Gideon was aware of the conflicting tensions of everyone present. Of Thwaites, who had come forward to watch Lady Falconer, just inside the room, his concern for the treasures that were in danger. Of Lady Falconer, so composed when she had come in, so shattered now. Of Falconer himself, standing there with a dignity he had shown from the moment he had come downstairs, very different from the man who had tried so hard to use his position to influence Scott-Marie.
“Do you know where the stolen goods are?” Gideon asked, as flatly as ever.
“I only know that Kell said he could produce them within the hour.”
“He’ll have them at Hampstead,” interpolated Thwaites.
“That’s quite possible,” Gideon agreed. “But we need to be sure.” He moved to ease the atmosphere, giving Lady Falconer a brief smile. “If a cup of coffee wouldn’t be inconvenient, ma’am.... Come in, Thwaites.... Sir Richard, Chief Inspector Thwaites has been working on the Velazquez robbery and it was he who traced Robin Kell to a small antique shop in Hampstead.... Ah, thank you, ma’am.... No biscuits, thank you.” He sipped coffee and then went on: “We have to be sure before we know exactly how best to search the shop.... Would you mind letting us have the painting, sir?” He actually smiled at Falconer. “I would like Thwaites’s opinion on its authenticity.”
“If Sir Richard identifies—” Thwaites began, and immediately subsided.
“I’ll get it,” said Falconer.
“Go with Sir Richard, Chief Inspector,” Gideon ordered, without hinting that he was simply making sure that Falconer could make no attempt to escape. He drank more coffee as the two went out, and he was left alone with Lady Falconer. He had seen her occasionally at social and official functions, but had never realized how very lovely she was. At close quarters, anxiety stricken, she was superb. “I know how you must be feeling, my lady,” he said. “At least it won’t be long now.”
She asked huskily, “Do you think this man Kell’s threats are serious, Commander?”
What shall I tell her? Gideon wondered. He had no doubt at all that Kell was involved with the coldblooded murders of the three men who had helped him; nothing suggested that he had a soft spot in him, and once he knew that he was cornered, he might well kill and destroy out of sheer spite.
Before he could speak, Lady Falconer said, “I can see that you do believe the threats are serious.”
“Yes,” admitted Gideon. “I’m afraid they may be very serious indeed.”
“Is there anything—anything I can possibly do?”
Gideon deliberated, then put down his coffee cup, an excuse to get a little nearer, and studied her intently.
“There is nothing at all except help your husband,” he told her. “If Sir Richard will go to this Hampstead shop in the morning and demand to see the other stolen items before he makes a decision about what to do, then I think we have a chance.”
“Is it so important that you know whether the art treasures are there?” Charlotte asked, a glint of scorn in her eyes.
“Very important indeed,” answered Gideon. “If Kell has the stolen goods, he can use them to bargain with; if he hasn’t, then I hate to say that the only bargaining will be over your daughter.” He heard the others returning and glanced around, seeing the picture in Thwaites’s hands and the radiance in the North Countryman’s eyes. “I was just explaining to Lady Falconer, sir, that if Kell has the other stolen goods you could agree to talking terms for buying them on condition that he releases your daughter. That way, I think you will have a very good chance. Once we get your daughter away from the shop, we can concentrate on getting our man. If he carried out his threat to destroy the art treasures—”
Gideon broke off, shrugging slightly, and watching both Falconer, the collector, and Thwaites, the man who could only worship things of such beauty from afar. They looked exactly the same: appalled and yet full of hope.
“I understand the situation,” Falconer said, at last. “I am not sure that I understand the risk.”
“The risk is that if Kell comes to suspect that you are working with us, he could kill both your daughter and you before we could save you,” Gideon said. “The risk is as simple as that.”
It seemed an age before Falconer said, “I will take it.”
“Now,” Gideon said as they left the house, “we want everything laid on before daylight, so that Kell can’t suspect the shop is being watched. We need men on the roof across the street, men on the roof next door, who can swing into the windows of the flat. We want a fire engine with a turntable available nearby - no reason why it shouldn’t have been called out earlier for an imaginary outbreak two or three shops along the street. The moment Falconer has gone into that shop, we want to be absolutely ready.” He hardly paused before going on: “We’ll need tear gas and our men must be masked. Everything will be a matter of split-second timing. Lay it all on, and let me have a report in detail first thing in the morning.”
“Sir Richard,” said Robin Kell, on the telephone at ten o’clock next morning.
“Yes,” Falconer said.
“I hope you’ve made up your mind.”
“I have given it a lot of thought,” Falconer said. “And I will accept on one condition.”
“You aren’t in any position to make conditions.”
“Nevertheless, I am making one,” Falconer retorted coldly. “I want to know what the other goods are and I want to see them before I pay any money or give any undertakings. And I want a very quick decision, or I shall do what I should no doubt have done in the first place - go to the police.”
“You bloody fool, if you do that I’ll cut her throat!”
“What other consideration do you think would make me even contemplate doing business with you?” demanded Falconer, and rang off.
Gideon, sitting in his office, almost gritting his teeth because he so wanted to be at Hampstead, snatched up his telephone when it rang just after ten o’clock.
“Kell has telephoned me,” Falconer said. “He didn’t like my terms but I think he will agree.”
“Sir Richard?” asked Robin Kell.
“Yes,” said Falconer.
“Do you know the pond at Hampstead Heath?”
“Very well.”
“Be there at one o’clock, and bring ten separate packages of ten thousand pounds each. You often pay big sums in cash, your daughter tells me. Get it somehow. Drive yourself, with the money in the boot. If you are followed or have anybody with you, you know what will happen.”
“I will be there, alone and not followed,” Falconer said frigidly.
Gideon looked across at Hobbs when the telephone rang again, half an hour later, and this time it was Lady Falconer.
“My husband is to meet Robin Kell at the pond on Hampstead Heath,” she reported. “He has to have a hundred thousand pounds, in notes, in the boot of his car.”
“So you made it,” Kell said, his voice almost a sneer.
“I always carry out my obligations,” said Falconer, looking beyond the youth to the pond.
“Have you got the money?” Kell demanded.
“Yes.”
“How did you get it?”
“I keep a substantial sum in my safe, and as you said, I often pay in cash for purchases. I drew enough from three different banks.”
“We’re going to Lancelot Judd’s shop,” said Kell, obviously satisfied. “I’ve a taxi waiting. And I’ve friends following and watching. One false move, and that’s the end.”
“Do you think I value my life so lightly?” demanded Falconer.
“I will say one thing, you’ve got your priorities right! Your life first, your daughter’s second.” There was a tone of grudging admiration in Kell’s voice. “Get in with me. Somebody will follow in your car.”
A taxi drew up alongside, and Falconer had time only to see the youthful face of the driver before getting in. Kell slammed the door and sat back in a corner. After a few moments, he took an envelope from beneath his coat and handed it to Falconer, saying, “See if you recognize those.” Falconer drew out some glossy photographs, held them toward the window, and looked down at the top one.
As he looked at them one after another, recognizing them as recently stolen Old Masters, the taxi drove to the shop on the High Street and stopped. Robin put a restraining hand on Falconer’s arm, and after a pause an attractive young woman appeared from the shop, smiling serenely.
“All clear,” she said.
“In we go,” said Kell, “and don’t forget what’s at stake, Sir Richard!” He half dragged Falconer from the taxi toward the open door, and as they went inside, he muttered: “Upstairs.” Another youth was at the foot of the stairs, and at the top was Lancelot Judd, pale faced, gripping the brass rail. Falconer forced himself to walk up the stairs calmly; Kell pushed hard behind him. The shop doorway banged and a key turned in the lock.
On one side was a canvas curtain hanging on a brass pole, and once they were all upstairs, Kell went across and pulled the curtain back very slowly. In front of Falconer’s still-unbelieving eyes were eleven canvases, most of them in temporary frames, hanging on the wall of a recess.
Even though Falconer had been prepared for what he was going to see, he still experienced a sense of almost physical shock. There was Vermeer’s “Ice Town”; and next to that, Titian’s “Head of a Boy.” A little further along he recognized Gainsborough’s “Lady Lost.” Further on again, he saw Botticelli’s “Cartoon of the Dying.” Each of these had for an age been imprinted on Falconer’s mind. Now they, and so many others, seemed to burn into him. He had no doubt at all that they were genuine, and felt as he always did the hypnotic pull of each one, felt his blood turning to water, his knees weakening. He stood very still.
“They’re the McCoy all right,” said Kell. “Now-the money’s in the boot of your car, isn’t it? Hand over the key.”
“When I have seen my daughter,” demurred Falconer.
“Now. The only condition was that you saw the other stuff, and you’ve seen it. Hand it over, or we’ll take—”
“You cannot get that boot open without a special key, unless you want an alarm to go off. And I will not give you this key until I have seen Christine, and I am safely back in my own home. This arrangement is not as one-sided as you think, Mr. Kell.”
Kell’s hand flexed and unflexed, one hovered near his trousers pocket, but suddenly he spun round, strode to another curtain, and pulled it aside.
There was Christine: asleep or drugged. She sat erect in a small chair and she was bound to it. In some way, her head had been tilted backward, emphasizing the flawless line of neck and shoulders, as lovely as her mother’s. Nearby, Lance Judd stood rigidly, staring not at the girl but at her father.
“Don’t—don’t argue anymore,” he pleaded. “Don’t make it any worse. Give Robin—”
And then there came across his words a wild scream from the girl below.
“The police are coming!” she cried. “The police!”
There was a second of stunned silence before Robin Kell’s hand flashed to and from his jacket and the click of his knife sounded loud. Falconer tried to rush forward to protect his daughter, but the knife moved swift as light toward him, and into his belly. He felt a searing pain and staggered to one side, saw the knife flash again as Kell turned to use it on Christine.
But as he did so, the knife moving toward her defenceless throat, Lance Judd hurled himself in front of her, and the knife went into his chest. He gasped, he choked, the door crashed, and the window of the kitchen crashed; then ladders appeared at the upstairs window and police wearing steel helmets smashed the glass. It was Thwaites, running up the stairs, who saw the pictures, saw the trickle of flame run along the way where they were displayed, saw the girl with a taper in her hand stabbing it toward rags that he sensed were soaked in oil. He struck the girl aside and kicked at the blazing rags, and when one fell close to the wall he picked it up with his bare fingers and flung it away.
By then, the place was full of smoke and full of police, and Robin Kell was struggling with two policemen who were trying to prise the knife out of his hand.
Only ten minutes later, a telephone rang on Gideon’s desk. Gideon snatched the receiver up eagerly, and as he announced himself, a man said crisply: “It’s all over, sir. The girl’s all right.”
“Falconer?” demanded Gideon, heart thumping with relief.
“A nasty wound in the stomach, sir, and on his way to hospital. So is the man Judd, who tried to save her; he got a knife in his chest. Kell, a girl named Marie Devaux, and others are on their way to the Yard now, sir, for interrogation.”
“The pictures?” demanded Gideon sharply.
“Virtually undamaged, sir. I—oh, here’s Chief Inspector Thwaites, if you’d like a word with him.”
“I would indeed,” said Gideon warmly, and a moment later heard Thwaites speak with a feeling that made him seem almost a different man.
“No damage at all really, sir. A frame was scorched, that’s all. The young devil meant it all right, but everything we planned went off like clockwork.”
Gideon found himself laughing.
“Falconer mightn’t feel that,” he said.
“If you ask me, sir, he was bloody lucky to get off so lightly, everything considered. I—sorry, sir! I wonder if you will have a word with his wife.”
“I’ll call her at once,” promised Gideon.
He reassured Lady Falconer about her daughter and as much as he could about her husband; then he rang off, sat back and reflected, and sent for Hobbs, who came in with his usual promptitude, and with a bundle of reports. There was so much going through, and already the sense of importance about the Velazquez theft was fading, for it was now actually part of the past. There would be the trial to prepare but that wasn’t his job, Gideon reflected. Thank God here was a case where they could be absolutely certain that they had the right man!
The Entwhistle file was one of those Hobbs had brought in, and Gideon said: “I thought Honiwell wanted this put aside for a while.”
“I brought it in because I’ve had a word with the Governor at Dartmoor,” Hobbs said. “Apparently, Entwhistle is in a bad way. He tried to kill himself in his cell last night. Is there anything we can possibly do to help him?”
“We can’t breathe a word until we know for certain,” Gideon said gloomily. “I only wish we could. Unless we’ve evidence enough to bring Eric Greenwood back from a buying trip to India and Pakistan. He’s just started from London Airport.” When Hobbs shook his head, Gideon put a hand on the file and said: “Leave it with me, I might think of something. Anything else that’s urgent?”
“I don’t think so,” Hobbs answered. “Not to say urgent. There’s more than enough to clear up and more than enough pending. I—”
He broke off, for the door opened abruptly, a rare thing in Gideon’s office, and Chamberlain came in, with rather less than his usual bounce. He was taken aback at seeing them both together, hesitated, let the door close behind him, and advanced.
“Oh, Commander, in view of the recovery of the Velazquez and the other stolen items, I think we might be well-advised to cancel tomorrow’s conference, don’t you?”
Gideon, solid as a Buddha in his chair, said: “I think that’s a very good idea, sir.”
“Good. I thought you would agree. Will you telephone all concerned?”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,” said Gideon, “I think it would be very much appreciated if you telephoned yourself. I really do.”
“Yes, very well,” said Chamberlain after a pause. “There are a number of other issues I would like to discuss with you, but perhaps tomorrow would be a better day.”
“Whenever you wish,” said Gideon.
Neither he nor Hobbs made any comment about the intrusion when Chamberlain left, and Hobbs took out a slim file.
“Lemaitre and Singleton have fixed that raid on the counterfeiters for tonight,” he announced. “I’ve asked them both to send reports to us, so we’ll get both sides of the story.”
There wasn’t much that Hobbs missed, Gideon reflected appreciatively.
When he had gone, Gideon sat back in his chair and pondered. Chamberlain, of course, could not last very long; it was obvious that he was a misfit, and if he didn’t realize it himself, Scott-Marie would find a way to make him. Thwaites was a different kind of problem. He was old for promotion but he had done such a dedicated job that it ought to be recognized, and a Superintendent’s pension would be considerably higher than a Chief Inspector’s. He would put through a recommendation today. He made a note and saw other notes he had made this morning about the conference on the immigration problems. That would need very careful handling.
He saw Thwaites in the middle of the afternoon, his hand heavily bandaged, his hair singed, but an expression of deep contentment in his eyes.
“Congratulations,” Gideon said. “Sit down.”
“It was all your idea, sir,” Thwaites said warmly. “While I was having my hand dressed, I was thinking it must be hell for you - with respect sir - having to sit here knowing you could be out on the job and doing it twice as well as most.” He gave Gideon time for only a deprecatory wave and plunged on. “Latest reports, sir: Sir Richard not in danger, I’m glad to say. Knife wound identical with those in Slater and de Courvier, and caused by the same knife, so we’ve got Kell for murder... Lancelot Judd touch and go, sir, but if he pulls through he’ll turn queen’s evidence without a doubt... Christine’s suffering from shock, nothing a few days’ rest won’t put right... Not a single item damaged, sir; we picked up a million pounds’ worth of stolen works of art. I hope the newspapers make a fuss about that little lot!... Oh, and by the way, Falconer’s man Oliphant seems to me in a highly nervous condition. I think I’m going to see what he’s been up to. A runner I know, Red Thomas, told Division that Oliphant spends a lot of time with Mrs. Bessell in Bond Street. That’s about the lot, sir. Oh! There is one other offbeat little thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Gideon.
“Remember Lucy Jenkins, Leslie J.’s daughter? Works for Old Fisky in a shop in the King’s road?”
“I pass it every day,” Gideon said.
“Well, apparently Lucy bought a load of junk when the old man was away and one of the pictures was a find. Fisky took it round to Division. A John Bettes, stolen from Rosebury House in Suffolk about ten years ago, worth forty or fifty thousand. The insurance company’s going to pay out ten per cent reward and Old Fisky’s sharing it with Lucy.”
“I couldn’t be more glad,” Gideon said. “I really couldn’t.”
As he drove home that night, he slowed down alongside Old Fisky’s shop, where there were lights, more cars, television cameramen, and Lucy holding up a picture while Old Fisky peered from inside the shop.
She’s not a bad-looking girl, Gideon reflected. This could be the making of her.
He noticed a policeman in uniform on the other side of the road, so intent on the scene in the doorway and on Lucy Jenkins that he did not see that the Commander was drawing away. None of the newspaper, television, or press men noticed Gideon, either, but when he reached Harrington Street, half a dozen neighbours waved newspapers at him and Penelope came running out of the house, very excited.
“Daddy, Mummy’s told me you’re going to soundproof the attic. That’s just wonderful. I’d been hoping for something like that. And there’s just room to get the piano in. Alec stopped by to see you and heard about it, and he’s checked it all for me.” She flung her arms round him and kissed him.
And Kate, standing in the doorway to welcome him, could tell that for her husband it had been a deeply satisfying day.