Only then did the truth crash upon Christine. And yet how could it be? The Velazquez, the picture that had become the sensation of London, the sensation of the land. Suddenly most of what she had heard dropped into place, and, keyed up though she had been before, she was now much more conscious of danger. The realization ran through her mind, turning thought to tumult, and she stood motionless, almost too fearful to breathe.
“So you do, do you?” Robin began, in a rough voice “Well—”
“He’s been followed!” Lance blurted out. “We can’t do anything to him. He’s been followed by the police!”
“You told me that you would sell it in twelve hours and bring me the balance,” the unknown man said quite calmly. “You did not tell me that you would murder Jenkins and Slater in cold blood, and you did not tell me that I would have to wait.”
“The police are following him, I tell you,” Lance cried, then turned his head and stared up the staircase.
“I said that the police were watching me,” the stranger corrected. “If I take the picture, I will also take the risk.” He moved toward the door - toward Robin - the canvas under his arm “Tell him it won’t help to squeeze the trigger,” he went on. “The gun isn’t loaded.” After a pause, he said, “Let me pass.”
“You stay just where you are,” Robin Kell said savagely. “Lance, why did you give him the canvas? My God, what a bloody fool you are!”
At that instant, upheaval came below.
The stranger made a darting move forward, Robin’s hand descended on his arm, there was a choking scream, and the stranger staggered backward. As he thumped against a tall chest of drawers that rocked and rattled, Robin swept his other arm around and thrust Lance out of the way, then bounded up the stairs.
Halfway up, he saw Christine crouching back.
“I thought you were there,” he said. “So now you know.”
As he stopped and stared at her, lips tight and eyes glittering, she felt such an onslaught of terror that she could neither scream nor move. Robin seemed to stand there for an age, but it was only for a few seconds. Then he moved swiftly upward, vaulted over the handrail, gripped her hand, and spun her round, pushing her arm high up behind her, making pain streak through her elbow and her shoulder. He seemed to do everything in a series of movements that were part of one another, opening the door of the W.C. and thrusting her inside, letting her arm go, and then, while terror welled up and she felt as if her lungs would burst she wanted so desperately to scream, he brought the side of his hand onto the back of her neck in a savage chopping blow. Her head jolted backward, her neck felt as if it were breaking. She lost consciousness and slumped against the wall.
Robin Kell stepped out of the tiny closet, the key in his hand. He put it into the keyhole from the outside, turned it, and, when the lock had clicked, withdrew the key and dropped it into his pocket. Then he turned round to see Lancelot Judd staring at him from halfway up the stairs.
“You—you didn’t hurt her, did you?”
“I just put her to sleep.”
“If you’ve hurt her—”
“Look out!” exclaimed Robin. “I’m coming!” He placed a hand on the cold brass rail and vaulted, and Lance only just dodged to one side in time. Down below, sitting on a high-backed Jacobean chair, the other man - de Courvier - was nursing his arm. As Robin appeared, he got up and turned slowly toward the door, but he was obviously so sick with pain that he could walk only a few steps, and those swaying.
“Come back, Paul,” Robin ordered.
Paul de Courvier took an unsteady pace forward.
“Come back, or I’ll break the other arm,” Robin said through his teeth.
De Courvier stopped and slowly turned round. His right arm was twisted where it had been broken, and all the colour had drained out of his face. His eyes looked feverishly bright, and his thin lips were set tightly.
“When did you last see the police watching?” Robin demanded.
“At—at my flat,” the other answered.
“Are you sure they were watching you?”
“They followed—followed me twice.”
“Have they been to see you?”
“No.”
“Haven’t broken in when you’ve been out, have they?”
“No, there’s been no sign of a search,” de Courvier muttered. “I—I must go to a hospital. My arm—”
“You just answer my questions,” Robin Kell said callously. “How did you come here?”
“I borrowed someone’s car.”
“Borrowed?”
“A neighbour’s. He’s away.”
“Are you sure he’s away?”
“Of course I am sure! And we have an arrangement; we use each other’s cars sometimes. If you let me go now, I won’t talk. If you keep me here, I’ll tell the police everything, when they come.” De Courvier’s voice was thick with pain.
“Shut up! What car is your neighbour’s?”
“A white Jaguar. I tell you—”
“What’s all this about being through?” Robin interrupted harshly.
“I—I am through. I don’t want anything more to do with the job. Can’t you understand?”
“You can’t get away with it so easily,” Robin said, sneering. “You’ll do exactly what I tell you.”
“No!” de Courvier said, “I will do nothing more for you or with you. You lie about everything, and you kill without compunction. There was no need to murder Jenkins and Slater. There was no need to lie to me. Now you have your portrait, and if you really have a buyer you can keep my share of the money. I am finished. There is nothing you can do to make me—”
De Courvier broke off, and caught his breath, then seemed to hiss. Robin Kell moved with his remarkable ease and precision, hand going to his waistband, sliding out, blade of a knife glinting, then, with a swift movement, burying itself in de Courvier’s belly. And as he died, and swayed backward, Robin held his shoulders to keep him upright.
Without looking round, he said: “We’ll get rid of him after dark.”
Behind him, Lancelot Judd gasped, “You’re a cold-blooded swine.”
“Let’s just say I’m cold-blooded,” Robin retorted, and he half dragged the dead man behind a big wardrobe, almost too large for the shop, and propped him up on another high-backed chair.
“If you hurt Christine—”
“Don’t be a fool,” Robin interrupted. “We need Christine. You can have her for bed. I want her because she’ll open a lot of doors in Falconer House. If we handle this properly, and we’re going to, we’ll separate Falconer from most of his money. But we need Christine alive to do that.”
Lance began, “You mean—”
“I mean we’re on our way to a fortune. Falconer would be tempted like hell to buy the Velazquez anyhow. When he knows that buying it is the only way to save his daughter from drugs and shall we say degradation, he’ll fall over himself to buy it. And, oh boy,” - an expression of unbelievable cunning spread over Robin Kell’s face, making him look quite demonic - “oh, boy,” he repeated in a low-pitched voice, “won’t we have him where we want him then? He’ll buy everything we want him to, or the police will be tipped off to pay him a visit.”
Lance was watching him, appalled, but as if mesmerized. Robin’s tone changed.
“So we’re home and dry. All we have to do is keep our heads. There were only three men who could have caused us any real trouble, but now they can’t. We’ve got to work out how to get rid of the body. The best way will be to get de Courvier back in the Jaguar. It doesn’t matter where it’s found; the trusting neighbour will report it stolen and the police will think it all happened in the car.”
He nodded to himself with obvious satisfaction.
“So long as you don’t hurt Christine,” Lance said weakly.
“I won’t hurt Christine if she behaves herself,” Robin said absently “It’s past time we put this piece of lolly away, now. My God! You could have got us into real trouble!” But he did not dwell on that, only raised the Velazquez shoulder high and stepped toward a wall adjoining the next-door building, on which several big paintings, none of any quality, hung from a picture rail. “Come and lend a hand,” he added more brusquely.
Lance moved after him, and together they took the pictures down. Then Robin pressed a section of the rail, and the now bare wall slid open, revealing a dark recess beyond, about three or four feet deep. Inside were a dozen cylindrical metal containers, each marked “Fire Resistant.” Robin picked one up from the left-hand side, twisted a key in a small lock, opened the hinged top, and turned toward Lance, who was rolling the Velazquez. Taking the picture, he eased it gently into the container and then closed the cap. He tested it to make sure the self-locking device worked, then put it with those on the right-hand side.
“Eleven in the bag,” he remarked. “We won’t worry about making it a round dozen.” He pressed the picture rail again and the doors slid to; then they put the pictures back.
“Foolproof and fireproof,” Robin observed “We’re nearer that fortune than we’ve ever been. And no one can give us away now - all of them are dead.”
Lancelot Judd nodded, but almost at once gave an involuntary shiver. Robin appeared not to notice. Neither of them spoke of Christine.
“Did you know that Christine wouldn’t be in for lunch?” asked Sir Richard Falconer. He was lunching, frugally for him, in the morning room overlooking the walled garden of Falconer House, a garden with a centuries-old lawn, smooth as velvet, bordered on one side by espalier apple and pear trees, still heavy with fruit, and on the other by the rich variety of colours and blooms of late dahlias and early chrysanthemums.
“Yes, I knew,” Lady Falconer answered.
“Do you know where she intended to go?”
“With Lancelot Judd, of course.”
“It’s very risky, Charlotte,” Falconer said severely.
“It’s even more risky for us to try to live her life for her,” retorted his wife, with rare spirit. “If you restrict her too much, she will rebel completely and leave home.”
“I don’t think you know her as well as I do.” Falconer cut a piece off a peach and placed it in his mouth. “She will accept - she does accept - the situation, and she will certainly not be foolish enough to leave home. Life in a garret or what passes for penury these days certainly would not suit her, nor will this young man. Do you really know anything about him?”
“I know you have no doubt set your spies on him,” Lady Falconer said bitterly.
“Charlotte, I really don’t understand you. I must take the obvious precautions. Of course I needed to check the background of Lancelot Judd, who might possibly have proved suitable as an escort for Christine. He is the son of Jacob Judd, a Brighton solicitor; got a scholarship to Oxford, and worked in an antique shop during vacations, so he has some knowledge of antiques and paintings. But until he set up shop he lived on a small inheritance, and seems to be a somewhat odd young man. He was very active in the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, a campaign which you know that I abominated. And he has friends who are no less odd. Christine must be persuaded to break the association.”
His wife looked at him out of her beautiful shell, and her voice carried more feeling than her features - even her eyes - showed.
“Christine is extremely resentful at being watched and followed wherever she goes. You must stop doing that, and give her her head for a while.”
Falconer toyed delicately with another sliver of peach.
“I must at least appear to,” he conceded, “and I made a start only this morning. I told Oily not to have anyone follow her today. But if she isn’t back for dinner I shall regret it very much indeed.”
“She’ll be back,” his wife said with assurance. “She promised to be here for dinner.” She relaxed a little as the footman brought in coffee: on Sundays they always had coffee in this room. As she poured, she smiled at her husband, and when she passed the tiny cup of priceless porcelain, their hands touched for a moment in a kind of aloof intimacy.
Gideon, on that pleasant Sunday afternoon, hoed vigorously among the late-summer flowers in the back garden and, when the rich earth had been stirred, took a pair of edging shears from the small garden shed and began to trim the lawn edges. Insects kept perching on his face and he brushed them off with the back of his hand. Now and again, when he stopped, he could hear the piano; Penelope was practising as if her very life were at stake. Kate was upstairs, getting ready to go out; they were going to supper with Prudence, the eldest daughter, her husband, and their five-year-old child. It would be pleasant but not exciting; like the gardening.
Gardening soothed Gideon, and while he gardened he was able to think clearly without fogging his mind by too much concentration. Often, while pottering with lengths of bass, or with secateurs, tidying the shed or adjusting the blades on the lawnmower, he had flashes of illumination on matters which might have been worrying him for days. Today was mostly ruminative. He couldn’t do any more about the National Gallery inquiry and hadn’t yet made up his mind whether to attend the conference on Tuesday morning, or whether to delegate Hobbs. He wondered where Riddell was, thought of the dead Pakistani girl. Was hers an isolated case or did such things happen often? If a conference was needed, it was over the immigrant smuggling, but that was a major social problem, not simply one for the police, and he had a sense of the need for caution.
He couldn’t consult Chamberlain; the man would be impossible. Nor did he want to handle this on his own. The only person to discuss the problem with was Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, the Commissioner. Perhaps this evening he would call him; it would be easier to discuss it out of office hours, and Scott-Marie could be trusted absolutely.
He wondered how Entwhistle was, and whether Honiwell was right, and the case could and should be reopened. Was it really possible that Greenwood had let Entwhistle spend three years in prison, to face the rest of his life in prison, for a crime he hadn’t committed? What went on in the minds of such men? How could anybody live with a burden like that on his conscience?
The simple truth was, of course, that such men had no conscience, it was a hard thing to accept, and although Gideon had been dealing with the most ruthless and hardened criminals all his life, it was still difficult for him, especially on a Sunday afternoon in the garden, to believe that men could be so cold-blooded. But suddenly he had a revulsion of feeling against his own thinking. He knew damned well that some men were so utterly coldblooded that they did not have a spark of remorse or contrition whatever they did.
The killer of Jenkins, the killer of Slater might well be cases in point.
There was a furious burst of music, a moment of praise and triumph; bless the child! He wondered how the strange affaire between her and Hobbs was progressing. She appeared most of the time to regard Hobbs as an uncle or an elder brother, and though she sometimes seemed almost to be in love with him, such periods did not last long. Soon she would meet another, younger man with whom, for a few weeks, sometimes only for a few days, she would be completely infatuated.
Odd not to know how one’s children thought and felt. The parent-child relationship was a strange one, and often totally unpredictable. Take for example Jenkins and his daughter Lucy.
Funny about Lucy, working in a shop that he, Gideon, passed every day. He had read the report from the Division at Fulham; it had been written with a rare sensitivity which had somehow made him understand Lucy’s reaction to her father’s death. The tragedy wasn’t in the death but in the revelation of the estrangement between father and daughter. Funny, too, about that yearly Christmas card with a five-pound note tucked inside.
He had only a few feet of the lawn edge to finish when he heard Kate from the window.
“George!”
The piano was still playing, a neighbour’s lawnmower was clattering.
“George! Telephone!” Kate was mouthing the words and beckoning.
A little reluctantly, Gideon put down the shears and strolled into the kitchen. There was an extension in the passage just outside the door. The music ended, by chance or with intent, and he picked up the receiver.
“Gideon here.”
“I’m sorry to worry you on Sunday afternoon, George,” said Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, “but I would like a word with you about Tuesday’s conference. Can you fit it in sometime this evening without disturbing your family too much?”
He could!
“About half past nine tonight, sir, if that would suit you,” Gideon replied promptly.
“Make it ten o’clock, will you? We needn’t be too long. Thank you. Goodbye.”
Gideon rang off, smiling with deep satisfaction. Scott-Marie must have sensed what Chamberlain had been doing, and deliberately relieved Gideon of the need to broach the subject. Yet Scott-Marie had a reputation for being the most coldly aloof man at the Yard. Ten o’clock was easier, really; he could bring Kate and Penelope home and then go to Scott-Marie’s place in Mayfair.
It couldn’t be better.
On the other side of London, above Lancelot Judd’s little shop, Christine Falconer lay in a drugged sleep.
Barely half a mile away from Gideon, at the back of Old Fisky’s shop, Lucy Jenkins watched the old man as he worked on her possible find. She could hardly control her impatience, her longing for a dream to come true.