by Ken Follett
He had needled the girl at last. ″If that′s how you feel, maybe you should choke on your privileged beer. What are you doing here, anyway?″
″Thatʹs what I′m wondering.″ He drained his glass and stood up. ″Crazy conversations like this I don′t need.″
He looked around for Sammy, but he heard her voice before he saw her. She was shouting at Joe Davies. In a second everyone was watching.
Her face was red, and she was more angry than Tom had ever seen her. ″How dare you investigate my friends?″ she yelled. ″You′re not my guardian angel, you′re my lousy fucking agent. You used to be my agent, because you′re fired, Joe Davies.″ She slapped the man′s face once, hard, and turned on her heel.
The agent purpled in humiliation. He stepped after Samantha with a raised fist. Two long strides took Tom across the room. He pushed Joe, gently but firmly, so that the agent rocked back on his heels. Then Tom turned and followed Samantha out of the room.
Outside on the sidewalk, she broke into a run. ″Sammy!″ Tom called. He ran after her. When he caught up with her, he gripped her arm and stopped her.
″What is this all about?″ he asked.
She looked up at him, confusion and anger in her eyes. ″Joe had you investigated,″ she said. ″He said you had a wife, four children, and a police record.″
″Oh.″ He looked piercingly into her eyes. ″So what do you think?″
″How the hell do I know what to think?″
″I have a broken marriage, and the divorce isn′t through yet. Ten years ago I forged a check. Does that make any difference to anything?″
She stared at him for a moment. Then she buried her head in his shoulder. ″No, Tom, no.″
He held her still in his arms for a long moment. Then he said: ″It was a lousy party, anyway. Let′s s get a cab.″
They walked up to Park Lane and found a taxi outside one of the hotels. The driver took them along Piccadilly, the Strand, and Fleet Street. Tom got him to stop at a newsstand where early editions of the morning papers were on sale.
It was getting light as they drove under Holborn Viaduct. ″Look at this,″ Tom said. ″Lord Cardwell′s paintings are expected to raise a million pounds.″ He folded the paper and looked out of the window. ″Do you know how he got those pictures?″
″Tell me.″
″In the seventeenth century sailors died to bring him gold from South America. In the eighteenth, farmers starved to pay his rents. In the nineteenth, children died in factories and urban slums to maximize his profits. In this century he went into banking to help other people do what he had been doing for three hundred years—getting rich on poor men′s backs. Christ, a million pounds could build a nice little housing estate in Islington.″
″What′s to be done?″ Sammy said disconsolately.
″Beats me.″
″If the people won′t take their money from him, weʹll have to.″
″Oh yes?″
″Tom, be serious! Why not?″
He put his arm around her. ″Sure, why not? We′ll steal his paintings, sell them for a million quid, and build a housing estate. We′ll sort out the details in the morning. Kiss me.″
She lifted her mouth to his, and broke away quickly. ″I mean it, Tom.″
He looked at her face for a moment. ″Stone the crows, I think you do,″ he said.
III
JULIAN LAY AWAKE. THE late-August night was unpleasantly warm. The bedroom windows were open, and he had thrown the duvet off the bed, but he was still sweating. Sarah lay with her back to him on the far side of the wide bed, her legs spread in a striding position. Her body gleamed palely in the weak dawn light, and the shadowy cleft of her buttocks was a mocking invitation. She did not stir when he got out of bed.
He took a pair of underpants from a drawer and slipped into them. Closing the bedroom door softly behind him, he went across the hall, down a half flight of stairs, and through the living room to the kitchen. He filled the electric kettle and plugged it in.
The words on the postcard which he had read the previous night in Samantha′s living room were repeated again and again inside his head, like a pop tune which refuses to be forgotten. ″Iʹm off to Poglio to find a lost Modigliani.″ The message had burned its add way into his brain. It was that, more than the heat, which had kept him awake ever since.
He had to go after the lost Modigliani. It would be exactly what he needed—a real find. It would establish his reputation as a dealer and attract flocks of people to the Black Gallery. It was not in line with gallery policy, but that did not matter.
Julian put a teabag into a mug and poured boiling water into it. He poked disconsolately at the floating bag, submerging it with a spoon and watching it rise again to the surface. The Modigliani was his golden opportunity, and he could see no way to snatch at it.
If he could find the picture, Lord Cardwell would put up the money to buy it. Sarah′s father had promised that, and the old fool could be trusted to keep his word. But he would not fork out a penny on the basis of a postcard from a scatty girl. And Julian did not have the money to go to Italy.
The tea had turned a thick brown color, and a hard-water scum was forming on the surface. He took it over to the breakfast bar and sat on a high stool. He looked around the kitchen, at the dishwasher, the split-level cooker that was only used for boiling eggs, the washing machine, the freezer, and the host of smaller electric toys. It was maddening to be near so much wealth and unable to use it.
How much would he need? Airfare, hotel bills, perhaps a little bribery ... Everything depended upon how long it took him to catch up with the woman who signed herself D. A few hundred pounds—perhaps a thousand. He had to have the money.
He turned possibilities over in his mind as he sipped his tea. He could steal some of Sarah′s jewelry and pawn it. That might get him in trouble with the police. Did pawnbrokers demand proof of ownership ? Probably the good ones did. No, that was out of his field. Forging one of her checks was more his style. But she would find out about that even sooner. And in both cases, it would be too risky to raise the kind of amount he needed.
He would have to find something she would not miss. Something easily negotiable and worth a lot of money.
He could drive to Italy, he realized. He had looked up Poglio in the gazetteer—it was on the Adriatic, in Northern Italy. He could sleep in the car.
But then he would find it difficult to look smart if any careful negotiations were required. And he would still need money for gas, and meals, and bribes.
He could tell her he was driving to Italy, and then sell the car. Then she would discover his deception as soon as he returned—just when he wanted her father to fork out. So, he could say the car had been stolen.
That was it. He could say the car had been stolen—and sell it. She would want to notify the police, and the insurance company. But he could tell her he had dealt with all that.
Then there would have to be a delay, while the police were supposedly looking for it. The insurance company could take months to fork out. By the time Sarah realized it was all a deception, Julian′s reputation would be established.
He was determined to give it a try. He would go out and find a suitable garage. He looked at his wristwatch. It was 8:30. He went back to the bedroom to put on his clothes.
He found the log-book in a drawer in the kitchen, and the car keys where he had left them last night.
He ought to do something to make it all look convincing. He found a sheet of paper and a blunt pencil, and wrote a note to Sarah. ″Have taken the car. Will be out all day. Business. J.″
He left the note next to the coffeepot in the kitchen, and went down to the garage.
It took him more than an hour to get through the West End and the City and along the Mile End Road to Stratford. Traffic was heavy and the road was hopelessly inadequate. When he reached Leytonstone High Road he found a rash of used car lots: in shop fronts, on bomb sites, at gas stations, spilling o
nto the sidewalks.
He chose a largish one on a corner. There was a young-looking Jaguar out front, and plenty of late-model quality cars in the yard at the side. Julian drove in.
A middle-aged man was washing the windshield of a big Ford. He wore a leather hat and a short coat open at the front. He walked over to Julian carrying his rag and bucket of water.
″You′re an early bird,″ he said pleasantly. He had a heavy East End accent.
Julian said: ″Is the boss around?″
The man′s manner chilled perceptibly. ″Speaking,″ he said.
Julian indicated the car with a wave of his hand. ″What price would you offer me for this?″
″Trade-in?″
″No, cash.″
The man looked again at the car, made a sour face, and shook his head from side to side. ″Very hard to get rid of, these,″ he said.
″It′s a beautiful car,″ Julian protested.
The man kept his skeptical face. ″What is she, two-year-old?″
″Eighteen months.″
The car dealer walked slowly around, examining the bodywork. He fingered a scratch in the door, looked closely at the fenders, and felt the tires.
″It′s a beautiful car,″ Julian repeated.
″That may be, but it don′t mean I can sell it,″ the man said. He opened the driver′s door and got behind the wheel.
Julian felt exasperated. This was ridiculous. He knew very well the dealer could sell the Mercedes in the trade if not on his own lot. It was just a question of how much the man would pay.
″I want cash,″ he said.
″I haven′t offered you shirt buttons for it yet, mate,″ the dealer replied. He turned the ignition key and the engine fired. He turned it off, let the engine die, and turned it on again. He repeated the process several times.
″The mileage is very low,″ Julian offered.
″But is it right?″
″Of course.″
The man got out of the car and shut the door. ″I don′t know,″ he said.
″Do you want to drive it?″
″Nah.″
″How the hell can you tell what it′s worth without driving it?″ Julian burst out.
The man remained cool. ″What business you in?″
″I own an art gallery.″
″Right, then. I′ll stick to motors and you stick to bleed′n paintings.″
Julian controlled his temper. ″Well, are you going to make me an offer?″
″I suppose I could give you fifteen hundred for it, doing you a favor.″
″That′s ridiculous! It must have cost five or six thousand new!″ There was a flash of triumph in the dealer′s eyes at that. Julian realized he had given away the fact that he did not know the original price of the car.
The dealer said: ″I suppose it is yours to sell?″
″Of course.″
″Got the log-book?″ Julian fished it out of his in side pocket and handed it over.
The dealer said: ″Funny name for a bloke, Sarah.″
″Thatʹs my wife.″ Julian took out a card and handed it over. This is my name.″
The man put the card in a pocket. ″Pardon me asking, but she does know you′re selling it?″
Julian inwardly cursed the man′s canniness. How could he guess? No doubt he figured that for an art dealer to come to the East End to sell a nearly new Mercedes for cash there must be something faintly underhanded going on.
He said: ″My wife died recently.″
″Fair enough.″ The dealer obviously did not believe the story. ″Well, I′ve told you what it′s worth to me.″
″I couldn′t let it go for much less than three thousand,″ Julian said with a show of determination.
″I′ll say sixteen hundred, and thatʹs my top price.″
Julian decided he was expected to haggle. ″Twofive,″ he said.
The dealer turned his back and began to walk away.
Julian panicked. ″All right,″ he called out. ″Two thousand.″
″Sixteen-fifty, take it or leave it.″
″Cash?ʺ
″What else?″
Julian sighed. ″Very well.″
″Come into the office.″
Julian followed the man across the yard and into the old shop building which faced the main road. He sat at a battered wooden desk and signed a sale certificate while the dealer opened an old iron safe and counted out £1,650 in used five-pound notes.
When he made to leave, the dealer offered a handshake. Julian snubbed him and walked out. He was convinced he had been robbed.
He walked west, looking out for a taxi. He let the unpleasant encounter drift out of his mind, to be replaced by cautious elation. At least he had the money—£1,65O in fivers! It was plenty for his trip. He felt as if he had already started out.
He went over the story he would tell Sarah. He could say he had been to see the decorators—no, it had better be someone she did not know. An artist who lived in Stepney. What was his name? John Smith would do—there must be plenty of real people called John Smith. He had gone into the house, and when he had come out an hour later the car had been stolen.
A cab came up behind him and flashed by, empty. Julian whistled and waved but it did not stop. He resolved to be more alert.
It struck him that Sarah might ring the police while he was away. Then the cat would be out of the bag. He would have to give her the name of a nonexistent police station. A taxi came toward him, and he hailed it.
He stretched out his legs in the back of the cab, and wriggled his toes inside his shoes to ease the soreness from walking. All right, suppose Sarah rang Scotland Yard when she discovered the station did not exist. They would tell her, eventually, that her car had not been reported stolen at all.
The whole scheme appeared more and more foolhardy as he approached home. Sarah might accuse him of stealing her car. Could you be charged with stealing from your wife? What about all that stuff in the marriage service—all my worldly goods I thee endow, or something? And there was a charge of wasting police time.
The taxi went along Victoria Embankment and through Westminster. The police would not bother to prosecute in a marital quarrel, Julian decided. But enough harm would be done if Sarah realized what he was up to. As soon as she did, she would tell her father. Then Julian would be out of favor with Lord Cardwell at the crucial moment when he might need money to buy the Modigliani.
He began to wish he had never thought of selling the car. What had seemed a brainwave early that morning now looked like wrecking his chances of a find.
The taxi stopped outside the glass-walled house, and Julian paid the cabbie with one of the thick pile of fivers he had got from the garage man. As he walked up to the front door he tried desperately to think of a better yarn to tell his wife. Nothing came.
He let himself quietly into the house. It was only just after eleven o′clock—she would still be in bed. He made no noise as he entered the living room and sat down. He eased off his shoes and sat back.
It might be better to go straight to Italy, now. He could leave a note saying he would be away for a few days. She would assume he had taken the car. When he came back he could spin her some tale.
Suddenly he frowned. Since he came in a small noise had been tugging at the sleeve of his mind, demanding attention. He concentrated on it now, and his frown deepened. It was a kind of scuffling noise.
He sorted it into its components. There was a rustle of sheets, a muffled creak of bedsprings, and a panting. It was coming from the bedroom. He guessed Sarah was having a nightmare. He was about to call out to wake her; then he remembered something about not waking people suddenly when they were dreaming. Or was that sleepwalking? He decided to look at her.
He walked up the half-flight of stairs. The bedroom door was open. He looked in.
He stopped dead in his tracks, and his mouth fell open in surprise. His heart beat very fast in shock, and he could hear a rushing noise in
his ears.
Sarah lay on her side on the sheets. Her neck was arched, her head flung back, and her expensively coiffed hair plastered to her perspiring face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, emitting low-pitched animal grunts.
A man lay beside her, his pelvis locked with hers in a slow shudder. The man′s thick limbs were dense with black hair. The muscles of his white buttocks bunched and relaxed rhythmically. Sarah had one foot on the knee of the opposite leg, making a triangle; and the man squeezed the flesh of the inside of her raised thigh as he murmured obscenities in a deep, clear voice.
On the bed behind Sarah lay a second man. He had blond hair, and his white face was slightly spotty. His hips and Sarah′s bottom fitted together like spoons in a drawer. One hand curled around Sarah′s body and squeezed her breasts, one after the other.
It dawned on Julian that the two men were making love to her at the same time. That accounted for the curiously slow jerking of the three bodies. He watched, appalled.
The blond man saw him and gave a giggle. ″We′ve got an audience,″ he said in a high voice.
The other man turned his head quickly, and they both stopped moving.
Sarah said: ″It′s only my husband. Don′t stop, you bastards, please.″
The dark man seized her hips and began to jerk more powerfully than before. The three of them lost interest in Julian. Sarah said, ″Oh yes,″ again and again.
Julian turned away. He felt weak and sickened; and something more. It was a long time since he had seen that rutting look on Sarah′s face. He could not help but be aroused by it. But the trace of sexual excitement was faint and uneasy.
He collapsed in the armchair again. They were making louder noises now, as if to mock him. His self-respect was demolished.
So that was what she needed to turn her on, he thought spitefully. It wasn′t my fault at all. Bitch, bitch. Julian′s humiliation turned to vindictiveness.
He wanted to humiliate her, as she had him. He would tell the world about the cow and her sexual tastes, he would—