Dick Francis: In the Frame

‘No one shoots sea-birds with a revolver,’ he said. ‘But bloody awful painters of slow horses, that’s different.’

The quarry came in sight again. Jik drew up and stopped, and Sarah, hopping out quickly, told us to stay where we were, she would fetch the bullet cases.

‘They really did shoot at you?’ Jik said.

‘Greene. He missed.’

‘Inefficient.’ He shifted in his seat, wincing. ‘They must have gone back over the hill while we were looking for you round the bays.’ He glanced at Sarah as she searched along the side of the road. ‘Did they take the list?’

‘I threw it in the sea.’ I smiled lopsidedly. ‘It seemed too tame just to hand it over... and it made a handy diversion. They salvaged enough to see that they’d got what they wanted.’

‘It must all have been a bugger.’

‘Hilarious.’

Sarah found the cases, picked them up, and came running back. ‘Here they are... I’ll put them in my handbag.’ She slid into the passenger seat. ‘What now?’

‘Telephone,’ I said.

‘Like that?’ She looked me over. ‘Have you any idea...’ She stopped. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy you each a shirt at the first shop we come to.’ She swallowed. ‘And don’t say what if it’s a grocery.’

‘What if it’s a grocery?’ Jik said.

We set off again, and at the intersection turned left to go back over the hill, because it was about a quarter of the distance.

Near the top there was a large village with the sort of store which sold everything from hammers to hairpins. Also groceries. Also, upon enquiry, shirts. Sarah made a face at Jik and vanished inside.

I pulled on the resulting navy tee-shirt and made wobbly tracks for the telephone, clutching Sarah’s purse.

‘Operator... which hotels have a telex?’

She told me three. One was the Townhouse. I thanked her and rang off.

I called the Townhouse. Remembered, with an effort, that my name was Peel.

‘But, Mr Peel...’ said the girl, sounding bewildered. ‘Your friend... the one with the moustache, not the one with the beard... He paid your account not half an hour ago and collected all your things... Yes, I suppose it is irregular, but he brought your note, asking us to let him have your room key... I’m sorry but I didn’t know you hadn’t written it... Yes, he took all your things, the room’s being cleaned at this minute...’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘Can you send a telex for me? Put it on my friend Mr... er... Andrew’s bill.’

She said she would. I dictated the message. She repeated it, and said she would send it at once.

‘I’ll call again soon for the reply,’ I said.

Sarah had bought jeans for us, and dry socks. Jik drove out of the village to a more modest spot, and we put them on: hardly the world’s best fit, but they hid the damage.

‘Where now?’ he said. ‘Intensive Care Unit?’

‘Back to the telephone.’

‘Jesus God Almighty.’

He drove back and I called the Townhouse. The girl said she’d received an answer, and read it out. ‘Telephone at once, reverse charges,’ she said, ‘And there’s a number...’ She read it out, twice. I repeated it. ‘That’s right.’

I thanked her.

‘No sweat,’ she said. ‘Sorry about your things.’

I called the international exchange and gave them the number. It had a priority rating, they said. The call would be through in ten minutes. They would ring back.

The telephone was on the wall of a booth inside the general store. There was nothing to sit on. I wished to God there was.

The ten minutes dragged slowly by. Nine and a half, to be exact.

The bell rang, and I picked up the receiver.

‘Your call to England...’

The modern miracle. Half-way round the world, and I was talking to Inspector Frost as if he were in the next room. Eleven-thirty in the morning at Wellington: eleven-thirty at night in Shropshire.

‘Your letter arrived today, sir,’ he said. ‘And action has already been started.’

‘Stop calling me sir. I’m used to Todd.’

‘All right. Well, we telexed Melbourne to alert them and we’ve started checking on all the people on the England list. The results are already incredible. All the crossed-out names we’ve checked so far have been the victims of break-ins. We’re alerting the police in all the other countries concerned. The only thing is, we see the list you sent us is a photo-copy. Do you have the original?’

‘No... Most of it got destroyed. Does it matter?’

‘Not really. Can you tell us how it came into your possession?’

‘Er... I think we’d better say it just did.’

A dry laugh travelled twelve thousand miles.

‘All right. Now what’s so urgent that you’re keeping me from my bed?’

‘Are you at home?’ I said contritely.

‘On duty, as it happens. Fire away.’

‘Two things... One is, I can save you time with the stock list numbers. But first...’ I told him about Wexford and Greene being in Wellington, and about them stealing my things. ‘They’ve got my passport and travellers’ cheques, and also my suitcase which contains painting equipment.’

‘I saw it at your cousin’s,’ he said.

‘That’s right. I think they may also have a page or two of the list...’

‘Say that again.’

I said it again. ‘Most of it got thrown into the sea, but I know Wexford regained at least one page. Well... I thought... they’d be going back to Melbourne, probably today, any minute really, and when they land there, there’s a good chance they’ll have at least some of those things with them...’

‘I can fix a Customs search,’ he said. ‘But why should they risk stealing...?’

‘They don’t know I know,’ I said. ‘I think they think I’m dead.’

‘Good God. Why?’

‘They took a pot shot at me. Would bullet cases be of any use? Fortunately I didn’t collect a bullet, but I’ve got six shells.’

‘They may be...’ He sounded faint. ‘What about the stock list?’

‘In the shorter list... Got it?’

‘Yes, in front of me.’

‘Right. The first letter is for the city the painting was sold in; M for Melbourne, S for Sydney, W for Wellington. The second letter identifies the painter; M for Munnings, H for Herring, and I think R for Raoul Millais. The letter G stands for copy. All the paintings on that list are copies. All the ones on the longer list are originals. Got that?’

‘Yes. Go on.’

‘The numbers are just numbers. They’d sold 54 copies when I... er... when the list reached me. The last letter R stands for Renbo. That’s Harley Renbo, who was working at Alice Springs. If you remember, I told you about him last time.’

‘I remember,’ he said.

‘Wexford and Greene have spent the last couple of days chasing around in New Zealand, so with a bit of luck they will not have destroyed anything dodgy in the Melbourne gallery. If the Melbourne police can arrange a search, there might be a harvest.’

‘It’s their belief that the disappearance of the list from the gallery will have already led to the immediate destruction of anything else incriminating.’

‘They may be wrong. Wexford and Greene don’t know I photo-copied the list and sent it to you. They think the list is floating safely out to sea, and me with it.’

‘I’ll pass your message to Melbourne.’

‘There’s also another gallery here in Wellington, and an imitation Herring they sold to a man in Auckland...’

‘For heaven’s sake...’

I gave him the Ruapehu address, and mentioned Norman Updike.

‘There’s also a recurring B on the long stock list, so there’s probably another gallery. In Brisbane, maybe. There may also be another one in Sydney. I shouldn’t think the suburban place I told you about had proved central enough, so they shut it.’