Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

Milton went across to introduce himself and Kenneth Hurrell to the newcomers. They treated him with muted respect.

“Who’s in charge?” he asked.

“I am,” said a hefty man in his thirties.

“Who are you? Gostelow or Crabtree?”

“Neither, sir. Mr Gostelow died years ago.”

“What about Crabtree?”

“On holiday.”

“Lucky devil! So was I until this little caper.”

“My name’s Pete Sylvester,” said the foreman, extending a gnarled hand. “I was in charge of cleaning Nelson, so I have a real stake in getting him back. You grow to like a man when you’ve been chiselling away at him for as long as we did.”

“I thought you just gave him a wash and brush-up.”

“I wish it was that easy, sir. But we’re not just cleaners. We’re trained sculptors. We actually have to re-carve bits from time to time. Freshen up the contours. It’s skilled work. We’ve sculpted bits of half the churches in London before now.”

“What about taking a statue down?”

“That’s more difficult.”

“But you have done it before?”

“A few times. We’ll manage somehow. Leave it to us.”

Peter Sylvester’s craggy face split into a grin. He had a reassuring jauntiness about him. While he was chatting to the detectives, his men were already starting to build the scaffold around the column. In the background, another crew was assembling the crane.

“Listen, Pete,” said Hurrell familiarly, “when you were working on the Admiral, did you see anything?”

“We saw everything, mate. Best view in London.”

“I meant, did you see anything unusual?”

“Unusual?”

“People taking a close interest in what you were doing.”

“There were dozens of those. Real nuisance at times.”

“Were any of them French?” asked Milton.

“Yeah, couple of girls. They took our picture.”

“Nobody else?”

“Not that I recall. When you climb all the way up there, you can’t chat to anyone down here. Some people watched us for hours. We felt a bit like performing monkeys.”

“Did anyone else come up after you?”

“Oh, no! We wouldn’t stand for that.”

“What happened overnight?” wondered Hurrell. “Presumably, the scaffolding was left in place. Did you ever arrive in the morning and get the feeling that someone had been up there?” Sylvester shook his head. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because we had a nightwatchman on duty. If you don’t guard them, scaffolding poles have a nasty habit of walking off in the dark. Besides,” said the other, “we didn’t want idiots climbing all over the column. It’s bad enough when they get on the lions’ backs. Admiral Nelson deserves to be protected.”

Pete Sylvester was a man who clearly liked his work but he was unable to help them with their enquiries. When they released him, he went off to supervize the erection of the scaffolding. It was a long but methodical process. The column was slowly encased in an aluminium square which rose steadily upwards. Hurrell was impressed.

“It must have taken much longer with timber,” he observed.

“Timber?” echoed Milton.

“Yes, sir. When they first put up the column, a hundred and fifty years ago, they used wooden scaffolding. The statue itself was raised in 1843 by means of a winch. It must have been a wonderful sight.”

“Someone else has been doing his homework, I see.”

“I like to be thorough.”

“It’s the only way, Ken.”

Pete Sylvester eventually drifted back across to them.

“I’d suggest that you clear the square completely,” he said. “I’m fairly sure we won’t drop him but it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s a long way to fall.”

Milton gave a command and everyone was moved away.

“When you get him down,” he said, “our forensic boys will want to give him the once-over. Only not here in the glare of publicity.”

“We’ll take him back to the warehouse, sir. More private there.”

“Good.”

“One favour.”

“What’s that?”

“Could you keep the press off our backs? We don’t want them clambering all over our lorry to get exclusive pictures.”

“They won’t get a chance, Mr Sylvester.”

“Thanks.”

When the scaffolding finally reached the capital, Sylvester swarmed up it so that he had the privilege of tearing down the banner. To the cheers of the crowd, he hurled it to the ground. A policeman retrieved it then scurried back out of the way. Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell watched with admiration from the safety of the steps of the National Gallery. Pete Sylvester was efficient. Using a small pickaxe, he chipped away at what appeared to be fresh concrete at the base of the statue, then exchanged the implement for a stonecutter. Its whine soon rang across the square and the noise intensified as it cut into solid stone.

One eye on developments, Milton gave his orders.

“Check out all of these fringe groups,” he said.

“Even the loony ones, sir?”

“Especially those. Leave no stone unturned, Ken. If someone so much as asked for Eric Cantona’s autograph, I want him checked out for Gallic sympathies. We’re supposed to be fellow-Europeans now but that message obviously hasn’t got through to the Froggy mentality. Out there somewhere is a sawn-off Napoleon with delusions of grandeur.”

“We’ll find him, sir.”

“And soon.”

Hurrell was about to depart when his colleague’s mobile phone rang. The Commander snatched it from his pocket and turned it on.

“Yes?”

“Commander Milton?” said a heavily-accented voice.

“Who’s this?”

“I told you not to take the Emperor down!”

“It’s him!” said Milton, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece. “The anonymous Frog. He’s watching us.”

“Can you hear me?” said the voice.

“I hear you, mon ami ,” replied the other with polite contempt. “And I don’t care two hoots for your orders. Napoleon comes down.”

“In that case, we double the price.”

“What price?”

“For Nelson.”

Milton rid himself of a few expletives but the line went dead.

“They’re holding him to ransom,” he told Hurrell.”

“Where?”

“He forgot to tell me.”

“How much do they want?”

“A lot, by the sound of it.” He put the mobile away. “Well, let’s get rid of one statue before we try to reclaim the other. Meanwhile, you do what I said, Ken. Get your men on the case, chasing down every weird group of French sympathizers they can find. Join me when it’s time to take the Emperor for a ride.”

Hurrell moved swiftly away to pass on the orders to a small squad of detectives. Milton turned his gaze back to the statue. Pete Sylvester seemed to have cut through the base of the statue and was ready to have it removed. Using thick ropes with great dexterity, he lassoed the statue at various points. He was quite fearless, even climbing part of the way up the solid stone to secure the ropes more tightly. When he’d finished, he waved to the crane driver and the massive hook swung slowly towards him. Sylvester waited until it had stopped swinging before he began to loop the ropes around it. After tying them off with great care, he and his men descended the scaffolding at speed, then stood back to watch.

The crane applied pressure but the statue refused to move at first. A yell of encouragement went up from the crowd. When the driver put extra power into the tug, the statue was suddenly lifted clear of its base, sending rubble hurtling to the ground. Shorn of his majesty, the deposed Emperor made a slow descent until he rested horizontally in the back of the lorry. Sylvester and his men swiftly covered him with their tarpaulin. As the lorry drove away with its foreign cargo, it was greeted with the kind of ovation that only a winning English goal in the final of a World Cup could have evoked. Even Commander Milton applauded.