Mrs Pargeter 06; Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Eight

The Indian summer was continuing. It was a glowing, golden September morning. An unobtrusive brass plate on the portico of the splendid Berkeley Square frontage identified the offices of ‘HRH Travel’. Mrs Pargeter billowed elegantly through the front door and was greeted by a perfectly uniformed girl, whose gold name-badge revealed that she was called ‘Lauren’, and who had risen from her Reception desk as if forewarned of the new arrival.

“Mrs Pargeter, isn’t it?” she enunciated beautifully, making a statement rather than a question, and proffering an immaculately manicured hand.

Mrs Pargeter shook the hand and readily acknowledged her identity. “You’ve got a good memory, Lauren. Been a while since I’ve been in here.”

“HRH is very keen that we should always remember our clients’ names. Particularly our most important clients.” Mrs Pargeter knew this was only professional flannel, but still found it comforting. “HRH is expecting you,” the girl continued, as she pressed a button on her desk and announced, “Sharon, Mrs Pargeter is here.”

In a matter of moments Sharon appeared. Like Lauren, she was fastidiously well-groomed and dressed in the same expensively cut charcoal-grey uniform with a small ‘HRH’ logo worked in gold thread on the breast pocket. “Mrs Pargeter, how very good to see you again,” Sharon elocuted enthusiastically. “If you’d like to follow me to the lift, HRH is really looking forward to seeing you.”

On the first floor Mrs Pargeter was escorted along the aisle of a high-tech open-plan office. On either side more immaculate girls in charcoal-grey uniforms sat at computers or talked on telephones. As she passed, Mrs Pargeter heard fragments of their conversations.

“… that our representative will meet you at the Lagos Hilton with all the documentation in your new name. Just look out for the HRH logo…”

“… but at Athens airport make sure you put the bag with the gun in through the right-hand x-ray machine. That will be malfunctioning at the time…”

“… to let you know that your tickets will arrive by courier this afternoon, along with tourist guidebooks, a plan of the bank interior and exterior, and a map showing the route the bullion van will be taking…”

“… you’ll have no problem fitting the body into the windsurfer carrying-case. It could have been designed for the purpose…”

“… Good heavens, no! The Passport Control officers will already have been bribed. It’s all part of the HRH service…”

Mrs Pargeter was, as ever, reassured by the efficiency and attention to detail that characterized HRH Travel.

The company’s founder stood in the doorway of his office to greet her. Tall, distinguished, olive-skinned, with almost operatic white hair and moustache, Hamish Ramon Henriques was dressed in another of his punctiliously cut tweed three-piece suits. That, coupled with the regimental tie, gave off an aura of old money, reliability and a world in which no guarantees were required other than the handshake of a gentleman.

The handshake of a gentleman that he gave to Mrs Pargeter was warm and enthusiastic. He beamed, his black eyes sparkled, as he welcomed her in his old-school tones. “Such a pleasure, Mrs Pargeter. Been far too long. Such an unqualified delight to see you. Such a pleasure.”

They sat in his office over the tray with silver coffee pot and bone china cups that had been brought in by a charcoal-grey-suited girl called Karen, and Mrs Pargeter politely asked Hamish Ramon Henriques about the progress of his business.

“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” he replied. “Everything absolutely tickety-boo, in fact. And improving all the time, I’m glad to say. Most businesses are becoming global these days. As a result, everyone’s travelling more – which can only be good news for an organization like mine.”

“And is it the same sort of destinations it’s always been?”

“Well, those continue to be popular – Costa del Sol, South America… Changes a bit according to which countries make extradition treaties, of course, but it’s steady business. Also doing a lot of work now with what used to be called the Eastern Bloc. That’s opening up a lot. Then Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, you know… Even starting to do quite a bit in China.” Hamish Ramon Henriques smiled a complacent smile. “One of the unfailing rules of economics, you know – wherever capitalism goes, criminals will quickly follow. And if there’s one thing criminals are always going to need, it’s transport.”

An unfocused mistiness had come into Mrs Pargeter’s eyes. The look frequently appeared there when ‘criminals’ were mentioned. It was almost as if she had an allergy to the word. “Well,” she said vaguely, “I wouldn’t know about that.”

HRH seemed to realize he had transgressed some invisible barrier between them. “No, of course not,” he agreed hastily. “And no reason why you ever should.” Moving the conversation on to safer ground, he asked, “Anyway, what can I do for you this bright and beautiful morning, Mrs Pargeter?”

“Well,” she began tentatively, “I hope it’s not too much trouble…”

“A contradiction in terms! Positive oxymoron – the idea that anything I might undertake for you could be too much trouble. I and my entire staff are at your disposal for whatever you should require. Oh, Mrs Pargeter, when I think back to how much your husband did for me in the early days of my career –”

“Yes, yes.” It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate this litany of thanks to the late Mr Pargeter; it was just that she had heard it so many times before. “What I need, HRH, is help in the transportation of some paintings.”

“And would these be paintings whose…” he paused, selecting his words with punctilious discretion “…whose provenance might be such that their transportation should not be… too public…?”

“Exactly.” Mrs Pargeter appreciated his quick understanding of her problem.

“And may I ask which countries will be involved in the transportation of the paintings?”

“Quite a few. Certainly France, Germany and Spain. I think there might even be some that have to go back to the States. Maybe even Japan. Will that be a problem?”

“Good heavens, no,” Hamish Ramon Henriques replied breezily. “Compared to other jobs I have undertaken… compared to Lord Lucan… compared to Shergar – never easy when you’re dealing with horseboxes… No, a few paintings will be nothing – whichever countries happen to be involved.” He paused. “One thing you said, Mrs Pargeter…”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t mishear you saying that these paintings needed to ‘go back’?”

“Yes. They all need to go back to where they were – ” she corrected herself seamlessly, “to where they started from.”

“Fine.”

HRH did not ask for further explanation, but Mrs Pargeter supplied it nonetheless. “You see, someone’s asked me to arrange it, and I’ve said I would. And with me… well, when I say I’m going to do something, it’s kind of a point of honour that I see it actually gets done.”

“I understand completely, Mrs Pargeter. It would be exactly the same in my own case.” He emitted a fruity little chuckle. “Where would one be in business if one could not trust the good faith and the word of a gentleman?”

“My feeling entirely, HRH. So, going back to the paintings… have you done that kind of thing before?”

“I have been involved in many comparable operations, yes. There is a very simple standard procedure to follow.” He gave a thoughtful twirl to his moustache. “It does, however, involve the cooperation of one other person…”

“Who’s that?”

“Have you heard of someone called ‘VVO’?”

Mrs Pargeter shook her head and observed, “Lot of initials in this business, aren’t there, HRH?”