“What’s that?”
“They mean business.”
“Yes, they stole one of our great national heroes,” said Milton bitterly. “And what they they give us in return? Those tasteless Golden Delicious apples and seventeen feet of Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Amazing, really. You’ve got to admire them.”
The Commander was appalled. “Admire those thieving Frogs!”
“They whisked Nelson off into the sky.”
“They did more than that, Ken. Apart from insulting a naval man by flying him out, they achieved an even greater feat.” He glanced up at the statue. “They stuck that monstrosity up there at the same time. How? One dirigible, two national heroes. How on earth did they remove one and replace him with another in such a short space of time?”
“The blackout lasted for a few hours.”
“That means they were working in the dark.”
“Maybe they had a second dirigible.”
“None of the winos mentioned it and they’re used to seeing double.”
“I don’t think we can trust their word,” said Hurrell with a sad smile. “They were either too drunk to notice much or too frightened to remember what they did see and hear. The other reports are the ones to trust. Something moving silently across the sky with an object dangling from it. There were a number of sightings.”
“It must have made two journeys,” decided Milton. “Nelson was spirited away to a nearby hiding place then Napoleon was brought back in his stead.” He took out his mobile phone. “Let’s knock old Nappy off his perch, anyway. Who were those people who cleaned the statue recently?”
“Gostelow and Crabtree.”
“Sounds like a firm of corrupt solicitors.”
“Are there any other kind?”
They traded a professional laugh. Hurrell gave him the phone number and the Commander dialled it. After barking a few orders, the latter switched off his mobile and put it in his pocket.
“They’re on their way.”
“How will they get up there?”
“Scaffolding.”
“Then what?”
“Well,” said Milton firmly, “the first thing they can do is to get that VIVE LA FRANCE banner down. It’s making my stomach heave.” He looked across at the massed ranks of cameramen and journalists. “I suppose that I ought to throw them a bone. Give them the idea that we have everything under control. Ho, ho! You wait here, Ken. I’ll go and make a non-committal statement to the media or they’ll be hounding us all day.” He gazed up at Napoleon again. “By the way, what’s French for ‘We’re coming to get you, you mad bastard’?”
Emblazoned with the name of “Gostelow and Crabtree”, the lorry arrived within half-an-hour. In the rear was a large tarpaulin and an endless number of scaffolding poles. The lorry was closely followed by a huge mobile crane. Fresh interest was stirred up in the crowd and the cameras recorded every moment for the television audience. While waiting for the men to arrive, Commander Milton had pacified the media, given his statement, and spoken to some of the denizens of Trafalgar Square to hear first-hand their reminiscences of a night to remember. Two of them came out of their drunken stupor to claim that they had seen a balloon in the sky with something dangling from it.
Milton went across to introduce himself and Kenneth Hurrell to the newcomers. They treated him with muted respect.
“Who’s in charge?” he asked.
“I am,” said a hefty man in his thirties.
“Who are you? Gostelow or Crabtree?”
“Neither, sir. Mr Gostelow died years ago.”
“What about Crabtree?”
“On holiday.”
“Lucky devil! So was I until this little caper.”
“My name’s Pete Sylvester,” said the foreman, extending a gnarled hand. “I was in charge of cleaning Nelson, so I have a real stake in getting him back. You grow to like a man when you’ve been chiselling away at him for as long as we did.”
“I thought you just gave him a wash and brush-up.”
“I wish it was that easy, sir. But we’re not just cleaners. We’re trained sculptors. We actually have to re-carve bits from time to time. Freshen up the contours. It’s skilled work. We’ve sculpted bits of half the churches in London before now.”
“What about taking a statue down?”
“That’s more difficult.”
“But you have done it before?”
“A few times. We’ll manage somehow. Leave it to us.”
Peter Sylvester’s craggy face split into a grin. He had a reassuring jauntiness about him. While he was chatting to the detectives, his men were already starting to build the scaffold around the column. In the background, another crew was assembling the crane.
“Listen, Pete,” said Hurrell familiarly, “when you were working on the Admiral, did you see anything?”
“We saw everything, mate. Best view in London.”
“I meant, did you see anything unusual?”
“Unusual?”
“People taking a close interest in what you were doing.”
“There were dozens of those. Real nuisance at times.”
“Were any of them French?” asked Milton.
“Yeah, couple of girls. They took our picture.”
“Nobody else?”
“Not that I recall. When you climb all the way up there, you can’t chat to anyone down here. Some people watched us for hours. We felt a bit like performing monkeys.”
“Did anyone else come up after you?”
“Oh, no! We wouldn’t stand for that.”
“What happened overnight?” wondered Hurrell. “Presumably, the scaffolding was left in place. Did you ever arrive in the morning and get the feeling that someone had been up there?” Sylvester shook his head. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because we had a nightwatchman on duty. If you don’t guard them, scaffolding poles have a nasty habit of walking off in the dark. Besides,” said the other, “we didn’t want idiots climbing all over the column. It’s bad enough when they get on the lions’ backs. Admiral Nelson deserves to be protected.”
Pete Sylvester was a man who clearly liked his work but he was unable to help them with their enquiries. When they released him, he went off to supervize the erection of the scaffolding. It was a long but methodical process. The column was slowly encased in an aluminium square which rose steadily upwards. Hurrell was impressed.
“It must have taken much longer with timber,” he observed.
“Timber?” echoed Milton.
“Yes, sir. When they first put up the column, a hundred and fifty years ago, they used wooden scaffolding. The statue itself was raised in 1843 by means of a winch. It must have been a wonderful sight.”
“Someone else has been doing his homework, I see.”
“I like to be thorough.”
“It’s the only way, Ken.”
Pete Sylvester eventually drifted back across to them.
“I’d suggest that you clear the square completely,” he said. “I’m fairly sure we won’t drop him but it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s a long way to fall.”
Milton gave a command and everyone was moved away.
“When you get him down,” he said, “our forensic boys will want to give him the once-over. Only not here in the glare of publicity.”
“We’ll take him back to the warehouse, sir. More private there.”
“Good.”
“One favour.”
“What’s that?”
“Could you keep the press off our backs? We don’t want them clambering all over our lorry to get exclusive pictures.”
“They won’t get a chance, Mr Sylvester.”
“Thanks.”
When the scaffolding finally reached the capital, Sylvester swarmed up it so that he had the privilege of tearing down the banner. To the cheers of the crowd, he hurled it to the ground. A policeman retrieved it then scurried back out of the way. Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell watched with admiration from the safety of the steps of the National Gallery. Pete Sylvester was efficient. Using a small pickaxe, he chipped away at what appeared to be fresh concrete at the base of the statue, then exchanged the implement for a stonecutter. Its whine soon rang across the square and the noise intensified as it cut into solid stone.