office before seven, even if the light was still shining under the commander’s door.
He gathered his thoughts as he read about an ingenious scheme a petty forger had come up with to supplement his income. By the time he’d reached the last page, William realized he was going to have to visit a number of bookshops in the West End if he hoped to catch the thief red-handed. He warned DCI Lamont, who was preoccupied with the hunt for an international jewel thief, that he was about to do some good old-fashioned leather-bashing and might not be back by close of play.
William decided to start at Hatchards on Piccadilly, where the manager—he checked the name again—Peter Giddy, had made the original complaint.
He left Scotland Yard, and headed for the Mall—as he passed Buckingham Palace he couldn’t help feeling chastened at his attempt to call Liz—then on up St. James’s to Piccadilly, where he passed through a doorway under which three royal warrants were proudly displayed. William asked a woman on the front counter if he could see Mr. Giddy.
Once the manager had checked William’s warrant card, he took him up to his office on the fourth floor and offered him a cup of coffee.
“What made you suspicious in the first place?” asked William, as he sat down and opened his notebook.
“I wasn’t suspicious to begin with,” admitted Giddy. “After all, Churchill was a politician, so would have signed a great number of his books. However, it’s quite rare to come across a complete set of his The Second World War with all six volumes signed. But when I spotted a set in Heywood Hill, and then just a week later another set in Maggs, I began to have my doubts.”
“Can you recall anything in particular about the man who offered to sell you the books?” asked William.
“Fairly nondescript. Sixty, sixty-five, gray hair, slightly stooped, average height and with an accent you could cut with a knife. In fact, a typical Hatchards customer.”
William smiled. “I assume he didn’t tell you his name.”
“No. Said he didn’t want the children to find out he was selling a family heirloom.”
“But you would have had to make out a check?”
“In normal circumstances, yes, but he insisted on cash. He turned up a few minutes before we closed, well aware that the till would be full.”
“How much would an unsigned set of the books sell for?”
“A hundred pounds if they all had their original dust jackets.”
“And a signed set?”
“Three hundred, possibly three-fifty if they were in mint condition.”
“May I ask how much you paid for them?”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds.”
“So our man could have picked up an unsigned set for about a hundred pounds, added the six signatures, and made a profit of a hundred and fifty. Not exactly the great train robbery,” said William.
“I agree,” said Giddy, clearly not amused. “But if one of our customers were to find out that we’d sold them a forgery, and the press got hold of it, we could lose our Royal Warrant.”
William nodded. “Do you think he’ll come back?”
“Not a chance. He won’t risk trying to pull off the scam a second time in the same bookshop. And frankly, there are enough of us out there to keep him going for years.”
“So where do you think I should begin?”
“I can give you a list of bookshops that specialize in signed first editions,” said Giddy, opening a drawer in his desk and handing over a slim pamphlet.
“Thank you,” said William, flicking through the pages.
“Don’t worry, there are at least a dozen within a mile of here,” said the manager, as he accompanied William to the lift.
Detective Constable Warwick spent the rest of the day tramping from bookshop to bookshop, and soon discovered that the Churchill forger was an industrious individual. When he wasn’t buying, he was selling. The kind of cottage industry the government was so keen to encourage.
Every one of the managers promised to let him know if a man fitting that description offered them a signed set of Churchill’s The Second World War, but they all agreed with Giddy that it was unlikely he would appear in the same shop a second time.
“If he does show up, please call me at Scotland Yard, 230 1212. I’m on extension 2150,” said William, before moving on to the next shop.
William didn’t stop his inquiries until the last door closed behind him at six o’clock. He took the tube to Victoria, then jogged all the way back to Trenchard House.