The Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  “We are flattered by your confidence in us, Minister,” replied the chairman, who remained standing. “However, I feel sure that you will understand that it cannot alter our attitude to our customers’ confidentiality.”

  Ignatius remained unperturbed.

  “Then I am sorry to inform you, Mr. Gerber, that our ambassador in Geneva will be instructed to send an official communiqué to the Swiss Foreign Office about the lack of cooperation your bank has shown concerning requests for information about our nationals.” He waited for his words to sink in. “You could avoid such embarrassment, of course, by simply letting me know the names of my countrymen who hold accounts with Gerber et Cie and the amounts involved. I can assure you we would not reveal the source of our information.”

  “You are most welcome to lodge such a communiqué, sir, and I feel sure that our minister will explain to your ambassador in the most courteous of diplomatic language that the Foreign Ministry does not have the authority under Swiss law to demand such disclosures.”

  “If that is the case, I shall instruct my own Ministry of Trade to halt all future dealings in Nigeria with any Swiss nationals until these names are revealed.”

  “That is your privilege, Minister,” replied the chairman, unmoved.

  “And we may also have to reconsider every contract currently being negotiated by your countrymen in Nigeria. And in addition, I shall personally see to it that no penalty clauses are honored.”

  “Would you not consider such action a little precipitate?”

  “Let me assure you, Mr. Gerber, that I would not lose one moment of sleep over such a decision,” said Ignatius. “Even if my efforts to discover those names were to bring your country to its knees I would not be moved.”

  “So be it, Minister,” replied the chairman. “However, it still does not alter the policy or the attitude of this bank to confidentiality.”

  “If that remains the case, sir, this very day I shall give instructions to our ambassador to close our embassy in Geneva, and I shall declare your ambassador in Lagos persona non grata.”

  For the first time the chairman raised his eyebrows.

  “Furthermore,” continued Ignatius, “I will hold a press conference in London which will leave the world’s media in no doubt of my head of state’s displeasure with the conduct of this bank. After such publicity, I feel confident you will find that many of your customers would prefer to close their accounts, while others who have in the past considered you a safe haven may find it necessary to look elsewhere.”

  The minister waited, but still the chairman did not respond.

  “Then you leave me no choice,” said Ignatius, rising from his seat.

  The chairman stretched out his arm, assuming that at last the minister was leaving, only to watch with horror as Ignatius placed a hand in his jacket pocket and removed a small pistol. The two Swiss bankers froze as the Nigerian minister of finance stepped forward and pressed the muzzle against the chairman’s temple.

  “I need those names, Mr. Gerber, and by now you must realize I will stop at nothing. If you don’t supply them immediately, I’m going to blow your brains out. Do you understand?”

  The chairman gave a slight nod, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. “And he will be next,” said Ignatius, gesturing toward the young assistant, who stood speechless and paralyzed a few paces away.

  “Get me the names of every Nigerian who holds an account in this bank,” Ignatius said quietly, looking toward the young man, “or I’ll blow your chairman’s brains all over his soft pile carpet. Immediately, do you hear me?” he added sharply.

  The young man looked toward the chairman, who was now trembling, but who said quite clearly, “Non, Pierre, jamais.”

  “D’accord,” replied the assistant in a whisper.

  “You can’t say I didn’t give you every chance.” Ignatius pulled back the hammer. The sweat was now pouring down the chairman’s face, and the young man had to turn his eyes away as he waited in terror for the pistol shot.

  “Excellent,” said Ignatius, as he removed the gun from the chairman’s head and returned to his seat. Both the bankers were still trembling and quite unable to speak.

  The minister picked up the battered briefcase by the side of his chair and placed it on the glass table in front of him. He pressed back the clasps and the lid flicked up.

  The two bankers stared down at the neatly packed rows of hundred-dollar bills. Every inch of the briefcase had been taken up. The chairman quickly estimated that it probably amounted to around five million dollars.

  “I wonder, sir,” said Ignatius, “how I go about opening an account with your bank?”

  NOT FOR SALE

  Sally Summers won her school’s senior art prize at the age of fourteen. In her last four years at St. Bride’s the only serious competition was for second place. When, in her final year, she was awarded the top scholarship to the Slade School of Fine Art, none of her contemporaries was at all surprised. The headmistress told the assembled parents on Speech Day that she was confident that Sally had a distinguished career ahead of her, and that her work would soon be exhibited in one of London’s major galleries. Sally was flattered by all this unqualified praise, but still wasn’t sure if she had any real talent.

  By the end of her first year at the Slade, the staff and senior students were already becoming aware of Sally’s work. Her drawing technique was regarded as quite exceptional, and her brushwork became bolder with each term. But, above all, it was the originality of her ideas that caused other students to stop and stare at her canvases.

  In her final year, Sally won both the Mary Rischgitz Prize for oil painting and the Henry Tonks Prize for drawing: a rare double. They were presented to her by Sir Roger de Grey, the president of the Royal Academy, and Sally was among that tiny group who were spoken of as “having a future.” But surely, she told her parents, that could be said of the top student in any year—and most of them ended up working in the creative departments of advertising agencies, or teaching art to bored schoolchildren in far-flung parts of the kingdom.

  Once she had graduated, Sally had to decide whether she too would apply for a job with an advertising agency, take up a teaching appointment, or risk everything and try to put together enough original work for a London gallery to consider her for a one-woman show.

  Her parents were convinced that their daughter had real talent, but what do parents know when you’re their only child? thought Sally. Especially when one of them was a music teacher and the other an accountant who were the first to admit that they didn’t know much about art, but they knew what they liked. Still, they seemed quite willing to support her for another year if she wanted (to use an expression of the young) to go for it.

  Sally was painfully aware that, although her parents were fairly comfortably off, another year in which she produced no income could only be a burden for them. After much soul-searching she told them; “One year, and one year only. After that, if the paintings aren’t good enough, or if no one shows any interest in exhibiting them, I’ll be realistic and look for a proper job.”

  For the next six months Sally worked hours that she hadn’t realized existed when she’d been a student. During that time she produced a dozen canvases. She allowed no one to see them, for fear that her parents and friends would not be frank with her. She was determined to finish her portfolio and then listen only to the toughest opinions possible, those of the professional gallery owners, and, tougher still, those of the buying public.

  Sally had always been a voracious reader, and she continued to devour books and monographs on artists from Bellini to Hockney. The more she read, the more she became aware that however talented an artist might be, it was industry and dedication that ultimately marked the few who succeeded from the many who failed. This inspired her to work still harder, and she began to turn down invitations to parties, dances, even weekends with old friends, making use of every spare moment to visit art galleries or to attend lec
tures on the great masters.

  By the eleventh month, Sally had completed twenty-seven works, but she still wasn’t sure whether they displayed any real talent. Nevertheless, she felt the time had finally come to allow others to pass judgment on them.

  She looked long and hard at each of the twenty-seven paintings, and the following morning she packed six of them in a large canvas folder her parents had given her the previous Christmas, and joined the early-morning commuters on their journey from Sevenoaks into London.

  Sally began her quest in Cork Street, where she came across galleries exhibiting works by Bacon, Freud, Hockney, Dunston, and Chadwick. She felt overawed at the prospect of even entering their portals, let alone submitting her own humble work to the appraisal of their proprietors. She carted her canvas folder a couple of blocks north to Conduit Street, and in the windows she recognized the works of Jones, Campbell, Wczenski, Frink, and Paolozzi. She became even more discouraged and unwilling to push open any of the galleries’ front doors.

  Sally returned home that night exhausted, her canvas folder unopened. She understood for the first time how an author must feel after receiving a string of rejection slips. She was unable to sleep that night. But as she lay awake she came to the conclusion that she must know the truth about her work, even if it meant being humiliated.

  She joined the commuters again the following morning, and this time headed for Duke Street, St. James’s. She didn’t bother with the galleries exhibiting old masters, Dutch still lifes, or English landscapes, and therefore walked straight past Johnny van Haeften and Rafael Valls. Halfway down the street she turned right, and finally came to a halt outside the Simon Bouchier Gallery, which was exhibiting the sculptures of the late Sydney Harpley and the paintings of Muriel Pemberton, whose obituary Sally had read in The Independent only a few days before.

  It was the thought of death that made Sally settle on the Bouchier Gallery. Perhaps they would be looking for someone young, she tried to convince herself, someone who had a long career ahead of them.

  She stepped inside the gallery and found herself in a large, empty room, surrounded by Muriel Pemberton’s watercolors. “Can I help you?” asked a young woman who was sitting behind a desk near the window.

  “No, thank you,” Sally replied. “I was just looking.”

  The girl eyed Sally’s canvas folder, but said nothing. Sally decided she would do one circuit of the room, and then make good her escape. She began to circle the gallery, studying the pictures carefully. They were good, very good—but Sally believed she could do just as well, given time. She would have liked to see Muriel Pemberton’s work when she was her age.

  When Sally reached the far end of the gallery, she became aware of an office in which a short, balding man, wearing an old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, was closely examining a picture. He looked about the same age as her father. Also studying the picture was another man, who caused Sally to stop in her tracks. He must have been a little over six foot, with those dark Italian looks that people normally only come across in glossy magazines; and he was old enough to be her brother.

  Was he Mr. Bouchier? she wondered. She hoped so, because if he owned the gallery she might be able to summon up the courage to introduce herself to him, once the little man in the scruffy jacket had left. At that moment the young man looked up and gave her a huge grin. Sally turned quickly away and began to study the pictures on the far wall.

  She was wondering if it was worth hanging around any longer when the two men suddenly strolled out of the office and began walking toward the door.

  She froze, pretending to concentrate on a portrait of a young girl in pastel blues and yellows, a picture that had a Matisse-like quality about it.

  “What’s in there?” asked a cheeky voice. Sally turned round and came face to face with the two men. The smaller one was pointing at her canvas bag.

  “Just a few pictures,” Sally stammered. “I’m an artist.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said the man, “and perhaps I can decide if you’re an artist or not.”

  Sally hesitated.

  “Come on, come on,” he teased. “I haven’t got all day. As you can see, I have an important client to take to lunch,” he added, indicating the tall, well-dressed young man, who still hadn’t spoken.

  “Oh, are you Mr. Bouchier?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

  “Yes. Now, am I going to be allowed to look at your pictures or not?”

  Sally quickly unzipped her canvas bag and laid out the six paintings on the floor. Both of the men bent down and studied them for some time before either offered an opinion.

  “Not bad,” said Bouchier eventually. “Not bad at all. Leave them with me for a few days, and then let’s meet again next week.” He paused. “Say Monday, 11:30. And if you have any more examples of your recent work, bring them with you.” Sally was speechless. “Can’t see you before Monday,” he continued, “because the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition opens tomorrow. So for the next few days I won’t have a moment to spare. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

  The younger man was still examining Sally’s pictures closely. At last he looked up at her. “I’d like to buy the one of the interior with the black cat on the windowsill. How much is it?”

  “Well,” said Sally, “I’m not sure …”

  “N.F.S.,” said Mr. Bouchier firmly, guiding his client toward the door.

  “By the way,” the taller man said, turning back, “I am Antonio Flavelli. My friends call me Tony.” But Mr. Bouchier was already pushing him out onto the street.

  Sally returned home that afternoon with an empty canvas folder, and was prepared to admit to her parents that a London dealer had shown an interest in her work. But it was, she insisted, no more than an interest.

  The following morning Sally decided to go to the opening day of the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, which would give her the chance to find out just how good her rivals were. For over an hour she stood in the long line that stretched from the front door right across the parking lot and out onto the sidewalk. When she eventually reached the top of the wide staircase, she wished she were six feet six tall, so that she could see over the tops of the heads of the mass of people who were crowding every room. After a couple of hours strolling round the many galleries, Sally was confident that she was already good enough to enter a couple of her pictures for next year’s exhibition.

  She stopped to admire a Craigie Aitchison of Christ on the cross, and checked in her little blue catalog to find out the price: ten thousand pounds, more than she could hope to earn if she were to sell every one of her canvases. Suddenly her concentration was broken, as a soft Italian voice behind her said, “Hello, Sally.” She swung round to find Tony Flavelli smiling down at her.

  “Mr. Flavelli,” she said.

  “Tony, please. You like Craigie Aitchison?”

  “He’s superb,” Sally replied. “I know his work well—I had the privilege of being taught by him when I was at the Slade.”

  “I can remember, not so long ago, when you could pick up an Aitchison for two, three hundred pounds at the most. Perhaps the same thing will happen to you one day. Have you seen anything else you think I ought to look at?”

  Sally was flattered to have her advice sought by a serious collector, and said, “Yes, I think the sculpture Books on a Chair by Julie Major is very striking. She has talent, and I’m sure she has a future.”

  “So do you,” said Tony.

  “Do you think so?” asked Sally.

  “It’s not important what I think,” said Tony. “But Simon Bouchier is convinced.”

  “Are you teasing me?” asked Sally.

  “No, I’m not, as you’ll find out for yourself when you see him next Monday. He talked of little else over lunch yesterday—“The daring brushwork, the unusual use of color, the originality of ideas.’ I thought he was never going to stop. Still, he’s promised I can have The Sleeping Cat That Never Moved once you’ve both set
tled on a price.”

  Sally was speechless.

  “Good luck,” Tony said, turning to leave. “Not that I think you need it.” He hesitated for a moment before swinging back to face her. “By the way, are you going to the Hockney exhibition?”

  “I didn’t even know there was one,” Sally confessed.

  “There’s a private view this evening. Six to eight.” Looking straight into her eyes he said, “Would you like to join me?”

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. “That would be nice.”

  “Good, then why don’t we meet in the Ritz Palm Court at 6:30?” Before Sally could tell him that she didn’t know where the Ritz was, let alone its Palm Court, the tall, elegant man had disappeared into the crowd.

  Sally suddenly felt gauche and scruffy, but then, she hadn’t dressed that morning with the Ritz in mind. She looked at her watch—12:45—and began to wonder if she had enough time to return home, change, and be back at the Ritz by 6:30. She decided that she didn’t have much choice, as she doubted if they would let her into such a grand hotel dressed in jeans and a T-shirt of Munch’s The Scream. She ran down the wide staircase, out onto Piccadilly, and all the way to the nearest tube station.

  When she arrived back home in Sevenoaks—far earlier than her mother had expected—she rushed into the kitchen and explained that she would be going out again shortly.

  “Was the Summer Exhibition any good?” her mother asked.

  “Not bad,” Sally replied as she ran upstairs. But once she was out of earshot she muttered under her breath, “Certainly didn’t see a lot that worried me.”

  “Will you be in for supper?” asked her mother, sticking her head out from behind the kitchen door.

  “I don’t think so,” shouted Sally. She disappeared into her bedroom and began flinging off her clothes before heading for the bathroom.

  She crept back downstairs an hour later, having tried on and rejected several outfits. She checked her dress in the hall mirror—a little too short, perhaps, but at least it showed her legs to best advantage. She could still remember those art students who during life classes had spent more time staring at her legs than at the model they were supposed to be drawing. She only hoped Tony would be similarly captivated.