"Thanks," he said, his attention on the matter at hand, patting his pockets before taking out a stick of chewing gum and placing it into his mouth.
"You're sure I can't talk you out of this?"
"You don't want the money?"
"I can replace the money, my boy. But I couldn't possibly replace you."
Remington met that concerned gaze, then smiled. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. Aren't you the one who always said I had the luck of ten Irishmen? Besides, I've a date to keep in two months. And I've no intention of standing the lady up. Now get up to the house with Felicia. Just to be safe," he was saying, as Daniel began to shake his head.
"If you think I'm going to leave you down here alone, my boy- What do we do first?"
Under his mentor's watchful eye, Remington gently removed the pins from the hinges on the case, the shifted his attention to the latches. "Daniel, I need something heavy. To keep the top steady when I pry the latches loose. A rock- or-."
"Or me?" he asked, putting his hands on the top of the case.
Blue eyes met blue eyes. "If this thing blows," Remington began.
"I don't think it will matter to either of us," Daniel said.
Remington nodded, then took the gum from his mouth and placed half into one latch and the other half into the other. "Now, keep it steady. If the lock moves-," he warned.
"Get on with it, my boy."
Picking up the knife, Remington slowly, painstakingly, pried the latches from the briefcase. "Okay. Very slowly, Daniel," he said, picking up the wire cutters, "lift the lid until I tell you to stop." Daniel's hands rose. "STOP!" Remington ordered. "Bloody hell!"
"What is it, Harry?"
"The bugger put a secondary timer on the thing." He cut the wire to the latch, but the small digital clock still glowed, still ticked off the seconds.
30-29-28 . . .
"Red or green, Daniel?" Remington asked.
"Red," Daniel said decisively.
Remington put the cutter around the red wire.
10-9-8-. . .SNIP!
The display stopped at 5 seconds, and Remington sat back. "Damn." He glanced up at Daniel. "You can put the lid aside now, Daniel." When the other man didn't respond, Remington gently pried his fingers from the case, putting it down to reveal the money. "A hundred thousand," he said.
Late that night, Remington stood on the terrace, looking out over the water. Someone coughed in the house, and he turned to see the light go on in Daniel's room. His old friend his been quieter than normal after a successful con- and Remington had put it down to their scare on the beach. But hearing him cough now brought back the memory of those pills to mind. Finishing his drink, Remington went inside.
He tapped softly on Daniel's door. "Daniel?" he called through the wood. He heard the sound of a drawer closing, then Daniel opened the door.
"Harry. Couldn't sleep?"
"Guess I'm still too keyed up from this evening," he said. "I was on the terrace and happened to see your light. Daniel, is everything okay?"
"I couldn't be better," Daniel insisted, turning to pour them each a glass of brandy. "After all, thanks to you, I'm fifty thousand pounds richer than I was this morning. Although I DO wish you'd reconsider and accept a cut of the take."
"It wasn't the money, Daniel," Remington said. "I think I just wanted to see if I could still do it."
"You did, my boy."
"No, Daniel. All I did was almost get the both of us killed." He gazed thoughtfully into the amber liquid in his glass. "I said once that the magic was gone. It's still not there."
"Nonsense. You're simply out of practice. You haven't worked a real con in several years."
"And I don't intend to get my feet anymore wet than I did today. I think part of today was anger at Laura, as well. Anger that she seemed to be doing so well without me in her life. Hell, I can't pick up a bloody newspaper without seeing her picture in it- and the only mention of Remington Steele is that he's "out of town". She's not even pretending to consult with her missing employer anymore. But hopefully I've still got a life waiting for me back in Los Angeles. And it's a good life. I don't want to mess that up."
Daniel took a deep breath. "I understand, Harry. Believe it or not, there was a time when I could have gotten out- but I made the wrong choices. And I paid dearly for it." He smiled, and Remington wondered if he'd seen that look of sadness at all. "I'm leaving for Hong Kong tomorrow. Care to join me?"
"Hong Kong? No, thank you. I think I'll go back to London. I'm sure I can find something there to keep me occupied."
Remington stood at the window of the townhouse, watching the incessant rain as it fell. It had been raining for two weeks, a match to Remington's dark mood. How many times had he reached for the telephone to call Mildred? Just to see if Laura still needed him at all. The newspapers certainly didn't give him that impression. Laura Holt had become Los Angeles' newest darling, it seemed. And the mention that she had been seen around town with the FBI agent from that first photograph wasn't helping Remington's mood one iota.
Was she going through the same hell he was, he wondered. Not a day went by that he didn't think of her, that he didn't wish her photo beside his bed goodnight. He'd even bought a calendar and had taken to crossing off the days until he would see her again.
Daniel was due to be gone another week, at least and although Felicia had called a few times, Remington had found himself putting her off. He'd gone to the club- won, lost and won a small fortune, haunted art galleries, he'd even found his old sketch pad and begun to draw again. Eventually, he had been forced to buy a new stock of supplies: sketchpad, charcoal, pastels. But at the moment, they were sitting across the room, untouched. All day, he'd had the feeling that something was going to happen.
"I won't be gone long, Harry," Mary said, and he turned to find her in the doorway wearing her servicable black rain coat, an umbrella in her hands.
"Take your time. And be careful in this rain."
"I will. I've just got t'pick up a few things from the market."
"Don't hurry on my account. I'm fine with my own company."
She looked at him curiously. "Y'are, aren't you? I never thought I'd see the day when you'd prefer t'stay here rather than attend the party that Felicia's havin'."
He smiled. "Laura's influence, I suppose."
"Y'know, Harry, I'm looking forward t'meetin' that young lady of yours."
"You will, Mary," he said, hoping she couldn't see the uncertainty in his smile. "You don't think I'd be married without invitin' you, now?" The sound of a car horn made him look back outside. "Louie's here."
"I'll be off, then. The kettle's on, if you want some tea," she informed him as he walked her to the door.
"Thank you," he said, waving as she got into the cab. Closing the door behind her, he wandered toward the kitchen. A cup of tea sounded just right, he thought, finding a cup and saucer as the telephone rang. "Hello?"
"Is Mr. Chalmers in?" a female voice asked.
"No, he's out of town. May I take a message?"
"This is Dr. Hamilton's office. The doctor has some test results that he wants to discuss with Mr. Chalmers. Will he be back soon?"
"He's due back next week," Remington told her. "Uh- what sort of tests?"
"I'm sorry. I'm not allowed to give out that information. Just have Mr. Chalmers call Dr. Hamilton as soon as he gets home to set up an appointment. That it's very important."
"Look, Miss-," Remington said quickly, searching for some reason to keep her on the line.
"Smythe," she told him. "Lisa."
He grinned. "Has anyone every told you that you have a lovely voice? So soothing. Just like an angel of mercy."
"Well, some people HAVE said that, yes."
"Well, they're right. Mr. Chalmers is my- uncle, Lisa. He's the only family I have. If he's ill, then-."
"I'm truly sorry, but it would mean my job if I- But I suppose I CAN tell you that Dr. Hamilton thinks your uncle may need to go into hospital again," she told him confidentially. He heard her shuffle some papers. "You said you're his nephew?"
"Yes," he responded guardedly.
"Oh, good. Mr. Chalmers listed his son as his next of kin, and he was MOST insistent that we not contact him about this."
"His- son?"
"Why, yes. He lives in Los Angeles. Mr. Chalmers told me all about how he's a big private investigator there. Remington Steele?" she said, beginning to wonder why Daniel's "nephew" wouldn't know about Daniel's "son".
Remington hung up the telephone with great care, then turned and picked up the bone china cup and saucer- only to have both fall from his nerveless fingers. The nurse's words kept chasing through his mind.
"His son . . .Remington Steele."
He climbed the stairs on legs that weren't quite steady, and went directly to Daniel's room. Taking a deep breath, Remington pushed open the door and turned on the light. The top drawer of the chest drew him closer and with a quick movement, he pulled it open.
It rattled.
There were bottles and bottles of pills - all with Daniel's name, most prescribed by Dr. Hamilton. Daniel WAS ill- if this was any indication. The coughing that he'd tried to hide, the pallor so unnatural to him- all had been pointers that something was wrong, only Remington had been too caught up in his own misery to see it.
His hands fell on the cool silver picture frame and he looked at the photograph, studying the face closely. Dark hair, dark blue eyes. Sad eyes- a dreamer's eyes. His eyes. Remington carefully removed the photo from the frame and nearly dropped it as he read the writing in Daniel's hand: "Rose Harrison Chalmers. May, 19, 1952."
Beneath the spot where the photo had been was something else: A gold pocketwatch, which, when opened, played the first few notes of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling", and that held an inscription which Remington knew all too well: To S.J. from K.L. How the bloody hell had Daniel wound up with this? The last time he'd seen it, the watch had been back in the hands of its rightful owner, Kevin Landers, the Earl of Claridge.
It was time to find out just how good a detective Remington Steele really was.
It was two days later that he traced the name Rose Harrison to a little village in County Navan. But to find out details, he knew he would have to go to Ireland, do some of that legwork that Laura had always teased him about hating so much. As he through some things into a case, he paused, recalling the last time he'd gone looking for him father- and he fought back the anger. Daniel had let him go through that farce with the Earl, when all he'd had to do was simply tell the truth. Well, when he was done, Daniel would HAVE to own up- or pay the price.
Mary was in the entry hall and frowned when she saw the case in his hand. "You're leaving, Harry?"
"Just for a few days, Mary. I should be back before Daniel gets home."
"He'll be askin' where you've gone when he calls."
"Tell him- Tell him I've gotten a lead on my father that I want to check out," he said, watching her reaction closely.
"Your- father, lad? I didn't know that y'were still lookin' for him."
"Didn't Daniel tell you about my visit to London a few months ago?"
"He mentioned you'd been here during my holiday," she told him. "But not much more."
Remington lifted his case as the cab arrived. "I'll be back." Mary knew, he realized, walking down the steps into the early London afternoon.
It was disgustingly easy for him to discover what he needed to know. Most of it, anyway. A quick search of the records brought much of it into soft focus.
Rose Hamilton had been born in Dublin, had married Daniel Chalmers in Scotland just after her eighteenth birthday, shortly after the photo had been taken. She died eighteen months later- in a convent in County Navan. A convent dedicated to helping unwed mothers.
That information came easily. Getting information about Rose's time at the convent was more difficult, Remington discovered as he sat in the office of the Reverend Mother, listening to her interminable lecture on confidentiality.
"Reverend Mother," he said, breaking in, "I fully understand the need for discretion- the need to protect the young women who come here for help. But in this case, I don't see the need. The young woman we're discussing has been dead for over thirty years. What I need to know is what happened to the child she had while she was here."
"I haven't said there was a child, Mr. Steele."
"Then why else was she here?" he countered. "Not to serve others less fortunate than she. She wasn't a nun."
"No," the woman admitted slowly. "She wasn't." Her sharp gaze searched his face, then fell to the photo on her desk. She took a deep breath. "I was a young novitiate in this convent thirty years ago, Mr. Steele," she told him. "And I remember Rose Chalmers quite well."
Remington sat forward, listening intently as she began to speak.
To Be Continued . . .