Prelude to Terror (22 page)

“Here!” Gudrun offered an armchair some distance from the desk. “Please?”

“I’d rather stand, thank you—had enough sitting in that auction room.”

“Weren’t you comfortable?”

“It was hot. Those skylights in the ceiling—” He shook his head and smiled again. Mittendorf’s pen was in his hand, his left hand curved around the top of his cheque-book as if to hold it in place. It could also cover the payee’s name as soon as he had written it. Grant kept on moving, seemingly at ease, and came round to the right side of the desk as Mittendorf was about to sign his name.

“One moment!” Grant interrupted urgently. “I forgot this. Must keep everything legal.” Out of his breast-pocket he whipped the letter he had been sent in New York along with his airline ticket, and passed it quickly to Mittendorf.

Instinctively, Mittendorf’s left hand was raised from the cheque-book to take Grant’s sudden offering. And Grant had one brief glimpse of the name: Henri Bienvenue. He saw, too, the amount being paid to Henri Bienvenue. It was the equivalent of 250,000 dollars. “Legal?” asked Mittendorf sharply, dropping his pen, using both hands to unfold the sheet of paper, but making sure that his left arm was now resting across the face of the cheque.

“Yes,” Grant said. That’s my authorisation from Mr. Victor Basset to represent him at the auction. You need it, don’t you, before you sign any cheque?”

“I do not,” said Mittendorf, his lips now so invisible that there was only one long thin line to indicate his mouth. “This letter should have been given to Frau Klar.” His eyes looked over his glasses with a piercing stare at the astonished American.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Grant took back Basset’s letter, and turned to Gudrun Klar. “I didn’t know,” he excused himself with a smile. “I’m ignorant about these things.” He presented the letter with a small bow. “Now everything is in order. And the Ruysdael?”

“Yours, for the next few days,” Gene Marck said, breaking his long silence. His face was taut, fine-drawn; either he hadn’t enjoyed last night’s sleep or today had brought new tensions. His bow-tie—red with white dots—would normally have passed muster, except that he had chosen to wear it with a brown pin-striped suit and the effect was not good. Disastrous, Fischer would have said. No colour sense, Lois Westerbrook had stated.

“How is Miss Westerbrook?” Grant asked casually, as he turned to look at the Ruysdael. Yes, the frame still had that fine incipient crack down its left side; the muslin was the same, mildew and rusted nails intact. There had been no tampering, so far.

“I thought you could have told me that,” Marck said. “Wasn’t she in touch with you last night?”

Grant froze, went on studying the painting. “Yes, she telephoned. I thought she was drunk to tell you the truth. Un-gallant of me, perhaps.” He looked directly at Marck. “Does she drink too much?”

Marck’s tight face relaxed a little. “I’m afraid so. It has been quite a problem.”

“Too bad,” said Grant. “By the way, what about insurance?” He indicated the Ruysdael. “You’ll attend to it?” He was conscious that Mittendorf, his cheque-signing completed, was listening to every word and watching each gesture.

“At once.”

“Then you’d better get on the ’phone. I don’t want an uninsured picture worth more than 168,000 dollars to be left in my charge. How long do I have to stay in Vienna, anyway?”

Mittendorf gathered up his pen and cheque-book, rose from the desk. He made his ponderous way to Gudrun Klar. “This is for your firm, Frau Klar: your auction fee, plus expenses for storage, et cetera, et cetera. And this—” he presented a second cheque folded neatly, “is for the previous owner of the painting which your husband auctioned. You will see that he receives it as soon as he arrives in Vienna? Excellent. Good day, Mr. Grant. Good day to you, Mr. Marck. To you, madame.” He bowed over Gudrun’s hand.

“Your hat—” Gudrun Klar began.

“In the other office, I believe.” Mittendorf nodded and left. As she was about to follow, Grant stopped her. “Frau Klar, I need something to cover this painting.”

“Of course.” Only half of her mind was on his request. She looked at the cheques and found they were a good excuse to let her follow Mittendorf into the other office. “First let me lock these safely away. I shall not take long.”

Marck too seemed ready to leave. He was opening the door for Frau Klar; their eyes met and held, his hand touched hers and lingered. Something was said, softly, gently; Frau Klar became Gudran, aged eighteen and giggling.

So that’s how he works it, thought Grant: control the woman and she’ll cajole her husband, and you’ll have a venerable firm right under your thumb.

“I’ll attend to the insurance,” Marck called back, as his arm guided Frau Klar’s waist towards her office.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Grant. Nor had Mittendorf, with his well-judged departure, neatly timed. “When do I leave Vienna?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Then warn me well ahead, will you? I barely made it today.”

Marck hesitated. “I may even let you know tonight. When can I reach you at your hotel? Late, I suppose. Then let’s say around midnight.” Without waiting for an answer, he closed the office door.

Like hell I’ll be there, thought Grant, but let that be his problem for a change. Now the three of them are discussing me. How did I do?... He wasn’t sure. But he had the name of Henri Bienvenue, whose account in Geneva would be the richer by 250,000 dollars. Also, he had a few minutes to himself. He studied the Ruysdael—a natural gesture, if he was being observed from next door. Then he tilted the picture from the easel, and looked at its back. Quickly he tried to ease the top right-hand corner of the protective muslin away from the rusted nails, but the material was fragile with age and came off the frame in a series of small rips. And on the back of the painting, just as Helmut Fischer had said, he found what he wanted: the date 1642, and the name S. van Ruysdael.

“Mr. Grant!” Frau Klar was closing her office door behind her, shutting out any view or sound of two men still deep in consultation. “What are you doing?”

“Just checking,” Grant said. “It’s authentic.”

“Did you doubt us?” She was indignant.

“Of course not. How long have you worked in the art world?”

“Three years. But I don’t see—”

“Scarcely long enough to know all the tricks that can be played, even on such a reputable house as Klar’s.”

“We had the picture checked,” she said stiffly. “We aren’t novices, Mr. Grant.”

Checked, with old and rusted nails still in exact place, and a frail muslin backing that had been intact, undisturbed? “Of course not,” he repeated, and seemed to mollify her. He was still wondering whose word they had taken, so completely on trust, that the Ruysdael was genuine. Someone so high in command that they’d never question his judgment? This whole damned thing had been run like a military operation.

Frau Klar was smiling again. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Grant? To celebrate.” She moved towards a carved wardrobe opening its door to reveal bottles and glasses.

“I’ll celebrate later. What I want now is two pieces of strong cardboard to fit the picture exactly, and also a thin plastic sheet to cover both the frame and the painting, protect its surface. It’s vulnerable, you know.”

“We can do better than that, Mr. Grant. Please come this way.”

He lifted the Ruysdael—it was just over two feet long, and about sixteen inches in height, not difficult to handle—and followed her out into the corridor. From the auction room behind them, there was the sound of Kurt Klar’s voice and the sharp ring of the bell. Henri Bienvenue, Grant was repeating to himself, getting the exact spelling fixed in his mind. It was a most suitable name for a Geneva resident, where French was the language used. They thought of everything, these boys.

Frau Klar was passing the main door to her office. Perhaps to draw his attention away from it, she beamed over her shoulder and pointed straight ahead to another door, at the end of the corridor, huge in size, double-panelled, and closed. Grant’s thoughts were still with Mittendorf, that wily old bastard. But why so stupid as to increase the value of the cheque from 168,454 dollars to 250,000? The discrepancy would be easily discovered, once Grant delivered the picture and discussed the auction and price with Victor Basset. He halted abruptly. My God, he thought, perhaps I won’t be alive to bear witness to the truth. If any substitution for the Ruysdael is made—and that will be quickly discerned by Basset—what better scapegoat to take the blame than a dead man?

“Here we are,” Frau Klar was saying, opening the double door.

For a moment, Grant stood at the entrance to Klar’s warehouse. Then, still shaken, still hesitant, his grip tightened on the Ruysdael, he stepped over its threshold.

The room Grant entered, enormous in size, artificially lit, was the working premises of Klar’s delivery and storage departments. Its cement floor was partly filled with trestle and tables and crates half-unpacked. Writing-desks, pictures, antique mirrors, vases, were being prepared for shipment. Here and there, mounds of straw. Four men, he noted, suddenly busy as Frau Klar appeared. The rear wall, adjoining Cathedral Lane and windowless to ensure security, was broken only by an immense entrance whose doors stood wide open, letting the sun and fresh air stream in from a narrow street My escape route, thought Grant.

He could see no parked Volkswagen out there—only a roughly dressed man lounging against the wall of the building opposite, who straightened his back and turned round to look along the street the minute he glimpsed Grant. It seemed so natural that Grant’s sudden hope diminished: probably not a signal to Renwick, just some workman out for a noontime break.

Grant forced himself to look away from the patch of sunlight, and took stock of the strangers around him, wondering which was the foreman whom Renwick trusted. Frau Klar solved that problem for him by raising her voice in sharp anger. “Max!” she suddenly called out. “Max!”

Max made his way around a pile of loose straw. He was a thin middle-aged man, with an imperturbable face and deliberate movements, slowed by a slight limp.

“Who,” demanded Frau Klar, “opened the delivery entrance? Who gave the orders for that? It is to be kept closed. At all times.”

Max said quietly, “Except when a delivery is to be made.”

“Well, where is it?” Her voice was hectoring, her face tight with anger. She pointed to the empty threshold. “Where’s the truck?”

“Late. Could have been the traffic. Should be here around noon.”

“Delivering what? Nothing is scheduled to arrive today.”

“Timber from Heller & Sons,” Max said patiently. “We’ve got more packing-cases to make for the Frankfurt shipment.”

Frau Klar’s temper subsided. She dismissed Max with a wave of her hand and recovered her winning smile. “Please excuse us, Mr. Grant. We are always so busy—difficult to keep track of everything. Now let me show you what we have ready for you.” She signalled to another man who had just finished wrapping a cushion of styrofoam around a majolica vase at a nearby table. He deposited the vase in a nest of straw, and picked up some other item from his table. “And what do you think of this?” she asked Grant, as the man came forward, holding a large blue carrying-case.

“Splendid,” he said, surprised and pleased. It was of vinyl, both light and strong, with three leather straps and buckles and an easy-to-grip handle. “Looks as if it’s just the right measurements, too.”

“Exactly right. We had it specially made for you—a gesture to Mr. Basset, one of our most valued clients. Much better than cardboard, don’t you think?” She was much amused. Then to the workmen, “Sigmund—take this painting and cover it with a thin sheet of plastic before you put it into the carrier.” She eased the Ruysdael out of Grant’s hands. “Don’t worry. Sigmund is our most expert packer. Pictures are his speciality.”

Grant risked one brief glance at the street: no one there now—just a light truck arriving, groping its way slowly and carefully into close position beside the delivery entrance. He moved over to the work-table to keep an eye on Sigmund’s nimble fingers.

Frau Klar kept following him closely. “Where will you keep the Ruysdael until you leave? It is a problem, isn’t it? Of course, you could have left it with us. We are accustomed to storing very valuable articles. Then we could have sent it to you by special messenger on the morning of your departure.”

The last corner of the plastic wrapping was being taped in place. “Yes, that was one possibility,” Grant said, his eyes never leaving Sigmund.

“You might reconsider, even now.”

“No. I prefer to take the picture myself.” The Ruysdael was being slowly edged into its packing case.

“See that door over there!” Frau Klar caught his arm as her other hand pointed to one end of the room. “It leads to our storage vault—burglar-proof, fire-proof. Nothing could be safer.”

Politely, Grant looked. He disengaged his arm, turned back to watch Sigmund’s table. The man had finished his job: the blue carrying-case had its three brown leather straps already buckled. Quick work, thought Grant. Too damn quick, perhaps. Something is wrong, he felt. He glanced at Max, standing close by, strangely ignoring the truck’s arrival.

“There you are, sir,” said Sigmund, handing over the case. Grant saw Max’s warning stare: first at him; then at the pile of loose straw near the work-table. He took the case from Sigmund, saying, “A very neat job.”

“Max!” Frau Klar was sharply annoyed again. “Isn’t that the truck with your timber?”

“I need Sigmund to help check the unloading.”

“He’s free now. Get on with it, both of you!”

Grant cleared his throat. “Frau Klar—I
am
sorry. May I delay Sigmund for a moment?” He laid the carrying-case on the table, began unbuckling it. This is vinyl—not firm enough. No padding inside? Inadequate for a transatlantic journey. We’ll need a slight reinforcement. A sheet of cardboard over the face of the picture.” He slipped his hand inside the case. “I was right: no protective lining.” He pulled the picture out. The plastic cover was transparent. The painting itself looked like the genuine Ruysdael, but the antique frame had no crack apparent. The muslin backing, beige in colour to imitate age, had not one black mildew spot. Nor was it loose at the top right-hand corner.