Mrs Pargeter 06; Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Forty

Mrs Pargeter felt a warm glow of satisfaction as Gary’s limousine delivered her and Hedgeclipper Clinton back to Greene’s Hotel. The customized ambulance had been returned to its body shop underneath the arches, and she had left her uniform there. Hedgeclipper had removed his odious leisurewear and was once again dressed in sober black jacket and striped trousers. All the loose ends had been neatly tied together. Mrs Pargeter was of the opinion that the whole operation had been a very satisfactory day’s work.

“Will you be dining in the hotel this evening?” asked Hedgeclipper, leading her across the foyer to the lift.

“Yes. On my own. Just a nice pampering meal. I feel I’ve deserved it.”

“You certainly have, Mrs Pargeter.”

“And thank you for all you did. I am so fortunate to be surrounded by people of such varied talents.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“There’s a career for you in television if you ever decide to give this up.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs Pargeter. Greene’s Hotel is my life,” said the manager as he opened the lift door for her.

“Well, I’m glad it is. I feel really comfortable here.”

“Excellent.” Hedgeclipper Clinton made a little bow to her. “That is, after all, the aim of the exercise.”

Upstairs in her suite, Mrs Pargeter looked fondly at the photograph by her bedside. “You know, my love, I think you’d have been quite proud of me today. We reproduced your old Chelmsford routine, and it worked a treat.” Seeming to read some reproach in the monochrome features, she went on, slightly defensively, “I’m well aware that you never liked me to know anything about your work, but there was no other way this time. The paintings had to be returned. It was in a good cause, you see. You always had a lot of respect for Bennie Logan, and I’m sure you’d want his widow to be able to go to her grave in peace. And it isn’t as if I was involved in anything criminal…” She twisted her fingers, nervous under the photograph’s scrutiny. “Well, maybe at moments it kind of veered over towards the criminal… I suppose technically, until the paintings were returned, we could have been said to be handling stolen goods. But that’s the worst you could charge us with. Anyway, it’s all done now. The job’s complete and there’s no evidence to link any of us with anything even mildly iffy.”

At that moment the telephone on the bedside table rang. It was Hedgeclipper Clinton calling from downstairs, and there was a note of warning – almost of fear – in his voice. “Mrs Pargeter, I wonder if you could come down. There are two gentlemen here who wish to speak to you on a very serious matter.”

“Oh really?” she said. “Who are they?”

“They’re Inspector Wilkinson and Sergeant Hughes,” said Hedgeclipper.