Gideon's Art

by John Creasey

  Lance’s eyes brightened at sight of Christine.

  “Hallo, darling! On time as usual.”

  “The irreproachable Christine,” observed the other. “Good morning, darling.”

  “Hallo, Robin,” she said carelessly. “I hate being late.”

  “Or being kept waiting,” remarked Robin. “The privileges of being born with a diamond-encrusted spoon in your pretty mouth.”

  “What a dear, sweet person you are,” retorted Christine. “Why you were ever born at all I can’t imagine. Lance, I do want to talk to you. Alone, please.”

  “I can take even the subtlest of hints,” said Robin. “If I may just wait for my beloved, who is spending a penny. Ah!” He paused, as water flushed and a W.C. clanked. “She is about to join us.” A moment later, a girl appeared, tall, beautifully made-up, and rather exotic-looking. “Hurry up, cherie,” he urged. “Christine has some perfectly breathtaking news for Lance which she doesn’t want us to share.”

  “She knows she couldn’t trust you with a secret for five minutes,” the girl said. “And just in case she didn’t realize that instinctively, I warned her.” She took Robin by the hand and led him out, saying, “Bye, Chris. Bye, Lance.”

  “See you soon,” Christine called.

  “Bye, Robin—bye, Marie.” Lance Judd waved as the others went out, then turned to Christine, now at the back of the shop, which was long and narrow, with an alcove leading off: a hand basin, a kettle, and a few oddments of pottery on one side, the narrow door to the W.C. on the other. The “kitchen” was remarkably like the corner of Leslie Jenkins’s room, but every cup, mug, bowl, and saucer was artistic.

  Christine was no longer smiling, and in repose looked remarkably like her father, with his high bridged nose and arched lips.

  “Why so serious, sweetheart?” Lance asked her, lightly but not flippantly, and when she didn’t answer at once, he went on: “You like Robin less and less, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Christine answered slowly. “I know he’s an old friend of yours and I wish I didn’t dislike him, but—” She broke off, took Lance’s hands, and said with obvious depth of feeling, “Be careful, Lance. Don’t let him use you.”

  “Oh, I know Robin and his tricks,” said Lance, still lightly. “I also know that he insults you to try to persuade you that he isn’t interested in your father’s wealth and doesn’t see him as a big buyer. But he does, you know. He doesn’t fool me.”

  She looked at him almost suspiciously, and said: “I hope he doesn’t. I really hope he doesn’t.” Then she seemed to push her anxiety away, and changed the subject. “Lance, Daddy is having me watched. I can’t do anything about it. I wish—”

  She broke off as the door opened and a policeman in uniform and a man in plainclothes came in.

  11: The Questioners

  All over London, police visits were being made and police questions were being asked, questions like those asked of Old Fisky. Every antique dealer, every dealer in pictures and prints, in objets d’art and in old jewellery, was being checked and checked again. The range of inquiry was almost unbelievable. There were the dealers in London’s Mayfair, in Knightsbridge and the City, dealers who bought and sold paintings worth thousands or tens of thousands as if they were oddments off a market stall. There were the great auction rooms of Sotheby’s and Christie’s, and the smaller rooms where only dealers with a discerning eye were likely to make bids.

  There were the antique “supermarkets” in different parts of London, Chelsea and the West End, bigger than the others, markets where everything might be found, from precious porcelain to old silver, from Roman coins to Japanese samurai swords. There were necklaces and Spanish combs, bric-a-brac from all corners of the earth, brought to England by traveller, adventurer, tradesman, or soldier, once to grace a home, now resting, as it were, between one home and the next.

  In the galleries and the great salesrooms, the finest art ever known to man was bought and sold at prices so far beyond the reach of ordinary people that they watched and heard and marvelled. How could - why should - a piece of canvas used for a painting five, four, three, two centuries, even a single century ago command such value? And how could some men, individuals like other human beings, acquire or inherit such wealth that they could afford to pay such prices?

  But although many millions of people were not directly affected, there being a wide gap between them and such a concept of the value of art, wherever pictures were purchased for the nation this gap narrowed. It made way for a kind of closeness, since art that belonged to the nation belonged in fact to all. The public might not comprehend the technical skill of these works - might not always fully appreciate their beauty - but nevertheless there was an understanding of the value of masterpieces and a certain pride in their shared possession.

  There was, furthermore, an understanding of the lust some men felt for the great paintings, an understanding of the near mania that some felt in their passion to possess. And, fed skilfully by the newspapers, there was understanding also of the men who stole and sold, the leaders of the gangs who had the illegal market under their control. And every now and again some such theft caught the public imagination until a whole nation was agog at the daring of the men who stole; and in this was a touch of admiration, often very strong if no one had been hurt in the theft.

  The theft of “The Prince” from the National Gallery had caught the public’s imagination, for no one, not even the newspapermen, had yet realized that two men had been murdered after their part in the theft. The cleverness of the raid, the skill and precision with which it had been done, won not only admiration from the man in the street but a grudging kind of praise in some of the national newspapers. And it was against this background that the police in London carried out their visitations. No second hand shop - even one masquerading as “antiques” - no gallery, no saleroom, no warehouse was missed. Each visit was made by a uniformed man working with a plainclothesman, giving the proper touch of authority, and after each visit a detailed report was put into division and a copy sent to New Scotland Yard.

  And the Yard geared itself for one of the biggest searches in London’s history, under Commander George Gideon.

  On Friday, the third day after the discovery of the theft, public interest began to wane, headlines became smaller, and the story vanished from the front pages and became easily lost inside the papers. There were several semi-sarcastic leading articles, directed largely at the weakness of security precautions at the galleries and the inadequacy of the police. One newspaper put it scathingly:

  The consistent failure, not only of the Metropolitan Police in London, but of the provincial police forces, to recover valuable works of art, whether stolen from publicly or privately owned galleries and homes, is a matter of grave concern. How is it possible for thieves to plot, prepare, and carry out such triumphant raids as the recent theft of “The Prince” - almost as famous now as the once stolen Goya?

  When the Goya was stolen, one man, unaided, apparently outwitted both galleries and the police. Now more than one are doing the same, and the police appear to be helpless - or inadequate.

  What is the reason?

  One must face the possibility that the police, no matter how good they may be in most phases of their activity, are not interested when the nation’s cultural properties are at stake. If there is the slightest truth in this, then a completely new approach is not only necessary, it is essential.

  After reading this, Gideon sat back in his chair and pursed his lips, staring forbiddingly at the window that overlooked the Thames. It was some time before he pulled his reports toward him; there were other problems to be considered, too. He came back to Riddell’s report and its assessment of the immigration smuggling, but three times in succession he was stopped on its first page by the telephone, none of the calls important. He was halfway through the report, and had not yet reached Riddell’s assessment, when his door opened abruptly, without the usual warning tap, and Wilson Ch
amberlain, the Assistant Commissioner, came in. A recently retired Member of Parliament and one-time regular army officer, he was a handsome man who held himself very erect and spoke with a slightly shrill tone which often made him sound querulous. Gideon, acutely aware of his personal dislike of the man, felt himself stiffen, but even as he did so he warned himself not to allow prejudice to blind him to the other’s qualities.

  “Ah, Gideon.” Chamberlain closed the door behind him and advanced toward the desk. “We need a survey of the investigation into the National Gallery robbery as quickly as possible.”

  “Why?” asked Gideon flatly, and realized at once that he had also got off on the wrong foot. “I mean—is there any particular reason?”

  “Certainly. There is to be a conference Monday morning,” Chamberlain said.

  Gideon just stopped himself from asking, “A conference of whom?” and said, “The survey is always up-to-date, sir, but so far not particularly helpful.”

  ‘”We need details of what has been done, what leads we have - everything.”

  “For whom, sir?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “It can matter very much,” Gideon told him. “If it’s for Yard use, then a lot can be taken for granted; they know the background. If it’s for Home Office or other officials, then a great deal more explanatory detail is required. Some details can be filled in at a meeting, but everyone who attends needs a grounding. A briefing can be prepared in an hour and copies can be available an hour after that.”

  “Good,” Chamberlain said. “Good. The Home Office has been pressing the Commissioner for the survey, and the Ministry of Public Works and Buildings wants to be represented as well, of course, as the Arts Council and, naturally, the keepers and custodians of the various galleries. We will, of course, wish to be well represented ourselves.”

  Chamberlain stopped speaking and drew back, and Gideon had a feeling that he was asking for approval. “See how much I know of how these things should be done,” Chamberlain was implying. Gideon, aware of this and of his own feeling of resentment, also became aware of the funny side of it: and it was funny! What had happened to the Home Secretary to appoint such a man? Gideon’s thoughts veered back. How could he live with such a situation and contrive to use this man to the department’s advantage? After all, he had to live with him.

  “Very comprehensive,” he said, at last. “What time is this—ah—conference to be called, sir?”

  “Is ten o’clock reasonable?”

  “I think eleven would enable us to get everything ship-shape,” Gideon replied. “Will the Commissioner be present?”

  “I trust so. I expect so. He is at the Scarborough Conference today.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Gideon, who hadn’t known that the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was away and who now understood that Chamberlain had been making hay while the sun shone. “Where do you propose to have the conference?”

  “Where would you suggest, Commander?”

  “In the main Conference Room. There will be twenty at least, I imagine.”

  “Yes, indeed, and possibly more. And can you have the preliminary surveys available for distribution this afternoon?”

  “You make out the list, sir, and we’ll get them delivered,” Gideon promised.

  “Excellent. That’s excellent.” Chamberlain nodded, made a right about turn, and stepped with military precision to the door. “I would like two copies,” he announced, and went out.

  Very slowly, but in a much better mood, Gideon shook his head. Soon he reread the editorial, wondered what Chamberlain would have said had he read it, then reluctantly put Riddell’s report aside and studied the bigger report on the art theft. Hobbs had prepared this during the night, and Gideon realized now how carefully it had been done; it was almost as if Hobbs had anticipated what would be needed. After making a few additions and deletions, he rang for Hobbs, who came in at once.

  “I hear you’ve had a visitor,” he remarked.

  “I gather you anticipated it,” said Gideon. “Is there anything more in?”

  “No,” said Hobbs “We’ve had a hundred and twelve more negative reports, and we estimate that by now over sixty percent of the dealers in the London area have been questioned.” He stood just where Chamberlain had, and Gideon could remember feeling hostile toward him on occasions over the years, but never as hostile as he felt toward the A.C.

  What a pity Hobbs wasn’t in Chamberlain’s place; he would make a ten times better Assistant Commissioner!

  The fleeting thought passed, and Gideon said, “You know what we ought to do next, don’t you?”

  “Go into the home counties and the provinces,” said Hobbs.

  “Yes. Get teletype requests out for them to do the same thing,” ordered Gideon. “If I’ve jumped the gun, at least no one can cancel the instruction. Before you go, Alec—”

  “Yes?”

  “Anything at all about Jenkins and Slater?”

  “Not that matters,” answered Hobbs. “One lead to Jenkins might have been his daughter Lucy, but it proves that they’ve been estranged for years. That’s a dead end And no useful fingerprints were on the gas meter at Jenkins’s house.”

  “Not even Jenkins’s own?”

  “Faint and very smeared,” Hobbs answered. “The report’s in there.” Gideon nodded, and Hobbs continued, “But there are a couple of things, no more than rumours, which Frobisher picked up. First, that Sir Richard Falconer isn’t too particular where he buys, and second, that he has a secret strong room where he keeps pieces he has purchased knowing them to be stolen.”

  Aware that Hobbs was an acquaintance of Falconer’s, Gideon said, “The same rumour touches most of the big collectors, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” Hobbs smiled. “Thanks!”

  “Any reason at all to suspect Falconer?” asked Gideon.

  “No,” answered Hobbs. “And yet I’ve often realized that he’s extremely careful about who sees his collection. His daughter certainly has some odd acquaintances, though. She was in an antique shop in Hampstead yesterday, a place owned by Lancelot Judd.”

  “Should I know much about him?” asked Gideon.

  “Very prominent in C.N.D.,” Hobbs reminded him.

  “Oh, Lord, yes,” said Gideon. “I remember.” There had been a conflict between the police and youthful campaigners for nuclear disarmament a few years before, and a Lancelot Judd had been one of the leaders of demonstrations which had been very nearly riots in Trafalgar Square and Whitehall. But Judd had been quiet for a long time since then.

  “Was Falconer’s daughter ever involved in C.N.D.?” he asked.

  “Not as far as we can find out,” Hobbs answered. “But she and Judd are being watched in view of recent events, and we have discovered one interesting thing; her father’s having her watched, too! Oliphant, personal assistant, is using a private inquiry agent.”

  Gideon raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. That’s rather odd. And how’s Thwaites doing at the gallery?”

  “I gather he’s done practically all he can there,” answered Hobbs.

  “Well, have him concentrate on this Falconer-Judd angle,” Gideon ordered. “I’ll talk to him and Frobisher this afternoon and see how they’re getting on together. Meanwhile,” he added with heavy humour, “I think you’re going to be detailed to a conference at eleven o’clock on Monday morning.” He explained to Hobbs, who simply shrugged, and then went on: “Riddell’s due in soon. Have you given any thought to him and the immigration smuggling?”

  “I read his report before you came in,” said Hobbs. “He’s obviously delved deeply, as he’s got at a lot of the facts. But I get a strong impression there’s a mental block in his approach. He’s not as lucid and objective as he could and should be.”

  “What would you do? Keep him on or give the job to Honiwell?” asked Gideon.

  “George,” said Hobbs very slowly, “I wouldn’t like to make the decision. I really wouldn’t. But on balance I th
ink I’d make him stay.”

  “Why?” asked Gideon.

  “Because I think he’ll find it difficult to live with himself if he’s taken off,” Hobbs said. “And he’s so alive to the danger that I don’t think he’ll do anything out of prejudice now.”

  There was a tap at the passage door, and Gideon felt instinctively that it was Riddell. He called “Come in” and Riddell appeared, a grim-faced, hard-eyed Riddell, who looked as if he were prepared for a fight.

  12: Tensions

  One fact was immediately obvious; this was no time for Gideon to tell Riddell that he hadn’t yet studied the report and not even reached the assessment. Clearly something had happened to affect the man like this, and to bring him to Gideon’s office at least ten minutes early.

  “I’ll talk to Thwaites,” Hobbs said, moving toward the door, and nodding to Riddell; but it was doubtful whether Riddell noticed or heard him. The communicating door closed quietly.

  “Sit down,” Gideon said to Riddell.

  “I’d rather stand, I—”

  “Sit down, I said!”

  Now, suddenly, there was conflict between them, deliberately forced by Gideon. In this office particularly, and on the job in general, it would be disastrous to allow any subordinate to gain the upper hand, and Riddell was dangerously near making his own terms.

  Slowly, Riddell sat down, but he perched on the edge of the armchair.

  “What’s brought you early?” asked Gideon.

  “Early? I’m not—” Riddell glanced at his watch, then raised his hands and dropped them heavily onto his knees. “Sorry,” he said. “But this job is pushing me hard.”

  “I can imagine,” Gideon conceded. “It’s a bad time all round. The National Gallery affair is causing a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh, that.” Riddell gave the impression that he had hardly heard of the theft and wasn’t interested, anyway. Most men at the Yard were aware of the dangers in the situation, alive to the fact that if they failed to find “The Prince” soon the Yard’s stock would fall heavily. But as these thoughts passed through Gideon’s mind, Riddell sat back, pushed his fingers through his hair, and gave a snort of a laugh. “I see what you mean - my problem is one of many and you can’t be as obsessed with it as I am. Good thing, too.” He paused and Gideon waited. “You remember me telling you about a poor devil of an immigrant who was stowed away in a hole under some stairs?”