I Am Pilgrim(231)

‘You sure have,’ I replied.

Finbar looked at the other two lawyers, addressing the former secretary. ‘Jim, if you wouldn’t mind – could you make that phone call later, just as a formality?’

He nodded.

‘In the meantime, we’re in agreement then?’ Finbar continued. ‘We’re satisfied – we can move forward?’

The two men nodded, but I could tell from the way the former secretary was looking at me that he had been in the Cabinet meeting when the death of the Rider of the Blue had been discussed. He had probably never thought he would come face to face with the man who killed him.





Chapter Twenty-six


FINBAR TOOK A file out of a wall safe, the other two lawyers shrugged off their jackets and from our eyrie I looked out at rain squalls sweeping down the park towards us, still with no idea what was going on.

‘As you know, when Bill died his very substantial wealth was held in a series of trusts which then passed – in their entirety – to Grace,’ Finbar explained, opening the file.

‘There was, however, one small but special part of his life that was quarantined in a separate corporate structure. What it contained had been built up over years and, quite honestly, Grace had never shown any interest in it.

‘Before he died, Bill made arrangements, with my help, for this to pass into your hands. I think he was worried that if Grace outlived him she would make no provision for you.’ He smiled. ‘Bill was obviously an intelligent man – we know how that turned out, don’t we?’

I grinned back. ‘She did give me eighty grand a year.’

‘Only at my insistence,’ he shot back. ‘I told her that if she didn’t make some gesture you would probably contest the will and might well end up with a fortune.’

‘That must have turned her stomach.’

‘Damned right it did. Bill wanted these arrangements kept secret until after Grace’s death – I think he was worried that she might challenge it and crush you with legal fees.

‘With her gone and, satisfied of your integrity, everything is now in place.’ He reached into the file and took out a bundle of documents. ‘The first part of Bill’s arrangement relates to a property in SoHo. Have you ever seen it?’

‘I’ve never even heard of it,’ I replied.

‘It is an old tea warehouse with a cast-iron facade and a huge space inside. Several people have said it would make a magnificent home. Why they would say that, I have no idea.’

Finbar – a widower with no kids – lived in a fourteen-room prewar co-op in Park Avenue’s most elite white-glove building, so I wasn’t surprised that he thought a converted warehouse was one step above a garbage skip.

‘Bill had it made airtight and put in sophisticated humidity, fire and air-conditioning systems. This building and all its contents are what he wanted you to have.’

He gave the bundle and a sheaf of other documents to the two wise men, and they started signing and witnessing them.

‘What contents?’ I asked.

Finbar smiled. ‘Bill was very orderly, a completely rational man, but in one segment of his life he never disposed of anything—’

‘The art!’ I interrupted, caught between shock and wonder.

‘That’s right,’ Finbar replied. ‘As you may know, there was hardly an unknown artist he didn’t support by buying their work – sometimes whole exhibitions.’

‘He told me once,’ I said, ‘that most people’s idea of charity was to give money to the United Way – he supported starving artists.’

‘And that’s exactly what he did – year after year, cheque after cheque. But he had the eye, Scott – that was the remarkable thing – and he kept everything he bought.’

‘In the tea warehouse?’

‘That was why he converted it – he stacked it inside like lumber. Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, Hockney, Jasper Johns, Rauschenberg – the list is endless. This is an inventory.’

He pushed a print-out across to me and I leafed through it – every page was littered with what had become household names.

‘What about Grace? After Bill died, she never asked about any of it?’

‘As I said, she had no interest. I think at some stage he must have told her that he’d sold whatever he still owned and the proceeds had gone into one of the trusts.’

He slid another thick document across the desk. ‘Naturally, I had to keep the canvases insured and that meant regular valuations. This is the most recent information.’

I took the list and saw that next to each canvas was its estimated value. On the last page it had been totalled. I stared at the figure and saw that I was a very wealthy man – maybe not as rich as Cameron, but over halfway there.