I figured that if I gave them ten per cent each and took eighty for myself, then they ought to be happy. They would scream blue murder at first, but when they realized there was nothing they could do about it, they would soon settle down and be grateful for small mercies. Now there was of course only one way in which I could put myself in the position of being able to dictate terms to the other two. I must get possession of The Semen’s Home and all the treasures it contained. Then I must move it to a safe and secret place where neither of them could reach it. That would not be difficult. As soon as Yasmin and I had returned from America, I would hire a removal van and drive up to Dunroamin when the place was empty and make off with the precious treasure chest.
No problem.
But a bit of a dirty trick, some of you may be thinking? A bit caddish?
Rubbish, I say. You’ll never get anywhere in this world unless you grab your opportunities. Charity has never begun at home. Not in my home, anyway.
“So when will you two be going to America?” A. R. Woresley asked us.
I got out my diary. “One month from now will be Saturday, the fifteenth of May,” I said. “How’s that with you, Yasmin?”
“The fifteenth of May,” she said, taking her own diary from her purse. “That seems all right. I’ll meet you here on the fifteenth. In four weeks’ time.”
“And I’ll book cabins on the Mauretania for as soon as possible after that.”
“Fine,” she said, writing the date in her diary.
“Then we’ll collar old Henry Ford and Mr. Marconi and Rudolph Valentino and all the other Yanks.”
“Don’t forget Alexander Graham Bell,” Woresley said.
“We’ll get the lot,” I said. “After a month’s rest, the old girl will be roaring to go again, you see if she isn’t.”
“Hope so,” Yasmin said. “But I do need a rest, honestly I do.”
“Where will you go?”
“Up to Scotland to stay with an uncle.”
“Nice uncle?”
“Very,” she said. “My father’s brother. He fishes for salmon.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Right now,” she said. “My train goes in about an hour. Will you take me to the station?”
“Of course I will,” I said. “I myself am off to London.” I drove Yasmin to the station and helped her into the waiting-room with her bags. “See you in exactly a month,” I said. “At Dunroamin.”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“Have good hols.”
“Same to you, Oswald.”
I kissed her farewell and drove down to London. I went straight to my house in Kensington Square. I was feeling good. The great scheme was actually coming to pass. I could see myself in about five years’ time sitting with some silly rich female and her saying to me, “I rather fancy Renoir, Mr. Cornelius. I do so adore his pictures. How much does he cost?”
“Renoir is seventy-five thousand, madam.”
“And how much is a king?”
“That depends which one.”
“This one here. The dark good-looking one–King Alfonso of Spain.”
“King Alfonso is forty thousand dollars, madam.”
“You mean he’s less than Renoir?”
“Renoir was a greater man, madam. His sperm is exceedingly rare.”
“What happens if it doesn’t work, Mr. Cornelius? I mean if I don’t become pregnant?”
“You get a free go.”
“And who would actually perform the insemination?”
“A senior gynaecologist, madam. It would all be most carefully planned.”
“And my husband would never find out?”
“How could he? He’d think he’d done it himself.”
“I suppose he would, wouldn’t he?” She giggles.
“Bound to, madam.”
“It would be rather nice to have a child by the King of Spain, wouldn’t it?”
“Have you considered Bulgaria, madam? Bulgaria is a bargain at twenty thousand.”
“I don’t want a Bulgar brat, Mr. Cornelius, even if he is royal.”
“I quite understand, madam.”
“And then of course there’s Mr. Puccini. La Bohème is absolutely my favourite opera. How much is Mr. Puccini?”
“Giacomo Puccini is sixty-seven thousand five hundred, madam. He is strongly recommended. The child would almost certainly be a musical genius.”