by Don Jacobson
Both vehicles pulled off toward Winters’ assignation.
When his taxi pulled up in front of the eatery at 332 Bethnal Green Road, Winters paid the driver, but demanded he wait, holding him by passing over half a £100 white. The trailing hackney had parked about 50 yards behind, three pairs of watchful eyes tracking their prey across the sidewalk and into the café. Then the passengers exited and ambled down the walk to enter the restaurant about a minute after Winters. They installed themselves at the bar and ordered whiskey. Their vantage point had a clear view of the entire facility.
Marius scanned the room, foggy from an evening’s worth of cigarettes burned in a space closed against the February chill and damp. He had no idea to whom he needed to apply. A white-jacketed captain eagerly approached him, recognizing the expensive cut of Winters’ bespoke overcoat above Peal and Company oxfords. Winters’ body language oozed quality and a purse greater than the usual run of Pellicci’s customer.
Winters presented the note to the floorman whose eyebrows shot up, and his attitude altered the moment that he caught the green cross. With near reverence, he returned the note to Winters and begged that he follow. He led the way through the crowded room to a rear-wall banquette where three men lounged over filled ashtrays and half-finished pints.
Before the double star came too close to the trio, a pair of bulky men stepped from the room’s perimeter to bring the procession to a halt. The captain bowed himself away, returning to his other duties. Winters again surrendered the note which was handed across the white cloth to the older man in the center. The other two, identical twins, stared with poorly disguised curiosity. The elder looked up at the guards and nodded.
Hands expertly frisked Winters who had, wisely, chosen to arrive unarmed. They relieved him of his billfold which they tossed upon the table in front of the man who was clearly the leader. While Marius re-arranged his clothes, agile fingers rifled through the contents of his wallet. The sheaf of high denomination bills vanished into a pocket. Then the chief addressed Winters.
“You migh’ consider that my commission for agreein’ ta meet’cha. Sit’cha down. Me name is ‘ill, Billy ‘ill,” he said, motioning at a chair which one of the heavies had pulled over.
Every movement economical, Winters stepped around to the indicated seat, his eyes never leaving Hill’s face. He spoke not a word but glanced at each of the other two men, his eyebrows up in question.
Hill replied, “These are me two associates, Ronnie and Reggie Kray. Don’cha try to figure out which is which. Don’t matter to you. Can’t figur’ them out me’self ‘alf the time.
“But, you, ‘oo are you? And how can an ‘onest biz-nez man like me do sumthin’ for you?”
Winters smiled, apparently accepting Hill’s alpha-ness, and replied moderately, “I am lately from the Argentine, but formerly that sad land known as Germany. I am called Kurt von Langsdorff.
“I have searched you out as I have been led to believe that you are a man who can locate lost merchandise. Specifically, I seek certain items of a French origin.
“Lest you wonder about my wherewithal to execute my desires, I would hope that you might apply to Cox and Company in Charing Cross. They are the corresponding bank with access to my accounts housed at Banco del Este in my home country.”
Hill looked up, as if in thought. In truth, he was seeking out Mr. Barraclough who was seated at the bar. Catching the older man’s eye, he stared. Bennet stroked his nose with his right index finger.
Satisfied that he understood, Hill focused again on Winters, replying, “I ‘ave no doubt about’cha ‘bility to pay for what’cha want. If you di’nt and tried to play me false, you would never leave the country alive, if’n you know whut I mean.
“I may ‘ave an ‘andle on some interestin’ pieces from th’ last cen’try. They ‘ave been in th’ wind for a few weeks.
“Might those be of in’trest?”
Winters’ spirits surged, and he quickly rejoined, “If these are the ones publicized, I would be most interested. To whom should I apply?”
Hill smiled for this was the easiest £35,000 he had ever earned—all for a short night’s work and one meeting.
He reached into his pocket and removed a small pasteboard card upon which was printed a telephone number.
“You call this number. Ask for Mr. Barraclough.
Once Winters had left the restaurant, Bennet slid off his barstool. A porter brought him his overcoat and hat. After he had shrugged the coat over his shoulders, he turned toward where Hill and the Krays sat in the back. Lifting his topper by its crown, he saluted the crime lord and clamped his fedora on his pate. Then, trailed by Schiller, The Founder left Pellicci’s and popped the door to the cab which had pulled up to the storefront.
After Schiller had pulled the door closed after his own entry, Bennet doffed his hat and ruffled his thinning locks before he grimly smiled at Alois saying, “As my brother Gardiner, angler that he is, would say, ‘the hook is set.’ Now all that remains is to reel him in.”
Oakham House, Same Time
Fanny settled back into her chair, looking around the circle at her five companions. She contemplated how much akin this felt to Longbourn’s parlor when all her girls were still at home. Admittedly she had to make some allowances for the older features of the two countesses, Georgiana and Annie. They were, after all, her age, at least physically. However, she lumped them with the other three—Letty, Eileen, and Lizzy—when she thought of them as “the children.”
Having an extra 130 years in one’s accounts will always make you the room’s senior…unless Mr. Bennet is in attendance, she thought with a barely suppressed giggle.
Mrs. Bennet had invited them to wait with her while her husband was overseeing the final setting of the trap. However, the lady had another motive. T’was to this that she directed the conversation.
“I will own,” she opined, “that I am not terribly convinced that the plan that my Thomas, Richard, Allie, and Denis has concocted will work as they imagine.
“They have been going about everything with such extreme delicacy to this point: using multiple watchers to trail Winters all the way from South America, through the airport, and into town. Then they use Mr. Hill and his associates to first purloin the artwork and then to act as cutouts to arrange the final meeting. That was unfailingly elegant, to my mind.”
She set her glass of sherry on a sideboard and jumped to her feet before continuing, “Yet, the denouement of the caper is reduced to simple strongarm tactics with the overpowering of Winters at the safehouse, something that could have been done any of a number of times over the past several days.
“T’was not as if your Lord Tom,” at this she nodded at Annie, “found that ‘disappearing’ that animal from Gatwick, Claridge’s, or the street was beyond his capabilities.
“Why? Why be so careful up until the last moment? Switching tactics this way is no different than trying to open a window by throwing a rock.”
Fanny paced toward the fireplace where the coal fire snapping in the grate threw her into a titian-hued relief from nose to toes as she stared down into the flames.
Eileen used her position as the Bennet’s near-daughter to gently probe, “What are you saying Mother Bennet? Why are you bothered at the manner with which we plan to take down Winters? He will be captured.”
Fanny spun to face the group, “But, at what cost? Mr. Bennet might be injured or worse if Winters resists. We know he is a well-seasoned killer. How will our men, who must be hidden away from Winters’ eyes lest he refuse to enter the room, pile through the doorways to subdue him without giving him a chance to strike a blow against my husband?
“Even if he is disarmed before the meeting, I would imagine he, like your husbands,” at this she pierced the younger ladies with a sky-blue stare, “is acquainted with several ways to end a man with his bare hands.”
She wrapped her arms around her middl
e, a look of concern shadowing her features.
Then she said, “Something about all of this strikes me as completely wrong. It all seems so ham-handed, as if someone…or something…muddled, meddled with, the final stage.
“Yet, when I try to bring it up with Thomas, he brushes me off, telling me that everything is in order and not to worry.
“T’is as if he is blind to the problem.”
By this time, Lizzy had straightened and had looked over at her mother who silently replied with a raised eyebrow and a shrug.
The youngish Gräfin interjected, “You are not alone in either the unease or the male denial. I observed the same difficulty in the plan as you did, but when I asked Alois, he turned all Prussian, even dropping back into German, and assured me that alles war gut.
“He came this close,” she continued holding up a thumb and index finger a hair apart, “to telling me not to worry my pretty little head.
“The boneheaded nerve of that man. Nothing I could say would cause him to budge from his surety,” she huffed.
Both Letty and Eileen added that they had had misgivings like Lizzy but had not bearded their men. All the women then waited for Fanny’s conclusion.
“I have been struck at how the Wardrobe…yes, the Wardrobe…seeks to inject itself into the business of clan Bennet. If it had hands, I would suggest that I could see its handiwork in the incredible obtuseness exhibited by our men.
“Since the cabinet wants to be a part of things…and it has done nearly everything short of sending one of us a Founder’s Letter…let us grant its wish!”
Chapter XLVII
3 Baptist Gardens, Belsize Park, London, February 22, 1951
The cul de sac made observation of any subject a difficult task. Those who might trail a man strolling up from Queen’s Cres would have to double back on their trail, alerting their quarry to their presence. Unlike posting themselves across from a more commercial address, idlers surveilling the townhouse would have been exposed to the scrutiny of nervous neighbors who would alert constables of men lurking about. All-in-all, Number 3 Baptist Gardens offered the sort of privacy a notorious fence would find appealing. He would be protected from both those who would steal his wares and others who would take his freedom.
Which is the reason that Bennet chose the whitewashed home in a nondescript area off Malden Road beneath Hampstead Heath as the pied á terre of Horace Barraclough.
Winters had scouted the address shortly after he had been advised of the rendezvous location where he could view the missing Impressionists. He was unable to discern any evidence of life. Heavy drapes obscured the windows across the front. Nobody could be seen entering or leaving. No deliveries were received.
He quickly concluded that the house was probably vacant and had been for some time. A lock could be picked and a man like Barraclough would set up shop, conduct his business, and leave in a matter of hours. The actual owner would be none the wiser.
The most Winters was able to divine was that Number 3 Baptist Gardens would not be susceptible to any sort of assault and, as such, was a perfect bolt hole for an invisible man like Barraclough. Those same attributes played in his favor, wary as he was about the possible attentions of the Fitzwilliam family and their minions of the law. The longer he stayed in the heart of their territory, the greater his chance of being found out.
Those concerns, though, evaporated as soon as they wafted up. The placating influence of the unknown force connecting him through the ether to every other Bennet alleviated all suspicion. He left Baptist Gardens and flagged down a passing cab knowing that tomorrow soon would arrive. Then he would gain his prize and secure his final victory.
Friday, February 23rd
Edward Crawley, Esq., once again consulted the missive from the Countess of Pemberley which insisted that he present himself to her this evening at 7:00. Having conducted Trust legal business on behalf of the Cecil-Darcys for several years, the summons was not in itself unusual. However, the address where she would be awaiting him to attend her was quite extraordinary.
Crawley had delivered contracts, briefs, leases, and bills of sale to Lady Cecil-Darcy across the breadth and length of the United Kingdom. He had attended the great lady at Pemberley, Darcy House, Deauville, even Claridge’s and the Savoy. However, never had he been required to locate the Belsize Park section of the city. Finally, armed with his street guide, the young barrister hopped in a cab and directed the driver out past Chalk Farm to the quiet middle-class neighborhood.
The hack deposited him on the street side with ten minutes to spare. As he was walking up the flagstones approaching the house, two men exited the building and hurried down the stairs, furniture straps looped around near-nonexistent necks. Neither greeted him as he climbed past them, and he dismissed them from his mind. In any event, his eyes had been drawn immediately to the Countess Georgiana awaiting him, one hand holding the door halfway open. After a quick glance down the street to assure herself that his arrival had gone unremarked, she pulled the door aside and allowed him entry.
The lady spared him little attention before shoo-ing him through the smallish parlor into an anteroom off the larger chamber. A single lamp illuminated the windowless room which was cluttered with furniture. Clearly the space had been most recently dedicated to storage, becoming the final resting place for a number disused articles.
However, as a branch sprouting from the Bennet tree, Crawley saw the Wardrobe, pushed into a corner, partially sheltered beneath a dutch cover and understood the cabinet for what it was. He spun to look at the Countess, astonishment transforming his features.
She raised a hand to forestall any queries on his part saying, “Yes, I know, the Wardrobe is supposed to be at Matlock House, but the Countess conspired with me to bring the cupboard here. You need not know the reason at this moment, but I am certain that all will become clear.
“There is little time to waste. The others will be arriving shortly. You must stay secreted here no matter what you might overhear. Do not reveal yourself. You must protect the Wardrobe, exposed to danger as it is.
“I do hope you will be patient and not become bored.
“Someone will come to you when it is time.”
Crawley was well used to the sometime curious behavior of the ultras. He nodded and held up his briefcase. By way of explanation, he said, “I assure you, my lady, I have more than enough reading to occupy me until the wee hours, if that is to be my lot. Might I ask if I might refresh myself in the WC before I am banged-up in the chokey?”[cxiv]
Georgie chuckled at his comfort with criminal jargon which belied his meek appearance. She guided him to the rear of the house where a tiny toilet was situated off the kitchen. In short order, Crawley clumped back along the hallway, nodding to the lady as he crossed the parlor, entered his room of repose, and latched the door behind him.
The Countess first busied herself arranging decanters—one whiskey and the other brandy—and glassware on a sideboard in the parlor. She pulled the stopper on each and carefully sniffed the aromatic fumes rising from the necks. While her nose was not that of an experienced distiller, t’was accounted to be uncommonly sensitive. The Countess found nothing amiss that would attract a less discerning olfactory organ.
Satisfied, she turned to her other task: bringing two gallery easels in from the kitchen and arranged them in well-lit vantage points, one directly in front of the doorway to the anteroom where Crawley waited. Her last activity was to carefully snip the wires leading to the servant’s buzzer in the kitchen. Then she settled into an armchair to wait.
7:20 PM
The sound of a vehicle pulling to a halt at the front entry pulled Georgie from her chair. Pulling aside a thick drape, she peered out through a front window to catch the Jaguar coupe parked in front of a small delivery van. The Bennets and her daughter, who had reprised her wartime experience as a driver, exited the auto while Allie and Denis climbed down from the lorry’s cab and circled
around to the back where they pulled two flat crates from the cargo area. To the Countess’ experienced eye, having seen throughout her life countless shipments from galleries and dealers, these were the artwork that, like a live goat tied to a tree, was drawing the tiger that had terrorized her family. The Founder—and his lady, she reminded herself—was the shikar who had his sights trained on the hole in the air which would soon be filled with man-sized prey.
Dropping the curtain, she strolled over to the entry, waiting until she had heard the Bennets and her daughter climb the stairs. Pulling the door back, she greeted a flabbergasted Thomas…and a less-than-surprised Fanny and Lizzy…warmly. They were followed closely by Schiller and Robard who hefted the two crates like porters at Sotheby’s. Her confident mien combined with a subtle stroking of the colorful cords running through the men’s minds by Bennet and non-Bennet Guides all clustered around the Baptist Gardens townhouse to make the three men’s rising questions evanescent and moot.
She ushered her son-in-law and cousin into the parlor where they lowered their burden to the floor. Pulling pins from shackles, they lifted the hasps and flipped back the hinged lids.
First one—a medium-size canvas of Monet, one of the Palace of Westminster series—and then the other—Renoir’s Portrait of Lady Fitzwilliam as a Young Woman—returned to the light of day to grace the parlor. The paintings were arranged on the easels. After taking the time to view part of the Five Family’s renowned collection, dedicated this night to a less decorative purpose, the Countess bade her family adieu, conferred a special look upon Mrs. Bennet, and left the house. She crossed the street and began a solitary walk down the other side before climbing the steps leading up into Number 81C Queens Cres. Eileen and Richard Fitzwilliam greeted her at the door. They climbed up into an upper bedroom aerie with windows overlooking the corner of Baptist Gardens and Queens Cres.