FRAMED

by Lynda La Plante

  Puerto Banus was an eye-opener, smart and modern, and the harbor was a noticeable step up from its counterpart along the coast at Marbella. The craft tied up here— everything from speedboats and launches to the biggest seagoing yachts—were the toys of an international coterie who came and went throughout the year, a tight society of seriously rich sybarites with the ultimate blessing: they could not suffer material loss, since everything they possessed, however costly, could be replaced.

  A barman directed Larry to a shopping lane behind the harbor, a stretch of exclusive boutiques and shops, one of them with the name Philip Von Joel above the high main window. The gallery was as well-appointed as the place at Benabana, and it was larger.

  He wandered in through the open door. There was activity, for a change. People were moving through the rooms carrying easels, trestles, and chunky wooden and metal sculptures. Other people were hanging pictures, chattering and singing as they worked. The air was thick with the aromas of varnish and beeswax.

  Larry watched a tall, expensively tanned young woman in Yves St. Laurent shorts and a diaphanous top move through the gallery issuing clipped little commands to right and left. She came through from the back and paused at the reception desk.

  Larry stepped forward, clearing his throat.

  “Excuse me …” It came out a lot quieter than he had intended. The girl took no notice. He tried again. “Ah, excuse me …” She looked at him. “Is this the main art gallery on the harbor?”

  “Yes …” Her eyes slid back to the diary in front of her. “But we’re not open.”

  “Philip Von Joel’s gallery, is it?”

  She looked up again, absently stroking her blond hair.

  “Yes, but he’s not here. I’m his assistant.” She glanced at the tiny Rolex on her wrist, then narrowed her eyes at Larry. “Are you from Angelo’s? The crates need to be taken to the back entrance. Did you bring the glasses?”

  That touched a tender spot on Larry’s self-esteem. Wherever he went, people were inclined to take him for the help.

  “I’m not from Angelo’s, no—”

  “Oh, sorry!” the girl chirped indifferently. “We’re expecting a wine delivery—there’s a new exhibition, if you’d like to leave your name.” She handed him a printed invitation and flashed a robotic smile. “You’re most welcome to come, he’s a local artist. Do you want to sign the visitor’s book?” She turned and reached for the padded register. “Mr. Von Joel’s other gallery is at Benabana. If you want to see him he’ll …”

  When she turned back Larry had gone.

  3

  The telephone booth in the comer of the hotel foyer was small, hot, and poorly ventilated. Larry felt bilious after a hurried dinner and he knew he would be sick if he stayed in there much longer. He was wearing a suit, which threatened to add heatstroke to his miseries. Making everything a shade worse, the line to London was bad and there had been a couple of serious interruptions.

  “Yeah,” Larry hissed at the mouthpiece, “I’m sure it’s him.” He paused, listening. He could feel his shirt sticking wetly to the entire length of his back. “What? Well, no, not one hundred percent, but— What? Okay, but you get someone from our end to talk to them here, will you? And check out the old files.” He listened again, nodding impatiently, seeing two drops of his sweat land soundlessly on the ledge by the telephone. “Listen, it’s him. I know it! Dig as far back as you can.” He slammed down the receiver and jerked open the door, signaling the receptionist to put the call on his bill.

  Susan approached as he was rereading a fax he had been handed before he went into the booth. He tucked it back into his pocket.

  “Is this all right?” she held her arms out wide, showing him her dress, an off-the-shoulder number she had brought along in case they went anywhere special. “Only I was wondering, see, because I’ve got strap marks and—”

  “It’s lovely,” Larry said without looking. He took her arm. “Come on.”

  In less than twenty minutes they were on the harbor at Puerto Banus. Late sunlight threw a flattering pink-gold glow across the waterfront as they walked arm in arm past posturing groups of young men and laughing, hard-eyed girls on the make. The food smells from the open-fronted restaurants were noticeably more fragrant and varied than they were in Marbella, and the heady vapors of Chanel and Hermes were almost common here. Susan was impressed. So was Larry, in his way.

  “I’ve seen more ex-cons along here,” he said, “than I’ve ever laid eyes on in London.”

  Susan scarcely heard him.

  “Look at the boats, Larry. We should bring the boys here to see them. Oh!” She pointed at a brightly lit floating palace at the far end of the harbor where the larger craft were moored. “Just look at that one!”

  Porsches and Mercedeses glided by them as they shouldered their way past tanned and sunshaded pussy-prowlers, glittering girls, and an anxious-eyed scattering of the older crowd, finding out how useless money is at canceling time. When Susan wasn’t admiring the boats or being distracted by the more outre passersby, she was stopping at boutiques to coo over the clothes and gasp at the prices. Larry tried not to be impatient, but when they were halfway along the front he took her firmly by the elbow and led her through the back turnings to Von Joel’s gallery.

  A small crowd was milling around the entrance, talking and laughing, wineglasses in their hands. They looked as affluent as the people along the harbor, bronzed rather than tanned, minimally attired in the best that taste could seek out and money could buy, and bedecked with expensive jewelry—the men as well as the women. Larry, still holding Susan’s elbow, found a path through the crowd and entered the gallery.

  He had his invitation ready but no one appeared interested in checking it, not even Von Joel’s lady assistant, who came by with a tray of drinks. She did not seem to recognize Larry; she smiled mechanically, introduced herself as Charlotte, and urged them to have a drink. When they had each taken a glass of wine she moved on without another word.

  ‘There’s a lot of money here,” Susan murmured, sipping. “Can anyone just walk in then? Larry?”

  He wasn’t listening. His attention was wholly taken up by the other people in the place, the small-talking interweaving groups who didn’t seem especially interested in the pictures or the sculptures. Instead, they were engrossed in the business of imposing themselves on each other, smoothly in many cases and with obvious charm, but enforcing themselves nonetheless, making their presence felt. That was what the rich did, by and large. They made Larry uneasy.

  “Definitely the in crowd, this lot,” he told Susan.

  They made him feel overdressed too. Most of the men wore white or pale sand-colored slacks with loafers and designer-cut T-shirts. A Marks & Spencer lightweight suit was out of its league in this latitude.

  Larry began his third scan of the company, checking the faces, starting half-seriously to pray that he would see Eddie Myers. His conviction was having a hard time standing up, although this was a phenomenon he had noticed before: whenever he was out of his depth his certainty dwindled.

  He decided on a quick self-boost. Taking a large gulp of wine, he reminded himself there was no good reason why

  these people should daunt him—richer was not better. Furthermore, he was here on the strength of what he had definitely and unquestionably witnessed; it had not been a delusion or a trick of the heat. He had no reason to doubt himself.

  Swallowing more of the excellent wine, he glanced over his shoulder and was suddenly reassured. The two blondes he had seen with Myers—the water-skier and the one who stayed on the boat—were there; they were directly across the room, no more than twelve feet away. One of them was putting a red sticker on the wall next to a painting, indicating it had been sold; the other one whispered something to a middle-aged man who looked dangerously red-faced and laughed with a sound like a tire going down in sharp stages.

  Larry strained to hear. After a moment he nodded, then curbed it, hoping no one had no
ticed. The girls were English, as he’d suspected, though they were not the kind who usually hung out with Costa crooks. These were Sloanies, top-drawer types. There was a third girl who seemed to be part of the team, if team was the word: she was Spanish, small and darkly beautiful. Larry heard one of the blondes call her Lola.

  Susan had finally been silenced by the sheer enveloping pressure of wealth and ego. She pushed her empty glass at Larry. He took it and threaded his way to the wine table. As he picked up a fresh drink he glanced through the archway into the adjacent room. A group of men were gathered around an easel on which sat a heavy gilt-framed painting. Facing the frame, with his back to Larry, was a tall man in slacks and a loose-fitting shirt. His hand rested on another man’s shoulder, revealing the only piece of jewelry he wore, a slim gold Cartier watch.

  “This one s not for sale,” he said, lowering a drape across the picture.

  Larry stiffened at the sound of the voice. He had heard it before. He stared, hardly breathing, running an inventory of the man: his hair was dark, rather long and expertly cut; he appeared to be deeply tanned; his stance and the easy movements of his arms and shoulders hinted at physical fitness. The list added up to recognition. Almost. If Larry’s judgement had not gone wildly off line, he was in fact staring at Eddie Myers. All he needed was a look at the face.

  “Name the price, you bastard!” one of the men said, and the others laughed clubbily.

  The tall man obliged, whispering. The one who had asked looked staggered.

  “You’re kidding!”

  More laughter. The tall man began to turn, taking his leave of the group. Larry stepped nearer, ready to print the face on his brain.

  The man turned. He surveyed the room. His tanned body was fit and he wore a silk shirt, fawn trousers, and slip-on leather sandals. The hair was as dark as Larry remembered. Was it Edward Myers? The cheekbones, the mouth, they were the same, weren’t they? But there was something different about the nose. Something had been done to his features, almost perfecting the face. Larry licked his lips, sweating, sure he was right, the nose had been straightened, that was it. His hands clenched with nerves, and he thought, “Come on, come on, look this way, let me see your eyes, come on …“The man flicked looks around the crowded gallery, but had still not turned full face toward Larry. He saw someone smile, say something and Larry craned forward, heard the deep voice, and then a soft laugh, but still he could not be one hundred percent sure, yet everything inside him willed this handsome, elegant man to be Myers. Then, at last, he turned, although still not looking directly at Larry, but to someone just past Larry’s left shoulder, and at last he saw the eyes. They were not as dark or as black as he remembered, in fact they were much clearer, were they blue? Larry’s breath caught in his throat. Was he wrong? Could he be mistaken? And still he stared intently as the man kept up a slow, steady appraisal of

  room. He gradually moved further into the throng of people, and Larry became a bit edgy in case, just in case it was Myers and he would recognize him, and then it happened, somebody said something to him and Larry saw the dark head lower, as if listening to the woman who was pointing out a painting; he seemed to give the woman his total attention, but his eyes roamed the room, they weren’t blue, but dark green, and then the man calling himself Philip Von Joel threw back his head and laughed.

  It was him! It was Eddie Myers! No mistake, no question of error! The laugh had given him away.

  Larry prepared to turn sharply aside, now even more afraid that he might be recognized, and his whole body was shaking with nerves. Von Joel looked as if he was about to walk directly toward Larry, when Charlotte stepped close to him and whispered something in his ear. Von Joel’s face tightened with a fleeting moment of anger, then that fixed smile returned as he looked across the gallery at a group of paintings, each with a red dot beside it. Charlotte moved back to discuss a purchase as the pretty Spanish girl, Lola, draped herself around Von Joel’s shoulder, standing on tiptoe to kiss his neck.

  Larry slipped back, using the crowd for cover, keeping his eyes on Von Joel. Lola moved away. Von Joel turned in Larry’s direction and almost stepped up against him. He put his empty glass on the wine table and squared his shoulders, preparing to circulate, then moved off to the opposite side of the room.

  Larry put his back to the crowd and whipped out his handkerchief. Draping it over his fingers he used it to pick up Von Joel’s glass. Susan appeared at her side.

  “What are you doing?”

  He nearly dropped the glass.

  “Shut up!” he snapped.

  He turned around sharply, the glass covered, ready to go in his pocket. Susan, no longer entirely sober, continued to gape at him.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Larry?”

  He felt like belting her. Instead he dropped the glass into his pocket and simultaneously started moving to the door. Susan came after him, whining all the way.

  Outside he began to move faster, throwing back terse answers to her questions.

  “You’re sending the glass to London? Is that what you’re saying? Larry? Will you listen to me?”

  “I’m not sending the glass. I don’t have to. It’s got his prints on it, they’ll lift them here, then send them to London.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Susan yelped. “It’s bloody stupid!”

  Larry glanced around as a car swept past them. It was Von Joel’s Corniche. He was at the wheel, with Charlotte and Lola sitting in the back. He was laughing at something.

  “It’s him,” Larry grunted. “He’s had his face done, but that’s Eddie Myers, all right. Same voice. Same laugh.”

  “They’ll be laughing at you" Susan told him bitterly, trying to catch up.

  f

  Comisario Dominguez made an imposing police officer. He was heavy in the shoulders and chest, tawny and hirsute, the kind of man born not simply to be a policeman, but to be a senior policeman. His physical presence was modified by slow, careful movements and an obvious thoughtful streak. For an entire minute after examining the official files on Philip Von Joel, he sat staring at a point on his desk just beyond the papers, his hard, bright eyes far away.

  Abrupdy he looked up. Larry nearly jumped.

  “He has been here four years,” the Comisario said. His accent was more of an adornment to his English than a flaw. He waved his hand over the documents. “Papers, everything in order.” Folding his hands he added, “He is a wealthy resident.”

  “Yes, I know that, and I appreciate your help.” Larry wiped sweat from his forehead with the side of his hand. “But because he’s only been here four years he is not protected by the extradition laws, which state that until someone has lived here for five or more years, the British police are entitled to—”

  “That is correct,” Dominguez interrupted, “but nevertheless I will require substantial evidence to warrant his arrest and subsequent extradition. If he is, as you believe, using false documents, then it is obviously an offense by our law, and if such is the case, it will be my duty to arrest him for questioning.”

  A uniformed officer came in and approached the desk. He and the Comisario conferred in whispers. Larry wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Time always galloped when you felt you hadn’t much of it to spare.

  When the officer left, Dominguez tilted his head at Larry and did a one-shoulder shrug.

  “We have, senor, only a part print. Left thumb and left index finger. I will have them faxed to Scotland Yard.”

  “He’s got a powerful speedboat,” Larry said, hearing his words echo in the grubby little room, realizing how irrelevant the remark must sound. “It’s imperative we don’t tip him off,” he added.

  Dominguez glared at him.

  “He also owns a Monterey, on permanent mooring at Puerto Banus.” Dominguez blinked once, his eyes unwavering. “You know, senor, this could be very embarrassing. Until we hear from London I suggest we wait.” He tilted his head again. “Do I ma
ke myself clear? Stay away from him.”

  At eleven-thirty in the morning it was easy to comply with the Comisario’s wishes. As the day wore on, however, and no word came from Scotland Yard, Larry got jumpy. Clear thinking gave way to groundless speculation. It began to seem that the target was too far away from the action; where exactly was he? Did anybody actually know? Was someone watching him? Did he have friends in the local police who were keeping him notified of developments? Was the bugger possibly, even now, making a run for it?

  By three o’clock Larry was on the road outside Von Joel’s villa, squashed into the hedge, his rented Suzuki jeep parked a couple of hundred yards down the lane. From where he stood he could see the dogs, two young boxers, chasing each other around the grounds, and once, for just a moment, he caught sight of the Spanish girl, Lola. There was no sign of the master of the house.

  Larry waited and sweated. Insects nibbled his skin. Cramp took gradual possession of his legs and back.

  At a minute to four the Corniche glided up to the gates. Larry wiped his eyes, took a hard look, and felt a swell of relief. Von Joel was at the wheel, and he didn’t look the least bit worried, or angry, or even upset. In fact he appeared to be smiling.

  The gates opened to let the car through and then closed again. Larry slipped out from his place of concealment and moved nearer to the gates, getting a closer vantage point on the car. He saw Von Joel lean over the side. One of the dogs jumped up to lick his face. He got out and knelt on the gravel, fussing with the animals, talking to them as if they were children.

  “Hello, boys, hello. Who’s a good boy, then, who’s my big fella? Stay down now, Bruno, that’s naughty. You too, Sasha … Down, now, be good boys . .