The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (8 page)

‘There isn’t anybody else.
You
must have mentioned it to somebody.’

‘I’m not daft, Inspector. I don’t tell people my business. All my transactions are confidential. Knowledge and privacy are my stock in trade.’

Angel shook his head. This man could keep his mouth shut.

‘I would have bought it from you at that price,’ Schuster added with a smile.

‘What price? It was never for sale. It still isn’t.’

‘Between £30 and £100, I said.’

‘It’s not mine to sell.’

‘Now that we know where it came from, I could pay a £1000.’

‘
It’s not mine to sell
!’ Angel shouted.

Schuster shrugged. ‘£2000?’

Angel shook his head impatiently. ‘I said it’s not mine to sell.’ He sighed. ‘But there is something I might buy from
you
.’

Schuster pursed his lips, affecting indifference and looked over his glasses. ‘What is that then, Inspector?’

Angel looked down at the shop floor and gently tapped one of the fire extinguishers with the toe of his shoe. ‘What do you want for this?’

Schuster blinked. ‘A fire extinguisher? Can’t sell you
that
. Health and Safety and all that. It would most likely be illegal. It probably doesn’t work anyway. I’ve got six of them. They’re over forty years old. Came out of Bransby Art Gallery.’

‘What are you going to do with them?’

He shrugged. ‘Probably end up on the tip.’

‘Well, can I have one, then?’ Angel said. ‘For nothing. That wouldn’t be illegal.’

‘It probably doesn’t work. Be all corroded up. It’s no good, I tell you. What would you do with it?’

Angel tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Knowledge and privacy are my stock in trade. I don’t give information away lightly.’

Schuster frowned then smiled.

There was a knock on Angel’s door.

‘Come in,’ he called.

It was Ahmed: ‘Just had a call back from the Salvation Army, sir.’

‘Oh?’ Angel said, looking up from the desk.

‘They’ve no report of anybody missing who fits the description of our dead tramp.’

Angel growled and shook his head.

The phone rang.

‘Make me a cup of tea. Two sugars.’

Ahmed headed for the door, frowned then turned back. ‘You don’t take sugar, sir.’

‘I do today,’ he grunted as he reached out for the phone. ‘Angel. Hello, yes?’

It was DI Matthew Elliott of the Antiques and Fine Art squad based in London – an old friend of his. Angel’s face brightened.

‘Got your message, Michael,’ Elliott said. ‘I’ve studied the photograph of the candle-snuffer. Great stuff. How did you come by it?’

‘Not so fast,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. ‘What’s your interest in it?’

‘What do you mean? It comes under the heading of Antiques and Fine Art. Of course I’ve an interest in it.’

‘Is it stolen?’

‘Of course it’s stolen.’

‘Who is the rightful owner?’

‘I suppose the Orthodox Cathedral of St Saviour’s of Patina, the West Balkans.’

Angel blinked. ‘What’s it doing in Bromersley then? It’s not that valuable, is it?’

‘Not in itself, no, but you’d be surprised.’

‘Surprise me, then.’

‘Well, it’s a long story, Michael. I’ve looked it up in old cabinet papers in the war archives.’

‘Just give me the gist of it.’

‘Well, I have been able to discover that back in the dark days of the Second World War, when Europe was being invaded and overrun by Germany, and the land was being pillaged and treasures stolen for Goering and other high ranking Nazis, the priests and elders of the orthodox church in Patina decided to send the cathedral silver and treasures via England to a bank in New York, for safe-keeping. So the old silver communion sets and pictures and things, twenty-one pieces altogether, were carefully packed in two wooden crates and smuggled out of Yugoslavia, through France and across the Channel. It was an involved and complicated operation. Special permits and custom exemption forms had to be completed, and the two-man RASC squad, transporting them from Harwich to Liverpool needed a special government movement order and fuel allowance, and had to have petrol vouchers issued by the Ministry of War. The consignment had to be delivered to Liverpool docks, Pier 16, SS
Bellamy
, bound for New York, on 15 December 1940. It was addressed to account number 9045, East Balkan Bank, Manhattan, N.Y. This was all done at a very high level and Prime Minister Churchill approved the arrangement. However, tragically, the SS
Bellamy
was sunk by a U-boat in the mid-Atlantic on 17 December and it was naturally assumed that the treasure had gone down with it. A detailed report was written up at the time in the cabinet secretary’s office and a copy sent to the cathedral in Patina. This report was first made public in 1971. Since that time, in fact, until two days ago, it was thought that everything had been lost until your photograph of that candle-snuffer, that very particular candle-snuffer, was shown to the church authorities. It became clear that the consignment
wasn’t
at the bottom of the Atlantic.

‘Now, I have been very hard at it since. The last known sighting, which I have been able to trace, is of the two-man squad transporting the treasure through Sheffield, on 14 December 1940, which was the first night of the terrible blitz they suffered there. Just before midnight, a Police Constable Thomas Shaw, who incidentally must have been a very brave man, recorded in his notebook that he gave the officer in charge directions out of Sheffield, to Bromersley, then over the Pennines to Liverpool. He also recorded that they were travelling in a 15-cwt Morris van, licence plate number RA 1767, and that the officer was a man called Captain Mecca or similar. They couldn’t quite read his writing.’

‘Mecca? Was he foreign?’

‘Don’t know. There the trail ends.’

Angel shook his head and rubbed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. ‘Are we to assume then, that wherever the candle-snuffer came from, this collection of church silver and treasures will be there also?’

‘I think so, hopefully. Don’t you?’

‘And what sort of value are these … treasures?’

‘Priceless, Michael. Absolutely priceless. The candle-snuffer was one of the least valuable of the items. Don’t bother trying to put a figure on them. Whatever you or I thought, the next appraisal would probably double it, and the one after that might very well multiply it by ten. It’s just a big, big … telephone number.’

‘That much?’

Elliott said, ‘You didn’t tell me how you came by it.’

‘No. A thief dropped it as she was climbing over the wall of a house.’

‘A man?’

‘A girl.’

‘You’ve searched the house?’

‘No.’

‘
What
?’ he screamed.

Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. He knew that Elliott would think him incredibly stupid.

‘Why not, for god’s sake?’

Angel sniffed. ‘I have a little … local difficulty,’ he said.

The phone rang.

He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’

It was DS Crisp on the line. He sounded in trouble. He was talking fast and breathlessly. ‘I’m in the gents at the Imperial Grand, sir. I’ve found her.’

Angel’s head lifted, his eyes front and centre. He didn’t believe it. ‘The girl with the tattoo?’

‘Yes. She’s a countess. Contessa Radowitz. The thing is … I am trying to hold on to her with a drink at the bar.’

Angel sighed. ‘Well, don’t leave her, son,’ he snapped. ‘Get back to her before she evaporates with the booze!’

‘Yes, sir. I will. I know, but I have no money. Well, not this sort of money anyway. I’ve only twenty pounds. A round of drinks here costs twelve quid!’

Angel’s face dropped. ‘Daylight robbery.’ He bit his lip. ‘I’ll sort something out. Stay with her. Keep working on her. Find out what you can about Johannson. Phone me at your next opportunity.’

‘Right, sir. Got to go.’ The line went dead.

Angel replaced the phone and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a roll of notes. He counted out ten £20 notes and put the roll back. He pushed the £200 in an envelope and put it into his inside pocket.

He went down the corridor past the cells and out of the back door. He got in his car and drove to Leeds. He was there in forty minutes. He parked on a meter up Edward Street and walked back the hundred yards to the Imperial Grand Hotel. He went past the reception and porter’s desk, and followed the signs to the bar. It was a big room and busy with lots of noisy people sitting and standing around. He went up to the bar and ordered a fresh orange juice. He had to wait until it was prepared, which suited him fine. It gave him the opportunity to check out the room. There was no sign of Crisp, with or without a girl. He wrinkled his nose.

The bar girl placed the orange in a long stemmed glass on a paper doyly in front of him. He paid with a note, she came back with his change. He counted it, pulled a face like an undertaker at a pauper’s funeral, dropped the coins in his pocket and carried the glass out through the door into the foyer. He saw an illuminated sign that said ‘Toilets’ and another ‘Lounge’ and meandered into the latter. It was another big room with many easy chairs and settees set around coffee tables. There were about thirty people in there … mostly in pairs. Then he saw Crisp and the young lady, sitting on a settee, talking. There were coffee cups and a cafetière on the table in front of them. Even from that distance Angel thought the girl looked good. Jet black hair. Small, slim. He drifted back into the foyer. By the lift he found space on a tall wooden pedestal with a big vase of flowers on it to rest his glass, then he stood with his back to the wall, fished out his mobile and tapped in a number. It was soon answered.

‘I’m here in the hotel in the foyer,’ Angel said quietly. ‘I’ve brought you £200’s worth of bait. Can you meet me in the gents loo?’

‘Certainly,’ Crisp said flamboyantly. ‘I can agree to that. Buy me £30,000’s worth. Debit my Swiss account with it. It can be partly set off as a tax loss against the gain I made on the sale of my yacht in Italy. Be in touch soon.’ The line went dead.

Angel smiled and shook his head. The stuff that lad could make up at short notice. He’d jailed conmen who weren’t half as smooth as Trevor Crisp.

Angel finished the orange, put the glass down on a table as he passed it and made his way down the steps to the gents loo. He checked all twelve cubicle doors to find out if they were occupied. Two were but they were shortly vacated. He ran the taps over the sink and hovered over the washbowl in case anybody came in. A few minutes later Crisp came through the door wearing a worried look.

‘Thank you for coming over yourself, sir,’ he said hurriedly. ‘You should have sent somebody.’

Angel frowned. ‘Have you found out about Johannson? What she was doing in his room?’

‘Haven’t got round to that, yet. Can’t ask her that outright, sir, and maintain my cover,’ Crisp said.

Angel nodded. ‘Well, I must see her and ask her directly. There’s something else. You said her name was the Contessa Radowitz?’

‘That’s right, sir. Flavia is her Christian name.’

‘Radowitz is the family name of the owners, I think, of the candle-snuffer. I had their family lawyer to see me, trying to get possession of it.’

Crisp glanced at his watch. ‘I ought to get back to her, sir. We don’t want her disappearing.’

‘I’ll go up to her. I’ll ask her directly about Johannson. I won’t mention you. Give me ten minutes or so.’

‘Yes, right,’ Crisp said.

‘Before I forget. Get me her fingerprints. She might be on file. You never know.’

‘Right, sir. You brought me some money, sir?’

‘Oh yes.’ He handed him the envelope. ‘Don’t throw it around. It’s honest people’s money, that is.’

A man came through the swing door.

‘Have a nice day,’ Angel quipped and caught the door on the swing. He ran up the steps and made for the ‘Lounge’.

He was glad to find the young woman still where he had first seen her. She was holding a coffee cup in her hand. He weaved his way through the furniture until he was standing directly in front of her.

She was in a plain black dress. She wore a silver cross on a silver chain round her neck.

He looked down at her. He checked the ankle for the tattoo of the spider. It was there and showed conspicuously through glossy black stockings.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Are you the Contessa Flavia Radowitz?’

She looked up, her mouth dropped open. Then she smiled. It was the sort that melted icebergs. He liked looking at her.

‘You catch me at a disadvantage,’ she said replacing the cup in the saucer.

He opened his wallet and took out a business card. ‘Detective Inspector Angel of Bromersley Police. Might I have a word with you, ma’am?’

‘Of course,’ she said with arched eyebrows. She gestured for him to sit next to her.

‘Thank you.’

‘I cannot imagine what you might think I have been up to, Inspector.’

‘I’ll come straight to the point … ma’am.’

‘Flavia is fine,’ she said. ‘Everybody calls me Flavia.’ Her English was excellent, but there was a pedantic carefulness in her diction that showed it was not her mother tongue.

Angel nodded. ‘Flavia, I am investigating the death of Mark Johannson, the film director,’ he said.

She looked straight into his eyes. She wasn’t happy. ‘Yes, I knew him,’ she said evenly.

He was surprised at the coolness of her reply. ‘He was staying in this hotel. I understand that you visited him in his suite here from time to time.’

‘Yes. Twice, actually.’

‘What were the reasons for your visits, might I ask … Flavia?’

‘Oh,’ she said, seeming relieved. ‘Not very wicked reasons, Inspector. We met at the bar here by accident the day he arrived.’

‘What day was that?’

‘Saturday. Did I say by accident? Coincidence would be the more correct word. He made some comments, flattering comments about me … about my appearance. He told me he was a film director, that he liked what he saw, and suggested that he might be able to get me a leading role in a film he was directing. He said that the actress currently in the role was difficult and may leave or get the push.’

‘Really?’

‘He suggested that we had dinner together in his room … to discuss the possibility.’

‘And what was your reaction?’

‘Naturally, I was flattered … even excited at the prospect. The first evening was spent discussing his work as a director, the character I might play, how much I could earn and so on. It was very illuminating, interesting … very exciting. We had a few drinks and then I left at about eleven o’clock. The second evening, however, was very different. It seemed that to seal the deal, he required me to spend the night with him, in his bed.’

Angel wrinkled his nose and looked at her.

‘I didn’t want to do that,’ she said unemotionally. ‘He wasn’t a nice man, Inspector.’

‘So you left?’

She nodded. ‘And I never saw him again. When I heard on the radio that he had been murdered, of course, I was surprised … but … that was all.’

Angel understood her perfectly, but he was not pleased. It didn’t progress his investigation one bit.

‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘In your conversation with him, did he happen to mention which part in which film he was considering you might be suitable for?’

‘Yes. The character was Cora, the girl who meets and marries the lead, Otis Stroom, and the film was a biography of some great Englishman, Edgar Poole. I don’t know of him. Is he well known hereabouts?’

Angel noted that such a move, if it had been seriously contemplated, would certainly have put Nanette Quadrette’s nose out of joint. He wondered how she would have reacted if she had known about this proposition.

‘Oh yes. He was a famous artist. You could not be expected to know our local history. Might I ask what part of the world you are from?’