A Sunny Place Out West - Vol. V

It was a bit of a slow morning. The night prior had been more emotionally taxing than I ever could have imagined. I don’t know how I anticipated making the art deal happen. But I definitely wasn’t planning on getting the go-ahead by way of a childish temper tantrum from the Prime Minister, but that is how it played out, and even though it wasn’t pretty, I got the answer I came for.

Sir Winston Churchill’s original oil paintings were going to be paying a visit to the good ol’ U.S. of A.

I flicked on the T.V. for a little background noise and ordered up some room service and a paper. Since I took care of my business matters more efficiently than scheduled, I hoped to have a relaxing day walking around London. Maybe find a park bench to occupy and open up the latest Ken Follett novel that I had seen on display in a nearby bookstore window.

Ring…Ring…

I wasn’t sure who would be calling my room at this hour, or any hour for that matter, but I picked it up anyways.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Mr. Pritchett?”

“Yes, this is him.”

“Good morning, Mr. Pritchett. How is your stay so far?”

It must be the concierge calling about my order. I never understood when customer service turned into pestering guests with questions. What was I supposed to say? “My stay has been great except having your Prime Minister drunkenly berate me for an hour and you calling me before 8 AM, but other than that, my stay has been just peachy.” That is what I wanted to say…But all that came out was, “Fine. Thanks.”

“Very good, sir. Well, I won’t keep you, but the kitchen staff said you ordered a pot of black coffee, but you didn’t indicate if you wanted regular or decaf?”

You have got to be kidding me. I am coming off of 24 hours of travel and more fingers of Pappy Van Winkle than I wish to remember. But now that I was 70, this seemed to be the most challenging decision people expected me to make.

“Regular, please.”

“Thank you, sir. One-pot of regular coffee will be sent to your room shortly. Would you also like a pot of hot water and our seasonal tea assortment? It would be free of charge, of course.”

What do they think Americans arrive in Europe and start craving tea overnight?

“Uhhh…No, thanks.”

“Very well, Mr. Pritchett. We should be at your door in no more than 10 minutes.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

I took off my Brooks Brothers pajamas and hopped in the shower that evidently was not designed for people that are over six foot three.

Ring…Ring…Ring…

I could hear the muffled sound through my water-logged ears. Could it possibly be that difficult to make a pot of coffee? I went ahead and let it ring. I didn’t move quite as quickly as I used to when roaming centerfield.

Ring…Ring…Ring…

What did they burn down the kitchen making this pot of coffee? I carefully exited the shower and picked the phone back up. Slightly more annoyed this time.

“Yes?”

“Listen here, you twit!”

What in the world…I distanced the phone from my ear before I broke a drum.

“Excuse me?”

I didn’t realize turning down the seasonal tea assortment would be taken so poorly.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Griff. You know exactly what you did! I should have never trusted you, you and that dodgy President you call a friend.”

I could barely believe it, but it sounded like the Prime Minister on the other end of the phone. Oddly, he didn’t seem to be calling to apologize for his behavior last night.

“Mr. Prime Minister?”

“Yes?!”

What a weird guy.

“Mr. Prime Minister, what are you so upset about? If anyone should be upset, it should be me.”

“You know exactly why I’m upset, Griff!”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Chartwell!”

Welp, now I was utterly lost. No wonder governments couldn’t get anything done. We just wanted to borrow a few paintings, and this guy was going to have an aneurysm over it.

“What about Chartwell?”

“You already took all the paintings, and we don’t even have an agreement in writing yet. I know you are a rookie with foreign diplomacy, Griff, but this is not how deals are done.”

I didn’t know what to say. How could the paintings be gone?

“Take a deep breath, Prime Minister. Now, when you say the paintings are gone, what exactly does that mean?”

“I mean what you think I mean, Griff. Workers showed up at the Chartwell house this morning, and it was bare inside. Every last painting already removed courtesy of the US Government.”

“This is a problem.”

I said for lack of something more helpful to add.

“Yeah, you think, Griff!”

Should I tell the Prime Minister that I had no idea where the paintings were? I knew the first 48 hours of any investigation were of great importance. Still, maybe I needed to investigate this for myself before ringing the alarm any louder or at least call the President to see if he had indeed already sent for the paintings. I didn’t think that would be the case considering I hadn’t even told him we got the Prime Minister’s blessing to trade paintings yet.

“GRIFF! Where are the bloody paintings!”

I swear the Prime Minister’s saliva came through the phone. I guess I needed to think faster.

I am so sorry, Mr. Prime Minister. I didn’t expect our administration to pick up the paintings this quickly. Truthfully, I had no idea, but I will handle this right away. We will make sure every last Churchill painting is back at Chartwell before proceeding with paperwork.

“Proceed with paperwork?! Even if you return the paintings in the next ten minutes, who says I would ever trust doing business with this administration ever again.”

“Well, ultimately that’s your decision, Mr. Prime Minister; you are our ally. I would hate to see what would be a historic deal fall through because of paperwork and miscommunication.”

“You stole our prized paintings. Does that seem like “ally” behavior to you?” 

He had a point.

“What if I sent a few paintings from the National Portrait Gallery to Chartwell in advance as a placeholder until we sort this out?”

“Go to hell, Griff.” The Prime Minister hung up the phone.

The Prime Minister’s tone was concerning but not as concerning as the missing paintings, which I had no clue of their whereabouts.

I dialed up my old friend at the front desk.

“Hello again, Mr. Pritchett. I am so sorry for the delay; your coffee is on its way now.”

“You can cancel the coffee order. I am actually calling for a driver.”

“Of course, where would you like to go.”

“Chartwell.”

“Very well, Mr. Pritchett.”

I hung up the phone and grabbed my father’s pocket watch.

Time was of the essence.