“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Think about it, detective inspector. If, as you suggest, my client, with Miss Sullivan’s assistance, stole the Raphael from Agnew’s, would you expect to find it in the boot of his employer’s car several hours later? Or are you suggesting that the chairman’s chauffeur was also in on it, or perhaps even the chairman himself?”
“Mr. Clifton,” said Rossindale, checking his notebook, “did admit that he intended to take the pictures back to his flat later this evening.”
“Isn’t it just possible that a Raphael might look a little out of place in a bachelor flat in Fulham?”
“This is not a laughing matter, sir. Mr. Agnew, who reported the theft, is a highly respected West End art dealer, and—”
“It’s not a theft, detective inspector, unless you can prove that it was taken with intent to deprive. And as you haven’t even asked my client for his side of the story, I can’t see how you can possibly come to that conclusion.”
The officer turned to Sebastian, who was counting the pictures.
“I’m guilty,” said Sebastian. The detective smiled. “Not of theft, but infatuation.”
“Perhaps you’d care to explain yourself.”
“There were nine pictures by my sister, Jessica Clifton, at the Slade’s graduation exhibition, and there are only eight of them here. So if the other one is still at the gallery, then, mea culpa, I picked up the wrong one, and I apologize for what is no more than a simple mistake.”
“A one hundred thousand pound mistake,” said Rossindale.
“May I suggest, detective inspector,” said Arnold, “without wishing to be accused of levity, that it is not usual for a master criminal to leave evidence at the scene of the crime that points directly to him.”
“We don’t know that to be the case, Mr. Hardcastle.”
“Then I recommend we all go to the gallery and see if the missing Jessica Clifton, the property of my client, is still there.”
“I’ll need more than that to convince me of his innocence,” said Rossindale. He took Sebastian firmly by the arm, led him out of the room and didn’t let go until he was in the back of the police car with a burly constable seated on either side of him.
Sebastian’s only thought was of what Samantha must be going through. On the way to the gallery he asked the detective inspector if she would be there.
“Miss Sullivan is presently at Savile Row police station being interviewed by one of my officers.”
“But she’s innocent,” said Sebastian. “If anyone’s to blame, it has to be me.”
“I must remind you, sir, that a one hundred thousand pound painting went missing from the gallery at which she was an assistant, and has now been recovered from the boot of the car in which you placed it.”
Sebastian recalled Arnold’s advice, and said nothing more. Twenty minutes later the police car drew up outside Agnew’s. The chairman’s car was not too far behind, with Cedric and Arnold seated in the back.
The detective inspector climbed out of the car, clinging on to the Raphael, while another officer rang the doorbell. Mr. Agnew quickly appeared, unlocked the door and stared lovingly at the masterpiece as if he was being reunited with a lost child.
When Sebastian explained what must have happened, Agnew said, “That shouldn’t be too difficult to prove one way or the other.” Without another word, he led them all downstairs to the basement and unlocked the door to the stock room, where there were several wrapped pictures waiting to be delivered.
Sebastian held his breath as Mr. Agnew studied each label carefully until he came across one marked Jessica Clifton.
“Would you be kind enough to unwrap it,” said Rossindale.
“Certainly,” said Mr. Agnew. He painstakingly removed the wrapping paper, to reveal a drawing of Sebastian.
Arnold couldn’t stop laughing. “Entitled Portrait of a Master Criminal, no doubt.”
Even the detective inspector allowed himself a wry smile, but he reminded Arnold, “We mustn’t forget that Mr. Agnew has filed charges.”
“And of course I shall withdraw them, as I can now see that there was no intention to steal. Indeed,” he said, turning to Sebastian, “I owe you and Sam an apology.”
“Does that mean she’ll get her job back?”
“Certainly not,” said Agnew firmly. “I accept that she was not involved in a criminal act, but she was still guilty of either gross negligence or stupidity, and we both know, Mr. Clifton, that she isn’t stupid.”
“But it was me who picked up the wrong picture.”
“And it was she who allowed you to take it off the premises.”
Sebastian frowned. “Mr. Rossindale, can I come back to the police station with you? I’m meant to be taking Samantha out to dinner this evening.”
“I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t.”
“Thank you for your help, Arnold,” said Sebastian, shaking the QC by the hand. Turning to Cedric, he added, “I’m sorry to have caused you so much trouble, sir.”
“Just be sure that you’re back in the office by seven tomorrow morning, as you’ll remember it’s a rather important day for all of us. And I must say, Seb, you could have picked a better week to steal a Raphael.”
Everyone laughed except Mr. Agnew, who was still clutching the masterpiece. He placed it back in the stock room, double-locked the door and led them all upstairs. “My thanks, detective inspector,” he said as Rossindale was leaving the gallery.
“My pleasure, sir. I’m glad this one worked out for the best.”
When Sebastian climbed into the back of the police car, Detective Inspector Rossindale said, “I’ll tell you why I was so convinced you’d stolen the painting, young man. Your girlfriend took the blame, which usually means they’re protecting someone.”
“I’m not sure she’ll be my girlfriend any longer after what I’ve put her through.”
“I’ll get her released as quickly as possible,” said Rossindale. “Just the usual paperwork,” he added with a sigh as the car drew up outside Savile Row station. Sebastian followed the policemen into the building.
“Take Mr. Clifton down to the cells while I deal with the paperwork.”
The young sergeant led Sebastian down a flight of steps, unlocked a cell door and stood aside to allow him to go in. Samantha was hunched up on the end of a thin mattress, her knees tucked under her chin.
“Seb! Have they arrested you as well?”
“No,” he said, taking her in his arms for the first time. “I don’t think they’d allow us to be in the same cell if they thought we were London’s answer to Bonnie and Clyde. Once Mr. Agnew found Jessica’s painting in the stock room, he accepted that I’d just picked up the wrong package and dropped all the charges. But I’m afraid you’ve lost your job, and it was my fault.”
“I can’t blame him,” said Samantha. “I should have been concentrating, not flirting. But I’m beginning to wonder just how far you’ll go to avoid taking me to dinner.” Sebastian released her, looked into her eyes and then gently kissed her.
“They say a girl always remembers the first kiss with a man she’s fallen in love with, and I must admit it’s going to be quite difficult to forget this one,” she said as the cell door swung open.
“You’re free to go now, miss,” said the young sergeant. “Sorry about the misunderstanding.”
“Not your fault,” said Samantha. The sergeant led them upstairs and held the front door of the station open.
Sebastian walked out on to the street and took Samantha’s hand, just as a dark blue Cadillac came to a halt in front of the building.
“Oh, hell,” said Samantha. “I forgot. The police allowed me to make one call and I phoned the embassy. They told me my parents were at the opera, but that they’d get them out in the interval. Oh, hell,” she repeated as Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan stepped out of the car.
“So what’s all this about, Samantha?” said Mr. Sullivan after he’d kissed her on the
cheek. “Your mother and I have been desperately worried.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sam, “it’s all been a dreadful misunderstanding.”
“That’s a relief,” said her mother and, looking across at the man who was holding her daughter’s hand, asked, “And who is this?”
“Oh, this is Sebastian Clifton. He’s the man I’m going to marry.”
33
Friday morning
“YOU WERE RIGHT. Diego will be taking the sleeper from King’s Cross this evening, and joining his father and Luis at Glenleven Lodge tomorrow morning.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The receptionist told my wife that a car would be picking him up in the morning and bringing him straight to the lodge in time for breakfast. I could drive to Edinburgh tomorrow morning and double-check.”
“No need. Seb is off to King’s Cross again this evening to make sure he gets on the train. That’s assuming he’s not arrested for stealing a Raphael.”
“Did I hear you correctly?” asked Ross.
“Another time, because I’m still trying to work out what Plan B is.”
“Well, you can’t risk selling any of your own shares while Diego’s still in London, because if the price were suddenly to collapse, Don Pedro would work out what you’re up to, and wouldn’t place his shares on the market.”
“Then I’m beaten, because there’s no point in buying Martinez’s shares at full price. He’d like nothing better.”
“We’re not beaten yet. I’ve come up with a couple of ideas for you to consider—that is, if you’re still willing to take one hell of a risk?”
“I’m listening,” said Cedric, picking up a pen and opening his notepad.
“At eight o’clock on Monday morning, an hour before the market opens, you could contact all the leading brokers in the City and let them know that you’re a buyer of Barrington’s stock. When Martinez’s million-odd shares come on the market at nine, the first person they’ll call will be you, because the commission on a sale of that size will be enormous.”
“But if the shares are still at their high point, the only person who will gain from that will be Martinez.”
“I did say I had a couple of ideas,” said Ross.
“Sorry,” said Cedric.
“Just because the Stock Exchange closes for business at four on Friday afternoon, it doesn’t mean you can’t go on trading. New York will still be open for another five hours, and LA for eight. And if you haven’t disposed of all your shares by then, Sydney opens for business at midnight on Sunday. And if, after all that, you still have a few shares left, Hong Kong will happily assist you to get rid of them. So by the time the Stock Exchange opens in London at nine o’clock on Monday morning, my bet is that Barrington’s shares will be trading at around half the price they were at close of business today.”
“Brilliant,” said Cedric. “Except I don’t know any brokers in New York, Los Angeles, Sydney or Hong Kong.”
“You only need one,” said Ross. “Abe Cohen of Cohen, Cohen and Yablon. Like Sinatra, he only works at night. Just tell him you have three hundred and eighty thousand Barrington’s shares that you want off your hands by Monday morning London time, and believe me, he’ll stay up all weekend earning his commission. Mind you, if Martinez finds out what you’re up to and doesn’t put his million-plus shares on the market on Monday morning, you’ll stand to lose a small fortune, and he’ll chalk up another victory.”
“I know he’s going to put them on the market on Monday,” said Cedric, “because he told Stephen Ledbury that the reason he no longer wanted to sell them was because he now believed in the ‘long-term future’ of the company, and that’s the one thing I know for certain he doesn’t believe in.”
“It’s not a risk any self-respecting Scotsman would take.”
“But it is a risk a cautious, dull, boring Yorkshireman has decided to take.”
Friday night
Sebastian couldn’t even be sure if he’d recognize him. After all, it had been over seven years since he’d last come across Diego in Buenos Aires. He remembered that he was at least a couple of inches taller than Bruno, and certainly slimmer than Luis whom he’d seen more recently. Diego was a snappy dresser: double-breasted suits from Savile Row, wide colorful silk ties and black Brylcreemed hair.
Seb turned up at King’s Cross an hour before the train was due to depart, and once again took up his position in the shadow of the large, four-sided clock.
The Night Scotsman was standing at the platform waiting for its overnight passengers to board. Some had already arrived, barely a trickle, the kind of traveler who’d prefer having time to spare rather than risk being late. Diego, Sebastian suspected, was the type who left it to the last moment, not wanting to waste any time hanging about.
As he waited, his mind turned to Sam, and what had been the happiest week of his life. How could he have got so lucky? He found himself smiling whenever he thought about her. They had gone to dinner that evening, and once again he hadn’t paid; a swanky restaurant in Mayfair called Scott’s, where the guests’ menus don’t show the prices. But then, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan had clearly wanted to get to know the man their daughter had told them she was going to marry, even if she was only teasing.
Sebastian had been nervous to begin with. After all, in less than a week he had caused Samantha to be arrested and sacked. However, by the time the pudding was served—and on this occasion he did have some pudding—the whole “misunderstanding,” as it was now being called, had moved from high melodrama to low farce.
Sebastian had begun to relax once Mrs. Sullivan told him how much she was hoping to visit Bristol, so she could get to know the city where Detective Sergeant William Warwick worked. He promised to introduce her to “The Warwick Walk,” and by the time the evening came to an end, he wasn’t in any doubt that Mrs. Sullivan was far more familiar with his father’s work than he was. After saying good night to Sam’s parents, they had strolled back to her flat in Pimlico together, the way two lovers do when they don’t want an evening to end.
Sebastian remained in the shadow of the clock, which began to strike the hour.
“The train on platform three is the twenty-two thirty-five non-stop service to Edinburgh,” announced a strangulated voice that sounded as if he was auditioning to read the news for the BBC. “First class is at the front of the train, third class at the rear, with the dining car in the center of the train.” Sebastian wasn’t in any doubt which class Diego would be in.
He tried to put Sam out of his mind and focus; not that easy. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed, and although a steady stream of passengers was now arriving on platform 3, there was still no sign of Diego. Sebastian knew that Cedric was at his desk, impatiently waiting for the phone to ring with confirmation that Diego had boarded the sleeper. Not until then could he give Abe Cohen the go-ahead.
If Diego failed to turn up, Cedric had already decided that the game wouldn’t be worth the candle, to quote Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He couldn’t risk placing all his shares on the market while Diego remained in London, because if he did, it would be Martinez who would end up blowing the candle out.
Twenty minutes, and although the platform was now crowded with latecomers, porters by their sides wheeling heavy bags, there was still no sign of Señor Diego Martinez. Sebastian began to despair when he saw the guard step out of the rear carriage, green flag in one hand, whistle in the other. Seb looked up at the vast black minute hand on the clock that bounced forward every sixty seconds: 10:22. Was all the work Cedric had put in going to be for nothing? He’d once told Sebastian that when you set out on a project, always be willing to accept that a one-in-five success rate is par for the course. Was this going to fall into the “four out of five” category? His thoughts turned to Ross Buchanan; was he waiting at Glenleven Lodge for someone who wasn’t going to turn up? He then thought about his mother, who had more to lose than any of them.
And then a man appe
ared on the platform who caught his eye. He was carrying a suitcase, but Sebastian couldn’t be sure if it was Diego, because the stylish brown trilby and upturned velvet collar of his long black coat hid his face. The man walked straight past third class and toward the front of the train, which gave Sebastian a little more hope.
A porter was walking down the platform toward him, slamming the first-class carriage doors shut one by one: bang, bang, bang. When he spotted the approaching man, he stopped and held a door open for him. Sebastian stepped out of the shadow of the clock and tried to get a better look at his quarry. The man with the suitcase was just about to step on to the train when he turned and looked up at the clock. He hesitated. Sebastian froze, and then the man stepped on board. The porter slammed the door closed.
Diego had been among the last passengers to board the train, and Sebastian didn’t move as he watched The Night Scotsman make its way out of the station, slowly gathering speed as it set out on the long journey to Edinburgh.
He shivered as he experienced a moment of apprehension. Of course Diego couldn’t have seen him at that distance, and, in any case, Sebastian was looking for him, not the other way round. He walked slowly across to the phone booths on the far side of the concourse, coins ready. He dialed a number that went straight through to the chairman’s desk. After only one ring, a familiar gruff voice came on the line.
“He almost missed the train, turned up at the very last moment. But he’s now on his way to Edinburgh.” Sebastian heard a pent-up sigh being released.
“Have a good weekend, my boy,” said Cedric. “You’ve earned it. But make sure you’re in the office by eight on Monday morning, because I have a particular job for you. And do try to steer clear of any art galleries over the weekend.”
Sebastian laughed, put the phone down and allowed his thoughts to return to Sam.
As soon as he had hung up on Sebastian, Cedric dialed the number Ross Buchanan had given him. A voice on the other end of the line said, “Cohen.”
Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Page 25
