Nothing Ventured(16)

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.”