Nothing Ventured(79)

Hawksby immediately reported to the harbor master, who confirmed that the MV Christina was due to dock at quay 29 around seven that evening. The commander then handed the harbor master a special warrant which authorized the removal of one specific crate from the yacht, without interference or inspection by customs and excise.

“Must be the Crown Jewels,” said the harbor master, after he’d studied the warrant.

“Not far off,” said Hawksby. “But all I can tell you is that it has to be handled with the utmost care, and its contents mustn’t be exposed to sunlight.”

“Sounds like Dracula.”

“No, that’s the present owner,” said Hawksby.

“Can I help in any way?”

“It wouldn’t do any harm to have a couple of your boys hanging around, just in case there’s any trouble.”

“Brains or brawn?”

“Two of each, if possible.”

“Consider it done. They’ll be with you half an hour before the Christina is due to dock. I think I’ll come along myself,” he said. “Sounds as if it might be interesting.” Hawksby climbed back into his car, and the small convoy made its way across to quay 29 to await the arrival of the six Syndics who were resting peacefully in the hold of the Christina.

Everyone was in place and waiting impatiently when a Bentley appeared on the dockside and parked about fifty yards away.

“Who the hell—?” said Lamont.

“Has to be Mrs. Faulkner,” said Hawksby. “Just ignore her. As long as the Rembrandt is handed over, it’s none of our business what she does with the rest of her husband’s art collection, although I hope for her sake she knows he’s back in the country.”

“Should we inform her?” asked Lamont.

“Also none of our business,” said Hawksby.

“And what are they doing here?” asked Lamont as a large Bishop’s Move van proceeded slowly along the dockside and came to a halt behind the Bentley.

“Not hard to guess what’s inside,” said Hawksby, as the driver climbed down from his cab and walked across to the Bentley.

Mrs. Faulkner wound down her window.

“What the hell are that lot doin’ here?” the driver demanded, pointing at the three police vehicles.

“They’re picking up a crate from my husband’s yacht before returning it to its rightful owner in London. Once it’s been handed over, they’ll be on their way and you can start loading the paintings on board.”

“What are the cops so interested in?”

“Six gentlemen from Amsterdam, who left the country several years ago without a visa.”

“Very funny,” said the driver, who returned to the van without another word.

Christina was winding the window back up when a black taxi appeared. Mike Harrison paid off the cabbie, and then quickly joined his client in the back of her Bentley, without acknowledging any of his former colleagues.

“I think I can see our Dutch friends,” said Lamont, who had a pair of binoculars trained on the harbor entrance. He passed them to Hawksby.

“How long do you estimate before they’re with us?” Hawksby asked the harbor master, while keeping his eyes focused on the Christina.

“Twenty minutes, thirty at the most.”

“I’ve just spotted Warwick standing on the bridge,” said Hawksby. “Do you suppose he’s taken over?”

“Or been clapped in irons,” said Lamont. “Either way, I’d better put the troops on standby.”

The commander, the harbor master, DCI Lamont, a sergeant and six constables, Mrs. Faulkner, Mike Harrison, and the loaders from the removal van watched as the MV Christina drew closer and closer, until it finally came alongside and tied up at the dock. William was the first person to come running down the gangway.

“We’re all set, sir. The crate should be unloaded in a few minutes.”

“Then we’ll—” began Hawksby as a second taxi raced past them and screeched to a halt beside the yacht. Faulkner leaped out, ran up the gangway, stopped, and exchanged a few words with the captain before they disappeared into the hold.

“Don’t move,” Hawksby said to William, who was champing to get back on board. “If our crate isn’t unloaded, we’ve got him bang to rights.”

“But—”

“Be patient, William. He’s not going anywhere. Harbor master, if they were to make a run for it…”

“They wouldn’t get as far as the harbor entrance before my men cut them off.”

“So if they even consider unmooring,” said Hawksby to William, “you have my permission to go back on board and arrest Faulkner.”

“It doesn’t look as if that’s going to be necessary,” said Lamont, as four of the crew emerged from the hold carrying a large crate. It took them some time to carry it across the deck, down the narrow gangway, and onto the dockside.

Hawksby took his time checking the label: PROPERTY OF THE FITZMOLEAN MUSEUM, PRINCE ALBERT CRESCENT, LONDON SW7. TO BE COLLECTED. He nodded, and four constables took the place of the four crewmen. “Put it in the back of the van,” ordered Hawksby, “and don’t let it out of your sight.”

The four young constables lifted up the crate and, like crabs, began to edge their way slowly toward the Black Maria.