“I’ll let you know.”
“Then warn me well ahead, will you? I barely made it today.”
Marck hesitated. “I may even let you know tonight. When can I reach you at your hotel? Late, I suppose. Then let’s say around midnight.” Without waiting for an answer, he closed the office door.
Like hell I’ll be there, thought Grant, but let that be his problem for a change. Now the three of them are discussing me. How did I do?... He wasn’t sure. But he had the name of Henri Bienvenue, whose account in Geneva would be the richer by 250,000 dollars. Also, he had a few minutes to himself. He studied the Ruysdael—a natural gesture, if he was being observed from next door. Then he tilted the picture from the easel, and looked at its back. Quickly he tried to ease the top right-hand corner of the protective muslin away from the rusted nails, but the material was fragile with age and came off the frame in a series of small rips. And on the back of the painting, just as Helmut Fischer had said, he found what he wanted: the date 1642, and the name S. van Ruysdael.
“Mr. Grant!” Frau Klar was closing her office door behind her, shutting out any view or sound of two men still deep in consultation. “What are you doing?”
“Just checking,” Grant said. “It’s authentic.”
“Did you doubt us?” She was indignant.
“Of course not. How long have you worked in the art world?”
“Three years. But I don’t see—”
“Scarcely long enough to know all the tricks that can be played, even on such a reputable house as Klar’s.”
“We had the picture checked,” she said stiffly. “We aren’t novices, Mr. Grant.”
Checked, with old and rusted nails still in exact place, and a frail muslin backing that had been intact, undisturbed? “Of course not,” he repeated, and seemed to mollify her. He was still wondering whose word they had taken, so completely on trust, that the Ruysdael was genuine. Someone so high in command that they’d never question his judgment? This whole damned thing had been run like a military operation.
Frau Klar was smiling again. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Grant? To celebrate.” She moved towards a carved wardrobe opening its door to reveal bottles and glasses.
“I’ll celebrate later. What I want now is two pieces of strong cardboard to fit the picture exactly, and also a thin plastic sheet to cover both the frame and the painting, protect its surface. It’s vulnerable, you know.”
“We can do better than that, Mr. Grant. Please come this way.”
He lifted the Ruysdael—it was just over two feet long, and about sixteen inches in height, not difficult to handle—and followed her out into the corridor. From the auction room behind them, there was the sound of Kurt Klar’s voice and the sharp ring of the bell. Henri Bienvenue, Grant was repeating to himself, getting the exact spelling fixed in his mind. It was a most suitable name for a Geneva resident, where French was the language used. They thought of everything, these boys.
Frau Klar was passing the main door to her office. Perhaps to draw his attention away from it, she beamed over her shoulder and pointed straight ahead to another door, at the end of the corridor, huge in size, double-panelled, and closed. Grant’s thoughts were still with Mittendorf, that wily old bastard. But why so stupid as to increase the value of the cheque from 168,454 dollars to 250,000? The discrepancy would be easily discovered, once Grant delivered the picture and discussed the auction and price with Victor Basset. He halted abruptly. My God, he thought, perhaps I won’t be alive to bear witness to the truth. If any substitution for the Ruysdael is made—and that will be quickly discerned by Basset—what better scapegoat to take the blame than a dead man?
“Here we are,” Frau Klar was saying, opening the double door.
For a moment, Grant stood at the entrance to Klar’s warehouse. Then, still shaken, still hesitant, his grip tightened on the Ruysdael, he stepped over its threshold.
16
The room Grant entered, enormous in size, artificially lit, was the working premises of Klar’s delivery and storage departments. Its cement floor was partly filled with trestle and tables and crates half-unpacked. Writing-desks, pictures, antique mirrors, vases, were being prepared for shipment. Here and there, mounds of straw. Four men, he noted, suddenly busy as Frau Klar appeared. The rear wall, adjoining Cathedral Lane and windowless to ensure security, was broken only by an immense entrance whose doors stood wide open, letting the sun and fresh air stream in from a narrow street My escape route, thought Grant.
He could see no parked Volkswagen out there—only a roughly dressed man lounging against the wall of the building opposite, who straightened his back and turned round to look along the street the minute he glimpsed Grant. It seemed so natural that Grant’s sudden hope diminished: probably not a signal to Renwick, just some workman out for a noontime break.
Grant forced himself to look away from the patch of sunlight, and took stock of the strangers around him, wondering which was the foreman whom Renwick trusted. Frau Klar solved that problem for him by raising her voice in sharp anger. “Max!” she suddenly called out. “Max!”
Max made his way around a pile of loose straw. He was a thin middle-aged man, with an imperturbable face and deliberate movements, slowed by a slight limp.
“Who,” demanded Frau Klar, “opened the delivery entrance? Who gave the orders for that? It is to be kept closed. At all times.”
Max said quietly, “Except when a delivery is to be made.”
“Well, where is it?” Her voice was hectoring, her face tight with anger. She pointed to the empty threshold. “Where’s the truck?”
“Late. Could have been the traffic. Should be here around noon.”
“Delivering what? Nothing is scheduled to arrive today.”
“Timber from Heller & Sons,” Max said patiently. “We’ve got more packing-cases to make for the Frankfurt shipment.”
Frau Klar’s temper subsided. She dismissed Max with a wave of her hand and recovered her winning smile. “Please excuse us, Mr. Grant. We are always so busy—difficult to keep track of everything. Now let me show you what we have ready for you.” She signalled to another man who had just finished wrapping a cushion of styrofoam around a majolica vase at a nearby table. He deposited the vase in a nest of straw, and picked up some other item from his table. “And what do you think of this?” she asked Grant, as the man came forward, holding a large blue carrying-case.
“Splendid,” he said, surprised and pleased. It was of vinyl, both light and strong, with three leather straps and buckles and an easy-to-grip handle. “Looks as if it’s just the right measurements, too.”
“Exactly right. We had it specially made for you—a gesture to Mr. Basset, one of our most valued clients. Much better than cardboard, don’t you think?” She was much amused. Then to the workmen, “Sigmund—take this painting and cover it with a thin sheet of plastic before you put it into the carrier.” She eased the Ruysdael out of Grant’s hands. “Don’t worry. Sigmund is our most expert packer. Pictures are his speciality.”
Grant risked one brief glance at the street: no one there now—just a light truck arriving, groping its way slowly and carefully into close position beside the delivery entrance. He moved over to the work-table to keep an eye on Sigmund’s nimble fingers.
Frau Klar kept following him closely. “Where will you keep the Ruysdael until you leave? It is a problem, isn’t it? Of course, you could have left it with us. We are accustomed to storing very valuable articles. Then we could have sent it to you by special messenger on the morning of your departure.”
The last corner of the plastic wrapping was being taped in place. “Yes, that was one possibility,” Grant said, his eyes never leaving Sigmund.
“You might reconsider, even now.”
“No. I prefer to take the picture myself.” The Ruysdael was being slowly edged into its packing case.
“See that door over there!” Frau Klar caught his arm as her other hand pointed to one end of th
e room. “It leads to our storage vault—burglar-proof, fire-proof. Nothing could be safer.”
Politely, Grant looked. He disengaged his arm, turned back to watch Sigmund’s table. The man had finished his job: the blue carrying-case had its three brown leather straps already buckled. Quick work, thought Grant. Too damn quick, perhaps. Something is wrong, he felt. He glanced at Max, standing close by, strangely ignoring the truck’s arrival.
“There you are, sir,” said Sigmund, handing over the case. Grant saw Max’s warning stare: first at him; then at the pile of loose straw near the work-table. He took the case from Sigmund, saying, “A very neat job.”
“Max!” Frau Klar was sharply annoyed again. “Isn’t that the truck with your timber?”
“I need Sigmund to help check the unloading.”
“He’s free now. Get on with it, both of you!”
Grant cleared his throat. “Frau Klar—I am sorry. May I delay Sigmund for a moment?” He laid the carrying-case on the table, began unbuckling it. This is vinyl—not firm enough. No padding inside? Inadequate for a transatlantic journey. We’ll need a slight reinforcement. A sheet of cardboard over the face of the picture.” He slipped his hand inside the case. “I was right: no protective lining.” He pulled the picture out. The plastic cover was transparent. The painting itself looked like the genuine Ruysdael, but the antique frame had no crack apparent. The muslin backing, beige in colour to imitate age, had not one black mildew spot. Nor was it loose at the top right-hand corner.
For a moment he felt a terrifying paralysis of the mind. What next? Confront them with the facts—no, not that. Play it their way, and perhaps make sure of an exit through the delivery entrance. He said to Sigmund, who stood gaping while a startled Frau Klar seemed transfixed, “Have you some cardboard we could use?” Quickly he made his way around the table to Sigmund’s work area, kicking the discarded sheets of styrofoam lightly aside, then the pile of straw. His toe touched something solid, and his foot halted.
“Not there, sir,” Sigmund was saying, suddenly galvanised into action. “One moment—I’ll find some cardboard.”
Trying to laugh, Frau Klar said, “Is this really necessary, Mr. Grant? Surely you take too much trouble.”
Grant pointed to the delivery entrance. “Better deal with him, I think.” The truck driver, hands on hips, had taken a definite stance well inside the doorway, and was studying a collection of bric-à-brac waiting to be crated.
Frau Klar looked and saw him. “Max, Max! Get him out of here! Start unloading! And keep him out—you know the rules—no unauthorised personnel allowed.”
The second she had turned her attention away from him to rivet it on the intruder, Grant reached into the straw where his toe had struck something hard. He pulled out a blue vinyl carrying-case, its buckles still unfastened, and replaced it with the duplicate that Sigmund had given him. There was just time to kick the straw back into place—not a perfect job, but it would do—and swing his discovery neatly on to the table, before Frau Klar had completed her tirade and was ready to deal with him again. She hadn’t noticed. Grant drew a long, steadying breath.
And Sigmund? He was now returning across the wide stretch of floor with a sheet of cardboard, which—bless his efficiency and the delay it had caused—was already cut to size. Yes, Sigmund might have noticed that final moment of substitution: he could have had—if he wasn’t too occupied in admiring his handiwork—a clear view of Grant setting the original carrying-case on the table. Or perhaps he just didn’t believe that an American had enough brains to discover he had been duped. At any rate, he said nothing at all as Grant seized the cardboard from his hand, saying, “I’ll attend to it, thank you.” But he was frowning and not altogether happy when Grant pulled the picture out of the vinyl carrier.
One quick check, Grant had decided: glimpse the date and the signature; make sure. Yes, this was the genuine article. He had the Ruysdael.
Frau Klar was impatient. Again she told him that he was taking too much trouble. He only smiled and concentrated on getting the cardboard to fit into the carrying-case along with the painting. He buckled the three straps, gripped the handle. “Ready to leave. Now you can go back to the auction, Frau Klar. When do you expect it to be over?”
“Oh, around two o’clock. Today we didn’t have too many items to dispose of.”
“Sorry I took up so much of your time.” Keep it all natural and easy, he warned himself. He took her hand and shook it quickly. “Goodbye. Many thanks.”
“But I’ll show you out,” she remonstrated. “This way, Mr. Grant.” She gestured towards the door into the corridor.
“Better not disturb the auction.” He began walking to the delivery entrance. “This is nearer anyway,” he called back over his shoulder, and saw Sigmund bending down to look at the heap of loose straw beside his table. Easy does it. Grant told himself again, and resisted increasing his pace. There was no shout of alarm from Sigmund: perhaps he had been reassuring himself that a blue vinyl carrying-case was still in place.
Just ahead was the wide open door. The trucker and his mate were unloading long thin planks of cheap pine.
“Mr. Grant—one moment, please!” the woman called, and he heard her high heels clacking over the cement floor as she tried to catch up with him. But he was almost at the threshold, about to step into sunlight and fresh clean air.
“Klaus!” she cried out, pointing frantically at Grant’s back. Klaus, the biggest and burliest of the workmen, who was helping Max check the delivery of timber, looked up, got the message, and moved quickly to stop the American. But the truck driver, two long planks balanced on one shoulder, let Grant pass and then swung round just as Klaus was reaching him. The planks caught Klaus flat across the chest.
“Sorry, chum,” said the truck driver. He dropped his load to help Klaus regain his footing. “Sorry, lady,” he told Frau Klar who had reached the delivery entrance. “Nearly got your legs, these planks did. Could have broken them.” A pity they hadn’t, thought Frank.
Gudrun Klar ignored him. And Frank, for his part, was happy she wasn’t paying any attention to him. She was determined to get into the street. Curious about Grant’s direction, was she? He nodded to his mate, heavily loaded with the cut timber across his shoulders, to stand just where he was—sideways, at the threshold—and block any other exit for the next minute. Grant was out and away. Frank, glancing briefly along the narrow street, saw a burst of speed that could have won the hundred metres at any Olympics.
Frank began helping his mate to get through the doorway, and bumped up against Gudrun still trying to squeeze past. “Careful, lady,” he told her. “You’ll get a black eye if you don’t look out.” He steadied the swinging planks, and then—Grant must have reached the Volkswagen by this time, judging by the rate he had been travelling at—helped his mate to lower them on to the floor. They slithered and fell. Frau Klar jumped back with a gasp. “Dangerous, I told you,” Frank said, and handed the invoice to Max. “Sign here.” Max, who had been trying to look as stupid as possible, scribbled quickly. Frank, stuffing the invoice back into the breast pocket of his leather jacket, averted his face quite naturally from Madame as he began talking with his helper about their next delivery.
She was too engrossed, anyway, by the street. Grant had vanished. There were some parked cars, two girls, three men, a boy on a bicycle. Nothing else.
What is she thinking? Frank wondered. That their agent is waiting at the front entrance to Klar’s Auction Rooms, ready to follow Grant? “Some wait,” he said as he climbed into the driver’s seat and switched on the engine. Slowly, at walking pace, he eased the truck along the narrow street.
She had given up. In his rear-view mirror, he saw her enter the warehouse and its doors begin to close. He increased his speed. Even if she had an afterthought and stepped back for another look, the truck would block her view of the white Volkswagen which was at last pulling away from the kerb. “Did you have much of a view from across the street?”
he asked the young man beside him.
“Just enough to let me see Grant and Klar come into the warehouse, and give you the signal. I worried about my timing for that. Too quick?”
“It was just right.” Frank was in a jovial mood. “You saw no argument? No sign of trouble?”
“No. She was all smiles, then. What changed her?” She had been one worried woman, mouth pulled down, eyebrows knitted.
“She and her friends were caught flat-footed, that’s what.” Frank’s grin was broad. “One thing I’ll say for that guy—” He paused and laughed.
“Grant?”
“He can sprint.”
* * *
Renwick had the Volkswagen door open for him. Grant stumbled in, breathing in heavy gasps, the blue vinyl carrying-case safely clutched to his side. The car didn’t move. The motor wasn’t even running. Renwick, his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror, only said, “Keep low! Stay out of sight.”
In this sardine-tin? But Grant did his best, sliding down in the seat until his knees almost touched his chin. Slowly he regained his breath. My God, he thought, I never ran so hard in my life. Strange what desperation can do...
“Just a minute or two,” Renwick said encouragingly. He too had slumped as much as possible without losing his rear view of the street.
“Okay,” he said at last, and switched on the ignition. Behind them Grant heard the beginning growl of the truck’s engine. Still watching the mirror, Renwick pulled away from the kerb. “She’s back inside the warehouse,” he reported, smiling for the first time. “And there was no one to follow you. They messed that up, they really did. Congratulations, Colin.” He made a careful turn into a busy street, and glanced back once more to make sure Frank wasn’t far behind. “Congratulations, everyone.”
Grant said nothing.
“Are you all right?”
“Just coming out of shock.” Grant tried to smile. “It was a near thing.”
“Did you get it?”
“Sure.” Grant patted the vinyl carrying-case. “Right here. They tried a switch. They had the reproduction in a duplicate case.” He began to laugh, and then, remembering Max’s blank stare that had given him warning, he fell silent again. A damned near thing, he thought sombrely.
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