Nothing Ventured(80)

“OK, Bruce,” said Hawksby. “I think you’ve earned the right to lead the convoy back to London. Warwick, you can join me. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

William didn’t move. He was still watching Miles Faulkner, who was standing on the bridge, looking smug as members of the crew began preparing for an imminent departure.

“Let’s go, Warwick. We’ve got what we came for.”

“I’m not so sure we have, sir.”

“But we have our crate. You saw the label.”

“Yes, I saw the label, but I’m not convinced we’ve got the right crate? Do you have the authority, sir, to open any crate on board?”

“No,” said Hawksby. “We’d need a search warrant for that.”

“But I have the authority,” said the harbor master, heading toward the gangway, with William only a pace behind. Hawksby and Lamont were left to chase after them.

William went straight to the hold, to be faced with eighty crates of varying sizes. “One must have been relabeled,” he announced.

“But which one?” asked Hawksby.

“Be my guest,” said Faulkner as he strolled back into the hold, the captain following close behind. “But should you damage any of my priceless works, I can assure you the compensation bill will not be covered by your combined wages,” he added with a smirk.

William took a closer look at Faulkner. If he’d expected a broken-nosed, muscle-bound, tattoo-covered thug, he could not have been more mistaken. Faulkner was tall, elegant, with a head of thick wavy fair hair and deep blue eyes. His warm smile explained why so many women had been so easily taken in. He wore a blazer and slacks, an open-necked white shirt and loafers, which gave him the look of an international playboy rather than a hardened criminal.

For the first time, William understood what the commander had meant when he said to wait until you meet the man.

“Perhaps you’d be wise to remember what happened the last time you raided one of my properties,” said Faulkner. “I was able to supply you with receipts for every one of my artworks. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you thought you’d got the Rembrandt that time too.”

William hesitated, as his eyes circled the hold, but he was none the wiser.

“So which one do you want opened, detective constable?” said Hawksby defiantly.

“This one,” said William, walking across to a large crate and tapping it firmly.

“Are you absolutely convinced that’s the right one?” said Faulkner.

“Yes,” said William, more out of bravado than conviction.

“I see, commander, that a young rookie is now running your department,” said Faulkner.

“Open it,” said Hawksby.

The harbor master stepped forward and, assisted by two of his team, began to extract the nails one by one until they were finally able to prise the crate open. Once they’d removed several layers of covering, they were greeted by six Syndics from Amsterdam, who peered back at them.

“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” said Hawksby. The commander stepped forward and told Faulkner he was under arrest, then read him his rights. Lamont thrust Faulkner’s hands behind his back, handcuffed him, and frogmarched him off the yacht as four constables carried the second crate slowly down the gangway before placing it carefully in the back of the Black Maria next to its unidentified companion.

“How could you possibly have known which case the Rembrandt was in?” Lamont asked William once they were back on shore.

“I wasn’t absolutely sure,” admitted William, “but it was the only one that had a large circular impression where the original label must have been. Faulkner obviously switched the labels, but he didn’t notice that the crate he chose was considerably larger than the one that contains the Rembrandt, or that a circular mark had been left on the Rembrandt’s crate where the original label must have been ripped off.”

“You might make a detective after all,” said Hawksby.

“So what’s in the other crate?” demanded Lamont.

“I’ve no idea,” said William. “We’ll only find out after it’s been delivered to the Fitzmolean as the label clearly instructs us to do.”

Mrs. Faulkner had remained in the Bentley observing the whole operation from a distance. She didn’t move until she saw Miles had been arrested, when she leaped out of her car and ran towards the dockside shouting, “Stop them! Stop them!”

Mike Harrison was only a yard behind as they both watched the Christina heading out of the harbor toward the open sea.

“On what grounds?” Harrison asked once he’d caught up with her.

“They’ve still got my pictures on board.”

“That would be quite hard to prove,” said Harrison, “when the captain is probably only carrying out your husband’s orders.”

“Whose side are you on?” demanded Christina.

“Yours, Mrs. Faulkner, and once your husband is safely locked up, I feel sure you’ll find a way of getting them all back.”

“But he’ll come after me,” protested Christina.

“I don’t think so,” said Harrison.

“Right, lads,” said Hawksby. “Time to return the Rembrandt to its rightful owner, along with whatever’s in the other crate.”