by John Creasey
He glanced at her over the rims of his glasses and she did not know what was in his mind, but he had discovered something. He beckoned her and she joined him, feeling almost sick with hope and apprehension. His long forefinger was pointing at a black-and-white plate, and she saw at a glance that this was a picture of the painting she had found - and she also knew, from Old Fisky’s manner, that this wasn’t all it seemed to be.
“What is it?” she gasped. “Please, what is it?”
“ ‘Summer Idyll’,” Old Fisky said slowly. “It was stolen from Rosebury House in Suffolk about ten years ago. It’s a find all right, Lucy, it’s a big find; it’s a very valuable painting. And” - he put a damp hand on her shoulder, and went on in a gentle voice - “there’ll be a reward, my dear, quite a substantial reward.”
“Mr. Fisk,” she asked, hardly breathing, “How much would you think? Please tell me how much.”
He looked at her, moistened his lips, and then said, “Fifty pounds, at least, fifty pounds - it might even be a hundred.”
And he knew, as anyone would have known who saw the rapturous expression on her face, that she was enthralled, that to her a hundred or even fifty pounds would be a fortune.
He had never seen her looking so happy.
Nor had Police Constable Wilberforce, who “happened” to be passing on the other side of the road when, an hour later, she went out for a walk. He was not in uniform, so he could follow her without being too obvious, and he walked along King’s Road and then into New King’s Road and across to the Eelbrook Common, where many played and more strolled and sunned themselves in the lovely evening. Lucy walked as she always did toward Walham Green, now known to many as Fulham Broadway, and he cut along another path, easily outpacing her, until near the Broadway he was able to turn and walk toward her, so that soon they came face to face.
His eyes brightened and he managed to sound surprised.
“Why, Miss Jenkins!”
She looked puzzled as he drew up.
“Don’t you recognize me?” he asked “Wilberforce, P.C. Wilberforce. I saw you on Wednesday, when I came to the shop.”
“Oh, I remember!” She was quite pleased. “You had your uniform on then, so I didn’t recognize you.”
“That’s easy to understand,” he said “Are you going far?”
“Just for a walk, that’s all”
“May I join you?” Ian Wilberforce asked.
“Well—well, yes, that would be very nice.” Lucy’s eyes lit up in turn, and there was a new brightness in her as they walked back toward New King’s Road, then along the terraced houses which flanked one side of the common, and eventually to Parsons Green. When they were there, he asked, as if out of a brain wave: “It’s a lovely evening - would you like to take a bus up to Putney and walk along the river?”
“I’d love it!” she cried. But suddenly her voice plummeted in dismay: “But if I’m taking up too much of your time—”
“Not a bit,” he said hurriedly. “It’s my day off, and I’m as free as the air. Days off are a bit boring sometimes,” he went on. “I live in digs, you see, and it’s hardly home from home.”
They sat close together on the bus.
They linked arms on the towpath. They walked slowly, very slowly, back toward the bus, two hours later.
I daren’t kiss her, he thought, it would scare the wits out of her. She’s as fragile as a bird.
He’s wonderful, she thought, he’s wonderful, but I hope he doesn’t want to kiss me. I’d faint if he wanted to kiss me.
“Goodbye,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed being with you so much.”
“Oh, so have I!”
“If you’re free on my next day off, perhaps—perhaps we could go to the pictures.”
“Oh” she said, her heart in her voice. “I’d love to.”
That was a little after half past seven, and at the very moment when Lucy was closing the front door of the shop in Fulham, Sir Richard Falconer was opening the door of his wife’s bedroom, a long and immaculate Regency room with a canopy over the head of the bed. Beyond, opposite the main door, was the bathroom and a tiny dressing room.
Lady Falconer came out of the dressing room, and started at the sight of him.
If he was aware that it was the first time he had been in her room for nearly a year, he gave no sign. He was dressed in a dark suit and a tie with a single pearl pin, and the pearl picked out the colour of the hair at his temples; he was a little thinner than he had been for some time past, and there was more animation in him than he had allowed his wife to see for years.
“Charlotte, has Christine telephoned?” he demanded.
“No.”
“Are you quite sure? Could your maid have forgotten a message?”
“I’ve been in all the afternoon,” Charlotte Falconer answered. “I’m as worried as—” She paused for a fraction, and then went on: “As you are.”
“Are you sure she was going out with this man Judd?”
“She didn’t say so,” his wife replied. “She simply said that she must have a life of her own, that she wasn’t going to have lunch with us but was going out.”
“So you only assumed she would see Judd?”
“Yes, Richard. But, knowing her, I can’t think I am wrong.”
“No,” mused Falconer “You’re almost certainly right, of course. I’m very worried, Charlotte.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, almost wonderingly. “I can see you are. But, Richard—” She paused again because he looked so impatient, but went on to say exactly what she had intended to say: “It isn’t a catastrophe or a crisis because a young woman of twenty-three goes out to lunch and stays out to dinner, you know.”
Falconer caught his breath.
“I am quite aware of that. I am also aware of my daughter’s character. She went out to lunch, and told you, so that you should not be anxious. Not because she felt any obligation - she is obviously in a mood of revolt against me - but because she would not wish to hurt you.” He astonished Charlotte by his positiveness, by the evidence that he knew Christine’s nature and temperament remarkably well. “And she would not say she would be home for dinner unless she meant to be.”
“She could have changed her mind.”
“Then she would have telephoned.”
“She might not be near a telephone.”
“Then she is in a very peculiar place.” Falconer hesitated, studied his wife closely and much as he would one of his other precious possessions, and then said in a more subdued voice: “If she isn’t here by half past nine, I shall ask the police to search for her. Meanwhile, I shall tell Oily to send someone to the shop in Hampstead.” He went out, and she heard a rare and remarkable thing: his voice, raised. “Oily!” There were sounds of footsteps, and then Oliphant’s voice sounded in turn.
“At once, Richard...”
“... And I want to know the result whatever they find, whatever I am doing,” Falconer finished. “If you must, interrupt me at dinner.”
Oliphant’s voice carried back faintly: “You shall hear the moment there is any news.”
Two men went to the shop in Hampstead Village, tried the front door, and rang the bell. No one answered. No one appeared to be in the shop. They left, passing a Jaguar which gleamed very white beneath a street lamp. As they went, Robin Kell watched from a corner of the first floor window.
“There’s no answer,” Oliphant reported to Falconer soon afterward.
It was then ten minutes past nine.
“Who do you think it was?” asked Lance Judd huskily.
“Sir Flicking Richard Falconer’s leg men,” growled Robin Kell.
“Are you - are you sure it wasn’t the police?”
“I’m sure,” Robin said. “And let me tell you this. Rather than let the cops or anyone else get those paintings without paying for them, I’d burn the lot. Don’t make any mistake, I’d burn the lot. If they’re no use to me, they won’t be any use to anyone.”
Lancelot Judd felt quite sure he meant exactly what he said.
16: The Commissioner
At half past nine, Gideon took a surreptitious glance at his watch, then pretended he was absolutely absorbed in the singing and the playing - as, but for Scott-Marie, he would have been. From the moment he and Kate had arrived, everything had gone with a swing. Penelope had arrived soon afterward with her latest conquest, a youth named Peter, Hobbs apparently forgotten. Prudence’s husband, another Peter had obviously taken to him; the five-year-old grandchild found first Kate’s lap and then Gideon’s shoulder places of comfort. Kate had gone into the front room of the little suburban house and started to strum on the piano. Kate’s playing was of the Sunday School teacher type, accurate but very deliberate. Penny’s Peter had produced a harmonica and begun to play with a practised ease. Prudence had pulled her violin from behind the upright piano and, for no reason at all, had started an Irish jig which everyone followed. Gideon and Pru’s Peter had found themselves in the kitchen, carving cold joints, then laying the dining-room table, and “dinner” had been a running buffet to the liveliest musical accompaniment.
Gideon had known occasions when he would have found such an evening raucous and off-putting, but tonight he was as nearly content as a man could be. And now Penelope was to play her sonata and Prudence, playing the violin as well as in her orchestra days, was to follow with a piece by Liszt. And in half an hour Gideon was due at the Commissioner’s home, half an hour’s drive away. He hadn’t said anything to Kate, expecting the party to break up about nine o’clock, as it usually did.
Just before Penny began, the front doorbell rang, and Pru’s Peter slipped away.
“Probably neighbours, to complain about the noise,” Prudence gasped in mock horror. She was the most beautiful of Gideon’s three daughters, and marriage and motherhood had warmed that beauty. “It couldn’t be anyone for you, Daddy, could it?”
Gideon pulled a face while his heart leapt hopefully. Peter came back, a tall, young-looking man with a shock of curly hair. He raised both hands to enjoin silence, and when it fell he said sepulchrally: “The cops!”
It was an evening when such a crack was hilariously funny, and they all roared. As Gideon followed Peter out, he caught Kate’s eyes and recognized her expression: You knew you’d be called out, didn’t you? On the porch a uniformed policeman was standing almost at attention, and at the curb stood a police car, blue sign glowing.
“Commander Gideon?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry to disturb you, but there is an urgent message on walkie-talkie for you, sir.”
Gideon, who had already made up his mind what to do, slipped the keys of his own car into his son-in-law’s hand, and said huskily: “Happiest evening I’ve had for a long time, Peter. I won’t break it up. Will you ask Mother to drive home? I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“Right-ho,” said Peter. “It has been good, hasn’t it?”
“I tell you, my happiest evening for a long time. I haven’t seen the family so much together for years.” Gideon gripped Peter’s hand, then went off down the short drive, the uniformed man a pace behind him. The other patrol man was standing by the side of the car, walkie-talkie in his hand.
“One of you get in the back; I’ll sit next to the driver,” Gideon said. “I want you to drive me somewhere in a hurry.” He flicked on the walkie-talkie and announced: “Gideon,” and squeezed into the car. “Drive toward central London, will you?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” a man said on the walkie-talkie as the car started off smoothly. Everyone was a sight too solicitous tonight. “This is Thwaites. A man was found in the seat of a Jaguar car in a garage at a block of flats in Swiss Cottage tonight - twenty minutes or so ago, as a matter of fact.”
“Well?” Gideon said.
“Positively identified as Paul de Courvier, who lived at the flats,” Thwaites said. “I picked up some conclusive evidence that de Courvier and Jenkins were working with Slater on some unknown job, and I was going to report first thing in the morning. Three of them are dead now. I thought you ought to know at once, sir.”
“You’re quite right,” said Gideon. “Where’s the body?”
“Still in the car, sir.”
“Finish what has to be done and then get it to the morgue at the Yard,” Gideon ordered. “How long had the body been there?”
“Only a short while. It’s a long story, sir; the thing I rang you about is that Division says it was parked most of the day in - the Jaguar I mean, sir - was parked in Hampstead Village near Lancelot Judd’s shop. And Judd is the boyfriend of Sir Richard Falconer’s daughter, you’ll remember. I thought you ought to know,” Thwaites repeated. “I’m having the movements of the car traced.”
“Was it stolen?”
“No, sir, I don’t think - it really is a bit complicated to explain over the telephone.” Thwaites was actually pleading with Gideon to say he would go straight to the spot. This in itself was unusual. Thwaites knew better than to expect the Commander to go out on any job; that was why he was being careful not to make the suggestion.
“I’ll be in my office in about an hour: say, an hour and a half,” Gideon said “Call me there.”
If Thwaites felt any disappointment, he hid it successfully.
“Very good, sir.”
Gideon rang off, and looked round at the man behind him. The car was moving at a steady speed, the driver obviously very aware of his high-ranking passenger.
“Who’s in charge in your division?” Gideon asked.
“Superintendent Loss, sir.”
“Ask him if you can take me to Peel Crescent, Mayfair, and drop me there,” Gideon said.
“Ask—” the man echoed, and then he stopped himself, reached for the radio, and spoke to his division. Formalities over, Gideon sat back in his seat, and after a few minutes, declared: “I’m in a hurry.”
“Right, sir!” exclaimed the driver, and the car surged forward through the nearly empty streets. Rain began to fall softly, making the road surfaces greasy, but Gideon was thinking back to the liveliness of the evening, the happiness; and he gave little thought to what Thwaites had said and why Thwaites had been so anxious to talk to him. Then the car pulled up outside a house in a crescent terrace of Georgian houses which had a peaceful stateliness even in the lamplight diffused by rain that was now falling steadily but softly. The car drove off on its patrols, wheels swishing, and when it had disappeared the only sound was the soft pattering rain. It was ten minutes past ten, and he could recall the time when his heart would have been in his mouth because he had kept the Commissioner waiting. There was a light inside a wrought-iron shade above the fan-shaped light over the door. Gideon pressed the bell, and almost immediately footsteps sounded.
Sir Reginald Scott-Marie opened the door himself.
“Ah. Come in, George.” The “George”, was clear evidence that he meant this to be informal. “What, no coat?” They entered the hall, with the staircase and its polished balustrade leading upward; the walls were duck-egg blue, the lighting subdued; several portraits, all of Scott-Marie’s ancestors, hung on the wall. If there was an ideal house in Gideon’s mind, this was it.
Scott-Marie led the way into a study-cum-library, with a big desk, book-lined walls, rich carpet, deep and comfortable-looking armchairs. Between these was a table with two decanters and four glasses.
“Brandy?” suggested Scott-Marie.
“Thank you.” Gideon, sitting, looked up at the tall, lean man with the close-cut grey hair and the clipped moustache, the slightly sandy complexion, the chilling grey eyes. This man had become a legend in the Metropolitan Police Force; a martinet who nevertheless knew and was considerate of people, whoever they were.
Scott-Marie poured brandy into two bowl shaped glasses, and sat down. A glow came from a single-bar electric fire, slightly incongruous in the Adam fireplace.
“How much do you know about the conference due on Tuesday morning?” Scott
-Marie asked, and implied very much more them the words themselves.
Gideon said mildly, “I’ve been informed.”
Scott-Marie obviously appreciated the dryness of that comment. He sniffed the brandy, and asked: “Would it serve any useful purpose if I were there?”
“It could serve one very good purpose,” answered Gideon promptly.
“Exactly what?”
“There is a strong tendency to see the National Gallery theft as a London concern only,” Gideon said. “It’s much wider than that, of course, and I think we should extend the inquiries into all the provincial centres, as well as immediately ask for cooperation abroad. Customs officers could be of great help: a picture of this size, rolled or flat, wouldn’t be easy to hide even on a cursory inspection. If you made it clear that you regard it both as a national and an international matter, then I think a lot of people will be suitably impressed.”
“I see,” said Scott-Marie.
Another man might have said: “Why isn’t it being treated like that already?” And another man than Gideon would have said: “The Assistant Commissioner doesn’t see it this way.” Neither spoke, until at last Scott-Marie stretched his legs nearer the fire.
“I see,” he said again. “I shall be at the conference.”
“I thought I’d send Hobbs, sir,” Gideon remarked.
Scott-Marie looked at him very directly, and he wondered whether a direct question was coming; but the moment passed, and the Commissioner sipped again before going on: “There’s another thing I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a long time, George.”
And he now regarded the time as right, reflected Gideon.
“Yes, sir?”
“The smuggling of immigrants and the relationship between coloured people and the police generally,” Scott-Marie said, and his lips turned down in a droll smile. “I know that’s a tall order, but I’m concerned with the principles, not the detail. Are you satisfied with one, or the other, or both?”
“I’m not satisfied at all,” Gideon answered quietly, “but I think the first will work itself out.” He explained briefly about Riddell and what he planned, and then went on more firmly: “The relationship is a very different matter, sir. It’s a question of individual reaction and the ruling circumstances. I’ve no evidence at all of a deteriorating relationship. But that isn’t to say that it’s good enough. I’m talking about our area, of course, and we have one or two difficult places, such as Notting Hill. It’s so much more than a police matter.”
