Page 40 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I have.”

“So what are you doing here at this hour of the morning?”

“I’m only working part-time,” I said, and explained the circumstances that had led me to his doorstep this muggy July day. “I’ve got a couple of Polaroids here. What I’d like you to do is identify a couple of Picasso prints for me. Tell me if they’re originals and, if so, how much they’re worth.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“The cops not hassling you for a few months? For instance, over the expired road tax on your Merc?”

“Show me the Polaroids,” he said.

I showed him the pictures of the two Picasso prints in Mr. Townes’s house.

“Oh, these are nice!” Archie said. “Come in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

I went inside Archie’s house, which was stuffed with vases, paintings, and bric-a-brac. If I were a cop on the robbery squad, I could have made two great arrests in the previous twelve hours: last night in the Nazi guy’s house, and this morning with all this gear.

But I had bigger fish to fry.

Archie went into the kitchen to make the tea while I flicked on the telly and caught the news. Trouble in Belfast, trouble in Derry—same old, same old.

Archie came in with a tray.

Tea, biscuits, Archie admiring the Polaroids.

“Well?” I asked.

“Like I say, these are lovely.”

“Can you tell me about the provenance?”

“Not from a photo. If you could show me the real thing...”

“Have you got five minutes? I could run you over to the crime scene.”

“Okay.”

Beemer down Victoria Road to the Belfast Road. Good morning to the constable guarding the house. Through the RUC DO NOT CROSS tape and into the living room.

I took Archie to the pictures.

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“These are gorgeous.”

“Genuine?”

He looked at them for a minute and nodded happily. “Without doubt. A hundred percent genuine article.”

“How do you know they’re genuine?”

“If the owner of these got himself murdered, who gets to inherit these little beauties?”

“We’re actually having some trouble tracking the next of kin.”

Archie smiled wickedly. “If you can’t trace any relatives, what happens?”

“I don’t know. Put them up for auction, I suppose?”

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