The Theft of Magna Carta Read Online Free PDF Page A

continuing.
    Instead of being grateful and taking the chance to slacken off, he had become almost fretful; at times there was hardly enough to do. And this would happen when Janet was away!
    He sat down, opened the file, read a typewritten note saying: The Commander would like to see you in his office at ten o’clock , wondered why, and was interrupted by the telephone. He picked up the instrument mechanically.
    â€œWest.”
    â€œGood morning, Mr. West,” a man said in a voice he recognised as from the West of England. “You won’t remember me, I’m afraid – my name is Batten, Tom Batten of Salisbury.”
    Small, deep-set eyes; distended nostrils; an odd-shaped face in every way, just a little like the pigs for which Wiltshire was famous, came at once to Roger’s mind, and with it the lonely farm in the Avon Valley which had been burned to the ground, three bodies with it. He had gone down to help the Wiltshire Police with inquiries which had lasted over a month.
    â€œIndeed I do,” Roger said mildly. “Your wife cooks the best game pie I’ve ever tasted.”
    â€œSo you do remember!” Batten was obviously delighted. “I said to Florence only half an hour ago that you have a better memory than any man I’ve ever met. Mr. West, I don’t want to take up a lot of your time and I may be on a wild-goose chase, but I ran into a man last night I recognised, and if I’m right I would like to know what he’s up to in Salisbury.”
    â€œWho is he?” asked Roger.
    â€œA man named Caldicott, Frank Caldicott,” answered Batten. “I thought I would check if you know anything about him. He’s registered in that name at a local pub. He’s a valuer of paintings and fine art, if I remember rightly—”
    â€œAnd you’re the man who’s talking about my memory!” exclaimed Roger. “Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll call you back.”
    â€œVery kind of you,” said Batten. “The number’s Salisbury 7654 extension 17.”
    After he had hung up the receiver, Roger made a note of the number. He was nearly sure that Caldicott was out and about; someone had mentioned him lately: ah! Kempton, one of the younger men who specialised in fine art. Before asking Records it might be a good idea to call Kempton.
    He dialled the other’s number, and Kempton answered at once.
    â€œChief Inspector Kempton.”
    â€œSuperintendent West.”
    â€œGood morning, sir!” The formality between ranks was as rigid as ever, new building or not.
    â€œWhat can you tell me of a man named Caldicott – Frank Caldicott?” asked Roger.
    â€œI can tell you he’s one of the most slippery customers I’ve ever had to deal with,” answered Kempton, on the instant. “I’m pretty sure he’s been on the fringe of a lot of art thefts but I’ve never found anything to prove it. I suspect he’s a kind of high-class runner, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œTell me,” invited Roger.
    â€œVery well, sir. As you well know, the art trade has hundreds of runners who go from shop to shop, reporting what one place has just bought and what’s generally available. A gallery might have a customer for a painting in the Reynolds School, say, and he’ll pay a runner to find what there is about. And the system’s much more widespread than it used to be. Runners used to cover only London and the big cities, but nowadays they cover small towns and villages too. Small dealers you’ve never heard of get on the list of some of the big boys. It’s a curious thing in a way how much valuable stuff there is in the country. Half the dealers don’t know the value of their stocks, especially if they buy it up cheap—sorry, sir!” exclaimed Kempton, and there was a rueful laugh in a voice which had already become near-breathless; when Roger didn’t speak, he