The Manhattan Deception

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  *

  From somewhere far away came the sound of a ringing telephone. James ignored it and went back to sleep. Moments later, it started again. This time he woke up and fumbled on the bedside table to try and locate the source of the noise that was disturbing his precious sleep.

  ‘Is that you, Mr Atkinson?’ A voice said. The Devon accent was unmistakeable: it was Mrs Hammond. ‘Are you all right?’ she said in response to his mumbled reply. ‘You sound awful.’

  ‘No, sorry, Mrs H. I only got back from the States yesterday and I’ve been catching up on some sleep.’ He turned over and looked at his alarm: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through till 9:30 in the morning.

  ‘There’s been a break-in.’ James sat bolt upright in bed, wide-awake. ‘Last night, Mr Atkinson. Up at The Lodge. I still don’t know what’s missing because the place has been ransacked. It’s terrible.’ She was close to tears.

  He swore under his breath. ‘I take it you’ve called the police?’

  ‘They’ve been here about half an hour. They think it was a professional job because the alarm didn’t go off – kept asking me Tom-fool questions about whether I’d given the code to anyone – as if.’

  ‘OK, Mrs H, thanks for letting me know. Could you please give the police my mobile number and tell them I’m on my way. I’ll be leaving in about half an hour and I’ll call you when I pass Exeter to give you a better idea of when I’ll be there.’

  He threw a change of clean clothes and the pile of mail into a bag and, stopping only to send Cathy a brief e-mail with the news of the break-in, he showered, dressed and set off in his car, cursing all the way and imagining the medieval punishments he’d like to inflict on the burglars.

  The police and the insurance company’s risk assessor had already been and gone by the time he arrived and the ever-resourceful Hammond had arranged for a locksmith to come and change all the locks. However, nothing prepared him for the scene of devastation that greeted his eyes. Not a single room had been left untouched: drawers pulled open, their contents scattered on the floor, furniture upturned and slit open, floorboards prised up, ornaments shattered and paintings ripped off the wall and tossed onto the heap. In the main drawing room, the wall safe stood open but undamaged, its contents strewn on the floor in front of it.

  In the company of the Hammonds, James walked from room to room, surveying the damage in silence: some items could be saved but it was impossible to say how many – even the contents of the kitchen cupboards and the freezer had been emptied and trampled underfoot. He checked the basement workshop: shelves had been tipped over and their contents strewn on the tiled floor: hand tools, metal billets, engineering drawings and account books were mixed in with broken glass and machine oil. Making his way through the low doorway to the side room, he saw that the contents of the shelves were also on the floor. While Hammond busied himself trying to bring some order to the chaos in the main workshop, James noted with relief that the five remaining 1 kilogram bars that his uncle had retrieved from the wrecked aircraft all those years ago were still there; to the casual observer they were indistinguishable from the other metal forms in their protective coatings.

  He went through to lend a hand with the clearing up and saw that most of the cardboard tubes holding his uncle’s drawings and blueprints had been thrown on the floor too. Heart in mouth he searched for the one containing the letters. “Blackburn NA 39 – Nosewheel Steering” 1, 2 and 4 were there, but there was no sign of tube 3. His blood ran cold – if someone had taken it, that would be absolute proof of a link to Pauli, but that just isn’t possible, he thought.

  Picking up an armful of other cardboard tubes, he dumped them on the shelving that Hammond had managed to get back upright, and was about to make his way up to the main house when, just at the foot of the stairs, and partially crushed under a heap of tools, he noticed two other tubes. Quickly he picked them up. Battered but intact, there it was, the missing number 3, and, with trembling hands he prised off the metal lid. To his relief, the letters were still there and seemed none the worse for their ordeal. He heaved a sigh and called out, ‘You can leave the workshop for now, Mr Hammond. Let’s find out what’s missing from the house.’

  Despite his demands that they go home for the evening, the Hammonds insisted on working with him until late, with only a short break while James went up to the village to fetch fish and chips for them all. It had gone eleven by the time he finally managed to chase them out of the house, but in all the hours they’d been working together, the eagle-eyed Mrs Hammond had yet to find anything missing. Valuable antiques had either been ignored or trodden underfoot and even his new computer was untouched. Why go to all the trouble to break in, he wondered, and then not take anything? And then his earlier doubts returned. Had the intruders been disturbed before they could make off with anything or maybe they weren’t there to steal but were looking for something? But in that case, what was it and had they found it? Maybe there was something that Bill Todd had kept back, something worth doing all this for.

  It was now nearly midnight, just before seven in the evening in Washington and James felt desperately tired. He made his way upstairs to the least damaged of the guest bedrooms on which Mrs H had worked her magic to make it seem almost untouched by the mayhem. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking out through the darkness towards the probing beam of Start Point lighthouse as it flashed its triple warning every ten seconds. Somewhere out there, over three and a half thousand miles away to the west and south, he could picture Cathy sat at her desk, fingers a blur across the keyboard, writing yet another critique of the Beltway Mafia. He dialled her mobile number.

  ‘Oh Christ, I’m glad you called,’ she said on hearing his voice. ‘I’ve had the day from hell with the police. The bastards Mirandized me, can you believe that?’

  ‘They did what to you?’

  ‘Mirandized me. Read me my rights – you know, “You have the right to remain silent” and all that crap?’

  ‘Does that mean they arrested you?’

  ‘No. They did it to try and frighten me, but it does mean they’re hoping to arrest someone, probably me, and they want to use what I’ve said in court.’

  ‘So what have they got on you?’

  ‘They’re not saying. They just kept on about “new information from a reliable source” that suggests I know more than I’m letting on. And get this. They asked me a whole bunch of questions about you and did you ever mention that you’d found more than the paintings in your uncle’s house?’

  ‘Pauli?’

  ‘Can’t think of anyone else, can you?’

  ‘But why? I thought he wanted the press onside. You’re hardly likely to write a puff-piece on him after this,’ said James.

  ‘Unless it’s not Pauli and the police source is somehow connected with the people who killed Reiss’s son and the IT guy.’

  ‘And killed your colleague Lisa and Reiss senior too for all we know,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more. They said they may need to question me again and I jump ten feet in the air every time the damn phone rings now. I can’t think straight, I can’t write properly. I’m a fucking mess, James.’

  He told her about his encounter at Dulles airport and then, taking a deep breath, moved on to more pressing matters. ‘Well, I’d hate this to sound like competitive suffering but it’s not all beer and skittles over here either.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Last night, when I was in London, someone broke into The Lodge and trashed the place.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Cathy. ‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea and here’s me whining on about a few silly questions from the police. Shit. Is there much missing?’

  ‘No. And that’s the weirdest thing. I’ve been through everything with my uncle’s housekeeper and if there’d been so much as a spoon missing, she’d have known, but from what we can tell, nothing’s been taken at all.’

  ‘Maybe they were di
sturbed.’

  ‘It’s possible but they had time to ransack every room in the house, the workshop downstairs, open the wall safe and even to pull up some of the floorboards.’

  ‘And yet they didn’t take anything?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘I know this is going to sound stupid,’ she said. ‘But do you think what’s happened to each of us could be connected?’

  James’s first reaction was to laugh out loud, but the more he thought about it, the more the doubts crowded in. ‘Are you still there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes I’m still here. Just thinking, that’s all. Under normal circumstances I’d say you were mad, but if the two events aren’t connected then it’s one hell of a coincidence, I grant you. But who? Pauli?’

  ‘On balance I’d say no,’ she said. ‘He’s got too much to lose. So his parents turn out to be a couple of crooks. None of us choose our parents and if what his mother told him about their past was crap, well, that’s not his fault is it? On the other hand, it could be Pauli or maybe there’s someone out there trying to dish the dirt on him – probably the same someone who’s behind the murders.’

  ‘Anyone you have in mind?’

  ‘Not yet, but the more I think about it the more I’m convinced that Pauli’s parents are at the heart of this. Let’s assume they were crooks who got caught – art thieves for want of anything better – and what if they were well-connected enough to be imprisoned rather than shot. Maybe they were in the camps after all.’

  ‘Possible,’ said James.

  ‘OK, try this,’ said Cathy. ‘The war’s coming to an end and maybe they escape. Who knows? Then it looks like they’re going to end up in Allied hands and maybe they’re so well connected to the Nazis that they’re worried about what might happen to them.’

  ‘There’s a lot of maybes and mights in this, Cathy,’ said James, a tone of scepticism creeping into his voice.

  ‘OK, so humour me. Now they need a Get out of Jail Card, some kind of bargaining chip and so they grab the most valuable things they can lay their hands on...’

  ‘Like a stolen art collection, God knows how many kilos of gold, and two scientists who obligingly trot along with them like lambs. Not forgetting a quick stop-off to ask Churchill and FDR for their signatures on four letters of transit, oh, and by the way, Mr Roosevelt, would you mind getting them authorised by the Red Cross while you’re at it? Come on, Cathy, that’s fantasy.’

  ‘I know there are parts of it that don’t hang together,’ she said. ‘But I think the basics are there. Maybe the Paulis were scientists too.’

  ‘There was a physicist called Wolfgang Pauli.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve checked him out. No connection.’

  ‘So where to now, Sherlock?’ said James, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Wroclaw if I have to.’

  ‘Where the hell’s that?’

  ‘Poland. It used to be called Breslau when it was in Germany, but that was until Stalin moved Poland’s borders to the left. If I can find out more about Pauli’s parents, then we’ll have the answer, and more importantly for me, I’ll have one hell of a story.’

  ‘Reckon they’ll let you go?’

  ‘Already cleared with my editor-in-chief.’

  ‘Any chance of coming via London?’

  ‘Why? Who’s in London.’

  James knew she was teasing. ‘I owe you dinner. Thought it might be nice to catch up.’

  ‘Yeah, why not? There’s stuff I can research at the Imperial War Museum so that’s the perfect excuse.’

  The following morning, James was awoken by sound of a discreet tap on the door. He mumbled as best he could in reply and in bustled Mrs Hammond, bearing a cup of early-morning tea. ‘It’s nine o’clock, Mr Atkinson. The police are here to see you.’

  James rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘Thanks, Mrs H,’ he said, only half awake. ‘Nice of them to let me know they were coming. Could you tell them I’ll be down in a bit, please?’

  Mrs Hammond had managed to get the sitting room into some semblance of order and awaiting him there were two plain-clothes officers from the Devon Police. Introductions done and, formalities out of the way, they expressed their sympathies over the break-in and asked the standard questions. Where he was on the night of the break-in? Who else knew the alarm code? Did he have any suspicions regarding the Hammonds? Was he sure nothing had been taken? Then, from a clear, blue sky came a bombshell. ‘Do you think the thieves may have been looking for looted items that you haven’t reported to the authorities?’

  James did his best not to let his emotions show but was sure that his face must have betrayed his thoughts. ‘I’ve no idea what they were looking for,’ he said as calmly as he could. ‘As I’ve already told you, I don’t think anything’s been taken and as for not reporting looted items, I think you’d better find some proof before making accusations like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry if it sounded like an accusation, sir,’ replied the sergeant. ‘But we’ve had information passed to us that your uncle may have found other items in addition to the art-works that you found and that they may still be in this house.’

  James maintained what he hoped was the right level of wounded innocence. ‘And does this so-called information specify what I haven’t reported and where in the house it is?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t know, sir, I don’t suppose it’ll hurt to tell you. We’ve had reports that your uncle was also in possession of twenty-five kilograms of gold and a number of historic documents that he found at the same time as the paintings.’ The way he pronounced the word “found” left James in no doubt of where the policeman’s sympathies lay. ‘Does that ring any bells, sir?’

  James knew well enough not to make any sarcastic remarks that, reported verbatim, would look bad in hindsight. ‘No. Nothing of that sort at all. Might I ask who’s been making these allegations?’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you that, Mr Atkinson. We have a duty to investigate any allegation that someone is in receipt of stolen property, that’s all.’

  Pompous twat, thought James. ‘Well, until you’ve got something more to go on than malicious tittle-tattle,’ he said. ‘I suggest we drop the subject and get back to what you’re planning to do about catching the bastards who trashed my house –’

  Suddenly, they were interrupted by a breathless Mrs Hammond bursting into the room, clutching the telephone. ‘I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but I’ve got the Metropolitan Police on the line for you, Mr Atkinson. They say it’s urgent.’

  James excused himself and left the room with Mrs H in his wake. The conversation was brief and to the point and after a couple of minutes he hung up and returned to the two policemen, sitting side-by-side on the sofa and looking very awkward. ‘That, gentlemen, as you no doubt heard, was the Metropolitan Police,’ he said. ‘They were ringing to inform me that my flat in London has been broken into and ransacked. My cleaning lady found the mess this morning. I’m setting off to deal with it now, but before I do, I thought you’d be interested to know that the Met wanted to know if I had any looted items from my uncle’s collection that I hadn’t reported or handed in. So tell me, which kind member of the Devon constabulary leaked these allegations and to whom?’

  The sergeant went red in the face. The constable looked down at his feet. ‘I can assure you it wasn’t us, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘We take these things very seriously.’

  ‘So do I, sergeant. So do I. Now, I’ll leave it to your imagination what’ll happen if I find out the break-in happened because of a leak,’ said James. ‘Mrs Hammond will show you out.’

  Once the police had left, James held a council of war with the Hammonds around the kitchen table, each armed with a mug of strong tea. ‘Mr Todd never said nothing ’bout no gold,’ said Mrs H. ‘I know he kept all sorts of odds and ends in that workshop of his but we never poked our noses in, see.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ said James. ‘There were one or two thing
s down there that by rights he shouldn’t have had, but nothing like the paintings. And to make sure it doesn’t happen again I’m going to dump them in the sea. Do either of you know anyone with a boat who can be trusted not to ask silly questions?’

  ‘I know just the chap,’ said Hammond. ‘A bloke I help with his lobster pots from time-to-time and if you want to lose something over the side, I know he won’t breathe a word. If you don’t mind my asking, sir, is this something you want to lose for good or do you want me to put a buoy over it so we can pull it up another day?’

  James thought for a moment. ‘You know, I’m half tempted to keep it,’ he said. ‘But it’s better off lost for good. Hold on a tick, I’ll go and get it.’ He returned moments later with a battered holdall, which he placed, on the flagstone floor. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘All I’d ask is don’t open the bag. Just dump it somewhere good and deep.’

  ‘You can rely on me, sir,’ said Hammond.

  ‘I’m sure I can, Mr H.’

  Before leaving for London, James pondered what to do with the letters of transit. In the end he decided that it was best to leave them where they were on the basis that his unwelcome visitors had ransacked the workshop once and were unlikely to look there again. So, removing them briefly from their cardboard tube, he used his new printer, which had survived being knocked off its table by the intruders, to scan them. He printed two copies of each image, saved the four files to a memory stick and erased them from the PC’s memory. Then, after returning the documents to their hiding place he started packing for his return to London.

  The sight that greeted him when he opened the door was sickeningly familiar. There was no sign of forced entry either to the outer door or to that of his flat, but every room had been turned upside-down: soft furnishings slashed open, the contents of drawers in heaps on the floor, his clothes strewn about the bedroom on top of an eviscerated mattress. He called the police who gave him a crime reference number for the insurance company – they’re going to be sick of me at this rate, he thought – and promised to send someone round the following morning at ten o’clock. He called the alarm company and it was the same story as at The Lodge: the alarm had been deactivated using his personal code, no sign of tampering.