The Dorich House Mystery (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 3)

by P. J. Thurbin

  “That would be Sarah Winton. She’s head of the Art history department at the University,” replied Ralph.

  “You seem to be mixing with some dodgy characters at your University, Ralph. Have you ever thought of packing it all in and working in the real world? You could always come to work with me. I could do with some International Business advice,” said Grant. They all waited for Ralph to respond.

  What struck Ralph was how smoothly Grant always managed to divert the attention away from any involvement he might have in a situation. No doubt part of the skills of an expert chess player and invaluable when dealing in the art business.

  “Actually, from what we witnessed at the auction today, perhaps you should turn your hand to a bit of financial advising yourself,” Ralph smiled in an effort to conceal the cynical note he heard creeping into his voice. But his thoughts drifted to Sarah and what else she knew, if anything, about Paul Scott’s involvement in the recent events. Once the police started to question Scott they might unearth a trail to his previous contract dealings with clients and the murder on the M25 of one of his drivers. If they linked any of that to Sarah, then no doubt her husband would find out about their affair and perhaps even ask for a divorce. But of course his brief association did not stretch to actually helping her to cover her tracks. No, he thought, ‘lie down with dogs and you are bound to get fleas’, he could hear his grandmother telling him when he started running around with a rather rough set of pals when he was young. Suddenly he was brought back to the present when he felt Katie kicking him under the table.

  “I think a change might do Ralph good,” Katie said. “I know I could get used to good food, good wine and good company, especially if the money rolled in as easily as it seemed to for you guys today.”

  “Well, it might be a bit too rich for my blood,” Ralph said as he turned his attention to the waiter who was waiting patiently to take their order.

  “Especially all of this rich food. It could cramp my efforts to keep fit,” he added once they had placed their orders.

  “I guess jogging around the streets of Paris in your running shorts could take a bit of explaining to your clients. At least in academia you have to be far more eccentric than you are to raise eyebrows,” Katie joked.

  They all laughed and the serious events of the day were forgotten, at least for the time being. Ralph and Katie opted for the spiced lobster, Dublin Bay prawns and crayfish bisque flavoured with Szechuan pepper and lemon followed by quail stuffed with sweetbreads while John Weston, Grant and Boris all had wild game meat with some vintage wine from southwestern France.

  At around midnight the revelers said their farewells with promises to visit John in Cairo where he would show them how Egypt was recovering from the aftershock of the so called Arab Spring and Boris invited them all to join him at his summer house in Antibes near Monte Carlo on the French Riviera.

  “I’m afraid that my future looks a bit less glamorous,” said Grant with a theatrical wave of his arms. “You will have to visit me in Pentonville prison unless I can prove to the police that I had nothing to do with Paul Scott and his blasted stolen icons.”

  “And of course you are all invited to lunch in the staff refectory at Gypsy Hill,” Ralph rejoined to the sound of much laughter which could have awoken half of Paris.

  It had been a marvelous night for them all but Ralph and Katie had reservations for the early morning train back to the UK. Far from being the loose cannon he had feared, Katie had proved to be quite an asset. Ralph felt that all in all the trip had been a success and he was eager to get back and tell Granger about the offers of endowments and collaboration he had got from his contacts in Paris.

  ***

  Inspector Linham and Sergeant Wilson were enjoying sausages and mashed potatoes in the police canteen when they were interrupted by the duty constable.

  “Sorry Inspector Linham but Europol in Paris just called. They want to speak to you about that Paul Scott enquiry. I told them you’d call back.”

  “Thanks Bill, I hope they can speak in English.”

  “Well the girl on the phone had a nice French accent. Reminded me of that Bridget Bardot film star when I was a kid.”

  “You’re not that old are you Bill? Next thing you know we’ll be having a collection for your retirement party.”

  “Fat chance of that, Sir,” Bill replied with a laugh. If you’ve finished with that sausage, Sir, I could put it in a sandwich for my tea later?”

  “Give me the Europol number and get back to the front desk, Bill. Someone might want to report a stolen umbrella or a lost cat.” They all laughed as Linham pushed back his chair.

  “Time to find out what our friends across the Channel have got for us, Wilson.”

  Linham’s counterpart at Europol told him how Christies had contacted them about the stolen icons from the Hermitage collection and that they had been in a consignment of art works from Paul Scott Secure Shipping. Linham had already been thinking of getting Paul Scott in for further questioning about the M25 killing. What surprised him was the news that the consignment had included three paintings owned by Grant Richardson. The officer at Europol told him that they were trying to identify the owner of the icons, but Christies only had a numbered account in a Swiss Bank in Geneva. Europol held out little hope of being able to complete a satisfactory trace. The agent handling the sale of the icons was a Russian national living in London, one Boris Sarovsky who was helping them with their enquiries. They had kept a file on Sarovsky for some time and knew that he had strong connections with organized crime groups in Europe. The current investigation revealed that he had purchased over 6 million dollars’ worth of paintings owned by a Mr. Grant Richardson of Cambridge, England, but neither Richardson nor Sarovsky had broken any laws, at least not from the activities that they had uncovered so far.

  Linham assured them that he would be interviewing Paul Scott and would keep them informed of any progress. Linham sat back in his 1930’s worn leather swivel chair.

  “Well Wilson, our Mr. Richardson’s name seems to be linked with some pretty shady dealings with Scott’s firm. We know from the inventory at Dorich House they don’t have any Russian icons.

  “So Paul Scott must have collected Richardson’s paintings from Dorich House then put the icons in with them in order to get through customs on the same manifest.”

  “Or Richardson could even have been working alone, Sir. Then Richardson could have simply included the icons in with the paintings. We’ve been keeping a close eye on Dorich House and know that Richardson was there a few days ago when the paintings were being taken down and prepared for shipment to Paris. That was when Cynthia Harper, the curator, was off work recovering from the attack on her, so Richardson would have had the perfect opportunity to slip the icons into the crates along with the paintings.”

  “What you’re saying is that Paul Scott might not have known about the stolen icons and that Richardson could have set up an account in a Swiss Bank posing as an anonymous seller?” Wilson was familiar with his Inspector’s rhetorical style and waited for him to continue. After a pause while he gathered his thoughts, Linham continued.

  “One thing I can’t puzzle out is who could have tried to break into Rabinsky’s workshop. Scott had already taken the paintings there from Dorich House and then when Rabinsky had completed the valuations he had returned them. Surely Richardson wouldn’t want to steal his own property.”

  “What about for the insurance money?”

  “Unlikely. He knew he would get far more than their insured value at auction.”

  But suppose Rabinsky told him that they were not old copies at all and that they were worth a lot less than he had thought? Then if he stole them at least he could get the original amount they were insured for.”

  “But everyone, including the insurers, would be privy to the valuation amount as soon as Rabinsky issued his report.”

  “Perhaps that is why someone decided to silence Ivan Rabinsky.”


  “My point exactly. Okay Wilson, the first thing we need to do is call in Paul Scott and see what he has to say for himself.”

  ***

  Paul Scott was obviously a very frightened man. He refused Wilson’s offer of tea and kept twisting in his chair. After Wilson turned on the recorder Inspector Linham asked Scott if he wanted to contact his lawyer before they began the interview. He insisted that he had nothing to hide and that he had already cooperated with them when they were investigating the murder of one of his drivers on the M25.

  “This isn’t about the M25 incident, Mr. Scott,” said Linham. We have been informed by Europol that some stolen items were found in a consignment that you shipped to Paris last week. Is there anything you would like to tell us about that, sir?” Scott looked slightly relieved.

  “Look I will tell you everything I know, but I’ll need protection. The gang that killed my driver is behind all of this, and my family has already been threatened.”

  Linham hated making any sort of promises with anyone who was a person of interest in an undergoing investigation, but he could see that in this case Scott was petrified, and if he wanted to get any information out of him about this supposed gang then he needed Scott’s co-operation.

  “I can’t do any deals, but if you or your family believe you are being threatened and in any danger, then you have the right to protection, the same as any citizen.”

  “Okay. But I want some assurance that you’ll put some security around my home before I go any further.”

  “Wilson, go and set that up for Mr. Scott. I’ll wait until you get back before we continue with the interview.”

  After Wilson returned and showed the order for protection to Scott, Linham was ready to proceed.

  “Well I was approached some two years ago by some people who offered me a lot of money if I routed my cross channel delivery vehicles through a warehouse outside Dover, about two miles from the ferry terminus. I never asked any questions, but I guessed they were doing some sort of switch and putting stolen art goods in among my stuff. It’s pretty easy to doctor the manifests; people have been doing that for years. I got paid every month just like clockwork, even for months when there were no shipments. The money went straight into an account I had set up in Switzerland.”

  “So you’re saying that you knew nothing about the stolen Russian icons that were discovered at Christies’ auction in Paris?”

  “No. they never gave me any details about the shipments and I didn’t want to know. I just routed my vehicles through the warehouse like they told me. From there one of their drivers took the vehicle to load it with whatever they had to add to mine and then brought it back for me to take to the final destination.”

  “Well can you tell us anything about a shipment of paintings from Dorich House to a workshop in Barnes owned by a Mr. Ivan Rabinsky? And before you answer that question, let me remind you that Mr. Rabinsky was found murdered in his apartment in Belgravia soon after you shipped the paintings.”

  Scott looked startled and began to sweat.

  “Look, don’t try to pin that murder on me. I picked up that stuff from Dorich House for Kingston University and then when they called me I collected it and took it back. That woman at the museum, that Ms. Harper, told me what to do. I collected them, put them in the proper crates and did the job. I swear I had nothing to do with this Rabinsky bloke.”

  “Then how did you get into the workshop at Barnes?” asked Wilson on a cue from his boss.

  Scott paused and seemed to be collecting his thoughts.

  “I met Mr. Richardson there as he’d previously arranged. He said that he was worried that some of his paintings might have got mixed up with other stuff that was in the workshop and wanted to supervise the packing and loading. He was a good bloke. Not like some. I remember me and the driver went off to get some lunch and a pint at a nearby pub. He gave me twenty quid and said he would make sure everything was ready when we got back. It was raining and I remember he had this brand new SUV parked under the arches by the workshop. Mr. Richardson had nothing to do with the other business. I swear.”

  “How was it that Mr. Richardson’s paintings were in the same shipment to Christies as the stolen icons?” Asked the Inspector.

  “Well it’s like I said; I just arranged for a driver to collect the paintings from Dorich House like Mr. Richardson ordered. My driver said that Richardson was already waiting at Dorich House when he got there and that he had made a fuss about making sure the paintings were taken down, packed and sealed properly. He said that Mr. Richardson insisted on packing the paintings himself. Evidently he sent the driver off to get some lunch at a pub down the road while he took care of things. At the time I just wished all our customers were that concerned. The driver then went to the Dover warehouse because I had been instructed that there was some extra stuff to be collected and sent on to Paris. So if the icons got in the crate then it was done there at Dover.

  “One last question, Mr. Scott. Your firm is owned by Mr. Thomas Winton. What does he have to do with all of this?”

  “Nothing. Apart from putting a lot of pressure on me to make more profits. He’s even threatened to sell off the company if I didn’t. That’s what drove me to do those dodgy deals with the manifests, I suppose. But he doesn’t know anything about it. Once he does then I’m sure that will be me finished.”

  “Oh yes Mr. Scott, there is one other thing. Do you know anything about Professor Sarah Winton at the University? I hear that she recommended your firm for the Dorich House contract?

  Paul Scott looked as though he had been struck in the face. He visibly recoiled.

  “No. She’s not involved. Not at all. For God’s sake don’t bring her into all this. She’s just someone I knew a long time ago. Please keep her out of it. My wife is the jealous type and she would go ballistic if she thought I had anything to do with another woman.” Linham had heard that story a thousand times in his career. If he had mentioned every affair he had uncovered while investigating criminal activities, he reckoned the divorce rate in England would have doubled.

  “We will do our best Mr. Scott, and thank you for your co-operation.”

  Linham was satisfied that he had got enough from Scott to be able to arrest him for handling or receiving stolen goods, or at the very least aiding and abetting. He cautioned Scott before making a formal arrest. Scott just looked relieved to have police protection for his wife and family. When he had been taken away for booking the Inspector walked to the window overlooking the town.

  “We still have a lot of unanswered questions and they all seem to involve Grant Richardson in one way or another. Perhaps it’s time we paid him another visit.

  And it will also give us a chance to get one of those cheese and onion sandwiches they serve in the buffet car on the Cambridge train. I might even treat you to a can of warm beer.”

  “That’s not a bribe is it, Sir?”

  “Why would you ask such a question, Sergeant?” They both laughed as Linham dialed Grant Richardson’s number in Cambridge.

  ______________________

  Chapter 9

  It was an unusually warm day for March and Ralph had gone in to college to check a report that Janet had been tidying up for him. Over the years she had often chided him over grammatical mistakes in his reports. He argued that it was a question of style, but she had adopted the role of his editor nevertheless.

  “Professor Winton is here to see you, Professor Chalmers,” Janet said after he had hung up his jacket on the hook in his office. It was easy to see that Sarah was not on her list of favourites.

  “That stupid memory stick that Rabinsky told me about has turned up at last.” Sarah said without preamble as she flourished a padded beige package that obviously contained the information that might provide answers to a lot of questions and might even give some clues as to who would have wanted Rabinsky out of the way enough to murder him. “The silly bugger must have forgotten that I’d moved on and sent it to my old co
llege. It came this morning with a lot of junk mail. The damn thing must have been put in my pigeon hole in the staff common room.” She threw the package down on Ralph’s desk. “Obviously no one there even bothered to check my mail for me.”

  Not surprising, thought Ralph. They probably couldn’t wait to get rid of you.

  “It appears that crafty old Rabinsky discovered that the paintings that Grant Richardson sent him for valuation were fakes, well, that is modern copies. Made in the late 1990’s by all accounts.He figured that Richardson had been conned when he bought those paintings that he was so proud of. It makes your friend Richardson look pretty stupid after all that boasting he did when we were at the dinner at Dorich House.”

  “Does it say anything about his having told Richardson about the report?” Asked Ralph when she paused long enough for him to get in a word.

  “Well you can see for yourself. But yes, he said that he sent him a copy and had phoned and got some sort of explanation. But I don’t think Rabinsky was all that pleased about someone trying to dupe him into valuing a fake.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?” Asked Ralph.

  “No, of course not. As far as I’m concerned it’s all old hat now. You probably heard about Paul being arrested over those icons he allegedly shipped to Paris. Now my husband is asking some awkward questions so I just want to keep well clear of anything to do with that business.”

  Ralph could see that she was trying to appear nonchalant but was obviously upset.

  “Look Sarah, I think that the police have to know about this as it involves a murder enquiry. The memory stick could be prime evidence.”

  “You do what you like with it. That’s why I brought it straight to you. If the police want to contact me they have my number at the college. But remember, I’m only the messenger. Look I’ve got a lot of things to do. So it’s up to you to decide what to do with it. It’s over to you from now on. Ciao.” With that she pushed the package across his desk and strode out of his office.