Soma Blues (14 page)

“Now, about these goods,” Nigel said. “If I understand the position correctly, you want to take some things out without people knowing it, in order to sell them in international markets.”

“Yes, that sums it up pretty well,” Santos said. “You understand I am doing this for the national good. We are a very small nation, Major Wheaton. We have the dubious pleasure of possessing the worst weather in the Caribbean. We have no industry, no resources. You may think, Major Wheaton, that this is a cynical scheme to rob the people of their heritage. But I will assure you that ninety cents on the dollar will go directly to the assistance of my people.”

“Not that anyone is going to be standing over you checking the accounting,” Nigel said, annoyed now.

“I have taken the trouble,” Santos said, “to learn a little about your background, Major Wheaton. I believe you had a little trouble in Istanbul.”

Nigel stared at him. “What the hell do you know about that?”

“Smuggling, wasn’t it?”

Nigel knew he was under attack. He sat down, calm, composed, prepared to defend himself. Nigel never lost confidence, but he was aware that he seemed to have gotten himself into some sort of ugly set piece. It was strange and unsettling to find himself in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, in a big gloomy mansion, being badgered by this small Latin gentleman. It made Nigel realize once again how small the world was—and how situations kept repeating themselves. He thought, not for the first time, how the whole idea of multiplicity was erroneous. Life was a play in which people only pretended to be strangers. Actually they knew one another very well. And there was no escaping them. “I walked the streets of the City of Ignorance looking for a stranger’s face.” He had read that line in a story by the American writer O. Henry, and it had stuck to him ever since.

“I suppose you’ve got my attendance records from Balliol, too,” Nigel said. “And I assume, since you know everything else, you know I read history.”

“But didn’t take a degree,” Santos said. “Would you like to hear your marital history?”

“No, thank you,” Nigel said, “I know it only too well. You must have an efficient agency to collect all this for you so quickly.”

“You would know that better than I,” Santos said. “We worked with the Alternative Detective Agency. One of your sometime employers I believe, eh, Major Wheaton?”

“I’m no longer in service,” Nigel said, shaken. “Plain mister will do nicely. Sent you my dossier, did they?”

“Not at all, Major. The facts about you were easy enough to dig out.”

So he said. But Nigel wondered. That old suspicion, stronger than love, for Nigel, that love that continued to vote for death, all of that rose in Nigel’s throat again. Istanbul. The bloody bad luck of it all. Or the cunning of it, if Hob had sold him out to Captain Kermak, as Jean-Claude suggested. The arrest, the trial, him and Jean-Claude led off to the pokey and released nine days later. Not much time to serve. But enough to get your name on the Interpol computer. Enough to get you stopped and searched and hassled at every checkpoint, until George brought enough pressure to bear to clear Nigel’s name from the computer records because he had been arrested but never charged, and obviously never convicted. By rights he didn’t belong on the database of known smugglers. But somehow his name stuck there for a long time. And with his criminal record he could never get a visa for the United States, could never live in New York—the city he had convinced himself, though he had never been able to visit it, was the epitome of the modern world, the city that would dominate the twenty-first century. There were ways to smuggle yourself into America, but then there was always the danger he’d be caught someday and shipped out, and all the work and time he’d have spent in New York would be in vain. He owed that one to Hob, too. If Hob had informed upon him. Which, of course, he still maintained Hob had not.

“I just wanted to make everything clear,” Santos said. “Would you be willing to take on this work? On the understanding, of course, that Mr. Draconian is a full participant in this arrangement? We would find it a serious breach requiring action if Mr. Draconian, whom we respect, were somehow excluded.”

“There’s no problem about that,” Nigel said stiffly, smiling but thinking unspeakable thoughts. He was wondering, Who put him on to the agency? Who does he know who knows Hob and me? Did Hob send him my dossier? What bloody game
is
this?

Santos made a room available for him. Nigel telephoned Jean-Claude in Paris and spoke to him about the importation of a considerable amount of art treasures, these to bypass customs and immigration. Jean-Claude said to send them to the port of Cherbourg; he had friends there, and for the right consideration they’d be prepared to look the other way.

“I’ll just need to make a selection,” Nigel told Santos. “Your people will take care of the packing and shipping.”

“That will be fine.”

“I’ll sell your items in Paris and remit the total to you less ten percent agents’ fee. For the agency.”

“That will be quite satisfactory. And I have something else that might interest you,” Santos said. “It is a job. It involves helping a certain party buy art. European paintings. It would require your return to London immediately.”

“No problem,” Nigel said. “Let’s hear about it.”

4

Hob left Lorne’s and took the underground to the Burlingame Arcade in the West End, where he went to Posonby’s Gallery. Posonby’s was all bright wood and indirect lighting and clever paintings. There were also several very large crystal ashtrays, but they were so highly polished that Hob decided not to desecrate them by filling them with cigarette butts. Derek Posonby was of medium height, plump, with a round face and round, gold-rimmed glasses. He was wearing what Hob supposed was an Edwardian suit, gray with a discreet stripe, and he wore highly polished black cordovan pumps. His thinning hair was combed over to cover his scalp. In compensation, perhaps, he had grown his sideburns long and fluffy. It made his round, somewhat raw face look like an egg hatching from a nest of hair. Derek had an ingenuous look; he peered around like a bird looking for a crumb. He looked soft and easy to take. This was a big help in the art business, where inoffensive appearance and mild manner can translate into substantial markups.

“What do you want Nigel for?” Derek asked after Hob asked.

“I’ve got a job for him,” Hob said. “The agency needs his talents.”

“He might not take you up on it,” Derek said. “You know Nigel. Put twenty quid in his pocket and he forgets all about working until it’s gone. Last of the flower children, is our Nigel.”

“He was working for you recently, wasn’t he?” Hob asked.

“Oh, he flogged off the odd piece of art for us now and then,” Derek said.

“I believe he did a job for you recently,” Hob said.

“Yes, he did. But that sort of thing is confidential. Trade secrets and all that, you know.”

“Look,” Hob said, “I really need to know exactly what went on. I’m afraid Nigel is mixed up in something. It’s caught the attention of the Paris police. I’m conducting this investigation on their behalf.”

Derek didn’t like it. He made a great thing of his professionalism, but he was as dotty as half the art dealers in London. Twisted bunch of people, in Hob’s opinion, but Derek wasn’t a bad sort. Quite a fine art knowledge, especially sound on fourteenth-century Dutch and French masters. Not that he saw many of them. He was no less honest than any of that breed. After all, a picture’s worth is pretty subjective. It’s worth what the dealer thinks he can get for it. Derek didn’t want to talk about how he was doing, but of course he did want to talk about it, because that’s all that bunch of dealers did, meet in Squire’s Coffee Shop on the King’s Road and brag about who they did that week. That’s exaggerating slightly, but nothing stays a secret in the London art world very long. One big pack of squabbling Janes. So it didn’t take much coaxing on Hob’s part for Derek to come out with the story. In fact, once he started, he got quite enthusiastic about it, even called in young Christopher, who had been there when Nigel performed his remarkable coup. And so, with Derek’s voice rising and falling, and the fans turning, young Christopher took up the tale.

“I want to buy paintings,” the dark-haired South American man said. “I am Arranque.”

He was a medium-sized, burly, dark, black-haired man in a chamois western-cut sports jacket that looked as if it could have cost more than his first-class plane fare from Caracas. It was difficult for the salespeople in Posonby’s to get an impression of the man because all eyes were on the sports coat. The coat was all the more remarkable in that it was one of the earliest appearances of fawn-and-mauve men’s clothing in London; its first appearance, in fact, since the days of Thomas the Tailor, as told in the newly discovered text addenda to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

The man himself was worth noticing, however, immediately after the coat, since the man had presumably bought the coat and therefore had access to top tailoring. Arranque had a broad, glowering face set off by a small mustache. He wore boots made from the skins of an extinct species of reptile. An emerald glittered on his finger, just below the popped knuckle. He brought a breath of refreshing vulgarity to the dark and proper art gallery.

His first words, addressed to Christopher, the nervous young clerk who inquired as to his wishes, were, again, “I want to buy paintings.”

“Yes, sir,” said Christopher. “What kind of paintings, sir?”

“That is secondary. What I need is fifty-five yards’ worth of paintings.”

Christopher’s lower jaw dropped in a really theatrical gawp. “I’m afraid we don’t sell paintings by the yard, sir. Not in Posonby’s.”

“What do you mean?” Arranque said.

“A painting, sir, you see, is a qualitative thing and therefore …”

Nigel came rushing in just then. He was just back from San Isidro, had just bused in from the airport. He dropped his light suitcase near the door and strode in majestically.

“That will be all, Christopher,” Nigel said. “I will look after Señor Arranque personally.”

“Yes, sir,” Christopher said. “Thank you, sir,” he added, as he realized that he had almost killed a sale and had therefore jeopardized his own job.

“Señor Arranque?” Nigel said. “I am sorry to be late. My plane just arrived. May I give you some coffee?”

Nigel escorted Arranque to Derek’s office. He made sure the client was comfortably seated. Luckily enough Derek’s thirty-year-old port was in its usual position, and the box of Havanas was where it was supposed to be. He sent Christopher out for coffee and adjusted the big Italian ceramic ashtray on Derek’s desk until it was just to his liking.

“Now, sir,” Nigel said, “let me just be clear about this. All Mr. Santos told me was that you were seeking to acquire a group of paintings in a hurry. He did not go into specifics. Might I inquire as to what you require?”

“I am glad you get straight to the point,” Arranque said. “I need exactly fifty-five yards of paintings for my new hotel, and I need them almost immediately.” He made an imperious gesture with his right hand.

“Quite,” Nigel said. “Let me just be sure I understand the position. Are you seeking to purchase paintings in the
length
of fifty-five yards, or do you want paintings whose combined
area
equals fifty-five square yards?”

“No, I mean the first, the length,” Arranque said. “I have fifty-five yards of hallway to cover, and I want paintings on them. Not squeezed together tight, but spaced let’s say a couple of inches apart. How many paintings would I need to cover fifty-five yards?”

“Depends,” Nigel said. “Is that fifty-five yards to one leg of the corridor, or have you doubled the length to have pictures on both legs?”

“I’ve doubled them, of course. What do you take me for?”

“I just wanted to make sure we were both talking about the same thing. You’d want these pictures framed, of course?”

“Of course.”

Nigel made a meaningless squiggle on a scratch pad he found on Derek’s desk. “And spaced apart?”

“Spaced apart a few inches, I should think,” Arranque said. “Though I’m no expert in these matters.”

“But your instincts are perfectly sound,” Nigel said. “Let’s see.” He found pencil and paper and began to make calculations. “Let’s say we put up one oil painting not to exceed two feet in width in every yard space. That would allow space between them and come to approximately fifty-five paintings, though you might want a few more just to be on the safe side.”

“Fifty-five paintings for fifty-five yards. Yes, that sounds right,” Arranque said.

Nigel wrote down figures. “You’re quite sure it’s fifty-five yards? Shame to get the paintings all the way back to South America and find you’ve undercalculated.”

“Fifty-five yards,” Arranque said. “I walked off the distance myself. And they’re going to my new hotel in Ibiza.”

Nigel raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “Did you take into account both sides of the corridors?”

Arranque’s face screwed up and he snarled an oath in Spanish that was old when Simon Bolivar was still a babe in swaddling clothes. “You’re right, I forgot to count both sides! You have good grasp, señor.”