“What do you mean, sir.”
“Crabtree had never heard of Pete Sylvester.”
Hurrell gulped. “I’m beginning to guess what happened.”
“So am I, Ken. And I certainly don’t relish the idea of telling the Commissioner. Peter Sylvester – or whoever he really is – has duped us good and proper. He pulled off the most astonishing trick in front of millions of viewers. And nobody saw it happening.” He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. “Where is the sod?” he said through gritted teeth. “More to the point, who is he?”
“I can tell you where he got his name from, sir.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hurrell, opening the book he’d been studying. “While you were out, I read up on the Battle of Trafalgar.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Everything. He’s playing games with us. Do you recall the name of the French Admiral in the battle?”
“Yes. Villeneuve.”
“But do you know what his Christian names were?”
“Who cares?”
“We ought to, sir,” said Hurrell, putting the book in front of him. “Look at the name under that portrait of Villeneuve. Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre Villeneuve. Do you see now? Pierre Sylvestre.”
Milton grimaced. “Pete Sylvester!”
When the cargo had been unloaded on to a bed of sand, the lorry was taken away to be disposed of with its false number plates. The gang congratulated themselves on the success of their plan and celebrated with bottles of beer. There were ten of them in all, each of them due to pocket a half a million pounds when the ransom was paid. In the meantime, everything had been laid on at the warehouse. Food, drink, comfortable chairs, beds and two television sets had been installed. There was even a stolen microwave.
The preparation had been faultless. It was time to relax.
“We should have asked for more than five mill,” said one man.
“We will,” promised their leader. “Let them sweat it out first.”
“What did old Crabtree say when you released him?”
“Swore like a trooper. Couldn’t believe a trusted employee like me would turn on him and his wife.” He glanced at his watch. “I expect he’s told his tale of woe to the coppers by now and discovered why we nicked his lorry and scaffolding. Crabtree will have given them the name I used when I worked for him. While the boys in blue are scouring London for John French, I’m living it up here with my mates in Milton Keynes.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Know the bit I enjoyed most? Having that detective call me ‘Mr Sylvester’. I really fooled him and his sidekick.”
They savoured the details of their crime and the hours oozed past with ease. Hamburgers were heated in the microwave. More beer flowed. A card game started. They lost all purchase on time and all sense of danger. When the police eventually burst in, the whole gang was taken by surprise. They fought hard but they were hopelessly outnumbered. All but their leader were dragged off to the waiting police vans.
Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell watched as their man was handcuffed before they questioned him. They looked him up and down.
“Did you really think you could get away with it?” asked Milton.
“I did get away with it!” insisted the other. “Nobody rumbled us.”
“Until now, Mr Sylvester. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s not your real name, is it? Nor is John French, the alias you used when you worked for Gostelow and Crabtree. No, your real name is Charles Villeneuve. Or, in plain English, good old Charlie Newton. Late of Her Majesty’s armed forces. It takes a lot to get a dishonourable discharge, Charlie. Your service record makes colourful reading.
“How did you get on to me?” snarled the captive.
“Ken must take the credit for that, explained Milton with a nod at his companion. ‘When you threw all those clues at him, he read up on the Battle of Trafalgar and learned about your namesake, Admiral Villeneuve, Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve. You were clearly obsessed with him. From his one name, you got three. Charlie Newton, your baptismal name, Pete Sylvester and John French, or, as you probably saw it, French Jean. I must confess, you used some cunning diversionary tactics. Had us believing this whole business was planned and executed by some French extremists. Whereas you’re really as English as boiled beef and carrots.”
“There were other clues,” said Hurrell. “A series of bombs, the use of an airship, the removal of a statue in broad daylight. All the hallmarks of a military operation. That’s where we started looking for you, Charlie. Among the Army’s drop-outs.”
“It deserved to work!” protested Newton. “It did work.”
“Only up to a point,” said Milton, strolling across to the statue of Napoleon that lay on the sand. “Your stage management was superb. Worthy of Shaftesbury Avenue. Only instead of giving them live theatre, you blacked out the West End and offered them a radio play. They all thought a statue of Nelson was being hoisted away by an airship with one of Napoleon taking its place. But the simple truth is that old Horatio didn’t move one inch during the night.”
“No,” added Hurrell, bending down to pull away the Emperor’s fibreglass hat. “Now, then, what do we have here?” he asked in mock surprise. “I do believe’s it’s Lord Nelson’s hat hidden underneath.” He tapped it with his knuckles. “Solid stone. That won’t come off.”
“You didn’t steal him from the column,” said Milton with a grudging admiration. “You disguised him as Napoleon so that you could take him down legitimately – or so it appeared – today. No wonder you came so quickly when I called the office number of ‘Gostelow and Crabtree’. You were ready and waiting. Now I see why you wanted us to keep the media off your back when you took the statue away. You didn’t want them around when you made the switch. The fake Napoleon was already under the tarpaulin when you laid Lord Nelson beside him. All you had to do was to unload the plaster version and send your men off with the real statue. Ingenious.”
Newton was sullen. “We could never have stolen it in the pitch dark. Too complicated. So I got myself a job with Crabtree because I knew he had the contract for cleaning Lord Nelson. While I was up there, I took exact measurements of the statue. I paid a sculptor to create a fibreglass Napoleon which would fit Nelson like a glove. Nobody could tell the difference from down below.”
“You covered every option,” said Milton. “But made one mistake.”
“Yes,” agreed Hurrell. “You tried to be too clever. You played the Nelson game to the hilt and it was your undoing. You couldn’t resist one final trick on that name. Villeneuve. New Town. You were taunting us, Charlie. Telling us exactly where you were hiding.”
“There weren’t all that many new towns to choose from,” said the Commander. “Milton Keynes was the most obvious. We got the local police to check the footage on their motorway cameras and there you were. You’d painted out the name of ‘Gostelow and Crabtree’ on the lorry but you couldn’t disguise a seventeen foot statue under a green tarpaulin. It showed up clearly, taking the exit for Milton Keynes. All we had to do was to check up on warehouse space that had been recently let and we had you. Caught in here like standing statues.”
“You lost the battle,” said Hurrell. “Just like Admiral Villeneuve.”
They took him by the arms and marched him out. As they headed towards the police van, the Commander gave a ripe chuckle.
“It wasn’t all a case of brilliant deduction,” he admitted frankly. “Luck came into it. But, then, I’ve been due a bit of good fortune for some time and this was it. You were so busy playing games with your own name that you never thought to consider mine.”
“Yours?” said Newton.
“Dick Milton. Poet by name and policeman by nature. And where did you decide to hole up and toast your success? The whole of Britain was at your mercy but you picked Milton Keynes. There’s a
