Snatched

  ‘God,’ Simberdy said.

  —but then one day when I’m out on the town with a bird I notice him tailing me. He’s very good at it, but not good enough. I seen that kind of thing before, it might not surprise you to know. And not just him. He got other lads on it, too, some with very short hair and trainers. This is an operation, Fatman. This baby – Wayne Passow – puts two and two together, don’t he?

  Glowing happiness as well as scorching fear took hold of Simberdy. ‘So the “El Grecos” could still be phoney,’ he chortled to Olive. ‘Well, of course they could. Quent Youde’s involved, isn’t he, for God’s sake? It follows. This “expert” who said they were real and worth super millions is actually only a snoop from Scotland Yard’s Arts and Antiques brigade setting up a bit of entrapment. Youde – he should be eaten by lemurs.’

  ‘Should be what?’

  ‘It’s a robust but jokey saying among zoologists.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  They read the last page of Passow’s letter.

  So I’m unloading to you, F.M., and giving myself a nice bit of travel for a while. You are still right in the clear, worry not, and I am returning these bits and peices. This Monet – well, I was really ratty about what happened, yes, only thirty grand. I was ripped off, and if there is one thing I hate it is for someone to make a monkie of Wayne Passow. So, I done a little bit of traceing and a little bit of travel out Europe way, which is when I got a taste for new countreys, I should think. Anyway, as you can see, I had a bit of luck and I was able to find the guy who had the lonesome painting and I got it back somehow. Yes, somehow. I don’t think I’ll say too much about how I done this, in case Olive is reading this letter, too, and it might upset her. Let’s just menshun there was a lot of broken glass and some damage to clothes and a neck but he is not going to be kicking up about it to the law, is he, because he should not of had the pic in the first place, this is obvius? I done a little bit of spraying at his place, too. And a signatur – like to say who done it. But not obvius, obviusly. Like a code. You’ll see it at the bottom of this letter.

  ‘What the hell does he mean, “spraying”?’ Olive said.

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘What signature? Whose?’

  ‘His?’

  ‘What code at the bottom of the letter?’

  ‘Good question,’ Simberdy said.

  Yes, so these four little peices should see you all right. When I comes back some time in the far off future, maybe you will have something nice and juicey for me with lots of norts on the end in a locked box at the bank. I trust you, F.M. That’s how a team should be.

  This girl what Redvers and Crispin menshunned in the Blague the other night is going to be upset because I’m not around no more. You think I sound like a big-head, but I know she will be. This is how things are with love and partings. I did not have no time to explane to her. It was very quick do-a-bunk time, which I am sure you’ll understand. I might of asked you to go and tell her face to face, so she could see why I had to do a runner, but then I decided, No, I got to keep things privut for her. Anyway, I only know her first name and where she works. She would not tell me more. She’s a carefull one, I expect with a hubby. Maybe she would of told me more later but there can’t be no later. It would not be fair to get her too mixed up in all this in case this letter went the wrong way somehow. Letters do sometimes. I am sorry to be loosing her because we had something real nice going and maybe long-distance. But in this sort of line you got to be ready to make sacrifisses, yes. We got to suffer for the job, like all the great did.

  So, keep happy and clean and try not to spend it all.

  Till some day then,

  Fatman’s Best Mate

  ‘He means Julia Lepage?’ Olive said.

  ‘Seems so.’

  ‘Wayne’s got gallantry. Wayne’s got a special way.’

  ‘Yes, Wayne’s got away.’

  Olive said: ‘“Fatman’s Best Mate” – strange way to sign off.’

  ‘In line with his usual insolence and presumption.’

  Twenty

  ‘Forgive the hour, Director, but we must go to the Hulliborn at once,’ D.Q. Youde said. ‘I came over to your house because I didn’t want to discuss on the telephone certain information I’ve just received. Too many ears.’ He had on a beautiful but very severe dark suit with a gleaming white shirt and thin-striped tie. Did he sit around like this at home in the middle of the night, or had he got up and put the gear on especially for this visit?

  ‘The Hulliborn now?’ Lepage said. ‘At after midnight? What information? How did it come to you, if not by—’

  ‘Well, yes, by telephone. Only half an hour ago. But I feared yours might be tapped, so I’m here in person.’

  ‘My private phone tapped, for God’s sake? Why?’

  ‘As Director. Simply that. Things are moving. I don’t say I understand all aspects. It seemed to me a matter for immediate personal contact.’

  ‘Yes? I’m sorry, Quentin, I’m keeping you on the doorstep. You’d better come in.’

  ‘Thank you. This development – I’m suffering from shock.’

  They went into the living room. Lepage said: ‘What is it, Quent? Who’s ringing you so late?’

  ‘One has certain contacts, Director, international in scope, built up over the years. Art and its followers keep a communications network which never closes down. We are unceasing devotees, unceasing guardians.’

  Lepage had on his jeans and ‘Keep The Hulliborn On Top’ sweatshirt. ‘I sit up late some nights waiting for Julia,’ he said. ‘She has to stay on at the Spud-O’-My-Life kiosk. The potato is a nocturnal vegetable, you know.’

  Youde shook his head slowly and sadly a couple of times and frowned, as if Julia’s timetable sounded a worry.

  ‘These last few nights she’s been getting in rather earlier,’ Lepage said. It was true.

  ‘Good,’ Youde said. ‘She surely owes you that, George.’

  ‘Owes me what?’

  ‘And it’s kindly of you to wait up for her.’

  ‘A husbandly thing, that’s all.’

  ‘To your credit, Director.’

  Lepage brought a pack of beer cans and some tankards from the kitchen. They sat opposite each other in easy chairs. ‘I had a call from the South of France,’ Youde said. ‘It’s about the Monet. Well, certainly about the Monet, but perhaps the El Grecos as well.’

  ‘A call from?’

  ‘You’ll forgive me if— Shall we say an acquaintance who knows what’s what and keeps his ear to the ground?’

  Lepage wondered how the French would say ‘ear to the ground’. He poured.

  Youde drank deeply, like someone who had been through a lot lately and who expected to go through a hell of a lot more, but would be ready to fight back. ‘Near Antibes. Considerable money around there, as you probably know, George.’

  ‘A call from near Antibes saying what?’

  ‘That French police were very close to the Monet. Really close.’

  ‘Well, this is surely grand,’ Lepage cried, beaming with surprised delight: as long as it was no more than the Monet. ‘They can be damned efficient, the French police.’

  ‘Were very close.’

  ‘Something went wrong? Bloody French.’

  ‘They thought they’d traced it to a well-known collector-dealer in those parts, someone loaded and not too fussy about the law. So, they visit his villa and find a window forced, the alarms doctored, a glass door smashed as in a struggle, the collector half strangled, and no Monet. Of course, when the collector’s interviewed he says there never was a Monet on the premises, claims he doesn’t know what the police are talking about – he’s not even seen a Monet lately – and states the intruder only wanted cash. That’s the advantage of stealing from a crook, isn’t it: he can’t complain to the flics even if it’s about millions? Just the same, the police are sure it was there.’

  ‘How? How can they know?’

  ‘Director,
there’s another factor,’ Youde said, drinking again, and holding out the tankard for more. He looked both scared and volcanically prophetic, and his extended arm, seeking more booze, seemed at the same time to be pointing out to some intriguing unknown. ‘Words were written on an inside wall of the villa, sprayed from an aerosol can, like in a tower block.’

  ‘In French? But what has this to do with going to the Hulliborn now?’ Lepage heard Julia’s car draw up and then her footsteps on the drive.

  Youde had heard, too, and spoke hurriedly, so he could finish before Julia entered the room. ‘The message was simple, Director. It said, “Gotcha.”’

  ‘“Gotcha”? Like that headline in the Falklands war?’

  ‘A signature after it.’

  ‘What – claiming credit, telling the police who did it? Is this credible?’

  ‘Initials only.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘And as a clue, not very helpful.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Some would call it a dead-end.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The initials are FBM,’ Youde replied.

  ‘FBM?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A person? An organization?’ Lepage asked.

  ‘Nobody’s sure.’

  ‘The M standing for the Monet?’

  ‘That’s one line of thought, yes.’

  ‘And what about the F and the B?’

  ‘These are problematical, Director.’

  ‘“Fetch Back the Monet”?’ Lepage said. ‘More or less the equivalent of “Gotcha”, if the “Gotcha” means the painting.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a theory doing the rounds, apparently.’

  ‘But what others?’ Lepage asked.

  Youde took a drink. ‘My informant suggests – and says it’s a police thought, too – he absurdly suggests … well, can you see it, George?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘FBM.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The BM.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Butler-Minton,’ Youde replied.

  ‘What?’ Lepage gasped.

  ‘And the F, Flounce,’ Youde said.

  ‘Flounce?’ Lepage yelled.

  ‘As I say, a fanciful guess, and a very strange bit of theorizing by the police,’ Youde replied. ‘Flounce Butler-Minton.’

  Julia appeared and glanced about the room. ‘What’s happening, George. I thought I heard you calling Flounce?’

  ‘Calling Flounce?’ Lepage replied with a fair old laugh. ‘Have you forgotten he’s dead, love? I’ve got his job. Remember? Think I’ve caught delusions fever from Nev?’

  ‘That’s what it sounded like,’ Julia said. ‘His name, though as a sort of question.’

  ‘I expect you’ve had a trying night. But you’re quite early,’ Lepage said.

  ‘Not much doing,’ she said.

  He felt she sounded very down and upset. ‘Maybe things will be better tomorrow, Julia,’ he told her.

  ‘Yes, maybe.’ It didn’t sound as if she thought so, and for a second Lepage feared she might weep. A bad night’s business could do that to her? He doubted it. She behaved as though she’d been deserted. But who by? After half a minute, she made an effort and smiled towards Youde. ‘You’re out late, Quent. You look very full of … very full of import. And so smart!’

  ‘Thank you.’ He straightened his shoulders inside the suit. ‘Just over for a gossip: the usual Hulliborn tittle-tattle.’

  ‘But not about Flounce?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, Flounce. It’s certainly a name that can still ring bells, as it were. But what would there be to discuss, Julia? We have to think forward, even in museums.’

  ‘Yes, well, look, you won’t mind if I don’t stay, will you? Failing to sell is just as tiring as selling.’ She made for the door. ‘Try not to be too late coming up, George.’

  ‘Soon,’ he said.

  ‘You’re very lucky, Director,’ Youde said, when she’d gone.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Youde went back to his story. Yes, ‘Gotcha. FBM. GOTCHA – the Sun’s front page screamer when we sank the Argentine battleship Belgrano. The French police have put two and two together.’

  ‘Which two and two?’

  ‘They’ve discovered that Flounce was Butler-Minton’s nickname.’

  ‘Oh, great. Real detective work.’

  ‘But, George, can you see the implications? That’s why I came straight over.’

  ‘They thought they’d located the Monet, but they’ve lost it,’ Lepage replied. ‘Someone’s lifted it – “Gotcha” – i.e., as I said, the painting. Someone or some gang.’

  ‘The FBM gang?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Youde leaned forward, his eyes brilliant with tension and ale: ‘George, there are people on the art circuit, especially abroad, who think Butler-Minton might still be alive.’ He held up a hand, before Lepage could respond. ‘Obviously, it cannot be, but that is the rumour, and this has become a vital, new factor.’

  Lepage said, wearily: ‘This is mad, Quentin. There was a funeral. Interpol can view the death certificate, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Well, Director, there are funerals and funerals. There are certificates and certificates.’

  ‘Hell, what are you saying?’

  ‘George, I don’t necessarily go along with it, of course not, but the French seem to know about that mysterious, clandestine, spooky side of Butler-Minton’s life – the Wall, Mrs Cray, the whippet. In such a world the wrong body can end up in the coffin. Oh, yes, it’s been known.’

  ‘Are we rerunning The Third Man? Someone else buried in place of the villain, Harry Lime? Quent, we—’

  ‘And, in any case, it’s not just the police. The collector is a big-time underworld operator, of course. The story about Butler-Minton has spread among all that fraternity. It doesn’t need to be one hundred per cent verifiable fact to have its impact on them.’

  ‘Which story? That someone does a robbery of an item worth millions, inscribes a triumphant “Gotcha” and then signs his name – the someone being officially dead.’

  ‘“Officially”, yes.’

  ‘Actually.’

  ‘I know the tale is hard to swallow, George, but—’

  ‘And what do they think: that Butler-Minton’s taken it on himself to protect the Hulliborn and pop over to France for one of the museum’s treasures, so—?’

  ‘Or perhaps more than one,’ Youde said, his voice singing with brief hope.

  ‘Having first located it, or them, on his own,’ Lepage went on, ‘he’s then able to snatch it, or them, back, after knocking out the alarms like a pro, at the same time giving the householder a nice bit of strong-arm? And, in any case, Quent, what’s it all to do with an emergency trip to the Hulliborn now?’

  Youde got his thoughts together. ‘I don’t necessarily endorse what I’m about to say, George, but apparently the talk there is that Butler-Minton learned all sorts of dirty tricks in his East Germany era. Yes, they’ve heard of Mrs Cray and the haversack straps and that shooting from the Wall. According to my informant there’s also been mention in Antibes of the windsock and tennis ball. But listen, Director, OK, even given all this, I’ll concede that the whole thing could be regarded as far-fetched.’

  ‘Oh, no, really?’

  ‘Not all claim it was Eric himself. Some are saying this was a fanatical admirer acting as he thought Butler-Minton might have acted, if he were still around: using the memory of Flounce as guide and inspiration.’

  ‘Would someone like that use his nickname – the F. It’s not respectful, is it, let alone reverential?’

  ‘Perhaps so as not to make things over-obvious. Or aerosol writing is often less than perfect and the F might have been intended as an E, with the bottom horizontal somehow missed: Eric Butler-Minton.’

  ‘You’re saying Nev did it, are you, Quentin?’

  ‘Apparently, his name has come up very strongly in Antibes as a suspect. He has
n’t tried to keep his obsession with Flounce secret, has he?’

  ‘Is Neville in danger?’ Lepage replied.

  Youde shrugged. ‘But there are other suspects. Flounce is a presence, George. An active influence. There’s no denying that. Why, I’ve felt it myself, I admit.’

  ‘Like the “Elvis Lives” societies.’

  ‘Unfair, Director. May I remind you of your duck-billed platypus? I don’t think you should pretend to feel indifferent to this aura. Nev is exceptionally affected: gratitude for Flounce’s struggle to keep him, though doomed.’

  ‘To hell with the platypus. So what is this spirit or this disciple or this aura supposed to have done with the picture?’

  ‘Possibly pictures. This is the whole point, Director, and why I’m here now. My voice from near Antibes says it’s believed there that somehow or another the works have been reclaimed for the Hulliborn, so as to restore the museum’s reputation in time to qualify for the medical relics exhibition. To be very blunt, George, the pictures might be hanging in the Hulliborn gallery now – reinstalled on the quiet in their proper places.’

  ‘Oh, God, Quent, this is—’

  ‘Let’s hurry there, Director.’ Youde set his tankard down very emphatically and stared with challenging eyes at Lepage. ‘I suppose I might have gone alone, but I wanted … I wanted support, and a witness.’

  ‘Quent, for God’s sake—’

  ‘Time could be crucial, George. By dawn—’

  ‘There might be Interpol or a vengeance posse from Antibes here? You really think so?’

  ‘Not impossible, George. This crooked collector and his outfit have just had millions ripped from them. They’re as hard as you might expect and won’t smile long-sufferingly and mutter, “C’est la fucking vie.” They’ll want to make up the loss. Director, I must see the Raybould Gallery. I shan’t sleep until I do.’

  ‘Is that why you’re dressed up, Quent? The occasion?’

  Youde glanced down a little sheepishly at the excellent suit. ‘Flounce always hated any semblance of what he used to call in his brusque, though to some degree reassuring, way, “arty-fartiness” in the clothes of people in my department – particularly in my department.’ A look of terrible, retrospective pain crossed his face. ‘Well, I expect you heard that once he pissed over my beige cloak where it was hanging in a corner of the gallery. I mean literally and systematically pissed over it, holding pleats open with his free hand so the gush got everywhere. The dry cleaners were puzzled and applied a penalty charge.’