often at top prices. Mr. Somerby said that when he started bidding for the escritoire he couldn't believe his luck. The last genuine bid was at three grand, then Wheatley joined in. Somerby took him up to the reserve, then knocked it down to him. I was staggered when he admitted that.'
'So Mr. Somerby did the auctioneering himself?'
'Yes. Sorry, boss, didn't I say?'
'Never mind. Anything else?'
'Well, yes.' He hesitated, then went on: 'Because he'd been so frank with me I showed him the list. He remembered several of the pieces; said they were all fine items. But they didn't… coalesce was the word he used.'
'Coalesce? What did he mean by that?'
'He meant that there was no rhyme or reason behind his buying, no pattern to it. Wheatley wasn't going to make a quick profit, because he paid top prices; he wasn't furnishing a house, because who needs four commodes; he wasn't forming a collection, because they were all from different periods… and so forth.'
'I get the message. Mr. Somerby sounds useful to know. Hope you pointed out that we're only acting on suspicions, so far.'
'Never fear, boss. Then he showed me some of the things in their next sale. Told me the reserves on one or two that caught my eye. I might make a small investment with him after next payday.'
'Sounds like he's a good salesman. Fireman Des hasn't rung. I'll call him in the morning. C'mon, let's have an early night for a change.' I had a feeling that it might be our last for a while.
Des's call dragged me out of the morning briefing, before I'd had a chance to say my piece. 'You've a good job,' he declared. 'Rang you last night but you'd already gone.'
'Home for a snatched bite, Des. We don't have the luxury of three-shift cover like you. How did the kids go on?'
'Great!' I could hear him chuckling at the memory. 'We gave them oilskins, and they came back looking like black slugs. Had to hose them down in the yard.'
I smiled at the picture. 'What did they find?' I asked. 'Any escutcheons?'
'Not a one. I've two buckets here, filled with all sorts of bits and pieces, but nothing that looks antique.'
'Can you tell what they are?'
'Yes,' he replied. 'Hundreds of nails, out of the floorboards; quite a lot of hinges the type used on modern kitchen units; a few handles made from aluminium or monkey metal; steel drawer sliders, that sort of stuff.'
'All MFI rather than Chippendale.'
'Exactly. What do you want me to do with it?'
'Any chance of a brief report, saying what you've just told me?' I ventured, pushing my luck.
'No problem,' he replied.
'Great,' I declared. 'In that case, if you don't hear otherwise from me in a day or two, you can chuck 'em in the skip.'
I thanked him for his help and promised to let him know the outcome. So far, over the months, I'd promised several people that I'd keep them informed. It was a tool I used to good effect: they gave me information, I satisfied their natural curiosity. It was a fair exchange. When the time came I'd run through the list and pay my debts. One of the unmentioned penalties suffered by the law-breaker is that he loses his right to privacy. His misdemeanours become public currency. Tough turds.
'So what we need to know,' I told Nigel, when I found him, 'is where are the antiques now?'
'Abroad,' he said.
I'd decided that was the best bet myself. 'Expand,' I ordered.
'Some of the pieces are quite well known, at least locally. The further away they are off-loaded, the safer it is.'
'Australia?'
'Maybe not that far. America's a better market. If he sells them over there at a small profit, and gets paid out by the insurers, he won't have done too bad, will he?'
'Then we'd better frustrate his efforts, hadn't we?' I pulled the Yellow Pages directory out of my drawer and slid it across to Nigel.
'There are fifty-two entries under Shipping Agents in there, I've just counted them. One for every week of the year, except you haven't got that long. Give them all a ring and see who's done business with Brian Wheatley Developments lately.'
Nigel's face fell. 'It'll take all week, boss,' he stated.
'Nonsense. Just pray that they're all computerised. You could always give your friend the auctioneer… I've forgotten his name…'
'Mr. Somerby.'
'That's right, Somerby. Why not give him a ring, see if he thinks we're on the right lines. He might have a suggestion about who has experience in transporting antiques. What was it you were thinking of buying from him?'
'A couple of paperweights, by a French maker called Baccarat. It's my parents' thirtieth anniversary soon; I thought they'd make a decent present.'
'Mmm, they sound nice. Give him a ring, see what he says. All in the third person, of course: no names. Then offer him twenty percent less than he's asking for the paperweights.'
'Right, boss. Can I use your office?'
'Sure. Tell you what, I'll take Jeff Caton off what he's doing and let him help you. Fill him in with the details. I'll be upstairs, somewhere.'
Young Caton was on a futile mission knocking on doors at the Sylvan Fields housing estate, asking deaf and blind people if they'd seen or heard anything. He was glad to come in from the rain. I caught up with Gilbert and told him what we were doing.
As soon as I was able to off-load most of the other pressing cases, by a combination of delegation or simply placing them back at the bottom of the heap, I went out to do some investigating of my own. One of the auction houses on the list of suppliers had been burgled about ten years previously, and I'd handled the enquiry. I decided to renew my acquaintance with them.
The old gentleman who ran the place, Mr. Oliphant, was still there, looking appropriately older and frailer than before.
'They'll have to shoot me to get rid of me,' he said, after I'd reintroduced myself. 'I don't do any auctioneering now, but I like to be surrounded by all these beautiful objects. The trouble with being in the business is that you don't make anything your own. Everything has a price, everything is for sale. My house is filled with bric-a-brac, but the good stuff goes under the hammer, I'm afraid.'
'That's business, Mr. Oliphant,' I replied. 'Sentimentality is a luxury neither of us can afford.'
'Quite, quite. Now, how can I help you?'
I produced the list that Wheatley had supplied, and read from it: 'Do you remember selling this item? It's an early Victorian mahogany drum table, inlaid with marquetry in a geometric design.' I told him the price paid and the date of the sale.
'Oh, yes,' he replied immediately, 'I remember it well. It was a superb piece of workmanship. It was perfect, except that someone had started writing a letter on it and pressed too hard, leaving an imprint. All the dealers said this ruined it, and fifteen thousand was way over the top, but I disagreed. I thought it added to the charm of the piece, but not many share my sensibilities. Anyway, this chap Wheatley obviously agreed with me, so he bought it.'
'I don't suppose you've a catalogue with a photograph or a fuller description, have you?'
'Why, of course. Why didn't I think of that?' He rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way over to a bookcase. 'What did you say the date of the sale was?' he asked.
I told him, and in a few moments he produced the appropriate catalogue and found the page for me. I was studying it in a noncommittal way, wondering how else I would have used fifteen grand, when Mr. Oliphant enquired: 'Is there a problem with it, Inspector? Has it been stolen?'
'Yes,' I answered, 'it's been stolen.' Technically, I suppose it had.
'This writing,' I continued, 'was it possible to read what it said?'
