Nothing Ventured(17)
“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.”