Hotel, Mr Clinton. “Mrs Pargeter,” he oozed, as he filled one of the glasses with swelling bubbles. “How delightful to see you. I trust you have had an enjoyable day.”
“Very pleasant, thanks. Met an artist by the name of Reg Winthrop. Do you know him, by any chance?”
“Winthrop… Winthrop…?” the hotel manager mused. “No, I don’t believe the name means anything to me.”
“He’s also known as ‘VVO’.”
“Ah.” His expression cleared. “Yes, of course. Another employee of your late husband.”
“So I’m given to understand, yes.”
“And in fact someone who has worked for me in the not-too-distant past.”
“Really?”
The hotel manager smiled. “The artwork in some of the more expensive suites – like the Gainsborough in your own, Mrs Pargeter – well, with the best will in the world, one would of course like them to be genuine… but the fact remains that, if they were the real thing, certain of my guests – not of course you, I hasten to add – might be tempted to purloin them.”
“I’m surprised to hear people of that kind come to this hotel.”
“Oh, indeed, Mrs Pargeter, you are right. All of my clients are absolutely out of the top drawer, people of impeccable ethical standards, but – ” he grimaced as he spelled out the unpalatable truth – “when it comes to art, normal moral considerations go out of the window. I’m afraid the zeal of the collector is too powerful, and the presence of genuinely valuable paintings in the suites would prove just too much of a temptation to some people. So it is simpler if I decorate the rooms with VVO’s very fine copies.”
“Isn’t there a danger that those copies might get stolen?”
The hotel manager looked affronted. “Good heavens, no, Mrs Pargeter. The kind of clients who frequent Greene’s Hotel would recognize instantly that they were fakes.”
Further discussion of the vagaries of the rich was prevented by the arrival of Truffler Mason, wearing his customary shapeless brown suit and his customary undertaker’s frown. “Hi there, Mrs P, Hedgeclipper,” he said joylessly.
The hotel manager winced. “
“Sorry, Mr Clinton.”
“Think nothing of it.” Hedgeclipper was once again wreathed in smiles. “Now, if you will excuse me… I have to arrange a fleet of stretch limos for the Sultan’s wives…” And he wafted imperceptibly out of the room.
Mrs Pargeter charged her guest’s glass with champagne and raised hers to toast him. “So, Truffler, can you fill me in a bit more on what HRH told me? When the paintings leave the country, they are actually declared to Customs?”
“Well,
“But the real ones are hidden underneath?”
“Exactly. Don’t worry, it’s a doddle. HRH has organized that kind of job hundreds of times. Never any problem.”
“Good.” Mrs Pargeter took another reassuring swallow of champagne.
“Only thing is, though,” said Truffler tentatively, “it’ll cost a bit. I mean, for the courier, a few other expenses…”
A plump hand waved away the objection. “Don’t worry. Veronica Chastaigne’ll pay for all that. She seems to have unlimited money – and seems to want to spend as much of it as possible before she pops off.”
“Why do you reckon that is?”
Mrs Pargeter smiled shrewdly. “Reading between the lines, I’d say it’s so that she leaves as little of it as possible to her son.”
“Ah, right. Toby, that’d be? The accountant?”
“Mm.”
“I haven’t met the young man, but I’ve heard about him. Haven’t been that impressed by what I’ve heard either. Never had much time for accountants… well, except of course for the imaginative ones… and there are precious few of those around these days.” He gave a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, poor old Bennie’d be well miffed if he knew Toby was, like, disowning him. After all the old man done for the boy. He was a good lad, old Bennie. Heart in the right place, no question.”
“So I’ve heard. Anyway, tell me, Truffler, how will the plan work?”
“Dead easy. Sweet as a nut. Gary ‘n’ me are set up for tomorrow night. Down to Chastaigne Varleigh with the van, Mrs Chastaigne lets us in, we load up the paintings…”
“And where do you take them?”
“Lock-up I’ve got. Safe as houses – ” He chuckled mournfully. “No, darn sight safer than most houses. And then, soon as poss, we start taking the goods back to where they belong.”
“Will that be tricky?”
“Piece of cake.”
“Good. So I’ll have kept my word to Veronica Chastaigne.”
“Course you will. Honour will have been satisfied.”
Mrs Pargeter raised her glass. “Excellent, Truffler. Let’s drink to the success of the job.”
“Right.” He raised his to clink against hers. “And let’s drink to the hope that they’ll all be as easy, eh?”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Twelve
“It was Bennie Logan you were talking about, wasn’t it, sir?”
Inspector Wilkinson looked up from his desk with distaste. He didn’t approve of junior officers bursting into his office without knocking, and he didn’t like the sound of what the junior officer in question was saying. The art theft case was his; he hadn’t mentioned the name of Bennie Logan to anyone. It sounded horribly as if Sergeant Hughes had been showing some initiative.
Still, ignorance was going to be the best starting position. He placed his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hughes.”
“I’ve been doing some research through the files.”
“Why?”
“Well, you wouldn’t tell me anything, sir, so I made it my business to find out for myself.”
“This is
The Sergeant stared defiantly into his adversary’s eyes. “There was nothing secret about it, sir. None of the files had any special security rating. They’re all accessible to any member of the Force who happens to be interested in them.”
“And why do you happen to be interested in them?”
“Because I’m supposed to working with you on the bloody case and you won’t tell me anything!”
Inspector Wilkinson winced at this outburst, but didn’t offer a reprimand. He just looked reproachfully at his young colleague and asked, “So what do you reckon you’ve found out?”
“There’s a strong suggestion that Bennie Logan was behind all the robberies. He wasn’t directly involved in any of them, but all of the likely perpetrators had links with him at some level. Everything seems to lead back to Chastaigne Varleigh.”
“Maybe,” said the Inspector. “Yes, that is a possible interpretation of the facts.” He drummed his fingers on the cigarette-scarred surface of his desk. “It must have taken you some time to go through all those files, Hughes.”
“Yes, sir.” The Sergeant yawned. “I have been putting in the hours, actually. Up pretty late last couple of nights.”
“Hmm. You’re very
