As for Harry Clauson, the sight of all the furniture and china which he hoped to lay his hands on was causing him to lose his cool, his gentlemanly manner. His speech was no longer as polished as it had been the previous day. He actually referred to the readies (meaning cash), and he gulped down the sandwiches instead of nibbling at them. He drank more of the general’s whisky than he should have, and pressed it on Mrs. Stammers, who drank it, and coughed and spluttered because she wasn’t used to that amount of the stuff.
Harry Clauson and his partner went out and celebrated that night. “I haven’t even started on the upstairs,” he said, “and then there is all that china. That’s what I’d like to get my hands on.”
“Don’t overdo it, Harry” said his partner. “The old lady might tumble to you yet.”
“So what,” said Harry dismissively. “It’s all perfectly legal! There’s no comeback. If she’s stupid enough to sell at the price I offer, it’s her lookout. It’s not as if I’m stealing it.”
As work on the roof progressed, Mrs. Stammers fed the workmen, bringing out the food and tea or beer to them, managing to keep them out of the house as much as possible, confining them to the kitchen, so that they could not see the house being progressively emptied... unless they wondered what the van was constantly taking away.
Harry Clauson called on her daily.
He described in minute detail to her how he was trying very hard to save the lovely furniture. It was costing him a lot of money, more than he had paid her for it, but it was well worth it, worth every penny, he assured her. He too would be as worthy a custodian of the past as she was, he explained. In the meantime, he was faced with another dilemma. All that lovely furniture and nothing to put in it, whereas she had all that china and nowhere to put it. Now, he wasn’t a dealer, and therefore would not dream of paying her the price a dealer would offer, but he would pay whatever each item would sell for in a really good class of establishment. And he insisted on adding just a little bit because he was saving all that money on petrol and, of course, his own time, and, moreover, had the incomparable pleasure of her company, the benefit of her experience, knowledge, and appreciation of the truly, the incomparably beautiful.
As well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, or in for a penny, in for a pound. Mrs. Stammers let the lot go. All that lovely lolly that Clauson tempted her with had got her thinking about her old age. She had no savings to look forward to, and a state pension to a woman like her smacked of the poorhouse and the almshouse.
Came the day when the roof was ready.
The two friendly types who had laid it gathered up their tools and departed, having damaged only a minute part of the lawn, over which Mrs. Stammers sadly poured the substance brought by Bill, friend of Mr. Clauson, and tossed the tin into the garbage, which the excellent garbage disposal system of St. Albans collected regularly every Friday.
Then Mrs. Stammers packed her things, had her hair washed and set, because contact with Mr. Clauson and all that money had revealed a better world to her than she had suspected existed. Having ordered a hire car to take her to the airport, she flew away.
As for Harry Clauson, he too decided it might be an idea to go on holiday for a while, just in case the old lady came to her senses, or her friends warned her she had been dunned.
II
The first that Russell Davenport heard of the affair at the Thundackaray-Harding household was a telephone call from the inimitable Bradford.
Bradford’s official job was to authorize insurance payments to policyholders of the giant Combined Insurances. He seemed to have a nose for fraud and deception of any kind, and was authorized to investigate cases himself, or refer them to the police, or to employ outside investigators. He was a small, neat man, with a trim mustache. His hobby was collecting cigarette cards, on which subject he was reputed to be a considerable authority. He claimed it was easier to carry them round than the tiles that Davenport collected.
Bradford was always at his desk early. Davenport knew that if the telephone rang correspondingly early and kept on ringing, it must be Bradford. Bradford had visited him, knew the layout of the house, and how long it took to get to the telephone from its remotest part.
“Hullo, Russell,” said Bradford crisply. “Can we book you for a few days?”
“Oh, yes. Is it interesting?”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s a robbery. A very old policyholder of ours, and the son of a policyholder. Everything is insured under our good-as-new policy, which means we are obliged to pay out the present market value of the items insured. All the antique furniture was taken, the old china, but they left the tapestries and the color telly. It was a very professional job by specialists while the owners were away on holiday.”
“The stuff is halfway across Europe by now,” said Russell Davenport. “You know there isn’t a hope in hell of finding any of it.”
“Well, first of all, the chappie knows one or two people on our board, so I’ve got pressure on my tail. Wants to know what we intend to do about it,” said Bradford.
“Oh!” said Russell. He well knew the power behind the right name knowing the right names. “What about the police?”
“They’re doing their best, poor sods. Nobody got murdered or raped, and if they had to inquire into every robbery... they’ll probably send out a list of the stolen goods at the end of the month. Look, Russell, it’s Monday today. Try all this week. Just dig around. They must have been specialists, they only took the best. Which means they’re still around and still operating. Now, if you’ve got pencil and paper, it’s a fairly long surname. You’ll have to practice how to pronounce it.”
Having got the name, address, and telephone number, and practiced getting the name out fluently, Russell Davenport first telephoned the Thundackaray-Harding residence. When a female voice answered, he introduced himself and asked to speak to the brigadier.
“Oh, you are going to catch those thieves, aren’t you? I just hope you do, and put them behind bars for the rest of their wicked lives,” burst forth from the other end.
“Well, I shall have a jolly good try,” said Davenport, somewhat amused. The voice didn’t sound that of a general’s wife, so he said, “May I ask, who is speaking.”
“Oh, I’m just the housekeeper, sir, and here comes the brigadier himself.”
Russell arranged to come over straightaway, and then telephoned his friend Peter Strevens, a member of the Hertfordshire CID. “I’ll buy you lunch at the Barn,” he offered.
“That sounds as if you need assistance with your inquiries,” said Peter Strevens.
“That’s right. I’ll be on an expense account, too, so you can have four courses,” countered Russell.
Strevens laughed at the private joke between them. It was a great mystery how the Barn, in the middle of St. Albans, managed to serve such delicious food at such low prices.
Brigadier Thundackaray-Harding opened the door himself. He was tall and thin, with a long, horselike face and long ears. He had large eyes that stared over Russell’s head. “Jolly good show,” he said, taking Russell’s hand in a vicelike grip. “Jolly good show.” He led Russell into the sitting room. It looked bare.
“Is it too early to offer you anything to drink?” he asked.
“Just tea or coffee, whichever is most convenient.”
The brigadier left the room and returned a few minutes later. “Tea on the way! And now I’m at your disposal.”
“Tell me everything that happened,” said Russell.
“Not much to tell. Wife and I came back from holidays abroad. We go to Spain every year. Walked into the house. All gone!”