A shadow crossed the Inspector’s craggy face. “Do you know, I forgot to ask.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Five
The following morning Gary’s limousine eased so effortlessly along the Bayswater Road that his passengers were unaware of the constant stopping and starting necessitated by the heavy traffic. As he drove, the chauffeur gave his view of the Chastaigne Varleigh job. “Seems to me, Mrs Pargeter, that we’re going to rather a lot of unnecessary trouble. After Mrs Chastaigne snuffs it, all you need is for someone to call the police and all the paintings’ll get back to their rightful owners anyway.”
Mrs Pargeter nodded. “I know, Gary. That’s what her son Toby’s proposing to do. But Veronica Chastaigne doesn’t want her husband’s memory besmirched after she’s gone.”
“Oh, right, got you.” He finessed the limousine down Kensington Church Street. “So getting them back before she dies becomes like…”
“Like a point of honour, yes.”
“Don’t worry.” Truffler Mason gave a lugubrious grin. “We’ll soon get it sorted, Mrs P. Palings Price got the best fine art knowledge in the business.” He gestured to a narrow shopfront. “This is it, Gary.”
The trendily minimalist graphics over the door read: ‘DENZIL PRICE INTERIORS’. The display window was boxed in with severe grey screens. In the centre of the space, illuminated by a hidden pinpoint spotlight, stood one grey steel chair whose sharp-angled design offered all the comfort of a kebab skewer.
Gary had parked on the double yellow lines with the limousine’s back door exactly opposite the shop’s door, and he leapt out to usher Mrs Pargeter across the pavement.
She looked up at the name of the shop and murmured, “If it says ‘Denzil’, why’s he called ‘Palings’ Price?”
“Well, obvious,” said Truffler. “Cause he used to be a fence.”
“Ah.”
The interior of the shop was as starkly minimalist as the window might have led one to expect. The grey theme was continued on the walls, floor and ceiling. The only items of furniture the room boasted were three more of the steel chairs and an angular table, clearly by the same designer. All of them showed the priority of artistic originality over comfort and function, and gave Mrs Pargeter the sensation of being in a compound surrounded by barbed wire.
Palings Price wore a voluminous suit which exactly matched the colour of the walls, and a string tie which picked out the steely gleam of the furniture. As he welcomed Truffler and Mrs Pargeter into the shop, he could not totally control a wince at the bright silk print of her dress. It threatened the uniform drabness he had worked so hard to achieve.
He gestured around the room and said, in the kind of aesthetic voice that must have got him punched a good few times at school (assuming of course that he actually had had the voice at school and not just developed it in later life), “This, as you see, is the current Denzil Price look.”
“Ah.” Mrs Pargeter looked dutifully round, then turned back to the interior designer. “Why?”
Palings Price was totally thrown by the question. “What do you mean – why?”
“Why would anyone want to live in a room like this?”
“Because,” he asserted with an edge of affront, “there are some people around who appreciate style.” He gestured to the chairs. “Please sit down.”
Mrs Pargeter eyed the steel protrusions warily. Though she carried a lot of natural upholstery with her, she still liked a chair to make some contribution of its own. She perched on the griddle that formed the seat, and winced. “Ooh, these people who appreciate style don’t appreciate comfort, do they?”
“I can assure you, Mrs Pargeter,” said Palings Price, “that a lot of people pay me a lot of money to make their houses look like this.”
“What sort of people?”
The interior designer smiled smugly. “People who have everything.”
“If they’ve got everything – ” Mrs Pargeter took in the vacancy around her, “where on earth do they put it?”
“Elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“Yes.” He waved his hands airily around the room. “This is not a space for putting things in – it’s a space for
“Oh.” Mrs Pargeter’s practicality asserted itself. “So where do
Palings Price hesitated for a moment, unwilling to destroy his illusion, then gave in and opened a grey door that led to the back of the shop. “Through here.”
Mrs Pargeter looked with satisfaction at the gloryhole revealed behind the door. There was a clutter of office equipment, old chairs and piled-up files. It lacked the levels of dust, but otherwise owed more to the Truffler Mason than the Denzil Price school of interior design.
“Ah. That looks more comfy,” said Mrs Pargeter, and immediately moved through to park her dented rump into the soft recesses of a broken-down armchair.
¦
A few minutes later, Truffler was also ensconced in a comfortable chair in the back room. Only Palings Price looked ill at ease on upholstery. Maybe his bottom was of such high aesthetic sensibility that it could only appreciate furniture which made a design statement.
His eyes narrowed as he took in the typewritten list that Truffler had just handed him. He seemed surprised by its contents. “Well, I can tell you where most of these came from straight off. One or two’ll take a bit of research, though.”
“We’d be very glad if you’d undertake that research for us, Palings.”
The interior designer couldn’t quite hide the wince that Truffler’s use of his nickname induced, but he quickly covered it with a bonhomous smile. “Of course. Anything for the widow of the late Mr Pargeter.” She smiled her customary acknowledgement of this recurrent compliment. Palings Price looked across at the private investigator. “You want a list of premises robbed and dates when the goods were lifted – that right, Truffler?”
“Right.”
The list seemed to exert a mesmeric fascination. Palings Price looked at it again, shook his head and let out a low whistle. “It’s good stuff, this. Some of the most famous art thefts of the last twenty years.”
“Yes.”
“And all together in the one collection at the moment, is it?” Truffler Mason nodded. “Could I hazard a guess at the collector’s name…?” Palings Price went on. “Lou Ronson…? Sultan of Arbat…? Sticky Fingers Frampton…?”
But Truffler wasn’t rising to the bait. “I think this is one occasion, Palings, when the less detail you know the better.”
“Funny,” Mrs Pargeter observed innocently. “That’s what my husband always used to say to me, Truffler.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Six
“How did Palings Price get all his knowledge of fine art?” asked Mrs Pargeter, as the limousine sped silkily on its return journey.
“Oh, he done all the legit training,” Truffler replied. “University. Galleries. Then worked for one of the big auction houses. Left there under something of a cloud, I’m afraid.”
“Ah.”
