The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Charming. And so natural,’ Millie replied, ‘considering all that she’s been through. A real star.’

  ‘Did you learn anything interesting?’ asked Julian.

  ‘She’s staying at the Park Lane Hotel, and she’s off to Paris on Sunday for the next leg of her tour.’

  ‘I already knew that,’ said Julian. ‘Read it in Londoner’s Diary last night. Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘On the day of a concert she never leaves her room and won’t speak to anyone, even her manager. She likes to rest her voice before going on stage.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Julian. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The air conditioning in her room has to be turned off, because she’s paranoid about catching a cold and not being able to perform. She once missed a concert in Dallas when she came off the street at a hundred degrees straight into an air-conditioned room, and ended up coughing and sneezing for a week.’

  ‘Why’s she staying at the Park Lane,’ asked Julian, ‘and not Claridges or the Ritz where all the big stars stay?’

  ‘It’s only a five-minute drive from the Albert Hall and she has a dread of being held up in a traffic jam and being late for a concert.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like an old friend,’ said Julian.

  ‘Well, she was very chatty,’ said Millie.

  ‘But did she buy anything?’ asked Julian, ignoring a man carrying a large package who strolled past him and through the open door of his antique shop.

  ‘No, but she did put a deposit down on a pair of earrings and a watch. She said she’d be back tomorrow.’ Millie gave her next-door neighbour a warm smile. ‘And if you buy me a coffee, I’ll tell her about your Fabergé egg.’

  ‘I think I may already have a buyer for that,’ said Julian. ‘But I’ll still get you a coffee, just as soon as I’ve got rid of Lenny.’ He smiled and stepped back into his shop, not bothering to close the door.

  ‘I thought you might be interested in this, Mr Farnsdale,’ said a scruffily dressed man, handing him a heavy helmet. ‘It’s Civil War, circa 1645. I could let you have it for a reasonable price.’

  Julian studied the helmet for a few moments.

  ‘Circa 1645 be damned,’ he pronounced. ‘More like circa 1995. And if you picked it up in the Old Kent Road, I can even tell you who made it. I’ve been around far too long to be taken in by something like that.’

  Lenny left the shop, head bowed, still clutching the helmet. Julian closed the door behind him.

  Julian was bargaining with a lady over a small ceramic figure of the Duke of Wellington in the shape of a boot (circa 1817). He wanted £350 for the piece but she was refusing to pay more than £320, when the black stretch limousine drew up outside. Julian left his customer and hurried over to the window just in time to see Miss Gaynor step out on to the pavement and walk into the jewellery shop without glancing in his direction. He sighed and turned to find that his customer had gone, and so had the Duke of Wellington.

  Julian spent the next hour standing by the door so he wouldn’t miss his idol when she left the jewellery shop. He was well aware that he was breaking one of his golden rules: you should never stand by the door. It frightens off the customers and, worse, it makes you look desperate. Julian was desperate.

  Miss Gaynor finally strolled out of the jewellery shop clutching a small red bag which she handed to her chauffeur. She stopped to sign an autograph, then walked straight past the antique shop and into Art Pimlico, on the other side of Julian’s shop. She was in there for such a long time that Julian began to wonder if he’d missed her. But she couldn’t have left the gallery because the limousine was still parked on the double yellow lines, the chauffeur seated behind the wheel.

  When Miss Gaynor finally emerged she was followed by the gallery owner, who was carrying a large Warhol silk-screen print of Chairman Mao. Lucky Susan, thought Julian, to have had a whole hour with Gloria. The chauffeur leapt out, took the print from Susan and placed it in the boot of the limousine. Miss Gaynor paused to sign a few more autographs before taking the opportunity to escape. Julian stared out of the window and didn’t move until she’d climbed into the back of the car and had been whisked away.

  Once the car was out of sight, Julian joined Millie and Susan on the pavement. ‘I see you sold the great lady a Warhol,’ he said to Susan, trying not to sound envious.

  ‘No, she only took it on appro,’ said Susan. ‘She wants to live with it for a couple of days before she makes up her mind.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit of a risk?’ asked Julian.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Susan. ‘I can just see the headline in the Sun: Gloria Gaynor steals Warhol from London gallery. I don’t think that’s the kind of publicity she’ll be hoping for on the first leg of her European tour.’

  ‘Did you manage to sell her anything, Millie?’ asked Julian, trying to deflect the barb.

  ‘The earrings and the watch,’ said Millie, ‘but far more important, she gave me a couple of tickets for her concert on Saturday night.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Susan, waving her tickets in triumph.

  ‘I’ll give you two hundred pounds for them,’ said Julian.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Millie. ‘Even if you offered double, I wouldn’t part with them.’

  ‘How about you, Susan?’ Julian asked desperately.

  ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘You may change your mind when she doesn’t return your Chairman Mao,’ said Julian, before flouncing back into his shop.

  The following morning, Julian hovered by the door of his shop, but there was no sign of the stretch limousine. He didn’t join Millie and Susan in Starbucks for coffee at eleven, claiming he had a lot of paperwork to do.

  He didn’t have a single customer all day, just three browsers and a visit from the VAT inspector. When he locked up for the night, he had to admit to himself that it hadn’t been a good week so far. But all that could change if the American returned on Saturday with his partner.

  On Thursday morning the stretch limousine drove up and parked outside Susan’s gallery. The chauffeur stepped out, removed Chairman Mao from the boot and carried the Chinese leader inside. A few minutes later he ran back on to the street, slammed the boot shut, jumped behind the steering wheel and drove off, but not before a parking ticket had been placed on his windscreen. Julian laughed.

  The next morning, while Julian was discussing the Adam fireplace with an old customer who was showing some interest in the piece, the doorbell rang and a woman entered the shop.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said in a gravelly voice. ‘I just want to look around. I’m not in any hurry.’

  ‘Where did you say you found it, Julian?’

  ‘Buckley Manor in Hertfordshire, Sir Peter,’ said Julian without adding the usual details of its provenance.

  ‘And you’re asking eighty thousand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julian, not looking at him.

  ‘Well, I’ll think about it over the weekend,’ said the customer, ‘and let you know on Monday.’

  ‘Whatever suits you, Sir Peter,’ said Julian, and without another word he strode off towards the front of the shop, opened the door and remained standing by it until the customer had stepped back out on to the pavement, a puzzled look on his face. If Sir Peter had looked round, he would have seen Julian close the door and switch the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  ‘Stay cool, Julian, stay cool,’ he murmured to himself as he walked slowly towards the lady he’d been hoping to serve all week.

  ‘I was in the area a couple of days ago,’ she said, her voice husky and unmistakable.

  I know you were, Gloria, Julian wanted to say. ‘Indeed, madam,’ was all he managed.

  ‘Millie told me all about your wonderful shop, but I just didn’t have enough time.’

  ‘I understand, madam.’

  ‘Actually, I haven’t come across anything I really like this week. I was hoping I might be luckier today.’

  ‘Let�
��s hope so, madam.’

  ‘You see, I try to take home some little memento from every city I perform in. It always brings back so many happy memories.’

  ‘What a charming idea,’ said Julian, beginning to relax.

  ‘Of course, I could hardly fail to admire the Adam fireplace,’ she said, running a hand over the marble nymphs, ‘but I can’t see it fitting in to my New York condo.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, madam,’ said Julian.

  ‘The Chippendale rocking chair is unquestionably a masterpiece, but sadly it would look somewhat out of place in a Beverly Hills mansion. And Delft isn’t to my taste.’ She continued to look around the room, until her eyes came to rest on the egg. ‘But I do love your Fabergé egg.’ Julian smiled ingratiatingly. ‘What does the green dot mean?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘That it’s reserved for another customer, madam; an American gentleman I’m expecting tomorrow.’

  ‘What a pity,’ she said, staring lovingly at the egg. ‘I’m working tomorrow, and flying to Paris the following day.’ She smiled sweetly at Julian and said, ‘It clearly wasn’t meant to be. Thank you.’ She began walking slowly towards the door.

  Julian hurried after her. ‘It’s possible, of course, that the customer won’t come back. They often don’t, you know.’

  She paused by the door. ‘And how much did he agree to pay for the egg?’ she asked.

  ‘Six hundred and twenty-five thousand,’ said Julian.

  ‘Pounds?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  She walked back and took an even longer look at the egg. ‘Would six hundred and fifty thousand convince you that he won’t be returning?’ she asked, giving him that same sweet smile.

  Julian beamed as she sat down at his desk and took a chequebook out of her bag. ‘Whom shall I make it out to?’ she asked.

  ‘Julian Farnsdale Fine Arts Ltd,’ he said, placing one of his cards in front of her.

  She wrote out the name and the amount slowly, and double-checked them before signing ‘Gloria Gaynor’ with a flourish. She handed the cheque to Julian who tried to stop his hand from shaking.

  ‘If you’re not doing anything special tomorrow night,’ she said as she rose from her chair, ‘perhaps you’d like to come to my concert?’

  ‘How kind of you,’ said Julian.

  She took two tickets out of her bag and passed them across to him. ‘And perhaps you’d care to join me backstage for a drink after the show?’

  Julian was speechless.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave your name at the stage door. Please don’t tell Millie or Susan. There just isn’t enough room for everyone. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Gaynor. You can rely on me. I won’t say a word.’

  ‘And if I could ask you for one small favour?’ she said as she closed her bag.

  ‘Anything,’ said Julian. ‘Anything.’

  ‘I wonder if you’d be kind enough to deliver the egg to the Park Lane Hotel, and ask a porter to send it up to my room.’

  ‘You could take it with you now if you wish, Miss Gaynor.’

  ‘How kind of you,’ she said, ‘but I’m lunching with Mick . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I’d prefer if it could be delivered to the hotel.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Julian. He accompanied her out of the shop to the waiting car, where the chauffeur was holding open the back door.

  ‘How silly of me to forget,’ she said just before stepping into the car. She turned back to Julian and whispered into his ear, ‘For security reasons, my room is booked in the name of Miss Hampton.’ She smiled flirtatiously. ‘Otherwise I’d never get a moment’s peace.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Julian. He couldn’t believe it when she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Julian,’ she said. ‘I look forward to seeing you after the show,’ she added as she climbed into the back seat.

  Julian stood there shaking as Millie and Susan joined him on the pavement.

  ‘Did she give you any tickets for her show?’ asked Millie as the car drove away.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ said Julian, then walked back into his shop and closed the door.

  The smartly dressed young man writing down some figures in a little black book reminded her of the rent collector from her youth. ‘How much did it cost us this time?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Five days at the Park Lane came to three thousand three hundred, including tips, the stretch limo was two hundred pounds an hour, sixteen hundred in all.’ His forefinger continued down the handwritten inventory. ‘The two items you purchased from the jewellery shop came to fifteen hundred.’ She touched a pearl earring and smiled. ‘Meals along with other expenses, including five extras from the casting agency, five autograph books and a parking fine, came to another nine hundred and twenty-two pounds. Six tickets for tonight’s concert purchased from a tout, a further nine hundred pounds, making eight thousand, two hundred and twenty-two pounds in all, which, at today’s exchange rate, comes to about thirteen thousand three hundred and sixty-nine dollars. Not a bad return,’ he concluded as he smiled across at her.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Dear sweet Julian should be arriving at the Albert Hall about now,’ she said. ‘Let’s at least hope he enjoys the show.’

  ‘I would have liked to go with him.’

  ‘Behave yourself, Gregory,’ she teased.

  ‘When do you think he’ll find out?’

  ‘When he turns up at the stage door after the show and finds his name isn’t on the guest list, would be my guess.’

  Neither of them spoke while Gregory went over the figures a second time, then finally closed his little book and placed it in an inside pocket.

  ‘I must congratulate you on your research this time,’ she said. ‘I must admit I’d never heard of Robert Adam, Delft or Chippendale before you briefed me.’

  Gregory smiled. ‘Napoleon once said that time spent on reconnaissance is rarely wasted.’

  ‘So where does Napoleon stay when he’s in Paris?’

  ‘The Ritz Carlton,’ Gregory replied matter-of-factly.

  ‘That sounds expensive.’

  ‘We don’t have much choice,’ he replied. ‘Miss Gaynor has booked a suite at the Ritz because it’s convenient for the Pleyel concert hall. In any case, it gives the right image for someone who’s planning to steal a Modigliani.’

  ‘This is your captain speaking,’ said a voice over the intercom. ‘We’ve been cleared for landing at Charles de Gaulle airport, and should be on the ground in around twenty minutes. All of us at British Airways hope you’ve had a pleasant flight and that you enjoy your stay in Paris, whether it be for business or pleasure.’

  A flight attendant leaned over and said, ‘Would you be kind enough to fasten your seat belt, madam? We’ll be beginning our descent very shortly.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said smiling up at the flight attendant.

  The attendant took a second look at the passenger and said, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Gloria Gaynor?’

  A GOOD EYE

  8

  THERE HAVE BEEN Grebenars living in the small town of Hertzendorf, nestled in the Bavarian hills, for more than three hundred years.

  The first Grebenar of any note was Hans Julius, born in 1641, the youngest son of a miller. Hans worked diligently as a pupil at the town’s only school, and became the first member of the family to attend university. After four years of conscientious study, the young man left Heidelberg with a law degree. Despite this achievement, Hans did not hanker after the cosmopolitan life of Munich or even the more gentle charm of Friedrichsville. Rather, he returned to the place of his birth, where he rented a set of rooms in the centre of the town and opened his own law practice.

  As the years went by, Hans Julius was elected to the local council, later becoming a freeman of the town as well as an elder of the parish church. Towards the end of his days he was responsible for establi
shing the town’s first municipal museum. If that had been all Herr Grebenar achieved, commendable though it was, he would have gone to his grave unworthy of even a short story. However, there is more to be said about this man because God had given him a rare gift: a good eye.

  Young Grebenar began to take an interest in paintings and sculptures while he was at university, and once he’d seen everything Heidelberg had to offer (several times), he took every opportunity to travel to other cities in order to view their treasures.

  During his bachelor years he put together a small but worthy collection, his limited means not allowing him to acquire anything of real significance. That changed the day he prosecuted Friedrich Bloch, who appeared before the court on a charge of being drunk and disorderly.

  Herr Grebenar wouldn’t have given the uncouth ruffian a second thought had Bloch not described himself on the court sheet as a painter. Curiosity got the better of the prosecutor, and after Bloch had been fined ten marks, an amount he was ordered to pay within seven days or face a three-month jail sentence, Grebenar decided to follow him back to his home in the hope of finding out if he painted walls or canvases.

  Over the years, Grebenar had come to admire the works of Caravaggio, Rubens and Bruegel, and on one occasion he had even travelled to Amsterdam to view the works of Rembrandt at his studio, but the moment he set eyes on his first Bloch, Child Pushing a Wheelbarrow, he realized that he was in the presence of a remarkable talent.

  An hour later, the lawyer left Bloch’s studio with an empty purse but in possession of two self-portraits in oil, as well as Child Pushing a Wheelbarrow. He then went straight to the guild house, where he withdrew a large enough sum of money to cause the clerk to raise an eyebrow.

  After a light lunch he returned to court, where he discharged the artist’s fine, which caused several more raised eyebrows, because he had successfully prosecuted the miscreant only that morning.

  When the court rose later that afternoon, Grebenar, still wearing his long black gown and wing collar, took a carriage back to the artist’s home. Bloch was surprised to see the prosecutor for a third time that day, and was even more surprised when he handed over the largest number of coins the artist had ever seen, in return for every painting, drawing and notebook that bore Bloch’s signature.