Tinplate

by Neville Steed

  At 12.47 p.m. our prayers were answered. Treasure had felt almighty enough to need a Silver Cloud image, and had not come in the Land-Rover. The flying lady on the bonnet shone in the noon day sun as Derek skipped and jumped gaily into the car almost as soon as it had drawn to a stop. I prodded Gus in an amidships bandage, and he was starting the car before I had withdrawn my elbow. Amazing man. We kept well behind that silver boot, but close enough to have it nearly always in our sights. And it was not long before we were entering Poole, and making for the water-front. I wondered where Treasure would choose to park, and hoped it would not be too overlooked by office buildings or the like. At least the car could never be seen from the Wharfside Restaurant, unless it was floating in the harbour. As it would happen, where he chose was neither great for us, nor particularly disastrous. It seemed to be a private carpark, belonging to one of the large blocks that have sprung up in Poole in recent years. There was no attendant that we could see, and the car-park was obviously on the services side of the block, for there were precious few windows, but lots of pipes, lift-shafts, ventilators and the like.

  We parked further up the street and waited. In two minutes Treasure emerged with Derek. They marched off seawards, and were soon out of sight. Gus carried out the nearest approximation to a U-turn that he could muster (it was nearer to a ‘z’ than a ‘U’), and in a moment we pulled up alongside the Rolls, the comparison being, definitely, odious.

  I got out and told Gus to stay put until I had checked out fully whether there was an attendant. I strolled nonchalantly around for a minute or two, but was not accosted. I signalled to Gus, and he emerged from his Ford sarcophagus, and went over to the Rolls. I stayed where I was, by the entrance, in case Treasure came back, or worse, I saw any sign of the law. But bless him, Gus had learned a trick or two from his old garage-owning uncle, and soon I heard the clunk of the Rolls door opening. He walked quickly over and got in behind the large black wheel. I went round to the passenger side, and he leaned across and let me in.

  ‘Well, done, Gus,’ I breathed. ‘Now what about the ignition?’ I pointed at the lock, then saw Gus had already inserted a key. I just hoped he could handle such a big car.

  ‘Bet it works,’ said Gus proudly.

  He turned it and pressed the starter.

  ‘It works,’ I emitted with amazement. He clumsily waggled the gear lever into ‘drive’, and we were off, in wall-to-wall leather and walnut, for a nice little run into the country.

  ‘We’ve got half an hour or so,’ I said, as poor old Gus tried to get used to the huge size of the car.

  ‘A lifetime,’ he smiled beside me. And he looked the proudest set of bandages I’d seen for a long while.

  *

  We made for a deserted track that Gus knew, over towards Wareham St Martin, where he swore no one would be able to see us. I was terrified we would get stopped on the way by some uniformed officer on the look-out for a stolen Silver Cloud, or just curious about the bizarre sight of two obvious hospital cases in such a grand vehicle; but we led charmed lives, and pulled into the field without a moment’s trouble. Gus had been right — there wasn’t even as much as a cow to be curious about our goings-on. It had all been so easy — it almost seemed a crime.

  I told Gus I would search the inside of the car, if he would tackle the boot lid with his cracksman capabilities. He mumbled something and disappeared around the back. I dealt with the front first: glove locker, map pockets, under the dash, and under the seats. There seemed nothing unusual there. I then got in the back, and checked the picnic tables, cocktail cabinet, pockets, and wrent on to remove the rear seat cushions, as if I were still examining the Bing limousine. But no, there was no coffer of jewels to be found here. And no diaries either.

  It was then I heard the distant sound of rending metal, and looked through the rear window to see Gus standing triumphantly with a bloody great tyre lever in his hands. Slowly the rear window lifted up with the rest of the boot lid, and I could both see and speak to Gus with ease.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Gus? Why didn’t you use the keys?’

  ‘I did. They didn’t seem to work. Must be the special conversion has a special locking system.’

  ‘Well, it’s plain it doesn’t any longer,’ I grimaced, but it was pointless to waste time remonstrating at this late stage, so I got out and joined him round the back.

  As you might imagine, the finish inside the boot was as immaculate and luxurious as the rest of the interior, and I had to get the tyre lever away from Gus to keep it that way. He seemed to find its use much more stimulating than a Wilmot-Breeden car key, or even a credit card.

  We found the gun compartment immediately — and number fifty-six in Gus’s collection of keys flicked it open. But the velvet-lined interior was quite empty — not even a cartridge case to bear witness to its proper (or improper) purpose. Atop the spare wheel well was a splendid, inbuilt picnic set with matching electric kettle and flasks. I leaned forward and unclipped the fastenings of the rear seat-back, and it folded forward onto the seat cushion with silken ease, opening up a huge area of luggage space akin to that of an estate car. You could have got a stag in there.

  I could see no other compartment at all. Mr Harold Radford’s special conversion did not seem to have accommodated diaries. I looked at Gus. He looked at me. And then down at the tyre lever in my hand.

  ‘No Gus, I’m not going to smash the car to pieces to find the diaries. Besides, Treasure doesn’t do that every day when he’s in a writing mood, you have to agree.’

  We took a last look around the boot, then refixed the rear seat and slammed the boot lid really hard to get it to stay down. Somehow or other, the broken lock seemed to hold, but for how long, we could not be sure. And neither of us could bring ourselves to speak of our mammoth disappointment at not finding a trace of the diaries.

  ‘I’m going to sit in the back,’ I declared. ‘I’ve always wanted to be chauffeured round in one of these.’

  Gus didn’t argue, and I felt it might actually help our credibility on the journey back to Poole. Wounded, rich landowner with bandaged chauffeur, both injured at shoot, don’t you know — Carruthers’ gun went off accidentally. Silly bugger, should have known better. Never invite him again — drum him out of the club and all that.

  Well, we were half way back to Poole when I found it accidentally — a little chrome button behind the centre armrest in the rear seat. I pressed it, and the deep, thick cushion of the left-hand seat-back split in two, and one half folded forward to reveal the other section — a hollow, red leather-lined area full to the brim with diaries of every size and colour. Gus almost ran into the kerb when he saw through the rear-view mirror what I had found. He pulled to a stop immediately, but I shouted for him to go on and I would gather up the diaries whilst he drove. Gus restarted, but found it even more difficult than usual to keep his attention on the road, so excited were we both with the discovery. At last we had traced the treasure chest of our arch adversary, as you might say, and I could not wait to see what evidence it might contain.

  Before we had arrived back at Poole, I had discovered that by pressing the button twice, the right-hand seat-back copied the left, and a further selection of diaries came to hand. Directly Gus had laboriously parked the Rolls and relocked it, he helped me transfer the find into the rear of the Ford Popular, and we rattled off. But this time we took the long overland route back to Stud-land, for neither of us had any desire to be accosted by Mr Treasure whilst waiting for the undoubted extra convenience of the ferry.

  Thirteen

  Taking the long way home may have been our saving, or our undoing — it’s difficult to tell. But it gave time for the ogre of Doom Abbey to react after, no doubt, finding his boot lid somewhat resculptured by dear old Gus’s efforts to open it, for when we jerked to a halt outside ye old Toy Emporium, we knew we’d had uninvited guests around. The door was open and the glass cracked. Our normal customers usually wait until I unlock the door
and am open for business.

  My first instinct was to high-tail it away again, as fast as Gus could drive. But before I could indicate my intentions, Gus began sounding the car horn, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!

  ‘What the hell are you doing that for, Gus?’ I yelled.

  ‘Let ’em know we’re back.’

  I almost hit him with my plaster.

  ‘You …’ (I couldn’t think of a word extreme enough, and while I was hunting for one, the sense of what Gus was doing suddenly hit me. I changed my tack a little.) ‘… genius,’ I said, and forced a smile.

  He bowed his bandages. ‘Now everybody’s looking at us, even if they are inside, they daren’t attack us, would they?’

  I looked out of the car window. Quite a crowd was already collecting, mainly of small boys on the glad way home from school.

  ‘What the matter, mister?’ one set of freckles shouted, ‘Got your plasters stuck on the button?’ He looked around for applause from his friends, rather like a guest on the Bob Monkhouse show. My eyes were riveted on my cracked front door, but nothing came out, not even Bing. And that feline thought gave me bravery I thought had been lost at Thermopylae. I leapt out of the car, and rushed into my shop, ignoring Gus’s shouts not to be such a bloody fool.

  But I found no one when I got inside — except Bing, who was fast asleep on the settee. So much for the concept of owning a watch-cat. What I did find was not very amusing. Chaos. Everything that could be opened, was — and a lot that couldn’t as well. Everything that could be overturned had been, and that included my glass cabinets and their precious inmates, which were scattered all over the counters and floor. I couldn’t begin to reckon how much stock had been damaged, the confusion was so total. The subtle signature of Ken Gates was not hard to define. I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder. I whipped round, and raised my good arm.

  ‘Don’t hit me. I didn’t do it.’ It was only Gus, who had crept in quietly without my hearing him. How he did it through all that broken glass, I’ll never know. His great feet certainly did not look like a ballet dancer’s, even swathed in mutton cloth.

  ‘Gus, what are we going to do?’ I said weakly.

  ‘Board the door up, and get out of here quick. Then we’ll think.’ And he moved with the speed of light into the kitchen and almost instantly was back with a hammer, nails and the length of wood I kept for Bing to scratch his claws on.

  At least by the time he’d finished, we had the shop secured against, well, anyone under twelve years old or so, until we’d had breathing space to inform the police, and Trevor Blake in particular. Once back in the car, Gus turned to me and grinned.

  ‘I did the door. Now you do the next move.’

  ‘Westwards,’ I said, with surprising decision.

  He laboriously turned the car round and headed towards Swanage and Corfe.

  ‘Which one?’ he asked at the fork off to Swanage.

  I pointed right. But we weren’t going to Corfe, of course. We were heading for a certain nursery in Owermoigne.

  *

  Now I don’t know whether you’ve ever called on anyone for the first time, covered in bandages and plasters, and asked if you could have sanctuary because the baddies were after you. Well it causes the reaction to be a little circumspect, however hospitable and generous natured your host may be in different circumstances. I’m sure it was only the mention of Arabella’s wonderful name that prevented her cousin having a seizure or screaming for help. Even then, she looked more than somewhat dubious. Put yourself in her trembling shoes.

  ‘I’m afraid Arabella has taken a load of bedding plants to More-ton Station to put on the train. But she won’t be long. You’d better come in, Mr … er …’

  ‘Marklin. Peter Marklin.’ I came to her aid. ‘And Gus Tribble.’

  ‘Philippa Stewart-Hargreaves,’ she smiled graciously, and stood aside to let us in. She didn’t mention being a ladyship. In a way, she didn’t need to — there was a quiet confidence about her that said it all. She was around thirty-five, a brunette, a damned sight more attractive than most ladyships I’d never met. Browner too.

  She led us into a smallish living-room that was nothing like I’d been expecting. Mind you, nor was the house; it was modern for a start — very modern, but ‘compact’, as the estate agents term the not so big. The most striking feature was its vast expanse of sloping roof that shone with what I took to be solar panels. Inside, everything seemed to be white and cool except for the sweep of the timber frames that were left natural wood. You could imagine an Ingmar Bergman heroine being sensually enigmatic in it, if not downright incomprehensible. Meanwhile, I was just a bag of nerves.

  Lady Philippa sat down on an oatmeal-coloured settee that was in its natural Habitat, and indicated two more chairs for Gus and myself. I sat down, but Gus suddenly turned and walked out.

  ‘Your friend?’ Our hostess looked at me anxiously, and crossed her long slim legs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered. ‘He’s quite right. We’ve left some vital evidence in the car, and he’s gone to get it. I’d better go and give him a hand, if you’ll excuse me.’

  She smiled and I left. But her elegant bare legs had reminded me of Arabella, and I prayed she hadn’t taken it into her head to drive straight from Moreton to the ‘Toy Emporium’, for I had a feeling there was a really nasty chance she’d never get there.

  *

  ‘When are you going to ring the police?’ Gus asked, as we carried the diaries inside. ‘I thought you would be getting on with that while I was fetching these.’

  ‘I’ve had second thoughts,’ I said, puffing with the effort of keeping hold of the stack of diaries under my good arm.

  ‘Ha’penny for them,’ Gus muttered, somewhat disgusted.

  ‘I want to read the diaries first. If I ring Blake now, he’ll take them all away, and if there’s nothing incriminating in them, Treasure’s got us over a barrel for pinching them. Whereas if we skim through the relevant ones quickly, and there’s nothing horrid, we can plonk them back on Treasure’s doorstep with an abject apology.’

  Gus paused at the front door, before going back in. ‘Well, it’ll have to be quick, old dear. And, come to think of it, if there’s nothing incriminating in them, why did he have your house done over looking for them?’

  ‘Easy. First, anyone can see Treasure’s got a short fuse when his back is put up. Second, diaries are about the most private of all private possessions, aren’t they? However innocent, no one would want the whole world reading all about one’s most intimate thoughts and actions, least of all someone with the tendencies of Mr Treasure.’

  Gus sniffed and went inside. I followed, and saw his point. Maybe I just didn’t want Blake getting all the kudos while I did all the flaming work.

  *

  I looked at my Seiko, and Lady Philippa smiled sympathetically.

  ‘She’ll be back soon. I expect she waited for the train to come in. It’s sometimes late.’

  I prayed she was right. Three minutes later I heard a crunch on the gravel outside, and rushed to the huge windows. But it was only an ancient black Wolseley, driven by a white-haired lady of at least three times the car’s venerable age.

  ‘That’s Mrs Duck. She’s come for her cabbage plants, I expect,’ my hostess remarked softly. ‘I wonder if you could move your car to let her get through up to the glasshouses.’

  The car! I’d forgotten it was a dead give-away as to where we were. But Gus had seen the look in my eye and was already making for the door.

  ‘I’ll find a field to stick it in,’ he mumbled, ‘behind an ’edge.’ And he was gone.

  I watched Mrs Duck get her cabbage plants from Philippa up amongst the six or so long glasshouses that lay some 150 yards from the house itself. It was a kind of idyllic country scene: the old family car, the old lady, the local nurseries, the cool lady owner, the sunshine on the fields. Its contrast with my own predicament became almost too painful to bear. I turned away, and to fill th
e time, began rummaging through the piles of assorted sized volumes that were now stacked on the sitting-room floor. Some were as big as pretentious office diaries, others — the minority — only of the Lett’s School-boy variety.

  I didn’t bother thumbing through every volume; in general, Treasure’s private life was his own affair and should remain that way. I knew the dates I was interested in: the time of my Channel crossing earlier in the month, and March 1981, when his wife disappeared off to Lausanne, or God knows where. So that’s where I started, and it didn’t take long to find them. By this time Gus was back and he joined me, kneeling on the floor, puffing from his exertions in, no doubt, running back from where he had concealed his motor.

  ‘Come on, Peter, get it over with. We’re sitting ducks while we’ve still got these bloody books.’

  I didn’t need urging. I speed-read like there was no tomorrow (which was likely at the present rate), and soon found all the evidence I needed for Treasure’s part in the theft of Monsieur Vincent’s toys in the diary for the current year. It was all noted down in precise detail, and detail not just of the facts, but of each and every emotion that those facts excited.

  It was that latter quality that made the reading so disturbing, for it was like looking through a window into the deep recesses of Treasure’s soul. I could hardly keep the diary steady in my hand as I absorbed its content. Apparently, he had heard of Vincent’s collection months before from a friend of his, who lived in the south of France. Treasure had approached Vincent to try and buy the toys, but the Frenchman had refused to sell to him. Some time later, he had heard from a business associate that Chalmers had an option on them and had commissioned me to appraise and purchase them. From pub gossip (poor old Gus, I never told him this bit) he had learnt the date of my trip and what route I was taking, and he had sent Ken Gates in the Land-Rover to wait at Calais for the return of my Beetle convertible. Gates had effected the switch on the crossing, in cahoots with one of the seamen on the car deck. (I wondered if it had been the spotty one.) The Land-Rover had been waved through Customs without being inspected, as greasy palms had been greased yet again. And that was that. No mention of any shadowing on the autoroute, and therefore, no Quinky. So, in all probability, she was entirely innocent of anything but lusting after yours truly, or she had been an emissary of Vivian Stone’s. After all, he had a red Ferrari, though what he might have gained by such an action, I couldn’t imagine. So I put Quinky in the steering wheel seduction category, and wished her better luck next time.