Gideon 02 -The Time Thief

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  “Grumpy-looking old trout, wasn’t she?” he said.

  He was speaking to a gangly youth who was failing to keep the rain off him with an umbrella too small for the purpose. The big man trained his binoculars on the curiously blank facade of Buckingham Palace and then zoomed in on a scarlet-jacketed guard standing to attention in front of a sentry box.

  “There’s discipline for you. I saw one of them guards keel over once. Fainted clean away on account of the heat.”

  His binoculars swept across a straggly line of tourists and hovered over the only three people who were not peering at Buckingham Palace through the tall black and gold railings.

  “And there’s our man if I’m not mistaken….”

  He observed the athletic figure of the Tar Man, known to him as a certain Mr. Vega Riaza. Although the man wore a woollen hat and scarf which covered everything but his eyes and nose, he recognized him on account of the way he held his neck. The Tar Man had impressed him—a rare occurrence, for he found the majority of the human race to be a disappointment. He could not understand where Vega Riaza had suddenly sprung from. He had put feelers out without any success. No one, it seemed, could provide any information on him. Either that or they weren’t talking, for the big man knew, having climbed a harsh route to the top of the criminal profession himself, that only experience can teach you the kind of self-possession which this mystery man had in plenty. Vega Riaza already had an interesting history—of that he was certain.

  The Tar Man was again accompanied by the pretty girl who dressed, he reflected, in clothes designed to look as if they’d come from a charity shop. That stunted youth was with him, too. He was the runt of the litter and no mistake. There was something about his face that reminded him of sepia photographs of starving East End kids before World War II.

  “What a shower! If he’s wasting my time, I’ll pull his arms off for him. I’ve got better things to do than hobnob with Queen Victoria in the rain. We shan’t be amused, shall we, Ma’am?”

  Tom and Anjali both carried large umbrellas. Suddenly, in a movement that reminded the big man of assistants helping a magician do his trick, they drew the umbrellas together so that the Tar Man was hidden from view.

  “What’s ’appening, boss?” asked the gangly sidekick. “I can’t see nothing.”

  Tom and Anjali separated again. The Tar Man had disappeared.

  “How did he do that!”

  Anjali turned to face the Victoria Monument and took out her mobile phone. A second later the big man answered her call.

  “Keep your binoculars trained on the balcony,” she instructed. “Whatever happens—and I mean whatever happens—if you’re still interested, meet us as planned in Mayfair. Think of it as a free trial. If you don’t want to go ahead, no problem—we’re not short of interested parties….”

  Anjali did not wait for a reply but hailed a black cab, and she and Tom, staring straight ahead, drove down Pall Mall toward Horse Guards Parade.

  The big man frowned as he watched them sail past. He had the uncomfortable sensation that he was being led like a bull with a ring through its nose. It didn’t do to have small fry like these give him the runaround. He had his reputation to consider. His sidekick accidentally poked him in the face with the umbrella. The big man swore at him and shoved it angrily away, but the youth was not listening. Instead he was pointing, slack-jawed, at the palace.

  Like butter melting, a grin slowly spread over the big man’s face. The last time he had seen anyone on that balcony it had been members of the Royal House of Windsor, waving at the cheering multitudes while RAF jets roared over Pall Mall leaving patriotic vapor trails in red, white, and blue. But now it was Mr. Vega Riaza who stood calmly in the center of the balcony and he was waving at the Victoria Monument.

  “That,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting….”

  Soon people were pointing and cameras were flashing and a couple of guards ran out into the forecourt of the palace to see what the fuss was about. The big man became anxious despite himself and shouted pointlessly up at the tiny figure.

  “Get out of there, you idiot!”

  He snatched up his binoculars and zoomed in on the Tar Man who simply stood there, quietly observing the frenetic activity which his presence had initiated. The big man was puzzled.

  “What’s his game?”

  Moments later there was a flurry of activity, and a huddle of uniformed soldiers and security guards appeared on the balcony. They forced the Tar Man to the ground at gunpoint although he put up no visible resistance. Soon the sound of multiple police sirens echoed all over Pall Mall.

  “Bang goes tea and cakes in Mayfair,” said the gangly youth. “Shame. I was feeling a bit peckish.”

  “Use your head,” said the big man. “He let them take him. Our Mr. Riaza is a risk-taker. Let’s go and see what his messenger has got to say for herself….”

  When they arrived at Brown’s Hotel a quarter of an hour later, smoothing down their hair and giving their shoes a quick polish on the back of their trousers, a uniformed valet showed them the way to an elegant private room, bedecked with flowers, where Anjali and Tom were already waiting for them. The big man gave a guarded nod to Anjali, and he sank down into one of the sumptuous upholstered sofas. His sidekick dithered, unsure whether he was supposed to sit down or not.

  “Why don’t you take the weight off your feet,” said Anjali, patting the seat of her sofa. “I’ve already ordered. Tea should be here in a minute.”

  Almost immediately the door opened and a waiter came in carrying a large tray of tea, cucumber sandwiches—crusts cut off—and petits fours. He bent over and placed it carefully on the low mahogany table and started to pour tea from a silver teapot into china cups. Interestingly, the waiter then proceeded to sit down next to Anjali and help himself to a pink, iced cake which he popped into his mouth and dispatched in one bite.

  There was total silence as the assembled company watched the Tar Man take a sip of his tea. The big man started to clap, slow at first and then louder. And then he began to laugh. Soon the room was resounding to applause and raucous laughter. Anjali was doubled up and clung on to Tom trying to catch her breath. Tom felt the warmth of her hands through his shirt and wished that the moment could have lasted forever.

  “A clever trick, Mr. Riaza,” said the big man and then, suddenly serious, “How did you do it? And, more to the point, how the heck did you get away?”

  “It is more than a clever trick, my friend. It is a priceless one—and, believe me, I am aware of its worth. I have a skill which is unique in all the world. I have the power to go wherever I please—be it a lady’s bedchamber or the Bank of England—and no man can stop me. Capture me and I will slip through your fingers like water through a sieve. Can you begin to comprehend the possibilites? From your expression I see that you can….”

  “What do you want, Mr. Riaza? Are you offering me something or asking me for something?”

  The Tar Man smiled, showing all his newly whitened teeth. He liked a fellow who came to the point.

  “Both.”

  “You don’t think you’re becoming a bit … fixated with this Houdini character, do you, sir? You can’t pin every unsolved crime on him. There’s no proof that it’s the same person.” Sergeant Chadwick put on a concerned but respectful expression.

  “Don’t try to be tactful, Sergeant. ‘Obsessed’ is the word you’re looking for, and I’ve already been called that once today. And if I’m becoming obsessed, it’s for good reason!”

  Inspector Wheeler’s voice was getting louder. Sergeant Chadwick closed the office door.

  “We’re only dealing with hints and rumors so far. No one’s talking—and that’s worrying in itself. I cannot understand why I am the only one who thinks that this constant trickle of disparate information points to the same man. But I’ll tell you one thing for nothing—if I’m right, I’ve never seen anyone move in on so many different territories so quickly. Either this is one very sca
ry guy or he’s got something that people want….”

  “Or both,” suggested Sergeant Chadwick.

  “Obviously. You see, we’re not just talking about the East End, this guy has already gone south of the river, he’s into the warehouse district around Heathrow, he’s infiltrated the City. It’s as if he’s spinning a spider’s web across London….”

  “Do you still think there’s a link between this Houdini and the Schock÷Dyer case?”

  “Of course there is!” snapped Inspector Wheeler. “The scientists are lying through their teeth, but they are plainly not criminals. I am sure the key to this has some connec … tion with the antigravity experiment. And as for the latest nonsense from the Dyer family! Holiday indeed! Kate Dyer has gone into hiding. But from whom? And now Mr. Schock has decided to go incommunicado….”

  “His wife says he’s gone off to be by himself—which seems a bit tough on her.”

  “Aye, well, I’m taking that explanation with a large pinch of salt.”

  Sergeant Chadwick sucked in his cheeks and frowned. “You know, the thing that baffles me most is their clothes. Why was Kate Dyer wearing the long green dress in Bakewell? And then she and the Schock boy were in fancy dress in the supermarket car park and Covent Garden. And the horseman on Oxford Street was wearing a three-cornered hat. You don’t think it could be some weird secret society on a fantasy trip, do you?”

  The Inspector raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think a case has ever got to me like this one. It’s driving me nuts. I can’t sleep. There’s a missing piece to this puzzle that must be as plain as the nose on my face—but I’ll be blowed if I can see it….”

  “Do you want a cup of tea, sir?”

  “Aye, I do. Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Chadwick picked up Inspector Wheeler’s mug and opened the door but stopped halfway when the telephone rang. He picked it up and after a brief conversation replaced the receiver.

  “Here’s something that might interest you…. The guy doing surveillance on Dr. Dyer has just phoned in to say that he’s at Manchester airport picking up a large piece of equipment and that Dr. Pirretti was on board the same flight.”

  EIGHTEEN

  HELICOPTER!

  In which the Tar Man sends his calling card, Detective Inspector Wheeler finally learns the truth, and the Tar Man tries out his new toy

  “It’s a wonder he agreed to treat you after what you did to him the first time,” said Anjali, after showing the chiropractor out. “His eye’s still swollen.”

  The Tar Man wiped down his neck and shoulders with a thick white towel. The three of them stood in the vast sitting room of the new apartment with its panoramic view of London now bathed in evening sunlight. Below, the river reflected mirrored skyscrapers and the giant cranes that seemed to stalk this part of the city like dinosaurs. Tom held out a fresh shirt for him while trying to avoid making any kind of eye contact with Anjali. The Tar Man had already noted that his apprentice did not seem quite himself today.

  “’Tis a wonder he has survived in his profession for so long!” said the Tar Man. “Pinning me down with a knee in my back! When he pulled back my shoulders, the crack was as loud as pistol fire. I thought he had broken my neck, confound him!”

  “But that’s how they make you better—they manipulate you … Anyway, is your neck loosening up yet?”

  “Ay, it is. I am obliged to you, Anjali. I had thought the pain in it would end only with the grave…. See how I can turn it and hold it straight. I’ll warrant that popinjay of a doctor will have me cured before the month is out. My head will swivel like a barn owl’s. I never thought to see the day.”

  Anjali was pleased to be thanked so graciously.

  “You won’t be so easy to spot now, neither. I reckon you could have your trademark scar sorted ’n’ all….”

  The Tar Man looked shocked but interested at the same time.

  “I could find out. If you liked.”

  “Who would I be without this scar?”

  “Well … It’s up to you.”

  “I could scarce stop myself from laughing,” said Tom, “when the doctor made so bold with his remark….”

  “What remark?” asked Anjali.

  “Why, imagine if you can,” said the Tar Man, “that the gentleman had the impertinence to suggest that the nature of my injury was such that if he had not known better, he would have guessed I had been hanged!”

  The Tar Man laughed heartily and so did Tom. Anjali didn’t get the joke.

  “So?” she asked, but they were laughing too much to answer.

  “Right, then, I’d better be off.” Anjali dropped two slim booklets on the low glass table in front of the leather sofa. “Homework,” she said. “Practice makes perfect ’n’ all that. Oh, I nearly forgot. You were in the paper….”

  Anjali fished about for the newspaper behind the sofa, opened it up, and jabbed at the rustling pages with a finger.

  “See. Quite the celebrity … First Buckingham Palace and now this.”

  The Tar Man grabbed hold of it and peered at the grainy image of himself blurring in front of Stubbs’ glorious oil painting of a chestnut horse at the National Gallery.

  “Upon my word they did not hurry themselves to report my daring exploit!”

  “They’re dismissing you as a publicity stunt—what with the red dot and you all fuzzy. Some high-tech trick or something! Like it was all done with mirrors!” Anjali laughed. “I could make a bundle if I went to the papers with what I knew. All these priceless items going walkies from galleries and bank vaults and nobody none the wiser. Not to mention a never-ending supply of eighteenth-century antiques …”

  “Ay, you could,” said the Tar Man, “but you wouldn’t live to see the next day dawn.”

  “I was only joking!” Anjali protested, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “As was I, Anjali, as was I. We had a particular punishment for snitches, eh, Tom? If we were feeling merciful …”

  “What?” asked Anjali.

  The Tar Man stuck out his tongue and mimed snipping it off.

  “Charming!” said Anjali, and glanced at Tom for moral support. Tom, however, knowing that the Tar Man, in this, at least, was not joking, stroked his mouse and would not look up.

  The Tar Man smiled a knowing smile and gave the newspaper back to Anjali. Then he walked over to a black-lacquered sideboard and slid open a drawer. He returned with a small embossed card in his hand.

  “I want you to have the newspaper delivered to this gentleman.”

  Anjali glanced at it. “You’re moving in high-class circles all of a sudden. Is this Mr. Red Dot?”

  The Tar Man nodded. “Put it in a box. Let it be tied with silk ribbon….”

  “Gift wrap it, you mean? Like for a present?”

  “Yes. And deliver it with all haste.”

  “Right now? But I was about to—”

  “Now, Anjali.”

  She sighed, disgruntled. “Do you want me to say who it’s from?”

  “He’ll know.”

  “Am I allowed to know what this is about, Vega?”

  “I have it in mind to join a particular gentlemen’s club in Mayfair.”

  “Gentlemen’s club!”

  “As I say. Money I can acquire. I am short of a more valuable currency—influence. For a while in this century I shall need to be a cuckoo in the nest of the great and the good…. This gentleman is chairman of the membership committee. I put it to him that I had a strong desire to join his club. Then I asked him if there was anything in the world that might persuade him to push me to the top of his list. A list, they say, that is so long that most of the applicants die waiting.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “The gentleman is a lover of art. He said that he had a weakness for a certain oil painting of a horse. By a Mr. George Stubbs.”

  Anjali left to deliver the newspaper to the Tar Man’s powerful new acquaintance. Her high-heeled boots clicked as she walked across th
e pale ceramic tiles. Tom closed his eyes, straining to catch her scent as she passed him. Then he felt something soft tickling his ear. At first he thought it was his mouse, but it was Anjali.

  “Don’t let him open and close the balcony windows too much, like he’s been doing,” she whispered. Tom could feel her breath. “The electrician said he’s nearly burned the circuits out…. And … no hard feelings about last night, eh?”

  The Tar Man watched his apprentice’s cheeks flush scarlet as Anjali vanished into the hall. Tom listened to the lift doors clanging shut, followed by the whirring of machinery as the lift carried its precious cargo down the vertiginous shaft. Tom gave an involuntary shiver as if he were suddenly cold.

  “By heaven, you’ll have to overcome your fear of lifts, Tom, else never go out—and then what use will you be?”

  “I cannot help myself, Blueskin….” Tom’s voice was still breaking and it dipped from high to low and back again in the space of a few words. “I have tried, I swear it. No sooner have I stepped inside than an awful dread comes over me. The walls close in and I fear I shall be dashed into a thousand pieces when the contraption plummets to the ground…. I can run down as fast as may be!”

  The Tar Man laughed. “Where is your bottom, Tom? Faith, you’ve lived cheek by jowl with the Carrick Gang for two years and put up with Joe’s murderous threats from dawn to dusk—and yet, you are defeated by a lift! Stop your bleating, else I shall be forced to find a new apprentice!”