A Private View Read online

  ‘No doubt, Mr Steptoe.’ The somewhat primitive performance to which he had just been treated amused Appleby a good deal. Perhaps it had been rash to let Steptoe send out this absurd call. But it had settled any doubts that it was possible to feel about the man’s involvement in the theft of the Vermeer. Auntie Aggie and the Aquarium were certainly one – and in danger and to be got away quick. What remained obscure was the painting’s present whereabouts. Was it here on the premises, and would Ted, Alfie, and the doctor presently arrive to rescue it? Or were they merely being enjoined to get it away from somewhere else? Meanwhile Appleby nodded genially to old Moe. ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that your aunt will soon be quite her old self again. She probably needs a change of air.’

  Steptoe received this gratefully. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s a great pleasure to have your expression of interest.’ His glance went furtively to a clock ticking on the mantelpiece. ‘And now I’m at leisure – quite at leisure, sir – for our little talk.’

  But leisure, it seemed to Appleby, was just what wouldn’t do. The telephone call had certainly got something moving – and that was all to the good. The first necessity was to bring out into the open as much as possible of the organization concerned in the theft of the Vermeer. Steptoe himself was a smooth rascal, but it seemed very unlikely that he was a prime mover in the affair. He had cunning, it was true. But more than cunning had been involved. Somewhere at work there had been an educated – or at least informed – brain. Somebody had been in a position to find out quite a lot about the domestic routine of Scamnum Court, to write a colourable letter ostensibly from a cultivated Italian, to arrange for the despatch of a valuable piece of furniture from Italy to England. Steptoe’s part had possibly been no more than that of receiving and disguising the stolen paintings – an activity which might well be one of his regular lines of business. And he had lamentably fallen down on his job. The combination of Gow, Fox, and a masterful Gavin Limbert had been too much for him, and the booty had been snatched from his grasp. It was certainly his own individual effort to retrieve the situation that had been witnessed by Grace Brooks. The next attempt – the successful raid on the Da Vinci Gallery – had presumably been the work of the organization as a whole. What, then, was the position at that point?

  The thieves had got back the Aquarium, which was the vastly more important part of their haul. And they had got it back effectively disguised by the labours – presumably unconsciously performed – of Limbert. But that particular disguise was now of no use to them. For Limbert’s was also now a stolen painting, and to be safe the Vermeer must be disguised all over again. Would this once more be entrusted to Steptoe? If so, the picture must be concealed in or around the junk shop now, and Steptoe’s telephone call had been a summoning of assistance. But if Steptoe had not again been entrusted with the picture, then the telephone call had been simply a warning. Moe had certainly been astute enough to guess that the appearance in his back yard of a high official of Scotland Yard was not occasioned by any minor act of lawlessness. He had realized that his connexion with the big theft was known.

  So far, the game had gone in Appleby’s favour, he had learnt a good deal that he wanted to know. But there was considerable danger that the initiative might now pass to the other side – the more so as his lone-hand venture had put him momentarily out of contact with any supporting forces of his own. Leisure, he repeated, wouldn’t do. He must bowl Moe out at once.

  ‘Mr Steptoe, I suppose you are aware of the value of Vermeer’s Aquarium?’

  Somewhere on Steptoe’s featureless face a muscle twitched. ‘Vermeer’s Aquarium, sir? I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’

  ‘I think you will presently understand me very well. His Majesty’s judges, in discharging their duty to protect property, are bound to give much weight to the magnitude of a theft. To be involved in a very big theft is to risk a very long term of imprisonment.’ Appleby smiled pleasantly. ‘This has no doubt been a little on your mind.’

  Steptoe licked his lips with a quick movement like an adder’s. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘About something quite trivial, Mr Steptoe – or trivial in comparison with another matter to which I now come. You visited Limbert’s studio on Monday the 22nd of October in an endeavour to recover this picture, together with another smaller picture by George Stubbs. You failed. And the next morning Limbert was found murdered.’

  Steptoe stumbled to his feet. He was trembling all over. ‘I tell you, I know nothing about it. You’re talking about things I’ve never heard of. You’ve picked on me to fasten something on, just because I’ve been in trouble with your people before.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Steptoe. You know we don’t do that sort of thing. And there are witnesses all along the line. Gow and Fox were present when you got in a funk and let Limbert walk off with those pictures. And you were seen and heard having your row with Limbert close on the time of his death. You’re in a tough spot, my friend, and you’ll do well to acknowledge it.’

  ‘I think you’re crazy.’ Steptoe’s glance again went furtively to the clock. ‘And I demand to see my lawyer. I’m going to phone him now.’

  ‘Phone away. You’re rather good at phoney phoning.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean the nonsense of your contacting Ted and Alfie and the doctor about poor Auntie Aggie. Surely you don’t suppose, my good fellow, that a trick of that sort is likely to take in an experienced CID man? I’ve been at this sort of thing, you know, for more than twenty years. I certainly wouldn’t have sat here and let you ring up your friends if I hadn’t made arrangements to profit by your doing so.’ And Appleby shook his head indulgently. ‘I can see you’re interested in that clock. Well, the number you called up has a police cordon round it by now.’ As Appleby delivered himself of the unblushing falsehood he produced and began to fill a pipe. ‘My notion is that you can figure in this affair much as you choose. If you are ambitious, Steptoe, you can be one of the big fish in our net. But if you think more of continuing to swim substantially undisturbed in your own shady waters – well, I think it can be arranged.’

  ‘I got to think. You must give me time to think.’

  ‘You can think afterwards. You’ll have plenty of opportunity. For I’m afraid you must go to gaol. There’s no getting you out of that. But perhaps just for a slip – a thoughtless little piece of receiving that you quickly repented of. You remembered, shall we say, that probity has always been the motto of your firm. And so you hastened to tell the whole story to the police. And you did your best to get the poor Duke of Horton’s picture back to him in quick time.’

  And Appleby struck a match. The life of a policeman, he was reflecting, is obstinately unbeautiful. Fortunately, it is frequently hazardous as well, which a little bolsters up one’s self-respect. His own life looked like being rather hazardous during the next half-hour.

  ‘Very well.’ Steptoe had sat down again. ‘I’ve been a fool. There are temptations, sir – great temptations – in my way of business.’

  ‘We’ll leave that to your counsel, shall we? Your moral struggles may be relevant in court. But I’m concerned with the Vermeer. Where is it now?’ Appleby rapped this out in a sharper tone than he had used hitherto.

  ‘Not here, sir. I said I wouldn’t have it in the place again. I was washing my hands of the whole thing – I was indeed, sir.’

  ‘Do you call that telephone message washing your hands of the whole thing?’

  ‘I only want them to go away, picture and all, and leave me alone. What was I going to make out of it anyway? Fifty quid – fifty bleeding quid, sir, believe me. Downright unfair, it was.’

  ‘I certainly agree with you.’ Appleby’s ears were now straining for more than Steptoe’s mutterings. ‘But you haven’t told me where they have the Vermeer now. Out with it.’

  ‘Not far off – not at all far off, sir.’ Steptoe was as urgent with this as if it constituted an extenuating circu
mstance in itself. ‘Only a couple of streets away. Where they are lodging, sir – them as I was calling up. Your people will have got them by now, I dare say.’ Steptoe gave Appleby a swift glance of some sharpness. ‘In fact you might say it’s all over, bar the unpleasantness for us that have been fairly caught. So if you’d care to take down a statement–’

  ‘Just hand me that telephone.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Steptoe pushed the instrument across his desk. It appeared to stick halfway and Steptoe stooped down and gave a tug. ‘It’s the cord, sir – caught round the leg…there you are.’

  Appleby picked up the receiver and knew in an instant that it was dead. Steptoe had wrenched away a connexion. The man was glaring at him now, apprehensive but defiant. And in the same moment Appleby heard sounds below them, either in the shop or out in the yard. ‘You are an obstinately silly fellow,’ he said calmly. ‘Nothing can save you and your friends, and you know it. You’ll only make matters worse by trying to put up a show.’

  ‘You stay where you are, mister.’ With a good deal of dexterity, Steptoe had produced an automatic pistol and was pointing it at Appleby’s chest. He appeared to take satisfaction in having achieved this less respectful form of address. ‘Make a move, and it isn’t us will be done for.’

  Appleby got to his feet. ‘Put that down, man. You’re not the hero of a gangster film, you know. You’re a thoroughly scared small crook.’

  The weapon wavered in Steptoe’s hand – and then steadied again. A wisp of hair, damp with sweat, had fallen over his forehead, and his mouth was oddly twisted, as if he had suddenly suffered a stroke. The man was dangerous, after all. But the chances were that he would hesitate; that fear would make him hang a fatal fraction of a second on the trigger. Appleby leant forward and struck the weapon upwards. It spat fire as the muzzle rose. Between the report and the clattering of the gun to the floor the office disappeared into darkness. Appleby found himself wondering whether he had been grazed and stunned. Then the truth of the situation came to him. Pure chance had guided the bullet to the only electric light bulb in the room.

  Somewhere in the darkness Steptoe panted like a man exhausted by physical labour. Downstairs there were voices raised in urgent consultation, and from the yard came the sound of a motor engine starting into life. Time was precious. Appleby felt in a pocket for his torch. As his fingers closed on it something queer closed about his own legs. He drew out his hand to protect himself and realized that Steptoe’s panting was now hard up against him. He was a craven creature and his knees must literally have failed to support him after he had tried to fire the gun. At the same time he was desperate and dogged; he wasn’t supplicating for mercy; he was attempting a sort of static Rugger tackle that would prevent his opponent from leaving the room. Appleby punched into the darkness and the blow landed on something soft, elicited an ugly grunt. But the grip had not relaxed, and now Appleby felt a sudden sharp pain in his calf. There could be only one explanation; the feeble ruffian, bemused and frantic, was using his teeth. Something peculiarly revolting attached to the idea of being bitten by old Moe. Feeling downwards, Appleby got his hands round the man’s neck, and swung his head about until it came up against something solid. Perhaps it was the leg of a table or a corner of the desk. Appleby swung Steptoe’s head away and brought it back against this useful object with a crack.

  It was another unbeautiful part of the evening’s work. But at least it was effective; Steptoe in the darkness was now no more of an impediment than any other inert object in the room. Appleby got out his torch and in a moment had it focused on the door. But there were no footsteps on the stairs, and there was now no sound from the shop. Ted, Alfie, and the doctor – if it was indeed they who had come in response to old Moe’s telephone call – were showing no disposition to rush to their confederate’s help. Probably, Appleby thought grimly, they had a much more important operation on hand. The Vermeer really had been entrusted a second time to Steptoe. And it was being carried away now.

  But even as his hand fell on the doorknob Appleby turned back. In the heart of London one can seldom fail of being within hail of law-abiding fellow citizens, if not of the actual uniformed forces of the law. Nevertheless the shop below, and the little yard lying behind it, could provide one with an ugly five minutes at the hands of desperate men. Appleby flashed his torch across the floor and in a moment had located old Moe’s pistol. He slipped it into his pocket and dived for the stairs.

  The shop was in darkness and he didn’t pause to hunt for lights. Perhaps this was a mistake, for progress in any direction whatever was so pestered by the miscellaneous rubbish here passing for curios and antiques that the beam of a small torch was a very insufficient aid to movement. Appleby trod in a half-empty croquet box, and the handle of a mallet flew up and hit him viciously on the chest – much as if minded to exact vengeance for its owner’s discomfiture upstairs. In recoil from this his elbow struck the ruin of a wardrobe canted drunkenly against the wall – whereupon some complicated species of transmission brought a flat iron crashing down from a great height into an assemblage of ewers, basins, and chamber pots at the other end of the shop. But even above this racket Appleby could now hear the roar of an engine reverberating within the narrow confines of old Moe’s yard.

  The engine raced, choked, failed. Its din was succeeded by shouts of rage and despair. In the peculiar obstacle race in which he was involved, Appleby now put on a spurt. If there was the semblance of a clear path to the back of the shop, he had lost it. Vaulting bodily over a chest of drawers, he landed on the lip of a hip bath and sent it flying from beneath him with a tinny clang. To save his balance he clutched at a hatstand. This instantly disintegrated in his grasp, and he found himself sitting on the floor amid a litter of bamboo. He got to his feet again and saw that an oblong of light had now appeared at the back of old Moe’s establishment, and that in it was silhouetted the figure of a man. There were still at least two voices in angry colloquy outside; somebody was desperately plying a self-starter; the engine turned over and once more stopped. The figure in the open doorway advanced and at the same time flashed on a torch, side-stepped, and closed the door behind him. The beam from the torch rose, fell, circled, played full on Appleby, and then went out. Instinct made Appleby duck, and as he did so some unseen object hurtled past above his head and landed with a crash in the recesses of the establishment. The enemy, Appleby understood, were improvising a vigorous rearguard action.

  He found that he was crouching behind an upended kitchen table. From this shelter it was open to him to produce Steptoe’s pistol and essay the effect of a little random shooting. This might bring in the neighbours – but on the other hand it might make them very determined to keep out. Moreover it would be dangerous, and if by any chance he killed the man lurking somewhere in front of him it would be a shocking end to what was already a deplorably irresponsible evening. Peering out with some caution, therefore, he confined himself for the moment to a little torch play.

  The beam located the doorway, swung right, and fell full upon a human face. The eyes glared, the lips were drawn back over fanglike teeth in a ferocious snarl, and the forehead was topped with a pair of handsome horns. Appleby had just convinced himself, by a considerable if instantaneous effort of intellect, of the innocuousness of this particular antique or curio, when he became aware of fresh assault. Directly in front of him something had risen mysteriously in air. His torch, catching it as it descended, revealed a monstrous pike with gaping jaws; a moment later the creature had smashed into a hundred plaster fragments at his feet. He saw that if he was to gain the yard, and to prevent the escape of whatever motor vehicle was temporarily held up in it, he must himself initiate a vigorous counter-attack. He therefore seized such ammunition as came first to hand – a pile of coarse and formidably heavy earthenware dinner plates – rose, and boldly advanced. A small oil stove, a coal scuttle, a doll’s perambulator, and a music stool came about his ears in quick succession. But Appleby, be
hind a barrage of plates intended less to cripple the enemy than to upset his aim, went forward over sofas, under tables, and through a veritable jungle growth of mangles, whatnots, and jardinières. Once or twice he got tightly wedged in crevasse-like formations of massive Victorian furniture. In the worst of these narrows he thought he was stuck for good; it was like some abominable Freudian dream of the trauma of birth – with the super addition of a constant bombardment by objects themselves dreamlike or nightmarish in their inexhaustible variety. He abandoned the remainder of his dinner plates and broke through. And at the same moment his opponent rose from cover – apparently resolved upon, or resigned to, hand-to-hand encounter.

  Each still had his torch, and neither was prepared to abandon it in order to grapple. For a second therefore they paused warily, with a small cleared space between them, and around them the rubble and rubbish – now doubly pashed and pounded – of old Moe’s stock. The man confronting Appleby crouched, set down his torch with a quick movement, and leapt. As he did so, the silence which had fallen upon the shop was broken by a slithering sound near the ceiling. Once again, some complicated sequence of stresses had been at work – and this time to produce a delayed-action effect of the most startling sort. Upon Appleby and his adversary as they closed there was suddenly poured from above torrent upon torrent of what seemed to be gigantic hailstones. Not Gulliver in Brobdingnag was more cruelly assaulted. Old Moe – it would have been possible upon reflection to guess – had been planning a commercial operation of major importance: nothing less than that of securing a corner in children’s marbles. And now the entire stock was running down through space, much after the fashion of the atoms of Democritus as Lucretius describes them in his celebrated poem. In a moment the floor beneath the struggling men had gone crazy; it was like something in a funfair where one pays sixpence for the sensation of being unable to keep one’s feet. They fell and rolled over and over, robbed of any control over their own limbs, like objects helplessly impelled through a system of ball-bearings. And then, outside, the engine roared again – and this time settled into a confident purr. Appleby, aware of crisis, made a grab at his man, and found his arms closing on air. The atomic deluge had operated to his disadvantage. His opponent had recovered more quickly and was gone.