One eye on developments, Milton gave his orders.
“Check out all of these fringe groups,” he said.
“Even the loony ones, sir?”
“Especially those. Leave no stone unturned, Ken. If someone so much as asked for Eric Cantona’s autograph, I want him checked out for Gallic sympathies. We’re supposed to be fellow-Europeans now but that message obviously hasn’t got through to the Froggy mentality. Out there somewhere is a sawn-off Napoleon with delusions of grandeur.”
“We’ll find him, sir.”
“And soon.”
Hurrell was about to depart when his colleague’s mobile phone rang. The Commander snatched it from his pocket and turned it on.
“Yes?”
“Commander Milton?” said a heavily-accented voice.
“Who’s this?”
“I told you not to take the Emperor down!”
“It’s him!” said Milton, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece. “The anonymous Frog. He’s watching us.”
“Can you hear me?” said the voice.
“I hear you, mon ami,” replied the other with polite contempt. “And I don’t care two hoots for your orders. Napoleon comes down.”
“In that case, we double the price.”
“What price?”
“For Nelson.”
Milton rid himself of a few expletives but the line went dead.
“They’re holding him to ransom,” he told Hurrell.”
“Where?”
“He forgot to tell me.”
“How much do they want?”
“A lot, by the sound of it.” He put the mobile away. “Well, let’s get rid of one statue before we try to reclaim the other. Meanwhile, you do what I said, Ken. Get your men on the case, chasing down every weird group of French sympathizers they can find. Join me when it’s time to take the Emperor for a ride.”
Hurrell moved swiftly away to pass on the orders to a small squad of detectives. Milton turned his gaze back to the statue. Pete Sylvester seemed to have cut through the base of the statue and was ready to have it removed. Using thick ropes with great dexterity, he lassoed the statue at various points. He was quite fearless, even climbing part of the way up the solid stone to secure the ropes more tightly. When he’d finished, he waved to the crane driver and the massive hook swung slowly towards him. Sylvester waited until it had stopped swinging before he began to loop the ropes around it. After tying them off with great care, he and his men descended the scaffolding at speed, then stood back to watch.
The crane applied pressure but the statue refused to move at first. A yell of encouragement went up from the crowd. When the driver put extra power into the tug, the statue was suddenly lifted clear of its base, sending rubble hurtling to the ground. Shorn of his majesty, the deposed Emperor made a slow descent until he rested horizontally in the back of the lorry. Sylvester and his men swiftly covered him with their tarpaulin. As the lorry drove away with its foreign cargo, it was greeted with the kind of ovation that only a winning English goal in the final of a World Cup could have evoked. Even Commander Milton applauded.
Before he could get away, he was obliged to make another statement to the media and hinted that he was already in contact with the kidnappers. Hope was firmly planted. Nelson had not been abducted in order to be destroyed. A ransom demand presupposed that no harm had come to him. If the money was paid, he might return unscathed.
“Is this a French conspiracy?” asked an interviewer.
“I’ll tell you when I find out.”
“What else can you tell us?”
“Nothing at this stage.”
Milton excused himself and elbowed his way to a waiting car. He and Hurrell were soon being driven after the lorry. Having discharged his orders, the Detective Inspector had grown pensive.
“Do you know much about the Battle of Trafalgar?” he asked.
“I know the only thing that matters, Ken. We won.”
“But do you know how, sir?”
“Our sailors were better than theirs.”
“And our commander. Villeneuve was no match for Nelson.”
“Who?”
“Villeneuve. The French Admiral.”
“I was forgetting,” said Milton, running a hand across his lantern jaw. “Napoleon was a landlubber, wasn’t he? The Emperor didn’t fight any sea battles.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Why did they put him up there instead of the French Admiral?”
Pete Sylvester and his men had been remarkably efficient. By the time the detectives arrived at the warehouse, the rear of the lorry had been tipped hydraulically and the statue had been eased gently out on to a bed of sand. Sylvester waved the lorry off then turned to welcome Milton and Hurrell. Other detectives emerged from a second car.
“He’s all yours, Commander,” said Sylvester, gesturing.
“Thanks to you.”
“It was much easier than I thought.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not made of solid stone.” The foreman kicked the base of the statue. “This part is, as you can see. But I think your men will find that Napoleon Bonaparte is largely made up of plaster.”
“So he could have been carried by a balloon!” said Hurrell.
“Balloon?”
“Nothing, Mr Sylvester,” said Milton, taking him by the shoulder to usher him away. “Thank you for all you’ve done. We won’t detain you any further. As long as you’re on stand-by for the important part of the operation.” Sylvester looked puzzled. “Putting Nelson back up again.”
The foreman chuckled. “I can’t wait, sir. That’s why we left the scaffolding in position. We’re so confident that we’ll get him back.”
“You have my word on that.”
Peter Sylvester went out and Milton motioned his men into action. They put down their cases and began an examination of the statue. The base was indeed made of solid stone but there was a hollow sound when they tapped the head and the shoulders. Dick Milton was merciless. He had no qualms about giving the order for execution. With a well-judged kick, one of the men struck the Emperor’s head from his shoulders. The Commander peered inside the torso. He could see all the way down to the knees. He gave a grim smile.
“I bet he’s got feet of clay as well!”
A uniformed constable entered with a large brown envelope.
“This is for you, Commander,” he said, handing it over.
“Where did you get it?”
“Someone in the crowd thrust it at me.”
“Didn’t you get his name, man?”
“I had no time, sir. He said something in French and ran off.”
“In French?” Milton looked at the envelope. “A ransom note.”
He tore it open and quailed. Hurrell looked over his shoulder.
“Five million pounds!” he said with a whistle.
“Payable in unmarked notes of specific denominations.”
“Is that the going rate for a stolen statue?”
“Look at the signature. Ken.”
“I can see it, sir.”
“Villeneuve.”
It was over three hours before the call came. In the interim, Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell left their colleagues to continue their work at the warehouse and returned to Scotland Yard. The first thing which the Commander had to endure was a searching interrogation by the Commissioner. He limped back to the security of his own office.