mesmeric fascination. Palings Price looked at it again, shook his head and let out a low whistle. âItâs good stuff, this. Some of the most famous art thefts of the last twenty years.â
âYes.â
âAnd all together in the one collection at the moment, is it?â Truffler Mason nodded. âCould I hazard a guess at the collectorâs name . . .?â Palings Price went on. âLou Ronson . . .? Sultan of Arbat . . .? Sticky Fingers Frampton . . .?â
But Truffler wasnât rising to the bait. âI think this is one occasion, Palings, when the less detail you know the better.â
âFunny,â Mrs Pargeter observed innocently. âThatâs what my husband always used to say to me, Truffler.â
Chapter Six
âHow did Palings Price get all his knowledge of fine art?â asked Mrs Pargeter, as the limousine sped silkily on its return journey.
âOh, he done all the legit training,â Truffler replied. âUniversity. Galleries. Then worked for one of the big auction houses. Left there under something of a cloud, Iâm afraid.â
âAh.â
âTrouble is, places like that, they tend to count the Goyas at the end of the day.â
âYes, yes, I suppose they would.â
âNothing they could pin on him, of course, but, er . . . well, mud does tend to stick, doesnât it?â
âSo Iâve heard.â
âAnyway, he never looked back, career-wise. I mean, he helped your husband in, like, an advisory capacity, but lots of other people used him too. He never worked exclusively for Mr P. Oh no, his services was very much in demand.â
Mrs Pargeter thought she probably shouldnât enquire which particular services these were, and fortunately Truffler needed no prompting to spell it out. âPalingâs speciality used to be
very
private collections.â
âHow do you mean?â
âThereâs still a lot of millionaires out there desperate to own something unique.â
âLike a world-famous painting, say . . .?â
âYou got it.â
â. . . that they can gloat over on their own in a gallery nobody else is allowed to enter . . .?â
Truffler nodded. âPalings used to procure the paintings and design the galleries where they was to be hung.â
âDo you reckon he still does that kind of stuff?â
âShouldnât think so.â The detective let out a mournful chuckle. âIf he can get well-heeled boneheads to pay him for painting their rooms grey, taking all the furniture out and making them sit on cheese-graters, why bother?â
Mrs Pargeter grinned agreement. The limousine had come to a rest in front of the distinguished façade of Greeneâs Hotel.
âThanks, Gary,â she said as the chauffeur ushered her out. âYouâd better be off to fetch that MP from Heathrow.â
âRight. Give us a call if you need me.â
âSure. Cheerio.â And as Gary got back into the car, she called after him, âAnd donât forget to send me an invoice!â
He grinned. This was part of a running battle between them. Gary, out of gratitude for all that the late Mr Pargeter had done for his career, was keen to provide the manâs widow with free chauffeuring. Mrs Pargeter, who knew how difficult it could be to start up a new business, was adamant about paying at the proper rate.
As the limousine slipped away, she looked up with some satisfaction at her current home.
The elegance of Greeneâs Hotel, ravishingly set in one of Londonâs most exclusive squares, was so understated it almost hurt. The hotel provided an environment in which every whim was anticipated. No sooner had the shadow of a desire for something crossed the brain of a guest than a member of staff had glided into place with the required object neatly presented on a silver salver. The atmosphere of