by Mike Ashley
“Who’s this?”
“I told you not to take the Emperor down!”
“It’s him!” said Milton, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece. “The anonymous Frog. He’s watching us.”
“Can you hear me?” said the voice.
“I hear you, mon ami,” replied the other with polite contempt. “And I don’t care two hoots for your orders. Napoleon comes down.”
“In that case, we double the price.”
“What price?”
“For Nelson.”
Milton rid himself of a few expletives but the line went dead.
“They’re holding him to ransom,” he told Hurrell.”
“Where?”
“He forgot to tell me.”
“How much do they want?”
“A lot, by the sound of it.” He put the mobile away. “Well, let’s get rid of one statue before we try to reclaim the other. Meanwhile, you do what I said, Ken. Get your men on the case, chasing down every weird group of French sympathizers they can find. Join me when it’s time to take the Emperor for a ride.”
Hurrell moved swiftly away to pass on the orders to a small squad of detectives. Milton turned his gaze back to the statue. Pete Sylvester seemed to have cut through the base of the statue and was ready to have it removed. Using thick ropes with great dexterity, he lassoed the statue at various points. He was quite fearless, even climbing part of the way up the solid stone to secure the ropes more tightly. When he’d finished, he waved to the crane driver and the massive hook swung slowly towards him. Sylvester waited until it had stopped swinging before he began to loop the ropes around it. After tying them off with great care, he and his men descended the scaffolding at speed, then stood back to watch.
The crane applied pressure but the statue refused to move at first. A yell of encouragement went up from the crowd. When the driver put extra power into the tug, the statue was suddenly lifted clear of its base, sending rubble hurtling to the ground. Shorn of his majesty, the deposed Emperor made a slow descent until he rested horizontally in the back of the lorry. Sylvester and his men swiftly covered him with their tarpaulin. As the lorry drove away with its foreign cargo, it was greeted with the kind of ovation that only a winning English goal in the final of a World Cup could have evoked. Even Commander Milton applauded.
Before he could get away, he was obliged to make another statement to the media and hinted that he was already in contact with the kidnappers. Hope was firmly planted. Nelson had not been abducted in order to be destroyed. A ransom demand presupposed that no harm had come to him. If the money was paid, he might return unscathed.
“Is this a French conspiracy?” asked an interviewer.
“I’ll tell you when I find out.”
“What else can you tell us?”
“Nothing at this stage.”
Milton excused himself and elbowed his way to a waiting car. He and Hurrell were soon being driven after the lorry. Having discharged his orders, the Detective Inspector had grown pensive.
“Do you know much about the Battle of Trafalgar?” he asked.
“I know the only thing that matters, Ken. We won.”
“But do you know how, sir?”
“Our sailors were better than theirs.”
“And our commander. Villeneuve was no match for Nelson.”
“Who?”
“Villeneuve. The French Admiral.”
“I was forgetting,” said Milton, running a hand across his lantern jaw. “Napoleon was a landlubber, wasn’t he? The Emperor didn’t fight any sea battles.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Why did they put him up there instead of the French Admiral?”
Pete Sylvester and his men had been remarkably efficient. By the time the detectives arrived at the warehouse, the rear of the lorry had been tipped hydraulically and the statue had been eased gently out on to a bed of sand. Sylvester waved the lorry off then turned to welcome Milton and Hurrell. Other detectives emerged from a second car.
“He’s all yours, Commander,” said Sylvester, gesturing.
“Thanks to you.”
“It was much easier than I thought.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not made of solid stone.” The foreman kicked the base of the statue. “This part is, as you can see. But I think your men will find that Napoleon Bonaparte is largely made up of plaster.”
“So he could have been carried by a balloon!” said Hurrell.
“Balloon?”
“Nothing, Mr Sylvester,” said Milton, taking him by the shoulder to usher him away. “Thank you for all you’ve done. We won’t detain you any further. As long as you’re on stand-by for the important part of the operation.” Sylvester looked puzzled. “Putting Nelson back up again.”
The foreman chuckled. “I can’t wait, sir. That’s why we left the scaffolding in position. We’re so confident that we’ll get him back.”
“You have my word on that.”
Peter Sylvester went out and Milton motioned his men into action. They put down their cases and began an examination of the statue. The base was indeed made of solid stone but there was a hollow sound when they tapped the head and the shoulders. Dick Milton was merciless. He had no qualms about giving the order for execution. With a well-judged kick, one of the men struck the Emperor’s head from his shoulders. The Commander peered inside the torso. He could see all the way down to the knees. He gave a grim smile.
“I bet he’s got feet of clay as well!”
A uniformed constable entered with a large brown envelope.
“This is for you, Commander,” he said, handing it over.
“Where did you get it?”
“Someone in the crowd thrust it at me.”
“Didn’t you get his name, man?”
“I had no time, sir. He said something in French and ran off.”
“In French?” Milton looked at the envelope. “A ransom note.”
He tore it open and quailed. Hurrell looked over his shoulder.
“Five million pounds!” he said with a whistle.
“Payable in unmarked notes of specific denominations.”
“Is that the going rate for a stolen statue?”
“Look at the signature. Ken.”
“I can see it, sir.”
“Villeneuve.”
It was over three hours before the call came. In the interim, Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell left their colleagues to continue their work at the warehouse and returned to Scotland Yard. The first thing which the Commander had to endure was a searching interrogation by the Commissioner. He limped back to the security of his own office.
“He made it sound as if I’d stolen the bloody statue!”
Hurrell looked up from the book he’d been reading.
“What about the ransom?”
“He thinks we should pay it, Ken. If all else fails.”
“Never!”
“That was my feeling. The Commissioner’s argument was that we’re talking about a national treasure. In emotional terms, it’s worth far more than five million. He even had some crazy idea about opening a public fund. A quid a head from five million people. I ask you!” sighed Milton. “All I’m interested in is nailing this gang.”
“Me, too.”
“No word from the lads while I was out?”
“Not a peep, sir. Somehow I don’t think Napoleon is going to yield up many clues. Seems to have been made out of the sort of materials you could buy almost anywhere.”
“In that case, we must concentrate on the dirigible. There can’t be all that many in existence. See if any were reported stolen. And chase up the bomb squad. They should have analyzed those devices by now. My guess is that they were made by someone with Army training.”
“With a friend who can fly an airship.”
“Yes,” said Milton, pacing the room. “The dirigible took Nelson away and brought Napoleon in. Or did it? Something’s been bothering me, Ken. Remember when the statue was lowered from that colum
n? The crane had to make a real effort to shift it.”
“The weight made the ropes tighten.”
“Yet Napoleon was as hollow as an Easter egg.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
The telephone rang to interrupt their cogitations. Milton put the receiver to his ear. He had no need to speak. A continuous stream of information gushed down the line and put a look of utter amazement on his face. Milton eventually asked a few questions, recoiling from the answers. When he put the phone down, he was in a daze. He lowered himself into a chair. Hurrell stood over him.
“Who was that?”
“Mr Crabtree of ‘Gostelow and Crabtree’.”
“I thought he was on holiday.”
“He was. Tied up for two days in his own warehouse. And he wasn’t the only one. His wife was there with him so that she couldn’t raise the alarm. The pair of them have just been released.”
“But we were in the warehouse ourselves.”
“No, Ken. That wasn’t Crabtree’s place.”
“Then why did Pete Sylvester take us there?”
“It was all part of the ruse,” said Milton, thinking it through. “He pulled the wool well and truly over our eyes. I know that my namesake was blind but I don’t think he could have blind as the pair of us.”
“What do you mean, sir.”
“Crabtree had never heard of Pete Sylvester.”
Hurrell gulped. “I’m beginning to guess what happened.”
“So am I, Ken. And I certainly don’t relish the idea of telling the Commissioner. Peter Sylvester – or whoever he really is – has duped us good and proper. He pulled off the most astonishing trick in front of millions of viewers. And nobody saw it happening.” He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. “Where is the sod?” he said through gritted teeth. “More to the point, who is he?”
“I can tell you where he got his name from, sir.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hurrell, opening the book he’d been studying. “While you were out, I read up on the Battle of Trafalgar.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Everything. He’s playing games with us. Do you recall the name of the French Admiral in the battle?”
“Yes. Villeneuve.”
“But do you know what his Christian names were?”
“Who cares?”
“We ought to, sir,” said Hurrell, putting the book in front of him. “Look at the name under that portrait of Villeneuve. Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre Villeneuve. Do you see now? Pierre Sylvestre.”
Milton grimaced. “Pete Sylvester!”
When the cargo had been unloaded on to a bed of sand, the lorry was taken away to be disposed of with its false number plates. The gang congratulated themselves on the success of their plan and celebrated with bottles of beer. There were ten of them in all, each of them due to pocket a half a million pounds when the ransom was paid. In the meantime, everything had been laid on at the warehouse. Food, drink, comfortable chairs, beds and two television sets had been installed. There was even a stolen microwave.
The preparation had been faultless. It was time to relax.
“We should have asked for more than five mill,” said one man.
“We will,” promised their leader. “Let them sweat it out first.”
“What did old Crabtree say when you released him?”
“Swore like a trooper. Couldn’t believe a trusted employee like me would turn on him and his wife.” He glanced at his watch. “I expect he’s told his tale of woe to the coppers by now and discovered why we nicked his lorry and scaffolding. Crabtree will have given them the name I used when I worked for him. While the boys in blue are scouring London for John French, I’m living it up here with my mates in Milton Keynes.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Know the bit I enjoyed most? Having that detective call me ‘Mr Sylvester’. I really fooled him and his sidekick.”
They savoured the details of their crime and the hours oozed past with ease. Hamburgers were heated in the microwave. More beer flowed. A card game started. They lost all purchase on time and all sense of danger. When the police eventually burst in, the whole gang was taken by surprise. They fought hard but they were hopelessly outnumbered. All but their leader were dragged off to the waiting police vans.
Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell watched as their man was handcuffed before they questioned him. They looked him up and down.
“Did you really think you could get away with it?” asked Milton.
“I did get away with it!” insisted the other. “Nobody rumbled us.”
“Until now, Mr Sylvester. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s not your real name, is it? Nor is John French, the alias you used when you worked for Gostelow and Crabtree. No, your real name is Charles Villeneuve. Or, in plain English, good old Charlie Newton. Late of Her Majesty’s armed forces. It takes a lot to get a dishonourable discharge, Charlie. Your service record makes colourful reading.
“How did you get on to me?” snarled the captive.
“Ken must take the credit for that, explained Milton with a nod at his companion. ‘When you threw all those clues at him, he read up on the Battle of Trafalgar and learned about your namesake, Admiral Villeneuve, Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve. You were clearly obsessed with him. From his one name, you got three. Charlie Newton, your baptismal name, Pete Sylvester and John French, or, as you probably saw it, French Jean. I must confess, you used some cunning diversionary tactics. Had us believing this whole business was planned and executed by some French extremists. Whereas you’re really as English as boiled beef and carrots.”
“There were other clues,” said Hurrell. “A series of bombs, the use of an airship, the removal of a statue in broad daylight. All the hallmarks of a military operation. That’s where we started looking for you, Charlie. Among the Army’s drop-outs.”
“It deserved to work!” protested Newton. “It did work.”
“Only up to a point,” said Milton, strolling across to the statue of Napoleon that lay on the sand. “Your stage management was superb. Worthy of Shaftesbury Avenue. Only instead of giving them live theatre, you blacked out the West End and offered them a radio play. They all thought a statue of Nelson was being hoisted away by an airship with one of Napoleon taking its place. But the simple truth is that old Horatio didn’t move one inch during the night.”
“No,” added Hurrell, bending down to pull away the Emperor’s fibreglass hat. “Now, then, what do we have here?” he asked in mock surprise. “I do believe’s it’s Lord Nelson’s hat hidden underneath.” He tapped it with his knuckles. “Solid stone. That won’t come off.”
“You didn’t steal him from the column,” said Milton with a grudging admiration. “You disguised him as Napoleon so that you could take him down legitimately – or so it appeared – today. No wonder you came so quickly when I called the office number of ‘Gostelow and Crabtree’. You were ready and waiting. Now I see why you wanted us to keep the media off your back when you took the statue away. You didn’t want them around when you made the switch. The fake Napoleon was already under the tarpaulin when you laid Lord Nelson beside him. All you had to do was to unload the plaster version and send your men off with the real statue. Ingenious.”
Newton was sullen. “We could never have stolen it in the pitch dark. Too complicated. So I got myself a job with Crabtree because I knew he had the contract for cleaning Lord Nelson. While I was up there, I took exact measurements of the statue. I paid a sculptor to create a fibreglass Napoleon which would fit Nelson like a glove. Nobody could tell the difference from down below.”
“You covered every option,” said Milton. “But made one mistake.”
“Yes,” agreed Hurrell. “You tried to be too clever. You played the Nelson game to the hilt and it was your undoing. You couldn’t resist one final trick on that name. Villeneuve. New Town. You were taunting us, Charlie. Telling us exactly where you were hiding.”
“You lost the battle,” said Hurrell. “Just like Admiral Villeneuve.”
They took him by the arms and marched him out. As they headed towards the police van, the Commander gave a ripe chuckle.
“It wasn’t all a case of brilliant deduction,” he admitted frankly. “Luck came into it. But, then, I’ve been due a bit of good fortune for some time and this was it. You were so busy playing games with your own name that you never thought to consider mine.”
“Yours?” said Newton.
“Dick Milton. Poet by name and policeman by nature. And where did you decide to hole up and toast your success? The whole of Britain was at your mercy but you picked Milton Keynes. There’s a poetic justice in that, Charlie. Thank you.”
He shoved the prisoner hard into the rear of the police van.
“Any room in there for Lord Nelson?” he asked.
THE AMOROUS CORPSE
Peter Lovesey
Peter Lovesey (b.1936) rapidly established himself with his first novel about the Victorian detective Sergeant Cribb, Wobble to Death (1970). Apart from the Cribb series he has also written novels featuring the Prince of Wales (the future Edward VII) as detective in Bertie and the Tinman (1987), Bertie and the Seven Bodies (1990) and Bertie and the Crime of Passion (1993). He won the Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger Award for the year’s best novel with The False Inspector Drew (1982) set aboard the S.S. Mauretania in 1921. The following story, however, has a modern-day setting, and was specially written for this anthology.
I’d been in CID six months when the case of the amorous corpse came up. What a break for a young detective constable: the “impossible” evidence of a near-perfect murder. You’ve probably heard of that Sherlock Holmes story about the dog that didn’t bark in the night-time. Well, this was the corpse that made love in the morning, and I was the super sleuth on the case. I don’t have a Dr Watson to tell it for me, so excuse me for blowing my own trumpet. There’s no other way I can do it.
