Paint Gold and Blood

by Michael Gilbert

  It was nearly eight o’clock when Peter came back. He was surprised to find Stewart sitting in the dark. He switched on the light and said, “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Thinking,” said Stewart. “And stop smirking. I do think sometimes. How did it go?”

  “Very friendly. It’s an astonishing set-up. One of those mansions with four storeys and a basement, in Fitzjohn’s Avenue. I imagine you could run it very comfortably with a fatigue-proof staff of six. All she’s got is one old girl who’s almost dying on her feet.”

  “A grande dame without the cash to support it.”

  “I don’t think it’s lack of money. According to Lisa she’s rolling in it. The fact is you can’t get people nowadays who are prepared to struggle up and down four flights of stairs bearing burdens. When the ancient retainer brought in the tea I thought she was going to drop it, silver teapot, silver tea-set, crumpets, cucumber sandwiches, chocolate cake and all.”

  “So what did she want? Apart from stuffing you with food.”

  “She offered me a job.”

  “Helping to carry things up and down stairs?”

  “No. The offer came from her brother, Joseph. He wants someone to act as secretary-cum-companion-cum-resident policeman.”

  “Which would mean living in France.”

  “It would have done. If I’d accepted it. Which I didn’t, of course.”

  “Why?”

  If there was a very faint undertone of disappointment Peter missed it.

  He said, “Mainly because I don’t particularly like Joseph – who seems to have got himself into some sort of mess, incidentally. Also because I’m enjoying what I’m doing here.”

  “Good on you,” said Stewart. “And am I going to need you! What else did you find to talk about? You can’t have taken three hours to eat even that tea and turn down the job.”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I stopped off, on the way home, at the Marylebone Public Library. It’s got one of the best reference sections in London.”

  “With what object?”

  “I was looking for a lady called Beatrice Oldfield. Lisa tells me that one more of her domestic masterpieces will shortly be winging its way to South America. This one is called Farmyard Friends. It depicts a cat, a goat and a collie dog eating out of the same trough.”

  “It sounds just the thing for a Gestapo fugitive in Rio.”

  “So I thought I would find out a little more about Beatrice. She proved curiously elusive. I started with Vasari’s Lives of the Painters – two volumes – and worked my way through to the Teach Yourself History of Painting in ten volumes. No luck. Since I gathered that she was late Victorian I had high hopes of Muther’s History of Modern Painting, which was published in 1907, incidentally. Still no luck.”

  “Are you telling me,” said Stewart, who was beginning to sound interested, “that Beatrice doesn’t exist?”

  “I began to think so. But I found her in the end. In a work devoted to the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Not actually an account of her, but a statement that ‘although the movement was a revolt against the grand style and arrogance of the

  Romantics it was equally an assault on the demure symbolism of such postcard-artists as Beatrice Oldfield and Valerie Mellows, very few, if any, of whose products survived, or deserved to survive, the attack.’ When you consider that Farmyard Friends is the fifth forgotten masterpiece to be despatched to South America in the past two years – well, it makes you think.”

  “Possible, but improbable,” agreed Stewart. “What do you propose to do about it?”

  “Discuss it with Lisa, as soon as I get home. If she will help, I think this final knot can be untied.”

  “It’s no good going home now, you won’t find her there. I meant to tell you. She telephoned and left a message. She’s been invited out to supper.”

  “Did she say who by?”

  “By her boss.”

  “By Meyer?”

  “Correct. She added two things. First, that she is perfectly capable of looking after herself. Second, that there is the remains of a steak and kidney pudding in the fridge that you can heat up.”

  “I’m sure she’s capable of looking after herself. Anyway, like all physical fitness freaks, Meyer’s probably hopeless with the opposite sex. No. It’s the thought of that re-heated steak and kidney pudding that’s worrying me—”

  “Then let’s forget it and go out and get something to eat – and drink.”

  “Well,” said Peter, “how did the great seduction scene go?”

  “It never started,” said Lisa.

  They had arrived back at the flat almost at the same moment and instead of staying up had decided to go to bed and talk there.

  “I knew from the way he managed the drinks that he wasn’t out to seduce me. On previous occasions it has been the tactics of the seducer to ply me with drink until I became powerless to resist.”

  “Unsuccessfully, I imagine.”

  “Indeed. When I found that I had a harder head than the potential rapist I quite enjoyed it. In this case it didn’t arise. We had a decorous glass of sherry and shared a bottle of wine during the meal – a very good one, incidentally, at Petit Gervais – and when I said ‘No’ to a glass of port or brandy afterwards, I was not pressed. It was clear by that time that he had asked me out to get information.”

  “About what?”

  “About you.”

  “For God’s sake. Why?”

  “It would seem that he has a very important job to offer and wanted to know whether you were equipped to do it. Always supposing you agreed to take it on. I gave him a glowing account of your many accomplishments.”

  “Such as?”

  “I said you spoke excellent French. He regarded that as important. That you knew something about art, from your discussions with my uncle at Lambrécie.”

  “Practically nothing, in fact.”

  “That didn’t seem to matter. It was much more your familiarity with Lambrécie and its neighbours that interested him. I mentioned the Deputy Mayor and the famous vinologist – Id forgotten his name—”

  “Philibert-Lucot.”

  “That’s the boy. Also the policeman, Paul Meurice. That really did ring a bell. How well did you get to know him? What had he told you? I wasn’t sure how much of your tête-à-tête was confidential, so I simply said that you liked him and seemed to have got on well with him.”

  “And you’ve no idea what this job is?”

  “Since I knew you weren’t looking for a change of job, I wasn’t particularly interested.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You haven’t changed your mind again, have you?”

  “Actually, it was something that happened tonight. When we were having a drink at the Running Footmen, Len joined us. All the boys use that pub. He knew about his brother’s new job and had rather assumed that this was the signal for Starfax to fold its tents. Personally, he wasn’t unhappy about this, as he’s been offered a share in a garage and repair shop. Stewart said, ‘No. Not a bit of it. Starfax was certainly going on.’ And then he switched the conversation to something else, but the way he did it, made me wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “Whether Starfax wasn’t being kept alive simply to keep me out of the dole queue. And that’s when I began to think that if a good job did turn up, I ought to take it.”

  “I see your point,” said Lisa. “If you’re interested in this job, I’ll pursue the matter further.”

  They had both been lying on their right sides, Peter with his knees comfortably fitting into the crook of Lisa’s legs. It was a position they found convenient for discussions. Now they both rolled over. New position, new topic, thought Lisa. What’s the boy up to now?

  “There was one other thing. You know you told me that you’ve got another Beatrice Oldfield to export.”

  “Farmyard Friends, yes.”

  “I gather it isn’t a particularly valuable picture. Why do you
need a licence?”

  “Because the pictures are more than a hundred years old. That makes them antiques.”

  “I see. And how far have you got with the procedure?”

  “We got the Ministry of Culture form about a fortnight ago and sent it off with a photograph to the Ministry of Economics.”

  “Did you keep a copy of the photograph?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could you bring it back tomorrow evening, with the forms and any other documents?”

  “I could. Am I allowed to know what you’re up to?”

  “I’m trying to prove a theory.”

  “Mystery for the sake of mystery,” said Lisa crossly. “You’re getting as bad as Stewart. Go to sleep.”

  On the following evening he studied the documents Lisa had brought back. Among them was a duplicate of the Ministry of Culture form. Some of the questions in it related to the artist, described as Beatrice Oldfield, born 1838, died 1898, specialising in domestic watercolours. Title of picture Farmyard Friends. (Lisa, he saw, had typed this as Farmyard Fiends, but the error had been spotted and corrected in ink.) Estimated value six to eight hundred pounds. Photograph attached.

  “Not a very good photo, is it? Looks like the sort of snap I used to take with a box Brownie.”

  “It is a bit blurred,” agreed Lisa. “But you can see the animals all right.”

  “I suppose so.” Peter wondered what possible attraction the picture could have for a sophisticated Argentinian. “The goat’s the best of the three. He has a distinct resemblance to one of my uncles. You say you submitted this form about two weeks ago. How long, do you think, before you get your export licence?”

  “When we sent in the first one they sat on it for months. Now it’s all much quicker. I imagine they just say, ‘Oh, another Oldfield’ and we get the licence almost at once. In fact, I’m surprised we haven’t had it already.”

  “And when you do get it, what then?”

  “We book the first available flight. Chaytor looks after that side of it.”

  “Does he, though,” said Peter thoughtfully. Some of the points in his theory which had been obscure before were becoming clearer. “As soon as the flight’s booked, pick up the phone and let me or Stewart know. We’ll arrange that one of us is always in the office.”

  “It’s not a question of picking up the phone. My instructions from Meyer are categorical. If I telephone either of you, I do it from a call-box.”

  “Why on earth—?”

  “That policeman shook Meyer badly. He’s now convinced that his telephone has been bugged.”

  “I am appalled,” said Dr. Felix, the head of the Département des Trésors Nationaux, “at the disinterest of the authorities in the steady loss of our national heritage. Pictures and tapestries are being taken, almost daily, from unguarded churches and almost unguarded museums.”

  “Unlisted,” said Superintendent O’Keefe, “unphotographed – and often uninsured.”

  “I must agree, with much regret, that what you say is, in many cases, correct.”

  “It’s not much better here,” said O’Keefe. “I’ve just been put in charge of the smallest and least important sub-unit in the Yard. It’s got an imposing title – A25, otherwise the Arts and Antiques Squad. It used to be known as C.1.4. One useful thing we have inherited from our predecessors is their computer. What we need is more manpower. At the moment the department consists of me and two sergeants. One talks schoolboy French and the other has a smattering of Italian.”

  “It is, at least, a start.”

  “We should go up in the batting order if someone would be good enough to blow up the National Gallery.”

  “A drastic solution. But I must admit that our own position has gained in importance lately. Art theft has acquired two stepbrothers. Violence and politics. The unfortunate farmer in Normandy, who was bludgeoned and kicked to death, was only the first of a series of outrages. The most recent was in Dijon. One of the guards of the Musée des Beaux Arts was savagely attacked and is still in hospital. He will be a cripple for life. And now we have that bomb in the Café Continental. The worst incident of its kind since the bombing of the department store last September. Particularly unpleasant on this occasion since there were children among the victims.”

  “I apologise for speaking light-heartedly of bombs,” said O’Keefe. “They are a vile and indiscriminate weapon. But are you sure that this incident was connected with art theft?”

  “Not sure. No. But certain facts are emerging. It now appears that a woman, who was observed hurrying away from the café, may have been an English woman, a regular visitor to Paris, who left France that evening. A Mrs. Chaytor, wife of Colin Chaytor, who works for a certain art dealer, a Mr. Meyer.”

  “Right,” said O’Keefe. “I’m sure that’s right. The link is somewhere there.”

  “You have, perhaps, been able to question one or both of these men?”

  “I spoke briefly to Mr. Chaytor on the night that your supposed bomb thrower, Mohammed Jemal, was killed. A report on that went through our Special Branch to your Bureau de Securite Publique. I hope it reached you.”

  “Such reports have an unfortunate habit of becoming lost in course of transmission. But in this case, I was able to see it. I found it extremely interesting. You have, you say, spoken to Mr. Chaytor?”

  “Briefly. But I questioned his employer, Mr. Harry Meyer, at greater length.”

  “With success?”

  “I succeeded only in convincing myself of what I already suspected. That he is in this racket up to the neck. He knows all the twists and turns, the dirty tricks and the legal loopholes.”

  “You did not find him agreeable?”

  “I thought he was smooth, clever and totally unpleasant.”

  “If he is, indeed, buried up to the neck in this matter, could you not cut off his head? If you could contrive to do so, you would be doing a great service to both our countries.”

  “Find me an axe which is heavy enough and sharp enough and I’ll swing it with the greatest of good will.”

  “I have a feeling,” said Dr. Felix, with an emphasis which grew almost to passion as he spoke, “a feeling which is shared by many in our country, that the government is conducting itself towards the Iranians like a collection of old women. I correct myself. I know some excellent, tough-minded, old women. No. Our present masters are behaving like feeble, half-witted, old women. When the Ayatollah departed, in triumph, to Iran, he left behind him a number of men who are like the germs of a disease which, once it has gripped you, are almost impossible to eradicate. They penetrate our national life. The airports and central railway stations in particular. So infected are we that, at the demand of Iran, we banish anti-Khomeni activists. At their demand we liberate known terrorists and return them to Iran. One might suppose that we were a conquered nation, being dictated to by our conquerors.” He added, with belated caution, “I must, of course, ask you not to repeat any of that, or I should certainly be in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” said O’Keefe. “I know things about our own top brass that I couldn’t retail to anyone without getting stellenbosched.”

  6

  On the following Tuesday Lisa telephoned the Starfax office. “We’re off,” she said. “Farmyard Friends is booked onto the evening British Airways’ flight to Rio tomorrow.”

  “Who’s got the picture now?” said Peter.

  “I imagine it’s down at Stanwell. Why?”

  “I just wanted to be sure. Do you know exactly what time the flight is?”

  “Early evening. That’s all I know. Couldn’t you find out by telephoning British Airways?”

  “I suppose I could.”

  “Then do it. I’m in a call-box and I haven’t got any more change, so if you want to know anything else for God’s sake get a move on.”

  “No,” said Peter. “No. I think that’s all. And thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Stewart
, who had been listening in, said, “I take it that’s the starting pistol. What next?”

  “We go to Stanwell, in your car. If we kick off at seven, the worst of the out-of-London traffic will have gone.”

  “It’s an easy run,” said Stewart. “The A4 as far as Hounslow. Then the A30. It’ll be getting dark by the time we arrive.”

  “Just what I had in mind,” said Peter.

  In fact they ran into the tail end of a traffic block caused by a lorry which had jack-knifed across the road at the Brentford underpass. It took forty-five frustrating minutes to clear this and it was fully dark when they turned into Stanwell Road.

  “We can park in that farm entrance,” said Peter. “On foot from there.”

  They padded along the deserted road towards the house. There was a light in the front window.

  “I only hope we haven’t left it too late,” said Peter. “Let’s nip round to the back of the house and make sure. No. It’s all right. There’s still a light in the studio. Back to the front door.”

  When they rang the bell it was Mrs. Chaytor who let them in. She said, in reasonably welcoming tones, “Come in. Come in, both of you. What brings you out at this time of night?” Adding, with a first hint of suspicion, “I didn’t hear your car drive up.”

  “We left it a little way away. We wanted our visit to be a surprise.”

  “A surprise?” said Mrs. Chaytor. She was standing in such a way that she blocked access to the studio. “Well, it’s a nice one. Come and sit down.” She indicated the open drawing-room door on her left. As they reached it, Peter moved her firmly aside with one hand on her shoulder, and said, “First things first.” He stalked down the hall to the door at the end and opened it. Mrs. Chaytor started to protest, but made no actual effort to stop him.

  Chaytor was in his shirt sleeves. There was a picture on the easel beside him and his palette was lying on the table. He stared at Peter and at Stewart who had followed him in and watched them in silence as they walked up to examine the picture. Then he said, “Well, well. You’ve surprised my little secret.”