Quick on the Draw

by Susan Moody

  He opened the envelope. Drew out the sketch of an old man in two colours of chalk. Studied it for a moment. Frowned. Looked hard at me. ‘How …?’ he said. ‘How … Where did you get this?’

  ‘It’s a complicated story,’ I said. ‘But this ended up in the temporary possession of a friend of mine, who felt he had no right to it, and was anxious to return it to its lawful owner – who I believe is you – as soon as it could be arranged.’

  ‘And how did you know that it belonged to me?’

  ‘It was an informed guess, really. There were rumours floating up and down the Grand Canal when I was there, and for a number of reasons, I made an assumption.’

  ‘I very much dislike my private business being turned into the stuff of daily tittle-tattle,’ he said. He seemed nonplussed. He stared down at the drawing, turned it over to examine the back, looked at it once more. ‘To tell the truth, Alexandra, I did not have the slightest idea that it had even been stolen. And who is your so-honest friend who wishes to return this to me?’

  ‘He’s a retired Major, lives near me in south-east Kent.’

  ‘And how did he acquire this?’ He gently tapped the Tiepolo.

  ‘He inherited it from his next-door neighbour.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ He shook his head. ‘I am not following this story at all.’

  ‘I told you it was complicated.’ And made even more so by the fact that now one of the two sketches had been stolen from me. Not that I was about to tell Cesare that.

  ‘Please give me your friend’s name and address,’ he was saying. ‘I would like to reward him for his honesty.’

  I’d been on tenterhooks in case I let slip that there had once been two drawings, not just the one. ‘That would be most kind,’ I said. I piled on the pathos a bit. ‘And as an elderly man living on his army pension, I know how very much he would appreciate it.’

  ‘I have a better idea. Wait here.’ Cesare stood up and made his way to the check-in counter. A little later, he returned with an envelope that looked pretty much like the one I’d been given at my hotel in Venice. ‘Please, give this to your friend.’

  I hefted it. Not anywhere near as thick as the one I’d received, but pretty good all the same. ‘I’d be more than happy to. The poor old boy will be delighted!’ I didn’t think the Major, far as he was from being a poor old boy, would feel too many scruples about accepting it. Now all I had to do was locate the other sketch, return it to the Marchese, and I would be free and clear.

  Meanwhile, I had a book to get on with, some notes to transcribe, and a couple of articles to write.

  I got back to Longbury at around three o’clock and stopped at the fancy baker’s shop – or patissier, as it called itself – to get some sinful pastry to eat with a cuppa. I picked up my mail, groaning slightly to see two auctioneers’ catalogues. I find the best ones very useful as research tools, since they provide an opportunity to winkle out the lesser-known paintings which could come in useful for some of my themed collections, but there had already been some waiting when I returned from Venice, so there was a lot of flicking through to do. I changed into exercise pants and a loose top, intending to put my feet up, and totally chillax. So it was bloody irritating to hear someone knocking gently at my door just as the kettle boiled. So irritating, in fact, that I padded down my little hall without even asking myself how anyone could have entered the building and come up the stairs. Ready to expostulate with my caller, or at least make it clear I did not wish to linger in idle chat, I pulled open the door.

  Outside stood Mrs Gardiner, the old girl who lived on the ground floor of the building and owned two very small, yappy dogs. ‘So sorry to interrupt you,’ she fluted. ‘But I felt I ought to let you know that three days ago, while you were away, someone tried to break in to the building.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The rest of the tenants are aware, but I did undertake to inform you as soon as you returned.’

  ‘That’s most kind. Did this would-be thief actually manage to get in?’

  ‘Not as far as we’re aware. But it behooves us all to be extra vigilant in these lawless times.’

  ‘You are so right, Mrs Gardiner. And how are the dogs?’

  ‘In the very best of health, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Anyway, I urge you to keep eyes and ears open.’

  ‘I shall certainly do so.’ Especially, I thought, closing the door on her, as the intruder was almost certainly after the Major’s sketches.

  Sandro, I wrote, you need to send me a definitive list of all your friends – at least, the ones who attended your Venetian and London dinner parties. Plus all close relatives and anywhere they overlap with any of the others. Plus anyone with any connection to anyone even marginally involved with you or anyone else. Plus whatever you know about Signora Bassano de Giusti. Soonest.

  I tapped the right button and sent the email off to Sandro, hoping that he would respond very soon. We all needed to find a final solution. Discover whether Valentina was the one behind Katy’s death – not to mention my being bonked on the head, knifed and kidnapped. Whoever the culprit was, and Harry (or Jack) notwithstanding, they were a pretty violent crowd, and I felt that the sooner whoever it was had been taken off the streets, the better for all concerned.

  I called DCI Fliss Fairlight once again. ‘Valentina Bassano de Giusti,’ I said, after exchanging preliminaries.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Ever heard of her? Well, no, I’m sure you haven’t. But that pal of yours in Interpol … might he have done?’

  ‘Do you mean the French guy who’s always pinching my bum?’

  ‘Probably. And much good may it do him.’

  Fliss laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with. Any more intel?’

  ‘She’s the mistress of the Marchese de Farnese de Peron who lives in Venice. Got a face I swear she hangs up at night and puts back in the morning. Owns a Bichon Frise—’

  ‘That should come in useful for identification purposes.’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. By the way, it’s great that Sam Willoughby is having such a good time out there in New Zealand. I really thought he’d be bored out of his mind, especially without you around.’

  ‘Don’t know what that means … we’re not an item, you know.’

  ‘No, of course you’re not.’

  ‘Goodbye, Felicity.’ Bitch …

  ‘Goodbye, Alexandra.’

  NINETEEN

  It was a relief to have some time to get on with my work, after the recent excitement and tension. There had been no further word regarding the abduction, nor about Katy Pasqualin’s death. I was able to produce two articles for Darren Carver and submit a third for a prestigious American quarterly. I’d just about prepared all the artwork for my next anthology, plus the text to go with it, ready for submitting to the publisher. With any luck, it should be ready to hit the Christmas market later in the year.

  Not that luck had much to do with it. I worked damned hard to see that I got everything correctly sourced and attributed, and that while there were plenty of familiar paintings, there was also a good sprinkling of less familiar images intended to stimulate and interest those who bought the books.

  It was also time to start thinking about my next anthology. To which end, eight days later I found myself leafing through my backlog of auctioneers’ catalogues, looking for inspiration. What about a travelling theme? Planes and trains and automobiles … with boats, oceans and sailing thrown in? Or extend the idea to embrace all forms of travelling and those who travel? A convincing case for the theme could definitely be made.

  Or there was the perennially fascinating subject of cards, dice, games of chance, so often celebrated on canvas. But perhaps not often enough. Hogarth and the Flemish painters notwithstanding, I wasn’t sure I could gather enough ma
terial to put together a worthwhile production. But it was certainly worth considering.

  I almost didn’t see it at first. Had to turn back several pages. And yes, there it was … a folder of half a dozen small drawings, splayed like a hand of cards. And one of the six items for sale was, as far as I could see, the missing Tiepolo drawing of a beruffed clown in a grotesque carnival mask. It was half-obscured by a black-and-white etching of bare-branched trees beside a stream, but I recognized it at once. No details about any of the other pictures in the file were provided. They were being offered for sale at a small and obscure auction house somewhere in Norfolk in a week’s time, and I instantly knew I would have to attend the sale. It didn’t occur to me for a moment that it wouldn’t turn out to be the Major’s Tiepolo. Or more correctly, Nell Roscoe’s. Or even more correctly, the Marchese’s. The mere fact that I’d even noticed the lot being offered was an unbelievable coincidence – though I knew from experience that most coincidences are. And I had an accustomed eye.

  I tamped down my excitement. This might be the only chance I had of finding out anything more about what had been going on, since the Met had so far drawn a blank on Katy Pasqualin’s death, though they were doing an excellent job of hiding the fact.

  ‘They’re fairly confident that it was the boyfriend,’ Fliss Fairlight had told me recently. ‘It’s just a question of finding enough evidence to prove it. They’ve already brought him in once for questioning and had to let him go. Joy says it’s eggshell time at the moment, with everyone being very wary of having a wrongful arrest suit slapped on them. Can’t afford anything like that nowadays.’

  ‘And it cuts out the old rubber hose option too, I imagine,’ I said.

  ‘Quite. Trouble is the buggers are far too well aware of their rights. It was so much easier in the olden days.’

  ‘You’ll get him in the end,’ I said. ‘You always do.’

  ‘We had a look at that cousin or mistress,’ said Fliss. ‘Valentina di Wotsit and Thingmabob. Jeez, what a piece of work she is. The only question I wanted to ask her was how many hours a day she spends getting herself ready to face the world.’

  ‘Most of them, I suspect.’

  ‘And the really sad thing about it is the world doesn’t give a toss.’

  ‘As long as the guy who’s paying the bills does.’

  ‘Actually, I never thought about it before but it must be damned tiring, being a mistress. Always having to look like a million dollars, whatever you feel like. Never able to spend the holidays with him. Probably not able to get married to anyone else – unless you want to end the relationship, of course. Nor have children. God, no, who’d be a mistress? Always having to skulk around like a second-class citizen, no life of your own.’

  ‘Dunno where you get the skulking bit from … as far as I could make out, everybody knows about the liaison. Including the wife?’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Fliss. ‘Anyway, the point about the woman is that we couldn’t find anything at all to link her to Katy that evening, even though they’re second cousins. She was over in London visiting some friends, told us what she’d been doing and where she’d been, said she and Katy had dinner together the night before, but she hadn’t seen the girl after that. It all hung together. Witnesses for the relevant times and so on. She lives most of the time in Venice, has a couple of kids who live in Geneva with her former husband, and possesses no visible means of support.’

  ‘Interesting – or is it?’

  ‘Whereas the boyfriend couldn’t come up with any kind of convincing alibi. Just mooching about, he said. Had a drink in a pub in the West End but couldn’t find anyone to corroborate it. Bought a Chinese and ate it at home, by himself. Went to bed early because he had to be up at sparrow’s fart the next morning in order to drive down to Wales to see a client.’

  ‘He could be telling the truth,’ I said. ‘How many of us could prove our whereabouts on any given day?’

  ‘Granted. Especially if we live alone. But I have to say I still like him for it. We’ve spoken to their friends and the whole set-up sounds a little too perfect. And he himself is as cool as a cucumber.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s innocent enough to believe in the notion of British justice.’

  ‘More fool he.’

  ‘God, you’re cynical.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Fliss. ‘Once we’ve found the chink in his armour …’

  ‘Poor chap,’ I said.

  I wasn’t surprised to discover, three days later, that James Renfrew had been arrested and charged with Katy Pasqualin’s murder.

  ‘It wasn’t him!’ Sandro Grainger sounded almost as distraught as he might have been if he himself had been charged.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Anyone who’d ever seen them together would testify to his innocence. There’s absolutely no way he would have attacked Katy. Honestly, Alessandra, the police are making a big mistake here.’

  ‘Unfortunately there’s nothing I can do about it.’ I agreed with Sandro. From what I’d seen and heard, the boyfriend couldn’t be more innocent of murder.

  Meanwhile, I was making plans to attend the auction in Norfolk. It seemed unlikely that the person putting the Tiepolo sketch up for sale would also be present, but it seemed worth taking a punt on it. I told Sandro that he was to come with me, and explained all the ins and outs: that there had been two stolen Tiepolo sketches, that one had been safely returned to his Uncle Cesare, and that as far as I knew, Cesare was not yet aware that there had been a second one.

  Sandro insisted that we drive up together the day before, which was fine by me. I figured that someone would foot the bill for my accommodation in a local hotel, considering the amount of ransom money they had not had to cough up for Sandro’s safe return. Then I called Joey Preston. Told him what I planned to do. Asked if he had any comment.

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Especially since the seller is unlikely to be in attendance.’

  ‘True. But if you came along, I thought that with your detective skills, it might be easier for you than for me to winkle out who he – or she – is. You could pretend to belong to some organization involved in tracking down stolen art.’

  ‘No pretence needed. I do.’

  ‘That’s great. Do you want to come with us?’ I explained that Sandro would have a car.

  ‘Better I go alone. Just in case.’

  ‘Fine. See you there.’

  ‘Any further news of the guys who kidnapped you?’ I asked Sandro as we pulled away from London and set off towards the Lincolnshire Wolds.

  ‘Very little. At least, they picked up a couple of the … small fry, if that’s the right word. The underlings.’

  ‘As always in these matters. But not the kingpin?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Did the situation impact on you in any way?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. Maybe I’m too naive – or too optimistic.’

  Naive was the word. ‘So no nightmares or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And no idea who was behind it?’

  ‘No. But I’ve promised myself that one way or another, I will find out. And then …’ His voice tailed away.

  I didn’t ask, ‘And then what …?’

  We sat silent for a while as Sandro’s Ferrari roared its way towards the flat lands beyond Cambridge. Then I said, ‘I’m not sure what we expect to accomplish by attending this auction.’

  ‘I was wondering that myself.’

  ‘But I figured that if we could find out who’s selling your uncle’s Tiepolo drawing, it might somehow help to identify the person who killed Katy. Or kidnapped you. Or both.’ I’d already decided not to mention Joey Preston.

  ‘Was that list I sent you helpful? Showing as many as I could remember of the relationships between my friends and their relatives?’

  ‘I read it carefully, but so far, nothing’s leaped out at me.’ This was a lie. I wanted to drop my probing questions delicately, like a man dropping fl
ies on the surface of water beneath which salmon loitered. ‘But who knows? Still waters run deep, as they say.’

  ‘Talking of waters, I’m flying over to Venice next week to see an opera at La Fenice. La Traviata. My aunt’s a patron, on the board there, and she’s sent me some complimentary tickets. Want to come?’

  I was surprised how much I wanted to say yes. My recent visit could hardly be said to have been completely enjoyable, so it would be good to have a more peaceable one. And if I went, I could always chalk it up to research and, if nothing else, claim it on my tax forms as a legitimate expense. ‘You could stay at my uncle’s place, too,’ Sandro continued. ‘Or he’s offered to put you up at one of the really fancy hotels, since on your last visit you had to skulk in the backstreets of the city – his words, not mine,’ Sandro added swiftly as I opened my mouth to protest.

  ‘Actually, I’m extremely tempted,’ I said. ‘And there could well be loose ends to tie up, though I can’t think what they might be. How long have I got to give you a definitive answer?’

  ‘Like … ten minutes.’ He grinned.

  ‘OK, you’re on. I’d very much like to come.’

  ‘Our treat. My aunt insisted.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’ I smiled with pleasure. ‘What a luxury; I’m extremely happy to accept.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Tell me more about your aunt,’ I said. ‘Your uncle is such a … strong character that it’s hard to get to know her.’

  ‘You mean he overwhelms her?’

  ‘A bit, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a slightly odd relationship, really. They both come from old wealthy Venetian families. My aunt is very conventional, as you may have noticed. Very proper.’

  ‘Very beneducato?’

  He missed the irony. ‘Exactly. She is, as I said, a patron of La Fenice, and a very generous one, too. My uncle is always criticizing her for being extravagant, saying there’s plenty of other money, both public and private, to support the opera house and no one expects her single-handedly to keep the place going.’