Nothing Ventured

7

‘Can you put me through to Mr. Chuck Underwood?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Detective Constable William Warwick, from Scotland Yard.’

‘I’ll see if the undersecretary is available.’

William had to wait so long, he wondered if the line had gone dead. Finally a voice came on the line.

‘Warwick?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What’s happened to DS Roycroft?’

‘I’ve taken over the case, sir.’

‘Is there anything lower than a detective constable?’

‘Only a probationer, sir, and I was one of those not so long ago.’

‘And you will be again if I don’t get my moon dust back.’

‘I’m working on it, sir, but I need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Not again!’

‘Did the American government originally give the phial of moon dust to Professor Francis Denning of Manchester University as a gift?’

‘Yes, we did. But there were conditions attached. We made it clear it was never to be passed on to anyone else, and that under no circumstances was it to be sold to a third party.’

‘And was that put in writing at the time?’

‘It most certainly was, and we have the documentation to prove it. And now, as I’m sure you are aware, a Dr. Keith Talbot has put the phial up for sale at Sotheby’s.’

‘Yes, I did know, sir. I have the catalog in front of me.’

‘Then you will see on page thirty-one, lot nineteen, a phial of moon dust, rare, brought back from the Apollo 11 mission by Mr. Neil Armstrong.’

‘However,’ said William, ‘the late Professor Denning left the phial to Dr. Talbot in his will.’

‘It wasn’t his to leave, Detective Constable Warwick, as I made clear to DS Roycroft.’

‘You did indeed, sir. But I am sure you understand that we must follow the letter of the law.’

‘At a snail’s pace, it would seem, despite the fact that our legal team is at your disposal.’

‘That’s good to know, sir, because we wouldn’t want to do anything to harm the special relationship between our two countries, would we?’

‘Cut out the sarcasm, Warwick, and just get my moon dust back.’

The phone went dead. William swiveled around in his chair to see Jackie grinning at him.

‘He grows on you,’ she said, ‘but Underwood’s one of those Americans who considers Britain to be one of their smaller states. It won’t be long before he reminds you that Texas is almost three times the size of the United Kingdom. So if you want to avoid a major diplomatic incident, I suggest you get his moon dust back.’

‘I hear you,’ said William. ‘But equally important, how do I get a train ticket to Manchester?’

‘You report to Mavis in Travel on the ground floor. But I warn you, if you think Mr. Underwood is tough, compared to Mavis, he’s a softie. If it was up to her, the Queen would travel second class, and the likes of us would be shoveling coal into the engine’s furnace.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘Mavis—’

‘Mrs. Walters to you, young man. You can’t call me Mavis until you’re at least a chief inspector. Start again.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said William. ‘Mrs. Walters, I need—’

‘Name, rank, and department?’

‘Warwick, DC, Art and Antiques.’

‘So what were you hoping for?’

‘To be the commissioner.’

‘Try again,’ said Mrs. Walters, but she did at least manage a smile.

‘A return train ticket to Manchester.’

‘What is the purpose of your trip, and how long will you be in Manchester?’

‘I’ll be visiting the university, and hope to go there and back on the same day.’

‘Then you’ll have to catch the seven forty-two from Euston, and the last train back on a weekday is the ten forty-three. If you miss it, you’ll be spending the night on a bench on platform twelve. You are entitled to one meal, at a cost of no more than two pounds eighty, which you can claim on your duty sheet 232, but I’ll require a receipt.’ Mrs. Walters began to write out a train warrant for Manchester Piccadilly. ‘If you’re going to the university, you’ll have to catch the 147 bus. You’ll also need an umbrella.’

‘An umbrella?’

‘You’ve obviously never been to Manchester before.’

‘Good morning, Mr. Warwick,’ said the young woman who met him at the front desk. ‘I’m Melanie Clore. How can I help you?’

‘You have a sale coming up on July the seventeenth—’

‘Which lot number do you want us to withdraw?’

‘How could you possibly know—’

‘The police don’t visit Sotheby’s to put something up for sale.’

William smiled. ‘Lot number nineteen. A phial of moon dust brought back on the Apollo 11 mission by Neil Armstrong.’

Miss Clore checked the catalog. ‘Offered to us by a Dr. Keith Talbot, who produced a will to confirm that the moon dust had been left to him.’

‘The American Embassy is claiming ownership and say they will sue everybody in sight if you go ahead with the sale.’

‘And we wouldn’t want that, would we, Mr. Warwick?’

‘It wouldn’t worry me,’ said William, ‘if I thought Dr. Talbot had the law on his side.’

‘Even if he does, the legal battle could last for years.’

‘My boss is expecting me to solve this one in a couple of days.’

‘Is he? Well, if Dr. Talbot is willing to sign a standard release form, we will be happy to hand over the phial, and leave you to return it to the Americans. Let’s just hope Dr. Talbot isn’t another Mr. Finlay Isles.’

‘Dare I ask who Mr. Finlay Isles is?’

‘He sued us in 1949 over a watercolor worth a hundred pounds, and we’re still waiting for the courts to decide who the rightful owner is.’

‘How come?’ asked William.

‘It’s a Turner which is now worth over a million.’

As the train rattled over the points on its progress to Manchester the following morning, William studied the moon dust file yet again, but learned nothing new.

He allowed his thoughts to return to the missing Rembrandt and how he could possibly find out the name of the artist who’d made the copy. He was convinced that in order to create such a convincing reproduction, the painter must have worked from the original. William still had difficulty believing that anyone who had been educated at the Slade would be capable of destroying a national treasure, but then he recalled the Hawk’s words — ‘Wait until you meet the man before you jump to that conclusion.’

William had read Faulkner’s file from cover to cover, and although he didn’t appear in public very often, one event he never missed was the opening night of a new James Bond film, and he was also a collector of first editions of Ian Fleming’s books. William had recently read a diary piece in The Daily Mail reporting that A View to a Kill would be opening at the Odeon Leicester Square in a month’s time. But how could he possibly get hold of a ticket? And even if he did, he couldn’t see Mrs. Walters sanctioning it as a legitimate expense.

His mind returned to Dr. Talbot. One phone call had elicited the information that the professor would be delivering a talk in the geology department’s lecture theater at eleven o’clock. William wondered what sort of man Talbot was, amused by the thought of the American empire bearing down on an innocent geology lecturer from the north of England. He knew where his sympathies lay. He placed the file back in his briefcase and picked up the latest edition of RA Magazine, but after flicking through a few pages decided it would have to wait until the return journey.

When the train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly at 10:49, William was among the first to hand over his ticket at the barrier. He jogged past a row of taxis to the nearest bus stop and joined a queue. A few minutes later he climbed onto the 147, which dropped him outside the main entrance to the university. How could Mrs. Walters possibly have known that? He smiled when he saw a group of students ambling through the gates and onto the campus at a leisurely pace he’d quite forgotten since joining the Met. He asked one of them for directions to the geology department, and arrived a few minutes late, but then he wasn’t there to attend the lecture. He climbed the steps to the first floor, entered the theater by the back door, and joined the dozen or so students who were listening intently to Dr. Talbot.

From his seat in the back row, William studied the lecturer carefully. Dr. Talbot couldn’t have been an inch over five foot, and had a shock of curly black hair that didn’t look as if it regularly came into contact with a brush or comb. He wore a corduroy jacket, a check shirt, and a bootlace tie. His long black gown was covered in chalk dust. He spoke in a clear, authoritative voice, only occasionally glancing down at his notes.

William became so engrossed in Talbot’s account of how the discovery of a previously unknown fossil in the early seventies had finally disproved the single species theory that he was disappointed when a buzzer sounded at twelve o’clock to indicate that the lecture was over. He waited until all the students had left and Dr. Talbot was gathering up his notes before walking casually down the center aisle to confront the master criminal.

Talbot looked up and peered at William through his National Health spectacles.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked. William produced his warrant card, and Talbot gripped the edge of the long wooden desk in front of him. ‘But I thought I’d paid that parking fine.’

‘I’m sure you did, sir. But I still need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Of course,’ said Talbot, fidgeting with his gown.

‘Can I begin by asking how you came into possession of a phial of moon dust?’

‘Is that what this is all about?’ said Talbot in disbelief.

‘It is, sir.’

‘It was a gift from the late Professor Denning, who left it to me in his will. The Americans presented it to him after he’d published his findings on the structure of the moon’s surface.’

‘And why would he leave such an important historic artifact to you?’

‘I was his research assistant at the time he wrote his dissertation, and after he retired, I took his place as head of department.’

‘Well I’m sorry to have to inform you, Dr. Talbot, that the Americans want their moon dust back.’

‘What makes them think it’s theirs? They don’t own the moon.’

‘True, but they did bring the dust back on Apollo 11, and Professor Denning must have forgotten that he’d signed a binding agreement not to sell it or pass it on to a third party.’

‘And if I refuse to give it back?’ said Talbot, sounding a little more confident.

‘The Americans will instigate legal proceedings, and I have a feeling their pockets might be deeper than yours.’

‘Why don’t they just buy the damn phial when it comes up for auction at Sotheby’s?’

‘I admit that would be the easy solution,’ said William. ‘But they’re in no doubt that the moon dust now belongs to them, and Sotheby’s have already withdrawn the lot from their catalog. And, can you believe it, the phial is now locked in a high-security vault?’

Talbot burst out laughing, pointed a crooked forefinger at William, and in a feeble attempt to imitate Clint Eastwood, said, ‘Go ahead, make my day!’

‘If you would be willing to sign a release form, sir, I could pick up the phial from Sotheby’s and return it to the American Embassy, which would solve both our problems.’

‘You know, Mr. Warwick, if I were a millionaire I’d take on the Yanks, even though the moon dust will probably only fetch a couple of thousand pounds.’

‘And I’d be on your side, but I suspect we’d still lose.’

‘You’re probably right. So, where do I sign?’

William opened his briefcase, extracted three identical forms, and placed them on the desk.

‘Here, here, and here.’

Talbot read the document carefully before adding his signature on three dotted lines.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said William, placing two of the forms back in his briefcase and handing the third to Talbot.

‘Do you have time to join me for lunch?’ asked Talbot, taking off his gown, accompanied by a cloud of chalk.

‘Only if you know a pub with a two pound eighty upper limit.’

‘I think we can do better than that.’

On the journey back to Euston, William checked Dr. Talbot’s signatures. He’d enjoyed an excellent lunch in the faculty dining room with the professor, who turned out to be a fellow art junkie and a keen follower of a local artist whom he’d met as an undergraduate. Dr. Talbot had purchased a drawing by L.S. Lowry of a back street in Salford for fifty pounds, which he couldn’t afford at the time, and certainly wouldn’t be able to afford to buy now, although he admitted to William that he’d never sell it.

‘So which artists should I be looking out for now, remembering my salary?’ William asked.

‘Diana Armfield, Craigie Aitchison, and Sydney Harpley. You’ll find them all in the RA’s Summer Exhibition.’

William made a note of the names.

Over lunch William had jokingly suggested that they substitute a few grains of sand from Blackpool beach for the moon dust, as he was confident that the American undersecretary wouldn’t know the difference. Talbot had laughed, but pointed out that his opposite number at the Smithsonian certainly would, even though he’d probably never been to Blackpool.

William finally opened his RA Magazine to check which exhibitions were coming up that he couldn’t afford to miss. He selected three, circled them, and put the dates in his diary: Picasso, the early years; Hockney’s California or bust; and the annual Summer Exhibition at the RA, where he would check out the three artists Dr. Talbot had recommended. But they were all quickly forgotten when he turned the page to find that Dr. Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, would be giving a lecture on the history of the museum, followed by a guided tour, in a couple of weeks’ time. Tickets were five pounds, and only fifty people would be admitted. He wondered if Mrs. Walters would consider that a legitimate expense. Either way, he wasn’t going to miss it.

William didn’t sleep that night, although his only companion was a locked briefcase. He would have liked to tear up both copies of the release form, but he accepted that the Americans would get their way in the end.

William didn’t go straight to Scotland Yard the following morning, but took the tube to Green Park, before walking across to New Bond Street. He was standing outside the auction house long before a porter opened the doors at nine o’clock.

Melanie Clore studied Dr. Talbot’s signature carefully, and compared it to the one on the sale document, before she was willing to part with Lot 19. She then disappeared to collect the phial from its safe, returning a few minutes later.

William couldn’t believe it when he saw the phial for the first time. It was smaller than his little finger. He wrapped it in a tissue before putting it back in the box. More forms to sign before he could leave and make his way to Grosvenor Square. He climbed the steps of the American Embassy fifteen minutes later and reported to a marine sergeant on the front desk. He asked to see Mr. Underwood.

‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’

‘No,’ he said, producing his warrant card.

The marine pressed three buttons on his phone, and when a voice came on the line he repeated William’s request.

‘I’m afraid the undersecretary is in a meeting at the moment, but he could fit Mr. Warwick in at four this afternoon.’

‘Tell him I’ve got his moon dust,’ said William.

He could hear a voice saying, ‘Send him up.’

William took the lift to the fourth floor, to find the undersecretary standing in the corridor waiting for him. They shook hands before Underwood said, ‘Good morning, detective,’ but didn’t speak again until he’d closed the door of his office. ‘You move quite quickly for an Englishman.’

William didn’t respond, but opened his briefcase and took out the little box. He opened it, unwrapped the tissue slowly, and like a conjurer, revealed the phial of moon dust.

‘That’s it?’ said Underwood in disbelief.

‘Yes, sir,’ said William as he handed over the cause of so much trouble.

‘Thank you,’ said Underwood, placing the box on his desk. ‘I’ll be sure to get in touch with you again should any other problems arise.’

‘Not unless someone’s stolen one of your nuclear warheads,’ said William.