“Brandy?” asked Hobbs as his visitor sat down.
“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather have a beer.”
Hobbs selected one of several bottles from a tray, poured it into a pewter tankard, poured a little brandy into a large-bowled glass for himself, and sat down.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Thwaites drank, Hobbs sipped. “Well, you’ll want to know what I’m making a mystery about, sir,” Thwaites said. “And it is a bit of a mystery. This Lancelot Judd is about twenty-five, comes from Brighton, quite respectable family. He got a place at Trinity College, Oxford, read History and Philosophy and got his M.A. all right. His parents couldn’t afford to do much, and he worked during the holidays at an antique shop in Brighton. He’s a Peace Marcher and C.N.D. man, but otherwise he’s not known. I checked with Brighton about the place where he worked. No evidence of crime or excesses of any kind.”
“So he’s in the clear, except for political interests,” Hobbs remarked.
“That’s the tricky part I wanted to talk about,” Thwaites said. “He’s in the clear, but some of the people he runs around with are”—he hesitated—”well, sir, they’re what you might call on the fringe.” “Fringe of what?” demanded Hobbs.
“They pick stuff up at second hand shops and markets and pass it on to the better dealers. One or two of them are believed to have handled stolen goods, although there’s never been any proof. And there’s one thing that sent all my warning signals going off at the same time, sir.”
“What was that?” asked Hobbs.
“Judd’s present girl friend is Christine Falconer, only daughter of Sir Richard Falconer. How about that, sir?”
Hobbs put his head on one side, eyebrows raised, and then broke into a chuckle.
“All right, you’ve scored,” he conceded. “That’s why I wanted you to check Judd.”
“I did wonder, sir,” said Thwaites, and drank the rest of his beer. “It could be young love, of course. Or it could be that he’d like to get inside the Falconers’ house and see what kind of security there is - and maybe leave the odd window unfastened. Does Sir Richard suspect something like that, sir?”
“I think he’s aware of the possibility.”
“Can’t say I blame him! Do you know what the security is like, sir? I’ve never been inside the place but Mr. Frobisher has, and he says it’s like a museum.”
“And it is.” Hobbs got up, took Thwaites’s tankard and refilled it, and sat down again. “Have you talked to the Divisional men at Hampstead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got anything?”
“No, I don’t think so,” answered Thwaites. “Only rumours.”
“What kind of rumours?”
“That there’s a big buyer around town.”
“Buyer of stolen antiques, you mean?”
“Buyer of anything at the right price,” answered Thwaites. “And the rumour isn’t only in Hampstead, either. It’s in Chelsea and Fulham and the West End - that antique supermarket, as they call it - as well as the suburbs. And I had a word with Brighton, as I said, and Salisbury and Stratford-on-Avon. The word’s out that there’s a big buyer on the lookout for anything special in pictures and antiques, and that he doesn’t care where it comes from - will ask no questions, in other words.”
Hobbs, brandy glass cupped in both hands, sniffed at the bouquet and looked thoughtfully at Thwaites over the brim. Apart from the noises outside and Thwaites’s rather heavy breathing, there was no sound. At last, he lowered the glass.
“Do you know anyone behind it?”
“Not a soul,” said Thwaites.
“Who spread the rumours? Do you know that?”
“The runners, as usual.”
“No one runner in particular?” asked Hobbs.
“Haven’t been able to put a finger on any one, sir. It seems to have started a week ago, and just spread. And the Falconer place could be very vulnerable. Prevention’s better than cure,” Thwaites added sententiously.
Hobbs sniffed brandy again, pausing as if he wanted the fumes to go through his head and clear his mind before making any comments. Then: “What are you doing?”
“I’ve asked the reliable dealers to pass on any word they get, but that’s not good enough by itself, of course.”
“It certainly isn’t. Any ideas?”
“I can’t say I have, sir. Except—”
“Well?” Hobbs knew the other was waiting to be prompted, and also knew how very shrewd this slow-speaking man was.
“I thought we might pick up one or two runners and pay them enough to keep them loyal,” Thwaites suggested. “Someone who would pass any word on to us without letting us down. See what I mean, sir?”
“It’s hardly original,” Hobbs said, almost disparagingly. “Can we rely on any runners?”
“One, for certain,” Thwaites said. “And two or three others I think would be all right.”
“Can we afford to take a chance?” asked Hobbs.
“Don’t see why not,” said Thwaites. “And we could compare the different reports. If there’s a common factor, we’d soon find out. The only risk is that the runners might reveal that they were working for us, but that wouldn’t matter, as we wouldn’t ask them to look for anything specific. I wondered if you would think it over and, if you agree it’s worthwhile, have a word with the Commander.”
“I’ll do that anyhow,” Hobbs said. “Who is the one runner you think we can rely on?”
“Man named Red Thomas,” answered Thwaites, without hesitation. “He’s always absolutely clean, though he’s always in need of money. No one likes him but everyone trusts him.”
“Why doesn’t he have any money?” asked Hobbs.
“Spends what he gets too freely,” Thwaites said with a grimace. “If you agree, sir, the first place I’d send him would be to Hampstead. The more I think about this Lancelot Judd and Christine Falconer, the more I think Hampstead’s a place to concentrate on.”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Gideon in the morning,” Hobbs said.
Gideon listened with his customary close attention next morning, and came to a conclusion more quickly than usual. It was almost as if he had been pondering most of the night, as Hobbs had been.
“Give Thwaites his head,” he ordered. “I’ll support him if anything goes wrong.”
“Good,” said Hobbs.
“And Alec - keep me in close touch,” Gideon warned.
“I will,” promised Hobbs. “If there is a big buyer, we want to know who he is and whether he’s been buying
for long.”
“We need to know that very much,” Gideon said. He nodded dismissal and Hobbs went to his smaller room next door, but before he could have settled at his desk Gideon lifted the interoffice telephone on his desk and dialled him. “Alec,” he said as soon as he heard the other lift the receiver, “this is worth a teletype inquiry to New York and Paris, and anywhere else abroad that might have some information for us. See to it, will you?”
“At once,” said Hobbs.
“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Thwaites,” Red Thomas promised. It was the day after his visit to Lucy Jenkins, and the same time that Gideon was talking to Hobbs at the Yard. “I haven’t heard anything yet, but that means nothing, as I haven’t been listening. I keep myself to myself, you know that. I’ll phone you whenever I get anything, Mr. Thwaites.”
“Between nine o’clock and ten in the morning is best,” Thwaites told him. “Here’s a fiver in advance. For every reliable piece of information, you’ll get another one, and a bonus if there’s anything we can act on.”
Red took the five-pound note with the same alacrity as he had taken the two notes from Mrs. Bessell, backed a few steps, then went out of the Chelsea Divisional Station, where he and Thwaites had met. Once outside, he walked very quickly toward King’s Road, as if he could not get away quickly enough. Traffic was thick and there was a line of five buses outside the Town Hall. Red jumped onto the first of these and sat on the edge of a seat close to the platform. A Jamaican conductress took the sixpence he offered, and he accepted the ticket which rolled out of her machine, without a word. When he got off, on the far side of Albert Bridge, he walked toward Fisk’s shop.
On the other side of the road was a young policeman, one of the two who had seen him the previous day.
Lucy Jenkins was in the shop, using a damp chamois over some china pieces. She looked up, and the moment she recognized him, her features froze.
“The old man in?” he demanded.
“No, he’s out again,” she said, almost vindictively.
“No wonder he never does any business, he’s always out,” complained Red.
“That’s his business,” she retorted.
“All right, all right. I want to look at those pictures again.”
“Look where you like,” she said carelessly.
Thomas went across to the pictures leaning up against the wall, and began to play the familiar game. It was silly, really, because all the runners did it. He went through picture after picture and pretended not to be interested in any but lingered over several. She began to play her usual game of guessing which ones interested him. The pheasants, she decided, and was immediately worried because they were the best among the pictures and she could not knock much off the asking price. The old man had told her the limits.
Red selected a picture - yes, it was one of the pheasants.
“How much?” he asked.
“It’s on the label.”
“I don’t take any notice of the label,” he said. “How much to the trade, I mean.”
Lucy went across to him and took the picture out of his hands, looked at the back, and saw the freshly attached label: “£30 pr.”
“Thirty pounds the pair,” she said.
“Who asked for the pair?”
“Whoever buys them will get the pair,” she insisted.
“When’s he coming back?” demanded Red.
“He might come in any time, but might be out all day” she countered.
“If he finds out you’ve missed a sale, you’ll be in for it,” he warned.
“Who’s going to tell him?”
“I am.”
“Think he’ll believe you?” she scoffed. “That’ll be the day!”
“Stop arguing around, Lucy,” Red Thomas urged in a more reasoning voice. “How much?” His tone and manner changed and Lucy knew that he had finished the game and was playing it straight. He must have a customer or he wouldn’t be so serious, and every pound she knocked off would be one in his pocket, for if she knew the man he had seen the price yesterday and quoted it - perhaps higher - to his customer.
“Twenty-seven ten the pair,” she said.
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-seven, and I may have to make the ten bob up myself.”
He looked at her for a long time, without making comment or retort, and then when she was beginning to feel uneasy under his gaze, he said: “Twenty now, seven when I’ve been paid.”
“Who’s buying?”
“That’s my secret,” he said. “Is it a deal?”
“Oh, all right,” she conceded ungraciously. “Give me the twenty and be back before Mr. Fisk comes in or I’ll be in trouble.”
“No, you won’t,” Red said. “I never cheated anyone yet, and you know it.”
She did know it. She knew also that if a runner ever welshed he would be out of the game for good. One could put a lot of profit onto the price paid, but one couldn’t welsh or play one customer or buyer off against another. It was an absolute rule, and the trade lived by it.
He took some notes out of his pocket and counted twenty of them into her hands; he had one left when he was done. She gave him a receipt and he looked round, found some corrugated paper, wrapped the pictures up, fastened the paper with sealing tape, and went out.
Nearly an hour later, he was with Mrs. Bessell in the Bond Street gallery, watching her as she studied the pictures, first with the naked eye and then through a magnifying glass. He was trembling a little. At last, she put them down and said: “How much did you have to pay for them?”
“Twenty-seven ten.”
“Where did you get them from?” Mrs. Bessell’s manner was uncompromising.
He hesitated before saying: “Jake Fisk. I told you.”
“Any idea where he got them?”
“No,” said Red. “Why—they’re not hot, are they?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “They’re probably early Stott, and if they’re not they’re a very good example of the school. They’re worth two or three hundred apiece, anyhow.”
“Gawd!”
“Red,” she asked, “has Fisk got any more? If he has, can you put all his stock on approval, and let me have a look? If you can do that, 111 give you a hundred for this pair. I know where I can place them, and I could place plenty more.”
“I’ll find out,” Red promised, breathing very hard. “That’s what I’ll do, I’ll find out pretty damned quick.”
It did not occur to his strangely literal mind that when she talked of hundreds she could mean thousands.
He went out and hurried in his usual nervous way along Bond Street, and as he stood waiting for the lights to change at Piccadilly, he saw a man whom he recognized, another runner, named Slater. Slater was walking toward Piccadilly Circus and making surprising speed on his short, fat legs. There was a great intentness about him, Red noticed.
“He’s onto a good thing,” he told himself. “He can’t have been to. Old Fisk’s, can he?”
Apprehensive lest Slater had forestalled him, Red rushed across the road to catch a bus, while Slater walked toward a bus stop outside the Royal Academy, heading for Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery.
It was half past ten.
At eleven o’clock, they were to begin the raid on the National Gallery.