Gideon's Art

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  Gideon’s Art

  First published in 1971

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1971-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creaseyto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755123891 9780755123896 Print

  0755125681 9780755125685 Pdf

  075512569X 9780755125692 Kindle/Mobi

  0755125703 9780755125708 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Acknowledgment

  This book is dedicated to Lynn and Scoop, because they believe so much in art; and particularly because Lynn spent so much time helping me to clean the painting which is part of the plot.

  Author’s Note

  While the general details of the galleries and museums in this book are accurate, I have in some cases taken liberties by introducing rooms which do not in fact exist, official positions which are imaginary, and, of course, many characters - all of whom are fictional and have no relation to any living persons, hard though I try to make them appear as flesh and blood.

  I am most grateful to the officials at the various galleries mentioned in the book for their friendly help and guidance.

  Painted Into A Corner

  There was a second of stunned silence before Robin Kell’s hand flashed to and from his jacket and the click of his knife sounded loud. He’d had enough. If the collector wouldn’t agree to the exchange, then the girl, Christine, must die. Falconer tried to rush forward to protect his daughter, but the knife moved swift as light toward him, and into his belly. He felt a searing pain and staggered to one side, saw the knife flash again as Kell turned to use it on Christine.

  Falconer’s last memory before losing consciousness was of Gideon and his men storming the premises....

  1: The Method

  “So it’s worth a quarter of a million,” Jenkins said.

  “Pounds,” remarked Slater.

  “And I’ve a market,” de Courvier stated, in his over precise voice. “We will get twenty-five thousand pounds each.”

  “I thought you said it was worth a quarter of a million,” said Slater.

  “It is. That’s why it’s worth twenty-five thousand pounds for each of us,” retorted de Courvier. “In dollars, if you want to go for a nice long holiday out of this country.”

  “You mean you can sell it to the States?” asked Slater, scepticism sharp in his tone. “That’s a new one on me.”

  “I did not say that I could sell it to the States,” replied de Courvier. I said I had a market. We can collect twenty-five thousand pounds apiece, just for stealing it. My buyer will make a big profit, but does that matter?”

  In a long pause, the three men looked at one another, Jenkins with a cigarette drooping from his protruding lower lip, Slater with a half-smoked cigar jutting from his thick and fleshy mouth, de Courvier prim, almost dandified, sitting well back in a winged Regency armchair with badly frayed arms. From outside came the noise of a pneumatic drill, unpleasantly close. Thin curtains, drawn, concealed the men and the tiny room from passers-by. Several women and some children went past, then a man, his steps slow and deliberate, and Slater looked up, suddenly and as if instinctively on the alert.

  The man’s steps faded, and Slater turned to face the others again.

  “Where would we have to deliver?” asked Jenkins.

  “I would take it to the go-betweens and they will hold it. We will have it only for an hour or two,” de Courvier said.

  “Okay, but where will we keep it in that hour or two?” Jenkins frowned.

  De Courvier shrugged his shoulders. “Anywhere we say.”

  “Here?”

  “Why don’t we decide how we’re going to get it first?” Slater sounded impatient.

  “And whether,” put in Jenkins. “That’s the question. Are we or aren’t we? If you ask me, it’s a tricky one.”

  “It’s simple as kissing one’s hand,” de Courvier stated flatly.

  “Don’t you believe it, old pal.” Jenkins moved from a small, armless chair rather like a car seat and crossed to a corner of the room in which there was a sink, a wooden draining board, some shelves and cups and saucers, instant coffee, and a half-empty packet of tea bags. He filled an electric kettle from the one tap and plugged it into a socket on the wainscoting, straightening up with a grunt. “Those museums are never easy.”

  “You don’t have to blow a safe or pick a lock,” de Courvier said. “You just go and take the picture.”

  “With how many looking on?” jeered Jenkins.

  “We cause a distraction,” de Courvier said. “The crowd goes to see what is going on in the next salon; even the attendants take a look. We’ll have plenty of time to get the painting.”

  “It wouldn’t work,” Jenkins said.

  “One of us could throw a fit” Slater suggested. “Or—”

  “That old trick,” Jenkins said. “Forget it. Do they have closed circuit television at the National Gallery?”

  “No,” said de Courvier. “Of that I am positive.”

  “If you don’t like my way, why don’t you suggest something better?” asked Slater nastily.

  The kettle began to sing as Jenkins took some cups and put them on a tray. “There’s a lot of lolly to spare. Three times twenty-five is seventy-five thousand, and if it’s worth a quarter of a million there’s a hundred and seventy-five thousand going to someone who’s sitting pretty.”

  De Courvier leaned forward. “You know
as well as I do that we couldn’t sell it at its full value. We couldn’t sell it at all if there wasn’t an agent standing by who will take a great deal of risk. He knows he can get a hundred-thousand pounds. If he can get more, that’s his good fortune.’’

  After a long pause, Jenkins said, “Okay. I’ll settle for twenty-five thou.” The cigarette, now little more than a stub, still dangled from his lower lip. “But it’s no use to me if I’m inside. Do you know what we’d get for this one?”

  “Three years,” Slater said.

  “For taking an Old Master out of the National Gallery? That’s worse than murder! It would be more like ten years, if you ask me.”

  “What’s the difference?” demanded Slater. “We aren’t going to be caught.”

  “We’ll be caught if we do it your way,” Jenkins said. The kettle was nearly boiling and he put teabags in a brown earthenware pot and, timing the moment of true boil perfectly, poured in the water. Then he put the kettle on the draining board. “You both take sugar?” he asked.

  “Not for me,” Slater said, slapping his rounded belly. “I’m putting it on again.”

  “Courvy?” asked Jenkins.

  “Neither sugar nor milk, thank you,” de Courvier answered.

  Jenkins poured out the tea, moved the cups to one side to make room for a tin of biscuits, then brought the tray over to his companions. They each took a cup. De Courvier bit firmly into a chocolate biscuit, while Jenkins put a whole one into his mouth and took the cigarette out, almost in the same movement.

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Slater, at last. He was a short, thickset man, his lack of height apparent even when he sat.

  “I do not think we need to discuss it further,” said de Courvier, still sitting prim and upright. “Obviously, I shall have to find someone else to do this work for me.”

  “What the hell do you say that for?” asked Slater.

  “This is not a matter where we can have indecision or difference of opinion,” replied de Courvier sulkily. “Jenkins does not want to have any part in this. He would no doubt come in if you and I decided to work together but he would have no confidence, and that would lead to disaster. The wise thing is to forget it.”

  “That’s great,” Slater growled. “That’s right up my street, that is. Twenty-five thousand quid put under my nose and then snatched away before I can get it. That’s the kind of deal I really like, I don’t think.”

  After a pause, Jenkins said: “Show me a way to do it with a good chance of getting the picture and I’m with you. But no fits, and no crowd scenes.” He drank the remainder of his tea in a gulp and put the cup back on the tray. “You know me. The coolest nerve in the business.”

  “It’s why I came to you,” de Courvier said. “But if you’re half-hearted, it is no use.”

  “Just show me the method,” Jenkins demanded.

  Slater moved his head slowly, revealing how thick his neck was, how it bulged over the ill-fitting coat, his eyes - sharp grey eyes - darting from side to side.

  “You got any ideas?” he asked de Courvier.

  “There is a way,” de Courvier replied slowly, “a very good way. We need three to work inside, each for a few seconds. Once the picture has been removed, it is only a matter of getting it out of the gallery. I will do that. And I will take it straight to the agent and collect the money.”

  “Who’s the agent?” Slater asked.

  “A man prepared to take risks,” de Courvier answered.

  “What’s the method?” Jenkins asked.

  “Are you really prepared to play your part?” de Courvier asked him.

  “If I like the method, I’ll play,” said Jenkins. And after a pause, while he stared at de Courvier, he added: “More tea?”

  “No, thank you.” De Courvier placed the tips of his fingers together and looked almost priestlike. “The picture is thirty-five inches high and thirty inches wide. It has recently been cleaned and will roll easily. If the canvas is cut first along the bottom and then on both sides, tight with the frame, it will stay in position, because it is still hanging from the top. Is that understood?” He got up and went to a briefcase near the door, opened it, and took out a small picture in a plain wooden frame. He moved across to a calendar hanging from a nail over the tiny mantelshelf, took the calendar down, and hung the picture. The others edged toward him. De Courvier was taller than Jenkins by two or three inches, Jenkins taller than Slater by half a foot. Jenkins’s hair seemed as if it had been plastered onto his head, Slater’s was thick, black, and bushy, but there was a bald patch about the size of a small pineapple slice, and the patch was startlingly white.

  With the picture in position, de Courvier took a razor blade in a special holder from an inside pocket, and made one crosswise movement at the bottom of the picture and one downward slash at each side. The picture itself went slack and looked a little crumpled, but did not roll up.

  “You see?” de Courvier asked.

  “I see,” Jenkins said, nodding.

  “Oke,” Slater said, also nodding.

  “When these three cuts have been made, the picture will be free except at the top,” de Courvier went on. “Then—” He raised his hand and, apparently doing no more than mopping his forehead, pulled the canvas with his free hand. It came away, curling. With a dexterous twist, he rolled and stuffed it under his coat, and as if by magic another roll appeared in his right hand. As this unrolled, he pressed the corners against the empty space, and turned away.

  “Strewth!” exclaimed Jenkins.

  “Good,” said Slater. “Not bad at all, I will say that. But it would take minutes!”

  “One slash at a time,” retorted de Courvier.

  “What?”

  “One slash at a time, at agreed intervals. They won’t notice that; there won’t be anything to notice unless you go very close. And only the last cut needs the expert.”

  “You?” asked Slater.

  “Yes,” answered de Courvier. “I have done it before, and I keep in practice.”

  “Strewth!” exclaimed Jenkins again. “It could work.”

  “Listen to me,” de Courvier said, and in these moments he seemed to tower in stature above the others. “The visitors to all museums and galleries are constantly on the move. The same people never stay in one room for long; ten or fifteen minutes is average, and there is a constant change of visitors. So one of us cuts the bottom - all he seems to do is run his hand along the frame; he doesn’t actually touch it. The attendant might see him but at a distance no damage will show. The attendant would notice if the same man came back and did the same thing, but he wouldn’t be likely to notice a different man, and all you two have to do is make the cuts. Then I come in, and I can make the switch in ten seconds. Or even less.”

  “No one will even know the picture’s missing,” breathed Slater.

  De Courvier was looking at Jenkins, who asked with great deliberation: “Who makes the third cut?”

  “You do the first and the third,” answered de Courvier. “For the first visit, you wear a beard.”

  Very slowly, Jenkins nodded; and for the first time he parted his lips enough to show his teeth in a strangely brilliant smile.

  “How about getting out of the place?” asked Slater.

  “I have planned that exactly, too,” said de Courvier. “There will be no problem at all.”

  He sat down again, erect as ever, and began to talk.

  While the three men planned the theft of one of the most valuable and renowned pictures in London’s National Gallery, George Gideon, the Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard, was sitting in his office and looking through some files which had been brought to him from Records. Each file was a dossier on a different man; each had a foolscap-sized form which gave details of age, height, habits, of everything which might help him to be identified, including a full set of finger and thumb prints of each hand. There were five files in all, and each was of a man with a c
riminal record as long as his arm. Each man was out of prison, and each was capable of having committed a crime which had taken place only the night before in an obscure art gallery in Chelsea. The value of the paintings that had been stolen was less than a thousand pounds and the five seldom worked for chicken feed; but if they were out of prison, out of work, and out of luck, any one of them might have thought the Chelsea job worth doing.

  Gideon studied each with a closeness which characterized him. He knew four of the five in person, for each had been tried and convicted during his period as Commander, and in his position practically every criminal tried at the London Assizes was known to Gideon.

  One of the men was a Leslie Jenkins.

  Gideon read of his dozen convictions, from petty larceny when he had been seventeen to armed robbery when he had been thirty, seven—no, eight years ago. He had been one of a gang which had stolen art treasures from a country house and been caught trying to sell them in London. There was a note which read:

  Earned full remission. Released 18th January 1970

  Address: 14, Sonata Street, Lambeth, S.E.1

  “Sonata” was an unusual name for a street, and it sent Gideon’s thoughts in a completely different direction: to his daughter Penelope. She was making slow headway as a concert pianist and was practicing a Beethoven sonata at home with a single-mindedness which nearly drove the rest of the family mad, although there was a conspiracy among them to show bright and smiling faces and to assure her that they enjoyed every moment. She was to play the piece at the Albert Hall in a week’s time. Only a week more of forbearance, Gideon thought with a wry smile. Her success or failure with it would have an important effect on her future engagements, could lead her to remarkable success for a girl of...