“I realise that you’re a busy man,” said Detective Superintendent O’Keefe. “It’s good of you to see me.”
Meyer, who also thought it was good of him, nodded.
“I needn’t waste time telling you about the unfortunate business out at Stanwell last Monday. Mr. Chaytor is, I believe, your – what is the correct description?”
“My assistant.”
“Your assistant. Yes. I see. He has been with you for some time?”
“For twenty years.”
“Indeed.” The Superintendent paused. He seemed to be in two minds as to how to proceed. Then, starting to speak more briskly, he said, “We know a good deal about both the parties who were involved in this unpleasant affair. Not everything, of course. But enough to be able to arrive at certain preliminary conclusions. Mohammed Jemal was a young and active member of the Iranian Freedom Group. It is thought that he may have been the perpetrator of a recent bomb outrage in Paris. As to the two other men, they would appear to be professional thugs, Nasser Goraji and Mahmoud Rasim by name, who work for the pro-Khomeni faction in France. Our colleagues in the Special Branch duly noted their arrival at Heathrow on Monday.”
Meyer said, with indignation that was only partly assumed, “Surely, Superintendent, if they knew the sort of people they were, they should either have detained them or sent them back?”
“Difficult. They were travelling on what appeared to be perfectly genuine passports. Moreover, they were armed with a letter from an official in the French Foreign Ministry stating that they were accredited to the Syrian Embassy, with whom they had urgent business to conduct. Detaining them would have led to a diplomatic incident at least. In any event, they were not here long. They were on a flight which arrived at half-past six on that Monday evening and they were observed returning to Paris by the nine o’clock plane the next morning.”
“Having met and disposed of Jemal.”
“So one would assume.”
“It’s obvious. They were sent over to kill him and they killed him.”
“No doubt. But why did they select the neighbourhood of your assistant’s house?”
Meyer had been expecting this one and was ready for it. He said, “I don’t find that difficult. It is practically on the back doorstep of Heathrow Airport. Probably they all came over on the same plane. The two thugs followed Jemal, happened, by chance, to catch up with him at or near Stanwell and carried out the assassination.”
“The–o–retically,” said the Superintendent, spreading the word out to its fullest length, “that is a possible solution. But, in fact, it’s quite untrue.”
“Oh. What makes you say that?”
“I say it because it does not fit in, in any way, with the rest of our information.”
As he said this, Meyer realised that the Superintendent was dealing out facts in a carefully predetermined order, as an expert bridge player might lay his cards on the table. He realised, also for the first time, that he would have to be careful when playing his own cards.
“For instance,” continued the Superintendent, “we know that Goraji and Rasim were met at the airport by a car hired for them by the Embassy. It took them to Stanwell Moor, which is a small village on the other side of the B379. Here they left it, instructing it to wait. They said they might be away for some hours. They were back by eleven o’clock and were driven to a small hotel in Egham where they, and the driver, spent the night. Next morning he took them back to catch their flight to Paris. That information came from the car-hire firm. I see no reason to doubt it.”
“Nothing there contradicts the idea I put forward.”
“Agreed. The contradiction comes from the known movements of Jemal. He was seen in London in the late afternoon and no doubt approached Stanwell, in the normal way, by train and bus. That is still to be confirmed. But what we do know is that, when he arrived, he broke into Mr. Chaytor’s house, which was empty at the time, and made himself comfortable in the kitchen.”
“How can you possibly—?”
“How can we be sure of it? We are on very firm ground.” The Superintendent smiled slightly. “In every sense of the word. You may remember the weather that night. It was dry and clear until about half-past nine. Then there was a sudden downpour. It lasted for not much more than half an hour. But a very important half hour, since it enabled us to work out, with great precision, what Jemal had done. He was wearing the very narrow shoe which such people often affect. The prints which he left, both before and after the storm, were quite clear.”
He was speaking slowly and Meyer was now paying close attention. He was not sure how it affected him, but had an uneasy feeling that there were snags ahead.
“He broke into Mr. Chaytor’s house some time before the rain started. When he left it, in a hurry, it was raining hard. He ran up the path, beside the garden, back to the main road. At that point his prints are joined and trampled on by two much heavier pairs. Goraji and Rasim, we assume. Two professionals would not have taken long to master a boy.”
“That seems clear,” said Meyer.
“Yes. But what is far from clear is why Jemal waited in the house at all. Who was he waiting for? It can’t have been Mr. Chaytor and his friends, since he ran away as soon as they arrived.”
“I suppose you will say that he was waiting for Mrs. Chaytor.”
“Exactly. She came through Customs at Dover at five o’clock. Train and bus would have got her to the house at half-past nine. You know why she went to France, of course.”
“No,” said Meyer sharply. “Why should I know?”
“Mr. Chaytor has worked for you for twenty years. Did he never mention that his wife escorted children to and from France?”
“Oh, that, yes. I thought you meant—”
“Yes, Mr. Meyer, what did you think I meant?”
“What I was going to say was that I knew about Mrs. Chaytor’s trips to France, but wasn’t particularly interested in them.”
“Is that right? I rather gathered that there was one occasion at least on which you were not only interested, but took a very active part.”
“Was there? I had forgotten.”
“It was not all that long ago. Mind you, my information is second hand and may be quite incorrect. The story, as I had it from one of Mr. Chaytor’s friends, was that he was getting very upset about his wife missing her train at the Gare du Nord. And that you took charge in quite an admirable way.”
“It was not an event of great importance,” said Meyer with a smile. “Now that you mention it, I do recall it.”
“Do you know what had caused the delay?”
“I gather that the taxi which was taking Mrs. Chaytor to the Gare du Nord was involved in an accident.”
“A serious accident?”
“Not really. It seems that the driver’s attention was distracted and he collided with a private car.”
“One can hardly blame him for being distracted. After all, it’s not every day that a bomb goes off in your immediate vicinity.”
“A bomb?”
“Thrown into a cafe in the Boulevard de Magenta. Quite close to the station.”
Meyer was thinking fast. He said, “I’m afraid you’ve got this wrong. A bomb was thrown. I read about it in the paper. But that was some time after Mrs. Chaytor’s accident. That was nothing to do with it.”
“It only shows how careful one must be.”
“What do you mean?” said Meyer sharply.
“In accepting information at second hand.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
“But there are still things about Mrs. Chaytor’s part in this killing which I find it difficult to understand. I am trying to build up a picture, but some of the parts refuse to fit. For instance, it might help me if I understood more clearly what part Mr. Chaytor plays in your organisation. You described him as your assistant. What does that involve?”
“I can tell you about that,” said Meyer. (If this bloody man didn’t dodge about so much I might get some idea what he’s really after.) “Colin Chaytor is a painter. Not, perhaps, of the first class, but a very competent professional. He has also made a study of French and Italian art. This enables him to advise me about the pictures I buy.”
“He does a little more than simply advise you. Doesn’t he bid for the pictures, at auction?”
“Yes he does.” (What are we getting to now?)
“At Pikorx. You know about them, of course.”
“Yes, I know about them.”
“I felt you must do. Since you formed the company and hold all the shares; some of them in the names of nominees.”
Meyer drew a deep breath. This man was dangerous. He said, “What put that idea into your head?”
“Our Company Fraud Department. They’re not often wrong about things like that.”
Meyer decided that the time had come to lose his temper. He said, “Look here, Inspector – Superintendent. I’ve been very patient with you. I’ve answered questions on matters which seem to me to have no connection with the crime you’re meant to be investigating. This boy Jemal had no connection with me, nor I with him. Now – if you don’t mind—”
He got to his feet. O’Keefe made no sign of complying. Instead he felt in his inner pocket and pulled out a piece of white card. “This is a photocopy,” he said. “The original was badly stained, but our people brought it up. You recognise it?”
“Of course. It’s my professional card.”
“And if you have no connection with Jemal, nor him with you, what was it doing in his pocket?”
Meyer took a second deep breath. He said, “Many people have these cards. Potential customers, agents, art lovers—”
“And into which category would you place Jemal?”
As he said this, the Superintendent got to his feet. He was a lot taller than Meyer and broader. Standing there, face to face, he appeared for the first time to be menacing.
“I am sorry, Mr. Meyer. But I am afraid you are not being entirely frank with me. You would be well advised to consider your position.” Before Meyer could reply, the Superintendent had swung round, made for the door and let himself out, closing it behind him. Meyer heard his feet rapping on the tiles in the hall, then heard the front door open and shut. He sat without movement for a whole minute, then put out his hand, felt for the telephone, pulled it towards him and dialled a number.
At the last moment, he seemed to change his mind and cut off the call before it could start ringing.
The number Meyer had started to dial was the Starfax office. If he had persisted, he would have found both Starfactors at their desks. Peter was typing a letter. Stewart was reading the Michaelmas term issue of the Chelburian which had arrived that morning.
“An improvement on the last few numbers,” he said. “The new editor has a glimmering notion of how to write.”
Peter said, “Uh?” He was attempting to compose a letter to a madman.
“An interesting section of School Notes, too.”
“Grow up,” said Peter. “You left school three years ago.”
Stewart ignored this. He said, “I see that Dakin has won a scholarship at Oriel. I always said that kid would go far.”
“Actually, you called him a spotty drip.”
“I revised my opinion later. And what do you think of this? ‘All Chelburians will have been pleased to learn that the Reverend Alvin Brind, formerly our Chaplain, has now been offered one of the senior positions in the cathedral hierarchy as precentor. Among his other assignations will be oversight of the cathedral choir. He said, “My long experience of working with boys of all ages at Chelborough will be of great assistance to me in carrying out this duty.” He is remembered here as an inspiring preacher and a great teacher of history.’”
“He’ll end up as a Bishop,” said Peter. “Now, please—”
“One more item. A sad one this time. Do you remember little Mr. Pleydell?”
“He taught art. Lived in a cottage in Dene Lane and rode to school on a very old bicycle.”
“Correct. On this occasion he fell off his bicycle in front of a lorry.”
“How unpleasant. Did it—?”
“No. The lorry stopped in time. He had died of heart failure.”
“An artistic finish,” said Peter. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must get on with this letter. Damn.” It was the telephone on his desk. A one-sided conversation ensued. Peter said, “Oh, hello darling. No, never too busy to hear from you.” Then, “Oh” a number of times and “Why on earth?” And finally, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to.”
Stewart said, “I take it that was Lisa. What’s she trying to talk you into now?”
“I’ve been invited to tea by her mother. Today.”
“Accept at once,” said Stewart. “You’ll get a good tea and insinuate yourself even further into her good books.”
“I’m not sure. She’s a tough old girl. I still can’t make out if she approves of me or not.”
“Give her that lovely smile of yours and she’ll fall flat on her back.”
When Peter had gone, Stewart resumed his study of the Chelburian. There was a picture of Precentor-elect Brind with the Bishop. Both men looked pleased with themselves. He was deep in a study of the season’s cricket results when Ronald Terry came in. His new style of dressing reflected his elevation to a post in the City. He said, “Really I came in to say goodbye. I don’t think I shall be much use to you now.”
“A busy journalist.”
“It’s a bit more than that. I’ve been offered a job in a company called Inter-Continental Marketing. Not a large outfit, but it seems to be doing very well. Doubled its turnover last year.”
“Marketing,” said Stewart thoughtfully. “I’ve heard one or two people talking about it lately.”
“It’s the in-thing.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“We sell other people’s products for them.”
“Advertising, you mean.”
“Much more than that. All forms of promotion. Briefing their reps, free offers, packaging, presentation—”
“Good luck to you,” said Stewart, “and thanks for all your help in the past.”
After Ron had left he sat for a long time, occasionally turning over the pages of the magazine, but no longer really reading it. When it became too dark to read, he did not turn on the light, but sat there, thinking.
Quite apart from the defection of Ron there were a number of reasons for supposing that the time was at hand for Starfax to close. The only real obstacle was Peter. Those futile jobs which he had tried since leaving school! How could he throw him back onto that dead-end market? Moreover, Peter was clearly enjoying his Starfax work and had a talent for it. An impossibly difficult decision.
It was nearly eight o’clock when Peter came back. He was surprised to find Stewart sitting in the dark. He switched on the light and said, “What on earth are you doing?”
“Thinking,” said Stewart. “And stop smirking. I do think sometimes. How did it go?”
“Very friendly. It’s an astonishing set-up. One of those mansions with four storeys and a basement, in Fitzjohn’s Avenue. I imagine you could run it very comfortably with a fatigue-proof staff of six. All she’s got is one old girl who’s almost dying on her feet.”
“A grande dame without the cash to support it.”
“I don’t think it’s lack of money. According to Lisa she’s rolling in it. The fact is you can’t get people nowadays who are prepared to struggle up and down four flights of stairs bearing burdens. When the ancient retainer brought in the tea I thought she was going to drop it, silver teapot, silver tea-set, crumpets, cucumber sandwiches, chocolate cake and all.”
“So what did she want? Apart from stuffing you with food.”
“She offered me a job.”
“Helping to carry things up and down stairs?”
“No. The offer came from her brother, Joseph. He wants someone to act as secretary-cum-companion-cum-resident policeman.”
“Which would mean living in France.”
“It would have done. If I’d accepted it. Which I didn’t, of course.”
“Why?”
If there was a very faint undertone of disappointment Peter missed it.
He said, “Mainly because I don’t particularly like Joseph – who seems to have got himself into some sort of mess, incidentally. Also because I’m enjoying what I’m doing here.”
“Good on you,” said Stewart. “And am I going to need you! What else did you find to talk about? You can’t have taken three hours to eat even that tea and turn down the job.”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I stopped off, on the way home, at the Marylebone Public Library. It’s got one of the best reference sections in London.”
“With what object?”
“I was looking for a lady called Beatrice Oldfield. Lisa tells me that one more of her domestic masterpieces will shortly be winging its way to South America. This one is called Farmyard Friends. It depicts a cat, a goat and a collie dog eating out of the same trough.”
“It sounds just the thing for a Gestapo fugitive in Rio.”
“So I thought I would find out a little more about Beatrice. She proved curiously elusive. I started with Vasari’s Lives of the Painters – two volumes – and worked my way through to the Teach Yourself History of Painting in ten volumes. No luck. Since I gathered that she was late Victorian I had high hopes of Muther’s History of Modern Painting, which was published in 1907, incidentally. Still no luck.”
“Are you telling me,” said Stewart, who was beginning to sound interested, “that Beatrice doesn’t exist?”
“I began to think so. But I found her in the end. In a work devoted to the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Not actually an account of her, but a statement that ‘although the movement was a revolt against the grand style and arrogance of the
Romantics it was equally an assault on the demure symbolism of such postcard-artists as Beatrice Oldfield and Valerie Mellows, very few, if any, of whose products survived, or deserved to survive, the attack.’ When you consider that Farmyard Friends is the fifth forgotten masterpiece to be despatched to South America in the past two years – well, it makes you think.”
“Possible, but improbable,” agreed Stewart. “What do you propose to do about it?”
“Discuss it with Lisa, as soon as I get home. If she will help, I think this final knot can be untied.”
“It’s no good going home now, you won’t find her there. I meant to tell you. She telephoned and left a message. She’s been invited out to supper.”
“Did she say who by?”
“By her boss.”
“By Meyer?”
“Correct. She added two things. First, that she is perfectly capable of looking after herself. Second, that there is the remains of a steak and kidney pudding in the fridge that you can heat up.”
“I’m sure she’s capable of looking after herself. Anyway, like all physical fitness freaks, Meyer’s probably hopeless with the opposite sex. No. It’s the thought of that re-heated steak and kidney pudding that’s worrying me—”
“Then let’s forget it and go out and get something to eat – and drink.”
“Well,” said Peter, “how did the great seduction scene go?”
“It never started,” said Lisa.
They had arrived back at the flat almost at the same moment and instead of staying up had decided to go to bed and talk there.
“I knew from the way he managed the drinks that he wasn’t out to seduce me. On previous occasions it has been the tactics of the seducer to ply me with drink until I became powerless to resist.”
“Unsuccessfully, I imagine.”
“Indeed. When I found that I had a harder head than the potential rapist I quite enjoyed it. In this case it didn’t arise. We had a decorous glass of sherry and shared a bottle of wine during the meal – a very good one, incidentally, at Petit Gervais – and when I said ‘No’ to a glass of port or brandy afterwards, I was not pressed. It was clear by that time that he had asked me out to get information.”
“About what?”
“About you.”
“For God’s sake. Why?”
“It would seem that he has a very important job to offer and wanted to know whether you were equipped to do it. Always supposing you agreed to take it on. I gave him a glowing account of your many accomplishments.”
“Such as?”
“I said you spoke excellent French. He regarded that as important. That you knew something about art, from your discussions with my uncle at Lambrécie.”
“Practically nothing, in fact.”
“That didn’t seem to matter. It was much more your familiarity with Lambrécie and its neighbours that interested him. I mentioned the Deputy Mayor and the famous vinologist – Id forgotten his name—”
“Philibert-Lucot.”
“That’s the boy. Also the policeman, Paul Meurice. That really did ring a bell. How well did you get to know him? What had he told you? I wasn’t sure how much of your tête-à-tête was confidential, so I simply said that you liked him and seemed to have got on well with him.”
“And you’ve no idea what this job is?”
“Since I knew you weren’t looking for a change of job, I wasn’t particularly interested.”
“I’m not sure.”
“You haven’t changed your mind again, have you?”
“Actually, it was something that happened tonight. When we were having a drink at the Running Footmen, Len joined us. All the boys use that pub. He knew about his brother’s new job and had rather assumed that this was the signal for Starfax to fold its tents. Personally, he wasn’t unhappy about this, as he’s been offered a share in a garage and repair shop. Stewart said, ‘No. Not a bit of it. Starfax was certainly going on.’ And then he switched the conversation to something else, but the way he did it, made me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“Whether Starfax wasn’t being kept alive simply to keep me out of the dole queue. And that’s when I began to think that if a good job did turn up, I ought to take it.”
“I see your point,” said Lisa. “If you’re interested in this job, I’ll pursue the matter further.”
They had both been lying on their right sides, Peter with his knees comfortably fitting into the crook of Lisa’s legs. It was a position they found convenient for discussions. Now they both rolled over. New position, new topic, thought Lisa. What’s the boy up to now?
“There was one other thing. You know you told me that you’ve got another Beatrice Oldfield to export.”
“Farmyard Friends, yes.”
“I gather it isn’t a particularly valuable picture. Why do you need a licence?”
“Because the pictures are more than a hundred years old. That makes them antiques.”
“I see. And how far have you got with the procedure?”
“We got the Ministry of Culture form about a fortnight ago and sent it off with a photograph to the Ministry of Economics.”
“Did you keep a copy of the photograph?”
“Of course.”
“Could you bring it back tomorrow evening, with the forms and any other documents?”
“I could. Am I allowed to know what you’re up to?”
“I’m trying to prove a theory.”
“Mystery for the sake of mystery,” said Lisa crossly. “You’re getting as bad as Stewart. Go to sleep.”
On the following evening he studied the documents Lisa had brought back. Among them was a duplicate of the Ministry of Culture form. Some of the questions in it related to the artist, described as Beatrice Oldfield, born 1838, died 1898, specialising in domestic watercolours. Title of picture Farmyard Friends. (Lisa, he saw, had typed this as Farmyard Fiends, but the error had been spotted and corrected in ink.) Estimated value six to eight hundred pounds. Photograph attached.
“Not a very good photo, is it? Looks like the sort of snap I used to take with a box Brownie.”
“It is a bit blurred,” agreed Lisa. “But you can see the animals all right.”
“I suppose so.” Peter wondered what possible attraction the picture could have for a sophisticated Argentinian. “The goat’s the best of the three. He has a distinct resemblance to one of my uncles. You say you submitted this form about two weeks ago. How long, do you think, before you get your export licence?”
“When we sent in the first one they sat on it for months. Now it’s all much quicker. I imagine they just say, ‘Oh, another Oldfield’ and we get the licence almost at once. In fact, I’m surprised we haven’t had it already.”
“And when you do get it, what then?”
“We book the first available flight. Chaytor looks after that side of it.”
“Does he, though,” said Peter thoughtfully. Some of the points in his theory which had been obscure before were becoming clearer. “As soon as the flight’s booked, pick up the phone and let me or Stewart know. We’ll arrange that one of us is always in the office.”
“It’s not a question of picking up the phone. My instructions from Meyer are categorical. If I telephone either of you, I do it from a call-box.”
“Why on earth—?”
“That policeman shook Meyer badly. He’s now convinced that his telephone has been bugged.”
“I am appalled,” said Dr. Felix, the head of the Département des Trésors Nationaux, “at the disinterest of the authorities in the steady loss of our national heritage. Pictures and tapestries are being taken, almost daily, from unguarded churches and almost unguarded museums.”
“Unlisted,” said Superintendent O’Keefe, “unphotographed – and often uninsured.”
“I must agree, with much regret, that what you say is, in many cases, correct.”
“It’s not much better here,” said O’Keefe. “I’ve just been put in charge of the smallest and least important sub-unit in the Yard. It’s got an imposing title – A25, otherwise the Arts and Antiques Squad. It used to be known as C.1.4. One useful thing we have inherited from our predecessors is their computer. What we need is more manpower. At the moment the department consists of me and two sergeants. One talks schoolboy French and the other has a smattering of Italian.”
“It is, at least, a start.”
“We should go up in the batting order if someone would be good enough to blow up the National Gallery.”
“A drastic solution. But I must admit that our own position has gained in importance lately. Art theft has acquired two stepbrothers. Violence and politics. The unfortunate farmer in Normandy, who was bludgeoned and kicked to death, was only the first of a series of outrages. The most recent was in Dijon. One of the guards of the Musée des Beaux Arts was savagely attacked and is still in hospital. He will be a cripple for life. And now we have that bomb in the Café Continental. The worst incident of its kind since the bombing of the department store last September. Particularly unpleasant on this occasion since there were children among the victims.”
“I apologise for speaking light-heartedly of bombs,” said O’Keefe. “They are a vile and indiscriminate weapon. But are you sure that this incident was connected with art theft?”
“Not sure. No. But certain facts are emerging. It now appears that a woman, who was observed hurrying away from the café, may have been an English woman, a regular visitor to Paris, who left France that evening. A Mrs. Chaytor, wife of Colin Chaytor, who works for a certain art dealer, a Mr. Meyer.”
“Right,” said O’Keefe. “I’m sure that’s right. The link is somewhere there.”
“You have, perhaps, been able to question one or both of these men?”
“I spoke briefly to Mr. Chaytor on the night that your supposed bomb thrower, Mohammed Jemal, was killed. A report on that went through our Special Branch to your Bureau de Securite Publique. I hope it reached you.”
“Such reports have an unfortunate habit of becoming lost in course of transmission. But in this case, I was able to see it. I found it extremely interesting. You have, you say, spoken to Mr. Chaytor?”
“Briefly. But I questioned his employer, Mr. Harry Meyer, at greater length.”
“With success?”
“I succeeded only in convincing myself of what I already suspected. That he is in this racket up to the neck. He knows all the twists and turns, the dirty tricks and the legal loopholes.”
“You did not find him agreeable?”
“I thought he was smooth, clever and totally unpleasant.”
“If he is, indeed, buried up to the neck in this matter, could you not cut off his head? If you could contrive to do so, you would be doing a great service to both our countries.”
“Find me an axe which is heavy enough and sharp enough and I’ll swing it with the greatest of good will.”
“I have a feeling,” said Dr. Felix, with an emphasis which grew almost to passion as he spoke, “a feeling which is shared by many in our country, that the government is conducting itself towards the Iranians like a collection of old women. I correct myself. I know some excellent, tough-minded, old women. No. Our present masters are behaving like feeble, half-witted, old women. When the Ayatollah departed, in triumph, to Iran, he left behind him a number of men who are like the germs of a disease which, once it has gripped you, are almost impossible to eradicate. They penetrate our national life. The airports and central railway stations in particular. So infected are we that, at the demand of Iran, we banish anti-Khomeni activists. At their demand we liberate known terrorists and return them to Iran. One might suppose that we were a conquered nation, being dictated to by our conquerors.” He added, with belated caution, “I must, of course, ask you not to repeat any of that, or I should certainly be in trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” said O’Keefe. “I know things about our own top brass that I couldn’t retail to anyone without getting stellenbosched.”