“Ah,” said the Vice-President. “Right.” He stopped in front of one particular security box and looked at the uniformed guard. “Ready with your key?”
The man nodded. “Now we have to turn them absolutely together,” the Vice-President continued. “If we’re out of synch, the alarm goes off straight away, the doors close automatically and we’re locked in. It’s just another of our security measures,” he added to Mr Takachi, who bowed.
With the keys in place, the two men, watching each other’s hands, turned together. The thick, nuclearblast-proof door swung outward.
Inside the security box were visible neat piles of gold bars, stacks of document cases, terraces of jewel boxes. Looking sternly down on them from the back was a gold-framed picture of a white-ruffed burgomaster.
“Aah,” said Mr Takachi delightedly. “You found my Rembrandt!”
♦
Nestling amidst the Highlands of Scotland there is a grey stone castle, turreted like a fantasy from a fairy tale. Its grounds stretch far in every direction, encompassing forests and glens, moorland and twinkling lochs. Broad-antlered stags roam through its wildness; plump grouse nest in its lush undergrowth.
On the same day that the security guard found the Old Master in Dfcsseldorf, and that Mr Takachi was reunited with his Rembrandt in New York, the studded oak front door of the Scottish castle opened, and the eleventh Duke emerged into the misty morning. He wore a threadbare tartan dressing gown and an expression of disgruntlement. The eleventh Duke was of the view – particularly first thing in the morning – that during his lifetime everything had changed for the worse. You couldn’t get staff these days; the only sorts of people who could afford to run stately homes were rock stars, press barons and comparable forms of pond life; and young people had no respect for tradition.
He sniffed the unfailing freshness of the Highland air, and stretched out his creaking arms. Then he looked down to the broad doorstep for the morning’s delivery.
The usual order was there – one bottle of silver-topped milk, one strawberry yoghurt and, tucked between, a folded copy of the Scotsman. But it was what was propped against the wall behind these daily rations that took the Duke’s aristocratic breath away.
In a scrolled gilt frame stood a Raeburn portrait of a red-coated man with a romantic swath of plaid across his chest. He wore a fluffy white sporran, buckled pumps and tartan trews. One nonchalant hand rested on a tasselled sword hilt, the other held a black feathered bonnet. Behind him swirled an idealized Scottish landscape.
The man in the dressing gown picked up the picture with something approaching ecstasy. “My God!” he cried. “The third Duke’s come home!”
And, still clutching the Raeburn to his breast, he danced a little jig of glee up and down his castle steps.
♦
All over the world scenes of similar delight were played out, as Bennie Logan’s ‘borrowed’ paintings were returned to their rightful owners.
And as Mrs Pargeter executed the unwritten contract to Veronica Chastaigne which she regarded as a point of honour.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Forty
Mrs Pargeter felt a warm glow of satisfaction as Gary’s limousine delivered her and Hedgeclipper Clinton back to Greene’s Hotel. The customized ambulance had been returned to its body shop underneath the arches, and she had left her uniform there. Hedgeclipper had removed his odious leisurewear and was once again dressed in sober black jacket and striped trousers. All the loose ends had been neatly tied together. Mrs Pargeter was of the opinion that the whole operation had been a very satisfactory day’s work.
“Will you be dining in the hotel this evening?” asked Hedgeclipper, leading her across the foyer to the lift.
“Yes. On my own. Just a nice pampering meal. I feel I’ve deserved it.”
“You certainly have, Mrs Pargeter.”
“And thank you for all you did. I am so fortunate to be surrounded by people of such varied talents.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“There’s a career for you in television if you ever decide to give this up.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs Pargeter. Greene’s Hotel is my life,” said the manager as he opened the lift door for her.
“Well, I’m glad it is. I feel really comfortable here.”
“Excellent.” Hedgeclipper Clinton made a little bow to her. “That is, after all, the aim of the exercise.”
Upstairs in her suite, Mrs Pargeter looked fondly at the photograph by her bedside. “You know, my love, I think you’d have been quite proud of me today. We reproduced your old Chelmsford routine, and it worked a treat.” Seeming to read some reproach in the monochrome features, she went on, slightly defensively, “I’m well aware that you never liked me to know anything about your work, but there was no other way this time. The paintings had to be returned. It was in a good cause, you see. You always had a lot of respect for Bennie Logan, and I’m sure you’d want his widow to be able to go to her grave in peace. And it isn’t as if I was involved in anything criminal…” She twisted her fingers, nervous under the photograph’s scrutiny. “Well, maybe at moments it kind of veered over towards the criminal… I suppose technically, until the paintings were returned, we could have been said to be handling stolen goods. But that’s the worst you could charge us with. Anyway, it’s all done now. The job’s complete and there’s no evidence to link any of us with anything even mildly iffy.”
At that moment the telephone on the bedside table rang. It was Hedgeclipper Clinton calling from downstairs, and there was a note of warning – almost of fear – in his voice. “Mrs Pargeter, I wonder if you could come down. There are two gentlemen here who wish to speak to you on a very serious matter.”
“Oh really?” she said. “Who are they?”
“They’re Inspector Wilkinson and Sergeant Hughes,” said Hedgeclipper.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Forty-One
The faces of the two detectives were grim. Hedgeclipper Clinton too looked subdued. Mrs Pargeter could not help feeling a tremor of anxiety as she crossed the foyer to greet them.
“You haven’t met Sergeant Hughes,” said Inspector Wilkinson.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” She extended a gracious hand to the young man. He transferred his briefcase to his left hand and gave hers a cold, formal shake. Under the grimness of his expression there was a disturbing glimmer of cocksure triumph.
“Hughes won’t be staying with us.” Mrs Pargeter caught the spasm of annoyance these words sent across the Sergeant’s face. “You and I need to have a serious one-to-one talk, Mrs Pargeter.”
“Fine. Shall we go through to the bar?”
“I don’t want to talk here. If you would be so good as to accompany me…?”
It was phrased as a question, but left no doubt that it was really an order. Mrs Pargeter’s unease grew. That word ‘accompany’ had overtones of too many television cop shows. “I must ask you to accompany me to the station.” She had heard it spoken too often for comfort.
Mrs Pargeter didn’t dare to imagine what had gone wrong. Had VVO’s resolve finally cracked and had he shopped them all? Had Rod D’Acosta and his heavies said something to put the police on to her?
She felt rather stupid. Up until this point in her life, she had always religiously followed the instructions of the late Mr Pargeter. She had never been involved in anything that could be construed as criminal. She had had an unimpeachable record of innocence. But during the past weeks she’d got carried away. In the excitement of fulfilling Veronica Chastaigne’s request and recreating the great Chelmsford operation, Mrs Pargeter had taken a much more hands-on role in the proceedings than she should have done. She had sacrificed the Olympian detachment which she had always previously maintained from the activities of her helpers. And now it looked as if she might be about to pay for her carelessness.