is incapable of a double bluff. He’s only just capable of a single bluff.”
“And even then, not an elaborate one,” added Hedgeclipper Clinton.
“Oh, good, I’m glad to hear it.”
Hamish Ramon Henriques provided even more reassurance. “Don’t worry about a thing. Jukebox Jarvis’ll keep an eye on what’s happening on the police computer. If Wilkinson has any genuine suspicions, we’ll know about them before the other people in his office do.”
“Thanks. That’s really nice to know.”
Mrs Pargeter sat back in her chair, the iciness of a few moments before completely forgotten. She munched contentedly on her starter, a fantasy of quails’ eggs and langoustines, and watched as the travel agent produced a sheaf of neatly typed and stapled pages. It was very comforting, she found, to know she was working with professionals.
“I’ve been through Palings Price’s list,” said HRH, “of all the stuff he reckons was in Chastaigne Varleigh, and sorted out personnel to do the actual returning of all the paintings.”
“May I have a look?” asked Hedgeclipper.
“Of course.”
The hotel manager ran a practised eye down the lines of text, as Mrs Pargeter said, “Well, I just hope it hasn’t raised any problems for you, HRH…”
“None at all,” he replied, all urbanity. “When a philanthropist like your husband passes on, he leaves many people who are only too happy to take on some small task to express their gratitude to him.”
Mrs Pargeter allowed the recurrent compliment a little misty-eyed nod.
Hedgeclipper Clinton tapped the sheet in front of him. “I didn’t know old Vanishing Vernon was still around, HRH.”
“Certainly.” He turned to Mrs Pargeter. “I should explain that we’re referring to one of your late husband’s most trusted aides.”
“Oh.” She smiled vaguely. The name meant nothing to her. Throughout their marriage she had ensured that the names of most of her husband’s associates meant nothing to her (which was why it was so easy to maintain an expression of genuine innocence in the face of enquiries from people like Inspector Wilkinson). “And why,” she asked, “was he called Vanishing Vernon? Bit of a Houdini, was he? Could make himself disappear?”
Hedgeclipper Clinton chuckled. “No, it wasn’t himself he made disappear – it was other people.”
“Oh.”
She would not have pursued the matter further, but HRH felt some gloss was required. “Though, I should hasten to point out, Mrs Pargeter, Vanishing Vernon never used any violence.”
“Well,” Hedgeclipper conceded, “not more than was absolutely necessary.”
“No. He just tended to… drive inconvenient people away in his car.”
Mrs Pargeter smiled easily. “That sounds quite civilized.”
“Yes,” HRH agreed, slightly less easily.
“Mind you,” said Hedgeclipper, “he did drive them away in the boot rather than the back seat.”
“But I must again stress, Mrs Pargeter – without violence. Inconvenient people would just tend to… wake up feeling very sleepy… isn’t that right, Hedgeclipper?”
“Yes… Sleepy – and 300 miles from where they last remembered being.”
“Ah.” Again Mrs Pargeter felt disinclined to enquire further.
The hotel manager shook his head in fond recollection. “Anyway, I’m surprised to hear old Vanishing’s still around. Not in the business any more, is he, HRH?”
Affront at this suggestion trembled the travel agent’s splendid growth of whiskers. “Good heavens, no. His current activities are one-hundred per cent legitimate.”
“So what does he do now then?” asked Mrs Pargeter with an ingenuous smile.
“He organizes car boot sales.”
¦
Outside a very suburban semi in North London the next morning was parked an oldish VW camper van, its back windows nearly obscured by the quantities of holiday paraphernalia packed inside. In the passenger seat sat VVO. He looked at his scruffiest, the archetype of the misunderstood genius. The cliche beret sat defiantly on his head.
He watched as his wife Deirdre, neat in crisp fondant-green shirt and shorts, locked the front door and clacked on white high heels down the garden path. She got in the driver’s side of the camper van, started the engine and looked fondly across at her husband.
VVO grinned back in sheepish excitement. “I can’t believe I’m really being allowed to do this, Deirdre – go off on my own hazardous mission.”
She patted his thigh. “Well, you are, Reg Winthrop. Mrs Pargeter trusts you, so don’t you dare screw up.”
“I won’t, love. Because I’ve never been put to the test, nobody knows just how cool I can be in a crisis.”
“Hmm…” Deirdre looked her husband up and down, appraisingly. “And remember what HRH said – don’t do anything that’s going to draw attention to yourself.”
“No,” he agreed, evading her glance. But when he looked back, her eye was still beadily fixed on his beret. After only a nanosecond of hesitation, he removed it. “Right you are, love.”
Deirdre Winthrop, secure in the complete control she had over her husband, put the camper van in gear, and they set off towards Dover.
¦
Caught up in their mutual excitement, they did not notice that an unobtrusive car started up soon after them and stayed, only two or three vehicles behind, all the way to the South Coast. And, even if they had noticed it, because they’d never met him, they wouldn’t have known that it was being driven by Sergeant Hughes.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Twenty-Six
The trilling of the bedside telephone insinuated itself into Mrs Pargeter’s morning dream of some sylvan picnic with her late husband. Slowly she opened her eyes, greeting this day, like every other, with enormous confidence and the knowledge that things were bound to go well for her. She felt serenely rested. The lavish dinner of the night before – and the full bottle of champagne before it – had left her with nothing so vulgar as a hangover, merely a delicious sense of having been pampered, and having deserved it.
She looked across to the photograph on the bedside table. The suited image of her late husband smiled gravely back at her. “Morning, love,” she said, as she did every morning. “I was only talking about you yesterday. Saying what an admirer of the British legal system you were. And what a punctilious old fuddy-duddy you were when it came to moral issues.”
Next she consulted her watch. Nearly half past nine. Very satisfactory.
The telephone trilled on. She reached across and answered it. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” a familiar voice intoned.
“Truffler, how good to hear you.”
“Just ringing to say we’ve found out where the paintings are.”
“Brilliant. I knew you would. Going to have any problems getting them out?”
Truffler Mason, mobile phone pressed to his cheek, looked across at the red Transit van. There was no question he’d found the right one. The number plate tallied with what had appeared on Jukebox Jarvis’s computer screen. It was Rod D’Acosta’s vehicle all right.
But Truffler was looking at it through the padlocked gates of a car breaker’s yard. This was a thickly walled lot, with barbed-wire defences running round the top of the wall. The area was decorated with a large number of signs bearing such deterrent legends as ‘ELECTRONIC ALARMS IN OPERATION’ and ‘GUARD DOGS PATROL THESE PREMISES’.
“Yes,” said Truffler Mason, in reply to Mrs Pargeter’s question. “Maybe a few problems.”
