“No,” said Mrs Pargeter, extricating herself from her bench seat. “I don’t think I’d ever be ready to order in a restaurant like this, thank you very much.”
And, clutching Sergeant Hughes’s folder to her ample bosom, she walked out. Thank goodness there was still time for her to get a decent, pampering dinner at Greene’s Hotel.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Forty-Three
“Who’d you say had compiled this little lot?” asked Truffler Mason, when he’d finished reading the contents of the folder.
“His name’s Sergeant Hughes. He’s been working with Inspector Wilkinson.”
The private investigator nodded. “Well, he’s a bright boy. Far too bright a boy to be working in the Police Force. If they start recruiting many more people of this calibre, there’s going to be a whole lot of nice, smooth- running apple-carts upset.”
They were sitting in the Greene’s Hotel bar. Mrs Pargeter had summoned Truffler as soon as she got back to her suite, but he hadn’t arrived until after she’d finished her dinner (delicious, the perfect therapy after the rather melodramatic encounter she’d just experienced). Truffler made do with smoked salmon sandwiches, and it seemed silly for them not to be sharing a postprandial bottle of champagne. So that’s what they were doing.
Mrs Pargeter had flicked through the contents of the folder, and immediately decided it needed more expert scrutiny, which was why she’d called Truffler.
“No,” he went on, “so long as we’re dealing with dumbos like Craggy Wilkinson, we don’t have a problem. He’d get the wrong end of the stick in a relay race.”
“Yes,” Mrs Pargeter agreed with feeling.
“But Sergeant Hughes is clearly something else.” Truffler shook the sheaf of papers in his hand. “This stuff’s dynamite. Got to see that it’s suppressed somehow. I mean, this could do a lot of harm to a lot of people.”
“There were rather too many familiar names in there, weren’t there?”
“Yes.” Truffler looked aggrieved. “And it’s not as if any of them’re villains. All been going absolutely straight since your husband died. All good, upright citizens doing their bit for society. No, it’d be a tragedy if any of these blokes got hassle about stuff that happened such a long time ago. A real tragedy.”
“I agree. So what’re we going to do about it? Can Jukebox Jarvis get into the police computer again and make a few changes?”
“That may be the answer… so long as the boy wonder actually did this on the office computer. If he did it on a personal laptop or something, then we may have to get Keyhole Crabbe to pay a visit to wherever he lives.”
“It’ll be all right, won’t it?” asked Mrs Pargeter anxiously.
“‘Course it’ll be all right. Best thing we’ve got going for us is still the fact that old Craggy Wilkinson’s in charge of the case. Unless he’s undergone a total character transplant, he’s not going to like having some smart- arse Sergeant as a sidekick. Like all deeply stupid people, there’s nothing he hates more than dealing with someone who’s intelligent. I think there’s a very strong chance that Wilkinson’ll suppress this entire dossier without us having to do a thing.”
“It would be wonderful if that happened, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would, Mrs P. In the meantime there are other things we can do by way of damage limitation.”
“Good.” Mrs Pargeter grinned. “And of course there was some information in the folder we didn’t know, did we?”
“That is very true.”
“Particularly about Posey Narker. Information on the informant.”
“Right,” said Truffler grimly. “Glad we’ve finally got him identified.”
“Very interesting, wasn’t it? And it makes sense of quite a few odd details. Clarifies the Rod D’Acosta connection at least.”
“And the connection with the other gentleman,” said Truffler. He looked at his watch. “I asked Gary to bring the car round at ten. That is, if you don’t mind another trip out, Mrs P…?”
“Mind? Of course I don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to miss this bit, Truffler.”
¦
Gary’s limousine waited outside the exclusive mansion block, while Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason approached the tall portico and pressed the entry-phone button.
“Yes?” Even through the crackle from the small speaker, the voice was easily identifiable.
“Mr Chastaigne, my name is Mrs Pargeter.”
“I don’t think I know you,” Toby Chastaigne’s voice crackled back.
“No, I don’t think you do. But I want to talk to you about Rod D’Acosta.”
¦
Toby Chastaigne’s pudgy face looked tense and drawn while he closed the sliding grille. As the lift jolted into action, his eyes avoided those of his visitors.
“The fact is,” said Mrs Pargeter easily, “the police are holding Mr D’Acosta and his merry men…”
“What’s that to me?”
“Well, I was just thinking that the D’Acosta gang might well be prepared to talk about who their paymaster was…”
“I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
The lift stopped at the second floor. Toby Chastaigne opened the double grilles and led Mrs Pargeter and Truffler to the front door of his flat.
“What I’m getting at,” Mrs Pargeter continued evenly, “is the fact that I believe you were behind the theft of the paintings from Chastaigne Varleigh.”
“That’s nonsense,” Toby Chastaigne snorted, reaching into his pocket for keys. “I disapproved of my mother having them in the first place.”
“I think you were intending to sell them illegally and take the profits.”
“But I wouldn’t begin to know how to sell paintings illegally.”
As he spoke, Toby Chastaigne pushed open the front door and ushered them into his flat. Mrs Pargeter looked around with interest. The charcoal-grey walls and the uncomfortable-looking metal furniture were informatively familiar.
“No,” she said, looking straight into the flat-owner’s eyes, “I agree you wouldn’t know how to sell them yourself. But I think you know someone who could do it for you.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Forty-Four
Mrs Pargeter and Truffler sat in the back, as the limousine eased away from the mansion block where Toby Chastaigne lived.
“I’m sorry,” said the private investigator. “I should’ve been on to Palings sooner.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Mrs Pargeter looked thoughtful as other bits of the jigsaw slotted into place. “It explains why the D’Acosta boys moved in on the paintings when they did, though. Palings must’ve tipped them off about our plans.”
“Yes.” Truffler joined in the piecing-together. “And it was him who encouraged you to send VVO as courier.”
“Trying to put another spanner in our works, hmm. I still feel stupid about that. Behaved like a real softie there. No, Palings took advantage of me.”
“Not only of you, Mrs P,” said Truffler grimly. “He took advantage of your husband and all.”
“Yes.”
“If he was Posey Narker from the start… it doesn’t bear thinking of, the number of operations he nearly ruined. We all thought it was strange the way the cops kept second-guessing us. No, we was lucky. But for the fact
