“But someone like Rod D’Acosta’s never going to be into art theft, is he?” Gary objected.
“Too right. He couldn’t tell a Picasso from a picnic basket. The D’Acosta boys are strictly Rent-A-Muscle.” Truffler Mason rubbed his long chin thoughtfully. “No, Rod D’Acosta’s got to be working for someone else on this job. Now, I wonder who that someone else might be…?”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Twenty-Three
Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson was no fool. He was aware that this was not everyone’s opinion. But the fact that he was aware that this was not everyone’s opinion, to his mind, proved that he was no fool.
The way he had dismissed Sergeant Hughes’s theories about a connection between the late Mr Pargeter and the Mrs Pargeter he had met outside the betting shop had not been evidence of stupidity. It had been calculated. Wilkinson distrusted Hughes. He distrusted his cockiness and impetuous enthusiasm. Every detective at the start of his career assumed that he could change the world and defeat the entire criminal community in a matter of moments. It was important such people learnt that things moved rather more slowly in the Police Force. They had to develop the correct approach to the profession on which they were embarking, an approach which Inspector Wilkinson felt, without false modesty, that he exemplified perfectly.
So poo-pooing Sergeant Hughes’s theories had been part of a long-term plan, a plan which would serve two purposes. First, it would put the cocky young man in his place. Second, it would put him off the scent, thus giving Inspector Wilkinson a breathing space in which to pursue his own enquiries. Oh no, the inspector had an agenda all right. The fact that he maintained there to be no connection between the late Mr Pargeter and Mrs Pargeter did not necessarily mean that that was what he believed.
The foyer to Greene’s Hotel was impressive, more country house than commercial establishment, but the Inspector was not daunted by it. A good copper, he knew, was never daunted by surroundings. He had conducted too many interviews in lavish surroundings to be fazed by them. And in many cases he had found that lavish surroundings proved to contain thumping crooks.
There was a man in a black jacket and striped trousers behind the antique desk which was presumably the hotel’s Reception. He looked distantly familiar, though the inspector couldn’t say from where. The man looked up at the visitor’s approach.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” he said. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I wonder if you could…” Suspicion darted in Wilkinson’s deepset eyes. “Just a minute. Why did you call me ‘Inspector’?”
The hotel manager looked flustered. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Our regular inspection from Health and Safety is due today, and I just assumed that you were their representative.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“No, I’m very sorry about the confusion,” the hotel manager, all urbane charm, apologized. “So what can I do for you, sir?”
“I understand you have a Mrs Pargeter staying here…”
“That is correct, yes.”
“Do you happen to know if she is in the hotel at the moment?”
“Yes, Inspector Wilkinson, she is.”
“Oh well, I’d be very grateful if…” Once again suspicion surfaced in the Inspector’s eyes. “Just a minute. Why did you call me ‘Inspector Wilkinson’?”
“Oh, um, well…” Fluster returned to the hotel manager’s manner. “The thing is, the gentleman I was expecting from Health and Safety was called ‘Inspector Wilkinson’, and I’m afraid I must have still been thinking of that. You know how it is… once one gets an idea fixed in one’s mind…”
“Yes,” said Wilkinson, not entirely convinced.
“Anyway, you were asking about Mrs Pargeter…”
“Yes. Could you please ring up to her room –”
“Suite.”
“To her suite, and ask if she would be free to have a word with me?”
“Of course.” The hotel manager reached for an old-fashioned telephone on the desk and started dialling a number.
“You haven’t asked me what my name is.”
“What?”
“You don’t know who I am. Do you normally announce unidentified visitors to your residents?”
“No, no, of course I don’t.” A button was pressed to stop the phone from ringing. “What name should I say, sir?”
“My name is Inspector Wilkinson.”
“Good heavens!” The hotel manager seemed to have something troubling his throat. But for the fact that there was nothing funny in the situation, Wilkinson could almost have imagined the man was trying to suppress a laugh. “Well, what a remarkable coincidence. That you and the Health and Safety inspector should both have the same… I don’t know, it’s the kind of thing, if you read it in a book, you wouldn’t believe it.”
A trembling hand once again dialled the relevant number, and this time got through. “Ah, Mrs Pargeter. It’s Mr Clinton down at the front desk. I have a gentleman who would like to have a word with you.” He seemed to be having some problem with something in his mouth, and started coughing. Through his coughs – which somehow didn’t quite sound like coughs he managed to say, “His name… is Inspector… Craig… Wilkinson…” The coughing continued as he put the phone down and turned back to the visitor. “She says…” he croaked, “that… she’ll come down to the bar… straight away…”
“Oh, fine. Whereabouts is the…?” But suspicion once again waylaid the Inspector. “Just a minute. Why did you call me ‘Inspector Craig Wilkinson’? I didn’t tell you my first name was Craig.”
“No, no, you didn’t…” Fluster and coughing fought for control of the unfortunate hotel manager. “No, no, I think, um… Do you know, you’re not going to believe this…”
“Try me,” said Wilkinson implacably.
“… but the first name of the Inspector who was due from Health and Safety was also Craig.”
There was a silence. Then the Inspector shrugged. “Oh well, that is a coincidence. Which way’s the bar?”
A trembling finger pointed and he followed its direction. Fortunately he was actually inside the bar and out of earshot before Hedgeclipper Clinton’s control finally gave up the unequal struggle.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Twenty-Four
“Now what will you have to drink? Champagne?” asked Mrs Pargeter, once they were settled into the luxury of the bar.
Wilkinson looked at his watch. “It’s only four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Yes, I know, but what I like about champagne is that it has no respect for the hour of the day. Come on, surely you’ll have something?”
He stroked his moustache dubiously. “Well, I’m not sure…”
“Is it the old ‘no, not while I’m on duty’ thing?”
“No, no, it’s not that.”
“Do you mean you’re not on duty?”
“No. Not exactly. I mean, I am, in a manner of speaking on duty. A good copper, you know, is never off duty. Always alert, always looking out for tiny things, for those tell-tale details which don’t seem significant at the time, but which later turn out to be relevant.”
“Yes, of course. And often, I find, one’s eye is sharper to spot those tiny things after one’s had a drink or two.” An almost imperceptible flick of a finger brought the barman gliding to her side. “Now, you will join me, won’t you?”
Wilkinson melted under the violet-blue beam that was focused on him. “Well, all right, that’d be very nice, thank you.”