The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  “Oh god, check out the cop,” Henry said. “He interrogated me with Mr. FBI. I hope he isn’t here as well. That’s him talking to a big guy with a crew cut and a bad suit.”

  Mel flicked back her long curly hair as she tried to keep a straight face. “Oh yes, I recognize him. How could I forget?”

  “I want to talk to him.” Henry dragged her over to where Grimble stood. The Soviet diplomat had spotted someone else to back-slap so Grimble was on his own again, surveying the crowd.

  “Inspector. Henry Lotus. Nice to see you here. Are you a fan of Omai?” Henry asked. “Or Captain Cook?”

  Grimble, who never forgot a face, could only stare at Mel. “Oh, how rude of me,” said Henry. “Allow me to introduce my good friend Dr. Mel Johnson. I believe you met before.” Henry took a friendly tone, although he wanted to say something he would regret later.

  “Yes, of course. Good to see a familiar face, or faces, here. I’m not one to go to gallery openings, just a plain copper.”

  The three of them shook hands and Mel smiled. “Inspector. There is nothing plain about you. I was impressed how you comported yourself in the long tedious interview with the FBI.”

  “Well, we both thought you weren’t telling us everything.” Grimble said.

  “I wasn’t,” said Henry. “Because, as I explained, of my security clearance. And it’s really unfair, such scrutiny. It’s harming my chances of getting a university post here.”

  “What do you think of the show?” Mel asked.

  “Interesting. Although the word seems overused here. So saying ‘interesting’ doesn’t say much, does it?”

  “Perceptive, Inspector, but what of the show?”

  “Lots of words on what? Panels? Seems geared to children, the way it’s presented. Didactic. I suppose they plan a lot of school tours.”

  “It’s the new thing in exhibits,” said Henry. “Lots of curatorial direction. Guiding you how to see and think. I guess we have to read the catalog to understand what’s going on.” There had been a pile of catalogs at the entrance, but neither Mel nor Henry had bothered to take one.

  Mel caught sight of Annie and excused herself. She made her way through the crowd to where Annie stood next to a tall young man with hair to his shoulders. He was dressed more casually than anyone else, with a brown corduroy jacket over a red-and-black plaid shirt and jeans, but he radiated confidence, as if he owned the gallery.

  “Hi, Mel. Mark, Mel. Mel, Mark.”

  Mark beamed his famous smile at Mel. “I didn’t know Annie had such amazing friends.”

  “You should see her boyfriend,” Annie countered as she saw Henry approach.

  “Mark fucking Rose! How are you, old man?” Henry’s face lit up.

  Mark hugged Henry and almost lifted him in the air. Henry tried to hug him back. “Where have you been?” Mark asked.

  “In the States. Doing research. Mel here rescued me, and here I am in God’s Own.”

  “Wow. It’s been how long?”

  “Quite a few years. I’ve lost count. Don’t tell me you’re still at uni?”

  “I got a grant to do a PhD, so why not?”

  Henry turned to Mel. “We were the Pipe Society at uni. Mark was the student rebel. I was the science nerd. We got on great.”

  “Pipe Society?” Mel asked.

  “Yeah. We imported pipe tobacco, rare brands, and had long weekly meetings where we sampled new tobacco.”

  Mark’s smile was wider now. “The most amazingly funny times ever. All with perfectly legal pipe tobacco.”

  “We were both in the Order of the Iron Lung,” Henry recalled.

  Mark laughed out loud. “It’s the most exclusive order, anywhere.”

  “Are you based here, Mark?” Henry asked.

  “Got a pad in Parnell, but I live on a commune in Hokianga.”

  “No way! Mel and I were just there.”

  “Should’ve dropped in and had a few drinks. We brew our own mead and other stuff.” Mark beamed at Mel. “Great place. Like paradise. Trouble is, it takes a lot of work to run it and no one wants to work too hard. The trouble with socialists, they want all the glory but not the sweat.” Mark laughed again. “Look, let me give you my addresses, we can keep in touch. Can’t believe you’re here. Our little country, but it’s all good.”

  Mark wrote out his contact information on a scrap of paper he found in his jacket and promised he would keep in touch. He marched off to another group of people and started a loud conversation.

  Mel kept talking to Annie while Henry announced he would look for drinks.

  “Is he always so hyper?” Mel asked.

  “Oh yes. He never lets up, at least when he’s with me. Big smile, big personality. Probably bi-polar with lots of issues, but he always puts on a great show. He was a student leader. I think he still is. Hate to see him when he crashes, but maybe he won’t.”

  In his search for wine Henry came to a crowd around an oil painting. Off to one side he saw a young man with a camera talking to a taller, younger man in a similar outfit. The navy-blue suit looked from the Thirties, the bright red pocket square like a declaration of war. They were in an animated discussion and Henry listened in.

  “You can’t expect me to believe this, the new way of showing art? It’s not even conceptual. Just a load of trinkets and lots of writing on fancy labels. Cook is the only serious painting in the show. Rather meager, isn’t it? Would be cool to have all the Captain Cook portraits ever painted in one room, in chronological order, like a deity, like he was thought of by some. It would be a Pacific temple to one of the world’s greatest explorers.”

  “Not my show. I like the portrait, though. Painted in transit.”

  “Yeah. Must’ve been. So, you’re liking Wellington, Alexander? And don’t point that camera at me, makes me nervous.”

  “Oh, yes. Apart from the weather, the light and the wind. Are you still at uni, Nicholas?”

  “Doing a PhD on Tristram Shandy.” Nicholas nodded to Tsara, who stood to one side and ignored him. He was not introduced to her.

  “God, it’s the only book you’ve ever read.”

  “You can talk. Anyway, I’ve got to go, I hate these things. Only came to see you. We must catch up. You here for long?”

  Alexander waved his hand. “A few days.”

  “See you around.” Nicholas nodded again to Tsara, who did not smile back.

  Alexander was saved by Henry who came up to him and asked, “What do you think of Captain Cook?”

  “He’s my ticket to get here. Excuse me, I am being obtuse. I’m Alexander Newton, a curator at the National. I shipped him up. And this is my friend, Tsara Burton.”

  Henry bowed to Tsara, clearly admiring her tight velvet dress. He went to kiss her hand but turned around instead and saw Mel had followed. She gave Henry a questioning look. Without missing a beat, he introduced her to the new couple. “Alexander here brought the Captain up to Auckland for the show. He’s the curator at the National Art Gallery.”

  “Rough seas?” Mel asked.

  “Yes, but put him on a plane, he’s a great travelling companion. Apparently they were worried about him.” Alexander looked at Mel properly for the first time and lost his train of thought. She was not beautiful in the traditional sense, nor handsome either, he thought, she was more than just handsome, she was gorgeous. Plain fucking gorgeous in a unique way. Her skin was white but glowed, her black hair had long curls and glistened. She had an understated but confident manner about her. Her black pant suit accentuated her sensual figure. And her eyes … He tried to discern their color. Were they golden, or amber? When she moved her head, they changed in the light, with green specks, like jade. Then her boots! No one else in the gallery wore Doc Martens. His mind started to wander, and he shuddered. He tried to get back into the conversation. Something had shifted inside him, something he could not comprehend. Women in high heels and cocktail dresses were looking at Mel instead of at the painting. The way she stood with h
er legs planted apart made her look in command, as if she couldn’t care what other people thought of her.

  “He looks okay to me,” Mel said, played with locks of her hair. She glanced at Alexander then back at the Captain.

  Lest he make his interest in Mel too obvious, Alexander turned to Henry. “In all his three-quarter glory, before he gets killed by the Hawaiians.”

  “Some say it was all his fault. Failure to understand the culture he was a guest in.”

  “Have you read the catalog?”

  “No, I just had a really good history teacher.”

  “Are you a historian?”

  “Theoretical physicist.”

  “Are you working at uni here?”

  “Sore point. Was working in the States but here? No one will hire me.”

  “Because? Sorry. It’s none of my business. We’re supposed to admire the carvings.” Alexander turned to Mel again but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  She smiled at him. “I’m not very good with the light-hearted chatter you’re supposed to engage in at openings. What about you?”

  “I’m just here because I’m working.” He held up his camera as defense, but what he wanted to do was take photos of Mel. He tried not to stare at her and lowered his camera. He let out a deep breath and turned to his guest. “Tsara here wanted to see the show too.”

  Tsara just smiled and looked at Mel and Henry.

  “What do you specialize in? You know, theoretically?” Alexander asked Henry.

  “Energy and gravity, but if Mel hears any more of my babbling about physics, she’ll launch a roundhouse kick at my head. In those boots. And she never misses.”

  “You do karate?” Alexander asked Mel.

  “I mix it up a bit. Kung fu, some Okinawan karate and ju-jitsu. I teach at a dojo in Ponsonby.”

  “I should attend a class while I’m here.”

  “It’s for women only,” Mel replied. “But you’re welcome to watch. In fact, we could do with a male body to practice on.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t get hurt. Much.”

  • • •

  Most of the guests had left when Alexander saw Colin again. “I keep on hearing rumors about the party, Colin. You seem to have a reputation.”

  Colin shrugged. “Oh, you know what it’s like. Rumors.”

  Tsara smiled at Colin, then asked Alexander, “Can we go now? I’ve seen enough.”

  Outside Alexander noticed two security guards were still present, but they were in the courtyard facing Kitchener Street. He had two frames left in his camera so he squeezed the shutter at waist-level.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Alexander arrived late at the gallery on Sunday afternoon. With no set hours he did not want to make a habit of arriving early. He had a hangover. Police cars and vans blocked Kitchener Street and part of Wellesley Street. He thought, “Has there been a murder?”

  The entire gallery was closed. Alexander mentioned Inspector Grimble’s name to the constable at the door, who radioed to someone who gave the clearance for him to step inside. Sergeant Cadd met him in the lobby and escorted him upstairs. Colin and the director gazed at the empty space on the wall where Captain Cook should have been.

  “I’m sorry,” Colin muttered.

  “What about?” Alexander asked.

  “The party last night.”

  “Oh. The party.”

  Inspector Grimble appeared around the corner and headed to where the others had assembled by the empty frame. “The powers in Wellington are upset but fully confident we can locate and restore the painting. I am to assume control of the investigation and I’d like to start interviewing everyone who was here last night in, ah, an office?”

  Colin raised his hand and said the best place was the library. He would set it up now.

  “Good. And I need a word, please.” The inspector walked Colin towards the library. “Is it possible to get a good color reproduction of the painting and put it in the frame. I mean today? Do you have a decent negative?”

  “Actually, we do. I had a large-format negative made as soon as we had it installed. I can run over to the color lab we use, and they can print it out immediately. I’ll tell them you’ll arrest them all if they don’t cooperate!”

  “You tell them. And I will.” Grimble tried to smile as they marched into the library. “Come along, Cadd. I want you to compile a list and take notes.”

  “I already have the guest list and I added a few other names as well. Ready when you are.”

  “I have instructions the gallery is to open as soon as the new color photo is installed,” Grimble said. “Could you tell your director?”

  “He’ll be pleased,” said Colin, and left the policemen to it.

  • • •

  “You only saw two security guards in front?” Grimble asked Alexander again.

  “Yes. Two tall Maori, with black polo necks and blazers. Tough and serious-looking.”

  “Were they inside or out?”

  “Inside, I think. Yes, inside. Hang on. No, they were outside. Why? Were there more than two?”

  “You had your camera?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you took photos?”

  “A few.” Alexander thought of the photos he had shot at Colin’s party. Not the sort of images you would share with a policeman. They had been on fast color film Colin had given him. “Let me develop them and I’ll show you. I can use the darkroom here.”

  • • •

  Grimble had been informed of the missing Captain Cook portrait as soon as Cadd arrived at the gallery. He called the commissioner.

  “What’s the situation, Grimble?”

  “Well, sir, the painting’s missing. Stolen.”

  “How could it walk out of the gallery?” The commissioner spoke slowly when he was annoyed, as if speaking to a naughty child.

  “It was there when we closed a little after ten. Sergeant Cadd was in the room the entire evening.”

  “I see. I’ve stopped the papers from printing anything today. If we keep it quiet, it might force whoever did it to show their hand.”

  “Do you think it’s political?”

  “Grimble, really. Have you thought it through?”

  “You know me, sir. I don’t jump to conclusions. We’re still collecting information.”

  “Quite right.”

  “We’ve put out an all-points bulletin at the ports, the airport. It could be rolled into a tube and taken out of the country. We’re searching everyone. But I doubt it’s been stolen to sell here. It’s too well known. What private collector would want it? Which leads me to an alternate theory I don’t want to explore just yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the painting might be held for ransom.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Maori.”

  “What Maori?”

  “Take your pick. Plenty of them want to make a name for themselves. Mana. And I don’t want to mention his name, but Wiremu Wilson could be behind the kidnapping. He seems to be a leader others are talking about.”

  “Oh god! Captain Cook kidnapped by Wiremu Wilson? Can you imagine the political consequences? Let’s keep it under wraps for now. But have a plan, Grimble. We need to act quickly to defuse the situation and seize the initiative.”

  “Yes, commissioner. I’ll do my best.” Grimble heard beeping as the commissioner cut the call. Why, he thought, did he say, “I’ll do my best”? He always said phrases to his boss he regretted later. If a subordinate told him “I’ll do my best” he’d yell at them.

  Grimble caught Cadd in the library between interviews. “What did the young woman with the clipboard say?”

  “She swore there were two extra security guards. Maori, she said. Seemed rather nice.”

  “Did you get her phone number?”

  “I have everyone’s contact information, including any phone numbers they have.” Cadd replied with a straight face.

  “I suppose you haven’t been
able to call, let alone interview, the Soviet diplomat?”

  “No. I don’t even have any contact information for him here in Auckland. But funny you should mention him—I saw him talking with an old student radical. Mark Rose.”

  “How do you know Rose?”

  “I only arrested him three, four times. Student demos. Anti-Vietnam War protests. He was, is a troublemaker, a professional agitator, used to be with the Young Communists. I swear they were funded by the Soviets, but no one would listen to me. I was in uniform, a mere constable. Too political, they said. So I shut up and just arrested him whenever I could.”

  “Where were they talking?”

  “In the gallery, near Captain Cook. Didn’t talk long, but it appeared they knew each other and were planning something, what I don’t know, but didn’t want it to show. You know how some things just don’t look right?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.” Grimble nodded. “Nothing looks right here.”

  • • •

  “Yes, commissioner. We are getting the substitute portrait and we should be open tomorrow. Catelin’s man here took photos during the opening. I have two photos showing four Maori security guards, which is perplexing to their security director who swears they hired just two extra guards at the entrance for the opening. I have to interview a few more people, but we saw the Soviet diplomat, Nikolai Raganovich.”

  “I thought he had flown back to Moscow. What was he doing there?”

  “He wasn’t on the invite list.”

  “Who let him in?”

  “Probably the girl with the list. He could talk his way into anything. He was seen talking to a student activist, Mark Rose.”

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence?”

  “I don’t know yet. Whoever stole the painting pushed it out of the frame and walked out with the canvas. I have no idea how that could happen. Everybody here inspected the painting and the frame after it was installed. So how this came about is a mystery to me.” Grimble paused. “The security here is not very good, although it passed an international test I’d never heard of. There are four master keys. We have accounted for all four and interviewed everyone. They have a rudimentary alarm system and a night guard who seems to sleep in a closet for most of the night. We have yet to see him at the gallery. He doesn’t have a phone. And there is no CCTV. Apparently, it’s too expensive for the gallery’s budget.”