Paint Gold and Blood

by Michael Gilbert

  There was apology in his voice, but a hint of amusement too.

  “So you,” said Stewart, “are Beatrice Oldfield.”

  “Her reincarnation, you might say.”

  Peter said, “I see you’re using acrylic paint for this particular masterpiece.”

  “Beatrice’s fifth and, I assure you, her final production.”

  “Imposed, on this occasion, on top of Rembrandt’s self-portrait.”

  “Certainly.” Chaytor seemed to be curiously unperturbed. “What I am actually using is acrylic paint thinned with water and medium. It dries almost instantaneously and peels off almost as fast. I had to experiment to get the right proportion of pigment to filler. I found out that when the mixture was too thin to obscure the painting behind it properly I could increase the opacity by adding a little white.”

  It seemed to Peter that Chaytor was keener to deal with the technical side of his deception than with the consequences that flowed from it. He said, “Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable next door? Then you can clarify one or two points that I still find puzzling.”

  “If you like.” Now that his secret had been surprised he seemed only too willing to be communicative. To his wife, who was hovering in the hall, he said, “Don’t worry, love. All friends here. Suppose you make us a cup of coffee. That’s right.”

  Peter said, “It was when Stewart mentioned acrylic paint that a faint bell rang. I knew that if you laid it on a hard surface it would tend to peel off eventually. But I’d no idea it would come off so quickly.”

  “It depends on the precise mix. It took a lot of experimenting to get it right.” Chaytor giggled. “Do you know, the first time I did this the recipient at the other end telephoned Mr. Meyer two months later complaining that the over-painting was still there. That was one of my best efforts – Cupboard Love – but somehow he didn’t seem to be appreciating it. He wanted the Titian portrait underneath. We told him to wait, and after another month it had all peeled away quite cleanly. Next time I went too far in the other direction and it started coming off after twenty-four hours.”

  “Awkward,” said Peter. “I suppose that’s why you had to be so near the airport.”

  “It wasn’t only a question of being near. I had to make friends with a lot of the people who work there. The lorry drivers who use the Cargo Terminal at the back. I got to know most of the regulars by name and I used to ask them in for a drink at Christmas – that sort of thing. I’ve got a motor scooter that I use for local trips and they let me come into the airport through the Terminal. It was irregular, of course, but it meant that I could arrange the timing very precisely. Then I got to know the loaders as well. That was necessary, because sometimes a flight can be delayed for quite a time.”

  “As we all know,” said Stewart, who had done his share of sitting about in air terminals.

  “Yes. Well if that happened I could get the painting back, you see, and touch it up. That wasn’t difficult. I’d had to paint it twice already.”

  “Of course,” said Peter. “A preliminary one for the photograph that went to the Ministry of Culture.”

  “Exactly. At the beginning, when they took months to give us our permit, I sometimes had to retouch the painting two or three times. Do you know, by the end of it, I was quite sad to see it go. I’d put a lot of work and a lot of feeling into it.”

  It was curious, thought Peter, how unashamed he seemed of what he had been doing. He had said, at one point, that there was nothing criminal about it. But was that true? He was certainly acting as an accomplice in – in what? Was smuggling a crime? That probably depended on what you were dealing with. Smuggling drugs into the country, yes. But smuggling pictures out of it? In breach of regulations laid down by the Ministry of Culture. The usual sort of penalty was a fine and confiscation of the goods being smuggled. Peter gave it up. He had no wish to cloud his own satisfaction. The whole thing had been exactly like solving Brindy’s code. It was akin to the intellectual satisfaction of filling the last word into a difficult crossword puzzle.

  At this point the telephone rang. They looked at each other. “It must be for you,” said Stewart. “No one knows that Peter and I are here.”

  The telephone continued to ring. It calls for great strength of mind to resist the clamorous summons. Chaytor gave way. He listened for a moment and said to Peter, in some surprise, “It’s for you.”

  It was Lisa. She said, “I guessed you’d be there. Meyer wants to see you, as soon as possible. He suggested ten o’clock tomorrow morning. If you can manage that, I’m to phone him back.”

  “Sounds as if he means business. Have you any idea what it’s about?”

  “I’d guess he’s made up his mind to offer you that job.”

  “Now isn’t that typical?” said Peter. “A few months ago I hadn’t got a job at all. Now that I have got one which I enjoy I’m offered two more. One by your mother and one by your boss.”

  “That’s because they both love you so much.”

  “Nonsense. Your mother may be getting reconciled to me. I hope she is. But she certainly doesn’t love me. As for Meyer, he hardly knows me and has got no reason to want to help me.”

  “You underestimate yourself. You may not have realised it, but you’ve become a powerful influence in his life. A guiding star, you might say.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “It’s not rubbish. Whenever he has to make an important decision I can see him asking himself, ‘What would Starfax advise?’”

  “Instead of talking nonsense, it would be more useful if you could give me some idea about the job he’s going to offer me.”

  “I think it must be something to do with Lambrécie.”

  “But he’s got no connection with Lambrécie.”

  “Then why, for the last two days, has he been speaking, almost non-stop, on the telephone to my uncle?”

  “If you don’t know the answer no one else is likely to.”

  “Are you suggesting that I listen in to my employer’s telephone calls?”

  “All secretaries listen to their employer’s telephone calls. It’s part of their job.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I did gather that the household at Lambrécie is in a fairly chaotic state. Almost, you might say, under siege.”

  “Who by?”

  “Those two Iranian thugs have been seen in the neighbourhood. That was more than enough to upset Uncle Joseph. He’s deposited all his best pictures in the bank.”

  “And what’s all this got to do with the job he’s going to offer me?”

  “There’s one way of finding out, isn’t there?”

  “All right. Ring him back and tell him I’ll come along tomorrow morning.”

  “It’ll be a great comfort to him. An assuagement of his anxieties. I don’t suppose he’d get a wink of sleep tonight unless he knew that Starfax was on its way.”

  She rang off before Peter could think of an adequate reply.

  Meyer said, “I understand, Mr. Dolamore, that you’re a regular visitor to Lambrécie.”

  “Hardly regular,” said Peter. “I’ve been there twice. Once three years ago. Once quite recently.”

  “And when you were there no doubt you had occasion to examine Mr. Wellborn’s collection of pictures. One of the finest in private hands on this side of the Atlantic.”

  “Yes. I saw them. Actually I don’t know a lot about art. But I did appreciate the Madonna of the Swans. I understand that it has been lodged in a Bordeaux bank for safety.”

  “That is the current story,” agreed Meyer. “Unfortunately it is not true. The picture was stolen six days ago.”

  Peter stared at him. Realising that anything he said would be pointless, he remained silent.

  “It was an obvious target for the Iranians,” continued Meyer, in the same level tones. “The timing of the theft was brilliant. It took place on the evening of the day on which Joseph Wellborn received, through his New York agent, a confirmed offer for the picture of fi
fty million francs from a private trust, founded by the American plastics millionaire, Alexander Lafayette. In the place where the picture had hung a note had been pinned. It said, ‘To recover your picture will cost you exactly five million francs in the form of a bank draft on the Crédit Agricole. If you accept this modest offer, which is not negotiable, you will insert a notice in France Sud tomorrow that, in view of reported art thefts, some of your more valuable pictures have been deposited with one of the local banks. You will then receive further instructions. If you do not accept this offer the picture will be burnt. We will return you the ashes.’”

  “Five million francs,” said Peter. “Roughly five hundred thousand pounds. Could he raise it?”

  “Quite easily. Not only is his credit good, but to seal the bargain the Lafayette Trust had already caused ten per cent of the offer price to be deposited with his bank. He could not draw it out, of course, until the sale was completed, but the bank, knowing about it, would certainly advance a similar sum to him.”

  Peter had hardly been listening. He had no doubt that Joseph Wellborn could raise half a million pounds. He was thinking of something quite different.

  “How did they do it?” he said. “I thought that an infallible alarm system had been installed.”

  “No alarm system is more infallible than the people who operate it. The night guard – Michel-Ange on that occasion – had been entrusted with the master key of the alarm system so that he could un-set it in the morning when he came off guard. They had every confidence in him. But it was not a wise arrangement.”

  “You mean they bribed him to let them in? I shouldn’t have thought—”

  “One step at a time,” said Meyer. “First they had to dispose of the dog. They did this with a cyanide dart. It was a big strong dog. It took three darts to kill him. When Michel-Ange appeared on the scene they knocked him silly, dragged him to one side of the garden sheds and, when they had revived him, persuaded him to show them where the alarm key was hidden and to hand it over.”

  “Persuaded him?”

  “They soaked his legs in petrol and gave him a count of ten. I understand that he held out until they had actually clicked on the lighter. Then he gave way.”

  “Do you blame him?”

  “The only person who blames him is himself. I understand that he has been suffering from a form of nervous breakdown ever since. This, as you will imagine, has not improved the general atmosphere at the château.”

  Whilst he was speaking Peter had noticed, as Lisa had done once before, that when dealing with a serious matter Meyer was a different man: harder, sharper and more self-possessed. He said, “Do you know the men who did this?”

  “Goraji and Rasim. I know them well. I have had a number of dealings with them and have always found them reliable. In this particular negotiation I might almost be said to be representing them. What is needed is someone to represent the family. Not a policeman, of course, or anyone who might feel obliged to take official notice of the matter. There are, as you may know, professional firms who specialise in dealing with the situation which follows a kidnapping. I mean the kidnapping of some person. Where it is a picture that has been taken, the matter is more specialised. Once I had considered the problem the solution seemed obvious. Nobody has better credentials for the job than you.”

  Peter, who had seen this coming, managed to remain silent. He wanted to hear the full plan before saying ‘No’.

  “Quite apart from your command of French, you know the household and they know you. But there is one even more important point. In such a transaction it is vital to be certain that you are dealing with the right parties and not with outsiders who are muscling in on the job. My secretary tells me that you actually met one of these men, face to face.”

  “I did,” said Peter with a slight shudder, “and I’ve no desire to do so again.”

  “Allow me to continue. Mr. Wellborn has, sensibly I think, agreed to what is proposed. After all, he is being asked to put down five million francs to save fifty million, a ten per cent insurance premium you might call it. He has kept completely quiet about the theft, has put out the cover story of the picture being at the bank and has bound his household to secrecy. What remains is simply to effect the exchange. It has now been agreed that two bank drafts will be handed over by Mr. Wellborn. The first for the stipulated sum of five million francs. The second for five hundred thousand francs. That is the equivalent, in sterling, of fifty thousand pounds. It is the fee for the negotiator.”

  Peter’s first thought, when Meyer stopped talking, was that he certainly understood the art of bargaining. The long, slow preamble. Then, suddenly and conclusively, the offer. £50,000 in his pocket. And what would follow from that? Certainly the goodwill of the Wellborn family. For he would have rescued the American sale. Opposition to his marriage by Lisa’s mother would vanish. He would be a man of means, a suitable husband. He could see Lisa, radiant, in white advancing up the aisle. Stewart would be best man, of course. He had got as far as trying to select some bridesmaids when he realised that he had to say something.

  Aware that he was being feeble, he said, “Of course, I shall have to discuss it with my friends.”

  “There is very little time for discussion. It is Wednesday today. The Iranians have stipulated that the exchange must take place before the weekend. That gives you two days at the outside.”

  Not ‘would give you’, Peter noticed, but ‘gives you’. In Meyer’s mind the matter was settled. In his mind, too.

  “I am, of course, advancing you the necessary money to cover your expenses. I have here five hundred pounds and five thousand francs, in notes.” It was in an envelope which Meyer pulled out of the drawer of his desk.

  Peter thought, if I take the money, I’m committed.

  “Come along,” said Meyer impatiently. “Yes or no.”

  “Yes,” said Peter.

  “Then listen carefully. The two Iranians have been instructed by Zaman that as soon as the draft is in their hands they are to forward it to me. I have arranged with my own bank, the Banque de La Guyane in Paris, that they will exchange it, forthwith, for a bank draft on themselves, which I will collect from them.”

  “Less your commission,” suggested Peter.

  Meyer said, with the ghost of a smile, “Yes. That arrangement certainly has the advantage, for me, that I can be sure of my commission. But it also suits Zaman. As you know, a bank draft is not like a cheque. It cannot be stopped. But if some question did arise, the Crédit Agricole, the leading bank in France, might feel obliged to defer to the wishes of the French government and hold up encashment whilst enquiries were made. The South American owners of the Banque de La Guyane are, I can assure you, under no such constraint.”

  “In fact,” said Peter, “you’re washing the money for them.”

  “If you like to put it that way,” said Meyer, who seemed unoffended at the suggestion. “Now for some final instructions. Mr. Wellborn has been told to prepare an express delivery envelope, appropriately stamped and addressed to me, care of the Banque de la Guyane. The Iranians have been instructed that as soon as they are satisfied that what they are getting is the agreed bank draft they are to post it off without any delay. You will not, of course, part with the draft until the picture is in your possession.”

  “No, indeed,” said Peter.

  “Then that is all. I assume you will set out tonight or tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Peter firmly.

  “One more word, then. I cannot, I suppose, prevent you from discussing this matter with my secretary and your friend Ives. Apart from them, in your own interest, you will observe complete silence. You understand what I am saying?”

  Now who was it who had said that to him before? Commissaire Meurice. ‘Amateurs play games for fun. Professionals play only to win. You understand what I am saying?’ And he had said, ‘I do understand.’ Now, presumably, he had become a professional himself. He was certainly not playing fo
r fun any longer. Meyer was still looking at him. A cold, remote look, such as an old-time judge might have given as he put on the black cap.

  “Oh yes,” said Peter, “I do understand.”

  7

  The plane lifted off the Heathrow runway next morning at a few minutes after eight. It was only half full. As it crossed the south coast of England the seat-belt sign was switched off, but Peter had left his own belt buckled. He could feel that the plane was a little unsettled. No more unsettled than his thoughts.

  The discussion on the previous evening had gone on into the early hours. Lisa and Stewart had started by condemning the plan. This was an instinctive reaction, but as they talked it over the points in favour began to outweigh the points against.

  Peter had agreed that he was so scared of the two Iranians that any suggestion of double-crossing them was a non-starter. “But when you look at it,” he said, “I’m not crossing them or double-crossing them. I’m simply helping them. They want this deal to go through. The picture’s so well known that they can’t have much hope of selling it openly. To get half a million pounds down, from Wellborn—”

  “And no come-back,” said Stewart. “That’s the bull point. If the picture had been put on the market there’d have been an international rumpus. As it is, once the picture’s back where it belongs, Wellborn won’t complain. There’s no reason for anyone else to know anything about it.”

  “There’s a catch somewhere,” said Lisa. “If it’s as simple as you say why doesn’t Meyer handle it himself?”

  “That I can understand,” said Stewart. “The last thing he wants to do is to be man in the middle in this transaction. If it goes wrong, he wants to be able to deny all knowledge of it.”

  “So Peter has to be man in the middle.”

  “For fifty thousand pounds.”