Gideon's Art Read online

  “From what you say, there may be a lot to be passed on to the Home Office,” said Gideon.

  “I’m no bloody welfare officer,” said Riddell. “But you’re right.” He paused again. “Anything else you want from me?

  “No, thanks.”

  “Right!” Riddell put his glass down, and went toward the door. “See you.”

  He went out.

  Gideon felt as if he had lived through a sudden, furious storm and, when the door closed, was almost breathless. He sat, Buddha-like, for several minutes, and then suddenly he laughed; but there was no humour in the laugh and little in his expression. He had not expected to forget the Velazquez theft so quickly, but it had gone right out of his mind.

  One of his telephones rang, startling him. He let it ring for a few minutes before lifting the receiver.

  “Gideon here.”

  “Hallo, George. How are tricks?” It was the brisk and breezy voice of Lemaitre, whom Gideon had been thinking about earlier in the day. “Gotta bit of news for you I thought you’d like to know.”

  “What’s that?” asked Gideon cautiously.

  “I’m pretty sure I know where they’re making the new decimal-coinage slush,” stated Lemaitre.

  “Pretty sure” was characteristic of him, and nine times out of ten he would be right. But on the tenth occasion he might simply have built up a case out of a single piece of information into which he had read a great deal of significance.

  “Sounds good,” Gideon said, still cautiously. “Where?”

  “An old foundry, in my manor. A place on the river, George. Only about a mile from the Mint itself - how about that? What I want to do is raid the place.”

  “When?” asked Gideon.

  “Tonight,” answered Lemaitre. “Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot, George - or catching the metal while it’s molten.” Lemaitre could hardly control a guffaw of laughter, so pleased was he by that turn of phrase. “The thing is, I’d need some help from the Thames Division.”

  “Asked them yet?” inquired Gideon

  “No,” said Lemaitre. “Wanted to clear it with you first”

  There was much more than there appeared to be behind that simple statement: a hint of some feeling or conflict between Lemaitre’s division, on the land, and the Thames Division. It was a good thing to be warned such tension existed, just as it would be a bad thing to show that he felt it.

  “How much help would you need?” asked Gideon, suddenly realizing that in fact Lemaitre might want much more than it was reasonable for one division to ask of another.

  “Oh, a couple of patrol boats, in case we flush our birds and they try a getaway on the river,” said Lemaitre, and added airily: “Nothing much, really.”

  Gideon grunted. “I’ll have a word with Thames,” he promised.

  “Thanks a lot, Gee-Gee,” Lemaitre said, with more heartfelt thanks than the situation merited.

  Gideon rang off and immediately put a call through to Thames Division. The Superintendent in charge wasn’t in, and he was put through at last to Chief Inspector Singleton, who had just completed a successful investigation into the use of the Thames for distributing stolen jewels.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Singleton.

  “Nice job you’ve just tidied up,” remarked Gideon.

  “Good of you to say so,” replied Singleton. “Easy enough when I knew the angle, though. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “You can have a couple of launches standing by tonight to liaise with a land raid by NE Division.” Gideon knew that he might get a reaction from Singleton which he would not get even from the Superintendent in charge.

  To his astonishment, Singleton chuckled as if with high delight.

  “So it worked,” he said.

  “What worked?”

  “The tactics I used with old Lem!” There was a brief pause, and then, obviously as Singleton remembered he was speaking to the boss, a sharp exclamation and silence.

  “All right, let’s have it,” growled Gideon.

  “Er—sorry, sir,” said Singleton. “It—er—it’s nothing really. One or two of Mr. Lemaitre’s men and one or two of ours have been getting on each other’s nerves lately, and Mr. Lemaitre knows it, so instead of coming direct to me, he came to you. Bit silly, really, but you know what we old coppers are.”

  “I know,” said Gideon. “Better make it three launches.”

  “Will Mr. Lemaitre get in touch with us about details?”

  “Yes,” Gideon said, any annoyance he had felt fading. “Bit silly” was right: policemen of such age and experience should not behave like children, but it happened sometimes and out in the divisions a sense of isolation could develop, breeding pettiness. In place of his annoyance was a question he wanted to ask, but he could not bring himself to do so. Last year, a Metropolitan Police officer named Carmichael with a long and distinctive record had attempted to murder his wife. The officer, a friend of Singleton’s, had been tried and found guilty; he was serving a sentence of ten years’ imprisonment. His wife was now living with another man, a most likable man, who would marry her the moment the divorce came through. There had been talk of Carmichael suing for divorce from prison, but Gideon had heard nothing about this for some time.

  Singleton was the most likely person to have any news.

  All these things flashed though Gideon’s mind in a split second. Then Singleton said: “There’s one other thing, sir, while you’re on.”

  Carmichael?

  “What?” asked Gideon.

  “You remember the time Jenkins was mixed up in that art theft - the time we nobbled him when he was trying to get away in a cargo boat with some of the loot?”

  Gideon’s interest flared up.

  “Yes, I remember very well.”

  “Funny thing about him killing himself or being accidentally gassed last night, wasn’t it?” Singleton observed. “Especially as his old pal Slater was murdered in Brighton last night, too. One of our patrol-boat crews saw them together on the embankment the other day, and reported it when they heard what had happened. They had to go in close to have a look at some flotsam. Very peculiar, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes,” Gideon said. He could pretend that he knew about Jenkins’s death, or he could leave Singleton with a real glow by telling the truth. “I knew about Slater,” he said. “Jenkins is news to me. Thanks.” Then he added, with a faint laugh in his voice, “Look after N.E. Division, won’t you?”

  He rang off on Singleton’s delighted chuckle, but did not echo that laughter as he pressed for Hobbs, knowing he might still be in Records.

  But Hobbs came in, and they began to speak simultaneously.

  “Have you heard—” Hobbs broke off.

  “Have you heard—” Gideon broke off. “About Jenkins?” Hobbs asked quickly. “Just,” said Gideon. “Why didn’t I know before?”

  10: Two in One

  Lucy Jenkins heard the shop doorbell ring, and put down a rag with which she’d been dusting an old, very fragile Italian carved frame. She also heard footsteps above and they were reassuring. The Fisks were home, and she need make no decisions of her own, so it did not trouble her when she saw Red Thomas halfway between the door and the stack of pictures. He glanced at her almost furtively and said something she did not understand.

  “Sorry about this, Lucy.”

  Mechanically, she said: “That’s all right.”

  “Can I have another dekko?”

  “Take as long as you like.”

  He began to go over the pictures again, and she noticed that instead of making a quick glance he was examining each one more closely, obviously hoping to find some special picture. One part of her mind, the part which trained itself, reflected that he must have sold the two pheasants well and the buyers had sent him back to see if there were others by the same artist. She was familiar with his peculiar form of nervous tension, the way he would stand back, rake a picture from every angle, and then turn it over and put it
away with finicky precision.

  Then she saw two men on the other side of the road, looking toward the shop. One was a policeman and - again with the self-trained part of her mind - she knew that the second one was a plainclothes detective. She was not alarmed in any way but a little sorry for Red, because obviously the police were investigating him.

  “Red,” she said, in a quiet voice.

  “Hey?” He didn’t look up.

  “There are two policemen watching you.”

  “So let them watch.”

  If he wasn’t concerned, there was no reason why she should be, so she went on with cleaning the picture. Something fell heavily upstairs: Old Fisky, dropping a boot; it was always such a performance when he put his big heavy boots on. The two policemen came across the road, and Lucy ducked out of sight but listened. She had a strange sense of panic, a carry-over from those early days when the police had come for her father, as they so often had.

  The doorbell clanged.

  The sounds above were heavier but not so loud - Old Fisky, walking about to get his feet comfortable in his boots. Lucy had subdued but frightening palpitations and leaned against the bench, rag in her right hand, left hand supporting her body against the wall.

  A man said, “Is Miss Jenkins in?”

  She could hardly believe she had heard right. These men wanted her.

  Red said, swallowing the words, “In the back.”

  A man called out, “Miss Jenkins, are you there?”

  They had come for her.

  Her panic rose wildly; her heart thumped like the clumping of Old Fisky’s boots. They had come for her, and she hadn’t done a thing. She just worked here, just did what she was told. She felt so weak that the frame slipped and a piece of the gilt carving broke off. She could hear her own breathing, as if she were drawing and exhaling breath through some kind of fog.

  “Miss Jenkins?”

  The two men appeared in the doorway, the uniformed one in front. She saw him but did not understand the expression on his face. He was young and not very big or impressive He had a broad nose, rather squashed, and a slight hare lip, not enough to deform or to give him any speech impediment; and he had big features and the softest, brownest eyes. But all she saw was a face beneath a policeman’s helmet. She almost fainted, was aware of the man moving, and then, suddenly, that he was supporting her.

  “Take it easy,” he said very gently. “Take it easy.”

  A strange thing happened to Lucy Jenkins, something she did not understand, did not think about for some time. She felt calmed. The panic subsided and her breathing became much more even. The policeman had one arm round her shoulders and that arm seemed to blanket her with warmth.

  He repeated, “Take it easy,” and after a few moments asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes—yes,” she said huskily.

  “You know, then,” he said, still holding her.

  “Know—know what?” she asked.

  He did not respond immediately, and very slowly, almost with reluctance, he took his arm away. The plainclothesman was standing in the doorway leading to the shop, and Old Fisky was in the doorway leading from the stairs to the flat above - Old Fisky, a shrunken giant, clothes loose and baggy, his scraggy neck encircled by his big, deep collar. The policeman was now a yard away from her, oblivious of the others, and she became aware of his glowing brown eyes. She sensed something else, too, something remarkably like the protective warmth of his arm; soothing.

  “I seem to have jumped to conclusions,” he said. “Obviously you don’t know.”

  Both the other men had the sense to stand still and silent.

  Lucy made an effort, and asked, “What am I supposed to know?”

  “About your father,” the policeman answered.

  She was startled into harshness, spurred by a bitterness which was part of her.

  “Oh, him. Has he been picked up again?”

  “No,” the policeman said gently, and he drew a step further away. “He died yesterday.”

  The word “died” made no immediate impression on her at first, and rather stupidly she echoed without thinking, “Died?”

  “I’m sorry. Yes.”

  She began to realize what she was being told and, in a different kind of panic, cried:

  “But—but I didn’t know he’d been ill!”

  “He hadn’t been ill,” the man said.

  “You mean he had an accident?” Real concern showed for the first time, and she felt an easing of the harshness and the bitterness she had always felt toward her father.

  “A kind of accident,” he told her. “He was gassed in his room. The gas was turned on, and he dropped off to sleep.”

  Lucy suddenly remembered that her father had always been very careful with gas. This was the last thing she would have expected. But she did not say so. “Never speak without thinking and never talk to the cops,” her father’s voice seemed to say in her mind at that moment.

  “Poor old sod,” she said flatly.

  “You had no idea?” asked the policeman.

  “Not the faintest.”

  “When did you last see him?” the plainclothesman asked. He had a grating voice and a hard face and cold, cold eyes. As he spoke, Old Fisky moved for the first time, not interrupting and not distracting the others. He reached the desk behind Lucy and stood still, looking down at the gilded frame and the small chip that had fallen off it.

  Lucy seemed to consider for a long time, and then she said, “It would be three years ago last Christmas.”

  “What?” exclaimed the plainclothesman.

  “Good God!” said the policeman. “You haven’t seen him for nearly four years?”

  “No,” answered Lucy, and after a long silence she went on: “And I didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see me, either.”

  “Did you write to him or communicate in any way?” asked the plainclothesman.

  “No, we didn’t have anything to do with each other after he came out of prison,” she answered. “We didn’t have anything in common - we never did, really.”

  “There’s one thing you did do,” said Old Fisky, startling them by speaking; he had a very deep, unexpectedly firm voice. “You sent him a Christmas card with a five-pound note in it, every year.”

  “Supposing I did?” Lucy coloured deeply as if caught out in some shameful deed. “After all, he was my father.” She looked defiantly from the policemen to Old Fisky. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

  “I know, my dear,” the old man croaked. “I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.”

  “Forget it,” said Lucy, straightening up.

  The plainclothesman switched to Fisk: had he seen Lucy’s father, or the man Slater, Dicey Slater? No. Had they been in the shop - sometimes they acted as runners for collectors and buyers. No. Had anyone been in here lately, for any special artist? No. Had he heard of any buyer, underground, who would buy valuable paintings without asking questions? No. Had he had any strangers in? Strangers were always coming in. Had he had any strangers in, buying for the trade? He wouldn’t know about that if they didn’t tell him. If he heard of any big undercover buyers, would he be sure to tell the police? Yes, of course, he always cooperated with the police.

  “I’ll look in once or twice a day,” the policeman said, with an air of great righteousness.

  The plainclothesman nodded, and the two policemen went out, glancing at but not talking to Red Thomas; obviously the plainclothesman had wanted him to hear. When they had gone, Old Fisky put a hand quite impersonally on Lucy’s shoulder, but didn’t speak. Red appeared in the doorway, eyes darting from one to the other.

  “What’s up, Mr. Fisk?” he asked.

  “How should I know,” Fisk replied. “Is there anything you want?”

  Red hesitated, then said, “I bought those two pheasants by an unknown. Got any more by the same kind of artist? I’m only asking, see.”

  “Pheasants? No, but I’ll keep my eyes open,” Fisk prom
ised. “I’ve bought quite a lot of pictures from an old house in Somerset. They’ll be ready tomorrow, and I’ll have a look.” He nodded, and Red went out, backing, turning, half running.

  “That man always makes me think he started late and is trying to catch up,” remarked Fisk. “Want to talk about your Pa?” When she shook her head, he went on: “Your note said there was something you wanted me to have a look at. Which one is it?”

  “It’s this.” Lucy bent down and took the picture from beneath the bench. “It’s an old canvas that was painted over. I took off the muck and began to clean it at the corner and it looked different to me, so I had a closer look and it’s an old canvas stuck on a newer one, so I tried to separate them and I thought I might do some damage and I stopped. Was that right?”

  Fisk was examining the picture, the cleaned corner, the new canvas. He turned it over and over in his hands. It seemed an age before he answered: “Well, Lucy, you were right!”

  “Is it a find?” she wanted to know eagerly.

  “We’ll have a look at it this afternoon, and then I might be able to tell you,” he promised. “But first I’ve got the van full of pictures from Somerset. I’d like to get them in here before lunchtime, as I may need the van again.”

  “Give me the key,” volunteered Lucy, “and I’ll unload.”

  Old Fisky took the van keys out of his pocket and handed them to her. When she had gone, he took a watchmaker’s glass from the pocket of his thick tweed waistcoat and examined the cleaned corner very closely. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose, nodded, and put the glass away.

  Lucy came in with several heavy pictures hugged close to her bosom, as if she were holding a lover.

  At a little after one o’clock that day, Christine Falconer parked her red mini near Lancelot Judd’s shop in Hampstead, got out, long legs drawing glances from several young men passing by, and went along to the shop. Lance was inside, talking to Robin Kell, a tall youth wearing a green velvet jacket, peach-coloured close-fitting pants, and suede shoes. He was a better-looking man than Lance, but not so tall and not so powerful in build. His hair, cut long but not overlong, curled almost like a girl’s.