All over the world scenes of similar delight were played out, as Bennie Logan’s ‘borrowed’ paintings were returned to their rightful owners.
And as Mrs Pargeter executed the unwritten contract to Veronica Chastaigne which she regarded as a point of honour.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Forty
Mrs Pargeter felt a warm glow of satisfaction as Gary’s limousine delivered her and Hedgeclipper Clinton back to Greene’s Hotel. The customized ambulance had been returned to its body shop underneath the arches, and she had left her uniform there. Hedgeclipper had removed his odious leisurewear and was once again dressed in sober black jacket and striped trousers. All the loose ends had been neatly tied together. Mrs Pargeter was of the opinion that the whole operation had been a very satisfactory day’s work.
“Will you be dining in the hotel this evening?” asked Hedgeclipper, leading her across the foyer to the lift.
“Yes. On my own. Just a nice pampering meal. I feel I’ve deserved it.”
“You certainly have, Mrs Pargeter.”
“And thank you for all you did. I am so fortunate to be surrounded by people of such varied talents.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“There’s a career for you in television if you ever decide to give this up.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs Pargeter. Greene’s Hotel is my life,” said the manager as he opened the lift door for her.
“Well, I’m glad it is. I feel really comfortable here.”
“Excellent.” Hedgeclipper Clinton made a little bow to her. “That is, after all, the aim of the exercise.”
Upstairs in her suite, Mrs Pargeter looked fondly at the photograph by her bedside. “You know, my love, I think you’d have been quite proud of me today. We reproduced your old Chelmsford routine, and it worked a treat.” Seeming to read some reproach in the monochrome features, she went on, slightly defensively, “I’m well aware that you never liked me to know anything about your work, but there was no other way this time. The paintings had to be returned. It was in a good cause, you see. You always had a lot of respect for Bennie Logan, and I’m sure you’d want his widow to be able to go to her grave in peace. And it isn’t as if I was involved in anything criminal…” She twisted her fingers, nervous under the photograph’s scrutiny. “Well, maybe at moments it kind of veered over towards the criminal… I suppose technically, until the paintings were returned, we could have been said to be handling stolen goods. But that’s the worst you could charge us with. Anyway, it’s all done now. The job’s complete and there’s no evidence to link any of us with anything even mildly iffy.”
At that moment the telephone on the bedside table rang. It was Hedgeclipper Clinton calling from downstairs, and there was a note of warning – almost of fear – in his voice. “Mrs Pargeter, I wonder if you could come down. There are two gentlemen here who wish to speak to you on a very serious matter.”
“Oh really?” she said. “Who are they?”
“They’re Inspector Wilkinson and Sergeant Hughes,” said Hedgeclipper.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Forty-One
The faces of the two detectives were grim. Hedgeclipper Clinton too looked subdued. Mrs Pargeter could not help feeling a tremor of anxiety as she crossed the foyer to greet them.
“You haven’t met Sergeant Hughes,” said Inspector Wilkinson.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” She extended a gracious hand to the young man. He transferred his briefcase to his left hand and gave hers a cold, formal shake. Under the grimness of his expression there was a disturbing glimmer of cocksure triumph.
“Hughes won’t be staying with us.” Mrs Pargeter caught the spasm of annoyance these words sent across the Sergeant’s face. “You and I need to have a serious one-to-one talk, Mrs Pargeter.”
“Fine. Shall we go through to the bar?”
“I don’t want to talk here. If you would be so good as to accompany me…?”
It was phrased as a question, but left no doubt that it was really an order. Mrs Pargeter’s unease grew. That word ‘accompany’ had overtones of too many television cop shows. “I must ask you to accompany me to the station.” She had heard it spoken too often for comfort.
Mrs Pargeter didn’t dare to imagine what had gone wrong. Had VVO’s resolve finally cracked and had he shopped them all? Had Rod D’Acosta and his heavies said something to put the police on to her?
She felt rather stupid. Up until this point in her life, she had always religiously followed the instructions of the late Mr Pargeter. She had never been involved in anything that could be construed as criminal. She had had an unimpeachable record of innocence. But during the past weeks she’d got carried away. In the excitement of fulfilling Veronica Chastaigne’s request and recreating the great Chelmsford operation, Mrs Pargeter had taken a much more hands-on role in the proceedings than she should have done. She had sacrificed the Olympian detachment which she had always previously maintained from the activities of her helpers. And now it looked as if she might be about to pay for her carelessness.
“Do you need to get a coat?” asked Inspector Wilkinson with formal solicitude.
“No, I’m fine. It’s still very mild for September, isn’t it?”
“Right, if you’d care to accompany us…?” That word again. “It’s only a short drive.”
Sergeant Hughes hurried across to open the hotel’s front door for her, and Mrs Pargeter moved elegantly and proudly across the foyer. As she passed a tense-faced Hedgeclipper Clinton, she gave an almost imperceptible flick of her eyebrow.
The instant the front door closed behind his guest and her police escort, Hedgeclipper was dialling Truffler Mason’s number.
¦
They didn’t speak in the car. Hughes drove, with Wilkinson sitting tensely beside him. In the back Mrs Pargeter gave a not entirely convincing display of nonchalance.
When the car stopped, she couldn’t see a police station. They appeared to be in a street of shops and restaurants. But perhaps there was a hidden entrance to some official Metropolitan premises.
Mrs Pargeter tried to focus her mind on the plight in which she found herself. She knew what she had to do. The important thing was not to implicate anyone else. Mention no other names. She would just have to accept her own punishment, but see that she took no one else down with her.
Inspector Wilkinson said, “Thank you, Hughes,” which the Sergeant reflected was out of character. Maybe his boss was trying to impress their suspect with his good manners. “You can take the rest of the evening off.”
“I really think I should be with you, sir.”
“I
Hughes could not argue with the severity of the tone. “All right, sir,” he conceded.
“And give me that dossier you’ve compiled.”
The Sergeant was about to remonstrate, but realized he couldn’t. Inspector Wilkinson was in charge. If his boss ordered him to hand something across – even something as precious as the dossier he had spent so much time building up – then he had to do as he was told.
Silently, he opened his briefcase and handed over the folder.
“Thank you,” said Wilkinson again.
“I hope you’ll be careful with it, sir. It’s the only copy that –”
“Hughes, I have very considerable experience of handling highly sensitive evidence.”
“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant apologized.
“Rather more experience – if I may be forgiven for pointing it out – than you have.”
“Yes, sir.”
