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.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Thirty-Nine
It was an ordinary morning for the security guard of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Dfcsseldorf. 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 should have 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. Fundraising 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 Dfcsseldorf, 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
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.
¦
