by Peter Corris
"Mr Cromwell," he said. "Be of good cheer. Georgia has removed all my doubts. I want to sell the bloody thing as much as you do."
Georgia Gee considered herself a professional judge of character with more than twenty years' experience. She made some rapid evaluations: Montague Cromwell—a deceiver, probably of himself as well as others; Jerry—an optimist trying not to be a clinger; Jamie Martin—spent too much time as one of life's deputies, wants to be a sheriff. About Kobi Clarke she had had longer to think, and the result was complete confusion. Her powerful attraction to him was cut across by forces she didn't understand. Was it race, consanguinity, her lifelong distrust of politicians? She was distracted by the warmth of his thigh pressing against hers but she began trying to work out the precise degree of their relationship and the term to cover it.
"You're my second cousin, Georgia," Kobi said suddenly. "I'm not quite sure what I am to you."
Georgia jumped. Christ, can he read minds too? She nodded, looked out the window and absorbed not one detail of the landscape between Heathrow and Marble Arch.
Montague had booked Kobi and Georgia into the Cumberland Hotel. Both had been in London before and they quickly deflected Montague's inanities about seeing the sights.
"We're here on business, Mr Cromwell," Georgia said. "Let's . . ."
"Monty, please."
". . . see the picture, Monty."
"And meet your son, Monty," Kobi said.
"Out of town on business," Montague mumbled.
"And there's Mr Faraday," Kobi said. "I'm not quite clear about him, I must say. Does he have an interest?"
"Not exactly," Jamie said. He explained Faraday's concerns and hopes succinctly.
"I see," Kobi said. "Well, we'll have to think about that."
Kobi stroked the skin beside his right eyebrow and Georgia noticed a star, very small, faintly tattooed near the corner of the eye. She felt a thrill run through her and was suddenly very glad that their rooms were on different floors. If he was next door, she thought, I'd be kicking a hole in the wall.
"What's the media interest been like?" Georgia said, struggling to stay professional.
"Considerable," Montague said, "but I've kept them at bay. You don't want the tabloid stuff—'Lost Turner found in junkyard' and so on."
"Don't we?" Kobi said. "Why not?"
"Doesn't do. A Turner is a national treasure, it shouldn't be babbled about by hacks who wouldn't know a Constable from a Sargent." Montague smiled at the joke, which he'd made many times before. "No. I've lined up an interview for you with the art critic from The Times. Very knowledgeable chap."
Georgia had the working journalist's suspicion of experts. "But can he write?"
"Yes, indeed."
Kobi Clarke took Georgia's arm. "Right, well, lead on, Monty. Where d'you keep the Bentley?"
"Jag, actually," Montague said.
"That'll do nicely."
The party left the hotel lobby. Montague found himself ushering Kobi and Georgia through the door like royalty, but he moved swiftly to exit before Jamie and Jerry.
"Monty's not going to put anything over on him," Jerry said.
Jamie nodded. "Suddenly I feel a whole lot better about this. I think Montague and Ben are going to have to watch their steps very carefully with Dr Clarke."
50
'Harwich Seascape' was being kept under lock and key at a Belsize Park gallery in which Montague Cromwell had an interest. Kobi Clarke looked the building over carefully before he consented to go through the deserted display areas to the back room, which had an old fire door. Montague fiddled with a dial mounted on the door; after a time he managed to get a satisfactory click as the opening lever slid into a housing. The stiff hinges yielded to a hard push and the door opened. He reached through and flicked on a light. The only natural light in the room filtered in dimly through a barred window of reinforced glass. Montague cocked his ear.
"Hear that hum? Temperature-controlled. Very important."
"How was the temperature in the box room?" Georgia said.
Kobi smiled. "Can't say I think much of the door, but I'm more concerned about hands-on security. Watchmen, patrols and so forth."
Montague carefully extinguished his cigar before proceeding further into the room. "No problems here."
"Oh, come on!" Georgia said. "Let's see it."
Montague selected a key from a couple fastened to his watch chain and unlocked a large cabinet that occupied most of the space inside the room. He reached inside and carefully extracted a rectangular object wrapped in a grey cloth. "Wait a moment," he said. "Who's here?"
Jerry spoke from the doorway. "You, me, Dr Clarke and Ms Gee. Jamie's gone off to check on something."
"I wonder what," Kobi Clarke murmured. "Anyway, I'm glad to see you're security-conscious, Monty. Well, as Georgia says, let's see it."
Montague unwrapped the painting and set it on an easel at about eye level. The picture was about a metre square but gave an impression of much greater size. The details—waves and clouds, rocks and beach—were not insisted upon as separate things but seemed to be intimately related and harmonious. As Georgia looked at the canvas, the streaks of blue, cream and red that defined the sea, sky and sand seemed to draw and concentrate the light in the room.
"What wonderful colours," Jerry said.
Georgia had read up on Turner a little. She recalled now Kenneth Clark's remark that Turner's use of colour to define reality and reveal truth was a revolution in sensibility. 'Harwich Seascape', with its totally compelling combination of solidity and airiness, showed her what Clark had meant. She was stunned and felt herself drawn closer. The paint was thin and lightly textured, but the sky and sea had an impression of depth and immensity.
"A fine work," Montague Cromwell said pompously.
Kobi Clarke nodded. He had little feeling for European art. A finely carved death mask from Buka excited him more, but he could feel something for this.
Georgia sneezed. The room was dusty and there seemed to be a draught coming from one of the corners. She sneezed again, wiped her eyes and wasn't sure whether the sneezing or the painting had made her feel tearful. "It's beautiful," she said. "It shouldn't leave England."
Montague sniffed and brushed some dust from a corner of the simple frame. "That remains to be seen, my dear. If the custodians of the nation's heritage think it worth their while . . ."
Jerry was busily giving the painting literary associations—Coleridge, Wordsworth. She wished that Jamie could have been there to see it with her, but he'd rushed off almost as soon as they'd left the hotel. She wondered if she could ever write a novel good enough to deserve a reproduction of the painting on the dust jacket. She found herself saying, "It'd look wonderful on a book."
Kobi laughed. "We all have our dreams, eh, Ms Gallagher? What does Mr Cromwell the Younger think of the painting?"
"Oh, Ben's seen enough of it," Montague said. "He's photographed it, measured it, X-rayed it and so on."
"Why?" Jerry said.
"Insurance," Montague said. He rewrapped the picture reverentially and restored it to the inner recesses of the cabinet. "Back to bed," he said. "It won't be long now."
Over drinks in Montague's den in Cheyne Walk, Georgia and Kobi were given the details of the search for the Gullivers, shown the documents and presented with sheaves of legal papers to sign. Georgia leafed through the papers impatiently and accepted a second of Monty's large Scotches. Kobi worked his way slowly through the release forms, agreements and terms of sale necessary to the disposal of a multi-million-pound object. He sipped a weak Scotch and water slowly.
"Seems to be in order," he said finally. "I've got a legal chap calling around tomorrow morning to take a look. If he's happy, I'm happy. Georgia?"
Georgia shrugged. "Ill be guided by you. I'd like to meet Mr Faraday, though. I'm a journalist too, don't forget. I want to make sure he doesn't scoop the pool with this thing."
Montague Cromwell beamed. "Tonight
," he said. "We all meet for dinner at a little place I know. I'm sure your legal adviser will be happy, Dr Clarke."
"Kobi."
Montague's smile widened. "Kobi. Excellent. All friends, eh? A wonderful story, isn't it? Tragic about John and Catherine Gulliver and poor Susannah, of course."
"Not so hot for Juan, either," Georgia said. She was wondering what plans Kobi might have for the remainder of the afternoon.
"No," Kobi said. "And Mikhail's in a ticklish spot, isn't he? They're my cousins, d'you realize? We might go on a lecture tour together one day. Revolutionaries and dissidents. What do you think, Monty?"
"I don't think the idea'd appeal to Lou Faraday," Montague said.
Kobi laughed. "We're a motley lot, to be sure. Russians and Yids, dagoes and niggers."
Montague Cromwell looked uncomfortable and offered more drinks.
Kobi refused and stood. "Georgia, want to share a cab to the hotel? Perhaps you could call one for us, Monty? And write down the name of your little place. Let me guess, Italian?"
Montague's broad smile was back in place. "Yes, Italian. Here, I've got their card. Are you sure you wouldn't like a lift back to the hotel?"
"Quite sure," Kobi said. "Georgia and I have lots of things to talk about in private."
Montague rinsed glasses and nibbled at the nuts and olives his guests had ignored. Randy pair, he thought. Could hardly wait to get down to it. Well, he'd done everything Ben had said to do and not put a foot wrong as far as he knew. He poured his fourth drink in an hour and sipped it. He'd always drawn the line at certain things—violence for one, blackmail for another. But he was uncomfortably aware that Ben's standards might not be his. Where did Jamie Martin disappear to?
Montague shifted uneasily. His collar and belt felt tight, although he'd been dieting lately. He had two disquieting thoughts as his digestion struggled to cope with the what Ben was up to. Secondly, he felt that Kobi Clarke would be able to read Ben like a book. Bloody savage, he thought.
Georgia settled back beside Kobi in the taxi, glad of her warmly lined coat and the small glow the whisky had given her. "Kobi," she said, "I feel there's something fishy here."
"I feel it too. What would the right word be for Monty? Plausible?"
"That'd be kind. He's a transparent rogue. I wonder what the son's like?"
Kobi grunted. "I suppose we could find out privately, but there isn't a lot of time. Martin and Jerry Gallagher seemed altogether better types, didn't you think?"
"Yes, definitely. Before Jamie left he said he'd ring in the morning. There's something he wants to tell us. I have the feeling that it's about the Cromwells."
"Good," Kobi said.
"Well, let's not beat about the bush," Georgia said. "What are you going to do with the money? It's funny, but I feel I can ask you."
Kobi laughed. "Yes, you can. Do you know anything about the Loluru Society?"
"I've heard of it of course, but the Australian press reports are pretty garbled. I hesitate to use the words."
"Cargo cult?"
Georgia nodded.
"There's elements of that, I suppose, but it's really a much more sophisticated movement—part political party, part secret society, part church. Strictly speaking, I should turn all the money over to the movement."
"Ah. That's hard."
"It wouldn't have been a few years ago, but things have changed. I've become politically sceptical and personally insecure."
"You don't seem insecure."
One of Kobi's thick black eyebrows lifted. "I wouldn't want to bore you with the whole story. I want the money in order to give something back to people my mother's family have been exploiting for years. It's partly political, partly personal. I want it badly and the wanting makes me suspicious of our Mr Cromwell. I can feel he wants some thing too. Possibly we want the same money. Your turn now."
Georgia told him about the idea for the independent magazine in Sydney. She became heated on the subject of media monopolies. "So the money's important to me, too."
"Suddenly, it feels as if we're all a lot of pigs sticking our noses into a trough . . ."
"Come on," Georgia said. "It's not . . ."
Kobi put his hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound like that. We Melanesians don't feel the way you do about pigs. Wrong choice of words. Sorry."
That was when Georgia Gee was sure that she was in love with Kobi Clarke. She reached for his hand and squeezed it. He returned the pressure and they sat in silence while the taxi swished along the wet streets and crawled when it struck heavy traffic. Georgia glanced at his intent, clean-featured profile; she realised that she had a serious wish to touch his slanting eyes with her fingertips and pass her tongue between his slightly protuberant lips. She shivered and Kobi caught the movement.
"Cold?"
"No. I'd be happy to listen to the whole story, as you call it. I've been around; I know a few things. I've seen some people trying to climb down off the hook."
The taxi turned into Oxford Street and Kobi felt in his pocket for money. He hadn't much; some savings from his parliamentary salary and a few payments from the makers of TV political documentaries. Giving an interview on Vanuatu's neutral political stance in return for the airfare to Britain had been humiliating. He was glad that Montague Cromwell was footing the bill at the Cumberland. "I'm going to take you up on that," he said. "I'll talk your ear off if I start. Jet lag or no jet lag. D'you feel any jet lag, Georgia?"
"No," she said. "And I like to hear you talk."
"You'll have to talk, too. Something's eating you, will you tell me what it is?"
"Perhaps." Loneliness is so banal, she thought. How can I say, 'I've always felt like an orphan'? I'll have to think up something more exotic.
Kobi paid the driver and held the door for her. Heavy rain was falling and they hurried for the Cumberland's stately Victorian entrance. When they reached it Georgia found herself pressed against him, ducking her head into his shoulder against a squally blast. He put his arm around her and they passed into the lobby locked together. Kobi fumbled in his pocket.
"I can't find the bloody card thing," he said. "I've probably put it in with the American Express and all that other rubbish by habit. I prefer a key."
Georgia flourished the light plastic oblong that opened the door to her room. "Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud. These are fun."
Kobi bent and kissed her. He tasted the rain on her lips and he felt her mouth open under the pressure. The marbled and tiled lobby of the Cumberland was busy with tourists checking in and departing, lodging valuables in safety boxes and booking cabs and theatre seats, but they didn't notice.
Georgia drew back a fraction; she saw the sweat on his upper lip and felt his excitement. "God," she said. "Let's use my card and go to bed. We can do all this bloody talking later."
51
A series of meetings with film and television people in New York and Los Angeles had changed Lou Faraday. His soft Californian accent had taken on an aggressive, east coast edge. Wealth and success were his for the taking. He had decided that 'indecision' was the worst word in the dictionary. He waved his fork. "This is great veal, Monty. You sure know how to look after yourself. Great little place too."
"Great," Rachel echoed. She had dressed up for the occasion; she wore a low-cut cloth-of-gold dress that fitted her spectacular shape exactly. A silk jacket in a tiger skin pattern hung over the back of her chair. Her hair was frizzed out in a giant Afro and she wore a pale lip gloss that made her mouth sharklike in her dark face.
Montague Cromwell inclined his head graciously. The dinner was a great success. Georgia and Kobi, who virtually reeked of sex, were easily entertained. Ben and Jamie, who might have lent an antagonistic note to the proceedings, were absent. Jerry was in green, looking Irish and imaginative. Lou Faraday's account of the Stanford writing programme had excited her, and he had some good tips on getting published in the New Yorker. To Montague's relief, Faraday hadn't clashed wi
th either Georgia or Jerry over rights to the Gulliver story.
"There's plenty for everyone, right?" he'd said as Rachel had slipped off the tiger skin jacket.
"Right," Rachel said. "As long as you get in with the movie deal first."
Montague, watching the unveiling of chocolate-coloured skin, had scarcely heard the reply, but he'd felt the easing of tension.
"We don't have a problem with the Bolivia angle," Lou Faraday said as Monty poured more rosé. "In fact it's a big plus." He laughed and sipped some wine. "Great. I think they must've just plain forgotten about him down there. Anyway, Amnesty International's like motherhood, everyone believes in it."
"Not me," Rachel said. She was puzzled. This big dude from cannibal land's got a lot of stuff she thought. But he was less interested in her than his bread stick. The woman regarded by Rachel as on the way to grandmotherhood had all his attention. She shrugged mentally. So he likes crow's feet.
"The Russian's a bit of a worry," Montague murmured.
"Why is that?" Kobi Clarke's voice cut cleanly through the restaurant hubbub.
Five pairs of eyes came to rest on Montague, who lit a cigar to buy himself time.
"I had every confidence in Ben and his helper, Mr Martin," Montague said, avoiding Jerry's eyes, "and in the good sense of Kobi and Georgia. I have to admit that I booked an auction date at Westerby's some time ago."
"When for?" Lou said.
"Two weeks from now. It's long enough to get the story in the papers and for Westerby's to do what they're good at. Which is spread the word among the well-heeled."
"You're my kinda guy," Rachel breathed.
Montague beamed and puffed his corona. "Thank you, my dear. As I say, though, the Russian could be a problem."
"Call him Mikhail," Jerry said.
Montague nodded. "As you wish. Mikhail, understandably, wants to remain anonymous. I gather the Soviet government wouldn't take kindly to one of its citizens inheriting a fortune in the West."