Chapter FOUR
Next morning, Klaus breakfasted in his room and came down to the hotel lobby in good time to meet Toby Neville, who had offered to pick him up. As he stepped out of the lift, he scanned the lobby – and over in the corner, seated in one of the leather armchairs dotted about for the convenience of the hotel's visitors, sat a very familiar figure. Somehow, Klaus was not surprised.
He crossed the lobby.
"What are you doing here, Eroica? How did you know where I was staying?"
The Earl folded up his copy of The Times and dropped it onto the low table beside his chair. "I heard Toby mention the name of your hotel when we were all leaving your office last night. I thought it would save time if I came over here to meet you first thing."
"And what makes you think I want you to meet me?"
"Well, Major, we've made such good progress since you decided to let me assist you; I thought you might like to continue the arrangement."
Klaus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "There is no 'arrangement', Eroica. I'm grateful for your assistance over the painting—"
"—and the bank account!"
Klaus took another breath, a little shallower this time. "Yes, and the bank account. But there's nothing further to warrant your attention."
"I beg to differ, Major. How are you going to handle the offers for the painting? What will you do if there's a bidding war? If that happens, what instructions will you give Sandy?"
Behind them, the hotel's revolving door turned slowly, and out stepped Toby Neville.
"Good morning, Major. Good morning, Lord Gloria. The Major said last night that you'd be continuing on the case with us. I didn't expect to meet you here this morning, but I've got room for you."
The Earl flicked a smug glance at Klaus, who glared at him.
"Come on, then, if you're coming. You can sit in the back seat." Klaus turned his glare on Neville, who was looking confused. "Don't ask. Just drive."
As they pulled out into the traffic, Klaus said, "Don't go to the office yet. Drive us over to Stepney. I want to have a look at Parker's flat."
"There's nothing in it, sir; all his papers were cleared out, along with the stolen goods. There's nothing there but his furniture and household stuff, such as it is."
"Doesn't matter. I want to see it."
The Earl kept very quiet during the trip. Klaus knew he was taking in every syllable that he and Neville uttered, piecing all the information together.
They turned down a narrow street, pulled up in front of a tired-looking brick building, and parked with two wheels up on the pavement. Klaus stepped out of the car. Lack of signage suggested that all the buildings on that side of the street were residential. Further down, on the other side, some small shops could be seen – a greengrocer, a butcher, a café. Straight across the street was a small hotel, a sign by its front entrance proclaiming "The Duke of Marlborough Offers Special Rates for Long Stay Visitors".
"The flat's in here." Neville led the way into the brick building. Faded, worn linoleum crackled underfoot. The air smelled stale. "It's on the top floor. There's no lift, I'm afraid."
The three of them trudged up the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. At the top of the stairs, Neville produced a key and opened the door.
"There's only one flat on each level. They're all rented out as live-in artists' studios. Nobody would have taken much notice of a few paintings being taken in and out."
"Was Parker an artist?" the Earl asked. "I haven't heard of him."
"He painted a bit, apparently, but politics took up most of his time. He lived here for years." Neville grinned. "I don't think he was much of a one for housework."
"I see what you mean," the Earl said, wrinkling his nose at the dirt-encrusted floor and grimy walls.
The first room occupied the entire width of the building, with windows on either side. The 'artist's studio', Klaus supposed. He lifted a curtain at the front of the building and looked out; the view along the street was clear in both directions. Crossing the room, he checked the windows on the other side. Behind the building there was a paved yard, entered from a narrow laneway. You wouldn't see an approaching vehicle until it was coming into the yard, but once it was there, the view was clear.
Klaus and the Earl followed Neville through a door, beyond which they found a small, stark bedroom, a poky kitchen, and a cramped bathroom barely large enough to hold a shower and toilet. A door in the back wall led out onto the fire stairs.
"How thoroughly did Munro's team go over this place?" Klaus asked.
"They were mainly interested in getting the place cleared out. They were on a strict timetable."
Klaus opened a cupboard and looked inside; then he eased the cupboard away from the wall and peered behind it.
"Neville, move the car around to the yard at the back," Klaus said. "I want to spend some time here, going over the place again."
As Neville clattered down the stairs, Klaus said to the Earl, "This'll take an hour or two. You don't need to be part of this; you won't know what to look for. You can either sit there in the corner and stay out of the way, or go down and sit in that café across the road while you wait. We'll come and get you when we're finished."
"Are you serious? 'Go and stay out of the way, don't bother me'?"
"You're the one who decided to attach yourself to this mission. It's not all thrills and excitement in this game, you know."
The Earl huffed in annoyance. "I'll be across the road in the café, then." He stomped out loudly.
A few moments later, Neville returned. "What's wrong with the Earl? I passed him on the stairs and he seemed very put out."
The ghost of a smile passed over Klaus's lips. "I told him to keep out of the way while we go over the flat. He thinks he might miss out on something."
.
.
As he stomped along the footpath, the Earl decided there was no point in maintaining his rage, so he slowed down and had a good look around the neighbourhood.
There was very little traffic; not much reason for people to come here, he supposed. Apart from the man behind the counter, the butcher's shop was empty; in the greengrocer's shop, a solitary customer picked through a tray of apples.
When he came to the café, the Earl pushed the door open, and a bell above the door tinkled. Chairs were clustered around four small tables and a short bench built under the window. Two rosy-faced old ladies had just finished their tea and were packing up their shopping bags and pulling on their coats. The Earl went to the counter and ordered a pot of Darjeeling tea and a portion of shortbread, then picked through the selection of magazines laid out for customers to read. Whoever selected the reading material had commendable taste, he decided: he picked up a copy of British Art Today and last month's Art Collector's Digest, and settled himself into a seat in the back corner, from which he could watch the comings and goings in the café and see the street through the window.
His tea and shortbread arrived, and just as he was pouring his first cup, the bell jingled and another customer came in.
"The usual, Billy?" called the lady behind the counter.
"Yeah, ta, Sal."
The newcomer, a man about twenty-five dressed in worn brown corduroy pants and a brown paisley shirt, came and sat at the next table. He wore his hair – also brown – in a waist-length ponytail. His pants were splashed with paint, and there was a hint of paint ingrained in his knuckles and under his fingernails.
"Ta, Sal." He grinned at the lady when a mug of tea was delivered and she gave him an affectionate smile in return. The Earl noticed that no money had changed hands.
"Art Collector's Digest, eh? Interested in art?" Corduroy-and-Ponytail addressed himself to the Earl, who smiled. The young man had a genial face dusted with freckles. You couldn't call him handsome, but he looked pleasant and friendly.
"You could say so," the Earl replied. He held out his hand. "I'm Dorian."
"Billy Whetstone."
They shook hands.
"Do you paint, Billy?" The Earl nodded at the paint-splattered knees of his corduroys.
"What? Oh. Yeah. Acrylics, mostly; some oils." He brushed at the paint stains with one hand, to no effect. "My studio's near here. I came as I was."
"A local artist?"
"Yeah." Billy gulped down a large mouthful of tea. "I moved down here about eighteen months ago. Place is full of artists. I like being in amongst other creative people. Do you paint?"
"A little. I'm a collector."
"Oh. Well, you should come to my exhibition. I'm showing my paintings at the Guardhouse Gallery around in Commercial Road in June. There'll be posters."
The Earl smiled. "Perhaps I will. Where's your studio, Billy?"
"'Cross the road." Billy waved in the direction of the building where Klaus and Neville were going through Parker's flat. "It's a bit basic, but the rent's cheap and there's plenty of room. Lots of natural light. I'm on the first floor. The ground floor bloke's a sculptor, and there's a writer in the basement flat. I'd really like to have the upstairs flat, the top floor – I think the light would be better there – but the old bloke who lives there has been there for years and he's not going to move any time soon. He's a painter, but I don't think he does much work now." Billy slurped his tea. "He's a bit eccentric, but he's a good enough neighbour."
"Eccentric?"
"Yeah. Well, he's political. An old-time communist." Billy chuckled. "He holds what he calls 'awareness-raising meetings' in his flat every couple of months. Brings in mobs of students and what not, talks about how our own government is enslaving us all and communism is the answer. You know the drill. I went to one of his meetings when I first moved into the building. Never again! All too earnest and not very realistic. Hell, I want the rich to stay rich. Somebody has to buy my paintings!"
The Earl laughed.
Billy lowered his voice and leaned closer to the Earl. "Between you and me, I think the old boy gets up to some dodgy stuff."
"Good heavens! What?"
"Well, I dunno. But he gets deliveries of stuff. Every month."
"Stuff?" The Earl lowered his voice, too. "What sort of stuff? Not— drugs?"
"Nah, nothing like that. No, every month, the first Wednesday of the month, a van pulls up outside in the evening, and a couple of burly blokes cart a lot of stuff upstairs to the old boy's flat. Paintings. Boxes. I mean big boxes."
"So what does he do with all this?"
Billy shrugged. "Don't really know; but over the next few weeks, you see him taking it downstairs and off down the street, one thing at a time. Sometimes another bloke comes round in a little van and helps him." He looked around furtively, although there was nobody else in the café but the two of them, Sal having disappeared into the back room. "I reckon he's dealing in stolen goods. Don't quote me – I've got no proof – but it looks mighty suspicious to me."
The Earl sat up, a mildly shocked expression carefully assembled on his face. "Good lord, I wouldn't want to get mixed up in that if I were you."
"Don't you worry, I've been very careful to keep out of it. I keep my attention very firmly on my own work. I can do without any distractions." Billy drained his mug. "Well, nice meeting you, Donovan. Keep a look-out for my posters. The Guardhouse. In June."
The little bell tinkled again as Billy left the café. Thoughtfully, the Earl poured himself a second cup of tea, and began nibbling at his shortbread.
.
.
The Earl had finished Art Collectors' Digest and was halfway through British Art Today when a rap on the window attracted his attention and he looked up to see Toby Neville. He finished the last mouthful of shortbread, dropped the magazines back on the rack, and went out to join him.
"We've finished at the flat," Neville said; "the Major's ready to go."
Neville led the Earl around to the back of the building, where his car was parked.
Klaus was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. "There was nothing in the flat," he said. "You didn't miss anything."
"Well, I have some news for you." The Earl glanced up at the first floor windows, aware that Billy might be looking out to see what 'Donovan' and his companions were up to. "We should get into the car and leave; I'll tell you on the way."
The car crawled out of the paved yard, and as Neville turned down the back lane, Klaus shifted round in his seat so he could see the Earl.
"What have you got?"
"I met one of Parker's neighbours. An artist who lives on the floor below. He's noticed that Parker gets regular deliveries of paintings and other items, on the first Wednesday of every month, in the evening."
"That's tomorrow, sir!" Neville remarked.
"Tell me exactly what he told you," Klaus said. "Exactly."
The Earl went over his conversation with Billy Whetstone, in detail.
Klaus said, "If the suppliers haven't found out that Parker's been arrested, another delivery should arrive tomorrow night. If that fucking flat was under surveillance as it should be, then we'd see who they are."
"I don't think we can get Munro to back down; he's so obsessed with the budget," Neville began, but Klaus cut him off.
"Fuck the budget. I'll sort that out later. There's that hotel across the street. We can set up in one of the upstairs rooms. Starting this evening, to get the lie of the land." Klaus settled himself more squarely into his seat. "Drop me at the office, Neville, then take Lord Gloria back to his hotel. Then go home and get your gear for an overnight operation."
The Earl thrust his head and shoulders between the front seats. "I'm in on this too. Don't try to fob me off!"
"You're a fucking civilian! Keep out of it!"
"Don't 'civilian' me, Major! You need another person. This is twenty-four hour surveillance; you need three people."
"Eroica—!"
"When have I ever let you down? Toby? When we get to my hotel, wait for me while I get my gear ready."
Neville glanced nervously at Klaus. "Major?"
"Oh, fuck it!" Klaus snarled. "All right. You've persuaded me. Just keep your wits about you and don't fuck up."