Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour Read Online Free PDF Page A

not?’
    â€˜Because,’ Mrs Pargeter replied patiently, ‘neither of us has done anything wrong, have we?’
    â€˜No. No, that’s true.’
    â€˜So . . . was it useful?’ asked Sergeant Hughes eagerly when his superior was back in the surveillance car.
    â€˜Oh, yes.’ The Inspector slowly stroked his chin. ‘Oh, yes. It was very useful indeed.’
    â€˜In what way?’
    â€˜I’m afraid I can’t be too specific on that point. Suffice it to say that there are certain moments, certain encounters in one’s life which one instantly recognizes to be of enormous significance . . .’
    â€˜. . . if one’s a good copper . . .?’ Sergeant Hughes suggested rather sourly.
    â€˜If one is a good copper, yes. And I’ve a feeling that that woman I have just met will prove to be extremely significant.’
    â€˜In the case that we’re working on?’
    â€˜Well, I think I can confidently state . . .’ But the dreamy look in the Inspector’s eye was replaced by his more customary caution. ‘Maybe it’s better I don’t answer that question for the time being.’ The Sergeant’s inward groan of annoyance was very nearly audible. ‘No, Hughes, you just take my word for it – a good copper can recognize when someone is going to be a significant factor in . . . er, any kind of operation.’
    â€˜Yes,’ responded Sergeant Hughes, once again resigned to the role of dumb sidekick. ‘By the way, sir, what was the lady’s name?’
    A shadow crossed the Inspector’s craggy face. ‘Do you know, I forgot to ask.’

Chapter Five
    The following morning Gary’s limousine eased so effortlessly along the Bayswater Road that his passengers were unaware of the constant stopping and starting necessitated by the heavy traffic. As he drove, the chauffeur gave his view of the Chastaigne Varleigh job. ‘Seems to me, Mrs Pargeter, that we’re going to rather a lot of unnecessary trouble. After Mrs Chastaigne snuffs it, all you need is for someone to call the police and all the paintings’ll get back to their rightful owners anyway.’
    Mrs Pargeter nodded. ‘I know, Gary. That’s what her son Ibby’s proposing to do. But Veronica Chastaigne doesn’t want her husband’s memory besmirched after she’s gone.’
    â€˜Oh, right, got you.’ He finessed the limousine down Kensington Church Street. ‘So getting them back before she dies becomes like . . .’
    â€˜Like a point of honour, yes.’
    â€˜Don’t worry.’ Truffler Mason gave a lugubrious grin. ‘We’ll soon get it sorted, Mrs P. Palings Price got the best fine art knowledge in the business.’ He gestured to a narrow shopfront. ‘This is it, Gary.’
    The trendily minimalist graphics over the door read: ‘DENZIL PRICE INTERIORS’. The display window was boxed in with severe grey screens. In the centre of the space, illuminated by a hidden pinpoint spotlight, stood one grey steel chair whose sharp-angled design offered all the comfort of a kebab skewer.
    Gary had parked on the double yellow lines with the limousine’s back door exactly opposite the shop’s door, and he leapt out to usher Mrs Pargeter across the pavement.
    She looked up at the name of the shop and murmured, ‘If it says “Denzil”, why’s he called “Palings” Price?’
    â€˜Well, obvious,’ said Truffler. ‘’Cause he used to be a fence.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    The interior of the shop was as starkly minimalist as the window might have led one to expect. The grey theme was continued on the walls, floor and ceiling. The only items of furniture the room boasted were three more of the steel chairs and an angular table, clearly by the same designer. All of them showed the priority of artistic originality over