Snatched (21 page)

Youde shook his head slowly and sadly a couple of times and frowned, as if Julia's timetable sounded a worry.

‘These last few nights she's been getting in rather earlier,' Lepage said. It was true.

‘Good,' Youde said. ‘She surely owes you that, George.'

‘Owes me what?'

‘And it's kindly of you to wait up for her.'

‘A husbandly thing, that's all.'

‘To your credit, Director.'

Lepage brought a pack of beer cans and some tankards from the kitchen. They sat opposite each other in easy chairs. ‘I had a call from the South of France,' Youde said. ‘It's about the Monet. Well, certainly about the Monet, but perhaps the El Grecos as well.'

‘A call from?'

‘You'll forgive me if— Shall we say an acquaintance who knows what's what and keeps his ear to the ground?'

Lepage wondered how the French would say ‘ear to the ground'. He poured.

Youde drank deeply, like someone who had been through a lot lately and who expected to go through a hell of a lot more, but would be ready to fight back. ‘Near Antibes. Considerable money around there, as you probably know, George.'

‘A call from near Antibes saying what?'

‘That French police were very close to the Monet.
Really
close.'

‘Well, this is surely grand,' Lepage cried, beaming with surprised delight: as long as it was no more than the Monet. ‘They can be damned efficient, the French police.'

‘
Were
very close.'

‘Something went wrong? Bloody French.'

‘They thought they'd traced it to a well-known collector-dealer in those parts, someone loaded and not too fussy about the law. So, they visit his villa and find a window forced, the alarms doctored, a glass door smashed as in a struggle, the collector half strangled, and no Monet. Of course, when the collector's interviewed he says there never was a Monet on the premises, claims he doesn't know what the police are talking about – he's not even
seen
a Monet lately – and states the intruder only wanted cash. That's the advantage of stealing from a crook, isn't it: he can't complain to the flics even if it's about millions? Just the same, the police are sure it was there.'

‘How? How can they know?'

‘Director, there's another factor,' Youde said, drinking again, and holding out the tankard for more. He looked both scared and volcanically prophetic, and his extended arm, seeking more booze, seemed at the same time to be pointing out to some intriguing unknown. ‘Words were written on an inside wall of the villa, sprayed from an aerosol can, like in a tower block.'

‘In French? But what has this to do with going to the Hulliborn now?' Lepage heard Julia's car draw up and then her footsteps on the drive.

Youde had heard, too, and spoke hurriedly, so he could finish before Julia entered the room. ‘The message was simple, Director. It said, “Gotcha.”'

‘“Gotcha”? Like that headline in the Falklands war?'

‘A signature after it.'

‘What – claiming credit, telling the police who did it? Is this credible?'

‘Initials only.'

‘Even so.'

‘And as a clue, not very helpful.'

‘Why not?'

‘Some would call it a dead-end.'

‘Why?'

‘The initials are FBM,' Youde replied.

‘FBM?'

‘Yes.'

‘A person? An organization?' Lepage asked.

‘Nobody's sure.'

‘The M standing for the Monet?'

‘That's one line of thought, yes.'

‘And what about the F and the B?'

‘These are problematical, Director.'

‘“Fetch Back the Monet”?' Lepage said. ‘More or less the equivalent of “Gotcha”, if the “Gotcha” means the painting.'

‘Yes, that's a theory doing the rounds, apparently.'

‘But what others?' Lepage asked.

Youde took a drink. ‘My informant suggests – and says it's a police thought, too – he absurdly suggests … well, can you see it, George?'

‘What?'

‘FBM.'

‘What?'

‘The BM.'

‘What?'

‘Butler-Minton,' Youde replied.

‘What?' Lepage gasped.

‘And the F, Flounce,' Youde said.

‘Flounce?' Lepage yelled.

‘As I say, a fanciful guess, and a very strange bit of theorizing by the police,' Youde replied. ‘Flounce Butler-Minton.'

Julia appeared and glanced about the room. ‘What's happening, George. I thought I heard you calling Flounce?'

‘Calling Flounce?' Lepage replied with a fair old laugh. ‘Have you forgotten he's dead, love? I've got his job. Remember? Think I've caught delusions fever from Nev?'

‘That's what it sounded like,' Julia said. ‘His name, though as a sort of question.'

‘I expect you've had a trying night. But you're quite early,' Lepage said.

‘Not much doing,' she said.

He felt she sounded very down and upset. ‘Maybe things will be better tomorrow, Julia,' he told her.

‘Yes, maybe.' It didn't sound as if she thought so, and for a second Lepage feared she might weep. A bad night's business could do that to her? He doubted it. She behaved as though she'd been deserted. But who by? After half a minute, she made an effort and smiled towards Youde. ‘You're out late, Quent. You look very full of … very full of import. And so smart!'

‘Thank you.' He straightened his shoulders inside the suit. ‘Just over for a gossip: the usual Hulliborn tittle-tattle.'

‘But not about Flounce?' she asked.

‘Ah, Flounce. It's certainly a name that can still ring bells, as it were. But what would there be to discuss, Julia? We have to think forward, even in museums.'

‘Yes, well, look, you won't mind if I don't stay, will you? Failing to sell is just as tiring as selling.' She made for the door. ‘Try not to be too late coming up, George.'

‘Soon,' he said.

‘You're very lucky, Director,' Youde said, when she'd gone.

‘Sometimes.'

Youde went back to his story. Yes, ‘Gotcha. FBM. GOTCHA – the
Sun's
front page screamer when we sank the Argentine battleship
Belgrano.
The French police have put two and two together.'

‘Which two and two?'

‘They've discovered that Flounce was Butler-Minton's nickname.'

‘Oh, great. Real detective work.'

‘But, George, can you see the implications? That's why I came straight over.'

‘They thought they'd located the Monet, but they've lost it,' Lepage replied. ‘Someone's lifted it – “Gotcha” – i.e., as I said, the painting. Someone or some gang.'

‘The FBM gang?'

‘Perhaps.'

Youde leaned forward, his eyes brilliant with tension and ale: ‘George, there are people on the art circuit, especially abroad, who think Butler-Minton might still be alive.' He held up a hand, before Lepage could respond. ‘Obviously, it cannot be, but that is the rumour, and this has become a vital, new factor.'

Lepage said, wearily: ‘This is mad, Quentin. There was a funeral. Interpol can view the death certificate, for heaven's sake.'

‘Well, Director, there are funerals and funerals. There are certificates and certificates.'

‘Hell, what are you saying?'

‘George, I don't necessarily go along with it, of course not, but the French seem to know about that mysterious, clandestine, spooky side of Butler-Minton's life – the Wall, Mrs Cray, the whippet. In such a world the wrong body can end up in the coffin. Oh, yes, it's been known.'

‘Are we rerunning
The Third Man
?
Someone else buried in place of the villain, Harry Lime? Quent, we—'

‘And, in any case, it's not just the police. The collector is a big-time underworld operator, of course. The story about Butler-Minton has spread among all that fraternity. It doesn't need to be one hundred per cent verifiable fact to have its impact on them.'

‘Which story? That someone does a robbery of an item worth millions, inscribes a triumphant “Gotcha” and then signs his name – the someone being officially dead.'

‘“Officially”, yes.'

‘
Actually
.'

‘I know the tale is hard to swallow, George, but—'

‘And what do they think: that Butler-Minton's taken it on himself to protect the Hulliborn and pop over to France for one of the museum's treasures, so—?'

‘Or perhaps more than one,' Youde said, his voice singing with brief hope.

‘Having first located it, or them, on his own,' Lepage went on, ‘he's then able to snatch it, or them, back, after knocking out the alarms like a pro, at the same time giving the householder a nice bit of strong-arm? And, in any case, Quent, what's it all to do with an emergency trip to the Hulliborn now?'

Youde got his thoughts together. ‘I don't necessarily endorse what I'm about to say, George, but apparently the talk there is that Butler-Minton learned all sorts of dirty tricks in his East Germany era. Yes, they've heard of Mrs Cray and the haversack straps and that shooting from the Wall. According to my informant there's also been mention in Antibes of the windsock and tennis ball. But listen, Director, OK, even given all this, I'll concede that the whole thing could be regarded as far-fetched.'

‘Oh, no, really?'

‘Not all claim it was Eric himself. Some are saying this was a fanatical admirer acting as he thought Butler-Minton might have acted, if he were still around: using the memory of Flounce as guide and inspiration.'

‘Would someone like that use his nickname – the F. It's not respectful, is it, let alone reverential?'

‘Perhaps so as not to make things over-obvious. Or aerosol writing is often less than perfect and the F might have been intended as an E, with the bottom horizontal somehow missed:
Eric
Butler-Minton.'

‘You're saying Nev did it, are you, Quentin?'

‘Apparently, his name has come up very strongly in Antibes as a suspect. He hasn't tried to keep his obsession with Flounce secret, has he?'

‘Is Neville in danger?' Lepage replied.

Youde shrugged. ‘But there are other suspects. Flounce is a presence, George. An active influence. There's no denying that. Why, I've felt it myself, I admit.'

‘Like the “Elvis Lives”
societies.'

‘Unfair, Director. May I remind you of your duck-billed platypus? I don't think you should pretend to feel indifferent to this aura. Nev is exceptionally affected: gratitude for Flounce's struggle to keep him, though doomed.'

‘To hell with the platypus. So what is this spirit or this disciple or this aura supposed to have done with the picture?'

‘Possibly
pictures.
This is the whole point, Director, and why I'm here now. My voice from near Antibes says it's believed there that somehow or another the works have been reclaimed for the Hulliborn, so as to restore the museum's reputation in time to qualify for the medical relics exhibition. To be very blunt, George, the pictures might be hanging in the Hulliborn gallery now – reinstalled on the quiet in their proper places.'

‘Oh, God, Quent, this is—'

‘Let's hurry there, Director.' Youde set his tankard down very emphatically and stared with challenging eyes at Lepage. ‘I suppose I might have gone alone, but I wanted … I wanted support, and a witness.'

‘Quent, for God's sake—'

‘Time could be crucial, George. By dawn—'

‘There might be Interpol or a vengeance posse from Antibes here? You really think so?'

‘Not impossible, George. This crooked collector and his outfit have just had millions ripped from them. They're as hard as you might expect and won't smile long-sufferingly and mutter, “C'est la fucking vie.” They'll want to make up the loss. Director, I must see the Raybould Gallery. I shan't sleep until I do.'

‘Is that why you're dressed up, Quent? The occasion?'

Youde glanced down a little sheepishly at the excellent suit. ‘Flounce always hated any semblance of what he used to call in his brusque, though to some degree reassuring, way, “arty-fartiness” in the clothes of people in my department – particularly in my department.' A look of terrible, retrospective pain crossed his face. ‘Well, I expect you heard that once he pissed over my beige cloak where it was hanging in a corner of the gallery. I mean literally and systematically pissed over it, holding pleats open with his free hand so the gush got everywhere. The dry cleaners were puzzled and applied a penalty charge.'

‘Quent, Flounce is dead and burned.'

Youde smiled solemnly. ‘I do know that, Director, as a certainty. But, I know, too, that the person who called me tonight does not speak wildly, does not exaggerate. So, please, can we go to the Hulliborn now?'

‘Julia will do her nut.'

‘Please, George.'

Youde drove him there. In the museum, Lepage led the way, carrying a torch, which he part hooded with his fingers, for secrecy. They turned into the Raybould, and Youde, staring at the wall, sobbed and wailed at once. There was enough light to see the spaces: ‘No, they're not here. It was too much to hope. Of course it was. Of course. I really am sorry for the foolishness, George.'

‘Not the “El Grecos”, but the Monet's back,' Lepage replied. The shock at seeing
L'Isolement
had gutted his voice of volume and made it hard for him to frame words at all, but Youde heard very well.

‘What do you mean, “El Grecos”?' he snarled.

‘Sorry, Quent. El Grecos.' Lepage walked to the Monet. ‘It looks intact.'

‘Yes?'

Lepage swung the torch beam around the gallery. ‘No immediate evidence of a break-in.'