Paint Gold and Blood

by Michael Gilbert

  “Then wouldn’t it be more sensible if I drove over and heard about them? At this time of day I could do it in half an hour.”

  “Yes. Yes. Come as quickly as you can. The most alarming—”

  But Stewart had rung off. He was not displeased at the idea of getting out of the office. In view of the upset which seemed to have occurred in the Chaytor household he thought it a wise precaution to bring his own lunch with him, and he stopped at the delicatessen on the corner to buy a packet of sandwiches.

  When Chaytor opened the door to him he saw that something had, indeed, occurred to upset him. Never a very robust character he was now almost liquid with distress. Happily, as he saw through the open door of the sitting-room, Gertrude Chaytor was there. He would be able to get the facts from her.

  As he made his way along the hall he nearly tripped over a bag which was standing there. There were other bags with it.

  “Hullo,” he said. “Are you both off somewhere?”

  “Certainly. That’s the whole thing—”

  “Let’s sit down before we talk. And I hope you’ll excuse me if I start eating my sandwiches. Since I gathered that what you had to tell me was urgent I didn’t stop off for lunch, but came straightaway.”

  “It was very good of you,” said Mrs. Chaytor. “I told Colin he had no right to drag you down here. I’ll get you a cup of coffee. In fact, I’ll get coffee for all of us.”

  “An excellent idea. Now—”

  Chaytor was clearly going to burst if he was not allowed to tell his story.

  “It all started,” he said, “a fortnight ago, when Mr. Meyer asked me to visit the Whitechapel Picture Gallery and make a careful note of their latest acquisitions. He gave me the afternoon off and said I wasn’t to bother to come back to the office. I did what he wanted, though I couldn’t see the sense of it. We’d never sold any pictures to the gallery and were most unlikely to do so. It was when I got to the office next morning that I realised that the carpets had been taken up and not put back straight.”

  Stewart stared at him. He said, “That seems an odd thing to get upset about.”

  “Let him tell it his own way,” said Mrs. Chaytor from the kitchen. “It’ll be quicker in the long run.”

  “It was only later that I found out what it meant. There was also the fact that Mr. Meyer insisted on my getting home in good time in the evenings. He said he’d had complaints from my wife about being left at home all day.”

  “Which wasn’t true,” from the kitchen.

  “The next thing that happened was three days ago.”

  ‘Getting down to modern times,’ thought Stewart.

  “I had to go into Mr. Meyer’s private office to locate a catalogue. I thought I should have to ask him for the key, but to my surprise the door was open and when I got in I saw there was hardly a paper there. I mean that, literally. On the desk or in the desk. Most of the drawers were half open as if Meyer had emptied them in a hurry and hadn’t bothered to shut them. And you remember the press—”

  “The one with paintings in it.”

  “Yes. But there weren’t any.”

  “You mean they were all gone,” said Stewart, really interested for the first time.

  “Every one of them. Paintings and drawings. Then I remembered that Mr. Crankling had been to see him. You remember him?”

  “The auctioneer. Yes. Go on.”

  “An evening or two ago I happened to run into him. He was arriving as I was leaving. He seemed a bit embarrassed, but at the time I thought no more about it. I now believe he had come to buy all those pictures and take them away with him. It was when I got to the office this morning that I realised what had been going on. You remember that there’s a door at the foot of the stairs. It cuts off the rest of the house from the ground floor. For the first time since I had been there it was shut. And locked. I stood there staring at it and as I did so it came over me that I was alone in the house.”

  He stopped talking. He had told his story so graphically that Stewart could see him, standing alone in that splendid mansion surrounded by silence and doubt and, illogically but certainly, by fear.

  He said, “Go on. What did you do?”

  “I had to know the truth. I remembered Stanley Prior. He’s one of the partners in Samuelsons, who deal with most of Mr. Meyer’s property matters. He’s a friend of mine, from college days, so I was able to ring him up and talk to him.

  “I said, ‘I heard from someone that this house was on the market. He was very interested and wanted to know the asking price.’ Prior had sounded surprised. He said, ‘I imagined you’d know. Your friend’s too late. The house has been sold.’ I was astounded. I said, ‘You mean that contracts have actually been exchanged?’ ‘Contracts were exchanged weeks ago. The sale has been completed and the money paid. Into the Banque de La Guyane in Paris, I understand. Do you mean to say you knew nothing about it?’ I said, ‘There was no reason for Mr. Meyer to take me into his confidence—’ ‘But surely you’d know. The purchasers would have put a surveyor in. And there were people to show round. It was a turn-key operation. The woman who bought the house took all the furniture and fittings with it. Incidentally, that was history repeating itself. Did you know that when Clarence Hatry bought it from Sir Joseph Duveen, the art collector, he bought it lock, stock and barrel—’

  “I didn’t know and I didn’t much care. I wasn’t interested in history. It was what was happening now. I saw, of course, that I’d been kept out of the way so that the purchaser could look over it and her surveyor make a proper examination. What I couldn’t understand was why. Why all the secrecy?”

  “Why indeed,” said Stewart thoughtfully. “After all, he’d trusted you in the past with more important secrets.”

  “Quite so. And it was whilst I was worrying about it that the morning post arrived. Of course, in the ordinary way I wouldn’t have opened a letter marked ‘personal and confidential’ and addressed to Mr. Meyer—”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” said his wife, coming into the room with the coffee. “And of course, in the circumstances, that’s exactly what you did. And quite right too.”

  “It was a letter from those travel agents he uses, Mauger & Finch. It was from their Paris office.”

  “Don’t talk about it,” said his wife. “Show it to him.”

  It was a folded flimsy, acknowledging the receipt of money and confirming a single reservation on the Chilean National Air Service which left Charles de Gaulle Airport at 12.00 hrs. for Buenos Aires and Santiago.

  Stewart looked at the date. He said, “That’s for tomorrow. What on earth—?”

  He held the paper in his hand, waving it gently, as though he could shake further information out of it. As he looked at the two frightened faces some of the implications of what he had been told began to come home to him.

  “It’s a one-way ticket,” he said thoughtfully.

  Chaytor nodded. He seemed to be past speech. Mrs. Chaytor said, “It’s clear enough, isn’t it? He’s getting out. There’s some job or other he’s been involved in lately. We know that. It’s important. And there’s a lot of money in it. It was something he was doing for Zaman. Perhaps you know about it?”

  “Yes,” said Stewart. “I know all about it. I was told in confidence, but this is no time for worrying about things like that. Very well then—”

  When he had finished, the Chaytors looked at each other, appalled. Mr. Chaytor croaked, “Five million francs.” And again, “Five million francs.” He could hardly get the words out.

  Mrs. Chaytor said, “It’s what we expected, but much worse.”

  “Tell me,” said Stewart. “When Meyer worked for Zaman before, I imagine that he took a commission on whatever money he realised. How much was it?”

  Chaytor said, “It depended on the amount of work he had to do. Sometimes as little as fifteen per cent. Sometimes twenty or twenty-five per cent.”

  “And in this case,” said Stewart brutally, “your idea is t
hat his commission is going to be a hundred per cent. In other words he’s going to pocket the lot. And take it off with him to South America.”

  It was clear that this was exactly what they did think.

  In the long silence which ensued their minds moved on different tacks. Stewart was trying to remember the details of what Peter had told them last night. The Chaytors were thinking about Jemal, held upside down in the sewage until he choked to death.

  Finally Stewart said, “I should think it was that session he had with the policeman that finished him. And I’ll tell you something else. When Peter explained to us the arrangements Meyer had made – how the Crédit Agricole draft was to go into his account at the Banque de La Guyane and come out as a fresh draft on that bank – well it seemed plausible. But when I thought it over, I did start to wonder. The whole point about a bank draft is that it’s a promise to pay, on demand, made by the bank and signed by its directors. Could any bank – however much pressed by the government – hold up payment on one of its own drafts? The more important the bank – and the Crédit Agricole is one of the largest in Europe – the less likely did this seem. And all that business about arranging it in that way to secure his own commission. Why shouldn’t Meyer have asked Mr. Wellborn for two drafts? One for Zaman and one for himself. Then Zaman’s draft could have been sent direct to him.”

  “It’s absolutely obvious,” said Mrs. Chaytor. “Meyer is concentrating all his money at this Paris bank – what was it?”

  “The Banque de La Guyane.”

  “That’s where the proceeds of the house sale have gone and his other money, too, probably. He has it turned into one bank draft, puts it in his pocket tomorrow morning and goodbye to him.”

  Chaytor moaned, “Naturally they’ll think we were all in it. Five million francs slipping through their fingers. I don’t like to think what they’ll do.”

  “I suppose you could explain you knew nothing about it.”

  “Explain? They won’t want explanations. They’ll want their money.”

  Mrs. Chaytor said, “You see how it is, Mr. Ives. They know we’ve been involved with Meyer in all his other transactions. Why should they suppose we didn’t know about this one?”

  “But they must realise that Meyer is the one who planned it. And he’s the only one who’s gaining by it.”

  “How do they know that? We may have been well paid for our part in it.”

  It was at that point that the really unpleasant aspect of the matter first struck Stewart. Was not Peter being very well paid for the part he was playing?

  “Meyer is the only one of us who’ll be safe,” went on Chaytor bitterly. “Dear me, yes. He’s looking after his own skin. Once he’s in South America, he can buy all the protection he wants. They won’t be able to touch him.”

  Stewart wasn’t really listening. He was thinking about Peter.

  “One thing I’m determined on,” said Chaytor. “We’re not spending another night in this house.”

  Reluctantly Stewart wrenched his mind back to their problems. “What are you going to do then?”

  “My sister will put us up for a few days,” said Mrs. Chaytor. Being less panic-stricken than her husband she had been able to divine what was worrying Stewart. She said, “I think Peter is in more immediate danger than any of us, don’t you?”

  “We’ll have to warn him,” said Stewart. “That’s the first thing. He gave me the telephone number of the château. I’ll get straight on to him.”

  But when he had finished dialling a recorded voice said, ‘There is a delay of up to one hour on all calls to France and Germany. The number you dialled has been noted. We will contact you at the number you are speaking from as soon as your call becomes available’.

  “Damn,” said Stewart. There was a lot to think about. “The first thing I’d like to do is to get hold of Lisa. I assume she isn’t at the office.”

  “Meyer gave her the week off. She said something about going up to see her mother.”

  Mrs. Shilling’s number was located in the directory and it was Lisa who answered. Stewart said, “If you’ve got that little car of yours handy, could you come straight down here?”

  “My car’s in dock. But if it’s important I could borrow mummy’s car.”

  “It’s extremely important,” said Stewart and gave her directions. Then he started dialling again. He said, “I’ve had an idea which might work well for you. I don’t suppose you really want to put up with your sister, do you? Not indefinitely, anyway.”

  “As short a time as possible,” said Mrs. Chaytor. “We’ve never got on well together. It was a case of any port in a storm.”

  “Hullo. Yes. I wonder if you could possibly put me through to the headmaster. The name is Ives. Stewart Ives. Yes, I’ll hang on.” And to the Chaytors – “I happened to notice in the Chelborough magazine that the art master had died suddenly. He was a bachelor. He lived by himself in a little cottage – I imagine he rented it from the school. It must be empty now. If I could get you the loan of it—”

  “That would indeed be splendid. Chelborough, you say. That’s some way from London.”

  “About eighty miles – Oh, headmaster. I must apologise for interrupting you—”

  “I’ve always expected that I’d hear from you again,” said the headmaster drily. “What are you up to now?”

  “I’m ringing on behalf of an artist friend of mine, Colin Chaytor. He’s been turned out of his own house, at a moment’s notice and I happened to read in the school magazine about Mr. Pleydell—”

  “Yes. Totally unexpected. You were thinking of his cottage, perhaps.”

  “For a short time. If no one else wanted it.”

  “I’ll have a word with the bursar. I think he might be glad to let your friend have it. I do know that he wasn’t happy about leaving it empty. Give me your number and I’ll ring you back as soon as I’ve spoken to him.”

  The idea, when Stewart had explained it to them, greatly attracted the Chaytors. Their priority was to get out of that lonely and dangerous corner as far as they could and as quickly as they could.

  Soon after this Lisa arrived, having made good time from St. John’s Wood. Mr. Chaytor seemed anxious to tell her his story all over again, but Stewart cut him short. He said, “If this idea I’ve had works, you realise you’ll have to look after yourselves when you get there. There’ll probably be kitchen equipment and things like that, but there won’t be any fresh food. You’ll have to take supplies with you. Better start packing something up now.”

  Mrs. Chaytor said, “That’s right,” and departed to the kitchen. Having a shrewd idea of what Stewart wanted she dragged her husband with her.

  As soon as they were alone, Stewart told Lisa what he had heard. She listened in silence and without moving. At the end of it, she said, “If you do manage to get through by telephone, you can only tell him what you think. Not what you know.”

  “We can put him on his guard.”

  “And once he’s on his guard, what’s he going to do?”

  Before Stewart could deal with this difficult question the telephone rang. He snatched it up. It was the bursar, a Major Caldecott, late of the Royal Marines. He said, “The headmaster tells me you’ve got a temporary occupant for Pleydell’s cottage. Quite a sound idea. An artist, I gather. Is he married?”

  “Yes. His wife will be coming with him.”

  “Good. She’ll be able to do the cooking. The kitchen stuff is all there. When do we expect them?”

  “They’re anxious to get away today and they’re all packed up. I seem to remember there’s a five o’clock train from Paddington. A fast train.”

  “Gets in here at six-forty. I’ll have it met.”

  Stewart thanked him warmly, rang off, said, “God bless the Marines,” and went into the kitchen to hurry up the Chaytors.

  “You’ll have to wait by the telephone,” said Lisa. “So I’ll take them in my car. Thank goodness it’s Paddington, not some station on the
other side of London. I should be able to do it in half an hour.”

  Ten minutes later Stewart was alone in the house. Everything seemed to have happened with such speed and urgency that he found himself out of breath, as though he had been running. He sat back in his chair and started to relax. The noise of the jets, landing and taking off a mile to the north, seemed curiously muted. It emphasised the heavy silence inside the house. The Chaytors’ resolve not to spend another night there seemed less fanciful now.

  He was disturbed twice. Once a screaming and snarling turned out to come from the cats who used the gardens of the deserted cottages as a boxing ring. Then he thought he heard someone walking up the front path and knocking very quietly on the door. When he opened the door there was no one there.

  He turned on the wireless for the five o’clock news. He was in time to hear the newsreader say, in the tones of satisfaction which the B.B.C. reserves for natural catastrophes in other countries:

  ‘The storm which was reported this morning over Northern Switzerland and West Germany has moved south-west to France, increasing in force. At 16.00 hours it was over the Massif Central leaving a trail of disaster behind it. Continuous monsoon-type rain and winds of unprecedented force have already caused extensive flooding in the valleys of the Rhône and the Allier. As well as thousands of trees, telegraph poles and pylons have been uprooted. Communication between Paris and the South of France has been badly interrupted. It is anticipated that the storm centre will be over the Mediterranean coast of France and Spain by this evening. Its peripheral effects are likely to be widely felt.’

  Stewart took down a school atlas from the shelf and thought about this. It looked as though the storm would not hit Bordeaux directly, but if the lines of communication ran down the Allier valley and west of the Massif Central communications might be difficult.

  Suppose they could not talk to Peter. And even if they could talk to him, how was he to answer Lisa’s simple question, ‘Once he is on his guard, what’s he going to do?’

  Whilst he thought about it, Stewart was elaborating the contingency plan which he had already formed and for which he had made some preparations. Its attraction was that it was dashing and possibly decisive. He turned to the collection of air timetables on the shelf and was studying them when Lisa reappeared.