The Theft of Magna Carta (13 page)

“On his personal statement.”

“My God!” Isherwood said. And then he added a phrase which lifted Roger's heart to a height he wouldn't have thought possible at that moment. “Poor old Tom.” Then he went on in a voice which was hardly audible: “I bloody well ought to lose my job, too, if he could talk to you and not to me. Bloody hell! What kind of a copper am I?”

 

 

Roger simply sat back and waited; there was nothing more he could usefully do and say, but he still felt deep satisfaction at this man's attitude. Where both he and Batten were concerned there had been moments of self-revelation, and each man would be better for it.

Isherwood bent down to a cupboard in his desk.

“It's early,” he said, “but I never needed a whiskey-and-soda more. And you?”

It would be churlish, and might be hurtful to refuse.

“A tot and a splash,” Roger accepted. Soon, each man sat with a glass at his lips, sipping. Roger was more glad of it than he had expected.

“Will you tell me all you know?” Isherwood asked.

“Yes, of course.” Roger told the story economically. Time was passing all too quickly and circumstances might soon become pressing. There was Kempton's call to return and there might be a lot in from the Yard. He tried to explain Batten's feelings but he did not have to plead for the sergeant; Isherwood had proved himself above all else a human being.

But the policeman wasn't far behind, for he said: “Should I take Batten off the job?”

“I'd sooner put him on it full-time.”

“Will you work with him?”

“Of course,” Roger said. “I'm going to leave Kempton here part of the time. I shall go to and fro.”

“Suit yourself.” Isherwood closed his eyes for a moment before going on: “One thing's certain. This isn't the time for me to say much to Tom.”

“No,” Roger said. “Except—”

“What?”

“Let him know that if he helps to find Linda Prell, he's earned himself a kind of reprieve.”

“Could do. Handsome—”

The use of his nickname told Roger how he was regarded by this man.

“Yes?”

“What's going to happen if the press finds out?”

“They're going to use the story.”

“Can't we stop—”

“Shouldn't even try,” Roger interrupted. “I don't think you would if it came to the point.”

“Shall I admit that I know?” Isherwood wondered aloud.

After a pause, Roger answered: “No, I don't think so. Not to the press, anyhow. You need time to think about this.”

“I certainly do! And to think instead of react.”

“There's one danger,” Roger observed.

“What in particular?”

“That this Batten-Linda Prell situation becomes so important that it supersedes the real problem: whether Linda is alive or dead.”

“I know what you mean,” said Isherwood. “You needn't worry about that.”

“Not where you're concerned perhaps, but where I'm concerned,” Roger said. “I nearly forgot to ask you what I wanted to know when I came in.”

Isherwood finished his drink and laughed, more natural than at any time since Roger had come in. The perspiration had smeared, and he dabbed his forehead with a snow-white handkerchief as he settled back in his chair. He gave the impression that he was on top of himself; that shock following an angry reaction to the headlines was subsiding.

“Well,” he asked, “what did you want to know?”

“Whether you can imagine why Linda Prell was kidnapped,” Roger asked.

“No,” said Isherwood. “It's puzzled me from the beginning. The stuff in Leech's gallery was worth three hundred thousand pounds, as it proves, but all in bits and pieces. Anyone planning to steal that would be art thieves in a big way and they would want safety at all costs. They wouldn't be likely to take risks with a police officer unless she had heard or seen enough to put them inside for a very long stretch. Or she could have stumbled onto something sinister. All of which is guesswork,” Isherwood added impatiently. “Have
you
any idea?”

“Even we Yard chaps have our pride,” Roger observed.

Isherwood frowned. “I don't follow.”

“We hate being laughed at.”

“Oh, I see! All right, I won't laugh very hard.”

“Nice of you,” murmured Roger. “What in Salisbury is really big enough to steal?”

“Local family art treasures apart, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Isherwood frowned, pondered, wiped his forehead and his neck again, drained the glass to its last dregs – there really wasn't anything there – and then answered.

“Stonehenge? Or the cathedral?”

Roger himself wanted to laugh but controlled the impulse.

“Getting warm,” he remarked.

“You can't be serious!”

“I'm very serious.”

“My
God!
” choked Isherwood. “You don't mean—you can't mean the Sarum Magna Carta?”

“Don't I?” asked Roger. “Can't I?”

He had expected a startled reaction and even some ridicule although he was sure Isherwood would try to stifle that. He certainly hadn't expected the frown which settled on the other's face; or the parallel lines of a groove which appeared between his eyes. Isherwood did not regard this possibility as ludicrous at all. In fact it brought something to his mind: a new anxiety. He was obviously pondering this deeply before making any pronouncement, but he spoke at last in a very low-pitched voice.

“Do you know that Tom Batten is one of the honorary guardians of the Salisbury Magna Carta? A kind of voluntary, unpaid security officer. And there are other treasures in the cathedral library. Linda Prell must know this. Could they want to question her about Batten? Or—” He broke off, and when he spoke again his voice was pitched keys higher. “My God, Handsome: what have we run into?”

The room fell very quiet again. Isherwood was obviously appalled and not even remotely sceptical. It was almost possible to see the thoughts chasing one another through his mind. Before he spoke, however, and before Roger moved, the telephone bell rang again. Isherwood lifted it and barked: “Inspector's office . . .
Who?
. . . Oh, yes! For you,” he said to Roger, and held out the instrument as if he were afraid it would bite him.

Roger stood up at the corner and said: “West.”

“It's a call from New York for you, Mr. West. A person to person call, the overseas operator said. Mr. Kempton said I should put it through to you.”

“Quite right,” said Roger. Who could this be but Ivan Goodison, old friend, old colleague. An American voice sounded a long way off, followed by Goodison's. He had a particularly controlled voice, unmistakably but not aggressively from New York.

“Hello! Ivan?” He pronounced the name more like “Eefan.”

“Hi, Roger!” the other man said. “Good to hear you, fella.”

“Very good to hear you. How is Rose?”

“Rose is the greatest,” the American answered. “Just the greatest. Roger, what have you run into over there?”

“I wish I knew,” replied Roger. “What can you tell me?”

“About the Stephensons, plenty,” answered Goodison. “Most of it was in my cable, but I've collected some more from a squeal.”

“I can't wait,” Roger said.

“Neil Stephenson is scouting for Nicodemus,” went on Goodison, “and Nicodemus is—” He paused as if anxious to be sober for the sake of emphasis, and then said: “Nicodemus is a kind of group for the biggest receivers of stolen art treasures in America. If you're interested, the name stuck when we pulled in an art thief and asked him who bought his stuff. ‘Old Nick,' he answered, and it became a joke but it isn't a joke any more. We aren't absolutely sure there's a group of fences, or one who uses a lot of scouts and leg-men. We've never proved it but we've often wondered whether Neil Stephenson is Old Nick – or Nicodemus – himself. It's a sure thing he buys for the big undercover boys in the country. He goes to the limit for anything rare and unusual, and buys for collectors who are satisfied to own a treasure without telling the world. And Roger – one more thing.”

There had to be something else; and it had to be significant or Goodison would not have called and would not have talked like this.

“Yes?” Roger said tautly.

“Old Nick has been known to pay five million dollars for some pieces of fine art. And
that's
money.”

“That certainly sounds like money,” Roger agreed tensely. “How do you know this?”

“You know the way it is. You get enough evidence to convince yourself but not enough to stand up in court. You can take it from me the information is good. Have you any idea if anything in this case could be worth that money?”

“Not over the telephone,” Roger replied dryly.

“So you do have an idea!”

“I think so,” Roger said, and then he asked slowly: “Ivan, do you know any contact Stephenson has in England?”

“Only the man Caldicott you told me about.”

“No one else at all?”

“No,” Goodison answered. “Not for certain. I can tell you this about him. He always works through a third party. He uses good operatives and pays them well. He never touches anything hot long enough to get himself burned. He has a major contact there, be sure of that – someone who will do the dirty work for him. But as for who it is, your guess is as good as mine.”

“Ivan,” Roger said, “your cable called him potentially dangerous. Is he a killer?”

“Known killers have worked for him,” Goodison answered, and for the first time since the call had come through there was a momentary lull. Goodison broke it with a laconic: “He has a weakness, Roger.”

“What weakness?”

“Women.”

“Do you know anything about his wife, Sarah?”

Goodison snorted, before saying with derision: “Wife, nothing! They're not married, she's the latest in a long line. I'm trying to find out more about her, and I'll call you again or else cable if I have any news. Good luck, Roger!”

“I'll need it,” Roger said with feeling.

“Do you remember a time when you didn't get just enough?” Goodison asked, and rang off.

Roger put his receiver down slowly. Isherwood, who had been making notes and reading papers and glancing up at Roger from time to time, now sat back expectantly. Roger said: “Give me a moment, will you?” and sat on a corner of the desk. Goodison had said a great deal and he had made no notes. He took a pencil from his pocket and a slip of paper from Isherwood's desk and made notes of the main factors:

 

1. Stephenson was working with a man or a group known to have paid up to five million dollars for rare works of art.

2. Nicodemus, either a buyer or a group of buyers for collectors who did not object to buying stolen goods and keeping them hidden.

3. Stephenson was known to have used killers.

4. His “Sarah” wasn't his wife, and women were his weakness.

5. His only known contact in England was Caldicott, but there might well be another.

6. The Stephensons were due to fly to New, York TWA 747 on Sunday afternoon.

 

He turned the notes round and showed them to Isherwood, who scanned them and when he had finished, said simply: “Five million dollars.”

“Only one thing here is worth it,” Roger said.

“I'm beginning to feel you're right,” Isherwood said tensely. “But they can't get it.”

Roger said: “No,” with conviction.

“Of course they can't get it!” Isherwood repeated roughly. “The whole idea is preposterous! Even if we hadn't been warned they couldn't get at Magna Carta. And we have been warned, so there's no danger at all. What are we worrying about?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Roger said, and after a long while, stood up slowly and folded the sheet of paper with his notes and thrust it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Jack—”

“We haven't a thing to worry about,” Isherwood asserted doggedly.

“Except Linda Prell.”

“Good God, man, you can't measure a national heritage like that against a life. You know that as well as I do.”

“You can't,” Roger said. “I can't. Perhaps some people can.”

“I don't understand you,” Isherwood growled. “We know the Sarum Magna Carta's in danger. All right, correction, we think it's in danger. So we can protect it. Why, if I thought there was any danger at all I'd ask the army to surround the cathedral! And they would in no time at all.”

“Jack,” Roger said, “Stephenson represents this Nicodemus, who is an individual or a syndicate. Nicodemus buys very heavily in the stolen fine art and similar markets. Don't you see what we've got here?” When Isherwood didn't answer, he went on: “We could catch an enormous bag of big fish if—”

“If we take a chance with the Magna Carta?” interrupted Isherwood. “That's bloody sacrilege.”

“Whatever it is and whatever we do, let's keep the name of Magna Carta out of everything,” Roger suggested. “Let's just see how things go. We're warned, as you say. We can take quick action if we have to.” When Isherwood seemed only to glower at him, he added: “This could be a chance in a million of getting that big haul.”

Isherwood growled: “I'll sleep on it.”

“Fine,” said Roger. “So will I. Will you see Tom Batten?” He put the question so quickly that it seemed to take Isherwood by surprise, but at last the Salisbury man nodded and said: “Soon.”

“I'm very glad I came down here,” Roger said.

He went out. For a reason he couldn't understand he felt both weak and very much alone. That was nonsensical, but a fact. He felt
alone.
He felt as if he faced a great challenge which had emerged out of nothing. A rather hoarse West Country voice came out of the blue on the telephone and here he was, suddenly thrust into the cauldron of the nation's history. He knew exactly what Isherwood meant by saying: “That's bloody sacrilege.” He walked slowly toward a window at the end of the passage, passing the open door of his own office. He saw a movement and heard Kempton call: “Sir!” but he didn't stop, just went on to the window. It had a view of the western part of the city and, about a mile away, of that incredible spire. He had first seen it perhaps thirty years ago and remembered it for years as the most impressive building he had ever seen. He could hear the voice of a deacon who had shown him and a small party of youngsters around.