The Picasso Scam dcp-1

by Stuart Pawson

  Des's call dragged me out of the morning briefing, before I'd had a chance to say my piece. "You've a good job," he declared. "Rang you last night but you'd already gone."

  "Home for a snatched bite, Des. We don't have the luxury of three-shift cover like you. How did the kids go on?"

  "Great!" I could hear him chuckling at the memory. "We gave them oilskins, and they came back looking like black slugs. Had to hose them down in the yard."

  I smiled at the picture. "What did they find?" I asked. "Any escutcheons?"

  "Not a one. I've two buckets here, filled with all sorts of bits and pieces, but nothing that looks antique."

  "Can you tell what they are?"

  "Yes," he replied. "Hundreds of nails, out of the floorboards; quite a lot of hinges the type used on modern kitchen units; a few handles made from aluminium or monkey metal; steel drawer sliders, that sort of stuff."

  "All MFI rather than Chippendale."

  "Exactly. What do you want me to do with it?"

  "Any chance of a brief report, saying what you've just told me?" I ventured, pushing my luck.

  "No problem," he replied.

  "Great," I declared. "In that case, if you don't hear otherwise from me in a day or two, you can chuck 'em in the skip."

  I thanked him for his help and promised to let him know the outcome. So far, over the months, I'd promised several people that I'd keep them informed. It was a tool I used to good effect: they gave me information, I satisfied their natural curiosity. It was a fair exchange. When the time came I'd run through the list and pay my debts. One of the unmentioned penalties suffered by the law-breaker is that he loses his right to privacy. His misdemeanours become public currency. Tough turds.

  "So what we need to know," I told Nigel, when I found him, 'is where are the antiques now?"

  "Abroad," he said.

  I'd decided that was the best bet myself. "Expand," I ordered.

  "Some of the pieces are quite well known, at least locally. The further away they are off-loaded, the safer it is."

  "Australia?"

  "Maybe not that far. America's a better market. If he sells them over there at a small profit, and gets paid out by the insurers, he won't have done too bad, will he?"

  "Then we'd better frustrate his efforts, hadn't we?" I pulled the Yellow Pages directory out of my drawer and slid it across to Nigel.

  "There are fifty-two entries under Shipping Agents in there, I've just counted them. One for every week of the year, except you haven't got that long. Give them all a ring and see who's done business with Brian Wheatley Developments lately."

  Nigel's face fell. "It'll take all week, boss," he stated.

  "Nonsense. Just pray that they're all computerised. You could always give your friend the auctioneer… I've forgotten his name…"

  "Mr. Somerby."

  "That's right, Somerby. Why not give him a ring, see if he thinks we're on the right lines. He might have a suggestion about who has experience in transporting antiques. What was it you were thinking of buying from him?"

  "A couple of paperweights, by a French maker called Baccarat. It's my parents' thirtieth anniversary soon; I thought they'd make a decent present."

  "Mmm, they sound nice. Give him a ring, see what he says. All in the third person, of course: no names. Then offer him twenty percent less than he's asking for the paperweights."

  "Right, boss. Can I use your office?"

  "Sure. Tell you what, I'll take Jeff Caton off what he's doing and let him help you. Fill him in with the details. I'll be upstairs, somewhere."

  Young Caton was on a futile mission knocking on doors at the Sylvan Fields housing estate, asking deaf and blind people if they'd seen or heard anything. He was glad to come in from the rain. I caught up with Gilbert and told him what we were doing.

  As soon as I was able to off-load most of the other pressing cases, by a combination of delegation or simply placing them back at the bottom of the heap, I went out to do some investigating of my own. One of the auction houses on the list of suppliers had been burgled about ten years previously, and I'd handled the enquiry. I decided to renew my acquaintance with them.

  The old gentleman who ran the place, Mr. Oliphant, was still there, looking appropriately older and frailer than before.

  "They'll have to shoot me to get rid of me," he said, after I'd reintroduced myself. "I don't do any auctioneering now, but I like to be surrounded by all these beautiful objects. The trouble with being in the business is that you don't make anything your own. Everything has a price, everything is for sale. My house is filled with bric-a-brac, but the good stuff goes under the hammer, I'm afraid."

  "That's business, Mr. Oliphant," I replied. "Sentimentality is a luxury neither of us can afford."

  "Quite, quite. Now, how can I help you?"

  I produced the list that Wheatley had supplied, and read from it: "Do you remember selling this item? It's an early Victorian mahogany drum table, inlaid with marquetry in a geometric design." I told him the price paid and the date of the sale.

  "Oh, yes," he replied immediately, "I remember it well. It was a superb piece of workmanship. It was perfect, except that someone had started writing a letter on it and pressed too hard, leaving an imprint. All the dealers said this ruined it, and fifteen thousand was way over the top, but I disagreed. I thought it added to the charm of the piece, but not many share my sensibilities. Anyway, this chap Wheatley obviously agreed with me, so he bought it."

  "I don't suppose you've a catalogue with a photograph or a fuller description, have you?"

  "Why, of course. Why didn't I think of that?" He rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way over to a bookcase. "What did you say the date of the sale was?" he asked.

  I told him, and in a few moments he produced the appropriate catalogue and found the page for me. I was studying it in a noncommittal way, wondering how else I would have used fifteen grand, when Mr. Oliphant enquired: "Is there a problem with it, Inspector? Has it been stolen?"

  "Yes," I answered, 'it's been stolen." Technically, I suppose it had.

  "This writing," I continued, 'was it possible to read what it said?"

  "Yes, but it wasn't anything enlightening or salacious, I'm afraid. It just said Dear… I think it was William. That was impressed into the marquetry, then it ran on to the mahogany and became too faint to read.

  I like to think it was written by a young lady, too distraught to realise what she was doing."

  "You're a romantic, Mr. Oliphant. Tell me one other thing. Which shipping companies would you recommend to export a collection of antiques?"

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nigel and Jeff beat me to it. When I arrived back they were beaming like they'd been invited to be guest speakers at a nymphomaniacs' convention. Nigel gave me a thumbs-up.

  "You were right, boss," he told me. "From now on, I'm going to listen to everything you say."

  "Go on," I prompted.

  "Well, I offered him twenty percent less than the reserve, and we settled for fifteen, all thanks to you."

  "Great. Did you say they were Baccarats?"

  "That's right. Why?"

  "They've got them in Pricefighter, at four quid for a box of six. They look very nice. Anything else?"

  "Er, yes, one other thing. A shipping agent called Big Ocean Transport picked up six crates of furniture from Brian Wheatley Developments five weeks ago. They were sent down to Southampton and packed into a container. From there they set sail last week on a boat called Alpha Carrymaster, bound for the Big Apple."

  "You mean New York?"

  "Yes, boss. We now know all about cargo manifests, customs papers and car nets Apparently the agents handle everything."

  Cocky sod. I drummed my fingers on the desk and gathered my thoughts.

  Big Ocean were on the list Mr. Oliphant had suggested.

  "When do they arrive in New York?" I asked.

  "Saturday morning, all being well."

  I drummed an
d thunk some more. "Where's the Alpha whatsitsname registered?"

  Nigel's smile slipped. Got him. "Never asked, boss. Does it matter?"

  "Yes, it could be important. Have you got a passport?"

  "A passport?"

  "Yes, a passport. A thin book with your photo inside. Red now, but the proper ones were dark blue."

  "Yes, boss. Why?"

  "What about you, Jeff?"

  "You bet!" he replied with enthusiasm.

  Jeff Caton was every bit as competent as Nigel, but under his shadow in the personality stakes. In many ways he was more reliable, but lacked Nigel's occasional flair. They were a good combination.

  "Someone ought to go identify the loot," I explained, 'but first, we need to know what we are looking for." I produced the photo of the Victorian table that Mr. Oliphant had given me.

  "This is item six on Wheatley's list. We can further pin it down by some writing that's been imprinted either here or here, near the middle of a short side. We need more information like that, relating to three or four other pieces. See what you can find. Go together, but don't mess about: we've no time to waste. Meanwhile I'll see if I can raise permission for you to go over to the States."

  They were out of the office and down the stairs quicker than a Big Freddie's Steakburger gives you indigestion.

  Superintendent Wood wasn't in, so I bypassed him. As the cost of two fares to America wouldn't come out of his budget, it seemed reasonable to assume he wouldn't mind. I needed permission to go ahead from an Assistant Chief Constable, so I rang Trevor Partridge. Not long ago he'd been after my scalp, but Hilditch's suicide had put a more favourable complexion on our relationship. Now he was feeling aggrieved because he didn't land a promotion in the ensuing shuffle, but that was hardly my fault. He asked me how I was, listened to what I said, appreciated the hurry and gave me the okay. Thanks, Trev.

  The North American Tourist office in Leeds wasn't quite as accommodating, but I laid it on good and thick, and convinced them that there really was a conspiracy to assassinate Mickey Mouse that only we could foil. They eventually found places for Nigel and Jeff on the Friday morning flight from Manchester. I think the deal was that they had to help serve the meals, but I didn't mind. Today was Wednesday. I remembered that the pubs are open on a Wednesday round here, so I turned out the light and went to one.

  Interpol have an office in London. I rang them early next morning. I rang them again a little later, after they'd arrived. They were interested and helpful.

  "What authority do my men need," I asked, 'and can you find me a contact for them?"

  "All they need is authority from the local chief. We'll arrange that.

  We'll have to come back to you with a contact. Do you know where the boat is registered?"

  "Yes, Monrovia." I'd done my homework.

  "Okay. In that case it's important not to touch the stuff until it's on the dock. While it's on the ship it's out of our, or the American, jurisdiction. Stay there, we won't be long."

  They weren't. "Right, Inspector Priest, here's what's happening. Your boys contact Lieutenant Tony diP alma at 120th Precinct HQ. That's Staten Island. They look after the docks. We'll have somebody there, too. They want to hit the receiver at their end, so the suggestion is, if the identifications are positive, you liaise directly with diP alma and co-ordinate the raids. Is that acceptable to you?"

  I had a choice? "Sure, that's fine," I told him. "Can you give me a number for diP alma Suddenly the feeling hit me that I'd put Nigel and Jeff into something really heavy. They'd made one decent identification yesterday afternoon, and had gone straight on to the job this morning. I'd spoken to them both on the phone last night, and told them to pack a suitcase. I walked wearily up the stairs to Gilbert's office and informed him of what I'd done on his behalf.

  "What was Partridge's attitude?" he asked, when I'd finished. He was making small talk while he juggled the situation in his mind.

  "Helpful," I replied. "He didn't raise any objections at all."

  "Mmm, that's how I find him. Pity he didn't land the Chiefs job. We really ought to make young Newley acting sergeant, don't you think? His promotion should be through any time."

  "Yes, I was about to mention it. One of them ought to be upped, and Nigel's been in on it from the very beginning."

  "Right, I'll see what I can do." He fiddled with his pen, then said:

  "So what's the programme from now on?"

  "Tomorrow," I stated, 'is Friday. They fly to New York, introduce themselves to Loot… Lieutenant diP alma Saturday the boat docks.

  Sunday, hopefully, the container will be on United States territory and they'll have access to the contents. If we've done good we could be knocking on Wheatley's door sometime Monday."

  "Well it sounds straightforward enough. Charlie, how would you feel if we called in the Fraud Squad?"

  So that's why the old bugger was being so edgy. He was afraid I'd be annoyed at having my show taken away from me.

  "Come off it, Gilbert," I replied. "You know me better than that. Call in the Yorkshire Light Infantry if it helps. Why? What are you thinking?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry, it's just that you've a lot invested in this one. I was thinking he's probably up to his neck in all sorts of things. Why limit our enquiries to this little scam? They might be able to find something in his files."

  "Right, good idea," I replied. I was delighted with the suggestion.

  "Then we'll need a Special Procedures Warrant."

  "Signed by a judge," sighed Gilbert. "Shouldn't be too difficult to find a sympathetic one; they all live in houses stuffed to the rafters with quietly mouldering antiques."

  "Ah, yes," I told him, 'but they were new when they bought them."

  I drew a column of numbers on a sheet of paper, representing the twenty-four-hour clock, then I wrote another column alongside showing the corresponding time in New York and pinned the sheet on the wall. It looked as if diP alma should be at work so I dialled his number. He was around, somewhere. They transferred me. I was transferred several more times. Eventually a voice out of Damon Runyon came on and said:

  "Yes, Father?"

  "Pardon?" was the best I could do.

  DiP alma here. How can I help you, Father?"

  "Hello, Lieutenant. This is Inspector Priest, from the British police force; Charlie Priest. A couple of my men are coming over to see you, so I thought I'd make contact and introduce myself."

  "Ha ha! They just said some priest was after me. How are you, Charlie?"

  "Fine. I never actually signed a vow of chastity it's just worked out that way."

  "Hey, man, you must have married my wife's sister. Call me Tony. When do your boys arrive?"

  Acting Detective Sergeant Newley and Detective Constable Caton were taken to the airport by Mad Maggie and seen safely on their way. I'd given them strict instructions about contacting me after every stage of the enquiry. They were armed with photographs of several items from Wheatley's list and had spoken to three of the previous owners. From them they had received extremely detailed descriptions, so they were now able to positively identify at least four pieces. I'd have preferred it to be more, but it should be enough. I stayed in the office and wore out the carpet.

  When Maggie arrived back she reported that they were safely airborne and on time. "Oh, and Nigel said not to forget it's the walk on Sunday," she added.

  It had slipped my mind that it was the weekend for the Walking Club to go out. We'd had five or six expeditions and it had been a huge success, although a few were dropping out now the bad weather was here.

  "Dammit!" I said. "I had forgotten. Where are we supposed to be going?"

  "Edale," she told me.

  "Derbyshire. Ah, well, that's not too bad. We could be in the pub by lunchtime."

  Nigel rang me late Saturday night to say the Alpha Carrymaster had docked dead on schedule. Everybody was friendly and later that evening they were hitting the town with some of the
boys from 120th Precinct. I looked at my mug of cocoa and dressing gown and felt old, but decided I had no desire to trade places with him.

  The walk went well, even though it was misty on the high ground. We went over Kinder Scout to have a look at the Downfall. This is the only waterfall in the world where the water travels upwards. The breeze was obligingly from the right direction, so we had a good display, to the disbelief of those who hadn't seen it before. Then I showed Sparky's kids how to plot a compass course over the cloughs, back to Edale and the pub.

  I was home well before Nigel was due to ring. "Bad news, boss," he said when he did come on. "The container's off the ship, but we haven't been able to get to it. Should be okay for tomorrow."

  I wasn't perturbed; things never run as smoothly as planned. If this was the only hitch we'd done well. "Don't worry about it," I told him.

  "Ring me same time tomorrow."

  It would have been nice, though, to know we weren't on a wild-goose chase. I went upstairs to have a shower, then remembered I'd already had one, so, after making a couple of phone calls, I went to the local instead.

  I was grateful for the delay I awoke on Monday morning feeling dreadful. Must have been something I'd eaten. Fraud Squad were itching to get their hands on Wheatley's files. We were planning a cross-border raid to arrest him soon after we received positive news from Nigel, timed to coincide with similar action in New York. We reluctantly agreed to allow the Americans the pleasure of delivering a seven a.m. knock at the door; we'd have to be patient and wait until lunchtime.

  Nigel rang earlier than expected. He didn't mess about: "Success, boss," he told me. "We've identified the ink stain in the drawer of the Queen Anne bureau, that's item eleven on the list; the wrong hinge on item thirteen, George III writing cabinet; the bit knocked off the leg of item two, Chippendale dressing table "The chipped Chippendale," I said.

  "Pardon?"

  "Never mind, go on."

  "Er, and item six, the Victorian table with the writing, that you found."