Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Seventeen

She had intended to communicate her worries about the Inspector to Truffler Mason the minute he arrived at the hotel, but first she had to go through a litany of self-recrimination. Mrs Pargeter was sitting at her usual table in the bar, drinking champagne with Hedgeclipper Clinton, when Truffler shambled in, literally wringing his hands in anguish.

“I feel such a fool, such a bloody idiot, Mrs P,” he moaned, before he’d even sat down, and certainly before he’d touched his drink. “Simple thing like shifting those pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh and I go and screw it up, let some villains ace in ahead of us and nick the lot.”

“You’re sure they were villains?” asked Mrs Pargeter, who was not showing the same reticence as her guest with the champagne. “Sure they weren’t police?”

“If they’d been on the side of the law, Mrs Chastaigne’d certainly have heard something by now. Besides, I got a look at them. They were villains all right. And,” Truffler added thoughtfully, “villains with extremely good information.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hedgeclipper.

“They must’ve known we was about to raid the place.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The timing’s too much of a coincidence. If they’d been casing the joint, or if they was acting on a tip-off from one of Bennie Logan’s cronies, they could’ve done it any time in the five years since he died. But no, they chose the very day we’d planned to lift the loot. They knew something.”

Hedgeclipper Clinton nodded. It made sense.

“I don’t like it,” said Truffler. “It’s like being back in the days of Posey Narker.”

“Yes, it is. Not nice.”

“I’m sorry?” said Mrs Pargeter guilelessly. “Did you say ‘Posey Narker’?”

“Yes.” Truffler rubbed his chin in pained recollection. “Fact is, while your husband was alive, we had a bit of trouble with information ending up where it shouldn’t.”

“Oh?”

“Seemed like someone Mr Pargeter trusted was betraying that trust. Police kept knowing more than they should have known about things that were about to happen. Never found out who the grass was. All we got, from one of our informants inside the Met, was this name – ‘Posey Narker’. Clearly someone’s idea of a joke. Annoying, though, because we knew the grass was like, teasing us, sending us up, challenging us to catch him. We never did, though. Which was lucky for him,” Truffler concluded darkly.

“Too right.” Hedgeclipper Clinton was transformed for a moment from hotel manager to an earlier, more aggressive persona. “I had a few plans for the little rat if we ever had got hold of him…”

“Anyway, we’re talking a long time ago,” said Truffler, closing the subject. “This business of the villains being tipped off and getting in before us at Chastaigne Varleigh… well, it, like, reminded me of Posey Narker, that’s all.”

Mrs Pargeter reverted to a point she’d made earlier. “You are absolutely sure the ones you describe as villains had nothing to do with the police?”

Truffler Mason looked up sharply at the intonation of her words. “Yes, of course I’m sure. But why do you say that? Have you got some inside info?”

“Not exactly,” replied Mrs Pargeter, now able to get on to the subject she’d wanted to start with. “There’s this Detective Inspector who seems to be sniffing around.”

Truffler was instantly alert. “Sniffing around? How d’you mean?”

“I first met him that afternoon I’d gone to your office, you know, to tell you about what Veronica Chastaigne had asked me to do.”

“Yes?”

“He had some enquiry about Gary’s limousine. Said it’d been seen near a crime scene in Tulse Hill. Well, Gary’s not been to Tulse Hill in ages, so clearly somebody’d misidentified the car. I didn’t think any more about it… until I found the same policeman waiting outside the hospital this morning after I’d been visiting Veronica Chastaigne.”

Hedgeclipper Clinton looked alarmed, and Truffler Mason’s long body was rigid with tension. “A detective inspector you said?”

“That’s right,” Mrs Pargeter confirmed.

The hotel manager licked his lips nervously, but let Truffler continue putting the questions. “What did he ask you about today?”

“Well, that was what was odd,” replied Mrs Pargeter. “Nothing, really.”

“Nothing?”

“No. It was just like he was, kind of, keeping tabs on me, monitoring my movements. Somehow he knew I’d gone to the hospital. I even get the feeling he knew he was going to meet me coming out of your office that first time. I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I,” Truffler agreed wholeheartedly. “I wonder…”

“Wonder what?” asked Hedgeclipper, with another flick of the tongue around his dry lips.

“Well, maybe sneaking the stuff from Chastaigne Varleigh was a police set-up… Maybe they’re working on some kind of major entrapment plan…” His huge head shook slowly from side to side. “No, I don’t like this at all, Hedgeclipper.”

“Nor me.”

“I mean, personally I’ve nothing against the police,” said Mrs Pargeter, magnanimous as ever, “in their place. They do a wonderful job, this country would be a much poorer place without them… but the fact remains, I don’t like them snooping around me.”

“Nor do I,” said Truffler again.

“Not,” she hastened to add, “that I’ve ever done anything to arouse their interest, in a professional way. But the people they tend to recruit are not always the brightest, and one would hate for there to be any misunderstandings, for them to get the wrong end of the stick, either about me… or about any of the people I associate with.”

“One would hate that very much indeed.” Hedgeclipper Clinton nodded agreement with the sentiment. Grimly, Truffler Mason rubbed his long chin, and said again, “I don’t like the sound of this one little bit. I’d better investigate it further.” He stood up, leaving the remainder of his champagne untouched. “You haven’t got the bloke’s name, by any chance, have you?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Pargeter. “It’s Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson.”

There was a moment’s silence while Truffler and Hedgeclipper took this in. Then a snort of laughter erupted from the hotel manager. Truffler Mason’s entire body shook, as he sat back down in his chair and picked up his champagne glass. He made as if to take a swig, but was laughing too much to complete the action.

“What is it?” asked Mrs Pargeter, unused to seeing that lugubrious face incapable with merriment. “What is it that’s so funny? Do I gather you two know this gentleman?”

Hedgeclipper Clinton could only nod, unable to form words but, through gasps of laughter, Truffler Mason managed to say, “Oh, yes, I know him. I know him all right. Your husband knew him, and all, Mrs P. I’m surprised Mr Pargeter never mentioned old ‘Craggy’ Wilkinson to you.”

“You know my husband never spoke to me about his work,” she said primly.

“No, I know he didn’t as a general rule, but with old Craggy I’m surprised he could keep it to himself.”

“Why?”

“Well, some of the things he done… they were just such good stories. You know, when me and the boys was working with your husband, whenever we needed a good laugh, we’d just tell another Craggy Wilkinson story. Isn’t that right, Hedgeclipper?”

The hotel manager was sufficiently recovered to let out a “Yes,” but the sound of the emergent word only set him off again.

“Why? What kind of things did he do?”

“Well, let’s take for instance…” Truffler paused for a moment, shuffling through a mental filing cabinet, spoiled for choice as to which anecdote he should produce first. “All right. Try this for starters.”