As the ambulance turned off the road into the field, Mrs Pargeter suffered an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt. “I hope Vanishing Vernon’s done his stuff,” she murmured to Gary.
“He will have, don’t you worry.”
“Yes, yes, of course he will.” Reassured, she looked into the back of the van. “How’re you getting on, Truffler?”
With a mournful flourish, the private investigator stuck a printed label on to a neatly wrapped rectangular package. “Fine, Mrs Pargeter,” he replied. “That’s the last one. All the paintings labelled up, marked with where they got to go back to.”
“Terrific. Veronica Chastaigne will be pleased.”
♦
A mile behind, the car carrying Rod D’Acosta passed the sign to the car boot sale. “We’ll get them now!” he hissed viciously.
“Yes…” The heavy called Phil didn’t sound as convinced as his boss. “Are you sure there aren’t such things as ghosts, Rod…?”
♦
“Do you recognize that car ahead?” asked Sergeant Hughes.
“Yes,” the heavy called Sid replied. “That’s Rod’s all right. It’s the one he used for the getaway from the Peckham Rye bank job.”
Hughes wished he wasn’t driving, so that he could make more notes on this valuable flood of information.
“The car’s going exactly where my informant said it would,” Inspector Wilkinson observed smugly. That call on his mobile couldn’t have been better timed. Of course it had been pure luck that the Inspector had received information about Rod D’Acosta’s movements at such a relevant moment, but he wasn’t going to let Hughes know that.
Oh no. Wilkinson had made it appear that the call was part of some masterplan held been working on for weeks. Sergeant Hughes had been well impressed.
That’ll show the cocky little oik, thought Wilkinson. Complacently, he stroked the line of his growing moustache.
♦
Ushered along by the stick-like figure of Vanishing Vernon, almost like the man with the red flag who had to precede early motor cars, the ambulance moved serenely down the long aisle of open car boots. Car boot shoppers turned to look curiously as, from the back doors, Truffler Mason handed out labelled rectangular packages to HRH, Hedgeclipper Clinton and Kevin the doorman. These were then passed on to the owners of the parked cars.
As each owner received his or her picture, they checked its destination on the label and put it in their car boot, which was then firmly closed. No attempt was made to remove the picnic tables loaded with bric-a-brac, as, to the considerable confusion of the shoppers, the owners got into their cars and began to drive away out of the field.
But, before the first of them reached the exit to the main road, Rod D’Acosta’s two cars came hurtling in at great speed. Car boot shoppers scattered in panic as the vehicles thundered side by side down the wide aisle in pursuit of the ambulance.
Truffler Mason, who had just handed out the last package, saw the approaching cars, slammed the doors of the ambulance shut, and called out, “All done!”
“Go for it, Gary!” shouted Mrs Pargeter, with a note of sheer devilment in her voice.
The chauffeur put his foot down, pointing the ambulance straight at the open gate which led to the ploughed fields beyond. The mud was thick and sticky from recent rain, but the supercharged engine’s power took over and the vehicle surged across the ridges, riding high and untrammelled on its special tyres.
Rod D’Acosta’s two cars started the pursuit, but didn’t get far in the treacly mud of the ploughed field. Just inside the gate, the cars’ wheels started to spin and their bodies to slew dangerously sideways.
The two vehicles cannoned into each other with a sickening clang. There was a crunching of glass and the impact made both of their boots fly open.
Urged on by Vanishing Vernon, the car boot shoppers surged forward to see what new treasures were on offer. As Rod D’Acosta and his dazed acolytes staggered out of their ruined cars, they found themselves faced by a crowd of bargain-hunters, keen to know how much they were asking for the knuckledusters, bowie knives and Armalite rifles in their boots.
It was at that moment that the car containing Inspector Wilkinson, Sergeant Hughes and the heavy called Sid arrived.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Thirty-Nine
It was an ordinary morning for the security guard of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Dfcsseldorf. As usual there was a dull ache inside the top of his skull. As usual he regretted having that extra beer the previous evening. And as usual the residue of the bratwurst, which had been so delicious the night before, didn’t taste so good on his morning tongue.
Still, there was work to be done. Maybe he’d be able to slip out for another beer at lunchtime. That’d make him feel better.
He keyed in the relevant code at the side door of the museum’s impressive frontage, and waited till the night security guard let him in. He checked through the night security guard’s log and went to open up the galleries. Every painting had to be checked, every alarm tested, in the hour before the day’s throng of culture lovers was admitted.
He keyed in the seven-digit code which unlocked the tall doors leading to the Medieval and Old Master series of galleries. The doors swung open, he fixed them back on their hooks, then turned to face the familiar outlines of Madonnas and martyrdoms. He didn’t know much about art, but he knew whereabouts on the walls it all belonged.
Everything was exactly where it should have been until he entered the High Renaissance Gallery. This was usually one of the quickest visits in his tour of inspection. Since the famous 1982 robbery, there was embarrassingly less to display than there should have been. The remaining paintings – all minor works by lesser artists (the thieves had known precisely what they were looking for) – had been rehung and there had been some buying at major auctions to fill the space, but there was still too much blank wall for comfort.
The security guard flicked an eye over the few familiar works and was about to move on when he caught sight of something unexpected and looked down. Propped along the bottom of one of the gallery walls were five paintings. Even though he knew little about art, the museum robbery had received so much media coverage back in 1982 that anyone in the country would have recognized them. The Uccello was there, the Piero della Francesca, the two Titians. Above all, there was the famous Leonardo.
The security guard let out a little belch of surprise. The bratwurst taste in his mouth was more pungent than ever.
Neatly attached to the top of the Leonardo was a little note. In perfect German it read: “THANKS FOR THE LOAN OF THESE.”
♦
Dealing with a client of Mr Takachi’s eminence was not something that could be delegated to a minor official; this was a job for the bank’s Vice-President. With elaborate courtesy the appointed Vice-President escorted the honoured customer to the lift which led down to the New York bank’s vaults.
On the basement level he checked his ID with the uniformed guard, who keyed in the appropriate code to open the heavy metal doors guarding the galleries of neatly ranked security boxes.
Another uniformed guard accompanied them inside. Attached by a chain to his metal waistband was the second key which had to be turned at the same moment as the key the Vice-President carried if the box was to be opened.
“And it’s just the pearls you want to take out for the moment?” asked the Vice-President.
Mr Takachi nodded acknowledgement of this. “I am taking my wife to the Pearl Harbor Apology Ball at the White House. Very prestigious occasion. Fundraising event for Democratic Party.”