Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (20 page)

‘He will have, don't you worry.'

‘Yes, yes, of course he will.' Reassured, she looked into the back of the van. ‘How're you getting on, Truffler?'

With a mournful flourish, the private investigator stuck a printed label on to a neatly wrapped rectangular package. ‘Fine, Mrs Pargeter,' he replied. ‘That's the last one. All the paintings labelled up, marked with where they got to go back to.'

‘Terrific. Veronica Chastaigne will be pleased.'

A mile behind, the car carrying Rod D'Acosta passed the sign to the car boot sale. ‘We'll get them now!' he hissed viciously.

‘Yes . . .' The heavy called Phil didn't sound as convinced as his boss. ‘Are you sure there aren't such things as ghosts, Rod . . .?'

‘Do you recognize that car ahead?' asked Sergeant Hughes.

‘Yes,' the heavy called Sid replied. ‘That's Rod's all right. It's the one he used for the getaway from the Peckham Rye bank job.'

Hughes wished he wasn't driving, so that he could make more notes on this valuable flood of information.

‘The car's going exactly where my informant said it would,' Inspector Wilkinson observed smugly. That call on his mobile couldn't have been better timed. Of course it had been pure luck that the Inspector had received information about Rod D'Acosta's movements at such a relevant moment, but he wasn't going to let Hughes know that.

Oh no. Wilkinson had made it appear that the call was part of some masterplan he'd been working on for weeks. Sergeant Hughes had been well impressed.

That'll show the cocky little oik, thought Wilkinson. Complacently, he stroked the line of his growing moustache.

Ushered along by the stick-like figure of Vanishing Vernon, almost like the man with the red flag who had to precede early motor cars, the ambulance moved serenely down the long aisle of open car boots. Car boot shoppers turned to look curiously as, from the back doors, Truffler Mason handed out labelled rectangular packages to HRH, Hedgeclipper Clinton and Kevin the doorman. These were then passed on to the owners of the parked cars.

As each owner received his or her picture, they checked its destination on the label and put it in their car boot, which was then firmly closed. No attempt was made to remove the picnic tables loaded with bric-à-brac, as, to the considerable confusion of the shoppers, the owners got into their cars and began to drive away out of the field.

But, before the first of them reached the exit to the main road, Rod D'Acosta's two cars came hurtling in at great speed. Car boot shoppers scattered in panic as the vehicles thundered side by side down the wide aisle in pursuit of the ambulance.

Truffler Mason, who had just handed out the last package, saw the approaching cars, slammed the doors of the ambulance shut, and called out, ‘All done!'

‘Go for it, Gary!' shouted Mrs Pargeter, with a note of sheer devilment in her voice.

The chauffeur put his foot down, pointing the ambulance straight at the open gate which led to the ploughed fields beyond. The mud was thick and sticky from recent rain, but the supercharged engine's power took over and the vehicle surged across the ridges, riding high and untrammelled on its special tyres.

Rod D'Acosta's two cars started the pursuit, but didn't get far in the treacly mud of the ploughed field. Just inside the gate, the cars' wheels started to spin and their bodies to slew dangerously sideways.

The two vehicles cannoned into each other with a sickening clang. There was a crunching of glass and the impact made both of their boots fly open.

Urged on by Vanishing Vernon, the car boot shoppers surged forward to see what new treasures were on offer. As Rod D'Acosta and his dazed acolytes staggered out of their ruined cars, they found themselves faced by a crowd of bargain-hunters, keen to know how much they were asking for the knuckledusters, bowie knives and Armalite rifles in their boots.

It was at that moment that the car containing Inspector Wilkinson, Sergeant Hughes and the heavy called Sid arrived.

It was an ordinary morning for the security guard of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Düsseldorf. As usual there was a dull ache inside the top of his skull. As usual he regretted having that extra beer the previous evening. And as usual the residue of the bratwurst, which had been so delicious the night before, didn't taste so good on his morning tongue.

Still, there was work to be done. Maybe he'd be able to slip out for another beer at lunchtime. That'd make him feel better.

He keyed in the relevant code at the side door of the museum's impressive frontage, and waited till the night security guard let him in. He checked through the night security guard's log and went to open up the galleries. Every painting had to be checked, every alarm tested, in the hour before the day's throng of culture lovers was admitted.

He keyed in the seven-digit code which unlocked the tall doors leading to the Medieval and Old Master series of galleries. The doors swung open, he fixed them back on their hooks, then turned to face the familiar outlines of Madonnas and martyrdoms. He didn't know much about art, but he knew whereabouts on the walls it all belonged.

Everything was exactly where it have should been until he entered the High Renaissance Gallery. This was usually one of the quickest visits in his tour of inspection. Since the famous 1982 robbery, there was embarrassingly less to display than there should have been. The remaining paintings – all minor works by lesser artists (the thieves had known precisely what they were looking for) – had been rehung and there had been some buying at major auctions to fill the space, but there was still too much blank wall for comfort.

The security guard flicked an eye over the few familiar works and was about to move on when he caught sight of something unexpected and looked down. Propped along the bottom of one of the gallery walls were five paintings. Even though he knew little about art, the museum robbery had received so much media coverage back in 1982 that anyone in the country would have recognized them. The Uccello was there, the Piero della Francesca, the two Titians. Above all, there was the famous Leonardo.

The security guard let out a little belch of surprise. The bratwurst taste in his mouth was more pungent than ever.

Neatly attached to the top of the Leonardo was a little note. In perfect German it read: ‘THANKS FOR THE LOAN OF THESE.'

Dealing with a client of Mr Takachi's eminence was not something that could be delegated to a minor official; this was a job for the bank's Vice-President. With elaborate courtesy the appointed Vice-President escorted the honoured customer to the lift which led down to the New York bank's vaults.

On the basement level he checked his ID with the uniformed guard, who keyed in the appropriate code to open the heavy metal doors guarding the galleries of neatly ranked security boxes.

Another uniformed guard accompanied them inside. Attached by a chain to his metal waistband was the second key which had to be turned at the same moment as the key the Vice-President carried if the box was to be opened.

‘And it's just the pearls you want to take out for the moment?' asked the Vice-President.

Mr Takachi nodded acknowledgement of this. ‘I am taking my wife to the Pearl Harbor Apology Ball at the White House. Very prestigious occasion. Fund-raising event for Democratic Party.'

‘Ah,' said the Vice-President. ‘Right.' He stopped in front of one particular security box and looked at the uniformed guard. ‘Ready with your key?'

The man nodded. ‘Now we have to turn them absolutely together,' the Vice-President continued. ‘If we're out of synch, the alarm goes off straight away, the doors close automatically and we're locked in. It's just another of our security measures,' he added to Mr Takachi, who bowed.

With the keys in place, the two men, watching each other's hands, turned together. The thick, nuclearblast-proof door swung outward.

Inside the security box were visible neat piles of gold bars, stacks of document cases, terraces of jewel boxes. Looking sternly down on them from the back was a gold-framed picture of a white-ruffed burgomaster.

‘Aah,' said Mr Takachi delightedly. ‘You found my Rembrandt!'

Nestling amidst the Highlands of Scotland there is a grey stone castle, turreted like a fantasy from a fairy tale. Its grounds stretch far in every direction, encompassing forests and glens, moorland and twinkling lochs. Broad-antlered stags roam through its wildness; plump grouse nest in its lush undergrowth.

On the same day that the security guard found the Old Master in Düsseldorf, and that Mr Takachi was reunited with his Rembrandt in New York, the studded oak front door of the Scottish castle opened, and the eleventh Duke emerged into the misty morning. He wore a threadbare tartan dressing gown and an expression of disgruntlement. The eleventh Duke was of the view – particularly first thing in the morning – that during his lifetime everything had changed for the worse. You couldn't get staff these days; the only sorts of people who could afford to run stately homes were rock stars, press barons and comparable forms of pond life; and young people had no respect for tradition.

He sniffed the unfailing freshness of the Highland air, and stretched out his creaking arms. Then he looked down to the broad doorstep for the morning's delivery.

The usual order was there – one bottle of silver-topped milk, one strawberry yoghurt and, tucked between, a folded copy of the
Scotsman.
But it was what was propped against the wall behind these daily rations that took the Duke's aristocratic breath away.

In a scrolled gilt frame stood a Raeburn portrait of a red-coated man with a romantic swath of plaid across his chest. He wore a fluffy white sporran, buckled pumps and tartan trews. One nonchalant hand rested on a tasselled sword hilt, the other held a black feathered bonnet. Behind him swirled an idealized Scottish landscape.

The man in the dressing gown picked up the picture with something approaching ecstasy. ‘My God!' he cried. ‘The third Duke's come home!'

And, still clutching the Raeburn to his breast, he danced a little jig of glee up and down his castle steps.

All over the world scenes of similar delight were played out, as Bennie Logan's ‘borrowed' paintings were returned to their rightful owners.

And as Mrs Pargeter executed the unwritten contract to Veronica Chastaigne which she regarded as a point of honour to fulfil.

Mrs Pargeter felt a warm glow of satisfaction as Gary's limousine delivered her and Hedgeclipper Clinton back to Greene's Hotel. The customized ambulance had been returned to its body shop underneath the arches, and she had left her uniform there. Hedgeclipper had removed his odious leisurewear and was once again dressed in sober black jacket and striped trousers. All the loose ends had been neatly tied together. Mrs Pargeter was of the opinion that the whole operation had been a very satisfactory day's work.

‘Will you be dining in the hotel this evening?' asked Hedgeclipper, leading her across the foyer to the lift.

‘Yes. On my own. Just a nice pampering meal. I feel I've deserved it.'

‘You certainly have, Mrs Pargeter.'

‘And thank you for all you did. I am so fortunate to be surrounded by people of such varied talents.'

‘Think nothing of it.'

‘There's a career for you in television if you ever decide to give this up.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Mrs Pargeter. Greene's Hotel is my life,' said the manager as he opened the lift door for her.

‘Well, I'm glad it is. I feel really comfortable here.'

‘Excellent.' Hedgeclipper Clinton made a little bow to her. ‘That is, after all, the aim of the exercise.'

Upstairs in her suite, Mrs Pargeter looked fondly at the photograph by her bedside. ‘You know, my love, I think you'd have been quite proud of me today. We reproduced your old Chelmsford routine, and it worked a treat.' Seeming to read some reproach in the monochrome features, she went on, slightly defensively, ‘I'm well aware that you never liked me to know anything about your work, but there was no other way this time. The paintings had to be returned. It was in a good cause, you see. You always had a lot of respect for Bennie Logan, and I'm sure you'd want his widow to be able to go to her grave in peace. And it isn't as if I was involved in anything criminal . . .' She twisted her fingers, nervous under the photograph's scrutiny. ‘Well, maybe at moments it kind of veered over towards the criminal . . . I suppose technically, until the paintings were returned, we could have been said to be handling stolen goods. But that's the worst you could charge us with. Anyway, it's all done now. The job's complete and there's no evidence to link any of us with anything even mildly iffy.'

At that moment the telephone on the bedside table rang. It was Hedgeclipper Clinton calling from downstairs, and there was a note of warning – almost of fear – in his voice. ‘Mrs Pargeter, I wonder if you could come down. There are two gentlemen here who wish to speak to you on a very serious matter.'

‘Oh really?' she said. ‘Who are they?'

‘Inspector Wilkinson and Sergeant Hughes,' said Hedgeclipper.

The faces of the two detectives were grim. Hedgeclipper Clinton too looked subdued. Mrs Pargeter could not help feeling a tremor of anxiety as she crossed the foyer to greet them.

‘You haven't met Sergeant Hughes,' said Inspector Wilkinson.

‘No, I haven't had the pleasure.' She extended a gracious hand to the young man. He transferred his briefcase to his left hand and gave hers a cold, formal shake. Under the grimness of his expression there was a disturbing glimmer of cocksure triumph.

‘Hughes won't be staying with us.' Mrs Pargeter caught the spasm of annoyance these words sent across the Sergeant's face. ‘You and I need to have a serious one-to-one talk, Mrs Pargeter.'