Read The Collected Short Stories Online
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
The Collected Short Stories (42 page)
We first met Patrick Travers on our annual winter holiday to Verbier. We were waiting at the ski lift that first Saturday morning, when a man who must have been in his early forties stood aside to allow Caroline to take his place so that we could travel up together. He explained that he had already completed two runs that morning and didn't mind waiting. I thanked him and thought nothing more of it.
As soon as we reach the top my wife and I always go our separate ways, she to the A-slope to join Marcel, who only instructs advanced skiersâshe has been skiing since the age of sevenâI to the B-slope and any instructor who is availableâI took up skiing at the age of forty-one, and frankly the B-slope is still too advanced for me though I don't dare admit as much, especially to Caroline. We always meet up again at the ski lift after completing our different runs.
That evening we bumped into Travers at the hotel bar. Since he seemed to be on his own we invited him to join us for dinner. He proved to be an amusing companion, and we passed a pleasant enough evening together. He flirted politely with my wife without ever overstepping the mark, and she appeared to be flattered by his attentions. Over the years I have become used to men being attracted to Caroline, and I never need reminding how lucky I am. During dinner we learned that Travers was a merchant banker with an office in
the City and a flat in Eaton Square. He had come to Verbier every year since he had been taken on a school trip in the late fifties, he told us. He still prided himself on being the first on the ski lift every morning, almost always beating the local blades up and down.
the City and a flat in Eaton Square. He had come to Verbier every year since he had been taken on a school trip in the late fifties, he told us. He still prided himself on being the first on the ski lift every morning, almost always beating the local blades up and down.
Travers appeared to be genuinely interested in the fact that I ran a small West End art gallery; as it turned out, he was something of a collector himself, specializing in minor Impressionists. He promised he would drop by and see my next exhibition when he was back in London.
I assured him that he would be most welcome but never gave it a second thought In fact I only saw Travers a couple of times over the rest of the vacation, once talking to the wife of a friend of mine who owned a gallery that specializes in Oriental rugs, and later I noticed him following Caroline expertly down the treacherous A-slope.
It was six weeks later, and some minutes before I could place him that night at my gallery. I had to rack that part of one's memory that recalls names, a skill politicians rely on every day.
“Good to see you, Edward,” he said. “I saw the write-up you got in
The Independent
and remembered your kind invitation to the private view.”
The Independent
and remembered your kind invitation to the private view.”
“Glad you could make it, Patrick,” I replied, remembering just in time.
“I'm not a champagne man myself,” he told me, “but I'll travel a long way to see a Vuillard.”
“You think highly of him?”
“Oh yes. I would compare him favorably with Pissarro and Bonnard, and he still remains one of the most underrated of the Impressionists.”
“I agree,” I replied. “But my gallery has felt that way about Vuillard for some considerable time.”
“How much is
The Lady at the Window?”
he asked.
The Lady at the Window?”
he asked.
“Eighty thousand pounds,” I said quietly.
“It reminds me of a picture of his in the Metropolitan,” he said, as he studied the reproduction in the catalog.
I was impressed, and told Travers that the Vuillard in New York had been painted within a month of the one he so admired.
He nodded. “And the small nude?”
“Forty-seven thousand,” I told him.
“Mrs. Hensell, the wife of his dealer and Vuillard's second mistress, if I'm not mistaken. The French are always so much more civilized about these things than we are. But my favorite painting in this exhibition,” he continued, “compares surely with the finest of his work.” He turned to face the large oil of a young girl playing a piano, her mother bending to turn a page of the score.
“Magnificent,” he said. “Dare I ask how much?”
“Three hundred and seventy thousand pounds,” I said, wondering if such a price tag put it out of Travers's bracket.
“What a super party, Edward,” said a voice from behind my shoulder.
“Percy!” I cried, turning round. “I thought you said you wouldn't be able to make it.”
“Yes, I did, old fellow, but I decided I couldn't sit at home alone all the time, so I've come to drown my sorrows in champagne.”
“Quite right too,” I said. “Sorry to hear about Diana,” I added as Percy moved on. When I turned back to continue my conversation with Patrick Travers, he was nowhere to be seen. I searched around the room and spotted him standing in the far corner of the gallery chatting to my wife, a glass of champagne in his hand. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder green dress that I considered a little too modern. Travers's eyes seemed to be glued to a spot a few inches below the shoulders. I would have thought nothing of it had he spoken to anyone else that evening.
The next occasion on which I saw Travers was about a week later on returning from the bank with some petty cash. Once again he was standing in front of the Vuillard oil of mother and daughter at the piano.
“Good morning, Patrick,” I said as I joined him.
“I can't seem to get that picture out of my mind,” he declared, as he continued to stare at the two figures.
“Understandably.”
“I don't suppose you would allow me to live with them for a week or two until I can finally make up my mind? Naturally I would be quite happy to leave a deposit.”
“Of course,” I said. “I would require a bank reference as well, and the deposit would be twenty-five thousand pounds.”
He agreed to both requests without hesitation, so I asked him where he would like the picture delivered. He handed me a card that revealed his address in Eaton Square. The following morning his bankers confirmed that £370,000 would not be a problem for their client.
Within twenty-four hours the Vuillard had been taken to his home and hung in the dining room on the ground floor. He phoned in the afternoon to thank me, and asked if Caroline and I would care to join him for dinner; he wanted, he said, a second opinion on how the painting looked.
With £370,000 at stake I didn't feel it was an invitation I could reasonably turn down, and in any case Caroline seemed eager to accept, explaining that she was interested to see what his house was like.
We dined with Travers the following Thursday. We turned out to be the only guests, and I remember being surprised that there wasn't a Mrs. Travers or at least a resident girlfriend. He was a thoughtful host and the meal he had arranged was superb. However, I considered at the time that he seemed a little too solicitous toward Caroline, although she certainly gave the impression of enjoying his undivided attention. At one point I began to wonder if either of them would have noticed if I had disappeared into thin air.
When we left Eaton Square that night Travers told me that he had almost made up his mind about the picture, which made me feel the evening had served at least some purpose.
Six days later the painting was returned to the gallery
with a note attached explaining that he no longer cared for it. Travers did not elaborate on his reasons, but simply ended by saying that he hoped to drop by some time and reconsider the other Vuillards. Disappointed, I returned his deposit, but realized that customers often do come back, sometimes months, even years later.
with a note attached explaining that he no longer cared for it. Travers did not elaborate on his reasons, but simply ended by saying that he hoped to drop by some time and reconsider the other Vuillards. Disappointed, I returned his deposit, but realized that customers often do come back, sometimes months, even years later.
But Travers never did.
It was about a month later that I learned why he would never return. I was lunching at the large center table at my club, as in most all-male establishments the table reserved for members who drift in on their own. Percy Fellows was the next to enter the dining room, and he took a seat opposite me. I hadn't seen him to talk to since the private view of the Vuillard exhibition, and we hadn't really had much of a conversation then. Percy was one of the most respected antique dealers in England, and I had once even done a successful barter with him, a Charles II writing desk in exchange for a Dutch landscape by Utrillo.
I repeated how sorry I was to learn about Diana.
“It was always going to end in divorce,” he explained. “She was in and out of every bedroom in London. I was beginning to look a complete cuckold, and that bloody man Travers was the last straw.”
“Travers?” I said, not understanding.
“Patrick Travers, the man named in my divorce petition. Ever come across him?”
“I know the name,” I said hesitantly, wanting to hear more before I admitted to our slight acquaintance.
“Funny,” he said. “Could have sworn I saw him at the private view.”
“But what do you mean, he was the last straw?” I asked, trying to take his mind off the opening.
“Met the bloody fellow at Ascot, didn't we? Joined us for lunch, happily drank my champagne, ate my strawberries and cream, and then before the week was out had bedded my wife. But that's not the half of it.”
“The half of it?”
“The man had the nerve to come round to my shop and
put down a large deposit on a Georgian table. Then he invites the two of us round to dinner to see how it looks. After he's had enough time to make love to Diana, he returns them both slightly soiled. You don't look too well, old fellow,” said Percy suddenly. “Something wrong with the food? Never been the same since Harry left for the Carlton. I've written to the wine committee about it several times, butâ”
put down a large deposit on a Georgian table. Then he invites the two of us round to dinner to see how it looks. After he's had enough time to make love to Diana, he returns them both slightly soiled. You don't look too well, old fellow,” said Percy suddenly. “Something wrong with the food? Never been the same since Harry left for the Carlton. I've written to the wine committee about it several times, butâ”
“No, I'm fine,” I said. “I just need a little fresh air. Please excuse me, Percy.”
It was on the walk back from my club that I decided I would have to do something about Mr. Travers.
The next morning I waited for the mail to arrive and checked any envelopes addressed to Caroline. Nothing seemed untoward, but then I decided that Travers wouldn't have been foolish enough to commit anything to paper. I also began to eavesdrop on her telephone conversations, but he was not among the callers, at least not while I was at home. I even checked the mileometer on her Mini to see if she had driven any long distances, but then Eaton Square isn't all that far. It's often what you don't do that gives the game away, I decided: We didn't make love for a fortnight, and she didn't comment.
I continued to watch Caroline more carefully over the next few weeks, but it became obvious to me that Travers must have tired of her about the same time as he had returned the Vuillard. This only made me more angry.
I then formed a plan of revenge that seemed quite extraordinary to me at the time, and I assumed that in a matter of days I would get over it, even forget it. But I didn't. If anything, the idea grew into an obsession. I began to convince myself that it was my bounden duty to do away with Travers before he besmirched any more of my friends.
I have never in my life knowingly broken the law. Parking fines annoy me, dropped litter offends me, and I pay my VAT on the same day the frightful buff envelope drops through the mail slot.
Nevertheless, once I'd decided what had to be done I set
about my task meticulously. At first I considered shooting Travers, until I discovered how hard it is to get a gun license, and that if I did the job properly he would end up feeling very little pain, which wasn't what I had planned for him. Then poisoning crossed my mindâbut that requires a witnessed prescription, and I still wouldn't be able to watch the long slow death I desired. Then strangling, which I decided would necessitate too much courageâand in any case he was a bigger man than me so
I
might end up being the one who was strangled. Then drowning, which could take years to get the man near any water, and then I might not be able to hang around to make sure he went under for the third time. I even gave some thought to running over the damned man, but dropped that idea when I realized that opportunity would be almost nil and besides, I wouldn't be left any time to check if he was dead. I was quickly becoming aware just how hard it is to kill someoneâand get away with it.
about my task meticulously. At first I considered shooting Travers, until I discovered how hard it is to get a gun license, and that if I did the job properly he would end up feeling very little pain, which wasn't what I had planned for him. Then poisoning crossed my mindâbut that requires a witnessed prescription, and I still wouldn't be able to watch the long slow death I desired. Then strangling, which I decided would necessitate too much courageâand in any case he was a bigger man than me so
I
might end up being the one who was strangled. Then drowning, which could take years to get the man near any water, and then I might not be able to hang around to make sure he went under for the third time. I even gave some thought to running over the damned man, but dropped that idea when I realized that opportunity would be almost nil and besides, I wouldn't be left any time to check if he was dead. I was quickly becoming aware just how hard it is to kill someoneâand get away with it.
I sat awake at night reading the biographies of murderers, but since they had all been caught and found guilty, that didn't fill me with much confidence. I turned to detective novels, which always seemed to allow for a degree of coincidence, luck, and surprise that I was unwilling to risk, until I came across a rewarding line from Conan Doyle: “Any intended victim who has a regular routine immediately makes himself more vulnerable.” And then I recalled one routine of which Travers was particularly proud. It required a further six-month wait on my part, but that gave me more time to perfect my plan. I used the enforced wait well because whenever Caroline was away for more than twenty-four hours, I booked a skiing lesson on the dry slope at Harrow.
I found it surprisingly easy to discover when Travers would be returning to Verbier, and I was able to organize the winter vacation so that our paths would cross for only three days, a period of time quite sufficient for me to commit my first crime.
Caroline and I arrived in Verbier on the second Friday in January. She had commented on the state of my nerves more
than once over the Christmas period, and hoped the vacation would help me relax. I could hardly explain to her that it was the thought of the vacation that was making me so tense. It didn't help when she asked me on the plane to Switzerland if I thought Travers might be there this year.
than once over the Christmas period, and hoped the vacation would help me relax. I could hardly explain to her that it was the thought of the vacation that was making me so tense. It didn't help when she asked me on the plane to Switzerland if I thought Travers might be there this year.
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