‘ The Pier 7 Incident'

By Phineas Redux

—OOO—

Summary:— Fiona ‘Fay' Cartwright & Alice ‘Al' Drever are private detectives in an East Coast American city. A large luxury liner docks in the harbour, with a mystery on board which they are tasked with solving.

—O—

Part 3 of the 'Drever & Cartwright' series
1. The Packer Building Incident.
2. The Fowler St. Incident.
3. The Pier 7 Incident.
4. The Elevated Rail Incident.
5. The Charioteer Insurance Co. Incident
6. The Grand Banks Hotel Incident
7. The Vanishing Girl Incident
8. The R-103 Incident.
9. The Stolen Sappho Incident

—O—

The mansion sat austerely in a small patch of private ground just off Exquemelin Drive, Todmorton; the highly fashionable, and subsequently expensive, district of Delacote City, NH. When Fiona Cartwright and her partner Alice Drever rolled up to the edge of the sidewalk there at 10.30am, Tuesday, 7 th November, 1933, in Fiona's snazzy honey-coloured Buick, the very silence and empty nature of the street gave full evidence of the exalted nature of the area.

“God, feels like an abandoned ghost town, out in Arizona.” Alice was never one for kow-towing to money.

“Yep, it'd take a brave citizen t'wander up here, an' let their pet dog crap on the sidewalk.” Fiona was not far behind her lover in this respect. “Probably be shot for trespass by about four other house-owners—or their butlers. Y'taken stock o'this road? High stone walls on each side; narrow doors therein t'reach the various houses; only small gates for cars t'come an' go; an' everything surrounded by hordes o'trees. Gods, I seen fewer trees in a forest.”

By this time they had exited the car, Alice waiting while Fiona made something of an exhibition of locking her vehicle. Then they strolled to the nearest gate; of tall thin cast iron bars, nearly ten feet in height. On the concrete wall to its side a small silver metal plate with a variety of buttons awaited the interest of the passing pedestrian.

“Hmm, so wha'd'we do?” Alice frowned at the series of numbered buttons. “A-to-F, but no sign o'what each means. That's handy. Go on, Fay, Press B an' get your money back.”

This latter remark was occasioned by their having recently entertained a British friend, over on holiday, who had regaled them with the arcane system involved in making public telephone calls in Britain, including the method for regaining any coins from a cancelled call. Fiona was not amused.

“Huh! OK, A it is.”

“ Yes? ” This tinnily from a small speaker-grille on the wall panel.

“Uh, Drever an' Cartwright, appointment with Mrs Leonora Larriday.” Fiona stepped forward to nearly press her lips against the grille.

“ Enter. ”

There was a buzz, a click, then the whine of an electric motor as the two halves of the metal gate smoothly parted, making way for the intrepid detectives to approach the house itself.

The gravel crunched under the feet of the women as they neared the front of the building, still shaded by the mass of trees screening it from prying public eyes.

“ Eerh! Don't think I like it much.” Alice gave her considered opinion of its design, with a slight sneer. “Wha'd'ya think? 1890? Nah, nearer 1910, I think.”

“It's an 1880's mansion.” Fiona trumped her better half's attempt with glee. “I read it up in the City Directory, before we came here. Designed by Charles Hawtrey and Sons, and finished in 1883. ‘though, o'course, I got'ta agree, that doesn't stop it bein' a bit of a dreary dump.”

“Yeah, looks like the setting for one o'those Hollywood ‘ Old Dark House ' movies.” Alice sniggered. “Which is just about the case, in this instance; or we wouldn't be here, would we? Ring the bell, darlin'.”

Before Fiona, shaking her head, could perform this useful, indeed necessary, task, the door in question opened to reveal a thick-bodied man of average height, dressed in something akin to a dark morning suit, with a tailed jacket. A living example of that most dangerous species, feared equally by both Fiona and Alice—a butler!

“Miss Drever, and Miss Cartwright?”

“Yeah, that's us.” Fiona tried to keep a strong level tone in her voice.

“You are expected. Follow me, please.”

A large high-ceilinged dark hall, full of shadows and paved with granite blocks; a brown mahogany door nearly eight feet high; exposing, on the butler's sweeping its massive bulk aside like an annoying fly in summer, a wide airy sitting-room looking out on a long green lawn at the sunlit rear of the house; on a chintz covered armchair to one side, a well-built lady in an ankle-length frock of red satin.

“Mrs Larriday—Miss Drever and Miss Cartwright.”

“Thank you, Deakins; coffee for three, please—the silver service, I think.”

“Ma'am.”

The dark-coated man moved silently back to the door and seemed to fade away like a will o' the wisp, leaving the door firmly closed behind him—clearly a quality retainer.

“If you would both like to sit; this couch, I fancy, is comfortable.” The brown-haired, wide-faced woman indicated the piece of furniture with a perfectly manicured hand. “Deakins will return momentarily with everything needful. Well ladies, I must thank you for coming at such short notice. I admit you were not the first agency I called about my, er, problem.”

“Oh?” Fiona tried to keep a note of enquiry from her voice, failing miserably.

“No.” Mrs Larriday nodded firmly. “I had been informed, on my asking a few friends, that a company called ‘ Arkwright, Davis, and Hempson ' were the people to go to in the situation in which I find myself embroiled. However, my initial enquiry was not conducive to, ah, an air of confide nce on my part.”

“They're a big firm.” Alice furrowed a pretty brow. “Much bigger than ours. Good reputation; get the job done, an' all that.”

“Well, in my case they seemed most reluctant to start, never mind actually finish the job.” The lady huffed imperiously. “I telephoned them on two separate occasions yesterday. On the first a young lady at the other end of the wire chose to ask me if I ‘ wasn't that Mrs Cheever, from Oklahoma? And Mr Hempson wasn't back from Tulsa, yet '. Then supposed she could take a message, if I felt so inclined? Most extraordinary. On my second attempt I was asked to wait while a bored-sounding young man went off to find ‘ someone ', he said. I waited nearly ten minutes, then he returned only to say ‘ Harry wasn't in the office at the moment. Better call back tomorrow. ” As you can imagine, if these people have trouble finding themselves, I need hardly be blamed for supposing they would have equal, if not greater, trouble finding my lost painting?”

Fiona exchanged a glance, overflowing with suppressed meaning, with her brunette partner. It was Alice, indeed, who gallantly took up the lance in pursuance of Mrs Larriday's concerns.

“So, ah, what exactly seems to be your problem?” Alice took a notebook and pen from her brown leather handbag; trying not to let the butt of her Colt .38 Special come into view the while. She loved making lists. “If you just give us the general details an' position of things, we'll get right onto it, don't worry.”

“The position is—ah, Deakins, thank you. If you just place the tray on the small table by the couch, I fancy the ladies will be able to help themselves. Thank you.”

The butler exited once more with as much impeccable timing and graceful suavity as previously, again leaving the women guests wondering how he managed it. Then Fiona grabbed the coffee-pot and poured for two—Mrs Larriday, on Fiona's query, refusing all sustenance. Alice, at the same time, effortlessly relieving the biscuit-plate of a gingernut cookie; she never being able to resist gingernuts. Finally they returned to the subject in hand.

“Where was I?” The lady inclined her head regally, knowing perfectly well the point she had arrived at. “Ah yes, In recent months I have been taking a leisurely tour of Europe. For my health, you understand. Britain, of course,—who cannot visit London when the occasion offers? Paris, equally necessarily; then Lucerne, I adore Switzerland—don't you? After which I crossed the Alps to Milan; then somehow, I am not quite sure exactly how, I found myself finishing in Madrid. Yes, a delightful vacation; the hotels all being universally magnificent. So there we are.”

Alice was still scribbling down these important details, with the tip of her tongue visible between her lips, so Fiona took command of the interrogation.

“Ah yes; most interestin', I'm sure.” She desperately tried to keep the note of sarcastic indifference she was feeling from becoming visible in her voice. “Umm, what we need now is some idea of the nature of the, er, crime committed, if ya don't mind.”

“Aha! The crime!” Mrs Larriday was up for the fight, and no mistake. “It is a lost painting. At least, it wasn't lost, until I returned and found it gone; if you see what I mean. Perhaps I had better explain the basics of the whole sorry affair. As you can see, by looking at the walls of this room alone, I have many noteworthy, not to say fine, paintings collected over a long lifetime. One of these is—was—is, a large oil by Gustave Moreau; such a fine painter, I am sure you will agree.”

Neither Fiona nor Alice having ever heard of the man, they both kept a judicious silence.

“It portrays,” The chatelaine of the house continued, warming to her tale now the subject closest to her heart was in the offing. “the figure of Sappho—you know, of course, the Ancient poetess?—standing on a cliff edge on the island of Leucadia. The title is actually ‘ Sappho on Leucadia '. Her figure is clothed in a billowing red dress; she is surrounded by green vegetation and grey cliffs; below is a golden sea, while above glows a brilliantly coloured sky. The whole exuding an extraordinary intensity of feeling; certainly one of the Master's greatest works.”

“And how large would this, um, painting, be?” Alice returned to the fray, brushing a crumb from her lip. “Height an' width, if you have them, that is.”

“It is three feet two inches wide, and five feet eight inches high.” Mrs Larriday could not keep a note of pleasurable satisfaction from her voice. “The frame is not complicated or fancy; merely plain greyish wood about three inches wide all round.”

“Was the frame taken with the painting?” Fiona asked this important question, with a raised eyebrow. “Could make a great difference to how they did the deed; and their method of escape.”

“Yes, the frame is gone too.” The victim frowned angrily. “Most disturbing; but at least I imagine the canvas itself has thereby not been damaged. I had expected it to have been torn or cut from the frame. Which would, of course, have resulted in terrible injury; but such does not seem to be the case.”

“What day did this take place?” Fiona now got down to the forensic details which might, at a later date, prove important. “What day did ya return from Europe? An' was it the same day you found the painting missing? And, by the way, how much do you suppose it's worth? We got'ta have some idea of its value, to help in the search, y'see.”

Mrs Larriday paused to think about the answers to these questions; raising, then lowering, her brows as she considered; looking thoughtfully at a glittering ring on her left hand as she did so.

“I returned here on Saturday.” She had the details clear now in her mind. “On Sunday Deakins informed me one of my servants—they had all just returned to open the house the day before my arrival—had enquired of him about the empty place on the wall of the upstairs Drawing-room where the painting usually resides. I went to investigate and, indeed, found the painting missing. I made some enquiries, both among my servants and outside, so it was late on Sunday evening when I finally declared the painting stolen. On Monday morning; yesterday, that is, I informed the Police Department then, finally, yourselves. The rest you know.”

“Hmm, well, you understand we'll have t'talk with your servants.” Alice looked across at the lady. “That is, of course, when the police have finished with them. How're you getting' on with the cops, all things considered? They can seem rather intrusive sometimes, for those not used t'their methods”

“Now you ask I must admit to not being terribly impressed by the Inspector in charge.” Mrs Larriday sniffed delicately. “Fletcher is, I believe, the fellow's name. Rather short and snappy in his questioning, I found. Not altogether the kind of polite underling I am used to in my circle. He appeared to think his official position excused him from the merest niceties of common politeness. However, I suppose I must put up with such indignities. He has instituted a series of interviews with my servants—taking them individually to his headquarters for questioning; the exact address escapes me at the moment.”

“The Fifth Precinct.” Fiona gave out this information without thinking about it; she and Alice having been near permanent inmates of the old brownstone building in their time.

“Ah, yes.” The grande dame of Exquemelin Drive sounded uninterested. “I expect you ladies will have a more empathetic understanding of the niceties, in such a case. So, you see, certain of the servants may not be available for instant questioning, today.”

“What is the painting worth, by the way?” Alice returned to this important point. “Gives us an idea of who might be involved; how it may be being put on the underworld market; or possibly be the goal of some private collector who wants to enjoy it in secret. There are such people, y'know.”

“How strange.” Mrs Larriday raised perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “Why would anybody want to do that? I mean, if you can never exhibit the painting, why own it in the first place? As to its worth. I bought it ten years ago, in France, when it cost me $3,000. Today, I have it insured for $11,000.”

“Insurance, eh.” Fiona jumped on this aspect. “So, what're they sayin' about this, er, incident?”

“I gave particulars to my lawyer this morning.” She passed off this detail with an air of disinterest. “Mr Grangely, his office is in the Lottis Building, on Twelfth St. He will see to the necessary action for me.”

“We'll make a note o' that.” Fiona grimaced in an impartial manner. “May need to chat with him, at some point.”

“Meanwhile, if it doesn't disturb your routine too much, we'd like t'speak with the servants; them as is here, anyway.” Alice closed her notebook with a snap and rose to stand beside her partner. “Thanks for the coffee. Is there a room somewhere we can use?”

—O—

The room allocated to the detectives by Deakins proved to be on the second floor; apparently some form of morning-room. There were several armchairs; a large table; a long couch; and a display-cabinet against the wall opposite the single high window. Their first victim being the butler himself; something neither woman looked forward to—their previous experiences with the breed over the years having proved less than successful.

Fiona sat at the table; Alice took an armchair close to the window, notebook ready; while Deakins was offered a chair towards the centre of the room.

“Thank you, ma'am, but I would prefer to remain standing.”

“Oh, whatever ya like.” Fiona gulped, and continued her advance into enemy territory like the brave woman she was. “So, tell us what ya know about the business, if ya don't mind. Every detail counts, by the way, so don't leave anything out that may matter later.”

“Well, ma'am, perhaps I ought to begin by stating that Inspector Fletcher has already spoken to me on the subject down at the Fifth Precinct.” He did not seem put out by the present situation; his training obviously standing him in good stead. “But to reprise, ma'am. I was under some pressure of work on the day previous to my Lady's return, and on the day itself, so did not notice the absence of the image under discussion. This was brought to my attention by Miss Evans, the parlour-maid, on Sunday. I investigated, and could easily see that the place where the, ah, image was wont to hang was now empty.—”

“Any sign of foul play?” Alice struck in here, glancing over at the butler.

“Foul play, ma'am?”

“Bits of broken wood; tears to wallpaper; rips on furniture.” The brunette rolled off a standard series of queries. “Evidence of windows or doors being tampered with, that sort of thing.”

“No, ma'am.” Deakins shook his head decisively. “Nothing of that sort. The police did, themselves, investigate the possibilities of such occurring; but, I believe, found nothing of significance. The door-locks, on all floors, show no sign of abuse.”

“Hmm, that's interestin' by itself.” Fiona grunted in concentration, eyeing the man sharply. “Means there might have been some kind'a inside job goin' on.”

“Inside jo—”

“Come now, Mr Deakins, ya know what I mean, right enough.” Fiona went in for the kill. “Let's not hop around the bushes, getting' caught up in our own petty aloofness. What say we cut the Master-Servant set-up for a while, eh? It's getting' on my nerves. This is America, after all—we're all equal; or supposed t'be, anyway. Let's try it for a while, why don't we?”

“Ma'am, I fear I am not used to such, er, parity on the social scale of things.” He seemed truthfully embarrassed by the question. “I hail originally from New England—we do things differently there. I fear I must insist on the niceties continuing to be observed,—it is a way of life, not merely a calling, ma'am.”

Fiona gave the man her most powerful eagle-like stare; but finding him apparently determined, gave it up with a sigh.

“OK, OK. So, anyway, how d'you explain the doors not bein' tampered with?” She shrugged eloquently. “An', I mean, a large oil-painting in its frame—that ain't just a silver jug ya can slip in a pocket an' walk away with unnoticed. How'd y'imagine they did it?”

There was a short pause, while Deakins gazed at his examiner fixedly.

“You are asking me, ma'am? I fear I have no idea; not being a member or follower of the criminal fraternity, I find I have no insight into their, er, favoured modus operandi. My apologies, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Mr Deakins.” Fiona gave up entirely. “You can go. Who's still available, in the servant line?”

“Miss Evans, parlour-maid, and Miss Grunewald, cook,—shall I send Miss Evans up? Thank you, ma'am.”

Fiona and Alice were then aware the door had opened and shut again, leaving them alone in the room—though quite what the exact details were of his exit neither could say.

“That man is either a genius, or a ghost.” Alice shook her head in awe of his expertise. “If I could do that, I'd make a fortune in Vaudeville.”

They had little longer to discuss this issue before there came a quiet knock at the door. When there was no further evidence the visitor had any intention of opening it without authority, Fiona gave voice exasperatedly; the repressed nature of life in the house already getting to her usually buoyant spirits.

“Come in, fer Chr—why don't'cha. Jeez .”

The woman who then appeared went against both Fiona's and Alice's pre-conceived idea of a parlour-maid. For a start she was in her early forties; mature of character; and had a resolute air, as of one going places. Dressed in a dark uniform of black skirt, dark-blue blouse, and small white linen cap; she stood before the two seated women with an enquiring expression.

“Ah, you'll be Miss Evans?” Fiona made up for her former manner by smiling at her, as politely as she could manage at short notice. “Could ya give us your first name, for the record? Take a seat. No, you must sit; this might be a long interview—on that chair there, thanks.”

Having arranged herself on the appointed seat the maid turned to the matter in hand; speaking in a competent tone.

“My first name's Susan.” She watched Alice writing this down, with a raised eyebrow. “I'm the parlour-maid; anyway's, the second female servant. Miss Armstrong's the house-maid. She's higher than me.”

“Higher?” Alice looked up from her shorthand.

“She has superiority over me.” Susan frowned slightly, as if contemplating an unsavoury fact. “The ranks in a large household like this can be very compartmentalised. Butler, then Cook, then chauffeur, then house-maid, then parlour-maid. All strictly demarcated.”

“Ah.” Alice frowned in her turn and bowed over her notebook once more.

“So what d'ya think of this business, then?” Fiona spoke with a chatty nonchalance, hoping to break through the aura of starchy suppression which seemed to be part and parcel of all those in the house. “You were first to spot the burglary, weren't ya?”

Susan took time to consider this question, looking down at her folded hands before again glancing at the black-haired detective.

“Seems that way.” She flicked her head in a short almost dismissive nod, as if uncertain of the truth of the proposition. “I was the first to speak up about it, anyway. Mr Deakins had been too busy opening the house up to notice, I believe.”

“So we heard.” Fiona tapped lightly with her fingertips on the table-top; realised what she was doing, and stopped. “So, just go over the situation—how you first spotted the missing item, an' what you saw in the room at the time.”

“I came into the Drawing-room—that's the main first-floor front room—on Sunday morning, to open it up; give the place a dust and open the windows, that is.” She spoke in a controlled clipped manner, sure of her facts. “Well, I did those things, then went to leave; but saw, in passing, the blank space on the wall to the right of the door. The picture had been in place for a long time, so there was a marked difference in the tone of the wallpaper under where it had hung.”

“Then what did you do?” Fiona sat forward a little, as the interesting point in the recital approached. “Did you see anything out of place, or damaged, in the room? Marks, or disturbances, or odd items that shouldn't normally have been there?”

“No, ma'am.” Susan shook her head confidently. “Nothing. I simply stared at the dull sort of shadow where it'd been; thought about whether Mr Deakins had moved it somewhere else, for some reason; then decided to just mention the fact to him when I returned downstairs.”

“And what'd he say?” Alice too was interested in the next answers.

“Simply thanked me, then took himself off about some other piece of household business; and I didn't hear anything more till that evening when Mr Deakins informed us all—the servants, that is—there'd been a robbery, and the police would be attending the next morning. That's all.”

“Hmm, thanks.” Fiona glanced at Alice, then stood up to face the parlour-maid again. “That's all we need at the moment, Miss Evans. We'll get in contact again, if we need any further corroboration of anything. Thanks.”

When the door had closed behind the maid Alice looked up, from her armchair by the window, to where her partner was standing by the table.

“Not much t'go on there, eh?” She sighed, putting her pen down beside her notebook. “They're either all entirely without interest in anything that happens inside this house, or—”

“Or they're bein' cagey.” Fiona nodded, as she walked over to Alice, and moodily surveyed the row of trees outside the window. “Too cagey; too unnaturally cagey, for my liking.”

“There's that. By the way, we forgot to ask Miss Evans to send up the cook, Miss Grunewald.” The brunette ran a hand through her short shingled hair. “Where's that leave us?”

“At a loose end, darlin'.” Fiona turned away from the window to her confrere. “Come on, let's seek out the scene o'the crime, an' give it the once-over.”

“It's a plan.” Alice stood, raising her arms and giving an exaggerated groan of relief as they crossed to the door. “So, which way's the picture room?”

“Ex-picture room, I fancy.” Fiona sniggered quietly, as they proceeded along the wide corridor. “This place's some kind'a rabbit warren, ain't it. Somewhere along here t'the right, I hope.”

Alice, always open to gently scoring off her revered and loved partner when the chance offered, now took up the opportunity.

“Y'sure? Y'remember that gypsy woman at the city-fair a month ago; who went over the bumps on your head, an' supposed she'd read your character that way?” Alice went in for the kill, smiling evilly. “She said your bump of Direction wasn't very well developed; as much as said she wonder'd how you managed to travel from your bedroom to the living-room without gettin' lost.”

“ Huh! ” Fiona rose to the bait with energetic disapproval. “Phrenology, my eye an' Betty Martin. A fraud, that's what she was; two dollars lost for nothin'. If I could only find her again, I'd re-arrange her bumps, no kiddin'.”

“ Hee-Hee! ”

—O—

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the room in question, on their finally discovering its location. This being achieved by the simple expedient of Fiona opening all the doors in turn along the corridor and poking her head in, until finding the one with the rectangular shadow on the wall.

“Not exactly brilliant detective work.” As Alice was impelled to note, softly.

“Well, it got us here didn't it?” Fiona was having no rebellious grumblings in the ranks. “OK, open those beautiful brown eyes o'yours, an' see if'n ya can spot the clues only Sherlock'd see—an' which, o'course, dear ol' Inspector Fletcher has so far missed.”

Slightly smaller than the room they had held their interviews in, and squarer, there were two high sash windows in the far wall with a large table taking up a central position on the bare waxed floorboards. To their right, as they entered, was indeed a dark smudge or shadow on the wallpaper. This was not a floral affair, like a Morris design, but simply a bare blueish-grey tone, simulating silk. The mark started about a yard from the floor and soared to nearly reach the wide white-painted band which encircled the room just under the ceiling.

“ Hurph ! Some big picture.” Alice liked to state the obvious; thus showing she was paying attention. “What on earth were they thinkin', takin' it still in the frame? Must'a weighed a ton.”

“Not t'mention how'd they handle it downstairs, without breaking their backs.” Fiona huffed disparagingly. “Somethin' strange is goin' on here, that's clear as day. Question is, who's tellin' lies, an' who isn't.”

“Y'know, Fay, there's another angle.” Alice rubbed a slim finger across her chin as she contemplated the spot where a major work of art had hung for so long. “This idea of it bein' an inside job. Normally I'd be right behind you on that; but this is too big just for that. It must'a been, why, almost a military exercise. I mean, they—there must'a been a fair number involved—needed t'know when the house was empty; where the picture was; how to get it downstairs; do the whole time-consuming business without drawing suspicion from the neighbours or passers-by; and, finally, have a truck waitin' to make a getaway. That all must'a been planned in detail by someone. So, who do we know in Delacote City who'd have a finger in a pie like that?”

“Needn't be just Delacote.” Fiona examined the possibilities. “Could'a been some punk from elsewhere in New Hampshire. Hell, I suppose some gangster from Chicago or even New York might'a been in on it. However, who d'we know, like ya say? Hmm, there's Guistino ‘ Jimmy ' Favelli, for one.”

“Ha, Jimmy—the biggest crook in Delacote.” Alice laughed, they both having had previous contact with the insalubrious character in question. “Yep, that's good, sister. I mean, if he can't put us on the track, nobody can. He knows every crime that's carried out within a fifteen mile radius of our fair city, after all.”

“Always supposin' he didn't carry it out himself.” Fiona glanced at her partner. “Wha'd'ya think o'the likelihood?”

“Jimmy, an art robber?” Alice gave the question scant regard. “Nah, he's not in that kind'a league. For a start, who on earth would he fence it off to? Can you think of some secretive local art-collector so ravaged by jealousy he'd spring for this kind'a job?”

The answer being necessarily in the negative Fiona forebore to answer, except by an eloquent shrug of her shoulders. After which she smiled annoyingly.

“So, Sherl, seen anything of a suspicious nature hereabouts, then?”

“ Jeez .” Alice sniffed derisively, giving her paramour a snappy glance. “I ain't been asleep this while. Come over here an' take a look at the door. See, just on the inside edge halfway up?”

“Yeah, by God.” Fiona peered closely at the detail; the mark being quite small. “Well-spotted. Something heavy's thumped it; quite recently too, I think. Say, what's this? A flake o'paint, maybe.”

Alice sprang back to the table where she had left her capacious handbag; returning with a small pair of tweezers and a brown paper envelope.

“Here, lem'me.” She moved close and picked delicately at the spot; then held up her prize to the light. “Yeah, it's paint alright. Sort'a greyish.”

“Like what Mrs Larriday said the frame was painted.” Fiona leaned into her partner's side; their hair mingling together. “It's small, but definitely important. Put it in that envelope before we lose it. I suppose Fletcher'll hav'ta be informed. Looks like the Fifth Precinct's our next stop. Anything else?”

Having safely deposited the possible clue in its envelope and returned this to her bag Alice came back to the door and took Fiona's arm, to usher her into the corridor.

“See, out here?” The brunette bent her knees to crouch over the carpet. “What d'you make of this sort'a indentation, or groove, in the material?”

“God, you're on fire today, lady.” Fiona was impressed; the mark was so indefinite she herself had not noticed it on first coming along the corridor. “Yep, looks as if the corner of the frame must'a been dragged a little way over the carpet. Judgin' by the angle it was taken thataway, to the right—away from the main stair.”

The two set off, reaching the far end of the short corridor in a few paces. Here, while the corridor ended in a blank wall, there was a relatively wide service stairway—obviously meant only for the use of the servants—leading to the left, downstairs. It was Fiona who, this time, noticed further evidence of the stolen picture's travels.

“Look'ee here.” She put a hand out to run gently over the thin metal handrail of the banister, where it curved to descend the stairwell. “Another scrape; greyish paint again. Better leave it for Fletcher, an' his pet boffins—just the sort'a thing they love. So, it's downstairs for us. After you, my love.”

“ Ha! Thanks no end.”

At the bottom of the flight they found themselves in a large open hall; to the left an archway led through to what were obviously the kitchens; to the right a doorway blocked progress; while immediately before them a double-sided set of doors stood partially open, revealing a wide cobbled yard outside. Neither woman failed to note the exit was both wide enough and tall enough to easily afford the movement of a large painting. On stepping into the yard Fiona was first to judge its status.

“Yep, looks like this was where it was brought.” She pointed to the ground by their feet. “No chance of pickin' up any sign on these stones. An' there's the entrance gate over there, leadin' t'the street. So, they could even have brought their vehicle in'ta the yard, an' done their business at their leisure.”

“Looks that way.”

“Hmmph! Think we've done all we can here.” Fiona heaved a somewhat gloomy sigh. “What say we head off t'spoil Jimmy Favelli's day? Or should we hit the Fifth Precinct first, an' let ol' Fletcher build up another head o'steam over our new evidence?”

“God, Fay, choices-choices.” Alice sniggered delightedly, putting her hand on her partner's arm as they turned back into the house. “I vote for Favelli. That way, if we find out anything important we can get even more kudos from the Happy Inspector, later.”

“Or a more comprehensive cussing out!” Fiona laughed in her turn. “Better have your notebook handy; it's always a pleasure to hear Fletcher cussing, he's so inventive. Wha'd'ya think, doll?”

“Works for me. Come on, let's get that Buick o'yours roarin'; it's bound t'make Jimmy jealous.”

—O—

On their way across Todmorton, for Jimmy Favelli was comfortably ensconced in the same district, they discussed the details of what they had discovered from the servants; Alice ticking the points off professionally in her notebook.

“Well, we managed t'survive a frontal assault on the butler; that's got'ta be a result by anyone's standards. Gods, butlers are a different species—I don't get them at all.”

Fiona, driving with her usual lax if not downright haphazard disregard for the niceties, glanced across at her brunette passenger.

“Y'ain't wrong there, baby.” She nodded in agreement, pursing her lips in thought the while. “So, who's left on the house's checklist? We got the housemaid, already.”

“There's Miss Grunewald, the cook.” Alice started industriously ticking again. “And the chauffeur, don't know his name. And the House-maid; y'know, the one Miss Evans was jealous of.”

“Har, yeah.” Fiona shrugged as she gripped the wheel. “I suppose, darlin', it hasn't escaped your scintillatin' intellect that Deakins, bein' what he is, is right in the spotlight for suspicious goings-on?”

“Huh,—the butler did it, y'think.” Alice was dismissive. “Well, I don't think. Not, o'course, that there's any evidence one way or the other yet. But I just don't see it. I mean—the butler? Gim'me a break.”

“What was the street number, again?”

“For Jimmy? Let's see.” Gabrielle rustled around in the depths of her handbag, before dragging out yet another notebook. “OK, addresses, gim'me a minute, ah, here it is,—461, Laningham Road, Todmorton. Can't be far.”

“Yeah, here we are, already.”

Fiona drew the powerful, and massively built, Buick up at the edge of the sidewalk and the ladies clambered out to stand in front of the large house. It was set back in a small garden, with a few trees lined up in front. Made of yellowish sandstone ashlar blocks, two stories tall with a square flat aspect, it gave all the appearance of being a living part of the natural landscape. The women entered the open gate and commenced to crunch their way along the short gravel drive to the front door.

“Victorian, I figure.” Alice was always one for the historical detail. “1870's, maybe. Wasn't there a housekeeper here, the last time we visited?”

As if in answer to both her query, and Fiona's ringing of the bellpush at the side of the door, it was opened within seconds by a short stoutish woman in her forties, of Spanish descent.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“We're here t'see Mr Favelli, if he happens to be at home.” Fiona always liked to start off these things on a polite note. “Tell him its Drever and Cartwright, come t'chew the fat, thanks.”

“Please come in. If you will wait in the hall, here.”

The entrance-hall was high, cutting through the first floor above; the rafters acting as decorative supports under the shadowed roof. The floor seemed to be made up of large flat grey slate blocks. The housekeeper, meanwhile, disappeared down a corridor and passed through an unseen door.

“Quite a pad he keeps.” Alice continued her nosing around, staring inquisitively at everything. “Nice furniture, clock that oak table over there. An' those chairs are real antiques, or my name ain't Ginger Rogers.”

“Ha-ha.” Fiona shook her head, with an expressive grin. “D'ya wan'na bet real money on that? The chairs, not your name. No, thought not.”

Before this repartee could continue the housekeeper returned, beckoning them, from across the hall, to accompany her. She led them to the open room door; waved an arm directing them to enter; then closed the door silently behind them as they passed through into the high wide sunlit room. Standing by a unlit fireplace on the far side was a man in his mid-fifties; of medium height, perhaps an inch taller than Alice; showing not quite fat olive-toned features and black hair which spoke of his Italian ancestry; and wearing a brown silk suit.

“Hiya, Jimmy. How's things in the rag trade?”

The grin Jimmy Favelli vouchsafed Fiona was singularly lacking in any air of ‘ hail fellow, well met ' bonhomie. Instead it echoed a chill tone of dislike, bordering on disgust. But neither Alice nor Fiona were put off; knowing full well this was just Favelli's ordinary manner, which he used on all occasions with everyone: he being, as was well known, not a happy chappie at the best of times.

“ Jeez , can't a guy have a whisky before his lunch without the fuzz showin' up t'bang on about whether it's legal or not.” Favelli turned to include Alice in his jolly welcome. “You too? What is it? Taxes? My bank account? Presents from my friends I ain't declared yet, or what? Make it snappy, I got work t'do; unlike some. Jeez , yeah, have a chair, if ya must.”

This last remark was occasioned by both women casually taking up residence on the long couch opposite the leather armchair into which the irate man had settled himself. Fiona opened up the attack.

“We got us a small problem, Jimmy.” She honoured the man with a sweet smile; which, from her, often reminded its unwary recipients of an alligator preparing to satiate its appetite. “The local art world is in a furore this mornin'. Ya know what a furore is, Jimmy? Yeah, o'course ya do. Well, as I was sayin', various owners of art works of varyin' worth an' taste are turnin' pale over their Beluga caviar starters this lunch-time. An' d'ya know why, Jimmy? I'll tell ya—Mrs Larriday has had her precious Gustave Moreau half-inched, frame an' all. Now, ain't that a shame, Jimmy? Did you do it?”

There was a short pause while Favelli took in the purport of this news; during which transparent silence Alice could hear a fly on a distant window-pane industriously brushing its face with its front legs. Then Jimmy got to grips with the situation.

“ Har-har! ” Obviously a man who liked his laugh, Jimmy let rip with gusto; some of the whisky from the glass he held splashing on his trousers unnoticed. “That's a good one. A stolen painting, hummph! Lem'me see, do I care? No, I dam' well don't. Goodbye.”

“Oh, come, come, Jimmy.” Fiona was unrepentant. “A famous, expensive, classic, painting, by an acknowledged Master? Obviously, you're the only major grifter in Delacote worthy of the honour of being felt round the collar for such a rip-off. So, how'd ya do it? Al an' I are rather interested in the details; seein' as it appears t'have vanished from the house in the proverbial puff o'smoke. So we naturally came t'you first off; before the cops, even. Ain't that nice of us.”

“ Jeez , are ya sayin' the cops are on their way?” Favelli raised his eyebrows vertically, before offering the world another example of his non-smile. “One goddam thing after another. I suppose they'll have a warrant, an' turn the whole goddam place upside down. Is it any use my denyin' any involvement whatsoever in the dam' thing?”

Alice looked at Fiona, then turned a sad face on the house-owner. In a variation of the old good cop/bad cop routine she and Fiona liked to use the snappy questioner/re-assuring questioner variation.

“Don't take any notice of Fay, Jimmy; she ain't had her breakfast yet.” She smiled warmly and tenderly, as if at a favourite nephew. “So, what can you tell us about the whole affair? You must know something; after all, you are who you are. Better us, than Inspector Fletcher, y'know.”

Seeing defeat staring him in the face; and actually knowing nothing whatever about the crime under discussion, he decided to share his lack of information with generous open-handedness.

“Well, for a start, you can count me out.” He shrugged dispassionately. “I mean, what'd I do with a goddam painting? A Master, y'say? Who?”

“Gustave Moreau.” Alice supplied this fact from the store contained within her thick notebook.

“Never heard of him.” Jimmy was unimpressed. “Good, is he?”

“Couldn't say.” Fiona wasn't embarrassed about sharing their knowledge. “We ain't ever heard o'the guy either. But Mrs Larriday seems t'think it was worth shelling out $3,000 ten years ago. Worth $11,000 today.”

“Holy Jerusalem!” If anything ever impressed Favelli it was vast amounts of money. “That's what I call a picture. Big, was it?”

“Three feet by five feet, with an all-round three inch frame.” Alice was up for the facts, consulting her trusty notebook once more.

“God, that must'a weighed a ton.” Jimmy brought his knowledge of such things to bear on the matter. “The canvas'd need wooden stretchers at the back, t'strengthen the thing. That, along with a wood frame, would mean a real solid piece o'work. An' ya say they got it out'ta the house without leavin' any traces? Must'a been professionals.”

Fiona and Alice sat back, letting Favelli think about the matter undisturbed. They both realised, from his body language and general demeanour, that he was probably telling the truth about not having had any involvement; but still, his vast knowledge of the local criminal world ought to offer up some information, given time.

“So, anything spring t'mind?” Fiona presently broke the lengthy silence, raising an eyebrow enquiringly. “Time's precious, y'know. More so for you, at the moment. Remember Inspector Fletcher, probably racing this way with smokin' tyres as we speak.”

“Oh, God!” Favelli put down his empty glass; scratched his knee contemplatively; then growled under his breath. “I can't think o'anybody. For real. There ain't no gangs o'art robbers operating in the district, take my word for it. An' if they came in from outside—Chicago, New York, or wherever,—don't think I wouldn't have heard of it. No, the only explanation is it was an inside job; by the family, y'know, probably for the insurance. In all likelihood they quietly spirited it away to some place of safety; made sure they hadn't left any clues; then, more'n likely, sat back to take the heat, then cash in the insurance, later. Yeah, that'll be the answer. What you two wan'na be doin' is goin' back an' puttin' the third degree on this Mrs Larriday. That's where your answers lie, take it from me.”

Alice glanced at Fiona, and they both shrugged their shoulders in unison. What Favelli said rang true; especially as it backed up the suspicion which had been growing into something bright and interesting at the back of both womens' minds over the past hour or so.

“Well, thanks Jimmy. Always a joy t'visit ya.” Fiona held out a hand to Alice as she stood by her side. “We'll head on out an' muse on what ya told us. Doesn't do t'go off half-cocked with these rich folks, y'know. Never know where that'll end, if you're not careful. See ya sometime. Hope Fletcher don't make too much of a mess, when he arrives. Bye.”

—O—

There were only the usual group of miscellaneous ne'er-do-wells crowding the public desk of the 5 th Precinct station when Fiona and Alice arrived. It was a wide square high-ceilinged room, with the counter running down the left-hand side leaving about two-thirds of the floor space for the public. There were wooden benches along the other three sides of the room; bearing a reputation for uncomfortableness renowned throughout Delacote; which explained the standing, jostling, noisy crowd. Fiona, long inured to the place, used her football skills to push and elbow her way through to the counter, Alice slipping along easily in her wake.

“Hey, watch that hand, buster, if ya don't wan'na lose it!” Fiona never took prisoners in this kind of situation.

Finally they broke through to the mother lode, Fiona clearing a space for two by the waist-high counter with grim ruthlessness.

“Hi, Sergeant Morrison, how's tricks?”

“ Jesus , dames.” The sergeant wasn't impressed, having had long experience with the two ladies. “Wha'd'ya want? An' no,—Fletcher ain't takin' visitors, bein' busy with official work. Go away.”

“Aw, don't be like that, Sergeant.” Alice flashed her ‘ my, what a handsome man you are ' smile. “Fletcher wants t'see us; at least, he will when he hears what we have t'tell him. Information that'll clear up a major crime, is all. Wha'd'ya say? Scout's Honour.”

“Oh God!” The sergeant was too busy to worry overmuch about the detective force; they could take care of themselves. “OK, go on up. Harry, let the ladies through. Go on, beat it.”

The officer standing guard by the archway leading to the stairs letting them pass with the merest grimace of disapproval, the women lightly skipped up the stone stairs to the first floor. Here, taking the right-hand, they quickly passed along by various open office doors where people were helping the police with their enquiries. The fact that some of these discussions required cries of fear, pain, and loud denials of ‘ had nothing to do with it, officer ', swept over the heads of the experienced women: such is life in a big city. Finally they came to the well-known office door; Fiona taking the duty of banging on the glass top half with unrestrained vigour, before opening it unannounced to let them both saunter in.

Opposite were two high windows; to the left a desk sat against the wall, with two armless hard wooden chairs; in front of the entering visitor was another bigger desk, behind which sat the Achilles of the 5 th Precinct, Inspector Fletcher in person, busily studying the spread out sheets of notes from an open file, from which he looked up with a gloomy ill-natured twist of the lips.

“God, what do you two want?” He cast aside the papers with a snort. “What? Ain't I busy enough, as it is. What?”

“Good Grief, are you as untidy at home as you are here, Fletcher?” Alice started off on this critical note, as the women unconcernedly took the two rickety chairs beside the Inspector's desk. “Our junk room, at home, is in better shape than this office. Don't you ever dust the place; an' a good clear-up wouldn't do any harm.”

“If I wanted housekeepers, I wouldn't engage either of you two.” Fletcher knew where he stood on this subject. “So, what's the object o'this wholly unwarranted intrusion? My time's precious, y'know.”

Alice glanced over at Fiona; the women exchanging a restrained simper, as of ladies at a Women's Union meeting who had just seen their homemade greengage jam win first prize.

“”We got news for ya, laddie, on the Art front.” Fiona watched as Alice opened her handbag to extract the couple of brown envelopes with the evidence they had found at the scene of the crime. “We come bearing gifts, oh high an' mighty one. Tell ‘im, girlie.”

“Y'know, o'course, Mrs Larriday's Moreau's gone AWOL.” Alice nodded happily, mistress of all she surveyed. “Well, she engaged us this mornin', t'clear the matter up—”

“God Almighty, does nothin' ever go right for me.”

“—in the course of which charitable activity me an' the big woman here made a few discoveries.” Alice indicated the envelopes clutched in her hand with proprietary pride. “Paint flakes, from the door of the room where the painting hung; an' there's more o'the same on the bannister of the service stairs along the corridor. Fay an' I've figured out how the daub was extracted from the house—an' it makes for somethin' mighty interestin' t'think about.”

Fletcher had given up all pretence of studying his documents. Having cast them aside, like last year's fashions, he settled his elbows amidst the mess on his desktop, cupped his chin with both hands, and gazed mournfully at his callers.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm ahead of ya there.” His growl had that low exasperated tone of a bear that'd just lost the third salmon in a row in the river it was fishing. “An inside job, without a doubt. Doesn't take a genius t'figure that. God, what else could it have been? It wasn't cut from the frame, as any self-respecting art-thief would'a known was the correct procedure; must'a taken a veritable army of confederates t'swing the whole operation, which is just plain idiotic in criminal circles; an' finally, who'd want the dam' thing, anyway—have ya seen photos of the horrible smear? No? Here, cast your eyes over that monstrosity.”

Leaning over to open the desk drawer on his right-hand, the Inspector produced three photos which he gallantly handed over the clutter on his desk to Fiona, with a tight-lipped smirk of his own.

Gazing at the photos spread out in front of them there was a short pause while Fiona and Alice took in the evidence that taste had died somewhere in France in the 1890's. For what they showed, in glorious three-tone colour prints which themselves must have cost a fortune to have taken, seemed to bear more the aspect of an amateur's attempt at painting, rather than the real thing. There was colour; oh, how there was colour. There was a figure, though the ratios and stance seemed in some strange manner, slightly askew. There was perspective, but only in the most perfunctory manner. In short, the painting portrayed in the photos looked more like something a person with little or no artistic capacity would produce; rather than a renowned artist of note.

“Are ya sure this shows the right picture?” Fiona, for one, was unconvinced. “Hell, it's awful. I could do better, an' I ain't kiddin'. Y'sure this thing's by the artist, what's his name, again?”

“Moreau, Gustave.” Fletcher heaved a sigh and gestured at the incriminating photos. “I been reading up on the guy. Seems he was an advocate of the Symbolist School. Which is t'say its dam' near impossible t'figure out what the subjects of his paintings actually show or mean. Landscapes with bad perspective; figures painted in a flat characterless unreal way; an' swabs o'colour that'd have your eye out if ya peered too closely at the original. They mostly seem t'emanate a curious warped enervated moral vision o'the world, that ain't particularly nice by anyone's ordinary standards. Symbolism.”

“Reminds me of those French, what're they called, Impressionist pictures.” Alice gave the photos her full attention, then pursed her lips critically. “Only worse, much worse. Sure the guy was a painter, at all? Don't seem much like it, judging from these.”

“Apparently his works are not unknown in International Art circles; but not particularly highly thought of, either.” Fletcher sniffed dismissively. “Suppose these rich people need'ta spend their dollars on something; but you'd think they'd at least have sagacity enough t'have their sense o'taste switched on before they bought such things.”

“Doesn't seem like it, in this case.” Fiona shook her head sadly. “It ain't what I'd call a great work of art, by any means. But Mrs Larriday shelled out for it back in the day; an' still seemed t'think it ruled the roost this mornin'. What'd the insurance guys think about it?”

The grey-haired police officer sat back in his creaking chair, grinning broadly.

“I sent Sergeant Keisler over t'the ‘ Charioteer ' company t'find out just exactly that.” He laughed deep in his chest. “They weren't impressed, either. ‘ Inside job' , they shouted in unison, so Keisler reported. Then looked up their records for Mrs Larriday's policy, an' laughed some more. Seems, although it really is insured for $11,000, it's on a general inventory of the household goods an' chattels, not separately catalogued under Art acquisitions. This apparently, so the experts told Keisler, means they can actually set their own price on the item under discussion; which means, they then laughingly admitted with glee, a much lower price than Mrs Larriday seems t'think it's worth. They haven't told her yet.”

“Oh dear, that'll be a sad let-down to all concerned.” Alice twisted her perfect pink-glossed lips into something akin to a concerned look. “She ain't gon'na like that; even if she sticks to the heist story. Bucks, after all, is bucks. So, where does this leave us? An' you, come t'that?”

“Don't know about you two ladies, but I'm easy on the situation.” Fletcher grunted comfortably. “Scenario A; Mrs Larriday keeps up with the burglary tale, which means a court case an' probable charges against her when the truth comes out. Scenario B; she hunkers down, an' accepts the derisory pay-out from the ‘ Charioteer ' which is all they'll allow the ghastly thing's worth. That way everyone's happy; Mrs Larriday gets a kind of a pay-out; the insurance company talks publicly about paying-out handsomely an' thereby gets a good reputation; an' so all nasty insinuations an' bad publicity are avoided by all involved. Scenario C; it really, ha-ha , was a robbery; and somewhere out there the thieves are squatting over their ill-gotten gains, slapping each other over the back, waitin' t'send it on to whichever deluded private art-collector inspired the robbery in the first place—so he could sit in his secret gallery, gloating over it unseen by all. I'm easy with any of those possibilities; even the last. I mean, if there actually is someone out there who's sprung for all the trouble and danger involved in pinching the thing; he's welcome t'the terrible splotch, is what I say.”

Another silence descended on the small room, as all therein contemplated the situation. Inspector Fletcher, from a purely official point of view, couldn't care less. If it was a fraud, he'd have Mrs Larriday despite her wealth and influence. If it was a robbery he was confident of catching those concerned, eventually. For Fiona and Alice things were pretty much the same. They had been retained to find the painting; it didn't matter whether Mrs Larriday had stashed it somewhere dark and safe, or if it had actually been the victim of thieves—to find it was their raison d'etre of the moment, and nothing would stop them accomplishing their purpose.

“For what it's worth we've just been t'see Jimmy Favelli.” Alice broke the good news, with an air of sweet charm. “He thinks the same as us, on the inside job aspect. No thieves need apply, was the general purport of his reasoning.”

“Oh, I am so chuffed to learn that.” Fletcher could break out in humour, when he felt like it. “That takes such a weight off my mind. Is that all ya got ta tell me, then?”

“Pretty much. See ya around, Fletcher.” Fiona rose from her chair; cast a derisory glance around the office, and made her opinion public. “Have the place cleaned up, for God's sake. It's a goddam mess.”

“ Huh! It's my goddam mess, an' I like it.” Fletcher held his ground with determined conviction. “Hit the street, ladies; I got work t'do. Shut the door on your way out; there's a draught, an' I catch cold easy.”

—O—

The next day, around eleven-thirty in the morning, saw the women comparing notes in their office on the fifth floor of the Packer Building. Alice had returned to Mrs Larriday's abode to interview the remaining servants; while Fiona had haunted the premises of the ‘ Charioteer Insurance Company ' in its resplendent premises on Pataloc Avenue.

“So, what's the news from Todmorton?” Fiona raised a quizzical eyebrow towards her partner. “What'd the hired help have t'say, then?”

“Nothin' of consequence.” Alice curled a sarcastic lip as she consulted her notes. “The housemaid, Helen Armstrong, denied any knowledge whatever; apart from the fact she thought the gruesome artwork was an awful misrepresentation of nature: didn't like it at all, in fact.”

“She ain't alone in that.”

“Then there was the chauffeur, Charles Rigsby; about five foot nine, fair thick hair, well besmirched in scented hair-oil; and wearing the statutory uniform.” Alice considered for a moment, caressing her chin with one finger. “Made him look not unlike one of those European storm-troopers; black jodhpurs an' high leather boots, y'know.”

“God, get on with it.”

“Sorry, nothin' much more to it.” Alice shrugged and closed her notebook. “Bit of a dead end, I'm afraid. Though I must say, I was a little suspicious about Rigsby; he had that air, y'know, of not bein' unacquainted with criminal circles. That's the impression he gave me, anyway.”

Fiona sat and looked at her companion for some seconds. When Alice said she was suspicious of anyone, that was a pretty fair indication that there was indeed something suspicious lurking in their background.

“So, he'll bear keepin' tabs on, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm; well, I did quite well at the ‘ Charioteer Insurance Company ' over on Pataloc.” Fiona glanced down at a sheet of notepaper filled with the information so gained. “First off, Fletcher was more or less right. The agents involved were quite happy to share the facts. Mrs Larriday has a general policy; the art works ain't separated, under individual descriptions, and indexed. They're just named by title and artist, amongst the household goods. That, so the experts say, means they have carte blanche to name their own level of pay-out, irrespective of what Mrs Larriday may have contributed or priced them at herself. There's gon'na be tears in Todmorton when she finds out.”

Alice shuffled into a more comfortable position on the hard chair by Fiona's side, and raised a hand in a gesture of dismissal.

“Depends if'n Fletcher, or we, find the hopeless smear an' return it to the overjoyed owner, or not.” She brushed fingers through her short brunette waves. “Will Mrs Larriday be overjoyed, d'you suppose?”

“If she's the innocent victim of burglary, an' loves the ghastly blot as much as she lets on; well, you'd think so, wouldn't ya.”

“An' if she's the mastermind behind the greatest art theft of the century, we'll be able t'watch her turn pale with shock an' faint on the carpet in front of the returned item.” Alice sniggered ungallantly. “I'd pay good money t'see that.”

“Y'always were a cold-hearted fish, young lady.” Fiona grinned broadly, taking the sting out of this slanderous remark. “So, what d'we do now?”

“I vote for getting' my Plymouth out'ta hock an' tailin' the dubious chauffeur t'wherever he goes.” Alice nodded wisely. “Sure t'shed some light on the whole murky business.”

So it was that, half an hour later, the two women sat in Alice's green Plymouth PB Roadster in the shade of a large-branched tree some distance from the entrance to Mrs Larriday's home.

“Y'do know this is in the way of bein' a last hope?” Fiona scrunched down in her seat disconsolately, rubbing at a small mark on her dark blue woollen jacket. “Is this oil? Say, when was the last time ya cleaned the interior o'this wreck?”

“Give over, baby, it's just a speck of dust; butch up.” Alice reclined comfortably, stroking the edge of the steering-wheel gently with the fingers of one hand in a way which brought out all the jealous nature of her hypnotised companion. “Where d'you think Rigsby'll lead us? To some warehouse down on Wharf Street? Or a barn out in the country, somewhere. Or the den of the mad collector, who's already gloating over his latest acquisition?”

“Mad collector my ar—foot.” Fiona sniffed grumpily, giving up on the mark on her jacket with an ill grace. “If Rigsby's really in on it, he may go to some rendezvous in the town; a restaurant or eating-place, probably; t'meet the gang. We might be able t'gain some information from that.”

Alice considered the possibility, but clearly not with any enthusiasm. It all depended, of course, on whom he met and whether the women recognised these others as hoodlums or not.

“Might work.” The brunette commenced to pouting her lips in a soundless whistle. “Fletcher seemed t'be takin' the whole thing with a pinch of salt, didn't he. Obviously thinks the Larriday's behind the whole thing.”

“Yep, that's clear enough.” Fiona nodded in her turn, gazing through the windscreen like a hawk intent on spotting its breakfast. “I got my doubts, though. The more I think about it the more I tend t'conclude she's innocent.”

“Nobody's ever perfectly innocent, sister.” Alice suddenly waxed philosophical. “Everybody's hidin' something from themselves, or society in general—except us two, of course.”

“Ha! Thanks for that ringing endorsement.” Fiona punched her lover's shoulder gently. “What puts her out'ta contention, in my view, is the fact she's been strolling round the hotspots of Europe for the past three months. I just don't see how she could control such a delicate operation from three thousand miles or more away. Too complicated, in my view.”

“Yeah, there's that.” Alice agreed without argument, musing on the problem with a faraway look in her brown eyes. “The servants, bein' constantly on the premises, or havin' access at least, would be in a much handier position, like you say.”

“What about if it went this way—”

Alice suddenly sat upright, and drew a deep breath.

“Look'ee there.” She pointed ahead through the windscreen. “That's Larriday's red Pierce-Arrow sedan comin' out the gate.”

“God, what a flashy heap. Looks like a battleship.”

“Sit back, an' hold onto somethin'. Looks like we're in business.”

“Unless he's just goin' t'the butchers t'pick up a lamb chop for the memsahib's dinner tonight.”

“Ha-ha, baby, wake-up an' start takin' notes. I smell blood.”

The time moving on towards early afternoon there was a fair amount of traffic coursing along the roads; thereby helping to conceal Alice's dark nondescript Plymouth. Keeping a reasonable distance in the rear of their prey the women settled down for however long a ride it might turn out to be; though after a couple of minutes they could begin to make surmises about the general trend and direction of their journey.

“Headin' downtown.” Fiona glanced around, out her window. “For the business district, by the look of it. Wonder what his game is.”

“Is he alone?” Alice peered over the wheel through the windscreen. “Has he got a passenger?”

“Can't see.” Fiona leaned forward, fixing the dark silhouette in the distance with her intense gaze. “Rear window's too small t'give any clue. Don't think so, though.”

The luxurious Pierce-Arrow headed east towards the shore; but then turned right, in a southerly direction, onto Twenty-Second Street. Finally it slowed, took a left onto Gloucester Avenue, and pulled to a halt in front of the fifteen-storey skyscraper known as the MacDonald Building. As Alice swept discreetly into the sidewalk fifty yards to the rear they saw the chauffeur, in uniform, leave his magnificent automobile and walk purposefully into the main entrance.

“Come on, Al, move it.” Fiona leapt from the Plymouth, like Atalanta after one of the Golden Apples. “We got'ta see which floor an' office he's aimin' for.”

Sprinting down the pavement they made it to the wide high glass entrance-door in record time. Hustling through, with scant notice for those they almost pushed aside in their rush, they were just in time to see the dark uniform and heavy boots of their prey entering an elevator in a bank of such lining the far wall. Hurrying up, they stood watching the clock-meter above the door registering the levels as it passed upwards.

“It's stopping at Seven.”

“I got eyes.” Fiona growled mirthlessly. “Question is, is it goin' — goddam, it is.”

The hand curved on in a slow arc, to finally stop again at Eleven; its next move being to start descending once more.

“OK, that's it—Seven or Eleven.” Alice grabbed her companion's arm in a tight grip. “Come on, press that door-button. We got'ta get up there, pronto.”

“Which first?” Fiona looked at the array of buttons on the wall as they stepped into the empty elevator to the left of that their quarry had taken.

“Eleven, we'll work our way down.” Alice replied in a clipped tone; opening her handbag to make sure her Colt .38 Special was on hand. “You armed?”

“Why, expecting a gunfight?” Fiona allowed a note of satire to enter her voice. “Hell, you're bloodthirsty today. For God's sake, don't shoot the receptionist.”

When the elevator doors opened on Eleven Alice was first out. Thankfully the women saw they were in a single entrance area; the floor belonging to one company, thereby obviating the need to scour up and down a corridor of multiple offices. The brunette stepped up to the waist-high reception desk, fixing the remarkably elegant young lady behind it with a basilisk stare.

“Yo, babe, how's things? Hot, or not? Say, we're looking for the chauffeur; he needs t'head back t'the ol' homestead pronto. So, ya seen a chauffeur lately, or what. Come on, honey, we got a schedule t'keep here. Mrs Chandon's got a busy day ahead o'her. So, is her chauffeur lurkin' in the office, or not?”

The lady so named was famous throughout the city; being one of the wealthiest persons in New Hampshire, also renowned as a fast-living member of High Society. She had reputation, public awareness, and power across the board. Her name meant business wherever it was uttered; and right now it was being uttered, rather peremptorily, admittedly, at the reception-desk of ‘ Armstrong, Carruthers, and Smith, architects '. The receptionist, overwhelmed by brute force and the aura of such a famous personage, cracked.

“No, no, there hasn't been a chauffeur in here this morning. Perhaps—”

“Sayonara, lady.” Alice had turned on her heel and was already halfway back across the reception's luxurious carpet, Fiona struggling a poor second in her wake.

Back in the elevator, as it descended, Fiona got her breath back.

“God, ya don't waste time, doll. I'm impressed.”

“Lets hope the Seventh's a single company, too.” Alice smirked, as she contemplated the awed visage of the love of her life. “You just got'ta be positive, an' in-your-face about these things. Snappy, imperious, that's the way t'do it.”

On exiting the elevator on the Seventh floor they did indeed find they were on the premises of one firm again. This time, as the bright blue letters emblazoned across the wall above the reception-desk proclaimed, they were in the presence of the ‘ Haggenthorpe-Kroneburg Investments Company '.

What they actually invested their clients' money in was not at first glance apparent; but neither Fiona nor Alice cared about this minor detail. The reception was again presided over by a haughty member of European aristocracy; possibly a Princess, judging from her premium-range attire, demeanour, and reserved glance. Unbowed, and entirely without shame in any way, Alice leapt to the attack for the second time.

“Hey, lady, this is some dam' shame, y'know. That dam' Pierce-Arrow tank bent my car's fender when it pulled up outside a coupl'a minutes ago. So, where's the jerk who was drivin'? I know he came in here; a chauffeur, in a fancy black uniform—you know, military-style jacket, black jodhpurs, an' shiny leather boots like a General. I tell ya, lady, I'm gon'na sue everyone in my line o'vision if I have'ta. So, where is the dumb cluck?”

As Alice had backed up her words by arching her eyebrows and frowning in perfectly imitated anger; showing her white teeth the while, the receptionist was fairly taken in by the deception. The fact that both Alice and Fiona were dressed in expensive well-designed jackets and skirts, looking every inch the lady themselves; and that Alice's accent dripped superiority, took in the woman behind the desk completely. She herself, being from an ordinary level of society despite her hard-won facade, fell for Alice's tirade hook line and sinker. Merely reserving the strength of will to retain her own posh accent she came clean with the information.

“Er, I believe I know to whom you refer; a Mr Rigsby.” She looked as if she wanted to wipe her sweating brow, a look of anxiety crossing her features. It would never do if she was responsible for a major lawsuit against the company, was clearly the theme now passing through her mind. “I understand he is at present delivering a message to our Mrs Gaston, in ‘ Real Estate '. Shall I telephone through?”

“Nah, don't bother; I'll catch him in flagrante downstairs, when he returns t'that monstrous ocean liner he's driving. Don't say a word, mind. Remember, I got serious issues here, an' I can sue at the drop of a hat. Keep stum, an' you'll be OK, lady. Bye.”

Once more Alice led the way, this time in triumph, back to the elevator. A few minutes later they stepped out into the sunshine of the busy street. At the sidewalk's edge stood the magnificent vehicle which was the focus of their interest; while all they had to do now was formulate a plan of action.

“Wha'd'ya think he's up to?” Fiona idly ran a fingertip across the window-frame of the driving-seat door, as she pretended to be admiring the superlative lines of the automobile. “Somethin' on his own; or really passing on a message from the Larriday?”

“More likely the latter.” Alice pursed her lips in thought. “He doesn't have the means, I'd imagine, of doing personal business with a high-ranking agency like ‘ Haggenthorpe-Kroneburg'. Must be on account of Mrs Larriday. ‘ Real Estate ', eh. D'you suppose she may be goin' t'sell her house?”

“Or invest in another, when her insurance comes through.” Fiona parted her lips in a cold smile. “Or what she still imagines her insurance'll be. That'd hold water.”

“Come on, we better climb back in my own poor downmarket Plymouth.” Alice sniggered as they made their way along the sidewalk. “Bet I can do far more miles t'the gallon than that over-designed truck, anyway.”

—O—

They had only been seated in Alice's Plymouth less than five minutes before Rigsby re-appeared in the distance, emerging from the building. He threw a flat object like a small envelope onto the Pierce-Arrow's seat, before himself climbing in and slamming the door closed. A moment later the vast machine was in motion again, with Alice quietly running some sixty yards or so behind, concealed by three or four intervening vehicles.

“What happens if he heads for Ocean Boulevard?” Fiona voiced a concern which was significant to their activities of the moment. “He'll see us in his rear-view mirror for sure, then. Wider road, with more lanes; less traffic; no tight corners; longer distances t'drive: yeah, sure he'll see us.”

“God, don't be so disheartening.” Alice was still on a high, smiling broadly. “We'll figure something out. I expect I can run maybe two or three hundred yards behind, an' still stay in contact—if you keep your eyes peeled, that is.”

Just as Fiona had prophesied it was indeed the great seashore highway Rigsby finally turned onto, heading north towards Portsmouth. However they only had to hang back, way in his rear, for a matter of three miles or so before he slowed and turned off into a small lane going down towards the beach. Alice carefully drew her own car into the lane; made sure the Pierce-Arrow was nearly out of sight ahead, then moved on down towards the sea. A few seconds later, traversing a small rise, they saw the blue ocean, with thin lines of white-capped waves, running in to the long sandy beach. All along this stretch, they also noticed, ran a line of luxury beach-houses. It was towards one of these the mighty automobile in front of them was being steered.

Slowing down, and finally stopping altogether the ladies watched as, four hundred or so yards ahead, Rigsby pulled his vehicle into the small drive in front of the chosen house. It was two-storied, with a red slate roof; the windows on the ground floor being of the wide panoramic sliding variety; altogether capable of doing duty as a rich woman's hideaway from the pushing thrusting hoi-polloi. Rigsby exited the car; went to the front door; fiddled with the lock and entered, closing the door behind him. What, however, had caught the two detectives' main attention was the small but wide-bodied truck already sitting by the side of the house. Alice made the appropriate supposition.

“That truck's small; but it could easily hold a big oil painting.” She glanced at her partner, with raised eyebrows. “Think so?”

“I surely do, baby.” Fiona nodded, with a truculent tone in her voice. “Looks like we're maybe about t'hit paydirt. So, ya got your trusty Special with ya?”

“You know I do.” Alice grinned, like a leopard considering whether to eat the tethered goat, or the naively dozing hunter lying near it. “How about that cannon y'call a weapon? An' just exactly what d'you have in mind; only askin'.”

“I got my .45 automatic, don't worry.” She patted the bulky handbag by her side. “As to the plan. Well, I figure we sneak up, cast an eye over the truck; then break in'ta the house, an' see what friend Rigsby's up to. If there are any others present we threaten ‘em with instant death, then call the cops. See the telephone wire coming out from under the roof-eave, an' crossing t'that line of telegraph-poles on the other side of the lane?”

“Got'cha. I like it. OK, let's go.”

In less than five minutes the women were crouched at the side of the house, by the rear off-side wheel of the truck. Though only a small type, with rear double-doors, it was instantly apparent there was far more than enough room for it to have been used to transport the big painting. Creeping noiselessly round the front of the house, they peered through the long ground-level window into what seemed to be a sitting-room, if the long couch and leather armchairs scattered about were anything to go by. It was empty, so moving on they reached the front door without incident. Here they had their first stroke of luck, Rigsby having left the door shut but unlocked. All Fiona need do was turn the handle and they could gain instant access. After a cautionary glance at Alice she commenced to do so.

Within seconds they were in the main hall, with the door closed silently behind them. A door to the left; another to the right; directly ahead a short corridor leading to the back of the building; to the right of this a narrow staircase leading upstairs; at the foot of the stairs a small table with a black telephone sitting on it; from the back of the house, voices of several men thinly echoing in the quiet air inside the building.

Standing upright, though moving slowly with immense caution, they made their way along the corridor to the rear premises, Fiona leading; both women's guns in their hands. The room in question was easily identifiable by the continuing sound of low, but seemingly passionate, conversation going on inside. Fiona raised her automatic in front of her; glanced with a smile at Alice, who was similarly prepared; then turned the door-handle and stepped quickly inside.

“Hi'ya boys. How's it hangin'?”

She had moved slightly to the side on entering, Alice stepping close to her left-hand, so they showed an impervious combined front to the inmates of the sunlit room. At a quick glance Alice and Fiona saw there were four men sitting at a table, one of whom was Rigsby. But before any kind of constructive discussion could be achieved the men, moving as one, decided their fates for themselves. They all rose together, chairs tipping back onto the floor with crashes; curses flying indiscriminately; and hands hurriedly grasping for either their pockets, or the weapons already lying ready on the table-top before them.

One man, quicker than his companions, got off a shot from his revolver which passed between the women to hit the wall with a nasty thump. Alice let fly with her own Colt and saw the man crumple from a straight chest wound. Fiona fired at Rigsby, who had produced an enormous automatic from somewhere. Her first shot missed, allowing him to get off two shots of his own. The first flew into the ceiling over Fiona's head; the other slicing through her open jacket between her chest and outstretched arm. Her next shot hit the tall man on his right side, spinning him round to collapse out of sight underneath the table. Of the other two men one raised his automatic at arm's-length, aiming deliberately for Alice's head; but she was faster, sending no less than three bullets into his chest. He gasped, staggered, looked at the woman who had shot him with wonder in his red-veined eyes, then fell face-forward on the floor, never to move again. His partner, now the last man standing, had already fired four shots at the women; but being in a state of nervous fright all had gone astray in the general melee. Now he aimed once more at Fiona and pulled the trigger; nothing happened, the gun having jammed. Pulling the trigger several times more, with the same unhappy result, he suddenly looked up to see a Colt .38 Special and a Colt .45 M1911 automatic pointing at his head; the faces of the women behind them steely with cold determination—in a cold sweat, he realised with fear-inducing clarity that both Nemesis and Armageddon were upon him simultaneously. Dropping his gun like a red-hot cinder he started screaming loudly.

“Don't shoot. Don't shoot. For God's sake, don't shoot. Don't sh—”

“Give over, we get the message.” Fiona lowered her weapon slightly and gazed at the defeated thief in disgust. “Put your arms an' hands out; hit the floor; an' don't make a single move, or Al here'll fill ya full'a lead. You OK, Al?”

“Yeah, fine. Which can't be said for these other lummox's. Any o'them dead, d'you think?”

“Can't say. Keep an eye on Johnny-boy here, an' I'll take a look.”

It took only the work of seconds for Fiona to determine the state of affairs.

“This guy here, on the floor; the one you shot, he's definitely dead.” Fiona passed round the table to the victims lying on the other side. “Rigsby here's still alive; bullet in the right side, an' lot's o'blood. He's semi-conscious. The other guy,—I think you shot him too, Al,—he's alive, at the moment; looks like a bullet in the left lung. You stay here t'guard Johnny-boy, while I go an' call up reinforcements.”

“OK. Gods, Fay, looks like a battleground in here.” Alice sneered mirthlessly, her strong nature and previous experience overcoming the horror of the scene. “Wonder what Fletcher'll say, when he see's all this carnage?”

—O—

“So, that's how things stand, ladies.” Fletcher ran a hand over his stubbly chin, as they all stood in a group in the front sitting-room of the beach-house. “Rigsby, apparently, was the ring-leader. He's a known art-specialist thief from back in Reno, of all places. Finagled his way into being Mrs Larriday's chauffeur three months ago, just before she went on that European trip; she taking her second chauffeur, an' leaving Rigsby at home in Todmorton, in a room over the garage. Someone, probably some kind'a crazy art-collector whom we haven't yet fingered, sponsored him t'grab the Moreau—”

“But why?” Alice raised an open palm in wonder. “From the photos you showed us, it's a horrible daub.”

“No accounting for taste, Alice.” Fletcher shrugged dispassionately. “What's crap t'some is gold dust t'others. Just human nature. Where was I?”

“Rigsby, in situ at the scene of the crime.” Fiona was, as usual, well up on events. “Just where he wanted t'be.”

“You said it, Fay.” Fletcher nodded, as he contemplated the course of events. “So, he recruited the usual group of bozos t'help in the actual heist. Deakins and the other servants went their separate ways to their own homes while Mrs Larriday was abroad, Rigsby staying on in the Todmorton premises as chauffeur/caretaker—right, as you say, where he wanted to be.”

“So, it would'a been the easiest thing in the world to pinch the painting, without anyone being suspicious, or any the wiser?” Fiona produced a low growling noise in her throat. “He surely had it planned to perfection. But why'd he stay on? An' stash the painting an' his confederates in that beach-house? Seems like a big chance t'take.”

“Like a lot of these so-called master-criminals he just got that little bit above himself.” Fletcher shook his head at the stupidity of the criminal mind. “Thought we'd all jump on Mrs Larriday as bein' the usual kind'a insurance fraudster. That'd give him just those few days leeway to pay off his gang, then cut out for pastures new in the truck. He meets the art-collector; grabs his ill-gotten paycheck; an' disappears forever.”

“What place does the beach-house have in this sorry tale?” Alice looked across at the Inspector expectantly. “Was it really Mrs Larriday's?”

“Oh yes, she was planning to use it during the summer.” Fletcher nodded dismissively. “She likes the sea-shore, apparently. The deal to buy was nearly through, but she hadn't closed the agreement. That's why Rigsby could visit the real estate company, to borrow the premise's keys on what they supposed was bona-fide business now and then. He knew Mrs Larriday wouldn't be setting up shop here for at least another month.”

All three had meanwhile been looking out the wide floor-length windows at the fleet of police vehicles and ambulances which were transporting the wounded, and the one beyond such help, to the hospital. The house was now awash with blue uniforms, as the officers took stock of the situation. It was in this regard that Fletcher remembered a particular point.

“Well, ladies, you've come so far in this adventure—wan'na see the source of all jealousy an' greed? The thing that's fuelled the whole sorry escapade? It's just in the next room, if you're interested.”

“ Jumpin' Jiminy , too right.” Fiona laughed with glee. “Al an' I've been up an' down all over the place lookin' for the dam' thing too much t'pass up the chance now. Ready, dear?”

“I'm up for it.” Alice turned at the door, glancing at the Inspector as they made their way out. “Where'd you say? This door, here?”

“Yep, that's the one.” Fletcher looked behind him, at the officers still going up and down the stairs. “I'm rather busy at the moment, so you ladies just mosey in an' take your time about eyeballin' the thing. It's leaning up against the far wall as you enter. The light's shining on it, so you'll get a grandstand view. Lem'me know what ya think, later.”

—O—

Inside, the room proved to be a large wide square space with another floor-length panorama-window. As Fletcher had rightly said, sunlight poured through this to illuminate, standing upright and leaning slightly backwards against the far wall, the subject of the whole affair—Gustave Moreau's ‘ Sappho on Leucadia '.

As an oil painting it certainly lived up to type. Just over three feet wide, in its wooden frame, and standing somewhat over five feet high, it had a powerful presence. This was not, however, because of its size, but on account of the scintillating colour emanating from every exposed inch of its surface. Having only seen the colour photos, which in no way did the real thing justice, Alice and Fiona were overwhelmed by the actuality. Colour is one thing; but colour as applied to a work of art by a master of Moreau's capability, broke through all rules of science and mind.

In subject it represented the famous Ancient Greek poetess Sappho. Much of the left foreground was taken up with a steep sea-shore cliff, rising from the bottom of the frame and reaching three-quarters of the height of the painting; surmounted by the darkly painted silhouettes of massed trees and bushes. The right-hand side was mostly filled with a sea/sky scape. The sea, in the lower sixth of the painting surface, a deep browny-gold; rising, in the sky above, to layers of orange, gold, cream, and green; their individual colours blazing out at the viewer, and their surface texture ridged and broken as if by bare fingers instead of brushes.

The main subject, set amidst this riot of rainbow forces, was the figure of the poetess herself; apparently standing, for it was difficult to see fine details in the broadly painted work, on the edge of the cliff. She held a Greek harp in her left hand, and was dressed in a bright scintillating red peplos which clung in form-revealing waves round her body and fell rippling to her ankles. Her right hand was raised to the harp's strings, while her face stared up at the multi-coloured sky. Her stance was slightly leaning forward, as if she contemplated some imminent movement; though again it was hard to say if this forward motion had actually begun, or not. Her face was pale, sad, and curiously expressionless. What she had in mind the viewer could only surmise; there seeming to be an aura of looming, but checked, movement empowering her body. The innate character of the painting shone out, for anyone of taste enough to appreciate such a work of genius; which this clearly was. Looking at it, and exchanging awed glances, Alice and Fiona realised they were in the presence of one of the great art works of modern times.

“ Jeez , it ain't what I expected.” Fiona's low voice held all the wonder and surprise such a work could engender in its audience. “Nothing like the photos. Nothing.”

“It's beautiful.” Alice shook her head, gazing from top to bottom of its surface. “It's so colourful; so perfectly designed; see how the woman's body seems just right, though it's not quite as strongly drawn as you're used to? And the colour; I've never seen an oil painting that could radiate such an—an intensity of colour. The colour's part of the whole experience; it plays its own part, d'you see?”

“Yeah, I see. It's the most beautiful painting I've ever come across.” Fiona stood immobile, absorbing its every detail. “Gustave knew what he was doing, that's for sure. Al, I take back everything I've said about it; this is a thing of beauty, an' a joy forever. Mrs Larriday should be proud to own it.”

“I think she is, Fay, I think she is.” Alice turned to her paramour to hold her hand tightly. “Remember how strongly she made it plain she wanted it returned? How we could ever have suspected her, I don't know. It's a lesson, an' no mistake. I think she really loves this painting, an' I don't blame her one little bit.”

“Well, looks as if the show's finally over.” Fiona turned to the woman whom she most loved in all the world. “All that's left is to go over to Mrs Larriday's; give her the good news; grab our check; an' then look out a bookstore on our way back t'the office. Don't know about you, but I wan'na find out more about Sappho, an' old Gustave. I need'ta hit the shops for a new jacket, anyway; this one's been perforated. How's that sound, Al?”

“Works for me, lover.” She glanced at her watch; into Fiona's eyes; then at the painting again. “That is one mighty fine piece. Knocks most everything else I've ever seen into a cocked hat. Come on, we better drag ourselves away; the boys in blue'll be all over this room in a few minutes, an' I don't think they'll be much interested in the finer aspects of Art. You wan'na drive?”

“Sure thing, baby.” Fiona hugged her partner, an arm encircling the smaller woman's shoulders; while, in the temporary privacy of the otherwise empty room, she leaned down to steal a quick kiss. “Love ya, lady.”

“Likewise, doll.” Alice laughed gently as they left the room to go back into the busy hall. “Sappho? I mean, they'll have translations, I hope? We won't have'ta learn Ancient Greek, surely?”

“Don't be silly, of course there'll be translations.” Outside Fiona held her partner's arm, helping her climb into the passenger seat of the Plymouth. “Right, the only question left is one of vital importance.”

“What's that, then?”

“Only who's gon'na pay for these books on art an' ancient poetry. You, or me? I vote you.”

“In your dreams.” The car had climbed back up from the seashore and, under Fiona's hands, was now speeding along Ocean Boulevard towards Delacote City once more. Alice sniggered quietly. “If I pay now; you'll pay later.”

“What does that mean?”

“I pay for the books; you give me a long slow oil-massage tonight.” Alice purred, like a well satisfied cat. “I just love oil-massages.”

“D'ya know, I think I can manage that, Al. It'll be a chore, but I'll steel myself to it, out'ta necessity.”

“Idiot. Hey , watch the road, you're driving much too fast, as usual.”

“Sorry.”

“I'll forgive you this once, Princess. Sandalwood oil.”

“What?”

“Sandalwood, my favourite oil. O'course, you buy it; wouldn't be fair on me, otherwise, would it?”

“God, dames. I don't know why I bother.”

Alice had the answer to that simple question.

“Because you love me, Fay. Is that right?”

“Surely do, sweetheart, surely do.”

Alice leaned over and, at the risk of a serious accident, placed a long gentle kiss on Fiona's cheek which said everything that needed to be said, as the Plymouth headed on along the wide highway, now running straight and true for Delacote City and their home.

The End

—O—

To be continued in the next instalment of the ‘ Drever & Cartwright ' series.

—OOO—

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