Gideon's Art Read online

  And now he felt sure that there was something in this package which the youth knew he would desire.

  But he was also a man of integrity.

  What the youth could not possibly understand, what no one could ever understand, was how deeply, how cruelly, he was torn; torn between his knowledge of what he ought to do, his desperate fears for Christine, and his compulsion to open this packet.

  Then, in a flash of understanding that was like a revelation, he understood what he held in his hands.

  18: The Ultimatum

  Very slowly, Falconer went to a table, put the packet on it, untied the knot, and then took away the string. The linen itself was stuck down but he was able to pull it away. He saw the white wrapping paper underneath, secured with tape, and tried to ease it up with his thumbnail. His heart was thumping with almost frenzied beat. He knew that the colour had been drawn from his face, that his tension must be obvious if he looked up. The white paper tore with the sticky tape, and he pushed it aside.

  Here was the canvas back of a picture.

  Slowly, he turned it over. A sheet of thin sponge rubber, protecting the picture itself, dropped away as he looked down. The first glimpse told him how right he was; and also did much more. It seemed to tear at his heart, as if the hands, as if that withered thumb, broke out of the canvas and clutched at him through his very flesh and bones. As he straightened it and saw the whole picture for the first time, his breathing seemed to stop.

  After a while, forcing himself back to normality, he became acutely aware of the youth staring at him. The time had come when he must look up.

  Laying the painting on the couch as if indifferently, he yet contrived to place it so that he could still, when looking that way, feast his eyes upon its beauty. Wrenching his gaze away, he turned to Robin Kell.

  “So you are the thief?” he asked.

  “I am the thief.”

  “It is like having a price on your head.”

  “Yes,” said Robin softly. “That is exactly what it is like.”

  “On no conditions will I take this picture.”

  “It is very beautiful,” remarked Robin.

  “I know how beautiful it is,” replied Falconer stiffly. “But it is owned by the State. It is part of the national heritage.”

  “Don’t give me that nonsense and don’t fool yourself,” replied Robin. “If it’s anyone’s national heritage, it is Spain’s, and Britain plundered it.” He drew in a deep breath. “It is superbly beautiful.”

  “It can never be part of a deal with you over my daughter,” said Falconer.

  “If it isn’t, there will be no deal over Christine,” retorted Kell.

  “Tell me how much—”

  “I want one hundred thousand pounds for the painting and Christine together,” insisted Robin very softly. “If you don’t pay, then I shall destroy the painting and you will have destroyed your daughter.”

  “But you can’t destroy this!” cried Falconer, and his voice rang about the room and into the hall and up the stairs.

  Davies stood absolutely still, appalled.

  The cry reached the ears of Falconer’s wife, who was at the head of the stairs, wondering whether to go down. She was startled by the passion in his voice, the emotion he had not shown for so long. She heard another voice but was unable to distinguish the words. As Christine had, much earlier, she stayed where she was, knowing that she must not disturb Richard and yet desperately anxious to know what was going on in that room.

  Robin Kell stood unmoving but not unmoved, his smile broader than it had been since he had entered the room, giving the impression that he was on the verge of triumph. Falconer stared at him helplessly, shaken by his own outburst, by his uncontrollable anguish, by his feeling of despair caused as much by his fear of the destruction of this picture as by the loss of his daughter.

  He knew - no one else could ever know, but he knew - which he most cared for, which he most longed to save.

  Robin thought, He can’t resist them both. He might have put up a fight against one or the other, but together they’re irresistible. He did not look away from the man, and his smile deepened to raw gloating when Falconer’s gaze turned, as if under a compulsion he could not resist, to look at the painting on the couch.

  Falconer was aware of the near-hypnotic appeal of the painting, of the colours, of the face of the child prince. But his mind was gradually taking over from his emotions, and he was beginning to assess the situation objectively. His own great battle was still to come. This man was kidnapper, murderer, thief: and beyond reasonable doubt, a liar. He would take the hundred thousand pounds if he could get his hands on it, but there was no possible guarantee that he would give up the Velazquez or Christine. And even if the exchange could be guaranteed, what would be the right thing to do? Let this cold-blooded youth go, to prey upon others as he, Falconer, was being preyed upon, to kidnap their loved ones, using priceless treasures of men’s making to satisfy his lust for money?

  Whatever the result of his forthcoming struggle to decide, the more he could find out about this young man, the better; and he would find out more if he showed a convincing interest.

  “So you think I can’t destroy a piece of canvas with some paint daubed over it,” said Kell. “It won’t take long to prove I can, and I haven’t time to waste.” He moved his right hand toward his waist slowly. His trousers were low cut, with pockets slantwise toward the hips, and very closefitting. Suddenly he dipped into a pocket with incredible speed, and there was a click, a flash, and in the youth’s right hand was a knife with a thin, glistening blade. He held this between his thumb and fingers, thumb uppermost. “How about a few slashes with this, Sir Richard? Across the picture - and your daughter’s face.”

  Falconer’s breath hissed inward. “Don’t!”

  “I don’t share your sensitivity,” Kell jeered. “That is paint on canvas which represents money. I have a lot of things which represent money. And as for your daughter—well, she is a pretty girl, but pretty girls come by the dozen, so you can’t influence me by sentiment any more than you can appeal to my conscience.” He gave another of his slight, meaningful pauses, then went on: “You need to know who you’re dealing with, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Falconer said. He clenched his fists until his knuckles showed white and the fingernails cut into the palms of his hands. Whatever happened, he told himself, he must keep calm; must appear to be unmoved by anything this young savage said. Only by keeping calm could he even hope to gain the upper hand. “What do you mean, you have a lot of things which represent money?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady.

  “I mean I am one of the best art thieves in the business, and I’ve been busy for a long time.”

  “You have—more such pictures as this?” Falconer asked hoarsely. How could he possibly think of allowing this man to stay free, yet if he didn’t cooperate with him, what would happen to the Velazquez? And what - Falconer felt himself growing pale - what in heaven’s name would happen to his daughter?

  Kell nodded.

  “Many, many more and I’m sure you wouldn’t like to see them destroyed, would you, Sir Richard? But they will be - and that pretty daughter of yours as well - if you don’t do as I say.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You know I’m telling the truth about “The Prince,” don’t you?”

  “I should want much more evidence.”

  “You’ll get your evidence every time we do a deal,” Kell said coldly. “We’ve talked long enough, Falconer. Do you want “The Prince” and do you want your daughter? You can have both for one hundred thousand pounds in deposits at different banks in different countries. As proof of my good faith I’ll leave you “The Prince,” and as proof of yours I’ve got your daughter.”

  “I will not gamble with—” Falconer began.

  “You’re not gambling,” Kell interrupted. “You don’t have any chance unless you accept my terms.” He gave
a little laugh, not altogether gloating, at least partly because he was so pleased with himself. “Keep away from the police,” he warned again. “Don’t forget that calling them in would be absolutely fatal. I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow to arrange details.” He paused for a long time, and then said, “Do you mind if I let myself out?”

  He pressed the knife, and the blade snapped back inside the handle. Putting it back into his pocket, he moved toward Falconer and the door. Falconer stood still, as if deliberately blocking his path, then moved aside very slowly. Kell walked across the main hall to the front door, looking up the stairs and along the passages but seeing no one. Falconer moved but did not go to the front door, which Kell opened easily. Kell stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  Davies appeared from a doorway, but Falconer motioned him away.

  As he disappeared, Falconer looked up and saw Charlotte, now at the head of the stairs, and although she was so far away, her anxiety came clearly through to him, both in her expression and in the stiffness of her movements. In turn, she saw a tension in him that seemed almost to distort his face, a tension that seemed to have aged him ten years in the past half hour. He moved toward her, and as he went up the stairs his eyes seemed to burn. She stood still, holding her hands out toward him, half in comfort, half in fear.

  “Is she—is she all right?”

  “Yes,” Falconer said, in a grating voice. “So far, she is.” He took his wife’s hands, gripping them tightly. “Charlotte,” he went on, “I have a great deal to think about, and—I don’t want to be alone tonight.” He broke off, and the muscles of his throat moved as if he were trying to speak but could not.

  She closed her eyes and seemed to sway, but after a few moments she steadied again, and said quietly: “Then why don’t you come up to me?”

  Falconer went downstairs, wrapped the painting and took it up to his own room, rolling it loosely before placing it in a capacious wall safe. Then he went to his dressing table and picked up a photograph of Christine and stood looking at it for a long time. At last he put it back, drank a little brandy, then ran a bath. At half past twelve, he went to his wife’s room.

  Robin Kell went out of Falconer House into the soft penetrating rain of the October night. All the street lamps had haloes; so did the headlamps of the few cars he passed. He looked along the sides of the house and at the doorways of the houses opposite, but saw no sign of anyone watching. To make doubly certain, he walked past the rows of parked cars toward Piccadilly, then, when he reached the end of the street, turned back and walked in the other direction. But he saw no one, no sign of movement in the parked cars. Satisfied now that he was not being watched, he turned another corner and got into his red Morris 1100. Once in, he waited for a few moments to reassure himself still further that he had not been followed, and even when he switched on the lights and drove off, he watched his driving mirror very closely.

  By the time he reached Hampstead, he felt not only secure but exultant.

  A plainclothes policeman in a front room of an empty house nearly opposite Falconer’s switched on his walkie-talkie and reported to Information at Scotland Yard: “Kell left Falconer’s without the package.”

  A uniformed policeman trying the front doors of some shops in Park Lane switched on his walkie-talkie and reported, also to Information: “Kell drove north through Hyde Park, moving at moderate speed.”

  And information, keeping close track, took in report after report:

  “Kell is heading east along Oxford Street.”

  “Kell has turned left past Selfridge’s Food Department.”

  “Kell is passing Lord’s Cricket Ground and heading north.”

  “Kell is at Swiss Cottage.”

  “Kell is heading up the hill toward the pond.”

  “Kell is in Hampstead Village.”

  “Kell has parked in the High Street. He is locking his car.”

  All these reports were passed through on the teletype machine; the strips were cut out and pasted up, and sent to Thwaites, who was alone in an office which he shared during the day with four other Chief Inspectors. He was a little on edge, not because he was tired but because since speaking to Gideon on the telephone he, had begun to regret having done so. He would never have interrupted Gideon normally, and the truth was that three double whiskies on an empty stomach had given him Dutch courage. This had evaporated almost immediately when the Superintendent in charge at Wembley had called him.

  “Would you like to know where my chaps dropped Gee-Gee, Harold?” he said.

  “Yes - where?” Thwaites had asked eagerly.

  “The home of the great man himself.”

  “But he is the great man.”

  “Not to Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, he isn’t.”

  “My God,” Thwaites had breathed. “The Commissioner.”

  “Himself,” the Wembley man had confirmed. “But don’t worry too much; you’re not far off retirement, are you?”

  Thwaites had managed to echo the other’s laughter, but it was a very hollow echo. He had almost told Gideon he ought to come here, to the Yard, and not waste his time by going home. God! And Gideon would be coming here straight from Scott-Marie. Thwaites, checking over everything he had done and all the reports that had come in during the evening, munched a sandwich and drank more black coffee than he really needed. At all costs, he must be at his most effective when Gideon arrived.

  Thwaites’s interoffice telephone rang, probably with another report.

  “Thwaites here,” he said.

  “Gee-Gee’s just arrived,” a man told him urgently.

  “Oh! Thanks.”

  The other rang off, and Thwaites never learned who it was. He brushed his lips, pushed the tray aside, dusted some crumbs off his jacket, and then studied the summary of the reports. He had them off verbatim when his telephone rang again.

  “Thwaites,” he said, heart beating fast.

  “I’m in my office,” Gideon stated, and rang off.

  Thwaites put down the receiver slowly and stood up. He had not felt like this in years, and could not remember feeling like it with Gideon before. He could not understand himself, did not realize it was because he knew he had stepped out of line and had no experience of Gideon’s likely reaction, but he did know that Gideon had sounded pretty abrupt.

  Within a minute of the call, he tapped on Gideon’s door. As he waited, he was acutely aware of the stillness and the quiet, characteristic of the Yard at night and particularly noticeable after the bustle of the day. He could hear Gideon talking and wondered who else was with him. A possibility sprang to his mind and went through him like a knife. Not Scott-Marie?

  “Come in,” Gideon called at last, and Thwaites squared his shoulders and opened the door.

  Gideon was sitting behind his desk and no one else was in the room. Gideon waved to a chair, made a note on a pad, and then settled back and said, in the most amiable of voices: “Sit down, Harold. If you’re the same as I am these days, late nights make you leg-weary.”

  “Er—” Thwaites dropped into a chair, covered with confusion of his own making. “I know exactly what you mean, sir.” Now he had the sense to leave Gideon to set the ball rolling, and was already feeling very much more himself.

  Gideon bent down, took out his whisky and two glasses, and looked up.

  “What do you like with yours?”

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll give it a miss,” Thwaites said. “That’s if you don’t mind, sir.”

  “I’ll give it a miss, too,” said Gideon. “Well, what makes you think de Courvier is number three in the Velazquez killings?”

  “I’ve compared a photograph of the knife or dagger wound with the one on Slater’s body - Brighton sent pictures up. I’ve had Mr. Thompson look at them, and we both agree that it looks very much like the same kind of wound. And de Courvier is an old associate of Jenkins and Slater. We’ve established that.” He went on very slowly: “But the thing that’s rather shaken
me, sir, is a report that Christine Falconer, Sir Richard’s daughter, was seen to go into Judd’s shop this morning. Division sent a car to look at the place, and the driver recognized her - her photograph is often in the papers. I’ve a nasty feeling that the shop ought to have been watched all the time.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Gideon asked sharply.

  “No, sir, not until tonight, and that’s my fault. But it is being watched now, and—well, perhaps the best thing is to show you the reports as they came in.” He pushed the sheet of teletype messages across Gideon’s desk, and then added: “The man known as Kell is back there now, sir - in Judd’s shop, I mean. It’s remarkable, isn’t it, that he spent well over half an hour in Falconer’s house at this time of night? And he had a biggish flat package when he went in, but not when he came out. He was seen concealing it under his jacket on the porch, but his movements were too free for it to have been there when he left. It is remarkable, sir, isn’t it?”

  19: The Dilemma

  Yes, thought Gideon, it was very remarkable indeed. Fresh in his mind was Falconer’s approach to Scott-Marie. Would a man with anything on his conscience make such an approach to the Commissioner? On the face of it, it didn’t make sense. He pondered as he looked at the pasted messages, then looked up, frowning.

  “What package do you say Kell had with him when he went to Falconer House?”

  “It was about the size of an open newspaper, and he seemed to wrap it round himself,” Thwaites said. “It could easily have been a canvas.”

  “So that’s what’s in your mind,” Gideon said, heavily. “It could have been the Velazquez.”

  “And it is perhaps now in Sir Richard Falconer’s possession, sir.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gideon. “So it appears. Let’s have the whole story again.”

  “Very well, sir. Kell’s a friend of Lancelot Judd, who owns the Hampstead shop. He was seen going to Falconer House carrying the packet, this evening. He went in with the packet but apparently did not bring it away. That was the time I decided to have him trailed very closely, sir. He went back to the shop about eleven o’clock and is still there. And he had nothing with him, as far as I know. If it was a canvas, it’s probably still in Falconer House.”