The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

BLIND EYES by Edward Marston

Edward Marston is the best known pseudonym of author and playwright Keith Miles (b.1940). A former lecturer in modern history, Miles has written over forty original plays for radio, television and the theatre, plus some six hundred episodes of radio and television drama series. He has also written over twenty-five novels. These include a series featuring Nicholas Bracewell and his company of Elizabethan actors, which began with The Queen’s Head (1988), plus a series featuring Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret, who resolve crimes as they travel the country helping compile the Domesday Book in 1086. That series began with The Wolves of Savernake (1993). For a change, however, the following story is not historical.

The first explosion came at midnight. No warning was given. Oxford Street was surprisingly busy at that time on a Saturday. People waited for buses, hovered for taxis, searched for somewhere to eat, headed for nightclubs or simply walked aimlessly along. Drunks relieved themselves in dark corners. A man with an accordion played evergreen favourites with fitful enthusiasm. A group of young women, fresh from a hen party, laughed and joked their way boisterously along the pavement. Curled up in sleeping bags, self-appointed tenants of the various shop doorways had already counted the day’s takings and turned in for the night. Two burly uniformed policemen studied the suits on display in Next and shared their misgivings about the prices. A lone cyclist headed towards Marble Arch.

The explosion sounded far louder than it really was. It came from a card shop near Oxford Circus and terrified everyone within earshot. The plate glass window became a thousand deadly missiles that shot across the road. Cards were scattered everywhere. Those in the “Get Well Soon” rack were the first to ignite. Women screamed, men yelled, residents lifted bedroom windows or came dashing out of front doors. The two constables abandoned their shopping and ran towards the scene of the blast, one of them raising the alarm on his mobile while the other warned bystanders to keep well clear of the danger area. It seemed only minutes before police cars converged on Oxford Circus to investigate the crime and to control the gathering crowd. A fire engine arrived soon afterwards with an ambulance on its tail. The noise was deafening.

It was a scene that was repeated elsewhere in the city. A second bomb went off in the Euston Road, a third near Victoria Station and a fourth in Baker Street. No sooner had the emergency services reached one devastated area than another explosion was heard. Nor were the bombs confined to central London. Blackfriars, Belvedere, Chingford, Whitechapel, Pentonville, Clapham Common, Greenwich and other sites were targeted. The Metropolitan Police were at full stretch, the Fire Service pushed to the limit. Chaos reigned for hour after hour. The one consolation was that there seemed to be very few casualties.

At the height of the crisis, the biggest explosion of all went off in an electricity sub-station and the whole of the West End was suddenly blacked out. Panic spread uncontrollably. Older inhabitants were reminded all too vividly of the Blitz, younger people were convulsed with fear. Everyone rushed around wildly, wondering what was happening. A foreign invasion? A bombing campaign by Irish dissidents? A visit by aliens? The end of the world? It was only when dawn finally lifted the blanket of night that another crime was uncovered, a theft so shocking that it was totally impossible to believe even though the evidence was there for all to see.

Lord Nelson had been stolen from atop his column in Trafalgar Square. In his place, usurping his position of honour, gazing down Whitehall with a smile of triumph and outraging every true English patriot, was a huge statue of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Fluttering at his boots was a self-explanatory banner.

VIVE LA FRANCE!

Commander Richard Milton was not pleased to be hauled back from his holiday. His week in Cornwall had been curtailed before it had even begun and he was determined to make someone pay for his loss. With his wife’s complaints still ringing in his ears, he was flown back swiftly to London to take charge of an inquiry that was dominating the media like the outbreak of the Third World War. A tall, thin, angular man with a face like a Victorian poisoner, Dick Milton had the experience, the guile and the stamina to lead a large team of detectives in the investigation of what appeared to be a series of interrelated crimes. He got results. That was why he was chosen. When he worked in harness with his old friend, Detective Inspector Kenneth Hurrell, results tended to come quickly.

An incident room was set up in Scotland Yard. By the time that Milton came charging in, Hurrell had already been busy for hours.

“What the hell is going on, Ken?” demanded Milton.

“I wish I knew,” sighed Hurrell. “A series of bombs went off all over London last night. Soft targets. Extensive damage to property. Minor injuries but no fatalities. And then – this other bombshell!”

“Nelson can’t have disappeared!”

“He has, Commander.”

“How?”

“That’s the bit we haven’t worked out.”

“And is it true that someone else is up there?”

“Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Bloody hell!”

“The media are calling it a national scandal.”

“And that’s exactly what it is, Ken!” said Milton vengefully. “My holiday’s been ruined. Nothing could be more scandalous than that. I had strips torn off me when I left St Ives. You try telling your wife that she’ll have to manage without you while you go off in search of Nelson.”

“I’m not married, sir.”

“Be grateful. At times like this, celibacy is a blessing.”

“I didn’t say I was celibate.”

Kenneth Hurrell grinned. He was a wiry man of medium height with wavy black hair that was the envy of his colleagues. His immaculate suit made Minton’s tweed jacket look positively shabby. The Commander became businesslike. He snapped his fingers.

“How far have you got?”

“This far,” said Hurrell, moving to the large wall map. “The pins indicate the locations of the bombs. Twenty-one in all.”

“Twenty-one! What did they think it was – Bonfire Night?”

“Oh, no. They were very precise about the date.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s October 21st.”

“So?”

“The date of the Battle of Trafalgar.”

“But that was years ago, Ken.”

“A hundred and ninety-five years. October 21st, 1805.”

“Is that relevant?”

“Extremely, sir. Some people obviously have long memories. The pattern of bombing proves that.” He jabbed a finger at the map. “At first, I thought they were just random explosions to create a diversion and move every available officer well away from the vicinity of Nelson’s Column.”

“And they’re not?”

“No,” said Hurrell. “Take this one here, for instance,” he continued, touching one of the pins. “Old Bethnal Green Road. The bomb was very close to Nelson Gardens. Then there’s this one, sir.” He indicated another pin. “On the site of Greenwich Market. Close to Nelson Road.”

“Could just be a coincidence.”

“Not when it happens in every case,” argued Hurrell. “There was a bomb near Nelson Walk in Limehouse, another on Morden Road, close to the Nelson Industrial Estate and a third in Nelson Yard, off Mornington Crescent. So it goes on.”

“What about Oxford Street and Victoria Station?” asked Minton. “I don’t recall any Nelson Roads in those areas.”

“There aren’t any.”

“So the pattern is incomplete.”

“Far from it, Commander. The explosion in Oxford Street was less than forty yards from the ‘Admiral Nelson’ pub. The one in Victoria Station was directly opposite ‘The Trafalgar’. No question about it, I’m afraid. We’re dealing with a case of aggravated revenge.”

“Some militant Frogs?”

“All the signs point that way.”

“So it seems.”

“You can’t fault their timing.”

“Timing?”

“Yes, sir. Until last week, workmen were at the top of the column to give Nelson his habitual clean-up. The thieves didn’t just get away with the most famous statue in London. They waited until all the bird shit had been scraped off it. We’re up against pros.”

“No phone calls from them?”

“Just one, sir. In French.”

“What was the message?”

“Short and sweet. We were ordered to leave him where he is.”

“Who?”

“The Emperor Napoleon.”

“Ruling the roost in Trafalgar Square!” exclaimed Milton with an upsurge of patriotism. “We’ll see about that! Nobody gives me orders, especially in Frogtalk. Come on, Ken. Clap on full sail. We’re going straight over to Trafalgar Square. You can fill me in on the way. Leave him there indeed!” He gave a snort of defiance. “We’ll have the bugger down off that column before he can say ‘Not tonight, Josephine.’”

Napoleon Bonaparte had drawn a vast audience. Though the police had cordoned off Trafalgar Square itself, all the approach roads were heaving with sightseers. Every window which overlooked the column had its own private audience. Television cameras had prime positions and sent their pictures to the watching millions. Driven to the scene of the crime, Dick Milton was furious when he caught sight of a French television crew.

“What are they doing here?” he growled.

“Somebody must have tipped them off,” said Hurrell.

“They’re in on the conspiracy.”

“If that’s what it is, sir.”

When they got out of the car, Milton took his first proper look at the statue which had displaced Nelson. He craned his neck to get a good view, realizing how rarely he even noticed the usual occupant of the fluted Corinthian column. Nelson was such an essential part of the fabric of London that he could be taken for granted. Like St Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. In a sense, it was a compliment not to look at him, an acknowledgment of his status and permanence. Only foreign tourists actually stared at the column. Everyone was staring now. The new arrival compelled attention. Napoleon looked bigger, bolder, more authoritative. There was a mutinous rumble among the spectators.

Dick Milton shared their disgust. His faced reddened angrily.

“What, in God’s name, is he doing up there?”

“Making a statement, sir.”

“I’ll make a bloody statement myself in a minute.”

“Not when there are so many microphones about,” warned Hurrell. “We have to be diplomatic. Keep our own opinions private.”

“Well, he’s not keeping his opinion private, is he?” said Milton, looking up at the banner. “VIVE LA FRANCE! That doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it?”

“No, sir.” Hurrell gave a signal and a detective walked briskly across to them. “Let’s see if we have any more leads. DS Williams was in charge of taking statements from witnesses.”

“Good.” He appraised the newcomer. “Well?”

“They all say the same, sir,” explained Williams, referring to his notebook. “There were over a dozen of them, sleeping here last night or sharing bottles of cheap booze. They saw very little.”

“They must have, man!”

“There was a total blackout, Commander.”

“Winos are nocturnal. They can see in the dark.”

“Not when they’re pissed out of their minds,” said Hurrell before turning back to Williams. “Sorry, Jim. Do go on.”

The Detective Sergeant nodded and ran a tongue nervously across his lips. Knowing all about Dick Milton’s hot temper, he had no wish to be on the receiving end of it. He consulted his notebook.

“They saw little but heard a lot,” he resumed. “The one thing they all agree on is the balloon. Not a hot-air balloon. The other kind. You know, like a Zeppelin.”

“A dirigible,” said Milton.

“They all called it a balloon.”

“Technically, it’s an airship. What else did they hear?”

“A strange noise.”

“Noise?”

“A sort of loud grinding,” said Williams, stooping to pick up a handful of chippings. “Stonecutter, I reckon. You see, sir? These are pieces of Craigleith stone from the statue of Nelson. My theory is that they had to cut through its base before they could detach it from the column and carry it away.”

“By the dirigible?”

“How else?”

“But it must have been a hell of a weight.

“Several tons, sir.”

“How tall was the statue?”

“Seventeen feet,” said Williams. “And the column is a hundred and forty-five. Devonshire granite from Foggin Tor. It supports a bronze capital cast from old guns from Woolwich Arsenal.”

“You’ve done your homework. Good man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“A hot air balloon couldn’t have winched it up,” said Hurrell, “but a large airship might have. Several sightings of a flying object were reported. People couldn’t pick it out clearly but they thought they saw something dangling from it. They didn’t realize that it was a priceless chunk of English history.”

“No,” grumbled Milton. “Anything else, Williams?”

The detective rattled off the other information he had gleaned before being sent back to interrogate the witnesses for a second time. They were a motley crew: tramps, winos and homeless students. There was one old woman among them, singing hymns at the top of her voice. Milton ran a jaundiced eye over them. None would be at all reliable in a witness box. He turned to face Hurrell.

“This was a well-planned operation, Ken.”

“Yes, sir. Involving several people.”

“Do we know any French extremists capable of this?”

“Not really, sir,” said the other, “though I was surprised to find out just how many different political groups there are. Apart from the usual anarchists, nihilists and assorted nutcases, that is. There’s a Pro-Euro Ginger Group, a Friends of General de Gaulle Society, a Jacobin Club, a League of French Imperialists, a Marquis de Sade Brotherhood and heaven knows what else. I’m told there are some pretty dodgy characters in the Gerard Depardieu Fan Club as well. France is steeped in revolution. It’s in their blood. When something rouses them, they act. One thing is certain about this lot.”

“What’s that?”

“They mean business.”

“Yes, they stole one of our great national heroes,” said Milton bitterly. “And what they they give us in return? Those tasteless Golden Delicious apples and seventeen feet of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Amazing, really. You’ve got to admire them.”

The Commander was appalled. “Admire those thieving Frogs!”

“They whisked Nelson off into the sky.”

“They did more than that, Ken. Apart from insulting a naval man by flying him out, they achieved an even greater feat.” He glanced up at the statue. “They stuck that monstrosity up there at the same time. How? One dirigible, two national heroes. How on earth did they remove one and replace him with another in such a short space of time?”

“The blackout lasted for a few hours.”

“That means they were working in the dark.”

“Maybe they had a second dirigible.”

“None of the winos mentioned it and they’re used to seeing double.”

“I don’t think we can trust their word,” said Hurrell with a sad smile. “They were either too drunk to notice much or too frightened to remember what they did see and hear. The other reports are the ones to trust. Something moving silently across the sky with an object dangling from it. There were a number of sightings.”

“It must have made two journeys,” decided Milton. “Nelson was spirited away to a nearby hiding place then Napoleon was brought back in his stead.” He took out his mobile phone. “Let’s knock old Nappy off his perch, anyway. Who were those people who cleaned the statue recently?”

“Gostelow and Crabtree.”

“Sounds like a firm of corrupt solicitors.”

“Are there any other kind?”

They traded a professional laugh. Hurrell gave him the phone number and the Commander dialled it. After barking a few orders, the latter switched off his mobile and put it in his pocket.

“They’re on their way.”

“How will they get up there?”

“Scaffolding.”

“Then what?”

“Well,” said Milton firmly, “the first thing they can do is to get that VIVE LA FRANCE banner down. It’s making my stomach heave.” He looked across at the massed ranks of cameramen and journalists. “I suppose that I ought to throw them a bone. Give them the idea that we have everything under control. Ho, ho! You wait here, Ken. I’ll go and make a non-committal statement to the media or they’ll be hounding us all day.” He gazed up at Napoleon again. “By the way, what’s French for ‘We’re coming to get you, you mad bastard’?”

Emblazoned with the name of “Gostelow and Crabtree”, the lorry arrived within half-an-hour. In the rear was a large tarpaulin and an endless number of scaffolding poles. The lorry was closely followed by a huge mobile crane. Fresh interest was stirred up in the crowd and the cameras recorded every moment for the television audience. While waiting for the men to arrive, Commander Milton had pacified the media, given his statement, and spoken to some of the denizens of Trafalgar Square to hear first-hand their reminiscences of a night to remember. Two of them came out of their drunken stupor to claim that they had seen a balloon in the sky with something dangling from it.

Milton went across to introduce himself and Kenneth Hurrell to the newcomers. They treated him with muted respect.

“Who’s in charge?” he asked.

“I am,” said a hefty man in his thirties.

“Who are you? Gostelow or Crabtree?”

“Neither, sir. Mr Gostelow died years ago.”

“What about Crabtree?”

“On holiday.”

“Lucky devil! So was I until this little caper.”

“My name’s Pete Sylvester,” said the foreman, extending a gnarled hand. “I was in charge of cleaning Nelson, so I have a real stake in getting him back. You grow to like a man when you’ve been chiselling away at him for as long as we did.”

“I thought you just gave him a wash and brush-up.”

“I wish it was that easy, sir. But we’re not just cleaners. We’re trained sculptors. We actually have to re-carve bits from time to time. Freshen up the contours. It’s skilled work. We’ve sculpted bits of half the churches in London before now.”

“What about taking a statue down?”

“That’s more difficult.”

“But you have done it before?”

“A few times. We’ll manage somehow. Leave it to us.”

Peter Sylvester’s craggy face split into a grin. He had a reassuring jauntiness about him. While he was chatting to the detectives, his men were already starting to build the scaffold around the column. In the background, another crew was assembling the crane.

“Listen, Pete,” said Hurrell familiarly, “when you were working on the Admiral, did you see anything?”

“We saw everything, mate. Best view in London.”

“I meant, did you see anything unusual?”

“Unusual?”

“People taking a close interest in what you were doing.”

“There were dozens of those. Real nuisance at times.”

“Were any of them French?” asked Milton.

“Yeah, couple of girls. They took our picture.”

“Nobody else?”

“Not that I recall. When you climb all the way up there, you can’t chat to anyone down here. Some people watched us for hours. We felt a bit like performing monkeys.”

“Did anyone else come up after you?”

“Oh, no! We wouldn’t stand for that.”

“What happened overnight?” wondered Hurrell. “Presumably, the scaffolding was left in place. Did you ever arrive in the morning and get the feeling that someone had been up there?” Sylvester shook his head. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because we had a nightwatchman on duty. If you don’t guard them, scaffolding poles have a nasty habit of walking off in the dark. Besides,” said the other, “we didn’t want idiots climbing all over the column. It’s bad enough when they get on the lions’ backs. Admiral Nelson deserves to be protected.”

Pete Sylvester was a man who clearly liked his work but he was unable to help them with their enquiries. When they released him, he went off to supervize the erection of the scaffolding. It was a long but methodical process. The column was slowly encased in an aluminium square which rose steadily upwards. Hurrell was impressed.

“It must have taken much longer with timber,” he observed.

“Timber?” echoed Milton.

“Yes, sir. When they first put up the column, a hundred and fifty years ago, they used wooden scaffolding. The statue itself was raised in 1843 by means of a winch. It must have been a wonderful sight.”

“Someone else has been doing his homework, I see.”

“I like to be thorough.”

“It’s the only way, Ken.”

Pete Sylvester eventually drifted back across to them.

“I’d suggest that you clear the square completely,” he said. “I’m fairly sure we won’t drop him but it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s a long way to fall.”

Milton gave a command and everyone was moved away.

“When you get him down,” he said, “our forensic boys will want to give him the once-over. Only not here in the glare of publicity.”

“We’ll take him back to the warehouse, sir. More private there.”

“Good.”

“One favour.”

“What’s that?”

“Could you keep the press off our backs? We don’t want them clambering all over our lorry to get exclusive pictures.”

“They won’t get a chance, Mr Sylvester.”

“Thanks.”

When the scaffolding finally reached the capital, Sylvester swarmed up it so that he had the privilege of tearing down the banner. To the cheers of the crowd, he hurled it to the ground. A policeman retrieved it then scurried back out of the way. Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell watched with admiration from the safety of the steps of the National Gallery. Pete Sylvester was efficient. Using a small pickaxe, he chipped away at what appeared to be fresh concrete at the base of the statue, then exchanged the implement for a stonecutter. Its whine soon rang across the square and the noise intensified as it cut into solid stone.

One eye on developments, Milton gave his orders.

“Check out all of these fringe groups,” he said.

“Even the loony ones, sir?”

“Especially those. Leave no stone unturned, Ken. If someone so much as asked for Eric Cantona’s autograph, I want him checked out for Gallic sympathies. We’re supposed to be fellow-Europeans now but that message obviously hasn’t got through to the Froggy mentality. Out there somewhere is a sawn-off Napoleon with delusions of grandeur.”

“We’ll find him, sir.”

“And soon.”

Hurrell was about to depart when his colleague’s mobile phone rang. The Commander snatched it from his pocket and turned it on.

“Yes?”

“Commander Milton?” said a heavily-accented voice.

“Who’s this?”

“I told you not to take the Emperor down!”

“It’s him!” said Milton, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece. “The anonymous Frog. He’s watching us.”

“Can you hear me?” said the voice.

“I hear you, mon ami,” replied the other with polite contempt. “And I don’t care two hoots for your orders. Napoleon comes down.”

“In that case, we double the price.”

“What price?”

“For Nelson.”

Milton rid himself of a few expletives but the line went dead.

“They’re holding him to ransom,” he told Hurrell.”

“Where?”

“He forgot to tell me.”

“How much do they want?”

“A lot, by the sound of it.” He put the mobile away. “Well, let’s get rid of one statue before we try to reclaim the other. Meanwhile, you do what I said, Ken. Get your men on the case, chasing down every weird group of French sympathizers they can find. Join me when it’s time to take the Emperor for a ride.”

Hurrell moved swiftly away to pass on the orders to a small squad of detectives. Milton turned his gaze back to the statue. Pete Sylvester seemed to have cut through the base of the statue and was ready to have it removed. Using thick ropes with great dexterity, he lassoed the statue at various points. He was quite fearless, even climbing part of the way up the solid stone to secure the ropes more tightly. When he’d finished, he waved to the crane driver and the massive hook swung slowly towards him. Sylvester waited until it had stopped swinging before he began to loop the ropes around it. After tying them off with great care, he and his men descended the scaffolding at speed, then stood back to watch.

The crane applied pressure but the statue refused to move at first. A yell of encouragement went up from the crowd. When the driver put extra power into the tug, the statue was suddenly lifted clear of its base, sending rubble hurtling to the ground. Shorn of his majesty, the deposed Emperor made a slow descent until he rested horizontally in the back of the lorry. Sylvester and his men swiftly covered him with their tarpaulin. As the lorry drove away with its foreign cargo, it was greeted with the kind of ovation that only a winning English goal in the final of a World Cup could have evoked. Even Commander Milton applauded.

Before he could get away, he was obliged to make another statement to the media and hinted that he was already in contact with the kidnappers. Hope was firmly planted. Nelson had not been abducted in order to be destroyed. A ransom demand presupposed that no harm had come to him. If the money was paid, he might return unscathed.

“Is this a French conspiracy?” asked an interviewer.

“I’ll tell you when I find out.”

“What else can you tell us?”

“Nothing at this stage.”

Milton excused himself and elbowed his way to a waiting car. He and Hurrell were soon being driven after the lorry. Having discharged his orders, the Detective Inspector had grown pensive.

“Do you know much about the Battle of Trafalgar?” he asked.

“I know the only thing that matters, Ken. We won.”

“But do you know how, sir?”

“Our sailors were better than theirs.”

“And our commander. Villeneuve was no match for Nelson.”

“Who?”

“Villeneuve. The French Admiral.”

“I was forgetting,” said Milton, running a hand across his lantern jaw. “Napoleon was a landlubber, wasn’t he? The Emperor didn’t fight any sea battles.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Why did they put him up there instead of the French Admiral?”

Pete Sylvester and his men had been remarkably efficient. By the time the detectives arrived at the warehouse, the rear of the lorry had been tipped hydraulically and the statue had been eased gently out on to a bed of sand. Sylvester waved the lorry off then turned to welcome Milton and Hurrell. Other detectives emerged from a second car.

“He’s all yours, Commander,” said Sylvester, gesturing.

“Thanks to you.”

“It was much easier than I thought.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not made of solid stone.” The foreman kicked the base of the statue. “This part is, as you can see. But I think your men will find that Napoleon Bonaparte is largely made up of plaster.”

“So he could have been carried by a balloon!” said Hurrell.

“Balloon?”

“Nothing, Mr Sylvester,” said Milton, taking him by the shoulder to usher him away. “Thank you for all you’ve done. We won’t detain you any further. As long as you’re on stand-by for the important part of the operation.” Sylvester looked puzzled. “Putting Nelson back up again.”

The foreman chuckled. “I can’t wait, sir. That’s why we left the scaffolding in position. We’re so confident that we’ll get him back.”

“You have my word on that.”

Peter Sylvester went out and Milton motioned his men into action. They put down their cases and began an examination of the statue. The base was indeed made of solid stone but there was a hollow sound when they tapped the head and the shoulders. Dick Milton was merciless. He had no qualms about giving the order for execution. With a well-judged kick, one of the men struck the Emperor’s head from his shoulders. The Commander peered inside the torso. He could see all the way down to the knees. He gave a grim smile.

“I bet he’s got feet of clay as well!”

A uniformed constable entered with a large brown envelope.

“This is for you, Commander,” he said, handing it over.

“Where did you get it?”

“Someone in the crowd thrust it at me.”

“Didn’t you get his name, man?”

“I had no time, sir. He said something in French and ran off.”

“In French?” Milton looked at the envelope. “A ransom note.”

He tore it open and quailed. Hurrell looked over his shoulder.

“Five million pounds!” he said with a whistle.

“Payable in unmarked notes of specific denominations.”

“Is that the going rate for a stolen statue?”

“Look at the signature. Ken.”

“I can see it, sir.”

“Villeneuve.”

It was over three hours before the call came. In the interim, Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell left their colleagues to continue their work at the warehouse and returned to Scotland Yard. The first thing which the Commander had to endure was a searching interrogation by the Commissioner. He limped back to the security of his own office.

“He made it sound as if I’d stolen the bloody statue!”

Hurrell looked up from the book he’d been reading.

“What about the ransom?”

“He thinks we should pay it, Ken. If all else fails.”

“Never!”

“That was my feeling. The Commissioner’s argument was that we’re talking about a national treasure. In emotional terms, it’s worth far more than five million. He even had some crazy idea about opening a public fund. A quid a head from five million people. I ask you!” sighed Milton. “All I’m interested in is nailing this gang.”

“Me, too.”

“No word from the lads while I was out?”

“Not a peep, sir. Somehow I don’t think Napoleon is going to yield up many clues. Seems to have been made out of the sort of materials you could buy almost anywhere.”

“In that case, we must concentrate on the dirigible. There can’t be all that many in existence. See if any were reported stolen. And chase up the bomb squad. They should have analyzed those devices by now. My guess is that they were made by someone with Army training.”

“With a friend who can fly an airship.”

“Yes,” said Milton, pacing the room. “The dirigible took Nelson away and brought Napoleon in. Or did it? Something’s been bothering me, Ken. Remember when the statue was lowered from that column? The crane had to make a real effort to shift it.”

“The weight made the ropes tighten.”

“Yet Napoleon was as hollow as an Easter egg.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

The telephone rang to interrupt their cogitations. Milton put the receiver to his ear. He had no need to speak. A continuous stream of information gushed down the line and put a look of utter amazement on his face. Milton eventually asked a few questions, recoiling from the answers. When he put the phone down, he was in a daze. He lowered himself into a chair. Hurrell stood over him.

“Who was that?”

“Mr Crabtree of ‘Gostelow and Crabtree’.”

“I thought he was on holiday.”

“He was. Tied up for two days in his own warehouse. And he wasn’t the only one. His wife was there with him so that she couldn’t raise the alarm. The pair of them have just been released.”

“But we were in the warehouse ourselves.”

“No, Ken. That wasn’t Crabtree’s place.”

“Then why did Pete Sylvester take us there?”

“It was all part of the ruse,” said Milton, thinking it through. “He pulled the wool well and truly over our eyes. I know that my namesake was blind but I don’t think he could have blind as the pair of us.”

“What do you mean, sir.”

“Crabtree had never heard of Pete Sylvester.”

Hurrell gulped. “I’m beginning to guess what happened.”

“So am I, Ken. And I certainly don’t relish the idea of telling the Commissioner. Peter Sylvester – or whoever he really is – has duped us good and proper. He pulled off the most astonishing trick in front of millions of viewers. And nobody saw it happening.” He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. “Where is the sod?” he said through gritted teeth. “More to the point, who is he?”

“I can tell you where he got his name from, sir.”

“Can you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hurrell, opening the book he’d been studying. “While you were out, I read up on the Battle of Trafalgar.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Everything. He’s playing games with us. Do you recall the name of the French Admiral in the battle?”

“Yes. Villeneuve.”

“But do you know what his Christian names were?”

“Who cares?”

“We ought to, sir,” said Hurrell, putting the book in front of him. “Look at the name under that portrait of Villeneuve. Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre Villeneuve. Do you see now? Pierre Sylvestre.”

Milton grimaced. “Pete Sylvester!”

When the cargo had been unloaded on to a bed of sand, the lorry was taken away to be disposed of with its false number plates. The gang congratulated themselves on the success of their plan and celebrated with bottles of beer. There were ten of them in all, each of them due to pocket a half a million pounds when the ransom was paid. In the meantime, everything had been laid on at the warehouse. Food, drink, comfortable chairs, beds and two television sets had been installed. There was even a stolen microwave.

The preparation had been faultless. It was time to relax.

“We should have asked for more than five mill,” said one man.

“We will,” promised their leader. “Let them sweat it out first.”

“What did old Crabtree say when you released him?”

“Swore like a trooper. Couldn’t believe a trusted employee like me would turn on him and his wife.” He glanced at his watch. “I expect he’s told his tale of woe to the coppers by now and discovered why we nicked his lorry and scaffolding. Crabtree will have given them the name I used when I worked for him. While the boys in blue are scouring London for John French, I’m living it up here with my mates in Milton Keynes.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Know the bit I enjoyed most? Having that detective call me ‘Mr Sylvester’. I really fooled him and his sidekick.”

They savoured the details of their crime and the hours oozed past with ease. Hamburgers were heated in the microwave. More beer flowed. A card game started. They lost all purchase on time and all sense of danger. When the police eventually burst in, the whole gang was taken by surprise. They fought hard but they were hopelessly outnumbered. All but their leader were dragged off to the waiting police vans.

Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell watched as their man was handcuffed before they questioned him. They looked him up and down.

“Did you really think you could get away with it?” asked Milton.

“I did get away with it!” insisted the other. “Nobody rumbled us.”

“Until now, Mr Sylvester. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s not your real name, is it? Nor is John French, the alias you used when you worked for Gostelow and Crabtree. No, your real name is Charles Villeneuve. Or, in plain English, good old Charlie Newton. Late of Her Majesty’s armed forces. It takes a lot to get a dishonourable discharge, Charlie. Your service record makes colourful reading.

“How did you get on to me?” snarled the captive.

“Ken must take the credit for that, explained Milton with a nod at his companion. ‘When you threw all those clues at him, he read up on the Battle of Trafalgar and learned about your namesake, Admiral Villeneuve, Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve. You were clearly obsessed with him. From his one name, you got three. Charlie Newton, your baptismal name, Pete Sylvester and John French, or, as you probably saw it, French Jean. I must confess, you used some cunning diversionary tactics. Had us believing this whole business was planned and executed by some French extremists. Whereas you’re really as English as boiled beef and carrots.”

“There were other clues,” said Hurrell. “A series of bombs, the use of an airship, the removal of a statue in broad daylight. All the hallmarks of a military operation. That’s where we started looking for you, Charlie. Among the Army’s drop-outs.”

“It deserved to work!” protested Newton. “It did work.”

“Only up to a point,” said Milton, strolling across to the statue of Napoleon that lay on the sand. “Your stage management was superb. Worthy of Shaftesbury Avenue. Only instead of giving them live theatre, you blacked out the West End and offered them a radio play. They all thought a statue of Nelson was being hoisted away by an airship with one of Napoleon taking its place. But the simple truth is that old Horatio didn’t move one inch during the night.”

“No,” added Hurrell, bending down to pull away the Emperor’s fibreglass hat. “Now, then, what do we have here?” he asked in mock surprise. “I do believe’s it’s Lord Nelson’s hat hidden underneath.” He tapped it with his knuckles. “Solid stone. That won’t come off.”

“You didn’t steal him from the column,” said Milton with a grudging admiration. “You disguised him as Napoleon so that you could take him down legitimately – or so it appeared – today. No wonder you came so quickly when I called the office number of ‘Gostelow and Crabtree’. You were ready and waiting. Now I see why you wanted us to keep the media off your back when you took the statue away. You didn’t want them around when you made the switch. The fake Napoleon was already under the tarpaulin when you laid Lord Nelson beside him. All you had to do was to unload the plaster version and send your men off with the real statue. Ingenious.”

Newton was sullen. “We could never have stolen it in the pitch dark. Too complicated. So I got myself a job with Crabtree because I knew he had the contract for cleaning Lord Nelson. While I was up there, I took exact measurements of the statue. I paid a sculptor to create a fibreglass Napoleon which would fit Nelson like a glove. Nobody could tell the difference from down below.”

“You covered every option,” said Milton. “But made one mistake.”

“Yes,” agreed Hurrell. “You tried to be too clever. You played the Nelson game to the hilt and it was your undoing. You couldn’t resist one final trick on that name. Villeneuve. New Town. You were taunting us, Charlie. Telling us exactly where you were hiding.”

“There weren’t all that many new towns to choose from,” said the Commander. “Milton Keynes was the most obvious. We got the local police to check the footage on their motorway cameras and there you were. You’d painted out the name of ‘Gostelow and Crabtree’ on the lorry but you couldn’t disguise a seventeen foot statue under a green tarpaulin. It showed up clearly, taking the exit for Milton Keynes. All we had to do was to check up on warehouse space that had been recently let and we had you. Caught in here like standing statues.”

“You lost the battle,” said Hurrell. “Just like Admiral Villeneuve.”

They took him by the arms and marched him out. As they headed towards the police van, the Commander gave a ripe chuckle.

“It wasn’t all a case of brilliant deduction,” he admitted frankly. “Luck came into it. But, then, I’ve been due a bit of good fortune for some time and this was it. You were so busy playing games with your own name that you never thought to consider mine.”

“Yours?” said Newton.

“Dick Milton. Poet by name and policeman by nature. And where did you decide to hole up and toast your success? The whole of Britain was at your mercy but you picked Milton Keynes. There’s a poetic justice in that, Charlie. Thank you.”

He shoved the prisoner hard into the rear of the police van.

“Any room in there for Lord Nelson?” he asked.