Murder by the Book (10 page)

‘That scar,' she had said to Charles just yesterday, ‘how did he get it? It would be ugly anywhere else on his face, but at his temple it rather suits him.'

Charles laughed. ‘That, my dear, irony of ironies, was thanks to a French bullet.'

‘A
French
bullet?'

He amended, ‘Well, a Vichy French bullet. He saw action in Madagascar. Not that he speaks of that, either. All he told me was that an inch to the left and the world would have been spared a dozen Sam Brooke novels. Which pretty well sums up Donald's self-deprecating manner, don't you think?'

She wondered if tomorrow, on the jaunt down to Sussex, she might get to know Donald Langham a little better.

She sipped her tea and pushed the half-eaten Bakewell – which was
not
baked very well – to one side and concentrated on the street beyond the window.

Fifteen minutes later an old Rolls Royce pulled up outside Sotheby's and Monsieur Savagne alighted, the sight of so small a man stepping from so large a vehicle somewhat comical. He adjusted his cravat, arranged his thinning hair, then crossed the pavement and entered the building. Maria looked at her watch. It was four forty-five, and there was no sign yet of Gideon Martin.

Five minutes later the man himself, clutching a rolled copy of the
Express
in one hand and his swordstick in the other, stepped from a taxi cab and trotted into the auctioneer's. She gave him a few minutes to ease his way to the front of the crowd – as
he
would not skulk at the back of the room, she thought – then paid the bill and left the café.

She dashed through a gap in the traffic, one hand holding her hat to her head as she did so, then hurried into the auction rooms. The sale was to be held in the main room, and the place was packed. As she eased her way through the throng at the door and stationed herself at the rear of the room next to a mock-marble pillar, she heard a medley of European voices – mainly French and Italian – and one or two American accents. To a man, everyone was dressed as if for a formal engagement. Maria had outfitted herself likewise in a body-hugging silk two-piece and a dainty little hat by Lilly Daché.

A Rembrandt miniature was on the easel next to the auctioneer's podium. The auctioneer himself was scanning the gathering and indicating the bidder with a languid hand. ‘Three thousand four hundred to my right … I have three-five. Do I hear three-six? Thank you, sir. Three-six bid. Three-seven, Three-eight …'

She glanced at the catalogue. The Rembrandt was lot two; the Italian statuette was lot four.

She peered over the heads of those before her and caught sight of Gideon Martin. As she had suspected, he was near the front, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar to the right. She wondered if his entire life was a carefully thought out and staged event, each elegant pose designed for maximum theatrical effect.

She looked for M Savagne, but the little man was lost in the crowd.

The Rembrandt went for six thousand pounds, and the painting was taken from the easel by two buff-coated members of staff and replaced with a landscape by Sisley.

‘Lot three, an early piece by Alfred Sisley, very collectable. A considerable work by this fine English artist. Do I have a starter at one thousand? Thank you, sir. One thousand to my left. One thousand one hundred. One-two. One-three … Thank you, sir. One-four. One-five. Do I hear one-six …?'

Towards the front, Gideon Martin turned his profile to the crowd as if seeking their appreciation. His hooded eyes took in his surroundings and Maria slipped behind the pillar as his gaze swept her way. When she emerged, Martin's attention was once again on the auctioneer. The Sisley had sold for three thousand and was being replaced by the statuette.

‘A fine example of eighteenth-century silverware …' The auctioneer began his spiel. ‘Do I have a bid to start off proceedings at one thousand five hundred?'

Maria saw a big, silver-haired man raise his folded catalogue. ‘Thank you, sir,' the auctioneer said.

Gideon Martin raised his swordstick.

‘One thousand six hundred.'

The catalogue went up.

‘One-seven,' said the auctioneer.

Martin bid.

‘One-eight.'

The silver-haired gentleman bid and the auctioneer indicated him. ‘One-nine.'

This, Maria thought, is where I step in.

She raised her catalogue fractionally and the auctioneer's eagle eye saw the movement. ‘I have two thousand at the back. Two thousand one hundred, anyone?'

The silver-haired man raised his catalogue.

‘Two thousand one hundred bid in the centre.'

Gideon Martin lifted his swordstick imperiously.

‘Two-two to my left.'

Maria waited to see if silver-hair would bid; he refrained. She raised her catalogue, her heart thumping in her chest.

‘Two-three.'

Martin gave a tight, angry nod.

‘Two-four.'

Maria bid.

‘Two-five.' She was ready to duck behind the pillar should Martin turn in order to see who might be bidding against him, but his attention remained focused on the auctioneer. He hoisted his swordstick.

‘Two-six.'

Maria raised her catalogue.

‘I have two-seven at the back of the room … Two-eight …'

Maria kept her eyes on Martin lest he turn; he appeared irritated. She smiled as she considered his words at the party, to the effect that he had saved three thousand to spend on the statuette.

She wondered how much beyond that he would be prepared to bid. Her father had indicated that he was prepared to foot a bill of no more than three thousand five hundred: he had contacts in Paris museums who might be persuaded to show the piece and, over time, reimburse him the fee.

Martin bid again.

‘Two-nine …' the auctioneer intoned.

She lifted her catalogue.

‘Three thousand. I have three thousand at the back. Do I hear … Thank you, sir. Three-one.'

Maria bid.

‘Three-two.'

Martin hesitated visibly, then lofted his swordstick almost angrily.

‘Three-three,' said the auctioneer.

One more bid, Maria thought. She indicated three-four, and the auctioneer said, ‘Three-four at the back. Do I have three-five, sir?'

Martin's gaze remained fixed on the statuette, his expression rigid. She could see that he was deliberating.
Don't do it
, she urged. A trickle of perspiration coursed down the side of her neck.

Gideon Martin seemed to wait an age before he shook his head.

‘Three-four at the back. Do I hear three-five? No … Then, at three thousand and four hundred pounds, going once, going twice … Sold!'

Maria almost collapsed with relief. She gathered herself and slipped from the auction room, but not before appreciating the look of barely suppressed rage on Gideon Martin's face.

She paid for the statuette and arranged for its delivery to her father's house, considering it a job satisfactorily concluded.
Voila!
She had avenged herself for Martin's buying the very watercolour she had intended for her father's birthday present.

She returned to her apartment, made herself a bowl of minestrone soup, and ate it while listening to Radio France.

Later she tried to read a manuscript – a literary novel by one of the agency's authors – but was unable to concentrate. She considered what she had planned with Donald Langham for tomorrow; she liked the way he had listened to her suggestions earlier today, and had quietly agreed to them. She could not imagine Gideon Martin being that fair-minded.

And thoughts of Martin made her ask herself if, perhaps, she did not feel a
little
guilty at the ruse she had played today?

Then she thought of his arrogance at the party the other evening, and she realized that she felt not the slightest prick of conscience at all.

L
angham sat in his Austin and raised the binoculars, taking in the surrounding countryside and the network of narrow lanes.

Hallet was a tiny hamlet clinging to a hillside in the folds of the South Downs. One lane meandered through it, leading to the village of Chalford a mile away. From his vantage point, tucked behind a wall at right angles to the lane, and hidden from the sight of any motorist who might approach from the north and London, Langham had a bird's-eye view of the lane along which Charles was due to drop the money. At this time of day – an hour before the scheduled drop at two – not a soul stirred in the hamlet. Intermittent birdsong filled the air and a herd of Friesians pastured negligently in a nearby field.

It was a perfect English summer's day in the country, and Langham felt sick with apprehension.

He swung the binoculars in the direction of the drop-off point along the lane. The gap in the hedge sprang into view a quarter of a mile away. The gate was open, and the churned mud between the gateposts looked like a muddy goalmouth after a particularly one-sided football match. He couldn't help smiling at the thought of Charles's reaction to the quagmire. It would be just like him to toss the envelope in the general direction of the gatepost and have done.

He sighted along the lane until he spotted Maria, half a mile further on from the gate. Her maroon Sunbeam saloon was parked on the grass verge, facing him. As planned that morning she had propped open the bonnet and was peering at the revealed engine, ostensibly attempting to repair some imaginary fault. From time to time she straightened up, backhanded hair from her eyes, and looked around.

If the motorcyclist passed her, she would slam down the bonnet and give chase; if he came from the other direction, passing Langham, then Langham would initiate the pursuit while Maria drove to the gate, turned and duly followed.

That morning he had mooted the possibility that some passing motorist might take it upon himself to play St Christopher and offer her assistance. Maria had replied promptly, ‘In that case I'll close the engine and say that I've repaired the fault all by myself. How that will astound the superior Englishman!'

Langham considered a more advantageous scenario, that the blackmailer himself might exhibit contrary altruism and stop to offer his assistance, affording Maria a good look at the man. He thought this unlikely in the circumstances, however.

As a sop to his nerves, perhaps hoping to impose a sense of normality on the events, Langham had brought along one of the books he was due to review. It sat on the passenger seat beside him, more a talisman of his quiet, bookish life than anything that might be read now as a diversion. It was nine years since he'd worked for Ralph Ryland's investigative agency – and then most of the work had consisted of trailing suspected unfaithful husbands or wives – and he had to admit that he was out of his depth here. He would much rather write about foiling blackmailers than actually attempting to do so.

His stomach clenched at the sound of an approaching engine. It was still only one thirty, so Charles would not be passing just yet. Seconds later a battered, mud-splattered tractor grumbled into view, bouncing along the lane. A minute later the vehicle crawled past the gate and approached Maria.

He raised his binoculars. In the distance Maria saw the tractor, lowered the bonnet and slipped in behind the steering wheel. ‘Good girl!' Langham said.

When the tractor passed, Maria swivelled herself from the driving seat and resumed her fictitious inspection of the Sunbeam's engine.

He tried to envisage all the possible outcomes of their actions here, much as he looked ahead when plotting a book. The preferred result, of course, would be that he and Maria followed the blackmailer back to wherever he lived; then he would stake out the place until such time as the man left the house. All that would remain, then, was the small matter of breaking in and finding the incriminating photographs and negatives … which would be no small feat in itself.

And so much could go wrong along the way, he thought.

The blackmailer was armed, but would he resort to shooting anyone who might follow him? Well, last week in the ruins of the mill he'd seemed willing to blow Langham's brains out, but for the timely intervention of the bomb site army.

And the recollection of that close call turned his thoughts to the blackmailer's motives in wanting him dead, if indeed he had. Langham had spent long hours wondering if the gesture, the placing of the gun to the back of his head, had been nothing more than the blackmailer's nervous reaction to the situation. He'd wanted to ensure that Langham was unconscious, and was merely covering the possibility that he, Langham, might leap up and attack him before he escaped with the envelope.

But the very fact that the blackmailer carried a gun suggested that he would not be averse to using it.

He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and gripped the service revolver he'd borrowed – with the exchange of a five-pound note – from Ralph Ryland that morning. The weapon was cold and heavy in his hand, and afforded him little reassurance.

His thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of an engine. He glanced at his watch. It was three minutes to two. He laid aside the binoculars and gripped the steering wheel nervously, his palms wet with sweat. The distinctive, dull throbbing of a Bentley Continental's engine preceded the appearance of the car itself. Seconds later it flashed by, a blaze of electric blue in the sunlight.

He watched the car motor along the lane, his heart thudding. He raised the binoculars. The Bentley slowed as it approached the gate. He looked at his watch. Charles's punctuality was impeccable: it was one minute to two.

Charles opened the car door and stepped into the lane, clutching the envelope. He rounded the nose of the car, then stopped in his tracks as he took in the state of the ground between the gateposts. While his agent vacillated, Langham swept the binoculars along the lane: there was no sign yet of the blackmailer.