Gideon's Art

by John Creasey

  “Be downstairs in five minutes,” Gideon said. “We’re going to Falconer House.”

  Before Gideon was out of the room, Thwaites was pushing the blanket back. Gideon went down to Information, told the night superintendent what he was going to do, and added: “If there’s any word at all from West End or Hampstead, make certain I know at once.”

  “Be sure we will, sir.”

  Gideon went down the steep steps toward the courtyard, where his car was already waiting, the driver and another man standing by it. One opened the back door and Gideon got in, grunting with the effort. He was getting too big around the middle for bending double. He heard someone hurrying down the steps and guessed it was Thwaites.

  “Mr. Thwaites will join me,” he said. “Let him in at the other door.”

  Soon, Thwaites was crammed against him, breathing rather hard, looking very pale.

  “Driver, I’m going to Falconer House, near Park Lane,” Gideon said. “You two are to wait by the side of the car. The house is already being watched. Don’t take any part in anything unless you get instructions from Mr. Thwaites or me. Understood?”

  “All clear, sir.”

  Gideon turned to Thwaites, and went on speaking as if there had been no change of audience: “Nothing new has turned up but I’m not happy at waiting until the morning, and I know you’re not. We’ll go in together, but I’ll see Falconer on my own. You join us only if I call you.”

  “I understand,” Thwaites said, and then he added after a long pause: “I’m very glad you’re having a go, sir.”

  “I hope we stay glad,” Gideon said, and sat back as they drove through the still steadily falling rain. It was past two o’clock when the car pulled up outside Sir Richard Falconer’s house, where a single light shone in the porch but none at any of the windows.

  Falconer was aware of deep sleep, heavy sleep to which he was not accustomed, and then of his wife’s voice and the pressure of her hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to a dim, not dazzling light, but even that was too bright for him. He saw his wife through his lashes, and remembered what had happened and where he was. Then, seeing the anxiety on her face, he suddenly thought: Christine! and struggled to a sitting position.

  “What is it? What—”

  “It’s all right; it’s not about Christine,” Charlotte said. “There are two policemen downstairs, one of them is Commander Gideon. He insists on seeing you, Richard. I couldn’t put him off until the morning.”

  Falconer hitched himself further back in the bed.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just after two.”

  “It could be news of Christine,” he said tautly. “Gideon is the man whom Scott-Marie would assign to the inquiry.” He pushed the bedclothes back, and she helped him into his dressing gown. “Who let them in?”

  “Oily did.”

  “So he’s back?”

  “He hadn’t gone to sleep, so he told Davies not to get out of bed,” Charlotte said.

  “Have him make some coffee, will you? Strong, with plenty of sugar.”

  “I’ll see to it,” she promised. “He’s waiting outside.”

  Falconer tied the dressing-gown cord tightly about his waist as he went out of the room. Oliphant, a smoking jacket over pyjamas trousers, moved toward him from the head of the stairs.

  “Richard, there is something I must tell you,” he said.

  “Not now, Oily, later—”

  “Now. As the police are here, it is vital.”

  Falconer stood very still and made the other come toward him. Oliphant was obviously agitated, for once not knowing what to say. Downstairs in the hall, Gideon and Thwaites could just be seen, too far away to overhear, not too far to know that something was being said.

  “What difference do the police make?” Falconer demanded impatiently.

  “Richard, I—I should have told you long ago, but I—I didn’t know it might matter. Two of the Monets and one of the Cellini caskets in the long gallery were” - Oliphant caught his breath - “they were stolen.”

  “Stolen?” Falconer echoed unbelievingly. “And you knew it?”

  “Yes. I—I was offered them at very good prices, and—well, I fell for the temptation of making a profit.” Oliphant sounded terribly distressed.

  “And you not only bought them on my behalf knowing them to be stolen, but made a fat killing,” Falconer said.

  “I—I could explain it if—You see, I had personal problems, and the dealers—”

  “We can go into this later,” Falconer said, in a forbidding voice. “Now you fear that the police may have come here for these stolen pieces?”

  “They—they have a search warrant,” Oliphant muttered.

  “I see. If they identify these works, I shall disclaim all knowledge of their being stolen. And in my case I shall require a full history of each purchase, the dealer involved, the money paid, and the commission you received.” Falconer nodded dismissal.

  He went downstairs, and as he did so the two men in the hallway turned: Gideon, massive and aggressive in the slightest movement, a man for whom Falconer had an instant respect, and Thwaites, for whom he felt nothing at all. He greeted them with a word and a gesture and led Gideon into the room where he had seen Robin Kell. If he felt any surprise that the other man did not follow them, he showed none. Brandy, glasses, and decanters were on a small table.

  “Will you—” he began.

  “No thank you, sir,” said Gideon. “I am Commander Gideon of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police and I would like some information from you, please.”

  “Have you traced my daughter?” demanded Falconer sharply.

  “We think we know where she is, sir. We have no reason to believe that she went there against her will or is missing in the official sense of the word.” Before Falconer could interrupt, before it was possible to judge the extent of his relief, Gideon went on in a flat, formal voice, “We have reason to believe that you have in your possession a painting, known as ‘The Prince,’ painted by the Spanish artist Velazquez, knowing it to be stolen. Is that true, sir?”

  There was a long pause, during which Gideon sensed the truth yet realized there was something here which he did not understand. Then the silence was broken by the clink of cups and the rattle of spoons on a silver tray. Lady Falconer, not Oliphant, brought in coffee, and hesitated in the doorway. Falconer seemed oblivious, but Gideon was quick to notice the woman and said: “Your husband may prefer to be alone, ma’am.”

  “No,” said Falconer quietly. “No. My wife knows about the situation. I told her earlier tonight, Commander. You are quite right. I have the painting. It was offered to me for a hundred thousand pounds. I was told that if I did not buy it, my daughter would be. killed. Did you give me to understand that you know where my daughter is?”

  Charlotte moved to a small table, and very carefully placed the coffee tray in position. She turned to Gideon, her eyes pleading.

  Very heavily but without any inflection in his voice, Gideon asked: “Was that before or after you telephoned Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, sir?”

  “After,” answered Falconer. “Some time afterward. I don’t think I would have had the courage to talk to him had I know the danger that my daughter was in. He—”

  “Who do you mean by ‘he’?” interrupted Gideon.

  “The man who offered me the painting, a young man named Robin Kell, or who called himself Robin Kell,” answered Falconer. “He warned me that if I consulted you, not only would he murder my daughter but he would destroy many Old Masters, paintings which he has stolen over a period of several years. And for what it is worth, I believe him capable of committing both crimes, Commander.”

  There was a long, tense silence before Thwaites said from the hall: “My God! That would be awful!”

  22: The Murderer

  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.”