Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

Over the public address system came the voice of the woman at the admissions desk. “The museum will close in twenty minutes.”

Beside him a different voice spoke up. She was wearing an official badge that said she was staff. “You look as if you’re trying to find something. Can I help?”

With so little time left, he had no choice. He told her he’d come hoping to see a Horngacher.

“You’re standing beside it,” she said.

“But it says Obermeyer.”

“Read the small print, and I think you’ll find it was made by Horngacher. He took over the business from Obermeyer. If anything, he improved on them. He’s known as the Stradivari of harp makers. Isn’t the carving exquisite?”

Bernie wasn’t looking at the carving. If anything was exquisite, it was the label that confirmed what he’d just been told. He’d found the Horngacher. All he had to do now was remove it from the building.

He glanced around at the security arrangements, the video surveillance and the metal shutters on the windows. This would not be simple.

The attendant glanced at her watch. “We’re closing soon, I’m afraid.”

On an inspiration, Bernie said, “Organs?”

She didn’t understand.

“Where can I find the organs?”

“They’re near the entrance. You must have passed them on the way in.”

“Didn’t notice. I was looking for this.”

He thanked her and headed for the organ section. Organs were the biggest instruments Bernie could think of. Some fine examples were ranged along the main walkway to the entrance. After checking the video cameras he picked his organ, a Victorian church instrument with a fine set of pipes. It wasn’t the largest in the display, but it suited him well. Making sure no one was about, he squeezed out of sight between the pipes and the wall.

A bell went off and he thought he’d triggered an alarm, but it was the five-minute warning that the museum was closing.

Now it was a matter of holding his nerve. The staff may have noticed he hadn’t left yet. With luck, their minds were on other things like getting home as soon as possible. He listened to the footsteps as other visitors departed.

It went so quiet he could hear the woman on admissions say to someone, presumably a security officer, “All clear, then?”

“I’ll do my check with the dog. Leave it to me.”

With the dog? The hairs rose on the back of Bernie’s neck.

What could he do? Wait here, to be savaged by a guard-dog? The woman said goodnight, followed by a door slamming. Then the rumble of something mechanical. The elevator. The security man was starting his check upstairs.

Bernie heard the sliding door open and close, and knew this was his opportunity. Two floors upstairs had to be checked. He must grab that harp and be away before the man and his dog reached the ground floor.

Speed mattered more than stealth. He emerged from his hiding place and ran to the far end, where the orchestra was displayed. Took a grip on the Horngacher and tried to shift it. Difficult. Not only was it heavy, but awkward, too. The harp at the Albert Hall, cased and on wheels, had lulled him into thinking this would be simple. It would take far too long to drag this thing the length of the building and out through the front door.

He looked around for inspiration. No convenient trolley, of course. But desperation breeds inventiveness. Bernie looked at the wood-block floor. And the conductor’s dais, covered with a square of red carpet. He could use that carpet. With strength born of panic, he ripped it free of the tacks and placed it where he could persuade the Horngacher onto it. One big effort and the harp was in position. Now he could move it, tugging the rug with one hand and supporting the harp with the other.

The method worked. Once the rug was in motion, he was able to get up a reasonable speed. Of course it was a risk supporting fifty grands-worth of harp with one hand as he ran backwards, but Bernie had gone past the point of risk assessment.

He reached the entrance with its turnstile system. No way could he get the harp through or over the turnstile. There had to be another entrance for large items, and there was: a metal gate at the side. Locked.

There was no obvious way to shift it. After rattling the gate several times like a gorilla, he climbed over and looked at the other side. The bolt seemed to work by some electronic mechanism. Cursing, he went into the kiosk where the woman issued tickets. He found a switch and flicked it.

An alarm bell sounded.

In the din, he started flicking every switch, every key he could find. He tried the gate again. No result. And the security man and his dog would be down any second.

Instinctively he reached under his arm and drew the gun. Should have thought of it before. He fired at the bolt securing the gate. Magic. It swung free. He hauled the rug and harp through and across the stone floor of the foyer. Several finger bolts secured the front door. He loosed them and opened up. Outside, some porter, bless him, had left a hand trolley. Bernie grasped the harp and lifted it on and steered the precious load across the car park to where his van stood.

There wasn’t time to strap the Horngacher in place. It would have to take its chance on the rubber mats. He opened the doors, heaved it in and slammed them shut.

Behind him he heard a shout. The security guard was at the museum door. The dog, a German shepherd, was racing across the car park. Bernie almost reached the front of the van when the dog sank its teeth into his leg below the knee. The pain was wicked. He fisted the dog, but it hung on, snarling. He dragged open the van door. More by luck than judgement the door struck the dog and threw it off him. Bernie heaved himself inside, closed the door, started up and drove off.

In the long history of thefts, this one didn’t rate among the most efficient and ingenious, but so what, it had come off. Leg throbbing, breath rasping, heart racing, Bernie headed towards Surrey.

A couple of Mercs and a limo were on Sly Small’s drive when Bernie drove up. Inside the limo, the driver was reading a paperback. He didn’t give Bernie a glance.

“What kept you, birdbrain?” Sly said when he opened the door.

Bernie had his story ready. “There were too many police about. I took some back roads and got a bit lost.”

“Did you fetch the harp?”

“No problem, Mr Small.”

“Why are you limping if there was no problem?”

“My dodgy knee. I’m not used to humping heavy things around.”

Sly didn’t have much sympathy. “Hump it inside, then. We want to see this goddam thing.”

Bernie noted the use of the plural and assumed Rocky was inside the house. It wouldn’t have hurt Rocky to help lift his father’s gift inside — an idea Bernie decided against mentioning. It wouldn’t have hurt that driver, either, but he was still reading. Bernie braced himself for one final effort, grasped the Horngacher and staggered inside with it.

“In here,” Sly’s voice announced from the front room.

He just succeeded in getting in there before his arms gave way. The harp’s base struck the floor with a thump. “Sorry.” He stopped it from keeling over. Nothing seemed to be broken.

He took a couple of deep breaths before noticing who was in the room. Not Rocky, but a silver-haired man wearing shades. The man had started to rise from his chair when the harp hit the floor, but he sank down again.

“Do you want to check it, maestro?” Sly said to the man. “Good idea. Here, take hold of my arm.”

This struck Bernie as odd. Sly wasn’t the sort who offered his arm to anyone.

But the man seemed to take it as normal. He stood and waited for Sly to cross the room. Then he rested his hand lightly on Sly’s arm and Bernie understood. The man was blind.