The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel by Roger Silverwood Page B

his writing.’
    ‘Mecca? Was he foreign?’
    ‘Don’t know. There the trail ends.’
    Angel shook his head and rubbed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. ‘Are we to assume then, that wherever the candle-snuffer came from, this collection of church silver and treasures will be there also?’
    ‘I think so, hopefully. Don’t you?’
    ‘And what sort of value are these … treasures?’
    ‘Priceless, Michael. Absolutely priceless. The candle-snuffer was one of the least valuable of the items. Don’t bother trying to put a figure on them. Whatever you or I thought, the next appraisal would probably double it, and the one after that might very well multiply it by ten. It’s just a big, big … telephone number.’
    ‘That much?’
    Elliott said, ‘You didn’t tell me how you came by it.’
    ‘No. A thief dropped it as she was climbing over the wall of a house.’
    ‘A man?’
    ‘A girl.’
    ‘You’ve searched the house?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘ What ?’ he screamed.
    Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. He knew that Elliott would think him incredibly stupid.
    ‘Why not, for god’s sake?’
    Angel sniffed. ‘I have a little … local difficulty,’ he said.
     
    The phone rang.
    He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’
    It was DS Crisp on the line. He sounded in trouble. He was talking fast and breathlessly. ‘I’m in the gents at the Imperial Grand, sir. I’ve found her.’
    Angel’s head lifted, his eyes front and centre. He didn’t believe it. ‘The girl with the tattoo?’
    ‘Yes. She’s a countess. Contessa Radowitz. The thing is … I am trying to hold on to her with a drink at the bar.’
    Angel sighed. ‘Well, don’t leave her, son,’ he snapped. ‘Get back to her before she evaporates with the booze!’
    ‘Yes, sir. I will. I know, but I have no money. Well, not this sort of money anyway. I’ve only twenty pounds. A round of drinks here costs twelve quid!’
    Angel’s face dropped. ‘Daylight robbery.’ He bit his lip. ‘I’ll sort something out. Stay with her. Keep working on her. Find out what you can about Johannson. Phone me at your next opportunity.’
    ‘Right, sir. Got to go.’ The line went dead.
    Angel replaced the phone and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a roll of notes. He counted out ten £20 notes and put the roll back. He pushed the £200 in an envelope and put it into his inside pocket.
    He went down the corridor past the cells and out of the back door. He got in his car and drove to Leeds. He was there in forty minutes. He parked on a meter up Edward Street and walked back the hundred yards to the Imperial Grand Hotel. He went past the reception and porter’s desk, and followed the signs to the bar. It was a big room and busy with lots of noisy people sitting and standing around. He went up to the bar and ordered a fresh orange juice. He had to wait until it was prepared, which suited him fine. It gave him the opportunity to check out the room. There was no sign of Crisp, with or without a girl. He wrinkled his nose.
    The bar girl placed the orange in a long stemmed glass on a paper doyly in front of him. He paid with a note, she came back with his change. He counted it, pulled a face like an undertaker at a pauper’s funeral, dropped the coins in his pocket and carried the glass out through the door into the foyer. He saw an illuminated sign that said ‘Toilets’ and another ‘Lounge’ and meandered into the latter. It was another big room with many easy chairs and settees set around coffee tables. There were about thirty people in there … mostly in pairs. Then he saw Crisp and the young lady, sitting on a settee, talking. There were coffee cups and a cafetière on the table in front of them. Even from that distance Angel thought the girl looked good. Jet black hair. Small, slim. He drifted back into the foyer. By the lift he found space on a tall wooden pedestal with a big vase of flowers on it to rest his glass, then he stood