by John Creasey
“How much?” he asked.
“It’s on the label.”
“I don’t take any notice of the label,” he said. “How much to the trade, I mean.”
Lucy went across to him and took the picture out of his hands, looked at the back, and saw the freshly attached label: “£30 pr.”
“Thirty pounds the pair,” she said.
“Who asked for the pair?”
“Whoever buys them will get the pair,” she insisted.
“When’s he coming back?” demanded Red.
“He might come in any time, but might be out all day” she countered.
“If he finds out you’ve missed a sale, you’ll be in for it,” he warned.
“Who’s going to tell him?”
“I am.”
“Think he’ll believe you?” she scoffed. “That’ll be the day!”
“Stop arguing around, Lucy,” Red Thomas urged in a more reasoning voice. “How much?” His tone and manner changed and Lucy knew that he had finished the game and was playing it straight. He must have a customer or he wouldn’t be so serious, and every pound she knocked off would be one in his pocket, for if she knew the man he had seen the price yesterday and quoted it - perhaps higher - to his customer.
“Twenty-seven ten the pair,” she said.
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-seven, and I may have to make the ten bob up myself.”
He looked at her for a long time, without making comment or retort, and then when she was beginning to feel uneasy under his gaze, he said: “Twenty now, seven when I’ve been paid.”
“Who’s buying?”
“That’s my secret,” he said. “Is it a deal?”
“Oh, all right,” she conceded ungraciously. “Give me the twenty and be back before Mr. Fisk comes in or I’ll be in trouble.”
“No, you won’t,” Red said. “I never cheated anyone yet, and you know it.”
She did know it. She knew also that if a runner ever welshed he would be out of the game for good. One could put a lot of profit onto the price paid, but one couldn’t welsh or play one customer or buyer off against another. It was an absolute rule, and the trade lived by it.
He took some notes out of his pocket and counted twenty of them into her hands; he had one left when he was done. She gave him a receipt and he looked round, found some corrugated paper, wrapped the pictures up, fastened the paper with sealing tape, and went out.
Nearly an hour later, he was with Mrs. Bessell in the Bond Street gallery, watching her as she studied the pictures, first with the naked eye and then through a magnifying glass. He was trembling a little. At last, she put them down and said: “How much did you have to pay for them?”
“Twenty-seven ten.”
“Where did you get them from?” Mrs. Bessell’s manner was uncompromising.
He hesitated before saying: “Jake Fisk. I told you.”
“Any idea where he got them?”
“No,” said Red. “Why—they’re not hot, are they?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “They’re probably early Stott, and if they’re not they’re a very good example of the school. They’re worth two or three hundred apiece, anyhow.”
“Gawd!”
“Red,” she asked, “has Fisk got any more? If he has, can you put all his stock on approval, and let me have a look? If you can do that, 111 give you a hundred for this pair. I know where I can place them, and I could place plenty more.”
“I’ll find out,” Red promised, breathing very hard. “That’s what I’ll do, I’ll find out pretty damned quick.”
It did not occur to his strangely literal mind that when she talked of hundreds she could mean thousands.
He went out and hurried in his usual nervous way along Bond Street, and as he stood waiting for the lights to change at Piccadilly, he saw a man whom he recognized, another runner, named Slater. Slater was walking toward Piccadilly Circus and making surprising speed on his short, fat legs. There was a great intentness about him, Red noticed.
“He’s onto a good thing,” he told himself. “He can’t have been to. Old Fisk’s, can he?”
Apprehensive lest Slater had forestalled him, Red rushed across the road to catch a bus, while Slater walked toward a bus stop outside the Royal Academy, heading for Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery.
It was half past ten.
At eleven o’clock, they were to begin the raid on the National Gallery.
6: The Theft
The steps leading up to the National Gallery were thronged with children in their early teens, a mixed bag of sexes and sizes, white and black, English, Indian, Pakistani and Jamaican - all awaiting the orders of their teachers who were to guide them round the gallery but who were now inside, seeing to the formalities. Some of the youngsters watched the traffic and the people, the thronged square, the flocks of pigeons and the dozens who fed them, the clicking cameras as pigeons that perched on hands and shoulders and heads were photographed for family posterity.
Slater got off his bus opposite the south side of St. Martin- in- the-Fields and walked to the National Gallery. He kept looking about him, half fearful of seeing someone he knew. A young policeman was walking along the pavement, controlling a crowd of French youths waiting to go in. His back was toward Slater.
Leslie Jenkins came out, and he and Slater passed each other with raised eyebrows; that was the signal; so all was well, and Jenkins had made the first cut in the picture to be stolen.
Slater went inside. It was shadowy and noises were subdued.
Slater turned right, then left, knowing exactly where to go but looking casually at each picture, noticing the groups in front of some, the tired and the old on the small couches, the attendants who stood with what seemed all-seeing patience in the doorways. Now and again, a voice was raised, often an American’s; one man, harsh and guttural, could be heard above the rest whenever he spoke.
Slater reached a Velazquez, the portrait of a young man, rich in colours; the youth’s dress seemed to be actual silk and velvet, his face actual flesh.
Two people stood in front of it, studying it in detail; others looked at it from a distance. A small crowd sauntered in and a guide began to talk. The words “Spanish school... seventeenth century... early period of harmony... Court Painter to the Court of Spain...” filtered through the subdued hum of conversation and shuffling feet.
Slater heard all this yet was oblivious.
A couple came in and went closer to the portrait, one stretching out a hand as if to touch it; the other said something that made him draw back. A man with a magnifying glass went very close, obviously studying the jewels on the young man’s hand - the pearls seemed to be objects one could pluck from the canvas, the diamonds to need only a little extra light to make them scintillate.
Slater went out of this room, but soon came back - exactly as planned. He stayed with a group some distance from the Velazquez until he saw two women approach the attendant. Then he moved forward, hand out-stretched, much as others had done. There was no one nearby.
He pierced the canvas, and his heart leapt.
He cut, and his heart raced.
He stood back, as if admiring, and he felt a quiver of nausea.
He mixed with the crowd, still standing and studying, saw the attendant glance at him and glance away. After a while, he went out again, sauntering, calmer. No one took any notice of him.
On his way, he passed Leslie Jenkins, and he recognized him though he wore a light raincoat and looked very different with a beard, dark and heavy at the chin but curly and fluffy at the cheeks.
A few minutes later, de Courvier entered the gallery.
The scene was almost identical with that which he and his fellow plotters had foreseen. He needed a little more time, that was all, and he had planned for it without saying a word to the others. As he stood looking at the painting, a long-legged girl obviously not English approached the attendant and spoke excitedly in French.
“I have lost my handbag; have you found it here, please?”
Every head turned at the attractive voice.
“No, Miss, I-”
“But I have lost it! All my money is in the bag and I am sure I left it in this room.” She spun round, very lovely to look at, and pointed at a couch where four elderly women and a young man sat, looking suddenly embarrassed, almost as if they were guilty. The girl pointed. “It was there, I tell you!”
“I haven’t seen it, Miss,” the attendant insisted, “but I’ll have a look.” He walked toward the couch and even those who pretended not to be looking at the scene were distracted; only de Courvier, studying the Velazquez intently, seemed to be absorbed in what he was doing.
He was absorbed.
He pierced and cut and pulled the canvas free, then let it coil beneath his coat as he placed the copy in position. It was masterly sleight of hand; no one who was not intent on every movement he made could possibly have suspected what he had done.
He walked without haste toward the next room.
The French girl cried in sudden delight: “It is there!”
The youth who had been sitting on the couch shifted to one side. There was a small, flat handbag pushed between the seat and the back of the couch.
The attendant, highly gratified, said, “I knew I hadn’t seen it.”
“Oh, I am so pleased!”
“Better look inside to make sure everything is in it,” the attendant advised.
“Yes, I will.” There was a tense pause as she opened the bag under the fascinated gaze of everyone present, drew out a wallet, then a passport, talking excitedly all the time. “Money... passport... my air ticket to Paris... ticket for the theatre tonight... I have everything!”
“Very glad it turned out all right, Miss.” The man spoke as if this happy outcome was due wholly to him.
There were murmurs of pleasure, congratulations, and relief. The girl went out, the men’s gaze following her beautiful legs. The whole atmosphere seemed brighter; there was a buzz of talk, and a crocodile of schoolchildren suddenly appeared.
Outside, de Courvier hailed a taxi, was taken to where his car was parked, at the underground garage beneath Hyde Park. He walked from the spot where the taxi dropped him, and got into his car, a blue Jaguar two and-a-half litre. Taking the rolled canvas from his coat, he wrapped it in a piece of new canvas from the back of the car. Then he lit a cigarette and sat back; for the first time, he was perspiring and showing signs of strain.
A Morris 1100 appeared, shiny red, two youths in the front seat. Neither of them waved to him but each looked his way. A few minutes later, they approached him as he sat waiting in his car. No one else was in sight but in another section of the garage a car started up.
The young men came to de Courvier from either side as he wound down the driving window.
“Got it?” asked one of the youths.
“Yes.”
“Let’s see.”
De Courvier opened the roll enough for them to see the face, and one of them leaned inside and shone a torch brightly onto a corner. He clicked the torch off.
“Okay.”
“Now let me see the money,” de Courvier said.
The youth who had examined the picture stood aside. The other pushed a box through the window, heavy enough to fall painfully onto de Courvier’s knees; he was obviously eager and excited and there was something fresh and even pleasant about his grin. “Don’t lose it,” he said.
“I won’t lose it. Do you want anything else?”
“We’ll let you know,” the youth said, and he turned away.
De Courvier put a hand on the box, and then lit another cigarette. He was trembling from the reaction, and felt almost suffocated; he must get some air. Once he started the engine, he felt calmer, and he drove slowly from the garage, paid the exit fee, went up into Hyde Park, and drove on the inside lane toward the Marble Arch and Bayswater. He stayed inside the park, still driving slowly, until he neared the Serpentine. It was a grey day and there were fewer people than usual; he had room to park. He smoked two more cigarettes, and then opened the box with great care.
The top bundle was of a hundred ten-pound notes;
a thousand pounds.
The next was of a hundred one-hundred-dollar bills; four thousand pounds.
De Courvier closed the box and drove off.
“Twenty-four thousand in all,” he said to the others when they met at his flat in Hampstead. “Eight thousand each, half in dollars, half in pounds. Well get the rest when the picture’s been checked and authenticated. Split it up, keep it safe, and don’t start spending too freely. We do not wish to attract attention at this time.”
Slater said, in a hoarse voice, “I’m going to have a holiday. I’m going to Brighton on holiday, that’s me.”
“What about you?” de Courvier asked Jenkins.
“I’m going to stay home,” Jenkins said. “I’m going to count the dough, that’s all I’m going to do. Count the dough.”
Later, when Jenkins reached his little terrace house where the three had met to plot this crime, the first thing he did was to make himself some tea. Then he drew the flimsy curtains at the window, pulled up a chair near the one in which he had been sitting, and placed bundles of currency notes on the chair. He drank tea, and gloated; began to doze, and was in a state of euphoria, beautifully tired, gloriously, sensuously pleased with life.
He went to sleep.
While he was sleeping a long-legged girl wearing stretch pants and carrying a shoulder satchel quietly let herself into the house with a key. She drew on a pair of flimsy nylon gloves, collected the notes and placed them in the satchel, and slung it back over her shoulder. She stood looking at the sleeping man, a strangely tense expression on her face. Suddenly, she moved silently toward the gas fire, turned off the gas, let the mantles get cool, then turned on the gas again. Then she went to the meter, near the sink, and put in ten separate shillings.
Throughout all this, Jenkins had not stirred.
Slater reached Brighton Station early that evening, and walked toward the sea front. Since he was used to walking, in spite of his weight, it was not too long before he reached the promenade and the main pier, near the aquarium. Every now and again, he fondled the suitcase he carried, and most of the time he wore a fatuous grin.
He did not notice that he was followed by a slim youth wearing corduroys and an olive-green jacket.
At last, he went across the road, and walked until he found a hotel of a much better class than he could usually afford. He asked for a room overlooking the sea and when he was in the room, opened his case, removed a clean shirt and some underclothes, and then the packets of pounds and dollars. He spread them over the bed with great deliberation, stood beaming for a long time, and then almost reluctantly stepped to the window and looked out. The sea was grey but absolutely calm. A few rowing boats were moving sluggishly, young men at the oars. The crunching of people walking over the pebbles came clearly and regularly, and there was a little hiss-siss-siss of sound of the tide running on the pebbles and then slowly seeping back.
He heard footsteps, and almost at once there was a tap at the door. In sudden panic, he cried, “Just a minute!” He sprang to the bed and pulled the bedspread down from the pillow, covering the notes. Putting the suitcase on the foot of the bed, he belatedly called out, “Who is it?”
“It’s the manager,” a man called. “I’m sorry, sir, but I forgot your registration form.”
Slater, heart still thumping but not even slightly suspicious, went across and unlocked and opened the door.
A young man in olive green simply drove a long bladed knife into his belly.
The crowds went to and fro along the passages of the National Gallery; hundreds of people stood in front of the Velazquez, but no one appeared to suspect that anything at all was wrong.
7: The News Breaks
At half past nine the next morning, Gideon entered his offi
ce at the Yard, and the day’s routine began. It had altered a little since Hobbs had become his deputy, virtually replacing Chief Superintendent Lemaitre, an old friend as well as assistant. Lemaitre was now in charge of a division, probably the job in which he was happiest, but certain mornings Gideon missed him. This was one of the mornings, and he could not even begin to think why. He sat at his big pedestal desk, where there were several trays: “IN,” “OUT,” “PENDING,” “URGENT,” “ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER”, and, centred on the desk, the files on cases which needed reviewing that morning.
At one time, Gideon would have seen all the Superintendents and Chief Inspectors in charge of these cases, but nowadays Hobbs saw some of them and decided whom Gideon should interview and in what order. This was far more efficient, and freed Gideon for other work; moreover, he had come to trust Hobbs’s judgment almost as much as he trusted his own. Yet it wasn’t quite the same: nothing was quite the same.
There were six cases; a report from Frobisher in Manchester, about the North Country museum theft; one from Lemaitre’s division, about a counterfeiting case in which someone had tried to do the work of the Mint with the new decimal coinage; the almost inevitable investigation into a hijacking case, this time one of a series of thefts of tobacco and cigarettes; the fourth to do with the smuggling of Pakistanis into England in Sussex, the kind of problem which greatly troubled Gideon. Law or no law, he did not like to have to punish people for wanting to live in Britain, and he did not like to think that here in London there were men who were dealing in immigrants almost as heartlessly as others, not so very long ago, had dealt in slaves. He spent more time on this case than the others, but finally opened the next file, which concerned organized crime in the West End and contained reports about men and women suspected of corrupting witnesses, of using threats and menaces and sometimes physical violence to make witnesses do what they were told.
It was an ugly situation, and needed the closest possible study.
The sixth and last case could not have been more different. It was one that the Yard was reopening for its own satisfaction, for there was some reason to believe that a man serving a life sentence for murdering his wife might have been wrongly convicted.
