O'Donnell, Peter - Modesty Blaise 02 - Sabre-Tooth, page 11
He whistled softly and said, ‘Christ!’
She nodded towards the door which led into the living-room of the suite. ‘There’s a drink in there if you’d like one.’
‘Thanks.’ He got up and moved to the door. ‘I could use it after that. What about you? Red wine?’
‘Not now. Unless you hate drinking alone.’
For a moment laughter came back into his face and he said : ‘I don’t mind doing anything alone. Almost.’
He went into the other room and put on the light. She heard the clink of glass, and half a minute later he came back carrying a long brandy and soda with ice. Passing the chair by the window, he sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘That’s a lot of money,’ he said. ‘How does it leave you?’
She put a shade of bitterness into her smile. ‘Not quite broke, but pretty badly bent.’
‘You’ve got quite a place in London, I hear. And there’s the house in Tangier.’
‘I’ve already arranged to borrow on them. I may have to sell.’
He drank half the brandy and soda. He would finish it in one more pull, she remembered. Now he was looking at her again with curious eyes.
‘So what are you going to do, Modesty?’
‘Well, I’m not going to look for a rich husband or a rich lover. And I’m not going to start living in a three-room flat.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ he repeated.
‘You mean in the way of work? Like the old days?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you any suggestions?’
He was silent for a while, running a finger thoughtfully over his upper lip. At last he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. Nothing occurs at the moment.’
‘I thought not.’
‘How’s that?’ He was puzzled.
‘You wouldn’t bring me in on any job you’d got lined up, and I wouldn’t want you to, Mike.’ Her voice was light, her manner friendly. ‘We don’t need each other.’
‘Ah now, d’you think I’ve no concern for you?’
‘I’d be hurt if you hadn’t.’ It was a lie. Concern from him would have surprised her. ‘But I’ve looked after myself for a long time. For always, Mike. Whatever I’ve lost I’ll make good in my own way.’
He drank the rest of the brandy and soda, put down the glass, and said: ‘Soon?’
‘Very soon.’ Her tone was mellow and her face quiet, but there was a sudden aura of unshakeable will and power about her.
‘So you have something lined up.’ Mike Delgado smiled. ‘That’s my girl. I’ll ask no questions.’
‘You’d get no answers.’
‘Naturally.’
He picked up her hand, took the cigarette butt from her fingers, stubbed it out in the tray on her lap, and moved the tray on to the side-table. Still holding her hand he moved closer to her, sitting on the edge of the bed, his body turned towards her.
He said: ‘It’s been a long time.’ Gently his free hand took the frothy lapel of her robe and lifted it back over her right shoulder, then slid the other side back over her left shoulder. His hand touched her brow, her cheek, her neck, and moved gently down to cup her breast.
She felt the growing sweet-sour ache in her loins, and then her mind clamped down like a shutter of steel, severing every thread of physical sensation.
Mike was looking at her body. He said: ‘Yes … you have grown up, my sweet.’
‘I was always grown up. Look at me, Mike. No, at my face.’ She held his eyes and said very quietly, very deliberately: ‘Not now.’
‘No?’ His gaze was amused, void of resentment. ‘Tell me why not.’
‘Many reasons. First, because I say so. Second, because it’s not the moment. Third, because I don’t play games when I’ve work to do.’
‘Work to do?’
‘I told you. I’ve lost a fortune. I’m going to get another.’
His eyebrows quirked upwards. ‘So it’s that close?’
She had not moved or resisted, and his hand was still upon her. She looked at him thoughtfully for several seconds, then said: ‘I’ll be in Lisbon one week from today if all goes well. Join me there if you’re free, and maybe we’ll have occasion to celebrate.’
His hand released her. He pulled the robe back over her shoulders to cover her, then sat with both hands resting on his knees, smiling.
‘When will you be leaving here?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure. Probably tomorrow evening. Ring me in the morning and we might have lunch.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘Goodnight, Mike.’
He got to his feet, a tall man moving with easy grace. At the window he turned and looked back at her. ‘Good luck, sweetheart.’ The curtains stirred, she heard the click of the window-latch, and then he was gone.
Slowly she relaxed. After a while she picked up the phone and spoke to reception. ‘Yesa car ready in forty-five minutes for the airport. You can send up for my bags in half-an-hour. And let me have all flight schedules out of Beirut, please.’
She put down the phone, got out of bed, and began to empty the wardrobe and drawers for packing. It was useful to have let Mike Delgado know that she had a job lined up, but there was also an element of risk in it. Mike would be curious, wondering if he could find an angle of his own. Better for her to vanish now, taking the first plane out on a short flight to anywhere. Mike could find her in Lisbon a week later. That would be soon enough.
In less than ten minutes her three bags were packed and her travelling clothes were laid out ready on the beda light two-piece, a fresh bra, the combined pantie-stockings she always wore, flat shoes and a headscarf.
There was time for a quick shower. As she put on her shower-cap she remembered with impatience that there was no more than a sliver of soap in the bathroom and she had forgotten to tell the maid. Opening the small overnight case, she took out a rather large Guerlain gift-box Willie had presented to her a fortnight earlier.
Presents from Willie came as no surprise. She had long since given up protesting. But this one had puzzled her a little. Willie’s gifts always had some unusual quality about them; from America he had brought her an antique Derringer, made in the 1860’s, a Williamson .41 calibre with an ivory stock and beautifully chased gold butt-plates. This was a collector’s piece. For Willie, the gift-box seemed … very ordinary.
It felt heavy in her hands as she went through into the bathroom, but her thoughts were running ahead and she was only vaguely surprised to find that it held no more than two small bars of soap, a tin of talc, and some body mist. The box seemed deeper than it needed to be. She pulled out one of the bars of soap, springing it from beneath two stiff tongues of cardboard.
Adjusting the shower, she stepped under the gushing rose. As the first warm jets flooded down over her body a chord of music sounded in the bathroom, followed by a rippling arpeggio. She spun round, staring. The small clear sound had come from the Guerlain box.
There was a pause, then a creamy-smooth announcer’s voice said: ‘And now, for all clean people … Music To Wash To.’
Her wide eyes filled with laughter. Still watching the box, she reached out and turned off the shower. The voice was Willie’s, one of the several he could produce perfectly when he cared to put aside his natural cockney.
The next chords were from a full orchestra, the opening bars of Chopin’s Polonaise in A. But the fourth bar consisted of a perfectly-timed gurgle from an emptying bath. Then, incredibly, the music was modulated by a rhythmic bubbling; not an accompaniment, but a sound integral with the notes and chords.
In some way Willie had used the principle of the speaking violin or speaking-piano, where a voice over a microphone is used to modulate the output of the instrument itself, so that the music takes on an eerie robotic voice of its own. But here Willie had used sounds instead of voice.
There was the rhythmic scrubbing, the hollow gurgle of the waste, the abrupt splash of a gushing tap, and the squeak of a rubber duck, all blended with happy wit into the Polonaise.
She stood with glistening wet body, her hand still on the shower control, head bent a little to capture every nuance. From time to time laughter shook her, and her eyes were alight with pleasure. She wondered how many hours Willie had spent in recording, composing and blending all the fantasy of sound on that miniature tape concealed in the base of the Guerlain box. It lasted for two minutes, then clicked off.
She drew a long breath and exhaled, thinking that one day she must play this for Tarrant. It would enchant him. She turned on the shower again and let it beat on her relaxed body. The small, aching tension roused in her by Mike Delgado was gone now, wiped away by laughter and pleasure and warm affection.
She thought about Willie. The day after tomorrow he would be in Rouen, lying on the table in Georges Brissot’s surgery. Not a pleasant two hours for him, but very necessary.
Ten minutes later she was dressed, sitting on the bed and going through flight schedules while the night porter carried out her bags.
EIGHT
THE Director of the Musée Mattioret hid his irritation with an effort.
‘Believe me, M’sieu Ransome,’ he said politely, ‘we are conscious of our responsibility. When you return to Paris you may reassure M’sieu Leighton on that point. The security arrangements for the Watteau are excellent.’
The man sitting on the far side of the desk in the Director’s office leaned back and said tiredly in French: ‘I’m sure that’s so. I’m not arguing with you, m’sieu. But I’m not arguing with Mr. Leighton, either. He hired me as his personal representative to come down and check. He’s entitled to do that. The Watteau is his picture.’
Ransome’s French was fluent but with no rhythm or inflexion except for the American twang and the Anglo-Saxon vowels which grated on the Director’s nerves.
The man wore a dark blue blazer of transatlantic cut, fawn trousers and a cream shirt with a long pearl-grey tie. He was tall, with rather short black hair as if a crew-cut were being allowed to grow out. His face was bronzed, his eyes coffee-brown, and both cheeks bore round patches made up of hundreds of pin-point black dots, as if at some time he had suffered a severe powder-burn from a gun exploding close to his face. The bridge of his nose was angular, jutting in a distinctive peak.
The Director did not like this man Ransome, but could not afford to show it.
He said: ‘Certainly M’sieu Leighton is entitled to reassure himself. He is the owner of this great painting, discovered here in our town. The Watteau has enormous value and we are most grateful that he has allowed us the honour of exhibiting it in our little musée,’ he gestured modestly, ‘when the great galleries of Paris must have been clamouring for the privilege.’
Ransome looked at his watch and said nothing. ‘But I do not understand M’sieu Leighton’s sudden anxiety,’ the Director went on. ‘He has allowed us to show the picture for six weeks before he takes it home to the United States. There are only two weeks left now. What has caused his feeling of alarm so late in the day?’
‘I didn’t ask him any questions,’ Ransome said. ‘That’s not my job. But if I had to guess, I’d say he might have heard some rumour that an attempt will be made to steal the painting.’
The Director lifted his shoulders with a touch of pained amusement and said: ‘A rumour.’
Ransome was silent for a while. At last he said politely: ‘I’m not an art expert, so perhaps I haven’t grasped the situation correctly. Will you tell me a little about this picture?’
‘Gladly, m’sieu.’ The Director was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps this man Ransome was not such a boor after all. ‘Antoine Watteau painted his pictures in the early years of the eighteenth centurypictures of the ladies and gentlemen of French society, set in Arcadian landscapes. Some of his works were lost in the original, such as this Fęte Dans Les Bois.’ He gestured towards a television set in the corner of the room.
This was a closed-circuit television, showing the section of the musée where the picture was hung. It took in the whole of the wide alcove and the three or four people who stood behind the barrier-cord, studying the Watteau. Ransome did not trouble to look round. On the screen, the painting itself was no more than a small rectangle.
‘A number of engravers of that period reproduced Watteau’s work,’ said the Director, ‘and so you will find engravings of Fęte Dans Les Bois in many museums. The original was painted for Le Duc de Charentin, and it hung in the great Paris house of the family until the Revolution.’
‘What revolution was that?’ Ransome asked.
The Director winced and looked at the ceiling. ‘The French Revolution, m’sieu! An affair which took place towards the end of the eighteenth century. In it, many great aristocratic families were destroyed, the Charentin family among them. It was always believed that this picture, with many other treasures, was also destroyed at that time. We shall never know how it was brought out safely from Paris to the Chateau Brunelle.’
He turned in his chair to look out of the window. Three miles away, on the long green ridge overlooking the town, stood a small chateau.
‘It was only a few months ago that the chateau was put up for sale and all the effects were auctioned,’ went on the Director. ‘Your M’sieu Leighton attended that auction. He bought a single lot, a number of old pictures which had lain in an attic room for more than a century and a half. They were rubbish, filthy with the dust of all those years.’
The Director turned back to Ransome. ‘M’sieu Leighton had them carefully cleaned. They were still rubbishexcept for one picture.’ He leaned forward dramatically. ‘Watteau’s Fęte Dans Les Bois, undamaged, preserved by its thick varnish, in perfect condition! On the back of the canvas, in one corner, was the red seal bearing the coat of arms of the extinct Charentin family.’
The Director spread his hands. ‘It is the art discovery of the century, m’sieu, a genuine Watteau, one metre long by two thirds of a metre deep, immediately authenticated by the greatest experts. Ah, there can be no mistaking that delicate, magical colouring’
‘How long is it since any Watteau painting was put up for sale on the open market?’ Ransome broke in suddenly.
The Director blinked and pondered for several moments. ‘Not at any time within my memory,’ he said at last., ‘And what would this Fęte Dans Les Bois fetch?’
‘Ahh, who can say?’ The Director gestured again. ‘It is a priceless thing, m’sieu. A million and a half dollars, two million, perhaps! One cannot put a ceiling to the possible bidding.’
Ransome nodded. ‘So let us agree that M’sieu Leighton is entitled to worry about any rumour, however groundless, that an attempt to steal the picture might be made.’ The Director drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. ‘You do not understand, m’sieu,’ he said. ‘One’s greatest fear for such a picture is the possibility of fire, not of theft. That is why you see fire precautions everywhere throughout the musée. That is why the picture is so hung that it can be easily lifted down if fire were to break out.’
‘So I understand.’ Ransome referred to a small notebook. ‘It could also be easily lifted down by a thief.’
‘It is a priceless thing, but it is a famous picture, not a block of gold,’ said the Director stiffly. ‘To whom would a thief sell such a picture?’
‘He would have sold it in advance of the theft,’ Ransome said. ‘For half its value. To a … a gloater.’ He used the English word, thought for a moment, then added: ‘Celui qui couve des yeux.’
The Director lifted expostulatory hands. ‘The unscrupulous millionaire who will keep stolen pictures hidden in a cellar to enjoy them for himself alone? Ah, I do not think such exist.’
‘They exist,’ Ransome said flatly. ‘I could name maybe threebut I won’t. I could name one who never even looks at what he’s got. Having it is all that matters.’
The Director shook his head in doubt and bewilderment. ‘You know more of these affairs than I, m’sieu.’
‘That’s why Mr. Leighton’s secretary rang to say I’d be coming along,’ Ransome said patiently, and looked at his watch again. ‘Would you care to give me a rough idea of the security arrangements before we go down and take a look?’
The Director picked up a pencil and began to make meaningless lines on his pad. ‘First there is the closed-circuit television,’ he said, indicating the set. ‘While the musée is open this office is never vacant. If I am not here myself, then my assistant is here.’
‘And the other arrangements?’
‘I think you must have some knowledge of them, m’sieu. They were mentioned in the newspapers to deter any foolish amateur attempt. As you see, the painting hangs in an alcove, in a small section of the musée which we cleared for the purpose. No person is allowed into this section carrying a stick, or umbrella, or anything with which damage might be done.’
‘How close can they get to it?’
‘No closer than three metres. There is the usual barrier of heavy silk cord, and an attendant is present at all times. There are also three gendarmes on duty, two at the exit and one patrolling the outside of the musée.’
‘Inspector Faunier mentioned an electronic alarm.’
‘You have spoken with him also?’
‘I like to check everything twice.’
‘I see. Yes, there is an arrangement of that nature. I understand it projects a number of beams, so that anything which passes the unseen barrier will cause alarm bells to ring in several different parts of the musée.’
‘How high is this electronic barrier?’
‘I am sure the Inspector must have told you. Two metres.’ A wintry smile touched the Director’s lips. ‘It extends from the floor to a height of two metres. Sufficient, I think?’
Ransome nodded grudgingly. He took a heavy gunmetal cigarette-case from his pocket, lit a cigarette, and put the case down on the desk. ‘You’ll be closing in a few minutes now. I’d like to see the arrangements and make a test’
