by John Creasey
They entered a small room - XLJ, Gideon noticed. There were more attendants here than in any of the other rooms, and two men who were obviously senior in rank. In front of a picture now cordoned off was a frail-looking, grey-haired woman with an easel by her side, sitting on a canvas folding chair.
Morcom went straight up to her.
“I’m sorry to have to keep you, Mrs. Templeton, and it won’t be a moment longer than I can help. The police experts are on their way. This is Commander Gideon.”
Mrs. Templeton got up with surprising agility.
“I’ve heard of you, of course,” she said, in a deep pleasant voice. “And you mustn’t worry about how long you need me, Mr. Gideon. I have nothing to do, and to tell you the truth this is quite exciting.” She smiled at him. “Is that very wicked?”
“Very,” Gideon replied dryly, and her eyes had laughter in them. “I’ve heard what a help you’ve been. If you hadn’t been so quick to notice something wrong, Mr. Morcom might have been much longer realizing the picture had been substituted.” He moved a little closer to the one in the frame. “Would you call it a good copy?”
“I’ve seen a lot worse,” said Mrs. Templeton.
“Unless it was scrutinized closely, most of the gallery staff would have been fooled,” Morcom interpolated.
“Is it possible to say who made the copy?” asked Gideon.
Morcom nodded. “I think so. We keep records of anyone who’s had permission to do one - they should be quite comprehensive.”
“I think you’ll find it’s by Totter, and was done fifty years ago,” said Mrs. Templeton. “I saw it for sale in Paignton, I think it was, about seven years ago.”
“That’s very useful information.” Gideon looked at the woman appreciatively, then turned to Morcom. “Let Chief Inspector Thwaites know, will you? If we can find who owned or bought it lately, it will be a great help. How was the job done? Do you know that yet?”
“Cut from the frame, obviously with a special instrument, possibly a diamond-edged cutter,” answered Morcom. “The whole thing must have been done in a matter of seconds. It was almost like sleight of hand.” He sounded exasperated.
“Sleight of hand,” Gideon echoed. “Were you here yesterday, Mrs. Templeton?”
“In the morning, yes, until a little after ten o’clock. And, yes” - her youthful and alert eyes twinkled again - “the genuine Velazquez was here then, beyond any possible doubt. You see, I was painting the left hand, and the thumb is slightly deformed - wrinkled, perhaps I should say. I was trying to copy it, but I fell very far short, and yesterday morning I worked on in the hope of catching just the right mood. I couldn’t. I gave up in despair and told myself that it wasn’t worth spending time on. That’s why I didn’t come last night. But this morning I simply had to try again, and I brought a special glass.” She picked a small magnifying glass up from the easel. “I thought if I could enlarge it I might be able to come near, but—it simply isn’t the same thumb.”
“Excuse me, sir,” one of the men standing by said.
Morcom glanced up at him.
“Yes? Oh, Commander, this is our head security officer, Mr. Gordon Smith.”
Gideon nodded.
Smith said mechanically, “Glad to know you, sir,” and then went on: “Mrs. Templeton told us about this and I sent for the Fortuna Press book of Velazquez; we have some in stock. It shows the thumb very clearly, sir.” He moved to a couch in the centre of the room and picked up a heavy book with an illustration of Velazquez’s dwarfs on the front. “Would you care to look, sir?” He opened the book, which he had to support on both arms.
“Good idea,” Morcom said. “Thank you.” They all peered at the full-page plate of ‘The Prince.’ Mrs. Templeton squeezed between Gideon and Morcom, and she pointed with a slender, nicely shaped forefinger at the left hand. Gideon glanced at it and then at the portrait in the frame; there was no doubt at all about the difference in the thumbs. Mrs. Templeton was quite right.
“Thank you,” Morcom said.
“No doubt about it.” Gideon agreed. “I—” He broke off, seeing Thwaites, with an attendant, hovering in one of the two doorways. “Ah, Chief Inspector.” Thwaites came forward; Gideon made brief introductions; Thwaites called in more men. “The one urgent matter,” Gideon said, “is whether to open the gallery to the public.”
“I should, sir,” Thwaites advised. “If we could have just this room - and perhaps those leading directly to it - closed for the time being, that should be enough for us. Too many people have walked about already for there to be any point in keeping the whole place shut.”
“That’s a relief!” said Morcom with obvious satisfaction. He turned to one of the senior attendants. “You’ll do what’s necessary, Smith, won’t you? And I needn’t ask you to give Chief Inspector Thwaites and his men every possible assistance, need I?”
“Be absolutely sure I will, sir,” said Smith.
“And as soon as you can let Mrs. Templeton—” began Morcom.
“Oh, please don’t rob me of my privileged position,” the artist said. “If there could be a cup of coffee occasionally, I would be enthralled to stay here. And I know the gallery very well. I might even be useful.”
There was a general laugh before Gideon and Morcom went off. They did not speak until they were at the main hall, when Morcom asked: “What about the press, Commander?”
“No need to keep anything from them unless you want to,” Gideon answered. “My advice would be to tell them everything - you will probably need their help before long.” As Morcom nodded, Gideon said, “I’ll tell my men outside to regulate the flow of people coming in.”
“You’re very helpful,” Morcom said. “Thank you for everything.”
Gideon nodded, and went out.
The crowd outside was now at least a thousand strong - perhaps nearer two thousand - and a dozen policemen were controlling them, but the police had to stand in the road and there was a diversion barrier at the turning into the North Vestibule. A police sergeant pushed through the crowd and met Gideon at the foot of the steps.
“Any news from inside, sir?”
“No,” said Gideon. “They’re going to open the doors in a few minutes. Let them in a couple of dozen at a time.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“We’re going in!” a girl cried out.
“They’re opening the doors!” a man called.
Gideon, aware of a dozen cameras trained on him, saw a television team on the other side of the road, their backs to the fountains and Nelson’s Column, the camera whirring. Reporters were also thick on the ground, and as they asked questions, he gave the same stock answer: “Chief Inspector Harold Thwaites is in charge.... He’ll answer any questions that Mr.Morcom can’t.”
No one pressed for more.
Gideon reached the end of the street, where the road led round toward the steps of St. Martin’s and Leicester Square. He crossed over, and stood on the top step. The crowd looked huge from here, the kind of scene that was commonplace at a political demonstration or a ban-the-bomb rally. Yet masses of people still stayed with the pigeons; probably half of them had no idea of what was happening at the National Gallery.
Well, they would know when the evening newspapers came out!
He walked to Whitehall, then along it toward Parliament Square, enjoying the feel of the pavement beneath his feet, glad he had sent the car back. There was something in the very air and look and feel of London that warmed and touched him with both affection and pride. He paused as he always did for a fraction of a minute opposite the Cenotaph, then went on. When he had first paid that respect to the dead, it had been out of a great sense of gratitude to those who had died. Now? Had it become virtually a habit? Was there in fact a little stubbornness in the pause, a conscious effort to make himself do what he felt he should?
He could not honestly be sure.
Once past the Cenotaph, he moved more briskly and, within five minutes, was in h
is office. There was a note on his desk: “Honiwell would like ten minutes - I’ve told him 2.30. I’m up in Records. A.” Gideon sat down, pulled a telephone toward him and dialled the number of the Commander, Uniformed Branch, his opposite number.
There was no immediate answer, and for the first time that morning Gideon had a few moments to relax. In those moments, everything that had been discussed since he had reached the office passed through his mind in swift, fragmentary thoughts.
The Commander, Uniform, answered at last.
“Hallo, Charles,” said Gideon. “Gideon here. You chaps are a bit pushed over at the National Gallery. Did you know about the theft?”
“Yes,” the other replied. “I had an extra dozen men detailed.”
“I should have known! With a bit of luck, the real pressure on them will be off in an hour, but there’ll be more than the usual crowd all day and the press will be in strength, too.”
“We’ll cope,” said Uniform dryly. “Any news yet?”
“Looks like a very clever job to me,” Gideon said cautiously.
“These art thefts,” remarked Uniform. “You can never be sure what they will do with what they take. Had much art-theft trouble lately?”
“No more than usual,” Gideon answered. “Thanks, Charles.” He rang off, knowing that if he hadn’t made the call it might have looked as if he were usurping Uniform’s authority. The different departments at the Yard worked together extremely well, but the machinery needed oiling sometimes. He was reminded of his rage when the Assistant Commissioner had tried to teach him his job. He laughed, but it didn’t seem really funny.
His interoffice telephone rang, and he lifted the receiver.
“Gideon.”
“Sorry to worry you,” a man said, and immediately Gideon recognized the voice of Superintendent Thomas Riddell, who was in charge of the investigation into the smuggling of Pakistanis into the country. “Can you spare me half an hour or so?”
“When?” asked Gideon.
“Now, if possible,” said Riddell. “I think you should know what I’ve discovered.”
“All right, in fifteen minutes,” Gideon said, and rang off.
Riddell had annoyed him, as Riddell often did. It was difficult to put a finger on the reason, except that the man too often presumed. It was more his manner than anything Gideon could really identify.
He rang for a messenger.
“Get me some coffee,” he ordered. “Nothing to eat; I’m in a hurry.” With anyone else, he might have said, “Bring a pot and two cups,” but on this occasion it did not occur to him; he didn’t want even a slightly social relationship with Riddell.
He did need to brief himself on the case Riddell was preparing.
9: Cause for Disquiet
There were problems in the life of a policeman which did not occur in the lives of others - not even in those of highly placed civil servants. No policeman, for instance, could outwardly espouse a political cause, because that would imply some degree of bias or prejudice. And no matter what he felt, no policeman could express his opinions of certain other aspects of the life of the community. Two problems arose out of this for Gideon. First, it cut a policeman off from communication with his fellow men, never a good thing; and second, it made difficulties in finding out the truth, since it was seldom possible, without this communication, to understand both sides of any question; one could listen but could not discuss wisely.
Yet a policeman had certain prejudices, certain interests, certain enthusiasms, and a policeman had instinctive reactions which training and self-discipline could never prohibit.
Above all, a policeman had to see a man as a man, not prejudge him because of colour or creed, or even because he had a record as long as his arm. Such absolute objectivity was never easy, and however liberal or understanding one was, even if one had not the slightest racialist feeling, it was impossible not to be aware of the tensions over colour in England. There were the Fascist types who hated black or coloured people without cause or reason, and there were more, so many more, who had come to believe that the immigrants did harm to the society, the community, even to the economy. Moreover, there were those who accepted the immigrants without question provided they were in the next town, or at least in a different section of their own town.
Policemen must not have prejudices, and yet prejudice existed, and the subject of racialism was as rife at the Yard as it would be anywhere else.
The messenger brought in a cup of steaming coffee, with plenty of cream and only a little sugar. Gideon had barely pushed the empty cup aside when there was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” he called.
The first thing that struck him about Riddell was how the man had aged. He was handsome in his heavy-jowled way, though his brown hair was now streaked with silver, and his eyes, which had once been bright, were dull. He had put on weight, too.
“Good morning, Commander.”
“Morning,” Gideon grunted. “Come and sit down.” Riddell sat and began to fumble in his pocket. “Smoke?” asked Gideon, pushing cigarettes across his desk.
“Ah, thanks,” Riddell said. He took one and lit up. Even then, he seemed to have some difficulty in coming to what he had to say, and Gideon prompted him.
“What’s this you’ve found out?”
“The smuggling is very widespread,” Riddell announced positively. ‘There’s much more of it than I realized, or else I’m being pessimistic.”
Gideon nodded, puzzled because the man was obviously troubled; he almost warmed to him.
“The fact is that at least three men are involved,” stated Riddell, at last. “I can’t offer proof yet, but it’s only a matter of time before I’ll be able to. Two of the men are Londoners, the third is an Indian - one of the early immigrants himself. None of them has ever been involved in crime before; certainly none has any record of any kind. The two Londoners own a lot of slum or near-slum property; the Indian rents the houses from them and lets off rooms at exorbitant rents. There’s a day shift and a night shift for the beds, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t wonder if they share the women, too, although God knows there are enough of them to go round.”
He paused, and the way he looked at Gideon suggested that he knew that Gideon, in those last few seconds, had hardened against him.
Gideon waited, and after a moment’s silence Riddell spoke again: “Oh, to hell with it, George! I can’t stand them. I don’t think they should ever have been allowed in. Give them a few years and they’ll have flooded us out. If I had my way, I’d send them back bloody fast!” Riddell got up and began to walk about, speaking in a low-pitched voice and drawing fiercely at his cigarette. Gideon, startled by the outburst and concerned with Riddell’s obvious emotion, did not interrupt. “That’s how I feel,” went on Riddell. “I don’t mind admitting that when you gave me this job I rubbed my hands. Now I can get some of the bastards, I told myself; now I can send them back where they belong.” He spun round and faced Gideon, his eyes suddenly ablaze. “I saw one of the immigrants who’d been smuggled in three weeks ago. He lives in a hole under the stairs; there’s no other word for it - rat-infested and filthy. It made me want to vomit when I saw it. And he’s got no money, hardly any food. Lives more like an animal than a human being.”
He moved stiffly toward the desk, stubbed out the cigarette, took another and lit it, and moved back two paces.
Gideon nodded, not ‘wanting to interrupt in case he stopped the flow and so dried up the passion.
“These bloody sharks took all the money he had, promised him work he can’t get, and will let him rot,” Riddell said. “Now there are two damned good reasons for wanting to stop the smuggling.”
Again, Gideon nodded.
“And where does that leave me?” demanded Riddell. “Right in the middle, George. I can’t think straight about it. I can’t even think for myself over it, let alone think as a copper. I’ll tell you something else. Every time I look at one of them, I think Out,
you bitch, or Out, you son-of-a-bitch, and if I had a man working for me who was half as full of hate, I’d fire him. That’s what I really discovered, George. I can’t go on with the job; it’s got me facing two bloody ways. So—will you take me off?”
Gideon pursed his lips, then bent down, took out whisky and two glasses and a siphon of soda, and poured a stiff drink for Riddell and a mild one for himself.
“Cheers,” he said. “I’d like to think about it, Tom.”
“Do you really have to?” Riddell put the glass to his lips, muttered “Cheers,” and drank deeply. He had needed that drink.
“Yes,” Gideon said. “Yes, I do. How long have you been feeling like this?”
“About a week,” answered Riddell gruffly. “Tell me I ought to have told you before and agree. George—Commander—rather than go on with this job, I’d resign. I’m not joking: I’d resign. I can go any time; a year or so won’t make any difference.”
“A few days won’t make any difference, either,” Gideon reasoned. He knew that in fact if Riddell resigned now instead of waiting until he was fifty-five, he would lose a substantial proportion of his pension. “I’ll see you this time on Friday, with a decision.”
“It won’t make any diff—” began Riddell, and then broke off, and gave an almost sheepish grin “Sorry. Ought to know better than to think you couldn’t think up something to make me change my mind. Thank—er—thanks for letting me blow my top.” He finished his drink. “Twelve o’clock Friday, then.”
“Yes.” Gideon tapped the report. “Is this up to date?”
“On facts, yes.”
“But not on your assessment of the facts?”
“I don’t trust myself to make an assessment,” Riddell muttered.
“Well, I do. And I want one by ten o’clock Friday morning,” Gideon ordered. “Your handwriting will do, no need to get it typed. But I don’t want anything left out, Tom; I want the lot.”
After a pause, Riddell answered, in a much milder voice, “Yes, of course: I’ll do it, make a thorough job of it. And the report may shock you, George.”
