As Gideon stepped into the car that was waiting for him at the foot of the Yard’s steps, Big Ben struck eleven o’clock, the notes booming out sonorously and with doom-like inevitability. Beneath and around the tower, London’s traffic surged in its unending variety, and a few Members of Parliament, there for early work in committee, drove into the courtyard of the House of Commons. A group of late-season American tourists were looking, perhaps with disbelief, at the statue of Abraham Lincoln: the man who had best defined democracy keeping a silent watch on a citadel of democracy which was so often besieged with invisible enemies. There were sightseers in Whitehall, too, the usual groups about the statue-like Horse Guards, sabres drawn and helmets shimmering. As Gideon passed, he saw a gawky child reach up and touch a horse’s nose.
The traffic lights favoured Gideon, and his car swept across Trafalgar Square and then to the National Gallery. There crowds of people milled about the pavement and up the steps. On the steps themselves and at the entrance were thicker crowds, and as Gideon stepped out he heard plaintive calls and protesting and some strident voices.
“Why don’t they open the doors?”
“They won’t let us in, that’s the trouble.”
Policemen, keeping order and preventing the crowd from surging onto the road, saw and recognized Gideon. One saluted.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning. Clear a path, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” The constable had a hawkish face but a soft voice. With a kind of terrier patience, he forged a path through the crowd, and as Gideon stepped onto the big porch, he saw three other policemen guarding the doors, while a youth who had come up the staircase on the other side called: “Mr. Gideon!”
Gideon looked up - and a camera flashed.
“Excuse me, Commander,” an older man called out, “but what’s happened?”
Someone else began, “There a rumour that the—”
“As soon as anything’s known for certain, there will be a statement,” Gideon assured them. He pushed past the doorway and into the near-deserted hall, the South Vestibule. Here at the entrance turnstiles and the sales counters, assistants stood about aimlessly; two men on duty at the cloakroom, ready to collect cameras and umbrellas as well as hats and coats, looked baffled.
Gideon was thinking, If we don’t get the place open soon, we’ll have half Fleet Street here.
A tall man wearing a velvet suit, tight-waisted and looking vaguely old-fashioned, with a floppy bow tie and long but well-groomed hair, came forward.
“Commander Gideon, how very good of you to come in person.” The man stretched out his hand. “I am David Morcom, the Assistant Keeper.” His hand looked pale, the skin and flesh almost translucent, and Gideon was prepared to grip momentarily but not too firmly.
But Morcom’s fingers bit into his hand like steel wire.
“My men are on the way over,” Gideon said. “I came to see if there’s any immediate thing I can do. We don’t want another Goya affair.”
“My God, we don’t!” exclaimed Morcom. He gave an unexpectedly charming smile. “The one reassurance I needed was that this would have the most urgent attention, and I don’t need any more telling. Would you like to see the room the picture was stolen from?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, “I certainly would.”
“We’ll go along here,” said Morcom. “Oh, Commander. I have to make a decision very quickly about opening this morning. You’ve seen for yourself what a crowd there is outside. What do you think I should do?”
“Give me a little time to think that over,” Gideon said.
They were walking, Morcom with very spritely step, Gideon with his customary deliberateness, along the galleries to the right, past attendants standing in little groups talking. All of them stopped at sight of the two men, and two or three times a whisper floated after them.
“That’s Gideon.”
“That’s the Commander himself.”
“That’s Gideon—Gideon—Gideon—”
It was like an echo, growing fainter and fainter.
Gideon, though used to finding his way about unfamiliar places, tried but failed to keep track of the different rooms they entered. Why did every picture gallery and museum seem like a maze? He found himself thinking of a man plotting a theft here. It would be so easy to disappear from one room and virtually vanish. If the man had an accomplice who slipped him a raincoat, say, or a cap, or if he had either one concealed underneath his jacket, he would be able to confuse all descriptions of him. But this was no moment to ask what the security precautions of the museum were, and in any case Thwaites was the man to check that. Frobisher certainly knew, of course. Whatever they were, the actual layout of the building would make a getaway comparatively easy.
They entered a small room - XLJ, Gideon noticed. There were more attendants here than in any of the other rooms, and two men who were obviously senior in rank. In front of a picture now cordoned off was a frail-looking, grey-haired woman with an easel by her side, sitting on a canvas folding chair.
Morcom went straight up to her.
“I’m sorry to have to keep you, Mrs. Templeton, and it won’t be a moment longer than I can help. The police experts are on their way. This is Commander Gideon.”
Mrs. Templeton got up with surprising agility.
“I’ve heard of you, of course,” she said, in a deep pleasant voice. “And you mustn’t worry about how long you need me, Mr. Gideon. I have nothing to do, and to tell you the truth this is quite exciting.” She smiled at him. “Is that very wicked?”
“Very,” Gideon replied dryly, and her eyes had laughter in them. “I’ve heard what a help you’ve been. If you hadn’t been so quick to notice something wrong, Mr. Morcom might have been much longer realizing the picture had been substituted.” He moved a little closer to the one in the frame. “Would you call it a good copy?”
“I’ve seen a lot worse,” said Mrs. Templeton.
“Unless it was scrutinized closely, most of the gallery staff would have been fooled,” Morcom interpolated.
“Is it possible to say who made the copy?” asked Gideon.
Morcom nodded. “I think so. We keep records of anyone who’s had permission to do one - they should be quite comprehensive.”
“I think you’ll find it’s by Totter, and was done fifty years ago,” said Mrs. Templeton. “I saw it for sale in Paignton, I think it was, about seven years ago.”
“That’s very useful information.” Gideon looked at the woman appreciatively, then turned to Morcom. “Let Chief Inspector Thwaites know, will you? If we can find who owned or bought it lately, it will be a great help. How was the job done? Do you know that yet?”
“Cut from the frame, obviously with a special instrument, possibly a diamond-edged cutter,” answered Morcom. “The whole thing must have been done in a matter of seconds. It was almost like sleight of hand.” He sounded exasperated.
“Sleight of hand,” Gideon echoed. “Were you here yesterday, Mrs. Templeton?”
“In the morning, yes, until a little after ten o’clock. And, yes” - her youthful and alert eyes twinkled again - “the genuine Velazquez was here then, beyond any possible doubt. You see, I was painting the left hand, and the thumb is slightly deformed - wrinkled, perhaps I should say. I was trying to copy it, but I fell very far short, and yesterday morning I worked on in the hope of catching just the right mood. I couldn’t. I gave up in despair and told myself that it wasn’t worth spending time on. That’s why I didn’t come last night. But this morning I simply had to try again, and I brought a special glass.” She picked a small magnifying glass up from the easel. “I thought if I could enlarge it I might be able to come near, but—it simply isn’t the same thumb.”
“Excuse me, sir,” one of the men standing by said.
Morcom glanced up at him.
“Yes? Oh, Commander, this is our head security officer, Mr. Gordon Smith.”
Gideon nodded.
Smith said mechanically, “Glad to know you, sir,” and then went on: “Mrs. Templeton told us about this and I sent for the Fortuna Press book of Velazquez; we have some in stock. It shows the thumb very clearly, sir.” He moved to a couch in the centre of the room and picked up a heavy book with an illustration of Velazquez’s dwarfs on the front. “Would you care to look, sir?” He opened the book, which he had to support on both arms.
“Good idea,” Morcom said. “Thank you.” They all peered at the full-page plate of ‘The Prince.’ Mrs. Templeton squeezed between Gideon and Morcom, and she pointed with a slender, nicely shaped forefinger at the left hand. Gideon glanced at it and then at the portrait in the frame; there was no doubt at all about the difference in the thumbs. Mrs. Templeton was quite right.
“Thank you,” Morcom said.
“No doubt about it.” Gideon agreed. “I—” He broke off, seeing Thwaites, with an attendant, hovering in one of the two doorways. “Ah, Chief Inspector.” Thwaites came forward; Gideon made brief introductions; Thwaites called in more men. “The one urgent matter,” Gideon said, “is whether to open the gallery to the public.”
“I should, sir,” Thwaites advised. “If we could have just this room - and perhaps those leading directly to it - closed for the time being, that should be enough for us. Too many people have walked about already for there to be any point in keeping the whole place shut.”
“That’s a relief!” said Morcom with obvious satisfaction. He turned to one of the senior attendants. “You’ll do what’s necessary, Smith, won’t you? And I needn’t ask you to give Chief Inspector Thwaites and his men every possible assistance, need I?”
“Be absolutely sure I will, sir,” said Smith.
“And as soon as you can let Mrs. Templeton—” began Morcom.
“Oh, please don’t rob me of my privileged position,” the artist said. “If there could be a cup of coffee occasionally, I would be enthralled to stay here. And I know the gallery very well. I might even be useful.”
There was a general laugh before Gideon and Morcom went off. They did not speak until they were at the main hall, when Morcom asked: “What about the press, Commander?”
“No need to keep anything from them unless you want to,” Gideon answered. “My advice would be to tell them everything - you will probably need their help before long.” As Morcom nodded, Gideon said, “I’ll tell my men outside to regulate the flow of people coming in.”
“You’re very helpful,” Morcom said. “Thank you for everything.”
Gideon nodded, and went out.
The crowd outside was now at least a thousand strong - perhaps nearer two thousand - and a dozen policemen were controlling them, but the police had to stand in the road and there was a diversion barrier at the turning into the North Vestibule. A police sergeant pushed through the crowd and met Gideon at the foot of the steps.
“Any news from inside, sir?”
“No,” said Gideon. “They’re going to open the doors in a few minutes. Let them in a couple of dozen at a time.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“We’re going in!” a girl cried out.
“They’re opening the doors!” a man called.
Gideon, aware of a dozen cameras trained on him, saw a television team on the other side of the road, their backs to the fountains and Nelson’s Column, the camera whirring. Reporters were also thick on the ground, and as they asked questions, he gave the same stock answer: “Chief Inspector Harold Thwaites is in charge.... He’ll answer any questions that Mr.Morcom can’t.”
No one pressed for more.
Gideon reached the end of the street, where the road led round toward the steps of St. Martin’s and Leicester Square. He crossed over, and stood on the top step. The crowd looked huge from here, the kind of scene that was commonplace at a political demonstration or a ban-the-bomb rally. Yet masses of people still stayed with the pigeons; probably half of them had no idea of what was happening at the National Gallery.
Well, they would know when the evening newspapers came out!
He walked to Whitehall, then along it toward Parliament Square, enjoying the feel of the pavement beneath his feet, glad he had sent the car back. There was something in the very air and look and feel of London that warmed and touched him with both affection and pride. He paused as he always did for a fraction of a minute opposite the Cenotaph, then went on. When he had first paid that respect to the dead, it had been out of a great sense of gratitude to those who had died. Now? Had it become virtually a habit? Was there in fact a little stubbornness in the pause, a conscious effort to make himself do what he felt he should?
He could not honestly be sure.
Once past the Cenotaph, he moved more briskly and, within five minutes, was in his office. There was a note on his desk: “Honiwell would like ten minutes - I’ve told him 2.30. I’m up in Records. A.” Gideon sat down, pulled a telephone toward him and dialled the number of the Commander, Uniformed Branch, his opposite number.
There was no immediate answer, and for the first time that morning Gideon had a few moments to relax. In those moments, everything that had been discussed since he had reached the office passed through his mind in swift, fragmentary thoughts.
The Commander, Uniform, answered at last.
“Hallo, Charles,” said Gideon. “Gideon here. You chaps are a bit pushed over at the National Gallery. Did you know about the theft?”
“Yes,” the other replied. “I had an extra dozen men detailed.”
“I should have known! With a bit of luck, the real pressure on them will be off in an hour, but there’ll be more than the usual crowd all day and the press will be in strength, too.”
“We’ll cope,” said Uniform dryly. “Any news yet?”
“Looks like a very clever job to me,” Gideon said cautiously.
“These art thefts,” remarked Uniform. “You can never be sure what they will do with what they take. Had much art-theft trouble lately?”
“No more than usual,” Gideon answered. “Thanks, Charles.” He rang off, knowing that if he hadn’t made the call it might have looked as if he were usurping Uniform’s authority. The different departments at the Yard worked together extremely well, but the machinery needed oiling sometimes. He was reminded of his rage when the Assistant Commissioner had tried to teach him his job. He laughed, but it didn’t seem really funny.
His interoffice telephone rang, and he lifted the receiver.
“Gideon.”
“Sorry to worry you,” a man said, and immediately Gideon recognized the voice of Superintendent Thomas Riddell, who was in charge of the investigation into the smuggling of Pakistanis into the country. “Can you spare me half an hour or so?”
“When?” asked Gideon.
“Now, if possible,” said Riddell. “I think you should know what I’ve discovered.”
“All right, in fifteen minutes,” Gideon said, and rang off.
Riddell had annoyed him, as Riddell often did. It was difficult to put a finger on the reason, except that the man too often presumed. It was more his manner than anything Gideon could really identify.
He rang for a messenger.
“Get me some coffee,” he ordered. “Nothing to eat; I’m in a hurry.” With anyone else, he might have said, “Bring a pot and two cups,” but on this occasion it did not occur to him; he didn’t want even a slightly social relationship with Riddell.
He did need to brief himself on the case Riddell was preparing.