Stolen (12 page)

B
ARTHOLOMEW
S
TERLING WORE
a dark blue double-breasted suit that fit his squared-off frame and added a little height. Silver rose-shaped cufflinks gleamed at his coat sleeves. Michael figured the man was five feet six inches tall in lifts. Carefully coiffed gray-blond hair hung down over his forehead and gave him a carefree appearance. He looked like a university fop gone to seed in his mid-fifties.

The Blackpool Café catered to the blue-collar crowd but attracted a lot of families and young people who passed through the town on holiday or on a leg of their sailing jaunt. Lobster nets hung across the ceiling, holding starfish, mollusk shells and driftwood.

“Let's sit here.” Sterling waved toward a dark booth near the front entrance. He glanced at Rohan Wallace, who had walked into the restaurant with Michael. “I'll be happy to set your friend up with a drink, but I'm afraid this is for your ears only.”

Rohan glanced at Michael, who nodded.

“I'm gonna be at the bar. In case you need something.”

“Thanks, mate.”

With a last glance at Conway, Rohan strode to the bar and sat where he could keep them within easy view.

Michael slid into the booth and was immediately trapped by Conway's bulk as the big man maneuvered in beside
him. He glanced at Conway. “You realize that if you try anything…”

“That your friend is going to stop me?” Conway grinned at Rohan and shook his head, looking like an evil child. “Not on his best day.”

“I was going to say that he'd call the police.”

“I've seen the police. Got to say, I'm not impressed.”

Moving carefully, Sterling sat opposite them in the booth. “Well, Mr. Conway, we don't want the police involved in our business.”

“Yes, sir.” Conway's menace dialed down a kilowatt or two.

“I want to assure you, Mr. Graham, that I wish you no harm.” Sterling smiled disarmingly. It was a smile that showed practiced ease and Michael was certain it worked on a lot of people. “I'm only here to rectify an old injustice in whatever way I'm able. Not to threaten you in any way.”

“Unfortunately, the circumstances—and present company—don't allow for that.”

“I'm going to work to ameliorate the situation, hopefully.”

A young waitress arrived and Sterling ordered pints all around, as well as one for Rohan at the bar. Sterling remained affable and unruffled, and even flirted slightly with the young woman.

Michael waited and tried to keep from panicking. It was one thing to react to sudden danger and another to sit in the middle of it. Still, he was surprised to find that he was calmer than he probably ought to have been under the circumstances.

“I wanted to talk to you about the train robbery, Mr. Graham.” Sterling dragged a forefinger around the rim
of his glass. “Do you know all the people that were involved?”

“I made a list of all those noted.”

“My uncle was one of them.”

Michael nodded. “I've seen his name.”

“He lost more than the paintings that were aboard that train.”

“His daughter.”

“My cousin, yes.” Sterling's head dipped in acknowledgment. “But even more than that. Do you know why those men were shipping their art acquisitions out of London, Mr. Graham?”

“To keep them safe. The Nazis were bombing the city almost daily.”

“Are you an art collector?”

“Not so much. Molly and I pick up a few pieces now and again.” Mostly they were from artists Michael worked with on his video games.

“Why do you make those purchases?”

Michael hesitated, trying to figure out where Sterling was going with his line of questioning. “Because we see something we like. Or we're on holiday and want a piece to remember the trip.”

Leaning forward a little, Sterling held Michael's gaze. “A great many people buy paintings for those very reasons. But they usually don't spend large sums of money. They want paintings they can hang in their homes or offices so that others can appreciate the same beauty, or their good taste and wealth. You understand?”

“Of course.”

“Not everyone buys paintings for those reasons. Many collectors purchase art for investment purposes only. Art is unique. One of a kind. As such, the intrinsic value of a piece, or a painter, rarely gets hit by economic fluctuations
even in the hardest of times.” Sterling sipped his pint. “Most of the men who placed collections aboard that ill-fated train were that kind of collector.”

“Investors?” That was something Michael hadn't considered.

“Exactly.” Sterling touched his nose knowingly and smiled. “You see what I'm driving at?”

“Quite frankly, no. They were trying to safeguard their investments—”

Sterling waved a hand to interrupt. “Why ship those paintings from London? Men like that, they would want to watch over their investments. Especially if they had large sums of their wealth tied up there. And many of them did.”

“I still fail to see your point.”

Shaking his head, Sterling sighed. “If you have something very valuable, Mr. Graham, what do you do to make certain you don't lose your investment?”

Michael figured out where the man was going. “You would insure them.”

“Precisely. Which is what those men did. But, if the paintings were destroyed in the war…” Sterling let the thought hang.

“Insurance wouldn't cover it.”

“You grasp the problem.”

Michael leaned back in the booth. He wasn't as fearful now as new thoughts consumed his mind. “Insurance companies would pay off on stolen paintings.”

“And they did. But the agencies held up the checks for some time. There was a suspicion that German agents intercepted the train.” Sterling grimaced. “Years dragged on before the claims were finally settled. Not everyone was happy.” Sterling paused and lifted a cautious eyebrow.
“Moreover, claims couldn't be filed on some missing pieces.”

“Why?”

“Come, come, Mr. Graham. An intelligent man such as yourself? Why do you think that would happen?”

Michael only had to ponder for an instant before he arrived at an answer. “Ownership could be contested because they had purchased stolen art.”

Sterling chuckled, then drank from his pint. His eyes sparkled in merriment. “That was the rub for a few of the men who owned paintings on that train. Hundreds of thousands of investment dollars disappeared in that train sabotage.” He paused. “Many of those men, my father and uncle included, believed the mastermind behind the train robbery came from within their circle.”

“Someone in the group took advantage of the situation?”

“Yes.”

“I don't suppose they knew who to blame?”

“They blamed someone, but there was never any evidence.” Sterling shook his head. “My father and uncle wished to pursue the matter. My cousin died aboard that train, one of several who lost their lives. My uncle wanted someone to pay for her death. But there was a war on, and murder and robbery took a backseat to bombings and mass destruction in the streets.”

“Given the conditions, that's understandable.”

“But it shouldn't have been forgiven.”

“I'm not condoning the actions at the time. That was just a statement of fact.” Michael was slightly mortified that he'd brushed those deaths off so casually.

“I understand, Mr. Graham.” Sterling lowered his voice and tried to sound more relaxed. “I, of course, didn't know my cousin because I was born late in life to my
father, but I am appalled that the death of a child has gone unpunished.”

“Seventy years.” Michael shook his head. “Whoever was behind the train robbery, they're dead and gone now, Mr. Sterling.”

“I'm aware of that, but unmasking Chloe's killer can still be beneficial to all. Those paintings—the ones that were undeclared for various reasons—can possibly be recovered by naming those responsible for the robbery.”

“How?”

Sterling spoke more softly. “Money usually stays with a family, Mr. Graham. I know that you are new to it, but wealthy families tend to collect it. When managed properly, it snowballs and grows within that family. Nearly all of the men involved in the train robbery have left families who are still wealthy. If I was able to discover, and
prove
indisputably, who arranged that robbery, I would have the means to demand that wealth back.”

“You're talking about blackmail.”

Sterling waved offhandedly. “You say that as though it's a bad thing, Mr. Graham. In actuality, blackmail is often the price of doing business. Provided one's business isn't on the up and up.”

And you would know that firsthand, wouldn't you?
Michael took a swallow from his pint to give himself time to think. His thoughts effortlessly formed various constructions and probabilities. This was very much like a game scenario. The problem lay in how best to finesse it.

“Do you have someone in mind, Mr. Sterling?”

With an unctuous smile, Sterling nodded. “Of course I do. The robbery took place within a few miles of here. And the transportation was arranged through a local contact the military department had engaged.”

“Philip Crowe.”

“Bravo, Mr. Graham.” Sterling smiled more broadly and nodded as though he were a proud father. “You're apparently on top of things, and this evidently isn't a new angle for you.”

“The possibility had occurred to me.” It also explained why Aleister Crowe was so insistent on involving himself in the documentary. Crowe would want to keep the family name from being dragged through the mud.

“As that possibility occurred to my father and uncle.”

“Surely they followed up with an investigation.”

“They did. But it came to naught.”

“Why would something come to light now?”

Sterling leaned back and shook his head. “Nothing may, Mr. Graham, but I'm not predisposed to give up on this since the robbery is once more at the forefront of the media. I doubt there will be a better chance to uncover the truth of the villainy that transpired during that robbery. But we must try, mustn't we?”

“Frankly, I don't see how I can help you.”

“We have a commonality that binds us. We can be useful to each other in our separate enquiries. I'm also assured that you're an intelligent man. Quite the puzzle solver, from what I've been told. Moreover, you're part of Blackpool but you still have an outsider's eyes.” Sterling pointed to his own eyes. “That is very important when sorting through something like this that is so close to home.”

“I think you're misjudging what I can do for you in this matter.”

Sterling smiled. “Perhaps. And if I have misjudged you and end up being in any way disappointed, I will claim no foul. You are the best champion I could have in this endeavor, Mr. Graham. After all, a lot of innocent families were injured by this crime. They could stand to benefit when the truth comes out. I only propose a partnership—both of
us seeking the truth as to what degree Philip Crowe was involved in the robbery. If that suits you, and if I may be of use in any way, please don't hesitate to call me.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a white-gold case. He popped the case open and removed a jade-green business card and presented it with a flourish.

The card held only a mobile number.

“You can reach me at that number twenty-four hours a day.”

Reluctantly, Michael closed his hand over the card.

After finishing his pint, Sterling stood and Conway left money on the table.

“Good hunting, Mr. Graham. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Michael merely nodded, not knowing what to say. He couldn't bring himself to thank the man for holding him under duress.

Sterling, followed by Conway, left without a backward glance. After they'd gone, Rohan brought his pint over and sat down.

“You okay, mon?”

“Yes.” Michael rubbed his chin. “Thanks for hanging about. You could have stepped into a lot of trouble by doing that.”

Rohan smiled. “I've always found it's better if you see trouble coming.” He stared through the window as the luxury car pulled away from the curb. “This about that robbery?”

“It is.”

“Seems like a very dangerous mon.”

“That he is.” Michael sighed and wondered how deep he was now in with Bartholomew Sterling.

“S
TOLEN PAINTINGS THAT WERE
already stolen? That's what Sterling is here for?” Molly stared at Michael as they sat in front of the fireplace in the den. He had laid a small fire and it was just warm enough to make her feel toasty where she sat curled up on one of the couches.

“Seems a bit insidious, doesn't it?” Michael smiled in that crooked-mouthed fashion he had when he wasn't at all terribly amused. “Sort of like a lethal game of duck, duck, goose. You stole the paintings, he stole the paintings.”

“Someone stole the stolen paintings.” Molly sipped her wine.

“Exactly.”

The room was large and filled with windows along the back wall. It faced the same view as their bedroom above—out to sea in the dark night. Running lights from a few boats passed near the coastline and farther out in deep water. Molly loved turning the lights down low in that room, or having only the fireplace burning, and gazing out the window. With the stars above and the sea below, the sight was magical, as if anything might happen.

She looked at Michael. He sat on the floor in front of the fireplace clad only in lounging pants and a tank top. Furrows cut across his forehead.

Knowing he was frustrated, Molly felt sorry for him. “What are you going to do?”

He glanced up at her, having to pause for a moment as he drew his thoughts back to her. “About what?”

“Bartholomew Sterling.”

“You're assuming I might actually stumble onto something to tell the man.” Michael joined her on the couch and wrapped his arms around her.

Molly snuggled into him, smelling his soapy fresh scent from the shower. The heat of his chest warmed her. “You might. You're intelligent and resourceful.”

Michael kissed her neck and she shivered. “I think I'd rather the whole documentary was dropped and we simply stepped away from this thing,” he said. He tried to kiss her again.

Twisting slightly, Molly caught his face against the palm of her hand and stopped him.

“Ouch.” Michael leaned back and wiggled his nose experimentally.

“You did not just say that, Michael Graham. Not after all the work and effort I put into this project. Especially since the story is worth telling.”

Michael frowned at her. “You have to admit, this documentary has gone wildly astray from where you planned it would.”

“Not entirely. I had hoped that some of those secrets buried seventy years ago would come out. But if they hadn't, the story of those displaced people would have been good. There's a lot of displaced people in the world these days. I thought perhaps Blackpool's tale might draw attention to some of the recent problems and win support for them.”

“I know, love. It's just that I'm at a loss as to what to do.”

“We keep on doing what we're doing, of course. I work
on the documentary, and you return to your game. But you didn't answer my question about Sterling.”

“For now all I have planned is to research the paintings a little more. See if I can find out anything about the ones that went missing.”

“The police did that already.”

“That was back then. There was a war on, and they didn't have the Internet.” Michael stared into her eyes. “What's your next step? Despite what you said I have a suspicion it has as much to do with your official job as mine.”

She smiled. “Try to figure out what the burglars were looking for when they broke into Mrs. Whiteshire's home and ours.”

“All with Paddington's blessing?”

Molly shrugged. “Not exactly. But apparently he's not beating the bushes at the moment, is he?”

“I think the inspector is more concerned about containing a potential situation than in creating one. And there are a number of powerful people involved in this.”

“Do you think that impresses him?”

“No, but powerful people always have powerful barristers. Once a suspect gets behind a legal barricade, they're harder to get to.”

“You think Paddington's working on this, Michael?”

“I do. Do you know what else I think?”

Molly looked up at him. “What?”

“I think you've talked about this enough tonight.” Without another word, Michael scooped her up in his arms and laid her in front of the fireplace.

 

S
TRIDING INTO THE
B
REAKERS
, one of Blackpool's upscale dining establishments, Molly waved off the maître d' and strode straight for Aleister Crowe's table. He sat in the
middle of his meal, his notebook computer open in front of him, an earbud in one ear hooked to his mobile, and a men's fashion catalogue open beside the computer.

At the last minute, Crowe spotted Molly approaching and disconnected from both computer and mobile. By the time she reached him, he stood tall, calm and collected, elegant in his suit. She disliked the fact that he could keep his aplomb so readily.

“Mrs. Graham. What a pleasant surprise.” He blotted his lips with his napkin.

“Can we talk?”

“Perhaps a cup of tea?” Crowe waved over a server. Ever the gentleman, he pulled out Molly's chair.

Molly thanked him, irritated that she hadn't pulled out her own chair before he could get to it, and sat. The server waited on her expectantly. “A glass of water, please.”

Crowe sat and removed his computer from the table. He looked at Molly quizzically.

Molly searched his dark eyes and couldn't help sensing again that the man had depths to him that she'd never seen. Darkness seemed to cling to Aleister Crowe. Molly focused on why she was here. “This documentary is causing a lot of talk and speculation. As it turns out, some of it concerns the train robbery itself.”

“What speculation would that be?”

“That the train robbery was an inside job, planned by someone who was also part of the planning of Operation Pied Piper.”

Crowe shook his head in dismay. “Of course it was. There was some suspicion that government employees were behind it. Possibly military personnel. And there were even a few who believed Hitler and his generals had deciphered information regarding the train shipment and had intercepted it. To fund the Nazi war effort.”

“Or that one of the individuals who owned art being shipped on that train masterminded the whole operation to acquire the other paintings.”

A grin spread across Crowe's thin lips. “Naturally, since my grandfather allowed the army to set up a command center in my home for the exodus of women and children from London, my family is suspect.” He blotted his lips a final time, then put his napkin in the center of his plate. “As to your thinly veiled accusation, I refute any suggestion that my family was responsible for the theft of the paintings or the gold bullion from that train. Will there be anything else? I, for one, am busy and don't have time for idle chitchat.” Crowe opened his computer and placed it back on the table.

“Not at the moment.” As gracefully as she could, Molly got to her feet.

“I should tell you one thing further, Mrs. Graham.” Crowe glared at her through slitted eyes. “If you by any chance allow this rootless speculation to air in your documentary, I will sue all concerned—including you—for libel.”

“Mr. Crowe, everything that goes into that documentary will be fact. I assure you of that.” Molly held his gaze without batting an eye. “And if I find any proof of culpability on the part of your family, I'll hang it out there for all to see. Just like I will anything else.” She turned on her heel and left.

Outside the restaurant, Molly was surprised to find how rapidly her heart was beating. Aleister Crowe was different from any man she'd ever known. He was creepy. And dangerous. There was something cold and chilling about him that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Or maybe you just don't want to.

Molly took a deep breath and let herself into her Mini
Cooper. She'd just turned the engine over when her mobile rang. The Caller ID read Private Number.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Graham? This is Synthia Roderick. I was with Simon Wineguard the other morning.”

“Hello, Miss Roderick.”

“I was hoping maybe we could chat.”

“All right.” In fact, Molly had meant to approach the woman herself that afternoon.

“Excellent. Would you care to meet somewhere? Or would you mind dropping by the boat? I tend to gather a crowd when I go somewhere.”

So does a cow pie.
“The boat will be fine. What time?”

“Now would be perfect. If you are available.”

“I am.”

“Brill. I'll see you in a few.” Syn rang off without another word.