A man stood in the hallway: big, bearded and unsmiling. It was Bill Hewson with whom she had been chatting only hours earlier. Behind him was the open door to Hope-Landers’ apartment. The room was in chaos: desk upturned and books strewn everywhere. Rosy gazed uncomprehending.
‘Wrong time, Rosy,’ he said, ‘wrong time.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Too late for a social call. You should be at home tucked up in bed.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she replied indignantly.
‘And then,’ he continued, ‘you wouldn’t have interrupted things.’
‘Really? What things? What are you talking about?’ Her eyes returned to the room behind him. ‘You’ve been in there,’ she said accusingly. ‘My God you’ve ransacked his rooms!’ She was suddenly fearful and felt her stomach lurch. He would cut your throat given half a chance she could hear the boy saying.
‘Hmm, yes. I was searching for something. That’s something you would understand I guess.’
She nodded. ‘You are after the Horace I imagine.’
‘Nope, not any more I’m not. I’ve found it.’ He gestured to the bag on the table, and taking out a book held it up. ‘See? The real McCoy this time, not that crude little fake Emilio took from your room.’ He gave a mocking grin.
Anger replaced fear. ‘You’re a fool,’ she said scornfully, ‘you can’t even be sure if this is the right Horace. It may be one of Pacelli’s masterpieces; they say he was brilliant.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said evenly, ‘I’ve looked. It’s the genuine article all right and I am going to have it.’ He made to replace the book in the bag and in so doing his sleeve brushed against candlestick on the console. It fell heavily and the book slipped from his grasp.
With hindsight Rosy wondered what on earth had possessed her; some kind of mad defiance presumably. But in an instant she had darted forward, grabbed the thing and made a wild rush to the main door. She yanked at the iron handle which creaked noisily but yielded nothing. She wrenched again but in vain. Oh God the thing had stuck! She turned, ducked under Hewson’s upraised arm and ran in the opposite direction. Fool! Only the stairs were ahead: she was in a dead end … Still, if she could reach the salon she might be able to lock or barricade its doors. Besides, Felix must be back soon. She reached the staircase and began the long ascent. Behind her she could hear Hewson’s pounding footsteps. ‘I’ll get you,’ he shouted.
She pushed on desperately. She was lighter, more agile than her pursuer. Surely she could beat him to it! Up and up she floundered, heart racing, breath rasping. The stairs seemed endless but she willed herself to keep going, clutching the Horace in one hand and hauling herself on the banister with the other. She raised her eyes: only another flight. But behind her the thudding feet were relentless. At last she gained the landing, and scudding across the floor flung herself into the sanctuary of the salon.
Some sanctuary! She fumbled with the ornate bolt. It seemed far too flimsy to be useful – as indeed it proved. By now Hewson too was on the landing and she heard the heavy feet as he approached the door.
‘Rosy,’ he called, ‘open the door. You might as well. Do you think I am going to stand here twiddling my thumbs?’ Through the thin panelling she could hear his breath heaving.
She said nothing and backed away to the middle of the room, and waited.
He didn’t take long. There was a kick first. And then after a few seconds, not built to withstand a shoulder battery, the doors burst open and he was in the room with her.
She had expected sound and fury but in fact though breathing heavily he seemed strangely calm. He regarded her for a few moments and then said easily, ‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. I don’t suppose your job at the British Museum pays much; you could probably do with a few extra dollars in your purse. How about it?’
Rosy looked at him steadily. ‘I have no desire to make an arrangement with you and I have a perfectly adequate salary which covers most of my needs. Unlike you I don’t have a paranoiac craving to be as rich as Croesus. I suppose it’s the paintings: they’re not particularly special and presumably don’t make the money you feel is your due. Edward Jones was perfectly right: your work is pretty run of the mill and you’re too old now to hit the headlines.’ She was mad to say it she knew; but it was anger that drove her and she couldn’t help it. (Perhaps, she fantasised, if she could get to the veranda she could chuck the book over the edge and then he would damn well have to run all the way down the stairs again!)
Calm vanished and his face contorted. ‘You little bitch!’ he cried. ‘Give me the book. Give me the fucking book!’ He lunged towards her and tried to grab it. She dodged and leapt back.
‘Don’t you dare come near,’ she breathed. He took a step towards her and thrusting his hand in his pocket produced a penknife and snapped open the blade. He placed it carefully on the table beside him.
He would cut your throat given half a chance … again the words hammered in her mind and fear closed on her like a vice. And yet despite the fear and still goaded by some rebel instinct she heard herself saying, ‘This won’t work you know. Even now you are not quite sure if it’s the right one. You made a mess of the other all right – a ridiculous charade, sending over those ghastly paintings we were all supposed to admire and then getting your minion to search my bedroom. You are a bit of a blunderer aren’t you?’
Instantly she regretted her words. The retort had not been calculated, simply the product of wayward scorn. But she knew it was stupid. She saw the glint of hatred in his eye and his fists clench in fury. And yet when he spoke the words were level. ‘Oh there are no blunders this time,’ he said quietly, ‘that’s the book all right. It’s got the initials BF on the back cover: Bodger effing fecit,’ he sneered. ‘That pathetic little wop Carlo explained it to me once. I shouldn’t have known otherwise; but I do now and I’m going to put it with that cheap bit of glass the old fool in Padua wants.’ He gestured to the bag he had been holding … And then lowering his voice he mumbled something she couldn’t catch while his eyes took on a glassy stare.
‘What did you say?’
He hesitated, and then clear-eyed again scanned her face: ‘I said, Miss Gilchrist, that if anyone blundered it was the pig Pacelli.’
Rosy gazed back sick to the core … I’ve got your number Edward Jones had said. So that’s what the blackmail had been about! She should have guessed. She moistened her lips and said huskily, ‘What made you do it? I agree he certainly lacked charm but why bash him up like that?’
‘Because, young lady, he had crossed me – rather as you are doing now.’ Hewson idly picked up the knife.
Rosy swallowed. Oh my God, Felix, she implored, where on earth are you? For Christ sake come quickly! Outwardly she said, ‘But wasn’t that a bit rash? I mean, did you intend to kill him or was it just a mistake?’ She tried to sound genuinely interested, concerned even. (As if she cared!)
To her relief he began to answer her question and she saw his hold on the knife relax slightly. He nodded. ‘Yes, it was a mistake all right. One hell of a mistake but he deserved it the two-timing rat!’
For an hysterical instant Rosy thought she was going to giggle. ‘Two-timing rat’. Had she ever heard that term used outside American westerns and English gangster films? She thought not, and certainly not spat out with such venom. Interesting that people really spoke like that. A picture of James Cagney slipped into her mind and she could hear herself repeating the phrase with cronies round the supper table … With cronies? Supper table? Dear God, she would be lucky if she saw any of those again! In a trice she was sobered and once more plunged in icy fear.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘we had a deal. As you’ve heard, he was a first-class forger and while I had the Murano vase I knew I’d never find the Horace and certainly not in the time left. So I offered him a good price to produce a comparable book. I reckoned Berenstein was too blind and gaga to look too closely. It was a chance worth taking. But when I went to collec
t the thing he held out on me; said there were others interested who were willing to offer a better price. I tried to bargain but he was adamant. Well, I had already paid a percentage and I wasn’t going to be messed about like that. So I told him straight that we had a deal and that if he knew what was good for him he would damn well stick to it.’
Hewson paused and Rosy could see sweat glistening on his neck. He seemed horribly big and horribly near. His eyes swept the room as if he was recalling the scene in the shop. Then returning his gaze to her went on: ‘He had the nerve to laugh and said that he knew exactly what was good for him: a large increase on what had been agreed. We started to argue. The fool seemed to think it was funny and kept smirking, so I swiped him across the face and he tried to knee me in the groin. We struggled a bit and that’s when I picked up the paperweight and smashed it down on his head. His legs buckled and I smashed again … and again.’ Hewson shrugged his shoulders and added simply, ‘And then I left.’
‘And Edward?’ Rosy whispered. ‘What about him?’
Hewson frowned, seeming to reflect; and when he spoke it was in the tone of a reproving schoolmaster. ‘That young man was too big for his boots, always had been … How shall I put it? He had no sense of boundaries, no propriety. But when he started to blackmail me over Pacelli he went too far. I knew I would have to deal with him but wasn’t clear how. But in the end, as I see you have guessed, the young cub laid his own trap. It couldn’t have been easier.’
He moved closer and something inside her started to crumple. Please Felix come! ‘You see Rosy my dear,’ he said softly, ‘charming though you are, I don’t like being crossed; people have to pay the penalty … especially when,’ and suddenly his voice changed, became rasping and thunderous, ‘when they mock my art you brazen little bitch!’ The knife flashed in the air and Rosy shrieked. But then he let it go and the next moment, like an ogre in a dream, he was bearing down upon her, his huge white hands outstretched ready to grasp, to wrench, to throttle … She gave a moan and it was as if the room exploded.
Bill Hewson fell at her feet. He lay writhing and another shot was fired.
‘That’s done for him,’ said Guy Hope-Landers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
He walked over from the doorway and gave Hewson’s body a tentative prod with his foot.
‘Sorry about that Rosy,’ he said, ‘must have given you a shock. Are you all right?’
She nodded speechless as he took her arm and guided her to a chair. The next moment Felix appeared followed by Caruso. The dog looked disgruntled as well it might. He had been woken from his dreams and his bones in the downstairs lavatory. Felix too looked ruffled, his hair sticking up and his suit dishevelled. Rosy closed her eyes. ‘Why were you so long?’ she breathed.
‘Long? It’s amazing I’m here at all!’ he protested. ‘I have been trussed up like a chicken in Guy’s apartment in a most demeaning position. We’ve only just got out. It’s been most disturbing!’ His voice held a querulous note.
Rosy sighed wearily. ‘Yes, I’ve been fairly disturbed myself.’ She looked down at Hewson’s hulk and shuddered. ‘Can somebody cover him up please, it’s not very nice.’ She felt no sympathy, only disgust and residual fear.
Hope-Landers took the rug from the sofa and threw it over him. He looked at Felix. ‘Where did you say Cedric was?’
‘What? Oh with those twins; at their house I assume. They wanted to show him their father’s etchings or was it his golf clubs? Anyway something like that … I say, do you think we might have a drink. I feel I may pass out otherwise.’ He put a hand to his forehead.
Typical, Rosy thought crossly, he was only tied up whereas I came within an inch of being butchered! However, out loud she said, ‘But what about the body – oughtn’t we to do something about that, e.g. telephone the police?’
‘There is no telephone,’ Felix said, ‘it went off this afternoon.’
‘No phone, no hurry: Felix is right,’ agreed Hope-Landers, ‘we could all do with a brandy.’ He went to the cocktail cabinet and found a bottle. ‘Here drink this, Rosy, it’ll put colour in your cheeks.’
Her hand still shaking she took the glass and sipped gratefully. Dutch courage after the event. She glanced down at the shape under the floral rug and for a nightmarish moment wondered if she might see it move. She flinched and took another sip.
Her rescuer must have read her mind for he said, ‘Oh don’t worry, he is dead all right. I’m not a bad shot – top of the school cadet corps once upon a time.’
‘Ah the manifold uses of a good education,’ Felix quipped, yanking the dog away from the corpse.
‘Only for certain things. It doesn’t always get you what you want; in fact it’s often no bloody use at all.’ He sounded bitter, and Rosy was about to ask what it was he wanted but thought better of it. This was hardly the time for philosophical discussion.
Instead she said, ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am, you literally saved my life. He really was going to choke me to death!’ She gulped and leant back in the chair feeling rather weak. ‘But I am not clear – if you were both tied up how ever did you get here?’
‘It was Guy,’ Felix explained. ‘Despite Hewson’s boasting about his rotten knots they weren’t as good as he thought – the clumsiness of dotage I expect. Anyway Guy was able to pull free. And then, and then …’ (He broke off, starting to laugh.) ‘… you will never guess what we saw under the bed: Hewson’s gun. The cretin had forgotten to take it with him. Must have put it down when he was tying those brilliant reefs!’
Some cretin, Rosy thought bitterly, visualising the open blade. And then out loud she asked, ‘But hadn’t he locked you in?’
‘Oh we just shot the lock off,’ Felix said carelessly. He cleared his throat: ‘Well Guy did that actually.’
Rosy looked up at the latter. ‘You really have been amazing. I’ll never forget this.’ Something was digging into her hip, and reaching behind she pulled out the Bodger Horace. ‘Oh look,’ she exclaimed, ‘I had forgotten – the blessed book. Safe at last!’ And despite the grim presence of what once had been Hewson she suddenly felt so much better, strangely light-headed in fact.
‘Ah yes, the book,’ Hope-Landers murmured. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘I’ll take it if you don’t mind.’
‘What? Oh it’s quite all right there’s plenty of room in my handbag.’ She reached for her bag and started to slip the book into it.
He remained with his hand held out. ‘No, Rosy, I would like to have it please.’
She looked up at him nonplussed. ‘I am sorry I don’t understand. The book’s mine, it’s what I’ve been searching for; you know that.’ (Really, what on earth had got into the man?)
He smiled again but this time his face held no warmth. ‘It’s all a question of finders keepers,’ he said quietly. ‘It has been in my possession for some time and I don’t propose to yield it now.’
‘Look here,’ Felix protested, ‘you may have acquired it, filched it from Cousin Violet’s table, but the actual owner is Carlo. He was the one who originally found and bought it, not you. Now for Christ’s sake give it to Rosy; you must admit she deserves it!’
‘Actually,’ Hope-Landers replied, ‘I don’t think the concept of deserts enters into this. As I told you in the bedroom, it is something I rather need – to go with the vase over there.’ He nodded towards Hewson’s discarded holdall. ‘Just once in a blue moon things work to one’s advantage: a quirk of fate when one miraculously happens to be in the right place at the right time. I am in that position now and I can assure you that – if Rosy will excuse the term – I have no intention of having things cocked up.’
He spun round and stepped towards her. She shrank back in the chair. ‘Oh don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to attack you like that thug there, but you will give it to me all the same.’ His tall form loomed over her, and looking up she meekly handed him the book. There was no point in resisting; and after her ordeal with Hewson s
he was too tired anyway.
She glanced at Felix knowing there was nothing he would do. What could he? He was no pugilist; and in any case what could five foot six do against six foot three, especially when the latter had a gun? She saw the dismay in his face – the sense of helplessness, and felt a prick of sympathy. She turned back to Hope-Landers. ‘So what are you going to do?’ she asked dully. ‘No point in trying to contact Berenstein to report your luck; as you said, the phone is out of order.’
‘Telephone? Good lord no. I’m going to Padua now, immediately – up the Brenta Canal in my boat; there is access from the lagoon and his mansion overlooks the water. It won’t take long and there’s plenty of petrol in the tank.’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘It’ll make him happy: Santa Claus bearing gifts at midnight!’
In a swift movement he had grabbed the bag containing the vase, stuffed the book into it and made for the door. He looked very white and Rosy was startled to see how haggard his face had become. Felix, in what was presumably a flash of derring-do, took a tentative step towards him and was brushed aside.
‘Out of the way,’ Hope-Landers snapped. ‘You may have noticed that this gun is loaded. I could blow off your kneecap or shoot the dog.’
‘Shoot the dog?’ cried Felix in fury – and retreated instantly.
Already he was out of the room and they could hear his feet clattering across the tiles and descending the stairs. They stared at each other in silence. And then Rosy leapt up and rushed to the banisters, and craning over watched as Guy Hope-Landers spiralled his long way down the echoing staircase. A wave of resignation swept over her and she suddenly felt terribly tired. Carpe diem Horace had urged: gather the day … Some bloody day, she thought; a corpse in the drawing room, herself nearly strangled and now a man so obsessed that he was clearly losing his mind.
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