by Thomas Swan
Tony was due at 6:30 and Stiehl’s impatience began showing several hours earlier. He fussed over his cameras and took unnecessary inventories of film and chemicals. At seven Jonas phoned to say he would be detained. Stiehl continued his lonely wait.
Alone. He hated being alone. It brought back bitter memories.
He went to the window where the view was down to the driveway and the entrance to the Dukes Hotel. Jonas had chosen to headquarter in one of London’s small jewels. An in-crowd of Americans liked its quiet intimacy, tucked away on a narrow, cobbled street yet accessible to the shops and services.
The morning Stiehl arrived he immediately began the task of converting a hotel bedroom into a highly sophisticated art and photographic studio. Everything he had asked Jonas to provide was in cartons piled atop each other in the small salon that separated two bedrooms in the Gloucester suite. A large drafting board was set up near one window. The bed was pushed against the wall, and two large tables occupied the middle of the room. Each was equipped with a pair of high-intensity photolamps. A Hasselblad camera was mounted to a copy stand. Under the camera were close-up rings and an assortment of lenses. Two ultraviolet lamps in their reflectors, boxes of assorted films, and filters completed the photographic fixturing. Next to the drafting table was a three-drawer cabinet filled with jars of ink, boxes of chalk, and an array of pens, pencils, and assorted writing implements.
The bathroom had become a darkroom, complete with enlarger, safety lights, developing trays, rinser, and dryer.
Throughout a hot summer Stiehl learned how Leonardo took a quill across paper and created the countless images he had drawn in his manuscripts. He had spent hours in the museums and libraries, and had devoted many more to reading books by Lord Clark, Pedretti, Vasari, and others.
Goddamn it! The drawing was supposed to be in my hands an hour ago.
Darkness had come with the rain. He sat by the window, staring down at two drawings he had rendered a few days before leaving New York. They were copies of Leonardo’s drawings of the skulls. One drawing was on a sheet measuring slightly more than seven inches by five inches, the other on a sheet four times as large. The smaller drawing was identical in size to the page from the Royal collection. He would compare it to the genuine Leonardo. The one numbered 19057.
Hurry, you son of a bitch . . . there’s not much time!
He was anxious to see how well he had written in Leonardo’s oddly personal style. He was mostly concerned with his ability to write in the bastardized Italian that Leonardo created and wrote in reverse. Like many left-handed persons, Stiehl performed numerous functions with his right hand. He was naturally ambidextrous and had mastered the trick of writing with both hands simultaneously. Leonardo entertained his students by drawing with each hand as if the hands were controlled by a divided brain.
He had not been able to sleep and the brief naps he managed came with the help of Nembutal or Librium. Jonas was off to a meeting he said was of great importance. Stiehl was both angry and frustrated that Tony was late. To this he added the fear that something had happened, that he couldn’t get the drawing.
Then came loud knocks on the door to the suite. He unbolted the door and in walked Tony. His raincoat was soaked through, his beard matted with dampness.
“Where have you been, for Christ’s sake? Why didn’t you call?” The angry words exploded from his mouth.
“From where? Some goddamned ditch? Where’s Jonas?”
“He’s been delayed. He called an hour ago expecting you’d be here. He was ticked that you weren’t.”
“Does anybody care about my fucking problems?” Tony tossed off the wet coat and rubbed his beard with a towel.
“I care about the drawing. Do you have it?”
“Of course,” Tony snapped. “Did you have any doubt I could pinch it?”
“Not until you didn’t show on time. It’s possible something could happen. Even to you.”
“A tire blew out. On the M4. No one came by, I had to fix it myself.”
“After you fixed it you should have called.”
“Go to hell, Stiehl. I’ve spent a miserable summer preparing for today. Too bad if you don’t like the way I handled my assignment. Let’s see you do as well.”
“What about your car? You’ve got to get the drawing back on Monday.”
“It’s an old clunk, but it’ll do. I know the doorman from the old days. He works with the garage operators and knows who’s open on the weekend.”
“He recognized you?”
“Patrick’s in my pocket. He’ll put a note in the car telling me where to have the tire fixed. I’ll pay him for that and for any other help he can give us.”
“Will you tell Jonas the doorman knows who you are?”
“I tell Mr. Kalem what he needs to know. Nothing more.”
They stared at each other, neither blinking or speaking. Stiehl could see past the beard and saw a face that was either tired or frightened. Tony’s skin was white, his eyes were unfocused and twitched nervously. He went to the window and looked down to the hotel entrance. Then he pulled the draperies closed.
“The drawing,” Stiehl said.
Tony took a thin metal box from his briefcase and from that he withdrew the drawing and set it on the table. Stiehl pulled on a pair of white gloves, removed the drawing from its plastic sleeve, and placed it on a piece of clear vinyl. He positioned a magnifying glass attached to a stand over the drawing, and then put his copy next to the Leonardo. He smiled. The similarity was incredible. Tony made his own appraisal.
“My God, Stiehl, you made your drawing from reproductions?”
“Did you have any doubt?” he said, aping the same confidence Tony showed a moment earlier. “That’s what I did with my summer. But don’t be fooled. They’re very similar and yet they’re very much different. Now that I have the original I can find what those differences are.
“Aside from the inks and the paper and the instruments Leonardo used, there are a dozen more—call them fingerprints—that separate the genuine from the copy.” Curtis lifted the priceless little drawing of the skulls. “The front side of the sheet is the recto, the back is the verso. When the pages are bound, like in a book, the recto side becomes a right-hand page, the verso a left-hand page. When the pages are removed, one edge tends to have small tears where it’s been torn from the binding. You see it along this edge.” He pointed to the left edge of the recto side.
Though Tony was showing interest, he occasionally returned to the window and looked out to the cars entering or leaving the grounds. Curtis placed a large sheet of paper beside the drawings. The sheet was divided into one-inch squares and the page was exactly three times the dimension of the original drawing. He had lightly drawn an outline of the manuscript’s content on the large sheet.
Over the Leonardo and his copy he placed a clear sheet of acetate film; it, too, had ruled lines forming half-inch squares. As he compared his copy with the original and spotted an error or change he wished to make, he made a mark on the overlay grid and at a corresponding position on the larger sheet. Stiehl had devised his own code and the marks he made on the large sheet were also recorded in a notebook that was divided into sections marked: drawing, shading, writing, paper, ink, age and distress, and miscellaneous.
Twenty minutes passed and Stiehl had not scanned the first row of half-inch squares.
“My God, Stiehl, it will take a fucking bloody millennium at the rate you’re going.”
“Patience, Tony. Remember the long summer we spent. And besides it will go faster after I’ve evaluated the top row. I made an accurate copy of the reproduction, but that doesn’t mean I’ve made an accurate copy of the real thing. With the original I’m able to see how Leonardo drew in the deep, shaded sections around the eye socket and in the mastoidal passages.”
Tony stared down at four detailed drawings of human skulls, two by Leonardo, two by Stiehl. He couldn’t turn away and he began muttering. Then he covered his ey
es with shaking hands. He moaned. A low, muffled cry.
Stiehl turned to him. “Hey! You all right?”
Tony dropped his hands. “Yes. Of course. Get on with what you’re doing.”
“Have you had anything to eat?” Curtis asked.
“I’ll wait for Kalem. The dining room’s open until eleven.”
Stiehl continued to analyze the first row of squares. His notations included the condition of the ink and the deterioration to the paper. From a heavily inked area he scraped off a minuscule amount of ink and carefully put it in a sterilized vial. He repeated the process on the verso side. Next he sliced away a small piece of the paper, careful to take a sample large enough to contain the original fibers, yet not too large as to be detected.
He then placed the Leonardo in a glass frame and set it on a copy stand in front of two flood lamps. He positioned the camera and took a half-dozen exposures of each side of the folio. Then he moved the ultraviolet lights into position. “Now for a critical test,” he announced softly to Tony. “This will tell us if there is any faded ink or traces of silverpoint on the drawing.” He switched on the lights and carefully examined each side. “See? A few faded lines show up under ultraviolet. We can handle those.”
He noted the location of the faded lines on the control sheet, inserted ultraviolet film into the camera, and took several exposures.
Throughout, Stiehl had moved with speed and confidence. Tony retreated to the bed and sat on the edge, watching every move with grudging respect. Stiehl knew he was being watched closely, and he had also sensed Tony’s growing uneasiness. He completed his camera work and turned off the hot lights. “I’ll develop the film and make sure I’ve got everything.”
Tony returned to the window and parted the draperies again. He watched Patrick open a taxi door. A huge man stepped out and entered the hotel.
Jonas Kalem was a punctual man. To be nearly three hours late could only be justified by a matter of overwhelming importance. His lips pursed into a small “O” signifying that the time had been well spent. He called the Duke of Gloucester suite and, content that the Leonardo was safely in hand and Stiehl was progressing with his work, instructed Tony to meet him in the dining room.
Jonas approached the evening meal with a ritualistic fervor, and this evening it was to the complete consternation of both the dining room and kitchen staff. Two of the six tables in the small room were occupied as they entered. Maître Servio’s plastic smile turned more genuine after a quantity of pound notes fell into his hand. He snapped a waiter to attention and alerted the chef to keep a flame under the poacher. The pink salmon was served perfunctorily but Jonas ate with his usual enthusiasm. After the meal Jonas ordered a snifter of Remy Martin VSOP. He inhaled the rich fumes and without turning his eyes spoke very softly.
“Something is dreadfully wrong. I feel it.”
“Stiehl has the drawing. I was late getting it to him but he has it.”
“That’s obvious. There’s something else.”
“There was a hitch.”
“What kind of hitch, for God’s sake?”
Tony began. He talked slowly, never raising his voice above a quiet monotone. “I had no reason to suspect one of the assistant librarians had been planted by the Metropolitan Police. In fact she didn’t begin until the middle of August, long after I’d screened the other staff members. Most have been there since Charlemagne, to see them creak.
“She came in with her big tits in front of her and a smile frozen to her face. On the last two Fridays she stayed after the others had gone home. She did the same this afternoon. It was a nuisance but she might have stayed for the entire bloody evening. I suggested we have a drink together, then I’d have her out of the library. I thought she had gone on ahead but she stopped at the loo. Then as she was leaving she saw me at the files.”
“She saw you take the drawing?” Jonas’s fat jowls sagged.
“She saw me ‘take something’ was the way she put it. When we met for our drinks, she told me she had run fingerprints on me and said I was Anthony Waters. That’s when I learned she was on special assignment from Scotland Yard. She’s in C13 and I’ve run into that bunch before.”
Jonas spilled his brandy. “Who knows besides this policewoman?”
“She planned to file her report this weekend. Tomorrow. I’m guessing no one else knows.”
“She cannot file a report.” Jonas slammed his hand on the table. “You hear me? There must not be a report.”
“There won’t be a report. Sarah Evans is dead.”
Jonas’s eyes for a rare, split instant were changed, as if an involuntary muscle spasm popped them wide open. “Dead? What in God’s name did you do?”
“It rained tonight, the roads were slippery. Her car is in a field beyond a sharp curve.” Tony took the brandy down in a single swallow. “She lost control and crashed.”
“Explain. How did she lose control?”
The big man listened incredulously as Tony accounted for every action from the time he and Sarah left the Old House until he returned for his car and drove to London. His description of Sarah’s car crashing over the wall and the gruesome condition in which he found her were related in vivid detail.
“No more . . . I don’t want to hear it!” Sweat glistened on Jonas’s face and he dabbed at it with his napkin. “We’re hardly started and you’ve put everything in jeopardy. You realize they won’t stop until they’ve found who did it.”
“It will look like an accident. I’ll wager that’s their conclusion.”
“And you’ll make a bad bet.”
Tony knew an investigation was automatic, but he was trying to keep Jonas’s anger in check.
“You took the report she was going to submit this weekend. Obviously there are other papers. Her files on the crew, and the fingerprint report that gave you away. Where are all those pieces of paper?”
“She told me she received the report on me yesterday. I’m certain she hasn’t passed that information on.”
Jonas fell silent. He leaned forward as if to speak, then slumped back. All the while he tried to rub away the wetness that soaked his shirt collar. Finally he spoke, his round mouth quivering. “You were a damned fool! An impetuous, unthinking, stupid fool. I have spent too much time and too much money to have this project go wrong.” His fat body shook in angry frustration. “I warned you to curb your impulsiveness, and I don’t know what alternatives you had, but this way there are none. After they discover the body the police will swarm over the library, all of Windsor, and half of London. They do that when one of theirs is killed. Accident or not. Everyone will be questioned. You were seen with her in the hotel.”
“The place was crowded with weekenders. We didn’t leave the library together; in fact the guard saw Sarah leave before I called for him to lock up.”
“Small points but in our favor. Tomorrow you will do two things. First you will go to where the Evans woman lived and search for other papers. And second, you will return the Leonardo to the library.”
“I’m not a bloody lackey and I’m not a magician who can slip in and out of a strange house because you snap your damned fingers and say so.”
Jonas reacted instantly. He thrust a hand at Tony’s face and snapped his fingers twice, then once again. “You’ll do as I tell you. Suppose a team of investigators goes through her papers, and suppose there is a complete file on you, and then suppose they get suspicious and find the slimmest piece of evidence you were in her car.”
Tony gave an acknowledging nod. “But the drawing. You said Stiehl needed it for two days. And the police. They’ll come prowling.”
“I’ll deal with Curtis, and as to the police, it seems that if you had anything to do with the woman’s death, the library would be a most unlikely spot for you to be.”
“But there’s a risk.”
“You sent someone off on a death ride and didn’t think that was taking a risk? Are you completely stupid?”
Jonas s
hook with anger. “You had four months to bring the drawing out, and when you did, you bungled. There’s still a chance you can cover yourself but you must find if she had a file on you. You have until the morning to find a way to clean up the bloody trail you’ve left.”
Another snifter of brandy arrived and Jonas waited until the waiter was out of sight. “Where is her home?”
“In Battersea,” Tony answered. “I’ve got the address.”
“Did she have a family?”
“I don’t know. There was a photo of a small girl in her purse.”
“I want you to meet me in St. James Square after you’ve gone through her papers. Be there no later than 9:30.”
Tony looked at his watch. “That’s less than twelve hours from now. That’s bloody goddamned impossible.”
Jonas stood. “Which will it be? Run from a murder charge until they catch you or deal with the impossible?”
Jonas did not swirl the heady liquid onto the sides of the snifter, then patiently inhale the rich fumes. Instead he drank it in a single swallow, then strode quickly from the room.
Chapter 7
The rain had ended but the air remained heavy. The early-morning sun could not penetrate the thick, low clouds. Detective Superintendent Walter Deats’s car turned off Datchet Road and stopped near a low, stone fence. A police sergeant came to the car and touched the peak of his cap in an informal salute.
“Sorry to bring you out but we might have a puzzle here and I thought you ought to see everything before we remove the body.”
“Just my luck, Randy. It’s my first free Saturday in a month.”
The superintendent climbed from the car and the two set off for the torn Rover that still lay on its side. Deats was a man of medium build, in his mid-forties, and nattily dressed. His full mustache curled up at the ends and he wore dark-rimmed glasses that were more often held like an actor’s prop than worn to aid his vision. They covered half the distance when Deats stopped. He looked back to the stone fence and then to the wrecked car.
