Stuart Pawson - The Picasso Scam

As soon as I was able to off-load most of the other pressing cases, by a combination of delegation or simply placing them back at the bottom of the heap, I went out to do some investigating of my own. One of the auction houses on the list of suppliers had been burgled about ten years previously, and I'd handled the enquiry. I decided to renew my acquaintance with them.

The old gentleman who ran the place, Mr. Oliphant, was still there, looking appropriately older and frailer than before.

"They'll have to shoot me to get rid of me," he said, after I'd reintroduced myself. "I don't do any auctioneering now, but I like to be surrounded by all these beautiful objects. The trouble with being in the business is that you don't make anything your own. Everything has a price, everything is for sale. My house is filled with bric-a-brac, but the good stuff goes under the hammer, I'm afraid."

"That's business, Mr. Oliphant," I replied. "Sentimentality is a luxury neither of us can afford."

"Quite, quite. Now, how can I help you?"

I produced the list that Wheatley had supplied, and read from it: "Do you remember selling this item? It's an early Victorian mahogany drum table, inlaid with marquetry in a geometric design." I told him the price paid and the date of the sale.

"Oh, yes," he replied immediately, "I remember it well. It was a superb piece of workmanship. It was perfect, except that someone had started writing a letter on it and pressed too hard, leaving an imprint. All the dealers said this ruined it, and fifteen thousand was way over the top, but I disagreed. I thought it added to the charm of the piece, but not many share my sensibilities. Anyway, this chap Wheatley obviously agreed with me, so he bought it."

"I don't suppose you've a catalogue with a photograph or a fuller description, have you?"

"Why, of course. Why didn't I think of that?" He rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way over to a bookcase. "What did you say the date of the sale was?" he asked.

I told him, and in a few moments he produced the appropriate catalogue and found the page for me. I was studying it in a noncommittal way, wondering how else I would have used fifteen grand, when Mr. Oliphant enquired: "Is there a problem with it, Inspector? Has it been stolen?"

"Yes," I answered, 'it's been stolen." Technically, I suppose it had.

"This writing," I continued, 'was it possible to read what it said?"

"Yes, but it wasn't anything enlightening or salacious, I'm afraid. It just said Dear… I think it was William. That was impressed into the marquetry, then it ran on to the mahogany and became too faint to read.

I like to think it was written by a young lady, too distraught to realise what she was doing."

"You're a romantic, Mr. Oliphant. Tell me one other thing. Which shipping companies would you recommend to export a collection of antiques?"

Nigel and Jeff beat me to it. When I arrived back they were beaming like they'd been invited to be guest speakers at a nymphomaniacs' convention. Nigel gave me a thumbs-up.

"You were right, boss," he told me. "From now on, I'm going to listen to everything you say."

"Go on," I prompted.

"Well, I offered him twenty percent less than the reserve, and we settled for fifteen, all thanks to you."

"Great. Did you say they were Baccarats?"

"That's right. Why?"

"They've got them in Pricefighter, at four quid for a box of six. They look very nice. Anything else?"

"Er, yes, one other thing. A shipping agent called Big Ocean Transport picked up six crates of furniture from Brian Wheatley Developments five weeks ago. They were sent down to Southampton and packed into a container. From there they set sail last week on a boat called Alpha Carrymaster, bound for the Big Apple."

"You mean New York?"

"Yes, boss. We now know all about cargo manifests, customs papers and car nets Apparently the agents handle everything."

Cocky sod. I drummed my fingers on the desk and gathered my thoughts.

Big Ocean were on the list Mr. Oliphant had suggested.

"When do they arrive in New York?" I asked.

"Saturday morning, all being well."

I drummed and thunk some more. "Where's the Alpha whatsitsname registered?"

Nigel's smile slipped. Got him. "Never asked, boss. Does it matter?"

"Yes, it could be important. Have you got a passport?"

"A passport?"

"Yes, a passport. A thin book with your photo inside. Red now, but the proper ones were dark blue."

"Yes, boss. Why?"

"What about you, Jeff?"

"You bet!" he replied with enthusiasm.

Jeff Caton was every bit as competent as Nigel, but under his shadow in the personality stakes. In many ways he was more reliable, but lacked Nigel's occasional flair. They were a good combination.

"Someone ought to go identify the loot," I explained, 'but first, we need to know what we are looking for." I produced the photo of the Victorian table that Mr. Oliphant had given me.

"This is item six on Wheatley's list. We can further pin it down by some writing that's been imprinted either here or here, near the middle of a short side. We need more information like that, relating to three or four other pieces. See what you can find. Go together, but don't mess about: we've no time to waste. Meanwhile I'll see if I can raise permission for you to go over to the States."

They were out of the office and down the stairs quicker than a Big Freddie's Steakburger gives you indigestion.

Superintendent Wood wasn't in, so I bypassed him. As the cost of two fares to America wouldn't come out of his budget, it seemed reasonable to assume he wouldn't mind. I needed permission to go ahead from an Assistant Chief Constable, so I rang Trevor Partridge. Not long ago he'd been after my scalp, but Hilditch's suicide had put a more favourable complexion on our relationship. Now he was feeling aggrieved because he didn't land a promotion in the ensuing shuffle, but that was hardly my fault. He asked me how I was, listened to what I said, appreciated the hurry and gave me the okay. Thanks, Trev.

The North American Tourist office in Leeds wasn't quite as accommodating, but I laid it on good and thick, and convinced them that there really was a conspiracy to assassinate Mickey Mouse that only we could foil. They eventually found places for Nigel and Jeff on the Friday morning flight from Manchester. I think the deal was that they had to help serve the meals, but I didn't mind. Today was Wednesday. I remembered that the pubs are open on a Wednesday round here, so I turned out the light and went to one.

Interpol have an office in London. I rang them early next morning. I rang them again a little later, after they'd arrived. They were interested and helpful.

"What authority do my men need," I asked, 'and can you find me a contact for them?"

"All they need is authority from the local chief. We'll arrange that.

We'll have to come back to you with a contact. Do you know where the boat is registered?"

"Yes, Monrovia." I'd done my homework.

"Okay. In that case it's important not to touch the stuff until it's on the dock. While it's on the ship it's out of our, or the American, jurisdiction. Stay there, we won't be long."

They weren't. "Right, Inspector Priest, here's what's happening. Your boys contact Lieutenant Tony diP alma at 120th Precinct HQ. That's Staten Island. They look after the docks. We'll have somebody there, too. They want to hit the receiver at their end, so the suggestion is, if the identifications are positive, you liaise directly with diP alma and co-ordinate the raids. Is that acceptable to you?"

I had a choice? "Sure, that's fine," I told him. "Can you give me a number for diP alma Suddenly the feeling hit me that I'd put Nigel and Jeff into something really heavy. They'd made one decent identification yesterday afternoon, and had gone straight on to the job this morning. I'd spoken to them both on the phone last night, and told them to pack a suitcase. I walked wearily up the stairs to Gilbert's office and informed him of what I'd done on his behalf.