Long Time Coming (7 page)

‘Confirmation from the purser, sir,’ he announced. ‘Verhoest is a no-show.’

‘On the contrary, Eldritch,’ Meridor responded, ‘show is all Verhoest was.’ The significance of his use of the past tense was lost on neither man. ‘But thank you.’ He took one more puff at his cigar, then tossed the generous butt over the rail. It hit the silt-clouded water as a distant speck. Meridor studied the point of its disappearance as if it possessed some metaphorical force, then nodded in evident satisfaction. ‘I’ll go below now,’ he murmured.

Swan went below as well, to unpack. But he was back on deck an hour or so later to take in the scenery as the ship passed Flushing and headed out into the North Sea. It was a fine, breezy day. If the weather held, they would have an easy crossing. They were due to call at Dover that afternoon and he was looking forward to seeing the White Cliffs once more.

Nimbala materialized at his shoulder as he stood by the rail, to report a summons from their mutual employer. ‘The master wishes you to join him in his cabin, sir.’

‘Can’t it wait till lunch, J-J? We’ll be meeting then anyway.’

‘No, sir.’ The ghost of a smile on Nimbala’s lips implied to Swan that he already knew what Meridor wanted – and why it could not wait. ‘I don’t believe it can.’

Meridor’s cabin was the finest on the ship – a luxuriously appointed stateroom with its own sundeck and views to the stern. He was seated at a large marble and gold desk of an ornateness more suited to a Bourbon monarch, sifting through a sheaf of forms that Swan recognized as diamond reports, each one complete with a listing of precise dimensions and a diagram of the stone’s facets. Meridor was still in the black suit he would have worn to the Bourse. He was evidently intent on pursuing his trade even at sea.

‘Sit down, Eldritch.’ He waved to the vacant sphinx-armed chair on the other side of the desk. ‘There’s something we need to discuss before lunch.’

Swan sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m all yours, sir.’

Meridor smiled fleetingly at Swan’s choice of words. The turn of phrase was, after all, almost literally true. He pushed the diamond reports to one side. ‘Why do you think I collect art, Eldritch?’

‘You enjoy it.’

‘And fine art is a fine investment. Yes, yes. But there’s more to it. More to my Picassos, in particular. I’m not sure I enjoy his paintings. They’re too … raw. But I admire them. Oh yes. I appreciate them. More, I understand their … historical importance. I think I understood it the day I walked into the Kahnweiler Gallery in Paris and saw them on show for the first time. 1908, that would have been. More than thirty years ago. They’re the art of this raw century, Eldritch. A lot of people have said such things recently. Especially since he produced
Guernica
. He’s become more than an artist. He’s become … a symbol of the times.’

‘That must make your collection very valuable, sir.’ Swan glanced over his shoulder at the trunk containing Meridor’s Picassos, which stood in the far corner of the room.

‘Yes, yes. Very valuable. Financially and … historically.’

The preoccupation with history was new in Swan’s experience of his employer. The need to flee Belgium had clearly prompted him to take a broader view of the world. ‘You must be glad to have them close by you.’

‘Yes. But they cannot remain close by.’

‘They can’t?’

‘No, Eldritch. Most certainly not. Too many neutral ships have been sunk by the Germans for me to risk taking them across the Atlantic. I have to go. I have no choice. And the rest of my collection, in the hold, I
will
risk. But not the Picassos.’

‘I don’t understand. They’re here, with you. They
are
going.’

‘No. We put them off at Dover. And I want you to get off with them.’

‘
Me?
’

‘Take them to London. To this man.’ Meridor slid a business card across the desk. ‘Geoffrey Cardale has a gallery in St James’s. I trust him. He will look after the paintings until it is safe for me to
collect them or have them sent to me. You have a British passport, so there will be no problem for you entering the country. Cardale is expecting them. There will be no problem there either.’

If Cardale was expecting the paintings, Meridor must have made the arrangement with him some time previously. This was no snap decision. But only now, at a few short hours’ notice, was Swan being told of it. His mind raced to deduce why this might be. An obvious and sickening answer presented itself. Meridor had needed his unquestioning loyalty in neutralizing the threat posed by Verhoest. The revelation that he was to be cast adrift in this fashion might have caused him to question his loyalty – as indeed he was now doing.

‘I did not tell you before because I was waiting for a message from Cardale. It arrived this morning.’ That sounded just a little too convenient to Swan, as Meridor seemed to sense. ‘You will continue in my employment on the existing terms.’ He placed a small velvet bag on the table and loosened the drawstring to give Swan a glimpse of the diamonds it contained. Their colour suggested low to moderate value. But still the bagful might represent a tidy sum, on which point Meridor was the expert. ‘These are worth the amount of three months’ salary,’ he went on. ‘Take them to Levi Burg in Hatton Garden. Mention my name and he will pay you the correct price. I will cable you with further instructions when I reach New York.’ He paused. They looked at each other. Then: ‘Any questions?’

‘As an able-bodied Englishman,’ Swan said slowly, ‘I might consider it my patriotic duty, finding myself in London with time on my hands, to offer my services to my country.’

Meridor steepled his fingers. ‘I would appreciate warning, Eldritch. But, of course, I would understand it if you … took such a decision.’

Indeed, he might even be grateful. Swan could easily persuade himself to read as much into Meridor’s expression. A fresh start in New York: off with the old; on with the new. Swan had been useful to him. But he was not indispensable. And there was Esther’s fondness for him to be taken into consideration. If Meridor knew
of it, as he probably did, a clean break at this stage might have commended itself to him as the safest policy all round. He certainly would not want Swan coming between his daughter and any eligible son-in-law he cared to select.

‘This will give you a chance to see your parents, of course. You must give them my very best wishes.’

‘I’ll be sure to.’

‘A holiday is how you should see this period, Eldritch.’ Meridor smiled. ‘A well-deserved spell of leave, shall we say?’

‘Yes.’ Swan returned the smile, hoping it appeared as genuine as did Meridor’s. ‘Let’s say that.’

And so Eldritch Swan found himself back on dry land much sooner than he had expected – high and dry, as it seemed to him. He was received in Dover by grim-faced customs officials and assorted posters declaiming wartime regulations that he had no wish to become familiar with but suspected he would have to. By the time various forms had been completed in triplicate relating to his trunkload of fine art, the SS
Uitlander
had left the harbour. His last sight of it was as a parallaxed speck on the south-western horizon, viewed through the salt-grimed windows of the customs shed.

Half an hour later, he was standing on the platform of Dover Marine station, waiting with a miserably dressed and generally downcast crowd of other travellers for the next train to London. The trunk and his suitcase stood beside him on a barrow, a porter having been promised half-a-crown to load the trunk in the guard’s van when the train arrived. Swan was leaning against the barrow, smoking a cigarette and trying very hard to stave off depression. He would not have refused a nip from Verhoest’s brandy flask now. He had begun to realize just how much he had been looking forward to revisiting New York. Glamour, bright lights and the best of everything were not, he felt certain, to be found in wartime London.

‘Mr Swan?’

The voice had carried from some distance. As Swan turned in its
direction, he saw a man in a well-cut suit, trilby and brightly striped tie striding towards him along the platform, capped brogues ringing on the asphalt. He was grey-haired, with a moustache and the rugged, ruddy looks of a hard-drinking man of the world. Swan would have put his age at sixty or so and reckoned his profession as something on the dodgier fringes of finance – but for an instant suspicion that he was actually an art dealer with a gallery in St James’s.

‘Cardale’s the name. Geoffrey Cardale.’ He extended a hand as he approached. ‘You
are
Eldritch Swan, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I …’ They shook. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be met.’

‘I thought I’d drive down and spare you the anguish of transporting Meridor’s pictures on whatever wreck of a train Southern Railways deign to lay on for you. Travel’s generally become a nightmare since they brought in petrol rationing.’ This begged the question of how Cardale had been able to drive to Dover, but it was not a question Swan had any intention of asking. ‘What say we track down a porter to stow this trunk in my car and see if there’s anything to overtake on the way back to London?’

Naturally, Swan raised no objection. Soon they were speeding north through the Kent countryside on an eerily empty road in Cardale’s Lagonda V12, sunlight flashing on its burnished bonnet. It was a perfect spring evening. Swan’s depression was beginning to lift. And it was about to vanish altogether.

‘I imagine you’ll be kicking your heels until you hear from Meridor,’ said Cardale as he began to give the car its head. ‘Unless you’re planning to enlist right away.’

‘Well, I …’

‘They’ll keep you waiting even if you do. There’s quite a queue, so they tell me. Especially for chaps your age.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. So you might consider helping me out at the gallery pro tem, in return for the use of the flat above, currently lying idle. My young assistant’s gone off to train as a pilot in the RAF, lucky
dog, leaving job and flat both vacant. Meridor evidently rates you highly, which is good enough for me. Interested?’

Swan’s reply was a masterpiece of understatement. ‘I think I might be, yes.’

Swan persuaded himself that Meridor would have wanted him to accept Cardale’s offer on the grounds that it meant he could keep a close eye on his Picassos. Not literally, of course, since Cardale promptly deposited them in the bomb-proof vault of his Piccadilly bank. There had not actually been any bombing yet, but the National Gallery had evacuated its collections long since – to north Wales, so rumour had it – and as Cardale said: ‘We must take good care of your employer’s property for him, mustn’t we?’

Unsurprisingly in the circumstances, Cardale’s gallery in Ryder Street was thinly stocked. It was made clear to Swan that his commitments there would be far from onerous. ‘The show must go on, old man, but don’t expect any full houses.’ Nor was he required to discharge any of those commitments until the following week. ‘You’ll need a few days to find your feet.’

The use, free of charge, of a comfortably furnished flat in St James’s greatly eased the process of feet-finding, as did the large cheque Swan obtained from Mr Levi Burg of Hatton Garden in exchange for his diamonds. Burg confessed himself envious when he heard of his friend’s departure for the United States. ‘New York will soon be the only place where our business can flourish, Mr Swan. I would go there myself if I could obtain a visa. Isaac must know more influential people than I do. But why am I surprised? He’s always been gifted in that department.’

Swan opened an account at Cardale’s bank with the money and
judged he could afford to live as well as wartime conditions allowed for some time to come. The London he had returned to was not, of course, the London he remembered. Eros had left Piccadilly Circus. Barrage balloons floated in the sky. Many statues were boarded up, many buildings sandbagged. The guards at Buckingham Palace were in battledress. Policemen wore tin hats. There was hardly a taxi or a private car to be seen on the streets, rendering Cardale’s ability to fill the tank of his thirsty V12 all the more mysterious. And the blackout seemed to plunge the city back in time, as Cardale warned him. ‘It’s more like 1740 than 1940 once night falls, old man. Beware pickpockets and footpads.’

During the week or so likely to elapse before any cable from Meridor arrived, Swan proposed to enjoy himself as best he could. Good food and fine wine were still to be had in the restaurants of the West End and a mood of desperate gaiety prevailed in Soho. He found diversion easily enough. The air-raid precautions seemed excessive to him. The war remained, in his own mind, just a rumour. He decided to test the mood of middle England and do his filial duty by visiting his parents over his first weekend back in Blighty. He fired off a letter telling them of his plan and travelled up to Leamington on Saturday.

He regretted going even before he arrived. The train was impossibly crowded, which his fellow travellers assured him was quite normal. Where taxis in London were scarce, in Leamington they were non-existent, obliging him to walk to his parents’ house. He had never been there before and covered twice the actual distance thanks to a series of wrong turnings. Nor was meat rationing the only reason for the absence of a fatted calf when he reached the oversized mock-Tudor dwelling, set in half an acre of heavily treed garden, to which his father had retired after more than forty years in Africa. The move had evidently done nothing to improve his temperament. Always irascible, he had become in old age splutteringly choleric. The sight of his eldest son was as a red rag to a bull.

‘I didn’t fix you up with a job in Antwerp so that you could use it as an excuse to dodge the column, Eldritch. Your brother’s in the Army, which is where you should be, goddammit, doing your bit
for King and country. What the hell do you mean by still being in civvies? There’s a war on. Hadn’t you noticed?’

The storm eventually died, thanks to Swan’s mother, a well-practised domestic appeaser. Swan himself was far from sure he wanted to do any appeasing. Verhoest’s attempt to blackmail Meridor had led to revelations about Swan senior’s activities while working for the East African Railways and Harbours Administration that sat ill with his self-righteous outpourings. A few judicious hints on the subject when the two were eventually left alone together ensured no further broadsides came Swan’s way. A sullen truce prevailed, during which his father contented himself with complaints about Chamberlain’s war leadership and the scandalous difficulty of hiring decent domestic staff in England compared with Tanganyika. When Swan left the following morning, his mother waved tearfully to him from the front gate, while his father scowled at him from the driveway behind her. If he had known he would never see either of them again, he might have gone back and crafted a tenderer farewell. But he did not know. How could he?