This way was harder, but it’d keep the Great Charter safe—at least until I knew who was doing what. And moving it from one part of the museum to another wasn’t stealing as such, was it? Which might get me a year or two remission of sentence.
More by luck than good judgment I found the place. Only two locked doors, and only one of those I actually had to damage so you’d notice. The trouble with security is that it’s its own enemy. It fades as more security is established. Like I mean a castle keep’s lived-in interior must have been less vigilant than the outer walls, right? The deeper I went, the less troublesome the security obstacles, the locks, the infrared beams that burglars call stiles. I hit the bookstacks after what seemed an age, yet I couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes. They’re the enormous subterranean library shelves, mile after mile, sealed under London’s streets and inaccessible except from the oh-so-secure museum’s center.
Once there I surpassed myself, only making five false starts before finding the loading point. I risked a quick switch of a light to check, spotted a couple of massive volumes waiting by the bay. No way out to the bright safe streets of London beyond, of course, but I didn’t need one. The Magna Carta, in its little frame, did. Light off. Apologizing like mad to the bigger tome—it was diagrams of some architectural monstrosity—I put my precious frame aside and began tearing out the pages’ centers, leaving a rim. It sounds easy, and isn’t. Easy with a Stanley knife, rotten with your fingers. It seemed to take an age before I’d ripped the damned thing enough. An hour? A few minutes, eleven at the most. I risked a flick of the light switch to see the books were aligned right, and put my bundle of excess diagrams on a topmost stack under a rank of volumes, all by feel.
Unhampered at last, but there was eerie flickering at the windows from lights in the central areas. I finally broke out on the north side—no, that’s too dramatic: I stood on a chair, opened the window and hauled myself up. I replaced my hood for the sake of all-blackness and skulked slowly across the open rectangular space to the north wing’s great windows. No lights in the map gallery’s long glass roof, so Footer’s hateful turnscrew doors were still presumably sealed. The museum’s metal-framed windows are ordinary glass, old as the hills—well, maybe forty years or so. Wired for sound of course; halfway up their tall lengths they have crisscross locked metal gating linked to London’s vigilant central Plod and Holbom police. The question was, could it stop me? Answer, hardly, though my exit would scarcely lack spoor.
Worn out and wearily past caring, but now unencumbered, I climbed to the first available sill. The hullabaloo, fading into a steady racket of shouts and whistles, was on the south, opposite, corner. I elbowed the glass in, put in a hand to try the catch. It was painted shut by layers of lazy painters—or decorators thoughtfully working to order? Another clamber. I heard somebody yell and another bloke answer as they searched the interior quadrilateral. I almost castrated myself on the points of the window gates, was saved by the many footholds on the inside, and dropped easily into the enormously long room thirty-four, the principal oriental gallery. It runs the entire length of the museum’s north side. Alarms sounded, but what was one more siren among friends? Now there was ample but weird light slotting in from the orange lamps of Montague Place.
The way out was a mirror image of the way in: Cross among the Chinese jades and ceramics, haul myself up the window’s gate, smash the glass and climb outside. This time I used my hood wrapped round my hand to avoid cutting myself, which I’d done with monotonous regularity. Facing Montague Place there’s a huge cellar-ditch, like an unfilled moat. That made me edge nervously along until I reached the north entrance’s fancier architecture.
I lowered myself into the street. For a second I almost fell from exhaustion. I hadn’t realized how drained I was, utterly spent. I was free, safe, in a London street. Dressed like a night-stealing Arab still, but self-rescued and whole. Civilization.
The one car parked along the central meters fired its engine. I walked over and got in, driver’s side of course because my least favorite titch’s legs were too small to reach the pedals.
"I knew you’d make it, Lovejoy!” Three Wheel Archie was so anxious to please.
“Don’t give me that gunge, you treacherous midget."
‘‘Lovejoy. What could I do? I had to scarper. I could see you were going to do some real shooting. I had to, mate.”
"Don’t mate me, you two-pint pot. You left me in there to get topped, you burke.”
"Honestly, Lovejoy.” All traitors wax indignant. It’s their only defense. “Who put the iron in the gold samovar? Who stuck by you all through that barmy filming, that—?”
"Archie.” I laid my head back on the rest, eyeing him. “Just shut up. Okay? One word. And turn that frigging engine off.” He obeyed, reaching over and subsiding into a pained silence. He lasted an hour before he risked asking. “Lovejoy?”
“Yes, friend?” I hadn’t slept, just thought thoughts.
“Why don’t we zoom home?”
“Because we’d not get ten yards. Friend.”
He was mystified, looked about nervously. "How come?” “Because they’re not that thick. Friend.”
“Don’t, Lovejoy.” He sounded broken. “I got scared. I hid in one of the smoke-gun containers.”
“Good on you. Friend.”
Another pause. Then, “Lovejoy? What happened?” “Somebody shot somebody. They’ll say it was me shot Seg.” "Dear me.” He never curses, swears. A real gentleman. “And somebody pinched something.”
There are pauses and pauses. He tried for a brief one, failed, finally cut a thirty-minuter. “So somebody finally did the big one, eh? Who’ll they blame, Lovejoy?”
“Guess, Archie.”
“On your tod, or with an accomplice?” His gravelly voice practically went falsetto.
For the first time I grinned, patted his leg. “Give you one more guess. Friend.”
“Oh my stars,” he croaked. "They’ll crisp you, Lovejoy.” We didn't speak again until they came. The motor’s clock said 5:30 A.M., and London's traffic was beginning to roll about in eager bits.
T
HE cop shop in Bow Street’s better outside than in—though they all are, aren’t they? It took eight peelers to take my statement, plus two secretaries with pretensions to learning, and four witnesses including Ray Meese. He was apoplectic with hate and rage.
"That killer murdered my movie!” he kept screaming until they took him away. Vance, Lofty, and Nick remained.
I told a simple little tale. Yes, I’d snuck in two army smoke canisters. Yes, I’d spoiled the film, admitting to a king’s ransom in damages. I was outraged and astonished when the inspector asked me about a real weapon. Shoot with a real gun, albeit percussion, at a living person? Not me. Kill anyone? Never! Intent to commit murder? What on earth for?
Sixty-nine questions later, all oft repeated, I signed my statement. They took my fingerprints. They showed me the percussion piece, and I said I’d never seen it before. Lofty and Nick, still not knowing what anything was about, were released about midday. They let Three Wheel Archie go home, after questioning him separately. He tried to have a word but they stopped him. I heard him shout so long from the corridor. That must have been about six o’clock, twelve hours or so after they’d arrested me. And nobody had mentioned any robbery. Especially, nobody’d mentioned the big M.C.
Corrigan, the boss, and his oppo Welch conducted me to view the body. I suppose they videoed the scene, me coming in all queasy into the Kings Cross mortuary and standing there sick as a dog while they uncovered Seg’s corpse.
It had a central chest wound and an additional one in the throat, complete with charred flash bums made as a percussion weapon had flung its heavy spherical missile into the flesh. The body was very very deceased.
Only it was Lorane.
I surrendered after that. Not to them. To fatigue. I must have slumped because that was it as far as I was concerned.
When I c
ame to, Wednesday after the bank holiday Monday, I read that the British Museum building, with its enclosed reading room core, remained closed. Normally I don’t read newspapers or other comics, unless they’re antique and therefore of interest, but that Wednesday I devoured the duty copper’s morning paper in my cell. I wasn’t named. Interviews with twenty or more Lake Bayon people were reported in gaudy detail. Hype ruled.
About the Magna Carta? Nothing.
Late that night Major Bracegirdle came, MacAdam alongside with two local blokes I recognized. It was an attempt to be friendly. I was offered a deal, cloaked in many hints of leniency, turning state’s evidence, an amnesty. All balderdash, because they aren’t empowered to offer bargains on behalf of the judiciary. I expressed eagerness to help, but couldn’t tell them more than I knew, could I? And a deal? About what? I asked innocently.
Nobody mentioned the M.C.
“You see, Lovejoy,” Bracegirdle said, "Seg’s turned queen’s evidence.”
“Against Ray and—?” I stopped. I’d nearly mentioned Clayton.
“Against you, Lovejoy.”
“The crux is,” MacAdam said from the doorway after a fruitless hour. “We know you were after something in the museum. Nothing’s reported missing so far. The one extra valuable—that gold teapot and things—you own, it appears. And you hired that hideaway Celtic cross, but all legit. Nothing to charge you with.”
"Except murder, eh? Seg escaped, did he?”
“Abdominal wound. Gunshot. But yes.”
“Pity,” I said evenly. I’d downed two out of three.
“But it’s completeness, see?” MacAdam said. “Loose ends irritate.” One loose tag was Seg’s real handgun. Of course, any number of accomplices would have vanished it in the uproar. “When are they opening the museum again?”
“Tomorrow, Lovejoy.” He waited. “Want to pop along?” “Wouldn’t mind. Better than here.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Tell you when it’s open, Mac.” And as he made to leave, "Any other weapons found there? Beside that antique muzzle- loaded percussion you mentioned?”
“I never mentioned muzzle-loaders, Lovejoy. I only said percussion.”
“Well, whatever.” Mistakes are my forte.
“Why do you ask, Lovejoy? Drop a couple of modern automatics as you bashed your way out?”
“Never mentioned automatics, Mac.”
“So you didn’t.” He didn’t look back as he left. I was put into my cell by a bobby who was disappointed I refused to play him at snooker.
Gabriella arrived next day. It was her turn.
“Not before time,” I said. The Bow Street mob have the dullest interview room in the known world. Talk about decor. Graffiti’d be an improvement.
“Good morning, Lovejoy.” Gabriella was pale, charming. “I’ve come alone, you see.”
“Is the museum open today?” First things first.
“Yes. All services.”
"Routine operations all round?”
"Yes.” She’d cottoned on that was what I’d been waiting for. My sigh of relief felt unending. I relaxed, sat back. We were on chairs six feet apart.
"I thought you’d never get round to it, love.”
“Where is it, Lovejoy?”
I glanced at the clock. Nearly midday. “Woolwich. Unless the traffic’s bad or your van driver’s got flu.”
Her eyes closed. She nodded. “The vehicles are garaged external to the museum. But you couldn’t have got it there, Lovejoy. We had your car and Three Wheel Archie on night scopes in Montague Place.”
“On record, I presume?"
“It’s not only filmmakers who own direction microphones.” She caught my interrogative glance and reddened. “No, Lovejoy. This place is tap free. We’re off record. I give you my word.”
“Ask away, then.” She was lying, of course. Nothing immoral; it’s just the way they are.
She asked, and I told her how I’d grabbed a priceless treasure, and where it lay snug in a tome of architectural drawings. “By the van loading bay. I reckoned they’d be loaded up and driven out as usual when you resumed normal activities.”
“Why not tell us before, Lovejoy?”
“Who?” I asked, matching her real anger. “Who should I tell? You? Bracegirdle? Don’t make me laugh, love. I had to wait until the bloody thing was safe in Woolwich Arsenal—you cackhanded security people might let a deadbeat like me nick it, but once it’s in the army’s tender care not even you could lose it.”
“Of all the offensive, nasty-minded—”
“Give it a rest, you silly cow.” I rose, walked about in fury. “You make me sick. How the hell could I’ve trusted you, straight off? You were pally with Meese, Lorane, Vance. Christ, you even let Seg in—a psychotic murderer—as an extra! I just don’t believe you nerks.”
She was on her feet in rage. “That’s unfair, Lovejoy!”
“Unfair?” I yelled. I could have given her a thrashing, stupid bitch. “Unfair? It was frigging me Seg was going to top, love. Not you admin coffee-drinkers playing whist in security. And much you did about it!”
"I should have expected this rubbish from a thief, Lovejoy!” She was blazing, hands clenched. We competed decibel for decibel.
"Thief, am I?” I bawled. "You admit murderous thugs, let them rip open the frigging Magna Carta’s cabinet, nick it, let them try to kill me, then have the frigging nerve to ...” I petered out. She’d gone white, almost reeled.
“The what?” Her lips were blue. “But it... it’s undisturbed, practically.”
“You didn’t know?” I closed my eyes.
“We ... we assumed that you ..she was speechless. Then almost whispered, “The smoke bombs. You’re on film throwing them. The autolift control was in your bag. The Magna Carta’s frame was almost pulled clear, but quite intact. We thought you’d been stopped in time . .
Good old Lorane, Vance, Meese, Seg.
“We simply remounted the Great Charter.” She began to shed tears. “An autogantry had hit against it. The frame was honestly intact, Lovejoy. It had only been pulled free of the security wires . .
What had I done? I remembered I’d fired twice, lifted the frame, fired again at somebody coughing close, then somehow scrabbled to the balcony. Either Seg or Lorane—whichever one I’d hit last—had been holding Sam Shrouder’s perfect replica concealed and ready to hand. Hearing the shots and somebody’s body tumble down, they’d assumed that I’d been shot as planned, and slipped the replica into place. So Lorane and Seg had been in collusion. I was in the clear. They’d both been pan of the Lovejoy annihilation squad.
Good old magic Sam, he of the miracle hands, to create a replica that took in this lot. I was proud of him.
"Sit down, love.” I led her gendy to her chair, pulled mine within reach and sat while she blubbered.
"Lovejoy. Tell me what happened.”
"Ready?” She nodded, blotted, sniffed. “Here goes, love. Listen carefully.” I sat back, hands behind my head. "Once upon a time, there was a deaf old coot name of Sam Shrouder. A genius faker. He had a pretty young wife who hatched a scheme to rip off the greatest museum on earth. It would be the ultimate scam, the very last gambado . .
"Ray Meese, Seg, Ben Clayton, and Mrs. Shrouder? All in it?” "Plus poor Lorane, two-timed throughout.” Why poor Lo- rane? She’d been helping to blam me.
"And the Magna Carta’s—?”
"Told you. In your own repository by now. The one in the Woolwich army garrison.”
She straightened up, quickly recovering her composure. "Actually that’s not quite true, Lovejoy.” She smiled. “I lied. The museum’s not yet open. Major Bracegirdle and I decided it would be injudicious to allow the public in when we were still uncertain whether anything had been stolen or not.”
"You lied, Gabriella?” I said, straight out of a Victorian melodrama. I even grabbed my lapels, very formidable, wished I had a moustache.
“Lies are sometimes necessary, Lov
ejoy." So sweet.
"Like about this interview, not being recorded?”
She smiled, fetched out a powder compact and did her face. “Of course.”
Well, that seemed to be it. I said conversationally to the ceiling. “Did you get it all, Mac?”
“Aye, Lovejoy,” a voice said from the light fixture. “All of it.” "Lovejoy!” Gabriella blazed. “How dare you! You suspected me? You got the police to bug my interrogation?”
“Why not? You’re now in the clear, Gabe,” I told her magnanimously. “You didn’t even know it was the Great Charter until I told you."
She snapped her compact away, ice. ‘‘Lovejoy. You are repellent, ridiculous, horrid.”
“Gabe.” I was suddenly worn out. “Stay in security, love. You’re too dumb to do a real job.”
A
wet Tuesday and the auction crowded. I went into a hail of hails, all derision.
“Wotcher, Lovejoy! How long’re you out for?”
“Bribery still works, eh, Lovejoy?”
“Shot any good dealers lately, Lovejoy?"
Old Midwinter the auctioneer is straight out of Little Dorrit. Bottle lenses, waistcoat, winged collar, an Adam’s apple that works at silent yodels. He peered down at my arrival, scribed a note that he passed to Dan, his nearest whizzer, who was desultorily shifting the dross on offer. I knew what the old sod was up to—ordering me slung out as undesirable, which is a laugh. Blackening an auctioneer’s name is lending Satan sin. Tinker’s melodious cough ripped through the smoke-filled fug, music to my ears. He approached, grinning, as the auction droned on through the clog of fakes and duds.
“Hiyer, son. I heard you got orf.”
“The innocent do, Tinker.” A lie. Innocence is luck, a terrible truth law ignores. “Anything in?”
“Funny teacup, for blokes with a tash.”
Interesting. “Moustache cup? If it’s for a left-hander go for it. They’re twice as valuable as right-handers. Owt else?”
“Funny teapot, sailor with three legs. One leg’s the spout. Horrible.” It wasn’t the teapot’s design made him shudder; it was the thought of actually drinking tea. Tinker growled, hawked, spat on the bare flagged floor. “They’re going mad over it.”
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