Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (7 page)

As he spoke, he picked up a canvas of a buxom nude whose bottom blushed appealingly. Mrs Pargeter, who had seen a similar sight in the bathroom mirror earlier that morning, could not restrain herself from murmuring, ‘Oh, that's very good.'

‘Or a Goya,' VVO went on vindictively, picking up a lady wearing a black mantilla whose authenticity was only let down by an unpainted patch of canvas in the top corner.

Though this picture struck no personal chords, Mrs Pargeter could still recognize the skill of its execution. ‘That's smashing too,' she said.

‘Or a Jackson Pollock.' On this third canvas, however, she could express no opinion. Mrs Pargeter had always found it tricky to tell a good Jackson Pollock from a bad one – or indeed from an accident in a paint shop.

The tortured genius let all three canvases clatter to the floor, as he struck his chest in impassioned misery. ‘But what happens when I express
myself
. . . when I do a painting that is a true
Reg Winthrop
?'

To reinforce his words, he picked up a picture which had stood facing the wall. It was fixed in a gold frame, and was quite definitely the ugliest work of art Mrs Pargeter had ever seen. No weekend painter, suffering from a terminal overdose of sentimentality, could ever have produced worse.

A black Scottie dog, with an anthropomorphic smile and a tartan bow about its neck, sat coquettishly in front of a little humpbacked bridge over a tinkling stream. Spotted toadstools poked up through the grass. Bluebirds circled aimlessly overhead. The painting could have won a Queen's Award for Winsomeness. Even a chocolate-box manufacturer would have rejected it as too coy.

‘Hmm . . .' said Mrs Pargeter awkwardly. ‘Well, yes . . .'

‘See!' VVO let the painting slip from his hand and hurled himself histrionically back into his chair. ‘You're just like all the others. You can't appreciate what I'm really trying to say. You can't see through to the soul of my art. Ah, is it always the fate of genius to be misunderstood?'

Hamish Ramon Henriques decided that pursuing such speculation would be fruitless. It was time to get down to business. ‘VVO, in fact the reason we are here is that—'

But the artist's list of grievances was not exhausted. ‘Not only does nobody appreciate my painting, I'm also excluded from all the exciting bits when we've got a job on. I'm always left on the sidelines. While the rest of the lads are having fun, out and about breaking and entering, I'm always stuck back here knocking out another Rembrandt.'

HRH waved an impatient hand. ‘Yes, VVO, I've heard all this before. Listen, we need your help for a job.'

‘Painting again, I suppose?' the artist sneered. ‘No breaking and entering. No immobilizing burglar alarms. I'd be good at all that! You're wasting the talents of a criminal genius, you know!'

But HRH was impervious to these demands for sympathy. ‘The job,' he confirmed, ‘is, as you guessed, painting.' At these words, VVO slumped even deeper into his chair. ‘Quite a lot of painting. Some old masters and some more modern works of art need to travel abroad. We want cover paintings for them.'

The artistic worm turned. ‘Oh, no! Have you really got the nerve to ask me to do that kind of stuff again?'

‘It is,' HRH pointed out discreetly, ‘for Mrs Pargeter.' He let the words sink in before adding, ‘Widow of the late Mr Pargeter.'

Her husband's name worked its customary magic. After a baleful look at HRH, the artist conceded, ‘Oh, all right, I'll do your pathetic little job – even though it's a prostitution of my art.' Then he slumped back again with his eyes closed.

‘Everyone has to make compromises in this life, VVO.'

All that got was a ‘Huh.'

‘And I'll tell you what . . . the modern art covers can be anything you want . . .' One of VVO's eyes flicked open. ‘You could even make them Reg Winthrops, if you like . . .'

Though it went against the character he had created for himself to show it at all fulsomely, this news clearly pleased the artist.

Hamish Ramon Henriques rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘Anyway, you're forgetting your manners. Aren't you going to offer us a drink?'

VVO looked at his guests with renewed truculence. ‘Do you want something?'

Mrs Pargeter didn't want to put her host to any trouble. ‘I'm happy with some of that wine if you—'

‘No, no!' As if his artistic integrity was being impugned, the painter clutched his bottle to his chest. ‘The wine's mine, all mine!'

‘Oh very well. A cup of tea'd be nice then.'

VVO immediately shouted to some unseen presence outside the room, ‘Tea, woman! Bring us tea!' He turned grumpily to HRH. ‘When will you bring me the paintings?'

‘Next couple of days. There are more than thirty of them. You think you'll be able to do the covers within the week?'

After the animation of the shouted tea order, the artist had slumped back into apathy. ‘What does it matter what I think?' he asked from the recesses of his chair. ‘Of course I can do them. Like any true genius, I work fast.'

There was a silence. Mrs Pargeter wondered who would bring the tea. With what kind of woman would someone like VVO cohabit? Which stereotype of the artist's muse would it be? Some sluttish student with fiercely dyed hair and nose-jewellery? A former life model, blowsy and gone to seed? A hippy trailing scarves and wispy skirts?

The interior door opened to reveal none of the above. The woman who stood there with a neat tray of tea things was neatly dressed as a neat, ultra-conventional suburban housewife. The decor revealed behind her showed a neat, ultra-conventional suburban sitting room.

‘Good afternoon,' said the woman politely. ‘I'm Deirdre Winthrop, Reg's wife.'

She cleared a space on a cluttered table, put down the tea tray and turned with hand outstretched.

Mrs Pargeter shook it. ‘Good afternoon. I'm Mrs Pargeter.'

HRH went through the same social routine. Shaking his hostess's hand, he identified himself as Hamish Ramon Henriques.

‘Pleased to meet you both, I'm sure.' Deirdre Winthrop smiled graciously. ‘Tea was it you said you'd like?'

‘That'd be lovely, thank you,' said Mrs Pargeter, with an equally gracious smile.

Deirdre lifted the wine bottle out of her husband's unprotesting hands. ‘And you want some more of your blackcurrant juice, love?'

Reg Winthrop grinned at his wife, very calmly and with great fondness. ‘Yes, please, my angel,' he replied, the picture of meek suburban domesticity.

Mrs Pargeter and Hamish Ramon Henriques exchanged looks, but made no comment.

Mrs Pargeter's customary shadow of desire had been anticipated again that evening by Leon the barman. The champagne was on ice, the two crystal glasses waited in readiness. And, standing over her favourite table as she entered the room, massaging his hands in unctuous delight, stood the proprietor of Greene's Hotel, Mr Clinton. ‘Mrs Pargeter,' he oozed, as he filled one of the glasses with swelling bubbles. ‘How delightful to see you. I trust you have had an enjoyable day.'

‘Very pleasant, thanks. Met an artist by the name of Reg Winthrop. Do you know him, by any chance?'

‘Winthrop . . . Winthrop . . .?' the hotel manager mused. ‘No, I don't believe the name means anything to me.'

‘He's also known as “VVO”.'

‘Ah.' His expression cleared. ‘Yes, of course. Another employee of your late husband.'

‘So I'm given to understand, yes.'

‘And in fact someone who has worked for me in the not-too-distant past.'

‘Really?'

The hotel manager smiled. ‘The artwork in some of the more expensive suites – like the Gainsborough in your own, Mrs Pargeter – well, with the best will in the world, one would of course like them to be genuine . . . but the fact remains that, if they were the real thing, certain of my guests – not of course you, I hasten to add – might be tempted to purloin them.'

‘I'm surprised to hear people of that kind come to this hotel.'

‘Oh, indeed, Mrs Pargeter, you are right. All of my clients are absolutely out of the top drawer, people of impeccable ethical standards, but—' – he grimaced as he spelled out the unpalatable truth – ‘when it comes to art, normal moral considerations go out of the window. I'm afraid the zeal of the collector is too powerful, and the presence of genuinely valuable paintings in the suites would prove just too much of a temptation to some people. So it is simpler if I decorate the rooms with VVO's very fine copies.'

‘Isn't there a danger that those copies might get stolen?'

The hotel manager looked affronted. ‘Good heavens, no, Mrs Pargeter. The kind of clients who frequent Greene's Hotel would recognize instantly that they were fakes.'

Further discussion of the vagaries of the rich was prevented by the arrival of Truffler Mason, wearing his customary shapeless brown suit and his customary undertaker's frown. ‘Hi there, Mrs P, Hedgeclipper,' he said joylessly.

The hotel manager winced. ‘
If
you don't mind . . . within the purlieus of this hotel, it is preferred that nicknames are not used, Mr Mason.'

‘Sorry, Mr Clinton.'

‘Think nothing of it.' Hedgeclipper was once again wreathed in smiles. ‘Now, if you will excuse me . . . I have to arrange a fleet of stretch limos for the Sultan's wives . . .' And he wafted imperceptibly out of the room.

Mrs Pargeter charged her guest's glass with champagne and raised hers to toast him. ‘So, Truffler, can you fill me in a bit more on what HRH told me? When the paintings leave the country, they are actually declared to Customs?'

‘Well,
some
paintings are, yes. VVO's modern rubbish. That's what the customs inspectors see.'

‘But the real ones are hidden underneath?'

‘Exactly. Don't worry, it's a doddle. HRH has organized that kind of job hundreds of times. Never any problem.'

‘Good.' Mrs Pargeter took another reassuring swallow of champagne.

‘Only thing is, though,' said Truffler tentatively, ‘it'll cost a bit. I mean, for the courier, a few other expenses . . .'

A plump hand waved away the objection. ‘Don't worry. Veronica Chastaigne'll pay for all that. She seems to have unlimited money – and seems to want to spend as much of it as possible before she pops off.'

‘Why do you reckon that is?'

Mrs Pargeter smiled shrewdly. ‘Reading between the lines, I'd say it's so that she leaves as little of it as possible to her son.'

‘Ah, right. Toby, that'd be? The accountant?'

‘Mm.'

‘I haven't met the young man, but I've heard about him. Haven't been that impressed by what I've heard either. Never had much time for accountants . . . well, except of course for the imaginative ones . . . and there are precious few of those around these days.' He gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Yeah, poor old Bennie'd be well miffed if he knew Toby was, like, disowning him. After all the old man done for the boy. He was a good lad, old Bennie. Heart in the right place, no question.'

‘So I've heard. Anyway, tell me, Truffler, how will the plan work?'

‘Dead easy. Sweet as a nut. Gary ‘n' me are set up for tomorrow night. Down to Chastaigne Varleigh with the van, Mrs Chastaigne lets us in, we load up the paintings . . .'

‘And where do you take them?'

‘Lock-up I've got. Safe as houses—' He chuckled mournfully. ‘No, darn sight safer than most houses. And then, soon as poss, we start taking the goods back to where they belong.'

‘Will that be tricky?'

‘Piece of cake.'

‘Good. So I'll have kept my word to Veronica Chastaigne.'

‘Course you will. Honour will have been satisfied.'

Mrs Pargeter raised her glass. ‘Excellent, Truffler. Let's drink to the success of the job.'

‘Right.' He raised his to clink against hers. ‘And let's drink to the hope that they'll all be as easy, eh?'

‘It was Bennie Logan you were talking about, wasn't it, sir?'

Inspector Wilkinson looked up from his desk with distaste. He didn't approve of junior officers bursting into his office without knocking, and he didn't like the sound of what the junior officer in question was saying. The art theft case was his; he hadn't mentioned the name of Bennie Logan to anyone. It sounded horribly as if Sergeant Hughes had been showing some initiative.

Still, ignorance was going to be the best starting position. He placed his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I don't know what you're talking about, Hughes.'

‘I've been doing some research through the files.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, you wouldn't tell me anything, sir, so I made it my business to find out for myself.'

‘This is
my
case, Hughes. I don't like other people poking around in my business.'

The Sergeant stared defiantly into his adversary's eyes. ‘There was nothing secret about it, sir. None of the files had any special security rating. They're all accessible to any member of the Force who happens to be interested in them.'

‘And why do you happen to be interested in them?'

‘Because I'm supposed to working with you on the bloody case and you won't tell me anything!'

Inspector Wilkinson winced at this outburst, but didn't offer a reprimand. He just looked reproachfully at his young colleague and asked, ‘So what do you reckon you've found out?'

‘There's a strong suggestion that Bennie Logan was behind all the robberies. He wasn't directly involved in any of them, but all of the likely perpetrators had links with him at some level. Everything seems to lead back to Chastaigne Varleigh.'