“Montezuma himself? How interesting.”
“He has provided a lot of other esoteric information, which I don’t think is particularly relevant, but I did ask him who might own such an item now. He said obviously it might have belonged to a museum in the Americas or Europe. There are also, of course, private collectors. Perhaps the biggest owner of items such as this before the war was the Spanish government.”
“That’s not a surprise to me, Constable. The Spanish conquest of the Aztecs and Incas, Cortes, the Spanish treasure fleet and so on. Easy to forget after the insanity of the Civil War how great and rich a nation Spain once was. But what has all this got to do with a Polish airman?” Merlin stared up at his Goya print. “Any idea how much it’s worth?”
“He couldn’t estimate a value, but thinks it must be worth a bomb.”
As Merlin scratched his nose in thought, Bridges returned. “I’ve tracked down Lieutenant Ross. He was very apologetic. Said he and his subordinates were dragged away to help with some casualties in St John’s Wood. He’s at the mortuary now and can show us the body.”
“Will the warden who discovered it be there?”
“I’ll ring and ask, sir.”
“It would help if he is, Sergeant.”
*
Trubetskoi had asked Evans to be available around lunchtime that day, which proved to be no problem as Stewart’s brigade had been given a day’s much-needed leave.
The routine was the same. The dingy lock-up in Shepherd’s Bush, the cocky cockney duo and some items of surprisingly good quality. Evans gave his view again to Trubetskoi out of earshot of Jake and Billy and got his money again, but remained troubled. On this occasion, he followed the Russian to the end of the street where his driver was waiting as before. After they drove off, Evans hailed a passing taxi and asked him to follow Trubetskoi’s car. As they passed down Kensington High Street, traffic was held up by a fire engine that had somehow toppled onto its side in the middle of the street. Eventually they arrived at Eaton Square and Evans shuddered as they passed the nice place where Blunt and he had stayed on occasional trips up to London. The Russian car turned off the Square and parked by an imposing-looking detached house facing on to Upper Belgrave Street.
It was drizzling as Evans got out of the taxi and he pulled up the collar of his threadbare raincoat. A siren had gone off as they had approached Chelsea and now Evans could see a small group of aircraft above. As he loitered on the pavement opposite the house Trubetskoi had entered, he heard distant explosions from the direction of Whitehall. He ought really to find a shelter, but his experiences of the Blitz so far were hardening him to danger. He decided to wait it out to see whether the house might reveal any secrets.
He was rewarded half an hour later when the door opened and Trubetskoi stepped out onto the pavement with a large, bearded man. Trubetskoi’s driver, who followed them out, looked nervously up at the sky. The bearded man slapped the driver on the back and roared with laughter as he pushed him into the driver’s seat. Then he and Trubetskoi got into the back seat and the car drove away. Evans ran after a passing taxi, but it didn’t stop and he watched the car disappear from view. At least now, he thought, he had some better idea of the people paying him – and ritzy as their location was, Evans was far from reassured about the probity of his new employers.
*