by Heron Carvic
Both her hearers by now were interested; Karl Telmark because he understood something of what she was trying to express; Vee because something in her briefing on this woman had clicked in her memory.
While the banker searched the Alberti work in vain for hidden meanings, “Got some paper on you?” asked Vee.
“Why, yes.” Obediently Miss Seeton produced a sketchbook from her handbag.
“Good. Now try to put down just what it is you see.”
Miss Seeton took a pencil and stood abashed, uncertain. Then suddenly her pencil began to streak across the paper. It was, thought the fascinated Vee, rather like watching somebody engaged in automatic writing. Under Miss Seeton’s flying pencil, in sure strokes, a large black hat took form, beribboned and befeathered; beneath it, voluminous hair; a lady in a fichu; a narrow waist, full skirt; one arm hung down encircled by a diaphanous scarf; her other hand reposed in the crook of the arm of the gentleman coming into shape beside her, in powdered wig and eighteenth-century clothes; behind the pair a tracery of foliage; a few more deft touches and by the lady’s skirt a dog looked up at her.
Miss Seeton was lightly superimposing oblongs, squares and circles on her sketch as Vee looked across the gallery. A fairhaired woman whose animated face and whose style made her outstanding was talking in a group. Their glances met and with a nervous gesture Vee smoothed the back of her own blond mop of hair before returning to her vigilance on Miss Seeton.
Karl Telmark gave up his futile attempt to find significance in the Alberti composition and looked over Miss Seeton’s shoulder. “Good”—he beamed—“now let us see what it is that you remark in this . . . Merde,” he exploded, then apologized. “J’demande pardon, but this—this cannot be true.”
“Well, no,” agreed Miss Seeton, “I’m afraid it’s not, because, even to give any kind of true impression calls for color. And”—sadly she surveyed her sketch—“of course, it’s only very quick and very rough.”
“But I tell you this”—manners lost in agitation, he prodded her drawing with his forefinger—“this is not possible.”
“Nonsense, Karl.” The fair-haired woman had joined them. “All things are possible—it says so in the Bible. Only to us mere mortals some things appear so much more possible than others.”
“Mélie—” The banker tried to collect himself. “Miss Seeton, Miss Galam—Mme de Brillot. Mélie,” he urged, “look.” He indicated the sketch.
Mme de Brillot did: briefly she eyed Miss Seeton’s work; the original on the wall; then Miss Seeton’s impression of it once again. “So clever,” she pronounced, “and the insight—so penetrating. Karl, I have need to telephone. I came to ask if I might use your office.”
“But certainly. You know your way. Forgive me but I must think. There are affairs to which I must attend.”
“Precisely.” She took his arm. “And so you shall escort me. Offices are for thoughts and for attention to affairs.” She turned back and the blue eyes gave Miss Seeton the sensation of being bathed in brilliant, laughing light. “Such a short encounter—it must be corrected.” She slipped a card from her bag. “My address; we will arrange something when Karl is not so occupied with his affairs.” Quickly she impelled the unwilling banker on his way.
Off keel, Karl Telmark paced his office. “Mélie, you don’t understand. It was the Belton Gainsborough that that woman drew—one of the four pictures discovered to have been stolen from the Abbey only the other day. Every gallery and dealer in the world has been notified and she—she drew the Gainsborough as being under the Alberti. Oh”—he tried to laugh it off—“a coincidence, of course—she had seen it somewhere sometime, something brought it to her mind, just coincidence, but I—I cannot take the risk. I will have to close the doors and allow no one to leave until it has been investigated, and above all Alberti must be kept here.” He made for the door.
Amélie de Brillot was perched on the desk; she had dialed and was awaiting an answer. She looked around. “Too late, Karl. Don’t trouble yourself with doors; Alberti is gone.”
He stared at her. “How do you know?”
“Because I saw him leave when Miss Seeton began to examine his pain—” She turned to the telephone. “Allo . . .” She gave a number, adding the word “Urgent.” Again she had to wait. “Sir down, Karl. Nothing will be resolved by marching in circles.” She spoke into the receiver. “Good—” and began to summarize: “Two suspect pictures at the art museum, overpainted. Possibly two more at Hôtel Magnifique, pension in the Rue Melun. Registered there under Elio Mantoni, alias Alberti, artist. Short, just over five foot, slight build, age in the forties, full mouth, brown eyes, heavy eyebrows, thick dark hair average length.”
“Beard and mustache,” hissed Telmark.
She waved him to silence. “If you send a car immediately to the hotel you should be in time to collect the pictures, if there. Possibly Mantoni too. As Alberti, disguises himself with a beard and mustache but is unlikely to be wearing them now.” She lowered the receiver while orders were being given.
Telmark was gaping at her. “Mélie, how do you know all this?”
“By the use of my eyes and such wits as the good God gave me.” The receiver quacked; she lifted it. “Hein?” After a moment she addressed the banker. “Who bought the pictures?”
“An agency, Bertauld (fils) et Laurent.”
“And their principal?” He shrugged. She gave the telephone the name of the agency, adding, “Principal unknown.” The telephone asked a question. No, she replied, they could put one of their own men onto it. She herself did not wish to be involved in any way. In response to another question she laughed. But no, there was no haste with regard to the paintings here. A buyer could not remove a picture from the gallery until the end of the exhibition without permission, which would not be given. And, she advised the instrument, discretion would be wise. If the paintings were innocent no harm was done and if they were, as she suspected, from the Belton collection in England, the less the criminals knew as to how the pictures were recovered and returned, the more confusing it would be and in consequence the more probable that they might make mistakes. She thanked the telephone punctiliously for its speed, for its efficiency and above all for its discretion, replaced the receiver and sprang off the desk. “There; all is arranged and we can return to the gallery.”
Karl Telmark sat watching her. He had known her for some years: the fashionable, witty Mélie de Brillot; she came and went, always at the right place at the right time, in Venice for the season, then probably Rome, Paris for clothes, New York for Christmas—or it might be Japan—and always among the right people; she had a flat here near the Plaine de Planpalais but was seldom there and took many of her meals at the Richesse, where the staff adored her; always smart, always gay and amusing; ever on the move. He remembered once at a dinner party remarking that if anyone wished to get in touch with Mélie quickly they should fire the letter into the air by rocket and whatever jet she was traveling in could collect it in transit.
Now he saw a different woman, who dealt with a matter which should be the prerogative of the police; gave orders which she expected immediately to be obeyed. Who—or what—was she? He had accepted her as she appeared, without thought. Impelled to think, it struck him that she was essentially alone: she had no intimates of whom he knew, but was mostly to be seen among a galaxy of acquaintances, or by herself.
“To whom were you speaking?”
“To whom but to a friend,” she mocked. “Karl”—before he could speak again—“I will conclude a bargain with you. I have saved you an embarrassment, a scandal in the gallery, to be made to look an idiot.” He nodded. “In return you will remember only that you brought me here to telephone, nothing more. Evidently you are too much a gentleman to listen at doors when I am talking in private with a friend. It is agreed?”
He grinned and answered in English, “I suppose I’m stuck with it.”
She laughed delightedly and replied in kind. “Okay. An
d on our way back to join all those very rich, very fashionable, very amusing people—” As though a current had been switched off her vivacity left her: she looked old, tired and embittered; the transformation was as shocking as it was sudden. With a visible effort the current was switched on again and her eyes lit up. “—you shall tell me who has been instructing you in English slang. Not, surely not, your nice Miss Seeton?”
Ruefully Miss Seeton studied her drawing before closing her sketchbook, which years of teaching art had made it second nature for her to carry, and returning it to her bag. “Impossible,” Mr. Telmark had said. Rather an abrupt way of putting it, perhaps, but, yes, it was a very rough jotting. And obviously had conveyed nothing to him of what she was trying to express. But when one’s impression depended so much upon the violent contrast in the abuse and use of color, it was quite justified, she admitted, to say “impossible.” Because, of course, it was. Without it.
She continued her tour of the gallery accompanied by Vee, whose pithy comments on and scurrilous interpretations of the works on display were, she felt, for the most part justified. Miss Seeton began to enjoy herself.
“Now, that I admire.” Miss Seeton and Vee turned: blue eyes sparkled at them. “To dare anything so original as to study the masterpieces at a private view.”
It was that Mrs. de . . . the lady who had given her a card and gone to telephone—with the intriguing face bones. Like a child caught in a misdemeanor, Miss Seeton said hurriedly:
“Miss Galam was explaining them to me.” Vee choked.
“You are an authority, Miss Galam?” asked Karl Telmark.
“Sure. With these”—she waved a hand—“all you need is a filthy mind and no inhibitions and you’re home every time.”
With the return of Mme de Brillot and the director of the museum, other people began to converge upon the group, entailing more introductions.
“How d’you do. . . . Why, yes it’s true. . . . I should have said that one or two were quite disarming. . . .”
“Miss Seeton, Miss Galam—M. and Mme Stemkos.”
“How d’you do?”
“How d’you do?” Very beautiful, of course, but perhaps rather a hard face. That thin mouth. Mrs. Stemkos, Miss Seeton judged, wouldn’t wear well. Mr. Stemkos, she thought, on the other hand, was rather a jolly person. Somehow he brought to her mind Old King Cole in the nursery rhyme. She was relieved that there was no Mr. Librecksin. Knowing what one did, that would have been embarrassing.
“Oh, Ana,” Mme Stemkos called, “you must come and meet Miss Seeton, of whom”—a saccharine smile—“we have all read and heard so much. Anatole Librecksin—Miss Seeton.”
Miss Seeton was duly embarrassed when a swarthy man took her hand and bowed.
“It’s embarrassing,” complained Jonathan Feldman.
The assistant commissioner sighed. This was the third conference on the forged notes, which after all had their own trivial importance—the trifling question as to whether England crashed financially or not—and all any of them ever wanted to discuss was “Should Miss Seeton . . .?” “Shouldn’t Miss Seeton . . .?” “Did she . . .?” “Didn’t she . . .?” “Why . . .?” and “Why not . . .?” Frankly, damn Miss Seeton—or rather damn the people who’d dragged her into this. She was welcome to spread her own peculiar form of disruption abroad, but he had hoped that in her absence they would be free to get on with the job at home. He collected his thoughts and his manners.
“Embarrassing, Mr. Feldman? I’m so sorry.”
“Well, it is. I suppose I can understand her not doing a deal with the Italian police but now she refuses to cooperate with the Swiss police—and that’s got them properly narked.” Sir Hubert caught Chief Superintendent Delphick’s eye and both quickly looked elsewhere. “Not only that, but she won’t even tell Karl Telmark what she’s doing. She either hedges or lies.”
“Miss Seeton never lies.” Delphick was definite. “On the contrary, she takes such pains to be accurate that she’s sometimes almost incomprehensible.”
“Call it what you like—in my book it’s plain lying. Oh, I’ll admit she was helpful over the Belton paintings and naturally Karl’s grateful—and it explains why she went chasing this artist fellow round Italy. But why couldn’t she say so? And why couldn’t she’ve tipped Karl the wink privately instead of making a drama of it in the middle of the gallery? I suppose, as an artist herself, she thinks art’s important, but it’s not, compared to money, and damn it, that’s what she’s being paid for. Karl gave her all the papers to do with the Stemkos joint account: she pretended she didn’t want ’em, and he has a shrewd suspicion that she hasn’t even bothered to read ’em yet. Haven’t you,” he demanded, “got any control over her?”
“None,” said Sir Hubert flatly, “—or very little. Meanwhile, under cover of her flamboyancy, we have in our modest and less spectacular way made some slight progress. Inspector Borden has been delving into Estevel’s background and apart from his political pirouettes, I see from this”—he tapped a report—“that when he has the time to spare from his obligations to the Treasury, he is chairman of Estevel and Conder, Metalcraft, who make”—he referred to the paper again—“carpets. The shares have dropped and the company’s reputed to be in financial difficulties, which doesn’t surprise me, or not unduly, for I’m bound to admit that I find the word ‘carpets’ in such a context somewhat confusing. No, Inspector,” he continued as Borden prepared to elucidate, “allow me to keep my innocence—and the City its peculiar mysteries. Where else could you expect to encounter metal filings transformed by some sleight of machinery into hessian and wool?”
Commander Conway smiled. “Estevel’s firm’s difficulties have had their uses; they gave us a lever.” He glanced at his subordinate, who took over.
“Well, sir, we’ve interviewed Estevel twice so far—once at his office and the other time at his flat. We played it on ‘People were saying . . .’ ‘From information received . . .’ and ‘With a gentleman in his position we thought for his own sake . . .’ The first time he was a bit windy and the second, when he was at home, the wind was blustery. He’s rattled, and given time he’ll break. But time’s what we haven’t got, so the more MissEss can stir things up, the better.”
Fenn stopped doodling on a scratch pad to observe, “She’s doing just that. They tried to shoot her the morning after she arrived in Geneva.” All turned to him. “It was played down—accident, demonstration, what have you—but it was aimed at her. Tolla’s back in Geneva too, and we’re pretty certain it was he who tried to kidnap her that same night. So don’t worry about her end of it—she’s stirring them all right.”
Sir Hubert considered, then summarized: “I don’t think,” he told Jonathan Feldman, “that you need worry about the Stemkos bank papers. Miss Seeton’s very conscientious and I’m sure she’ll get around to reading them.” He thought it better not to comment on what she would make of them. “For the rest: we know she bumped into Tolla at Heathrow, and you tell me she’s recently been introduced to Anatole Librecksin; I would suggest that we can leave it to her personality and their consciences to—er—take it from there.”
Anatole Librecksin was in a temper. All that he had schemed and worked for during the last few years looked now to be in jeopardy. England had so far shown no sign of panic over the forged banknotes. England—where Heracles Stemkos was a popular visitor, treated with deference, honored and sought after, whereas he, the social secretary who had become recognized in other countries as almost the equal of his master if not indeed the better business brain—a legend which Librecksin had been at some pains to foster—was neglected in this same England as of no account, a mere secretary and, as he had more than once overheard, dark-skinned at that. The new masters to whom he had sold his allegiance were becoming impatient at the lack of reaction on the London Stock Exchange and in the government. He too was impatient, longing to write finis to his calculated affair with Natalie Stemkos before her husband inevitably got w
ind of it. He and Natalie had salted away plenty, which was by now safely banked in his name—he had played his part well in regard to her and the silly trollop trusted him—but he would need more than just plenty from the moment when things were unmasked. Setting yourself up in another country in the manner in which he intended took vast quantities of cash. This was why, once he had agreed to act as representative for a consortium of international financiers acting in their own interests but with the connivance and for the profits of their respective governments and they had put him in touch with Xerxes Tolla and his smuggling organization for the main distribution of the notes, he had, on learning more of the man, arranged to go in with him privately on two minor swindles. First, a double swindle over Natalie’s jewelry: she was to have her baubles stolen while in Paris, claim the insurance and turn the money over to him for safekeeping. Even she did not know that although the colored stones still remained, he had removed all the diamonds, replacing them with zircons, and that those same diamonds were now safely packaged and bestowed under her name in the vault at the Banque du Lac until such time as he felt it safe to ask her to remove them. Shortly, through an intermediary in Paris, arranged by Tolla, the jewelry would be discovered and as extra pocket money to cover their expenses they could claim such reward as the insurance company was prepared to pay. Second, the picture thefts: he had offered to find a buyer, thus saving Tolla trouble. In fact he himself had bought the pictures through an agency in Stemkos’ name, intending to resell them later at a profit in America. If things went wrong Stemkos would bear the brunt since all had been done ostensibly by his orders while Anatole, as social secretary, could plead ignorance. But if matters went as planned he would have disappeared before they broke wide open and in the breaking Stemkos would be broken—gratuity which would satisfy his jealousy of his employer and redress imagined slights. For Stemkos, Librecksin knew, would feel some moral responsibility and would attempt repayment of the banks, leaving himself discredited and without money but with Natalie—and a worse fate no man could wish him.