“He made it sound as if I’d stolen the bloody statue!”
Hurrell looked up from the book he’d been reading.
“What about the ransom?”
“He thinks we should pay it, Ken. If all else fails.”
“Never!”
“That was my feeling. The Commissioner’s argument was that we’re talking about a national treasure. In emotional terms, it’s worth far more than five million. He even had some crazy idea about opening a public fund. A quid a head from five million people. I ask you!” sighed Milton. “All I’m interested in is nailing this gang.”
“Me, too.”
“No word from the lads while I was out?”
“Not a peep, sir. Somehow I don’t think Napoleon is going to yield up many clues. Seems to have been made out of the sort of materials you could buy almost anywhere.”
“In that case, we must concentrate on the dirigible. There can’t be all that many in existence. See if any were reported stolen. And chase up the bomb squad. They should have analyzed those devices by now. My guess is that they were made by someone with Army training.”
“With a friend who can fly an airship.”
“Yes,” said Milton, pacing the room. “The dirigible took Nelson away and brought Napoleon in. Or did it? Something’s been bothering me, Ken. Remember when the statue was lowered from that column? The crane had to make a real effort to shift it.”
“The weight made the ropes tighten.”
“Yet Napoleon was as hollow as an Easter egg.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
The telephone rang to interrupt their cogitations. Milton put the receiver to his ear. He had no need to speak. A continuous stream of information gushed down the line and put a look of utter amazement on his face. Milton eventually asked a few questions, recoiling from the answers. When he put the phone down, he was in a daze. He lowered himself into a chair. Hurrell stood over him.
“Who was that?”
“Mr Crabtree of ‘Gostelow and Crabtree’.”
“I thought he was on holiday.”
“He was. Tied up for two days in his own warehouse. And he wasn’t the only one. His wife was there with him so that she couldn’t raise the alarm. The pair of them have just been released.”
“But we were in the warehouse ourselves.”
“No, Ken. That wasn’t Crabtree’s place.”
“Then why did Pete Sylvester take us there?”
“It was all part of the ruse,” said Milton, thinking it through. “He pulled the wool well and truly over our eyes. I know that my namesake was blind but I don’t think he could have blind as the pair of us.”
“What do you mean, sir.”
“Crabtree had never heard of Pete Sylvester.”
Hurrell gulped. “I’m beginning to guess what happened.”
“So am I, Ken. And I certainly don’t relish the idea of telling the Commissioner. Peter Sylvester – or whoever he really is – has duped us good and proper. He pulled off the most astonishing trick in front of millions of viewers. And nobody saw it happening.” He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. “Where is the sod?” he said through gritted teeth. “More to the point, who is he?”
“I can tell you where he got his name from, sir.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hurrell, opening the book he’d been studying. “While you were out, I read up on the Battle of Trafalgar.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Everything. He’s playing games with us. Do you recall the name of the French Admiral in the battle?”
“Yes. Villeneuve.”
“But do you know what his Christian names were?”
“Who cares?”
“We ought to, sir,” said Hurrell, putting the book in front of him. “Look at the name under that portrait of Villeneuve. Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre Villeneuve. Do you see now? Pierre Sylvestre.”
Milton grimaced. “Pete Sylvester!”
When the cargo had been unloaded on to a bed of sand, the lorry was taken away to be disposed of with its false number plates. The gang congratulated themselves on the success of their plan and celebrated with bottles of beer. There were ten of them in all, each of them due to pocket a half a million pounds when the ransom was paid. In the meantime, everything had been laid on at the warehouse. Food, drink, comfortable chairs, beds and two television sets had been installed. There was even a stolen microwave.
The preparation had been faultless. It was time to relax.
“We should have asked for more than five mill,” said one man.
“We will,” promised their leader. “Let them sweat it out first.”
“What did old Crabtree say when you released him?”
“Swore like a trooper. Couldn’t believe a trusted employee like me would turn on him and his wife.” He glanced at his watch. “I expect he’s told his tale of woe to the coppers by now and discovered why we nicked his lorry and scaffolding. Crabtree will have given them the name I used when I worked for him. While the boys in blue are scouring London for John French, I’m living it up here with my mates in Milton Keynes.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Know the bit I enjoyed most? Having that detective call me ‘Mr Sylvester’. I really fooled him and his sidekick.”
They savoured the details of their crime and the hours oozed past with ease. Hamburgers were heated in the microwave. More beer flowed. A card game started. They lost all purchase on time and all sense of danger. When the police eventually burst in, the whole gang was taken by surprise. They fought hard but they were hopelessly outnumbered. All but their leader were dragged off to the waiting police vans.
Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell watched as their man was handcuffed before they questioned him. They looked him up and down.
“Did you really think you could get away with it?” asked Milton.
“I did get away with it!” insisted the other. “Nobody rumbled us.”
“Until now, Mr Sylvester. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s not your real name, is it? Nor is John French, the alias you used when you worked for Gostelow and Crabtree. No, your real name is Charles Villeneuve. Or, in plain English, good old Charlie Newton. Late of Her Majesty’s armed forces. It takes a lot to get a dishonourable discharge, Charlie. Your service record makes colourful reading.
“How did you get on to me?” snarled the captive.
“Ken must take the credit for that, explained Milton with a nod at his companion. ‘When you threw all those clues at him, he read up on the Battle of Trafalgar and learned about your namesake, Admiral Villeneuve, Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve. You were clearly obsessed with him. From his one name, you got three. Charlie Newton, your baptismal name, Pete Sylvester and John French, or, as you probably saw it, French Jean. I must confess, you used some cunning diversionary tactics. Had us believing this whole business was planned and executed by some French extremists. Whereas you’re really as English as boiled beef and carrots.”
“There were other clues,” said Hurrell. “A series of bombs, the use of an airship, the removal of a statue in broad daylight. All the hallmarks of a military operation. That’s where we started looking for you, Charlie. Among the Army’s drop-outs.”
“It deserved to work!” protested Newton. “It did work.”
“Only up to a point,” said Milton, strolling across to the statue of Napoleon that lay on the sand. “Your stage management was superb. Worthy of Shaftesbury Avenue. Only instead of giving them live theatre, you blacked out the West End and offered them a radio play. They all thought a statue of Nelson was being hoisted away by an airship with one of Napoleon taking its place. But the simple truth is that old Horatio didn’t move one inch during the night.”
“No,” added Hurrell, bending down to pull away the Emperor’s fibreglass hat. “Now, then, what do we have here?” he asked in mock surprise. “I do believe’s it’s Lord Nelson’s hat hidden underneath.” He tapped it with his knuckles. “Solid stone. That won’t come off.”