“It will not be mentioned, for both the source and Rowe no doubt used aliases to protect themselves.”
“But we know Rowe is involved, at least to some degree,” I argued. “And no alias was used.”
“That is why I swore that our association with him and his source will remain absolutely confidential and never spoken of under any circumstances,” Joanna went on. “Still, there is some small risk which Rowe is aware of, but he was driven to participate for revenge. You will recall that James Blackstone was a close friend, and the horrific picture of the man’s tortured body keeps Rowe awake at night.”
“May I ask how close?”
“Rowe is godfather to Blackstone’s son.”
As we rode south across London, I could not help but wonder what type of individuals we were about to encounter. Would they be the rough gangsters depicted in novels or the dashing rogues written about in newspapers? Whatever the type, I was certain they had never encountered the likes of Joanna Blalock-Watson. If she had any worry or concern, it did not show in her face. My father once told me that Sherlock Holmes had the same response to approaching danger. His appearance took on the look of a man about to cast his fishing line.
Our driver opened the window to the rear compartment of the limousine and asked, “Please give me the exact address, madam.”
“I do not have a number, but you should have no difficulty finding the Angel pub on Paradise Street,” Joanna replied.
“Very good, madam.”
My jaw must have dropped at the name of our destination. “The same pub where Charlotte Edmunds was to meet her husband!”
“The very same,” said Joanna, “and now you can put all the points together. Harry Edmunds and his wife no doubt frequented the Angel pub which is surely connected to the Morrison crime family. Here is where their association began, dating back to Edmunds’s forgeries and continuing up to the present. What better place for exchanging a masterpiece for untold thousands of pounds? Security and privacy in a back room would be assured and anyone who attempted to interfere would find themselves hanging from the lamppost that Watson so aptly described. I suspect the Morrisons might even supply an escort to make certain the money and masterpiece reached their final destinations. For an additional fee, of course.”
I thought the matter through before saying, “But I see a problem. The sergeant from Scotland Yard was present when we discovered Harry Edmunds’s connection to the Angel pub, which means it may now be under surveillance.”
“I foresaw that problem as well and requested Lestrade not to surveil the pub for now,” Joanna said. “You see, Harry Edmunds will not appear there until he has the masterpiece in hand. I assured Lestrade that the Morrisons would know they were under surveillance in the blink of an eye and that would surely result in the transaction being called off or moved to another location, either of which would place us at an unwanted disadvantage.”
My brow went up. “And Lestrade agreed?”
“Reluctantly so, for he needs our assistance if he ever hopes to solve this case,” Joanna replied. “And trust me when I tell you that Lestrade knows which side his bread is buttered on.”
“I worry, for Lestrade would like nothing more than to apprehend Edmunds on his own and garner all the credit,” I emphasized. “Recall how much he enjoyed basking in glory when the newspapers reported his discovery of the corpse in the chimney.”
Joanna chuckled softly. “I am afraid that was my doing. You see, I asked Lestrade to leak the story to the press in an effort to flush out Harry Edmunds. The release was sure to reach Edmunds’s eyes and alert him that we were closing in on his nasty little scheme, which might force him to act hastily and in an even more rash manner.”
“Why did you not share this information with us?”
“An oversight,” she lied easily.
“I think not,” I argued mildly. “I suspect you wanted Lestrade to relish the limelight and take credit because you may wish to use him in a similar fashion on subsequent occasions. Had you told me of your plan, you assumed I would have included it when I chronicled this adventure and thus diminished Lestrade’s role and glory, which would make him most unhappy and less cooperative in the future.”
“You give me too much credit,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“I think not,” I said again. “But I must admit it was a good move on your part.”
“I thought so as well,” Joanna admitted. “Now please remember to put a t on the end of the word good.”
When our limousine turned onto Paradise Street, I leaned over and asked in a quiet voice, “What do you expect to learn from the Morrisons?”
“The name of the masterpiece, of course,” Joanna whispered back.
“But it has been kept a deep secret thus far,” said I. “Why would they give it up now?”
“Because they will have no choice,” Joanna replied. “No one will place fifty thousand pounds on the table for an unknown work of art.”
“Perhaps a threat comes with the information.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And you believe this knowledge will somehow lead us to the hidden masterpiece?”
“It is the first of two important clues which will do so.”
As our limousine slowed and approached the Angel pub, the driver turned and asked, “Where shall I park, madam?”
“You will find an alleyway on the far side of the pub,” Joanna instructed. “Stop there, and once we depart, wait for us on the opposite side of the street.”
We left the limousine and walked down a dark alleyway which was dimly lighted by a lamppost on the street. From within the pub we could hear the raucous shouts and laughter of patrons having a jolly good time. Just ahead of us, a burly man wearing a leather jacket over a turtleneck sweater stood guard.
In a barely audible voice, Joanna said, “Say nothing and treat them as underlings, for that is what they expect.”
“But they have the
