Chapter 2
Situated just a few blocks north of the Palace Pier, The Royal Pavilion at Brighton called forth images of the Taj Mahal with its onion-shaped domes, pointed arches, and miniature spires. Steed knew that it was built in the nineteenth century as a seaside resort for King George IV while he was still Prince Regent, but for any more details he would have needed to consult the encyclopedic mind of Miss Fox.
A crowd of more than a hundred people had already gathered to view the Renoir paintings, and it was still early in the day. Steed had been to the Pavilion before and was familiar with ways in and out other than the main entrance. He quietly slipped through some French doors in one of the ancillary suites and headed for the main exhibit area. When he arrived there, he spent a few minutes studying the layout of the hall.
Each painting was being displayed in an individually lit alcove. These seemed to be portable affairs that had been set up especially for this showing. Velvet ropes kept viewers ten feet away from every painting. Uniformed guards constantly patrolled the main hall. The uniforms they wore were featureless, but Steed imagined that most of the men were members of the British and French police. All in all, the security arrangements seemed perfectly adequate.
Steed saw a couple of suspicious-looking characters hovering near the edges of the crowd. He discreetly moved in closer to eavesdrop on their conversation.
"How about we pick up some mad money from the aristos here?" The younger-looking one was addressing his companion, a fat man wearing a long jacket.
"Are you mad?" the fat man answered. "Bulldog Fiset is here from the French police, guarding the paints. You nick a purse in front of The Bulldog, you'll find yourself in a hammerlock, mate."
"But it's a cake walk," the young one protested. "Everyone's lookin' at the paints. Be like taking candy from a baby."
The fat man shook his head thoughtfully. "Let's head over to the beach instead. Plenty of easy marks there."
Steed sighed. They were pickpockets, not art thieves. He continued to scan the crowd, looking for anyone or anything out of place. It was then that his eyes fell upon an unusual-looking woman who was talking at length to the security guards.
She was only about five feet in height, and couldn't have weighed much more than seven or eight stone. Her bosom was very large, and it strained against a lacy brassiere that peeked out of a shiny silk blouse. The wool skirt that she wore reached to just below her knee, and she boasted very expensive-looking high heels. Golden strands of blonde hair had been tightly pulled back and knotted into a chignon at the nape of her exquisitely-formed neck.
At first Steed thought she was merely an attractive public relations liaison for the police; but after a few minutes, he got the impression that she might actually be in charge. Perhaps she was the assistant to Bulldog Fiset. After overhearing the pickpockets' conversation, Steed had decided that The Bulldog was definitely someone he wanted to meet.
Steed strolled across the main floor. He waited for a free moment when she was no longer occupied with the guards, and then approached her.
"A fine exhibit we have here," Steed said with a smile.
The woman seemed to pick up on his English accent.
"But you are the government man from London, no?" she asked in a heavy French accent.
"Oui. I mean yes, I am," Steed answered politely.
"Mon deiu! I can't believe you made it here so quickly. I only contacted your Scotland Yard this morning. I wasn't expecting you until the afternoon train."
Steed realized she had mistaken him for someone else. He briefly considered clearing up the confusion when she spoke again.
"A devilish business, yes," she began. "I am Special Inspector Simone Fiset of the Surete." She extended a small hand.
Steed had a difficult time containing his surprise. He decided he'd better shake the hand rather than kiss it.
"Bulldog?" he asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.
She blushed. "Oui, that is what I am called. I did not know that I was so well known up in London."
Steed tried not to laugh as he envisioned this feisty young woman administering a hammerlock.
"And you must be Inspector Teague," she said. "What may I call you?"
"Just call me Teague," Steed said with a broad smile, gallantly tipping his bowler. Best for him to play the part for now. Inspector Fiset seemed swept away by the flood of charm.
"You can call me Simone," she answered with a smile. "I'm hoping you can help me with this terrible situation."
"How bad is it?" Steed asked.
"There are only three real ones left."
With a shock, Steed realized she was talking about the Renoirs.
-oOo-
The pickpockets had left the Royal Pavilion, and they now prowled the beach near the Palace Pier. They scanned the sunbathers, looking for an easy mark. Like everyone else on the beach, their eyes were immediately drawn to the red-haired woman with the aquamarine beach bag.
"Cor, look at the bird in the red bikini!" said the fat man.
"Blimey! What's holding it on? I've only seen French birds wearing a thing cut like that."
"She looks like she's getting hot," the fat man added thoughtfully.
"She's getting me hot," the younger one countered.
"No, lamebrain, I mean we can wait till she goes in for a swim to cool off. Bird like that, must be an international fashion model. Prolly has a fortune stowed in that bag."
"Look! There she goes now."
The two men checked to make sure the coast was clear, then made their move.
-oOo-
After nearly forty minutes in the sun, Rita needed to cool off. She removed her cloisonne clips and stowed them in the beach bag. Shaking out her mane of thick red hair, she headed out to the ocean.
The water felt cool after her long bask in the sun. She skipped about in the shallows, kicking up little splashes with her heels. Then she headed out to where the waves broke, to feel the sexual push-pull of the tow against her nearly-bare body.
For ten minutes she lost all track of time as she frolicked in the surf. All eyes on the beach were focused on her, with many of the onlookers secretly hoping that a wayward breaker would defeat the flimsy string-and-fabric attire that she wore. As a result, no one seemed to notice when a nondescript young man neatly folded his towel, put it away into his aquamarine beach bag, and then casually walked off with it, while a fat gentleman stood casually gazing at the sea nearby.
Cooled off, and a little bit exhausted, Rita headed back for shore. Confusion clouded her face as her eyes swept the beach looking for a familiar landmark. She recognized the canvas cabana that she had changed in, and she walked over to the spot where her towel should be.
She stood there dripping wet, staring at the brown pebbles. Her towel was gone. Her beach bag was gone. Her money, clothes, sandals, and cloisonne clips were gone. Everything was gone.
Rita scanned up and down the beach, looking for any suspicious characters. She walked the beach for a two-hundred yard stretch, then back again. She even checked the interiors of the nearby empty canvas cabanas. She found nothing.
Twenty minutes later, she still had no clue about her missing possessions. At least now she was dry enough that she could head over to the Royal Pavilion to meet Steed. Rita sat down in the sand and started working her hair into a thick red braid down her back. She imagined the shame of having to tell Steed that she had been robbed. It seemed he was always bailing her out of some predicament or another.
The realization slowly dawned on her that asking Steed for help wouldn't be her only shame. She was going to have to appear at the Royal Pavilion wearing a swimsuit that looked like it could be chased off by a strong breeze.
-oOo-
Steed looked thoughtfully at Inspector Simone Fiset. It was a difficult thing to do without staring at her generous bosom.
"How do you know that there are only three originals left?" he asked.
Simone gently placed her hand on his arm. Even though she had met him only minutes ago, she had already developed an affinity for Steed. Perhaps it was his precise manner, his impeccable wardrobe, or his easy smile; but she found herself wanting to make as much physical contact with him as possible.
"We had them tested this morning. Thirty-nine of the paintings have been removed and replaced with near-perfect copies. And this is only the third day of the exhibit!"
"You and your men have been on guard the entire time?"
"Yes, M'sieu. The only people allowed near the paintings have been the guards and the maintenance people who set up the exhibit."
"So it must be an inside job," Steed declared.
"Oui. It will look very bad on me if I do not get to the bottom of this affair. Instead of The Bulldog, they will call me The Poodle."
Steed smiled broadly and covered Simone's hand with his own. "We won't let that happen. I've had some experience with art theft cases. I believe we can get to the bottom of this quickly."
"I hope that I can rely on your help, Inspector Teague. I am unfamiliar with the territory here. This is my first visit to England."
Steed nodded sympathetically. "A pity that your experience has been marred by this unfortunate occurrence. You will have to return here under better circumstances. I could show you around London next time. A high-ranking person in the Surete such as yourself needs to become familiar with foreign law-enforcement agencies."
Simone leaned in close enough that Steed could smell the fragrance on her golden hair. "I can think of nothing I would enjoy more."
"I have an assistant who is going to meet me here," Steed said politely. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back. Then we can discuss the details of how the paintings were brought in."
-oOo-
The walk to the Royal Pavilion was a short one, but long enough to cause Rita's bikini bottom to ride up over her hips. The hot pavement was toasting her bare feet, forcing her to skip down the street in a most undignified manner. She had hoped to slip in discreetly, but immediately became the focus of attention when she strolled through the front door. No one else in the Pavilion was dressed in a bathing suit, or even beach gear. Rita was unaware that she was now presenting most of her backside to the gathered crowd, but she was very aware that she was garnering more than her share of wayward glances. She walked deeper into the exhibition hall, hoping to find Steed, or at least a convenient corner to hide in.
Near the far end of the hall, a young man in his mid-twenties was standing behind the velvet rope at one of the alcoves. He had the casual look of someone unconcerned about his appearance; he wore loafers, light khaki slacks, and a short-sleeve button-down oxford with a dark tie loosely knotted. The wire-rimmed glasses emphasized a visage that was studious and capable of great concentration. He was tall and slender, nearly six feet in height. The alcove that he was viewing contained Renoir's famous Red-Haired Woman in the Bath.
Rita speculated that she wouldn't stand out so much next to a painting of a nude redhead. It would be a type of cultural camouflage. She moved in next to the owlish young man. He didn't hear her as she approached softly on bare feet.
"Well, at least I have on more than she does." Rita addressed him with an awkward smile and a hopeful look.
He turned at the sound of her voice, and the shock on his face was apparent. Standing before him was an actual living red-haired woman in virtually the same state of undress as the woman in the painting. He couldn't think of a single thing to say, even though she seemed to be expecting a response. Rita noticed his discomfiture and smiled; this only flustered him more. He weakly tried to continue the conversation.
"You're familiar with Renoir?" he asked at last.
"Pierre-Auguste Renoir?" Rita clarified. "Yes, I am."
"Why doesn't this painting have a date?" It was all he could come up with.
"It was painted sometime between 1880 and 1900," she answered. "Not much more is known about it. It was painted before he moved to Les Collettes at Cagnes-sur-Mer." Her French pronunciation was flawless.
"You have a remarkable knowledge of art."
"I studied Renoir when I was at Oxford five years ago," she explained.
"I say, that was the same time that I was at Oxford." He brightened considerably on having found common ground. "My name's Herbert Fredrickson."
"I don't recall ever hearing your name when I was there."
"I didn't go by the name 'Herbert'. My friends just called me 'Freddie'."
"'Freddie The Freshman'," Rita marveled. "What a smashing name." She found herself lapsing back into her college accent. "Did you get your Ph.D.?"
"Yes, in Chemistry. I do research in Swansea."
Rita flinched at this revelation, remembering the secret missile guidance lab there.
"How about you?" Freddie continued. "Did you get your doctorate?"
"Yes, later, from Cambridge. I specialize in Nineteenth Century Literature and History."
"So that's how you know so much about the Renoirs," he mused. The body in the skimpy red bikini drew his eyes in like a magnet. "You don't look like any Ph.D. I've ever seen."
Rita realized that only a few square inches of cloth separated her from being completely naked. "Yes, well, someone stole my clothes down at the beach," she said demurely. "And my cloisonne hair clips."
Freddie looked at the braid running down Rita's back, ventured a delicate touch. "It's a gorgeous color." He didn't mean to stare, but he couldn't look away. Heavens, she was practically nude. And she certainly looked nicer than the woman in the painting.
"My name's Rita Fox," she said, extending her hand.
Freddie shook it absently. His eyes had settled on her bikini top. Two sharp points in the fabric indicated that she might be cold, but he had no jacket to offer her. Aware that he was staring overlong at her chest, Freddie averted his eyes downward, and they wandered to the ragged red scar on her right thigh.
"What's that on your leg?" he asked undiplomatically.
"Snakebite," she answered smugly. "I got it in a library."
"What about those bruises on your arms?"
"Mastiffs. I was looking for a book."
"I say, research must be a lot rougher in London than it is in Wales," Freddie said innocently.
"We're thinking of switching over to the Dewey Decimal system. Things should get easier then." She had an impish grin.
Freddie smiled. "You're having me on, now."
Rita smiled back. "Yes, I am." She gently touched his arm as she laughed. This made Freddie quite nervous.
"I know something about these paintings that you don't know," said Freddie, trying to appear nonchalant.
"What's that?"
"They're fake," he whispered conspiratorially.
"That's impossible," she retorted. "I've seen these before."
He shook his head. "I did a spectrographic test on the paint. It contains acrylic polymers. There's no way that Renoir painted these. They must be less than a year old. A colleague of mine is coming down to carbon-date the canvas, but it's really not necessary. They're fakes."
Rita eyes widened. "Good heavens! I wonder if Steed knows about this..."
"Who's this Steed fellow?" Freddie asked.
"Oh, he's a... government chap. Usually interested in these sort of things."
"Well, it's certainly a rum do," said Freddie. "I mean, a Renoir exhibit with no real Renoirs." He glanced nervously at his watch. "I say, I always eat a sack lunch out in the park, to watch the wildlife. Would you like to join me?"
Rita smiled. "Maybe later, Freddie. Right now I'm supposed to meet Steed. Thanks for keeping me company, though. Always good to meet an old school-chum."
"I'm staying in the hotel over by The Lanes, if you need to look me up."
"Thanks for the offer," Rita nodded. Something about Freddie's shy manner appealed to her. She leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He flushed red with embarrassment and hurried out of the Pavilion, somewhat dazed.
-oOo-
Steed was standing near the main entrance to the exhibition hall, scanning the faces of people as they entered. Rita quietly padded over on her bare feet and put her mouth next to his ear. She sang to him in a lilting voice.
"I know something about these paintings that you don't," she teased.
Steed turned to face her and nodded knowingly. "They're fakes."
"How did you know?" She was disappointed that he spoiled her surprise.
"A police inspector told me."
"Does he know what happened to the originals?"
"She. Special Inspector Simone Fiset of the Surete. She wants me to help locate them. Speaking of which, Miss Fox, shouldn't you be locating some clothes? This isn't exactly the beach."
Rita didn't want to give Steed the satisfaction of knowing that she'd foolishly let herself be robbed. She certainly didn't want to beg any money from him. Then it occurred to her that she could probably borrow money for clothes from Freddie.
"I don't know, Steed," she answered. "I'm starting to like the unconfined feeling of this outfit. Nothing to rub against my bruises and wounds. And it's the only way to get a tan."
"It seems to be creating quite a stir," Steed glanced around the room and noticed that all eyes were on Rita. "I'm not sure Venus ever got that reaction."
"Don't you mean 'Miss Smith'?" Rita bantered, envying the first name basis that Venus Smith enjoyed.
"Of course. How did you know about the fakes?"
"There's a research chemist here from Swansea, a Dr. Herbert Fredrickson. He's been testing them," she explained. "So you say they're all fakes?"
"All except three," Steed answered. "Dance at Bougival, La Loge, and Jugglers at the Cirque Fernando."
"Painted in 1883, 1874, and 1879, respectively."
"Miss Fox, you never cease to amaze me."
"If it happened in the nineteenth century, I know about it, " Rita reminded him.
"Anyway, I'm afraid I'll have to beg off lunch if I'm to help Simone locate the paintings," he said apologetically.
Rita could feel the hackles rise on her neck. She narrowed her eyes to slits. "Simone? You mean Inspector Fiset?"
"Exactly," Steed smiled. "You seemed to have enjoyed your time at the beach." He once again took in her appearance with a quick glance from head to toe. "Perhaps you can just tan this afternoon?"
"Actually, I'm having lunch with Freddie," she answered back indignantly.
"You mean Herbert? The research chemist?"
"Exactly," Rita smiled. "Perhaps I can meet up with you this afternoon." She stalked away without a backwards glance.
Renoir was one of the finest painters of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Still, many of the art patrons turned their heads away from his canvases to witness the sight that presented itself that morning. It was a red-haired woman with fire in her eyes, clad only in the briefest of swimwear, strutting out of the Royal Pavilion. Her thick braid swung like a tail, and a generous portion of her backside was clearly visible as she stormed through the exit.
-oOo-