by Simon Brett
‘I’m surprised to hear people of that kind come to this hotel.’
‘Oh, indeed, Mrs Pargeter, you are right. All of my clients are absolutely out of the top drawer, people of impeccable ethical standards, but—’ – he grimaced as he spelled out the unpalatable truth – ‘when it comes to art, normal moral considerations go out of the window. I’m afraid the zeal of the collector is too powerful, and the presence of genuinely valuable paintings in the suites would prove just too much of a temptation to some people. So it is simpler if I decorate the rooms with VVO’s very fine copies.’
‘Isn’t there a danger that those copies might get stolen?’
The hotel manager looked affronted. ‘Good heavens, no, Mrs Pargeter. The kind of clients who frequent Greene’s Hotel would recognize instantly that they were fakes.’
Further discussion of the vagaries of the rich was prevented by the arrival of Truffler Mason, wearing his customary shapeless brown suit and his customary undertaker’s frown. ‘Hi there, Mrs P, Hedgeclipper,’ he said joylessly.
The hotel manager winced. ‘If you don’t mind . . . within the purlieus of this hotel, it is preferred that nicknames are not used, Mr Mason.’
‘Sorry, Mr Clinton.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Hedgeclipper was once again wreathed in smiles. ‘Now, if you will excuse me . . . I have to arrange a fleet of stretch limos for the Sultan’s wives . . .’ And he wafted imperceptibly out of the room.
Mrs Pargeter charged her guest’s glass with champagne and raised hers to toast him. ‘So, Truffler, can you fill me in a bit more on what HRH told me? When the paintings leave the country, they are actually declared to Customs?’
‘Well, some paintings are, yes. VVO’s modern rubbish. That’s what the customs inspectors see.’
‘But the real ones are hidden underneath?’
‘Exactly. Don’t worry, it’s a doddle. HRH has organized that kind of job hundreds of times. Never any problem.’
‘Good.’ Mrs Pargeter took another reassuring swallow of champagne.
‘Only thing is, though,’ said Truffler tentatively, ‘it’ll cost a bit. I mean, for the courier, a few other expenses . . .’
A plump hand waved away the objection. ‘Don’t worry. Veronica Chastaigne’ll pay for all that. She seems to have unlimited money – and seems to want to spend as much of it as possible before she pops off.’
‘Why do you reckon that is?’
Mrs Pargeter smiled shrewdly. ‘Reading between the lines, I’d say it’s so that she leaves as little of it as possible to her son.’
‘Ah, right. Toby, that’d be? The accountant?’
‘Mm.’
‘I haven’t met the young man, but I’ve heard about him. Haven’t been that impressed by what I’ve heard either. Never had much time for accountants . . . well, except of course for the imaginative ones . . . and there are precious few of those around these days.’ He gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Yeah, poor old Bennie’d be well miffed if he knew Toby was, like, disowning him. After all the old man done for the boy. He was a good lad, old Bennie. Heart in the right place, no question.’
‘So I’ve heard. Anyway, tell me, Truffler, how will the plan work?’
‘Dead easy. Sweet as a nut. Gary ‘n’ me are set up for tomorrow night. Down to Chastaigne Varleigh with the van, Mrs Chastaigne lets us in, we load up the paintings . . .’
‘And where do you take them?’
‘Lock-up I’ve got. Safe as houses—’ He chuckled mournfully. ‘No, darn sight safer than most houses. And then, soon as poss, we start taking the goods back to where they belong.’
‘Will that be tricky?’
‘Piece of cake.’
‘Good. So I’ll have kept my word to Veronica Chastaigne.’
‘Course you will. Honour will have been satisfied.’
Mrs Pargeter raised her glass. ‘Excellent, Truffler. Let’s drink to the success of the job.’
‘Right.’ He raised his to clink against hers. ‘And let’s drink to the hope that they’ll all be as easy, eh?’
Chapter Twelve
‘It was Bennie Logan you were talking about, wasn’t it, sir?’
Inspector Wilkinson looked up from his desk with distaste. He didn’t approve of junior officers bursting into his office without knocking, and he didn’t like the sound of what the junior officer in question was saying. The art theft case was his; he hadn’t mentioned the name of Bennie Logan to anyone. It sounded horribly as if Sergeant Hughes had been showing some initiative.
Still, ignorance was going to be the best starting position. He placed his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hughes.’
‘I’ve been doing some research through the files.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t tell me anything, sir, so I made it my business to find out for myself.’
‘This is my case, Hughes. I don’t like other people poking around in my business.’
The Sergeant stared defiantly into his adversary’s eyes. ‘There was nothing secret about it, sir. None of the files had any special security rating. They’re all accessible to any member of the Force who happens to be interested in them.’
‘And why do you happen to be interested in them?’
‘Because I’m supposed to working with you on the bloody case and you won’t tell me anything!’
Inspector Wilkinson winced at this outburst, but didn’t offer a reprimand. He just looked reproachfully at his young colleague and asked, ‘So what do you reckon you’ve found out?’
‘There’s a strong suggestion that Bennie Logan was behind all the robberies. He wasn’t directly involved in any of them, but all of the likely perpetrators had links with him at some level. Everything seems to lead back to Chastaigne Varleigh.’
‘Maybe,’ said the Inspector. ‘Yes, that is a possible interpretation of the facts.’ He drummed his fingers on the cigarette-scarred surface of his desk. ‘It must have taken you some time to go through all those files, Hughes.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Sergeant yawned. ‘I have been putting in the hours, actually. Up pretty late last couple of nights.’
‘Hmm. You’re very keen, aren’t you?’ Wilkinson was unable to keep the distaste out of his voice.
‘Yes, I am, sir. I’m not ashamed of that. I want to get ahead in the Force, sir. I want to be the kind of detective who makes his mark.’
It could have been Wilkinson’s younger self speaking. Of latter years he had kept quiet about such aspirations; they tended only to prompt ribaldry from his colleagues. Yes, he remembered when he had been full of ambition, just as Sergeant Hughes was now. But Wilkinson had been kept down, had his ambitions thwarted by the jealousy of older, less gifted officers.
And he was determined now to see to it that exactly the same thing happened to Sergeant Hughes.
‘You haven’t done any follow-up interviews with any of the witnesses, have you, Hughes?’
‘No, sir. I haven’t had time yet. But I was planning to talk to them when—’
Suddenly Wilkinson, moustache bristling, was on his feet and bellowing across his desk, ‘You will do nothing of the kind! You will do nothing more connected with the case without telling me beforehand precisely what action you propose to take. And you will only then do it if you have my express permission. You have no idea, Hughes, of the delicacy of this operation. Its outcome can only be successful if it is conducted in absolute secrecy. If you imagine, Hughes, that I have kept the facts from you out of some kind of dog-in-the-manger selfishness, then you have a very inaccurate notion of what makes a good copper. I have kept you in the dark because I know how easily rumours can spread. The very walls have ears, you know, Hughes – even inside a police station. I am very close to tying up this case once and for all – and if the whole elaborate mechanism gets destroyed at this stage by some wet-behind-the-ears, newly promoted sergeant who fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes, I’ll . . . well
, I won’t be responsible for my actions!’
Hughes hadn’t seen his boss speaking in this vein before, and it was undeniably impressive. Most of the time Inspector Wilkinson came across as an ineffectual old fuddy-duddy, a dinosaur in the Police Force, whose retirement could not come soon enough. But now, he had a certain magnificence. Here was a man who knew what he was doing, a man who was well ahead of the game, and who had all the details of the case at his fingertips. Hughes was properly subdued by the outburst.
Wilkinson sank slowly back into his chair. ‘Do you take my point?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the Sergeant mumbled.
‘Good.’ The Inspector gave him a bleak smile. ‘So . . . since you’ve got as far as you have in the case, what would be your next step, Sergeant Hughes?’
‘I’d apply for a search warrant and have a look around Chastaigne Varleigh.’
‘Would you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And do you imagine for a moment that I haven’t thought of that?’ Wilkinson reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a folded document. ‘One search warrant, all duly signed and authorized.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the chastened Sergeant repeated.
‘The only important thing now is the timing of when we go in. As I believe I may have mentioned before, Hughes, the mark of a good copper is an intuitive instinct for timing. That is something I have, and something that you may possibly over the years develop.’
The Sergeant couldn’t stop himself from asking, ‘So are we going in straight away, sir? When are we going in?’
‘That is something that I will decide. I am in charge of this case, and all decisions concerning it will be taken by me.’
‘Of course, sir. But will it be soon?’
‘Yes, Hughes.’ Inspector Wilkinson smiled a confident – almost complacent – smile. ‘It will be very soon indeed.’
Chapter Thirteen
It was night. Diluted moonlight washed over the gravel outside Chastaigne Varleigh, where a red Transit van was parked. A thickset man jumped out of the van’s back doors and said to his mate, ‘Nearly done. All we got to get now is the—’
‘Who’s this coming?’ the other man hissed, and pointed down the drive. Through the metal gates swung the headlights of another vehicle.
‘Don’t think we’ll wait to find out!’
The two men leapt in the van’s cab, and gunned its engine into life. They waited till the approaching vehicle – also a red Transit van – had drawn up just behind them, then screeched off down the drive in a fusillade of gravel.
The two men in the newly arrived van only got a quick impression of the driver’s face. It was unfamiliar, heavy and sour-looking.
‘Who the hell were they?’ asked Truffler Mason in bewilderment.
‘I don’t know,’ Gary replied.
‘D’you get their number?’
‘Course I did.’ Gary’s memory for number plates was photographic and infallible.
The two men jumped out of the cab and hurried towards the house.
‘I don’t like the look of this at all,’ murmured Truffler, pulling at the chain beside the heavy oak door and setting up a distant jangling inside the house. ‘Something’s seriously wonky.’
‘Hope nothing’s happened to the old bird,’ said Gary anxiously.
‘No, it’s all right, I can hear footsteps. She’s coming.’
The door opened, and Veronica Chastaigne stood there, blinking at them in some astonishment. Outlined in the thin moonlight, she looked paler and more frail than ever. ‘Good evening. Can I help you?’
‘Yes. I’m Truffler Mason and this is Gary,’ said Truffler. ‘We’ve been sent by Mrs Pargeter to collect your paintings.’
The old lady’s astonishment grew. ‘What? But some other men have been and done that.’
‘The ones who’ve just gone?’
‘I suppose so. I didn’t think they’d got all the paintings, but maybe they had.’
‘Damn!’ Truffler Mason looked down the drive without hope. The tail lights of the first Transit were long out of sight. ‘Damn!’ he repeated. ‘Who the hell were they?’
The walls of the Long Gallery looked depressingly bare, their oak panelling loweringly dark. Of the rich array of paintings Mrs Pargeter had been shown, only three remained. There were a couple of minor Madonnas and a voluptuous Rubens nude.
‘I’m sorry.’ Veronica Chastaigne shrugged helplessly. ‘I was told two men would be arriving in a red van. Two men arrived in a red van, so I naturally assumed they were the ones I was expecting.’
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Chastaigne. It wasn’t your fault.’ Truffler shook his head in frustration as he looked around the denuded space.
Gary was equally angry. ‘How did they know it was going to be a red van? Someone’s got to have been talking out of turn.’
‘Yes, and I’ll damned well find out who—’
Truffler’s words were stopped by the sound of a little sigh escaping from Veronica Chastaigne. He turned, but neither he nor Gary was quick enough to catch the old lady before she collapsed unconscious on to the wooden floor.
The chauffeur was instantly kneeling down beside her. He lifted the pitifully light form a little to cradle her head in his arms. Veronica Chastaigne gave no signs of noticing what was happening to her.
‘Blimey O’Reilly! She’s not dead, is she?’
‘No.’ Gary looked up unhappily at his colleague. ‘Doesn’t look too good, though.’
Chapter Fourteen
Inspector Wilkinson felt cheerful – even blithe – as Sergeant Hughes drove him along the next morning. They’d given up the Wagner experiment and were listening to a golden oldie radio station, which was much more the Inspector’s style. And Hughes was properly subdued, almost deferential, in his manner. The outburst in the office, Wilkinson felt confident, had done the trick. The Sergeant now realized the kind of man he was up against.
‘Did I mention, Hughes,’ the Inspector mused, ‘that one of the most important qualities of a good copper is patience?’
‘Yes, sir, you did.’
‘I’ve been building up this case for such a long time, you know, and it would have been so easy to rush it, to go in before everything was ready . . . and that would have screwed up the whole thing.’
‘Yes, sir. If we do find what we’re hoping to inside the house . . .’
‘Hmm?’
‘. . . what will happen? Bennie Logan’s dead. He can’t be charged with anything, can he?’
‘No, but his wife’s still alive.’
‘She didn’t have anything to do with the actual robberies.’
‘She must’ve known they’d taken place. I gather she’s not a stupid woman, and the kind of press coverage those robberies got . . . no one could pretend they didn’t know about them. No, Veronica Chastaigne definitely knew the stuff was hot.’
‘So what could she be charged with?’
‘Don’t know exactly. Receiving stolen goods, perhaps? But don’t you worry about it – we’ll find something.’ The Inspector chuckled in self-congratulation. ‘Did I mention, Hughes, that another of the most important qualities of a good copper is a sense of timing . . .?’
‘Yes, you did, sir,’ the Sergeant replied patiently.
It was only when they stood in the Long Gallery, looking at the naked walls, that Sergeant Hughes realized just exactly how good Inspector Wilkinson’s sense of timing was.
Chapter Fifteen
Veronica Chastaigne looked very small, almost doll-like, sunken amongst the covers and pillows of the hospital bed. Around her in the private room loomed the impedimenta of serious illness – the row of monitors, the stand for the drip that disappeared into bandages round her left wrist, the cylinder of oxygen and its mask, not currently in use but standing by in ominous readiness. On top of the covers, Mrs Pargeter’s plump fingers reassuringly encompassed the old lady’s bony hand, as she asked gently, ‘So you can’t think of anyone who might have kn
own about the paintings?’
Veronica Chastaigne shook her head forcefully, but with little strength. Her voice sounded deeply tired as she replied, ‘Nobody did. Very few people ever came to the house, and none of them was allowed to see the gallery.’
‘And you don’t think news of the paintings’ existence would have got round in . . .’ Mrs Pargeter paused for a moment to come up with a phrase of appropriate discretion ‘the sort of circles where people might have been interested in that kind of thing . . .?’
‘No,’ the old lady asserted firmly. ‘My husband was meticulous about the “need to know” principle. He recognized the importance of keeping certain things quiet.’
‘So did mine,’ said Mrs Pargeter, with a momentary flicker of wistfulness.
‘No. No one outside the family knew of the gallery’s existence. Bennie made absolutely certain of that.’
Mrs Pargeter looked thoughtful. She remembered that Truffler Mason had heard rumours of the hidden stash of famous paintings, but didn’t think it the moment to mention that. ‘Well, someone knew they were there . . .’ she mused.
‘The only person who’d been in that gallery since Bennie died – apart from Toby and myself – was you.’
‘Yes.’ Realizing the potential implication of the old lady’s remark, Mrs Pargeter flushed. ‘But surely you don’t think that I would have—’
‘Not you yourself, obviously, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Veronica Chastaigne evenly. ‘Some of your helpers, however, have in the past been involved in criminal activities.’
‘I don’t deny it. In the past, though. Not now. Now they’re all honourable men – really. I can assure you, none of them would have broken my trust in that way.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
The doubt in the old lady’s voice offended Mrs Pargeter, but she did not let it show. After all, if Truffler had heard rumours, maybe they were common currency in certain circles. ‘What about Toby . . .?’ she asked diffidently.
Veronica Chastaigne was offended in her turn, and she made no attempt to hide it. ‘You’re not suggesting my own son might be involved in this burglary?’
