Jack’s eyes moved across to the switchboard. One lever was up, illuminating a flickering orange light, indicating that the line was busy. He must have cut Leapman off from any hope of contacting the outside world. Jack looked down at the desk where Fenston would have been sitting when he planned the whole operation. He’d even written out a list to make sure he didn’t make a mistake. All the clues were there for the NYPD to gather and evaluate. If this had been a Columbo investigation, the switch, the handwritten list left on the desk, and the timing of the alarm going off would have been quite enough for the great detective to secure a conviction, with Fenston breaking down and confessing following the last commercial break. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a made-for-TV movie, and one thing was certain: Fenston wasn’t going to break down and would never consider confessing. Jack grimaced. The only thing he had in common with Columbo was the crumpled raincoat.
Jack heard the elevator doors open and the words, “Follow me.” He knew it had to be the cops. He turned his attention back to the screen on the desk as two uniformed officers marched into Fenston’s office and began to question the four witnesses. The plainclothes men wouldn’t be far behind. Jack walked out of the adjoining office and headed silently toward the elevator. He’d reached the doors when one of the cops came out of Fenston’s office and shouted, “Hey, you.” Jack jabbed at the down button and turned sideways, so the officer couldn’t see his face. The moment the doors opened, he quickly slipped inside. He kept his finger pressed on the button marked L and the doors immediately closed. When they opened on the ground floor thirty seconds later, he jogged past reception, out of the building, down the steps, and headed in the direction of his car.
Jack jumped in and started the engine, just as a cop came running around the corner. He swung the car in a circle, mounted the sidewalk, drove back onto the road, and headed for St. Vincent’s Hospital.
“Good afternoon, Sotheby’s.”
“Lord Poltimore, please.”
“Who shall I say is calling, madam?”
“Lady Wentworth.” Arabella didn’t have to wait long before Mark came on the line.
“How nice to hear from you, Arabella,” said Mark. “Dare I ask,” he teased, “are you a buyer or a seller?”
“A seeker after advice,” replied Arabella. “But if I were to be a seller . . .”
Mark began to make notes as he listened to a series of questions that Arabella had obviously prepared carefully.
“In the days when I was a dealer,” Mark replied, “before I joined Sotheby’s, the standard commission was 10 percent up to the first million. If the painting was likely to fetch more than a million, I used to negotiate a fee with the seller.”
“And what fee would you have negotiated, had I asked you to sell the Wentworth Van Gogh?”
Mark was glad Arabella couldn’t see the expression on his face. Once he’d recovered, he took his time before suggesting a figure, but quickly added, “If you were to allow Sotheby’s to put the picture up for auction, we would charge you nothing, Arabella, guaranteeing you the full hammer price.”
“So how do you make a profit?” asked Arabella.
“We charge a buyer’s premium,” explained Mark.
“I already have a buyer,” said Arabella, “but thank you for the advice.”
9/25
50
KRANTZ TURNED THE corner of the street, relieved to find the pavement so crowded. She walked for about another hundred yards before stopping outside a small hotel. She glanced up and down the road, confident that she was not being followed.
She pulled open the swing doors that led into the hotel and, looking straight ahead, walked past reception, ignoring the concierge, who was talking to a tourist who sounded as if he might come from New York. Her gaze remained focused on a wall of deposit boxes to the left of the reception desk. Krantz waited until all three receptionists were fully occupied before she moved.
She glanced behind her to make sure no one had the same purpose in mind. Satisfied, she moved quickly, extracting a key from her hip pocket as she reached box 19. She turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Everything was exactly as she had left it. Krantz removed all the notes and two passports, and stuffed them in a pocket. She then locked the door, walked out of the hotel and was back on Herzen Street without having spoken to anyone.
She hailed a taxi, something she couldn’t have done in the days when the communists were teaching her her trade. She gave the driver the name of a bank in Cheryomushki, sat in the back, and thought about Colonel Sergei Slatinaru—but only for a moment. Her one regret was that she hadn’t succeeded in cutting off his left ear. Krantz would like to have sent Petrescu a little memento of her visit to Romania. Still, what she had in mind for Petrescu would more than make up for the disappointment.
But first she had to concentrate on getting out of Russia. It might have been easy to escape from those amateurs in Bucharest, but it was going to be far more difficult finding a safe route into England. Islands always cause a problem; mountains are so much easier to cross than water. She’d arrived in the Russian capital earlier that morning exhausted, having been constantly on the move since discharging herself from the hospital.
Krantz had reached the highway by the time the siren went off. She turned to see the hospital grounds bathed in light. A truck driver who made love to her twice and didn’t deserve to die, smuggled her across the border. It took a train, a plane, another three hundred dollars, and seventeen hours before she eventually made it to Moscow. She immediately headed for the Isla Hotel with no intention of staying overnight. Her only interest was in a safety deposit box that contained two passports and a few hundred rubles.
While she was marooned in Moscow, Krantz had planned to earn a little cash, moonlighting while she waited until it was safe to return to America. The cost of living was so much cheaper in the Russian capital than New York, and that included the cost of death: $5,000 for a wife, $10,000 for a husband. The Russians hadn’t yet come to terms with equal rights. A KGB colonel could fetch as much as $50,000, while Krantz could charge $100,000 for a mafia boss. But if Fenston had transferred the promised two million dollars, tiresome wives and husbands would have to wait for her return. In fact, now that Russia had embraced free enterprise, she might even attach herself to one of the new oligarchs and offer him a comprehensive service.
She felt sure one of them could make use of the three million dollars stashed away in a safety deposit box in Queens, in which case she would never need to return to the States.
The taxi drew up outside the discreet entrance of a bank that prided itself on having few customers. The letters G and Z were chiseled in the white marble cornice. Krantz stepped out of the cab, paid the fare, and waited until the taxi was out of sight before she entered the building.
The Geneva and Zurich Bank was an establishment that specialized in catering to the needs of a new breed of Russians, who had reinvented themselves following the demise of communism. Politicians, mafia bosses (businessmen), footballers, and pop stars were all small change compared to the latest superstars, the oligarchs. Although everybody knew their names, they were a breed that could afford the anonymity of a number when it came to finding out the details of what they were worth.
Krantz walked up to an old-fashioned wooden counter, no lines, no grilles, where a row of smartly dressed men in gray suits, white shirts, and plain silk ties waited to serve. They wouldn’t have looked out of place in either Geneva or Zurich.
“How may I assist you?” asked the clerk Krantz had selected. He wondered which category she fell into—the wife of a mafia boss, or the daughter of an oligarch. She didn’t look like a pop star.
“One zero seven two zero nine five nine,” she said.
He tapped the code into his computer, and when the figures flashed up on the screen he showed a little more interest.
“May I see your passport?” was his next question.
Krantz handed over one of the passp
orts she had collected from the Isla Hotel.
“How much is there in my account?” she asked.
“How much do you think there should be?” he replied.
“Just over two million dollars,” she said.
“And what amount do you wish to withdraw?” he asked.
“Ten thousand in dollars, and ten thousand in rubles.”
He pulled out a tray from under the counter and began to count out the notes slowly. “We haven’t dealt in this account for some time,” he ventured, looking up at his screen.
“No,” she agreed, “but you will be seeing a lot more activity now that I’m back in Moscow,” she added without explanation.
“Then I look forward to being of service, madam,” the clerk said, before passing across two bundles of notes neatly sealed in plastic wallets, with no hint of where they had come from and certainly no paperwork to suggest a transaction had even taken place.
Krantz picked up the two wallets, placed them in an inside pocket, and walked slowly out of the bank. She hailed the third available taxi.
“The Kalstern,” she said, and climbed into the back of the cab in preparation for the second part of her plan.
Fenston had kept his part of the bargain. Now she would have to keep hers if she hoped to collect the second two million. She had given a moment’s thought to keeping the two million and not bothering to travel to England. But only a moment’s thought because she knew that Fenston had kept up his contacts with the KGB, and that they would have been only too happy to dispose of her for a far smaller amount.
When the taxi came to a halt ten minutes later, Krantz handed over four hundred rubles and didn’t wait for any change. She stepped out of the cab and joined a group of tourists who were peering in at a window, hoping to find some memento to prove to the folks back home that they had visited the wicked communists. In the center of the window was displayed their most popular item: a four-star general’s uniform with all the accessories—cap, belt, holster, and three rows of campaign medals. No price tag attached, but Krantz knew the going rate was $20. Next to the general stood an admiral, $15, and behind him a KGB colonel, $10. Although Krantz had no interest in proving to the folks back home that she had visited Moscow, the kind of person who could lay their hands on the uniforms of generals, admirals, and KGB colonels could undoubtedly acquire the outfit she required.
Krantz entered the shop and was greeted by a young assistant. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I need to speak to your boss on a private matter,” said Krantz.
The young girl looked uncertain, but Krantz just stared at her until she finally said, “Follow me,” and led her customer to the back of the shop, where she tentatively knocked before opening the door to a small office.
Sitting behind a large wooden desk, littered with papers, empty cigarette cartons, and a half-eaten salami sandwich, sat an overweight man in a baggy brown suit. He was wearing an open-necked red shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been washed for several days. His bald head and thick mustache made it difficult for Krantz to guess his age, although he was clearly the proprietor.
He placed both hands on the desk and looked wearily up at her. He offered a weak smile, but all Krantz noticed was the double-chinned neck. Always tricky to negotiate.
“How can I help?” he asked, not sounding as if he was convinced she was worth the effort.
Krantz told him exactly what she required. The proprietor listened in astonished silence and then burst out laughing.
“That wouldn’t come cheap,” he eventually said, “and could take some considerable time.”
“I need the uniform by this afternoon,” said Krantz.
“That’s not possible,” he said with a shrug of his heavy shoulders.
Krantz removed a wad of cash from her pocket, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, and placed it on the desk in front of him. “This afternoon,” she repeated.
The proprietor raised his eyebrows, although his eyes never left Benjamin Franklin.
“I may just have a possible contact.”
Krantz placed another hundred on the desk.
“Yes, I think I know the ideal person.”
“And I also need her passport,” said Krantz.
“Impossible.”
Another two hundred dollars joined the Franklin twins.
“Possible,” he said, “but not easy.”
Krantz placed a further two hundred on the table, making sextuplets.
“But I feel sure some arrangement could be made,” he paused, “at the right price.” He looked up at his customer while resting his hands on his stomach.
“A thousand if everything I require is available by this afternoon.”
“I’ll do my best,” said the proprietor.
“I feel sure you will,” said Krantz. “Because I’m going to knock off a hundred dollars for every fifteen minutes after”—she looked at her watch—“two o’clock.”
The proprietor was about to protest, but thought better of it.
51
WHEN ANNA’S TAXI drove through the gates of Wentworth Hall, she was surprised to see Arabella waiting on the top step, a shotgun under her right arm and Brunswick and Picton by her side. The butler opened the taxi door as his mistress and the two Labradors walked down the steps to greet her.
“How nice to see you,” said Arabella, kissing her on both cheeks. “You’ve arrived just in time for tea.”
Anna stroked the dogs as she accompanied Arabella up the steps and into the house, while an underbutler removed her suitcase from the front of the taxi. When Anna stepped into the hall, she paused to allow her eyes to move slowly around the room, from picture to picture.
“Yes, it is nice to still have one’s family around one,” said Arabella, “even if this might be their last weekend in the country.”
“What do you mean?” asked Anna apprehensively.
“Fenston’s lawyers delivered a letter by hand this morning, reminding me that should I fail to repay their client’s loan in full by midday tomorrow, I must be prepared to pension off all the family retainers.”
“He plans to dispose of the entire collection?” said Anna.
“That would appear to be his purpose,” said Arabella.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” said Anna. “If Fenston were to place the entire collection on the market at the same time he wouldn’t even clear his original loan.”
“He would, if he then put the hall up for sale,” said Arabella.
“He wouldn’t—,” began Anna.
“He would,” said Arabella. “So we can only hope that Mr. Nakamura remains infatuated with Van Gogh, because frankly he’s my last hope.”
“Where is the masterpiece?” asked Anna, as Arabella led her through to the drawing room.
“Back in the Van Gogh bedroom, where he’s resided for the past hundred years–” Arabella paused– “except for a day’s excursion to Heathrow.”
While Arabella settled herself in her favorite chair by the fire, a dog on each side of her, Anna strolled around the room, reminding herself of the Italian collection, assembled by the fourth earl.
“Should my dear Italians also be forced to make an unexpected journey to New York,” said Arabella, “they shouldn’t grumble. After all, that appears to be no more than an American tradition.”
Anna laughed as she moved from Titian to Veronese and to Caravaggio. “I’d forgotten just how magnificent the Caravaggio was,” she said, standing back to admire The Marriage at Cana.
“I do believe that you are more interested in dead Italians than living Irishmen,” said Arabella.
“If Caravaggio was alive today,” said Anna, “Jack would be following him, not me.”
“What do you mean?” asked Arabella.
“He murdered a man in a drunken brawl. Spent his last few years on the run, but whenever he arrived in a new city, the local burghers turned a blind eye as long as he went on producing magnificent portraits of the Vi
rgin Mother and the Christ child.”
“Anna, you’re an impossible guest, now come and sit down,” said Arabella as a maid entered the drawing room carrying a silver tray. She began to set up for tea by the fire.
“Now, my dear, will you have Indian or China?”
“I’ve always been puzzled,” said Anna taking the seat opposite Arabella, “why it isn’t “Indian or Chinese,” or “India or China”?”
For a moment, Arabella was silenced, saved only by the entry of the butler.
“M’lady,” said Andrews, “there’s a gentleman at the door with a package for you. I told him to take it around to the tradesman’s entrance, but he said he couldn’t release it without your signature.”
“A sort of modern-day Viola,” suggested Arabella. “I shall have to go and see what this peevish messenger brings,” she added. “Perhaps I will even throw him a ring for his troubles.”
“I feel sure the fair Olivia will know just how to handle him,” rejoined Anna.
Arabella gave a little bow and followed Andrews out of the room.
Anna was admiring Tintoretto’s Perseus and Andromeda when Arabella returned, the cheerful smile of only moments before replaced by a grim expression.
“Is there a problem?” asked Anna, as she turned around to face her host.
“The peevish fellow has sent back my ring,” replied Arabella. “Come and see for yourself.”
Anna followed her into the hall, where she found Andrews and the underbutler removing the casing of a red crate that Anna had hoped she had seen for the last time.
“It must have been sent from New York,” said Arabella, studying a label attached to the box, “probably on the same flight as you.”
“Seems to be following me around,” said Anna.
“You appear to have that effect on men,” said Arabella.
They both watched as Andrews neatly removed the bubble wrap to reveal a canvas that Anna had last seen in Anton’s studio.
False Impression Page 30