“No problem,” the driver said. “I’ll get one of your mates to wheel it in.”
Bernie got in and drove away. The glow of virtue lasted about five seconds, until Sly Small reared up in his thoughts. What on earth could he do now? Go into hiding? Seek another identity? Verdi’s Requiem was playing on the radio. He switched it off.
The solution came to him as he was waiting at a red light in Kensington High Street. Sly Small had spoken of a second Horngacher in some museum in Winchester. He glanced at the time. Winchester was a couple of hours’ drive from here, straight down the M3. He could be there by four. He’d have no qualms about lifting a Horngacher belonging to a pesky museum. A harp shouldn’t be gathering dust. It should be out there being played by some up-and-coming musician like Rocky Small. This would be an act of liberation.
Bernie put his foot down and headed for Winchester.
The signs for the Museum of Music came up on the outskirts of the city. The building, in its own grounds off Worthy Road, was a modern glass and concrete structure that looked pretty secure to Bernie’s expert eye. Hadn’t Sly likened it to Fort Knox? No matter. Bernie had devised a plan on the way down.
“We’re closing at five,” the young woman at the turnstile said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave it for another day? There’s so much to see.”
“I’ll have a quick trot round and get a sense of what’s here,” Bernie told her. “Is there a guidebook?”
She gave him a plan and he made a beeline for the harp section on the second floor. It was well stocked. They were Irish, Welsh, Grecian, Gothic and early American. He studied the labels of the larger harps. There was a Wurlitzer, an Erard and a Venus Paragon. They all looked pretty similar to Bernie’s untutored eye. Where was the flaming Horngacher?
No need to panic, he told himself. Maybe they kept it in some other part of the museum. He looked at his watch. Four-thirty already. He studied the plan again. Somewhere on the ground floor was a display described as The Layout of a Symphony Orchestra. They had harps in symphony orchestras, didn’t they? Bernie hurried downstairs.
At the far end of the building he found a large semi-circular area set out with music stands and the various instruments beside them. The harp was on a raised part at the rear left. He moved closer. A beautiful thing six feet high with gold leaf gilding. But was it the Horngacher?
He studied the label and groaned out loud. “Obermeyer harp, made in Starnberg, Austria, about 1977.”
Over the public address system came the voice of the woman at the admissions desk. “The museum will close in twenty minutes.”
Beside him a different voice spoke up. She was wearing an official badge that said she was staff. “You look as if you’re trying to find something. Can I help?”
With so little time left, he had no choice. He told her he’d come hoping to see a Horngacher.
“You’re standing beside it,” she said.
“But it says Obermeyer.”
“Read the small print, and I think you’ll find it was made by Horngacher. He took over the business from Obermeyer. If anything, he improved on them. He’s known as the Stradivari of harp makers. Isn’t the carving exquisite?”
Bernie wasn’t looking at the carving. If anything was exquisite, it was the label that confirmed what he’d just been told. He’d found the Horngacher. All he had to do now was remove it from the building.
He glanced around at the security arrangements, the video surveillance and the metal shutters on the windows. This would not be simple.
The attendant glanced at her watch. “We’re closing soon, I’m afraid.”
On an inspiration, Bernie said, “Organs?”
She didn’t understand.
“Where can I find the organs?”
“They’re near the entrance. You must have passed them on the way in.”
“Didn’t notice. I was looking for this.”
He thanked her and headed for the organ section. Organs were the biggest instruments Bernie could think of. Some fine examples were ranged along the main walkway to the entrance. After checking the video cameras he picked his organ, a Victorian church instrument with a fine set of pipes. It wasn’t the largest in the display, but it suited him well. Making sure no one was about, he squeezed out of sight between the pipes and the wall.
A bell went off and he thought he’d triggered an alarm, but it was the five-minute warning that the museum was closing.
Now it was a matter of holding his nerve. The staff may have noticed he hadn’t left yet. With luck, their minds were on other things like getting home as soon as possible. He listened to the footsteps as other visitors departed.
It went so quiet he could hear the woman on admissions say to someone, presumably a security officer, “All clear, then?”
“I’ll do my check with the dog. Leave it to me.”
With the dog? The hairs rose on the back of Bernie’s neck.
What could he do? Wait here, to be savaged by a guard-dog? The woman said goodnight, followed by a door slamming. Then the rumble of something mechanical. The elevator. The security man was starting his check upstairs.
Bernie heard the sliding door open and close, and knew this was his opportunity. Two floors upstairs had to be checked. He must grab that harp and be away before the man and his dog reached the ground floor.
Speed mattered more than stealth. He emerged from his hiding place and ran to the far end, where the orchestra was displayed. Took a grip on the Horngacher and tried to shift it. Difficult. Not only was it heavy, but awkward, too. The harp at the Albert Hall, cased and on wheels, had lulled him into thinking this would be simple. It would take far too long to drag this thing the length of the building and out through the front door.
He looked around for inspiration. No convenient trolley, of course. But desperation breeds inventiveness. Bernie looked at the wood-block floor. And the conductor’s dais, covered with a square of red carpet. He could use that carpet. With strength born of panic, he ripped it free of the tacks and placed it where he could persuade the Horngacher onto it. One big effort and the harp was in position. Now he could move it, tugging the rug with one hand and supporting the harp with the other.
The method worked. Once the rug was in motion, he was able to get up a reasonable speed. Of course it was a risk supporting fifty grands-worth of harp with one hand as he ran backwards, but Bernie had gone past the point of risk assessment.
He reached the entrance with its turnstile system. No way could he get the harp through or over the turnstile. There had to be another entrance for large items, and there was: a metal gate at the side. Locked.
There was no obvious way to shift it. After rattling the gate several times like a gorilla, he climbed over and looked at the other side. The bolt seemed to work by some electronic mechanism. Cursing, he went into the kiosk where the woman issued tickets. He found a switch and flicked it.
An alarm bell sounded.
In the din, he started flicking every switch, every key he could find. He tried the gate again. No result. And the security man and his dog would be down any second.
Instinctively he reached under his arm and drew the gun. Should have thought of it before. He fired at the bolt securing the gate. Magic. It swung free. He hauled the rug and harp through and across the stone floor of the foyer. Several finger bolts secured the front door. He loosed them and opened up. Outside, some porter, bless him, had left a hand trolley. Bernie grasped the harp and lifted it on and steered the precious load across the car park to where his van stood.