She reached out and gave Truffler’s huge hand a maternal pat. “I hope you weren’t taking unnecessary risks.”
“Nah.” A rueful laugh shook his massive frame and he rubbed his chin. “I was all right, but there was four of them. Rod and three heavies. It’s not going to be that easy to get the stuff out.”
“The simplest thing would be just to give the police a tip-off, you know,” HRH suggested.
But Mrs Pargeter quickly quashed that idea. “No. I gave Veronica Chastaigne my word I’d get those paintings back to their rightful owners.”
The travel agent instantly accepted the logic of her words. “Yes, of course. I understand completely, Mrs Pargeter.”
Gary’s voice filtered through from the front of the car. “It’s a tricky one. We could really do with Mr Pargeter around right now. He’d see the way through this, no problem. One of the great planning brains of all time, he’d got.”
“Exactly, Gary,” said Mrs Pargeter, as the limousine slowed to a halt in front of the anonymous terraced house. “Which is the very reason why we’re going to see Jukebox. We can still take advantage of my husband’s planning brain, you know…”
♦
With his spaghetti junction of computer equipment and his four guests, there was very little space in Jukebox Jarvis’s front room, but by the odd click of the mouse and the odd tap at the keyboard he steered himself deftly through the data on his screen. He fed in the complex demands of the current problem, and rattled through the proffered options until he found exactly what he wanted.
“Chelmsford!” Jukebox Jarvis pronounced triumphantly. His eyes sparkled through the thick glasses.
A communal smile of fulfilled recollection settled on the faces of the three men who watched him. “Yeah.” An impressed Truffler Mason nodded. “Chelmsford, of course.”
Gary shook his head in admiration. “Brilliant. Lot of clever driving needed for Chelmsford, if I remember right.”
HRH grinned with satisfaction. “And some intriguing specialized work required on the vehicles.”
“Of course,” said Mrs Pargeter demurely, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m willing to be guided by you in such matters.” She turned the full beam of her violet-blue eyes on the computer expert. “You’re sure Chelmsford’s the one, Jukebox?”
He nodded. “Definitely the closest match to what’s needed for this case.”
“Yeah,” Truffler agreed. “Only the goods are different. Chelmsford was used fivers, this time it’s paintings. Same basic strategy’d work, no problem.”
An infectious bubble of excitement was building up in all of them. It was comforting to have the quality of Jukebox Jarvis’s archives to rely on. Inside his computer system every one of the late Mr Pargeter’s greatest exploits was neatly catalogued and chronicled, providing a perfect template of action for any situation that could possibly arise. Many public companies would give half their annual profits for an infrastructure of such efficiency.
Mrs Pargeter spread the benison of her richest smile around the assembled company. “Right, if you say so – Chelmsford it is.”
“Terrific,” said Jukebox, reaching forward to his computer. “I’ll print out the whole plan for you.” Gleefully, he touched a key and his printer burst into manic activity.
“This is great, isn’t it?” Gary spoke for all of them. “Almost like having Mr Pargeter back with us again.”
The other men grinned, but Mrs Pargeter, a trifle misty-eyed, murmured, “Almost, Gary… but not quite.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Thirty-Two
A space had been cleared amidst the debris that littered Truffler Mason’s desk, and over its surface was spread out a large-scale map of South London. Mrs Pargeter and the private investigator leant over, examining it minutely. Every now and then she would trace a little route with her finger, then consult the bound folder of neatly printed notes, plans and diagrams that Jukebox Jarvis had presented to her. Mrs Pargeter’s hand would hover for a moment over each possible site, before finding some unconforming detail as a reason to reject it. Finally, her hand lingered longer over one particular network of junctions. She looked across at Truffler. “How about there?”
He bent down from his great height and squinted at the map. “Looks good.”
Mrs Pargeter double-checked with the requirements in her folder, before continuing, “It’s definitely the sort of loop road we’re after – and there’s the garage with a car wash.”
Truffler Mason nodded with that characteristic lethargy which, in his case, denoted huge enthusiasm. “Right distance from the breaker’s yard, and all. Couldn’t be better.”
“Great.” Mrs Pargeter’s enthusiasm never wore any disguise. It was, like most of her emotions, entirely transparent, fervent and joyous. “You know,” she said with a delighted grin, “I think I could get good at this.”
“You already are good at it, Mrs Pargeter,” said Truffler.
♦
Gary’s limousine cruised effortlessly through a leafy South London outer suburb, before coming to a stop, as an elderly lollipop man ushered some tiny anorak-swaddled schoolchildren over a crossing in the road. The man was so thin that, holding his round-topped staff, he looked like a stickman they might have drawn in class.
Gary pressed the button and the window slid soundlessly down. When his charges were safely on the other side of the road, the lollipop man waved an acknowledgement to the law-abiding driver. Then, as he recognized the face, his manner changed to one of great warmth and welcome.
“As I live and breathe… Gary.”
The chauffeur stretched a hand out to shake the old man’s bony fingers. “Good to see you, mate. Mrs Pargeter – ” he deferred to the plump, smiling woman in the back of the limousine, “I’d like you to meet – Vanishing Vernon.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance.” She stretched her hand through from the back. The old man clasped it in both of his. “Oh, Mrs Pargeter… Is it really you? You’ve no idea what an honour this is for me.”
From the glow on his face, you’d have thought he’d just been presented with an Oscar (though – thank God – he didn’t make an acceptance speech).
♦
Hedgeclipper Clinton’s office at Greene’s Hotel was decorated like an ante-room at Versailles. On its desk that afternoon was proudly displayed a portable television camera, firmly identified by the ‘BBC-TV’ logo. Kevin, one of the hotel’s doormen, dressed in a black and gold uniform, looked on admiringly. The expression on Mrs Pargeter’s face was more sceptical.
“Where did you get that from, Hedgeclipper?” she asked beadily.
He was squirming too much from embarrassment to pick her up on the use of his nickname in front of other hotel staff. “Well…” he prevaricated. “I borrowed it.” He looked at Mrs Pargeter defensively. “I’ll take it back.” A look of righteousness came into his face as he thought of a justification for his actions. “I do pay my TV licence fee, so by rights a bit of it’s mine, anyway.”
“I see.” The violet-blue eyes held Hedgeclipper Clinton’s for a long, wince-making moment before giving up on pointless recrimination and turning to the doorman. “And you can manage with it all right, Kevin?”
He nodded complacently. “No problem, Mrs Pargeter. I’ve videoed all four of my mum’s weddings.”
“Oh good.” She now beamed back at the hotel manager. Mrs Pargeter had never been one to bear grudges for any length of time. “And you can do your bit, Hedgeclipper?”
“Mrs Pargeter,” he replied, almost offended by her doubting him, “being a hotel manager is like being permanently in front of the camera.”