Suddenly, the first drops of rain fell, a typical shower, unexpected and heavy. The pavements emptied as people ducked into the nearest doorways or sheltered against a wall. Dodging into a shop entrance, Grant had barely time to turn around before a newcomer jostled him to one side. “Excuse me,” said the man in the blue suit. “Cramped, here. But it won’t last long.” He stared at the rain, pulled out a cigarette, and settled to wait. “Have you a match, please?” he asked. He was young, perhaps twenty-six or -seven, as blond as Frank, but heavier across the shoulders.
One of Frank’s men? Grant offered his lighter in silence. Frank was the only one who knew about his visit this afternoon to Helmut Fischer—unless, of course, Frank had passed that information to Renwick. “A bit obvious, weren’t you?”
The man bowed as he returned the lighter, and looked away from Grant. In English, carefully correct, he said, “That was the idea. How else could I draw your attention? Now that you know who I am, you will not be worried.” His lips had scarcely moved, his eyes were on the rain.
I don’t know who you are, and I am worried, thought Grant. The notion of having someone, even a reliable watchdog, following him around was not much to his taste. “There is no need—”
“Excuse me. There is need. To notice who might be interested in you.”
“So I’m serving a useful purpose?” Grant’s annoyance wasn’t disguised.
The young man smiled. “You may see me again. But not so obvious next time.” He looked up at the sky. “Clearing,” he said in German, and winked at Grant as he added his thanks for the lighter. A small polite bow, and he was the stranger on his way, stepping into a faint drizzle of light rain as the shower tapered off. Others too were beginning to leave their doorways. Grant avoided watching the younger man’s direction, waited for another minute, and left.
* * *
As in most Viennese streets, old or rebuilt, the buildings formed a continuous row with only an occasional small difference in height, a matter of one storey more or less. Yet there wasn’t any sense of uniformity: walls and windows were varied in design and decoration. No skyscrapers to dwarf smaller neighbours or tower above domes and spires. Where there had been bomb and fire damage—and around this old quarter surrounding the Cathedral it had been heavy—there were replacements, lighter in colour yet not offensively new. Helmut Fischer’s shop was one of these reconstructions.
It was much much smaller, in size and prestige, than the old Fischer Kunstgalerie had been over in the New Market; if he regretted that loss, he never mentioned it A new beginning was necessary after his return from exile; and he had made a success of it, resisting expansion into larger quarters or any increase in staff as he gradually re-established himself. He had resisted, too, any heavy investments in art: he hadn’t the capital for that. Instead, he offered lesser-known painters, some carefully selected contemporary pictures, and a vast collection of old masters in excellent Viennese reproductions. Who could afford the real ones? Museums and millionaires. Better a perfect fourteen-colour reproduction of a masterpiece than a wall left blank or filled with second-rate originals. It was partly because of this collection of reproductions, and partly because Fischer had gathered one of the best reference libraries on art, that Grant was now entering the Fischer gallery. But mostly because, he added to that, Helmut Fischer was a man he liked and trusted.
Fischer was at the far end of the long narrow room, deep in conversation with a likely prospect. He looked, as always, ten years younger than his age, and could easily pass for fifty-four. His fair hair seemed whiter although his face appeared to be as tanned and healthy as ever, his figure trim; there was little sign, at this distance, of his keen features showing any dewlap or double chin. Judging from the rapt attention of his client, an elderly grande dame complete with extraordinary hat and white gloves, his capacity to charm had not diminished.
Watching him now, Grant was reminded of the first time he had stepped into this shop, a young GI on leave in Vienna, in search of new directions for his life. That was in 1963. Many more visits on his next leave, and a deepening friendship—a mentor-pupil relationship—which quickened again on Grant’s third visit to Vienna in 1970. Then a gap of seven years, bridged by sporadic letters and greetings on Christmas cards. At last, thought Grant, this room hasn’t changed except for the pictures: the same white walls and dark blue carpet; the same neat black leather armchairs, the same central table with books and magazines. He moved away from the door, over to a large display of abstract watercolours.
Fischer was quite aware that someone had entered, but true to form he didn’t look round or interrupt the lady’s plaintive questions. With tact, he began to lead her towards the entrance. “No,” he was saying, “I really do advise you not to buy one more picture until you have some space for it on your walls. You must select, Baroness, select. How? Keep your favourites, give the others to your friends; or send them into the attic, or to auction. Space is what you need, not more paintings.” He settled her indecision by a bow over the extended white glove, a light kiss above its wrist, a final goodbye. The door was closed; Fischer could turn to the newcomer who had been concentrating on the abstracts. “Interesting, aren’t they? Much less aggressive than in oils.”
Grant faced him with a wide smile. “You could have sold her a couple of them. You’re too honest to be in business, Helmut.”
“Colin!” Fischer halted in astonishment, then came forward with hands outheld. “Did you just drop in from New York?” There was a warm hand-clasp, an enthusiastic clap on Grant’s shoulder. “How long are you staying this time? And why not with me? I still have that guest-room upstairs.”
“I thought it might be occupied,” Grant said delicately. On his last visit there had been a ravishing redhead well established in Fischer’s apartment. “Frankly, I’m not sure how long I’ll be in Vienna, or how much free time I’ll have. This trip has been a little unexpected. I arrived yesterday. I’m staying at the Majestic.”
“Well, if you get tired of it, you always have a room here. Or why don’t you come and visit Grünau again? There’s a new road since you were there—cuts driving time in half, down to two hours.”
“At a steady seventy, ascents and hairpin bends included?” Grant suggested. They were now entering, at the far end of the long room, a brightly lit corridor lined with Fischer’s reference books. From there, Grant remembered, they’d reach the room with the reproductions carefully filed, and then Fischer’s office.
“Come this week-end—oh, the devil take it!” Fischer was dismayed. “I’m off to Salzburg for three days of Mozart—the Festival. All arranged last January. I am sorry, Colin. Really, I meant that invitation. Why don’t you spend the week-end in Grünau? All cities are desolate on Sundays: everyone rushing off to the country in little white cars.” As they passed along the stacks of reference books, he noticed Grant lingering near the volumes dealing with the Dutch school, but made no comment. “Prosperity, prosperity,” he went on, “everyone employed, everyone with money in his pocket. Delightful, but crowded on the highways. Thank heavens, Grünau is still remote—until the new road is discovered. I give us one more year before we are pushed to the mountain-tops.”
“I really don’t know my plans,” Grant began, and then, feeling this sounded like an evasive refusal, added warmly, “If I can get away, Helmut, I’ll take you up on that invitation.”
“Good. The key is in the usual place, food is in the larder. New let’s catch up on our news.” At the door to his office, he halted again and faced Grant. His eyes, bright blue against the tanned skin, were suddenly grave, sympathetic. “I was sorry, so very sorry, to hear about your wife.”
“I received your note. Thank you for—”
“Three lines—what can they say? What could three hundred say? I never was any good at sad letters.” No more mention would be made of Jennifer: illness and death were two topics that Fischer avoided. In a way, thought Grant, it was a relief to be spared well-intended qu
estions—no details necessary, no painful recapitulation.
“Leni,” Fischer was saying to the young woman at work inside his office, “please take charge of the gallery. If the Baroness comes back, don’t call me. Just ease her out. Gently, now!”
Leni, another redhead (but with glasses and snub nose, and—to judge from the ledger over which she had been sprawling—more adept with figures than with feminine graces), left a sheaf of accounts. “She won’t stay long if she finds only me,” Leni predicted, and with a bob of a greeting to Grant, bounced her way like a young filly along the corridor.
Fischer laughed at the expression on Grant’s face. “Leni is inclined to be abrupt. The Baroness never buys anything, and has nothing to sell. It just passes the time for her, poor old thing: everything in the past; nothing in the future. Now, what about ourselves? Do you like working with Schofeld?” He gestured to a comfortable armchair, sat down facing Grant and stretched his legs.
* * *
Time slipped away. With a start. Grant remembered to look at his watch. It was almost half-past four. “I’ve an appointment at five thirty,” he said.
“Then there is no rush.”
“Except that I’ve some research to do. May I use your reference library?”
“By all means, my dear fellow.” Fischer concealed his surprise, and led the way into the corridor. “I didn’t know you were specialising in the Dutch painters,” he said as he pointed with a smile to the shelf of books that had caught Grant’s attention.
“Oh—just for an article or two,” Grant said vaguely. “Thought I might find some material here, and save myself a trip to—”
“Of course, of course.” That brushed aside Grant’s fumble for an adequate explanation. “What period?”
“The early sixteen-hundreds.”
“This volume, then. Any particular painters?”
Grant took refuge in one of his old ideas. “Vermeer and Ruysdael. Interiors versus exteriors, as it were.”
“Interesting juxtaposition,” Fischer conceded. “Which will you begin with? Ruysdael is less demanding. Once you lose yourself in Vermeer you’d never make a five-thirty appointment.”
“Ruysdael, then, as a starter.”
Fischer had the volume in his hand, opening it to the correct page.
“You know your way around, don’t you?” Grant asked, slight astonishment mixed with admiration.
Fischer laughed. “To be honest, I was reading this section on Ruysdael only three days ago. A man came in here searching for some seventeenth-century reproductions, and the Dutch masters caught his eye, particularly the Ruysdael picture of the Crooked Rhine at Utrecht.”
“Possibly 1642?” Grant was quoting Lois Westerbrook exactly.
“Positively 1642.”
“I was told ‘possibly,’ I wonder why?” Westerbrook had done her homework on the information she had dropped at the Albany interview.
“Because,” Fischer explained, “that view of Utrecht doesn’t appear to be signed or dated. You have to look at the back of the painting to see name and date. Strange fellow, Salomon van Ruysdael. He never dated any of his early paintings—not until 1627, in fact.”
“Careless or modest?”
“Probably both. Perhaps he didn’t think they were important enough.”
“If he put the date of a 1642 painting out of sight, it seems he didn’t think too much of it, either.”
“That doesn’t lessen its value today. Of course, you would have to loosen—at the top right-hand corner—the protective canvas attached to the frame if you wanted to see the date on the back of the picture, and make sure it’s authentic. There’s little chance of doing that for either of us. The painting is in Budapest.”
“Might I see the reproduction?”
“The man bought it. Paid cash. For both the reproduction and the frame he ordered Joachim to make. Very specific about the frame’s design and colour.”
“Joachim?”
“Oh, he does all our framing work. His shop is in the alley just behind us. This was a rush job; fortunately the frame was simple. Just a rim of narrow wood, weathered grey. Looked very natural, though, around the Ruysdael.”
“Do you think I could see it?”
“It was collected this morning, I’m afraid—with the antiquing Joachim had used scarcely dry.” Fischer shook his head in amusement.
“You have no other copy of the reproduction?”
“I’ve ordered a replacement. However, that takes a little time. It’s a very fine example of Viennese colour-printing.”
“Quite deceptive,” Grant said thoughtfully. He had bought two of Fischer’s reproductions on his last visit. They looked remarkably real to most people, because the printer did not use ordinary paper, but something closely akin to a painter’s canvas. Slant-lighting had been employed in the initial process to catch the artist’s brush strokes, and with the final touch of light varnish, skilfully applied, the finished product seemed almost authentic. Almost, that was, to the expert. To others completely. “An art in itself,” he added, trying to conceal his growing worry. “I’d have liked to see that reproduction. I suppose it followed every detail, including the date on the back?”
“That was omitted. It’s a reproduction; not a fake. Unnecessary, anyway: people don’t usually ask about it—they take the experts’ opinion on the date.”
“What about the man who bought the reproduction? Didn’t he notice the omission?”
“No. I didn’t bother explaining it to him—wasn’t given the opportunity, in fact: he was in too great a hurry to order a suitable frame.” Fischer turned over several pages of the reference book and found what he wanted. “Here is an exact description of the picture, and a small photograph. Gives you an idea, anyway, of Ruysdael’s composition. No date visible, as you see.”
“Thank you,” and Grant meant it. “What was your customer’s name?”
Fischer stared slightly. “He avoided that. A very abrupt type, everything strictly business. However, he had to leave his name with Joachim so that the picture could be safely collected by messenger.” A faint smile spread over Fischer’s lips. “He gave the name of Smith, John Smith.”
“American or British?”
Fischer looked at Grant with an appraising eye. “This man worries you, I think,” he said very gently. “He spoke German quite well—with an accent.” Fischer paused and considered, then added, “He was older than you—perhaps in his late forties, blue eyes, fair hair—grey at the temples, really quite handsome, but very serious. Oh yes, and medium height.”
There was a small silence. Grant stared down at the book in his hand.
“You know him?” Fischer asked.
“I’ve met him.” The description fitted Gene Marck.
“You don’t sound enthusiastic. A competitor, I presume? At least, I don’t imagine you have much in common. He wears the most disastrous bow-ties. Now, why don’t you take the book into my office and make some notes at my desk? Just push all the ledgers aside. I’ll go and see what Leni is arguing about.” For her voice, abrupt and authoritative, was now carrying clearly into the corridor. With visible annoyance, Fischer hurried away.
Lost in his own thoughts, Grant closed the reference book. As he replaced the volume on the shelf, his mind flashed back to the Albany Hotel in New York—Lois Westerbrook—Gene Marck. Wearing a bow-tie? Grant couldn’t recall. If one was worn that night, it had been unobtrusive: Marck’s clothes had been discreet to the point of dullness. Then the memory vanished, as a voice he knew snapped his attention to the front room. Yet it seemed so much louder, clearer than he had heard it yesterday in a rose garden.
Quickly he moved to the door. Yes, it was Avril Hoffman. Her eyes met his. She seemed to relax as she saw him—as if she had been watching for him to appear—a brief moment before she returned all her attention to Fischer who was explaining, with considerable pleasure and utmost patience, that it was unfortunate he could show her nothing by Tanguy. Perhaps
some Dali drawings? Or a reproduction of Magritte? Now, if she were interested in Klee—
Grant interrupted, addressing Avril directly. “If you are trying to track down a Tanguy, there’s an excellent reference library here. Helmut, would you mind?”
Avril was quick to take her cue. “May I?” she asked Fischer.
“Down this way,” Grant said, standing politely aside to let her enter the corridor. Fischer looked bewildered—the first time Grant had ever seen him completely astounded—although he recovered enough poise to follow. Grant stopped him with a broad smile. “Let me handle this, will you?” he asked very quietly.
Fischer looked at him, incredulous. Then he smiled too. “Of course, of course.” He left the corridor door open as he moved back into the main room, partly to pacify a ruffled Leni, partly to deal with a possible client who had just arrived on the scene.
Half-way down the book stacks, Avril said, “It was absolutely frustrating. I knew definitely you were here—Frank passed the word to Bob—but I didn’t know how to reach you. I had to raise my voice. Awful, wasn’t it? We have to be quick, so here’s the message. You pack tonight, and be ready to leave the Majestic in the morning. Tell the hotel desk that you are spending the week-end at Dürnstein. We’ll have a taxi at the main door—ten o’clock exactly. It will drop you near Klar’s Auction Rooms, and the driver will take your luggage to your new room. All clear?”
“All clear. But what new—”
“Just do it, Colin. Please.”
“Okay, okay.” The Majestic wouldn’t question his departure: his room was paid in advance for two weeks. “Ten o’clock sharp.”
She pretended to look at a book on the shelf beside her, glanced back along the corridor through the opened door at the room. She frowned slightly.
What had caught her attention? Grant didn’t ask. “Avril,” he said (she had called him Colin, hadn’t she), “would you get Bob to check up on Gene Marck?”
Prelude to Terror Page 13
