thickies?’ Honeybath thought his employment of this demotic idiom rather neat.
‘Well, sir, the simplest reading of this affair is to accept it as more or less in that area. They got you away on this fool’s errand of a portrait commission. Only, the scale of the operation rather baffles me. This great house, and all that affluence, and parade of what you might call pomp and circumstance. I recognize that you’re a big man in your line, and that something fairly impressive – imposing, even – would have to be laid on. Still, what you describe remains a bit steep. And another thing. This Peach: was he a gentleman?’
‘No.’
‘But the man calling himself Arbuthnot?’
‘Yes. Decidedly yes.’
‘And the madman, or pretended madman, that they called Mr X, and who liked to be called Mon Empereur : what about him?’
‘Well, yes. And then some of the men I told you I heard and glimpsed as they left their meeting. They weren’t what I’d myself think of as convincing big-time East End crooks.’
‘Then it grows more and more puzzling. I know of more than one gang that could mount a robbery like this. But not with that kind of background or hinterland. It makes me feel we have a long way to go.’
There was a silence. Honeybath no longer felt he simply wanted to tumble into bed. But he did feel he wanted a drink.
‘There ought to be some whisky around,’ he said. ‘Except that I’ve been told burglars commonly polish off anything of the kind. Do you mind if I look?’
‘Far from it, sir.’
Whisky proved, in fact, to be available.
‘Will you join me, Mr Keybird?’ Honeybath asked. He had a notion that even the higher ranks of the police were obliged austerely to decline such refreshment when on the job.
‘That’s very kind of you. Neat.’
They drank. Honeybath reflected that the last man with whom he had indulged in such compotation had been the treacherous Mr Basil Arbuthnot. He wasn’t altogether clear that Detective Superintendent Keybird need be beyond certain treacheries himself. One felt him to be not at his least dangerous, certainly, when he was being most amiable.
‘A long way to go?’ he said. ‘You can track down that house, I suppose.’
‘And find an empty shell.’ There was a hint of what Honeybath felt to be the dogmatic in this reply. ‘It remains important, of course.’
‘If my story isn’t moonshine, and the place does really exist.’
‘But I think we have to begin at this end.’ Keybird had ignored the consideration just advanced. ‘That’s how we’ll recover all that money.’
What Honeybath wanted to recover was his picture. But he didn’t advance this fact. And now Keybird went off at a tangent.
‘Talking of money, sir. Has it occurred to you to wonder about the present legal ownership of that two thousand guineas?’
‘No, it has not.’ This was an honest reply. ‘It hasn’t entered my head. Only I’m very sure that I don’t own it.’
‘The point could be a tricky one.’ Keybird appeared genuinely interested. ‘Wouldn’t you say that, whatever its source, it has come to you as a return upon the legitimate exercise of your professional skill?’
‘Of course it has – in a sense. But it is corrupt money, passed in the prosecution of fraud and crime. I should hope for legal opinion to the effect that the bargain is therefore void. What remains my property, therefore, is the portrait.’ Honeybath had got this out, after all.
‘It’s an interesting point of view.’ Keybird was looking at Honeybath with a fresh curiosity. ‘It was a success, your portrait of Mr X?’
‘In my judgement, decidedly yes.’
‘Even although executed in what must have been very taxing circumstances?’
‘Certainly, Mr Keybird. These things can be quite as mysterious as any bank robbery. And I want to recover my portrait.’
‘Yes, of course. Most natural, I’m sure.’
Charles Honeybath was offended, for he had detected a perfunctory note
‘Well, sir, the simplest reading of this affair is to accept it as more or less in that area. They got you away on this fool’s errand of a portrait commission. Only, the scale of the operation rather baffles me. This great house, and all that affluence, and parade of what you might call pomp and circumstance. I recognize that you’re a big man in your line, and that something fairly impressive – imposing, even – would have to be laid on. Still, what you describe remains a bit steep. And another thing. This Peach: was he a gentleman?’
‘No.’
‘But the man calling himself Arbuthnot?’
‘Yes. Decidedly yes.’
‘And the madman, or pretended madman, that they called Mr X, and who liked to be called Mon Empereur : what about him?’
‘Well, yes. And then some of the men I told you I heard and glimpsed as they left their meeting. They weren’t what I’d myself think of as convincing big-time East End crooks.’
‘Then it grows more and more puzzling. I know of more than one gang that could mount a robbery like this. But not with that kind of background or hinterland. It makes me feel we have a long way to go.’
There was a silence. Honeybath no longer felt he simply wanted to tumble into bed. But he did feel he wanted a drink.
‘There ought to be some whisky around,’ he said. ‘Except that I’ve been told burglars commonly polish off anything of the kind. Do you mind if I look?’
‘Far from it, sir.’
Whisky proved, in fact, to be available.
‘Will you join me, Mr Keybird?’ Honeybath asked. He had a notion that even the higher ranks of the police were obliged austerely to decline such refreshment when on the job.
‘That’s very kind of you. Neat.’
They drank. Honeybath reflected that the last man with whom he had indulged in such compotation had been the treacherous Mr Basil Arbuthnot. He wasn’t altogether clear that Detective Superintendent Keybird need be beyond certain treacheries himself. One felt him to be not at his least dangerous, certainly, when he was being most amiable.
‘A long way to go?’ he said. ‘You can track down that house, I suppose.’
‘And find an empty shell.’ There was a hint of what Honeybath felt to be the dogmatic in this reply. ‘It remains important, of course.’
‘If my story isn’t moonshine, and the place does really exist.’
‘But I think we have to begin at this end.’ Keybird had ignored the consideration just advanced. ‘That’s how we’ll recover all that money.’
What Honeybath wanted to recover was his picture. But he didn’t advance this fact. And now Keybird went off at a tangent.
‘Talking of money, sir. Has it occurred to you to wonder about the present legal ownership of that two thousand guineas?’
‘No, it has not.’ This was an honest reply. ‘It hasn’t entered my head. Only I’m very sure that I don’t own it.’
‘The point could be a tricky one.’ Keybird appeared genuinely interested. ‘Wouldn’t you say that, whatever its source, it has come to you as a return upon the legitimate exercise of your professional skill?’
‘Of course it has – in a sense. But it is corrupt money, passed in the prosecution of fraud and crime. I should hope for legal opinion to the effect that the bargain is therefore void. What remains my property, therefore, is the portrait.’ Honeybath had got this out, after all.
‘It’s an interesting point of view.’ Keybird was looking at Honeybath with a fresh curiosity. ‘It was a success, your portrait of Mr X?’
‘In my judgement, decidedly yes.’
‘Even although executed in what must have been very taxing circumstances?’
‘Certainly, Mr Keybird. These things can be quite as mysterious as any bank robbery. And I want to recover my portrait.’
‘Yes, of course. Most natural, I’m sure.’
Charles Honeybath was offended, for he had detected a perfunctory note
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