“Top result,” Bernie said.
“Are you being sarky?”
“No, Mr Small. No way.”
“If I thought you was being sarky I’d nail you to the wall.”
“And you’d be right to do it,” Bernie said.
Sly Small gave Bernie a long look. “I don’t want this to get around. Rocky is getting a Horngacher. From me.”
Bernie nodded.
“Don’t look as if you know what a Horngacher is, you thick berk. I didn’t know myself until a couple of days ago. It’s a harp, a bloody great harp. Have a good laugh. My son and heir plays the harp. That’s his instrument, okay?”
A harp. Bernie understood Sly Small’s problem now. The criminal world would fall about laughing if it learned that Sly’s son had turned into a harpist.
“He’s flesh and blood,” Sly said. “What can you do? If the boy had asked me for a Harley-Davidson I’d have given him one. He doesn’t want a Harley, he wants a Horngacher. There’s one called the Meisterharfe Horngacher. It’s the Harley-Davidson of harps he says, worth fifty grand, easy. Your job is to pick one up for me.”
“From a harp shop?” Bernie said.
“I didn’t say buy one. What do you think I am? I’ve made inquiries, and there are only two Meisterharfe Horngachers known to be in Britain. One is in the Museum of Music in Winchester, and that’s as secure as Fort Knox. But the other is out there being played. It’s coming in tomorrow.”
“Coming in where?”
“The Albert Hall, for some concert. It was being played last weekend in Prague, with the Royal Philharmonic. They use a big furniture van to drive the instruments across the continent. Should be arriving around mid-day. That’s when you pick up the harp.”
“It’s all arranged?” Bernie said, much relieved.
“Plonker,” Sly said. “What do you think you are – American Express? No one’s going to ask you for the paper work. You’re knocking it off, right?”
“It’s a hold-up?”
“Depends how you want to play it. If I was you I’d wear a brown coat and say I was staff. Shove it in the van – carefully, mind – and drive off fast. Make sure you’re not being followed and bring it here.”
He made it sound simple. Bernie wasn’t so confident. “If you don’t mind me mentioning this, Mr Small, is this harp easy to recognise?”
“You know what they look like,” Sly said. “Ever see a Marx brothers film?”
“No, what I’m saying is that when Rocky turns up at the Royal College with a harp that’s hot – a hot Horngacher – he’s likely to be in trouble, isn’t he?”
“It’s for home use, dickhead, for Rocky to enjoy in private. When he goes to college he can play one of theirs.”
“Right.”
It had to be faced. There was no persuading Sly Small that this was an ill-fated enterprise.
“It’ll be in a case,” Sly said. “But you handle it like it was a newborn baby, right? They’re easily damaged. The carving, the gold leaf gilding. Over two thousand parts go into a harp, Rocky told me. I don’t want a single one of them missing when you bring it here tomorrow night.”
The next morning found Bernie parked on a meter opposite the Albert Hall. He was wearing a brown coat over his t-shirt and jeans. In the rear of his Ford Transit were straps, ropes and foam rubber mats. The Horngacher would be well protected. And so would he, with a Smith and Wesson Combat Magnum under his arm. He didn’t plan to use the shooter. The sight ought to be enough.
He had got here early and found the only possible goods entrance. While he watched, a caterer’s van arrived with food supplies. A couple of men in brown coats came from inside the building and started unloading. Maybe the coats were a shade darker than Bernie’s, but he couldn’t see that anyone would make an issue of it. Half the battle was behaving as if you belonged.
The driver finished the delivery and drove away. Bernie switched on the radio. Classic FM would help get him in the mood. A bit of Chopin would do wonders for his nerves.
Just after mid-day, his heartbeat increased noticeably as a large brown furniture van came up the street. On the side was written Gentle and Good, Specialists in Musical Removals. At the same time, four Albert Hall porters in their brown coats appeared.
Bernie waited for the van to back up to the arched entrance and then got out and crossed the street and walked around the back to join the porters. They would assume he was a Gentle and Good man; and the Gentle and Good men would assume he was on the Albert Hall roster. That was the theory, anyway.
“What have you got for us?” one of the porters asked.
“Royal Phil,” Bernie said, trying to sound as if he’d been doing the job for years.
“The Bechstein grand,” the porter said, pulling a face.
Bernie pulled a face as well. The Bechstein grand was evidently bad news.
The van driver and one other man came to the back and nodded to the others and said something about the traffic. They seemed to know each other, which was not good news for Bernie. He sidled to the back and waited with arms folded while they unlocked and opened up. What a relief it was to see a large case the shape of a harp lashed to the side of the van.
First he made a show of assisting with the grand piano, a heavy brute. It had to be wheeled with great care onto the lift mechanism. When it was at ground level, the Albert Hall team took over.
Bernie was left with the Gentle and Good men. “I’ll take the harp,” he said with authority. He’d noticed a set of wheels on the case. It would be just a matter of trundling it across the street to his own van. He stepped up and started unbuckling the straps.
“You want help?” the driver said.
“No, mate. I can handle this.”
“We don’t want an accident. You know who it belongs to?”
“Tell me then,” Bernie said, giving his main attention to the straps.
“Igor Gurney.”
“Ah.” Bernie hadn’t thought of the harp as belonging to anyone. He’d assumed it was owned by the Royal Philharmonic. On reflection, it was obvious that musicians liked to use their own instruments. He said, “He needn’t worry. It’s in good hands.” He tilted it away from the side of the van and let the wheels take the weight. It was mobile. He manoeuvred it onto the lift, took a firm grip and said, “Bombs away.”
The platform descended. Bernie wheeled the harp off. Now all he had to do was cross the street with it. “Want me to sign for this?”
The driver had his clipboard in his hand. “What?”
“The harp. I’m supposed to be taking it to the Festival Hall.”
“I was told it was wanted here.”
“Yes, but tonight he’s giving a recital at the South Bank.”
“You’d better sign for it, then.”
Bernie signed the name of his ex-wife’s current partner. Then, trying not to show undue haste, he steered the precious Horngacher across the street and opened the back of his Transit. It took quite an effort to hoist the thing inside. He attached the straps and bunched the foam rubber against the sides. When the job was done he stepped out and glanced across the street. The first of the porters was just coming through the archway. Bernie got in and started up. Mission almost accomplished.
He didn’t put his foot down as he made his getaway along Kensington Gore Road. He drove with a care for the instrument. And he didn’t want to get stopped for exceeding the limit.
On the radio they were doing commercials. Then the news. It crossed Bernie’s mind that his daring heist might make the news bulletins later in the day.
The voice on the radio said, “And now a piece we should play more often, because I think you’ll agree it touches the heart – the Mozart Concerto for Flute and Harp. This is a live recording made at the proms last year and featuring Jane Stine as the solo flautist and Igor Gurney, the blind harpist, with the Hall Orchestra.”
Igor Gurney, the blind harpist.
Bernie’s hands gripped the wheel. God
help us, he thought, I’ve stolen a blind man’s harp. What kind of monster am I?
He’d felt a twinge of conscience earlier, when he was told the harp belonged to a musician, and not the orchestra. To learn that the man was blind made him groan out loud. He pictured Igor Gurney with his white stick shuffling to the place where the Horngacher was supposed to be and finding nothing, his hands plucking at air.
He could also picture Sly Small sitting in his Surrey mansion waiting for the harp to be delivered, idly turning the cylinder of his revolver.
The soul-stirring notes of the concerto filled the van. Mozart and Igor Gurney were making a joint appeal. Get this, Bernie. Robbing a blind man of his harp is as low as you can get.
Bernie had done bad things in his life, like break-ins and hijacks. He’d stolen cars, shoplifted, cheated at cards and conned a few mugs out of a few grand. Until this point in his life he’d never wilfully hurt a handicapped person. There were limits, things even a hardened criminal hesitated to do.
I won’t be able to live with myself, he thought.
Sucks to Sly Small. At the next turn he veered left, down Palace Gate. Shaking, sick with fear, he turned left again and worked his way though the streets towards Prince Consort Road and the Albert Hall.
The men were still unloading. His parking spot had gone, so he drew in beside the Gentle and Good van.
“You’re back, then?” the driver said without any suggestion of blame. “Is something up?”
“Someone got their dates wrong,” Bernie said. “Good thing I phoned ahead.” He did this kind of deception well. People always believed him. “It’s to go inside with the other instruments.” He got out and unstrapped and lifted the Horngacher from the rear of the Transit. There was an immediate sense of relief. For once in his life he had done the decent thing. “Listen, I’d better find somewhere to park,” he told the driver.
“No problem,” the driver said. “I’ll get one of your mates to wheel it in.”
Bernie got in and drove away. The glow of virtue lasted about five seconds, until Sly Small reared up in his thoughts. What on earth could he do now? Go into hiding? Seek another identity? Verdi’s Requiem was playing on the radio. He switched it off.
The solution came to him as he was waiting at a red light in Kensington High Street. Sly Small had spoken of a second Horngacher in some museum in Winchester. He glanced at the time. Winchester was a couple of hours’ drive from here, straight down the M3. He could be there by four. He’d have no qualms about lifting a Horngacher belonging to a pesky museum. A harp shouldn’t be gathering dust. It should be out there being played by some up-and-coming musician like Rocky Small. This would be an act of liberation.
Bernie put his foot down and headed for Winchester.
The signs for the Museum of Music came up on the outskirts of the city. The building, in its own grounds off Worthy Road, was a modern glass and concrete structure that looked pretty secure to Bernie’s expert eye. Hadn’t Sly likened it to Fort Knox? No matter. Bernie had devised a plan on the way down.
“We’re closing at five,” the young woman at the turnstile said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave it for another day? There’s so much to see.”
“I’ll have a quick trot round and get a sense of what’s here,” Bernie told her. “Is there a guidebook?”
She gave him a plan and he made a beeline for the harp section on the second floor. It was well stocked. They were Irish, Welsh, Grecian, Gothic and early American. He studied the labels of the larger harps. There was a Wurlitzer, an Erard and a Venus Paragon. They all looked pretty similar to Bernie’s untutored eye. Where was the flaming Horngacher?
No need to panic, he told himself. Maybe they kept it in some other part of the museum. He looked at his watch. Four-thirty already. He studied the plan again. Somewhere on the ground floor was a display described as The Layout of a Symphony Orchestra. They had harps in symphony orchestras, didn’t they? Bernie hurried downstairs.
At the far end of the building he found a large semi-circular area set out with music stands and the various instruments beside them. The harp was on a raised part at the rear left. He moved closer. A beautiful thing six feet high with gold leaf gilding. But was it the Horngacher?
He studied the label and groaned out loud. “Obermeyer harp, made in Starnberg, Austria, about 1977.”
Over the public address system came the voice of the woman at the admissions desk. “The museum will close in twenty minutes.”
Beside him a different voice spoke up. She was wearing an official badge that said she was staff. “You look as if you’re trying to find something. Can I help?”
With so little time left, he had no choice. He told her he’d come hoping to see a Horngacher.
“You’re standing beside it,” she said.
“But it says Obermeyer.”
“Read the small print, and I think you’ll find it was made by Horngacher. He took over the business from Obermeyer. If anything, he improved on them. He’s known as the Stradivari of harp makers. Isn’t the carving exquisite?”
Bernie wasn’t looking at the carving. If anything was exquisite, it was the label that confirmed what he’d just been told. He’d found the Horngacher. All he had to do now was remove it from the building.
He glanced around at the security arrangements, the video surveillance and the metal shutters on the windows. This would not be simple.
The attendant glanced at her watch. “We’re closing soon, I’m afraid.”
On an inspiration, Bernie said, “Organs?”
She didn’t understand.
“Where can I find the organs?”
“They’re near the entrance. You must have passed them on the way in.”
“Didn’t notice. I was looking for this.”
He thanked her and headed for the organ section. Organs were the biggest instruments Bernie could think of. Some fine examples were ranged along the main walkway to the entrance. After checking the video cameras he picked his organ, a Victorian church instrument with a fine set of pipes. It wasn’t the largest in the display, but it suited him well. Making sure no one was about, he squeezed out of sight between the pipes and the wall.
A bell went off and he thought he’d triggered an alarm, but it was the five-minute warning that the museum was closing.
Now it was a matter of holding his nerve. The staff may have noticed he hadn’t left yet. With luck, their minds were on other things like getting home as soon as possible. He listened to the footsteps as other visitors departed.
It went so quiet he could hear the woman on admissions say to someone, presumably a security officer, “All clear, then?”
“I’ll do my check with the dog. Leave it to me.”
With the dog? The hairs rose on the back of Bernie’s neck.
What could he do? Wait here, to be savaged by a guard-dog? The woman said goodnight, followed by a door slamming. Then the rumble of something mechanical. The elevator. The security man was starting his check upstairs.
Bernie heard the sliding door open and close, and knew this was his opportunity. Two floors upstairs had to be checked. He must grab that harp and be away before the man and his dog reached the ground floor.
Speed mattered more than stealth. He emerged from his hiding place and ran to the far end, where the orchestra was displayed. Took a grip on the Horngacher and tried to shift it. Difficult. Not only was it heavy, but awkward, too. The harp at the Albert Hall, cased and on wheels, had lulled him into thinking this would be simple. It would take far too long to drag this thing the length of the building and out through the front door.
He looked around for inspiration. No convenient trolley, of course. But desperation breeds inventiveness. Bernie looked at the wood-block floor. And the conductor’s dais, covered with a square of red carpet. He could use that carpet. With strength born of panic, he ripped it free of the tacks and placed it where he could persuade the Horngacher onto it. One big effort and the harp w
as in position. Now he could move it, tugging the rug with one hand and supporting the harp with the other.
The method worked. Once the rug was in motion, he was able to get up a reasonable speed. Of course it was a risk supporting fifty grands-worth of harp with one hand as he ran backwards, but Bernie had gone past the point of risk assessment.
He reached the entrance with its turnstile system. No way could he get the harp through or over the turnstile. There had to be another entrance for large items, and there was: a metal gate at the side. Locked.
There was no obvious way to shift it. After rattling the gate several times like a gorilla, he climbed over and looked at the other side. The bolt seemed to work by some electronic mechanism. Cursing, he went into the kiosk where the woman issued tickets. He found a switch and flicked it.
An alarm bell sounded.
In the din, he started flicking every switch, every key he could find. He tried the gate again. No result. And the security man and his dog would be down any second.
Instinctively he reached under his arm and drew the gun. Should have thought of it before. He fired at the bolt securing the gate. Magic. It swung free. He hauled the rug and harp through and across the stone floor of the foyer. Several finger bolts secured the front door. He loosed them and opened up. Outside, some porter, bless him, had left a hand trolley. Bernie grasped the harp and lifted it on and steered the precious load across the car park to where his van stood.
There wasn’t time to strap the Horngacher in place. It would have to take its chance on the rubber mats. He opened the doors, heaved it in and slammed them shut.
Behind him he heard a shout. The security guard was at the museum door. The dog, a German shepherd, was racing across the car park. Bernie almost reached the front of the van when the dog sank its teeth into his leg below the knee. The pain was wicked. He fisted the dog, but it hung on, snarling. He dragged open the van door. More by luck than judgement the door struck the dog and threw it off him. Bernie heaved himself inside, closed the door, started up and drove off.
In the long history of thefts, this one didn’t rate among the most efficient and ingenious, but so what, it had come off. Leg throbbing, breath rasping, heart racing, Bernie headed towards Surrey.
Murder on the Short List Page 13
