion shouldering both sets of carry-on luggage.

“Who’s the other one?” Liz said.

“His son, Marcellus.” The admiration was gone from Harry’s voice. “He used to be part of the New York set, an enfant terrible. It’s widely known that his father threatened to disinherit him unless he mended his ways and settled down to something meaningful. Now he helps run the Foundation – he’s the one I correspond with when it’s time to renew my grant. He seems well disposed towards academics but, by all accounts, Wilson keeps him on a tight leash.” “How do you know so much about them?” I said. “My dear, when you depend on external funding for your research, it’s politic to find out what you can about those who provide it. I follow the fortunes of the Bibbys with great interest. Take Marcellus, for example. I see the name doesn’t ring a bell. You don’t remember that brouhaha in the media about him? It would have been a year ago.”

I shook my head.

“A New York socialite was found dead of an overdose in her Manhattan apartment. The police claimed Marcellus had been with her on the night she died, but there was nothing conclusive in the way of evidence. His fingerprints were all over the place, of course, but that’s hardly surprising as they were seeing each other at the time.”

“I take it, as he’s here, that he wasn’t charged.” “Word was that his father pulled a few strings.” Harry smiled grimly.

“Marcellus may have had something to do with the incident, but his father has the clout to have things hushed up. It was after that that we heard less about Marcellus’s wild ways, and more about his work with the Foundation.”

The men were sitting not far from us. Wilson ignored the No Smoking signs and lit a cigar, puffing vigorously. A cloud of smoke drifted to our table, carrying with it the rich aroma of expensive tobacco.

He murmured something to his son, who rose quickly and made his way towards the self-service counter. As he passed our table, he stared at me and continued to stare until he collided with a woman holding a tray of food. I turned away, in time to catch the smile on Liz’s face.

Harry was fidgeting, apparently trying to make up his mind about something. With a decisive movement, he scraped his chair back. Wilson turned at the sound, frowning as he saw Harry bearing down on him. His mouth twisted into a moue of distaste, and he scanned the room rapidly.

More tomorrow.