The Stargazey (43 page)

“This is the candidate for restoration?” She regarded it silently. Then she said, trying not to laugh, “Can't understand why you want to get the top layer off.”

Trueblood was supposed to have sent him an art restorer, not a stand-up comedienne. “Neither can I.” They both laughed.

She asked, “Well, but what is it?”

“Snow. Russia. Siberia, according to the artist. Run your hand over the surface.” As she did so, he said, “Sandpaper. The chap who painted this has a technique of putting a thin layer of sandpaper over the canvas underneath.”

She nodded. “I've heard of that. Makes for interesting texture.” She had been kneeling in front of the painting and now rose to her feet. “So it's not removing the white paint, but the sandpaper, right?”

“Isn't that easier?”

“Decidedly.” She opened the leather satchel she'd placed on the wooden bench and removed what look like a jeweler's loupe. This she
positioned in her right eye and bent her head close to the painting, again running her hand over it.

Melrose couldn't think why she'd want it magnified. “It's nothing but a solid square of white; what detail do you think you'll see that way?”

“Um. It's not the paint I'm examining, but the texture and the thickness.” She opened her eye wide and let the loupe fall into her hand, then turned the painting and ran her fingers down the side. “It's whatever's under the sandpaper you're interested in?”

He nodded. “Another painting. Although I'm not really certain.”

“Let's have a look.” Out of the satchel this time she pulled what looked like a scraping knife, the sort house painters use. She applied this to the lower corner and very carefully pried off the layer of sandpaper, about two square inches of it.

Melrose knelt down beside her and looked. “Yes. I don't see anything. Take off some more.”

“I'll have to do this slowly; I'm afraid of damaging the canvas. Do you think it's valuable?”

“It's caused enough trouble to be priceless.”

She smiled. Very carefully, she continued to remove the upper layer until she'd freed over a quarter of the painting's surface. She stopped. “Why would anyone do this?” She rose from her crouch and looked at him curiously.

Melrose did not want to tell her, so he settled for, “It's my Uncle Soames. He's quite addled these days.”

“Really?” She reached into the satchel again.

Melrose, trying to make out what looked like a signature, said, “Couldn't that be the name of the original painter?”

“I'd say so.”

“How did you—” He turned and saw the gun pointed at him. He was speechless.

“Sorry, Mr. Plant.” Quite pleasant she was about this, adding, “Now, if you'll just stand back there”—she motioned with the gun—“I'll simply pack up everything and be off.”

Melrose had backed away and was more shocked than frightened. “Who in hell are you?”

“It's not important.” She was dropping things back into the satchel.

“How did you know I had the painting?”

“Well,
somebody
took it from the Fabricant Gallery. And you're really the only possibility as far as we knew.”

“ ‘We'?”

“Ilona and Sebastian. You and your painter friend—”

Melrose forgot the gun. “Listen, leave Bea Slocum alone; she's straight out of this.” The ringing of the telephone, which sounded to Melrose's ears more like a shriek, cut him off.

“Answer it!”
she hissed. “Before it wakes your staff.”

Thank the lord Ruthven and Martha had gone out. Why didn't she realize he was staffless? He'd opened his own door, after all. The gun was jammed against his ribs. “Pick it up; hold the receiver so I can hear.”

Oh, wonderful, was his fleeting thought. If she listens to the other person, how do I get a message through? It's Jury! Make it Richard Jury, please God! Let it be Jury! He can read minds.

“Melrose? Melrose? What did you want?”

Diane! Hell's bells. How can I get a message through? “Diane . . . darling! Thanks for calling, love.”

A brief pause while Diane must have been trying to work out endearments he'd never used with her. Then she spoke, rather tentatively. “Yes, I—”

Don't let her talk.
Don't talk, Diane!
Melrose could feel the warm breath of the executioner on his cheek. He could also feel the gun. “Listen, Diane. Dear. I knew you'd want to hear right away about Mildred.” Diane was stony silent. Dear God, was it
possible
that Diane could pick up on something from his side? “She's not doing well, darling, not at all.”

Silence. And then Diane responded. “Oh, dear. I'm so sorry, darling. What's wrong this time?”

My God! Diane Demorney was
thinking
, thinking on her feet! “I'm really afraid it's near the end, Diane.”

“How dreadful, dear.”

“Yes. I wondered if you could possibly go round to her place. You know, it's on the Northampton Road. Go round and see to her, poor old soul.”

“Yes, of course. I'll start straightaway.”

“Remember, though, how skittish she is. Don't let her hear your car or she'll have another attack.”

The gun dug. “Diane, I have to ring off.”

Melrose hung up. Where was she? At the Jack and Hammer? At home? As long as she wasn't in Sidbury, she could get here in minutes.

The gun directed him back to the living room. “I asked about Beatrice Slocum. Is she all right?”

“Presumably. I haven't seen her.” She had removed plastic wrapping paper from the satchel and began the awkward process of covering the painting with one hand.

“How did you find me?”

“Your friend Superintendent Jury mentioned a friend of his wanting an art renovator. His friend the ex-earl, he said. It was only the work of a moment finding an aristocrat who lived in Northants who had surrendered his titles.”

“But Trueblood. How did you know
him?”

“I never heard of him. You're the one who brought him up.”

In silence he watched, feeling helpless, as she slowly covered the painting and then, with only the occasional glance away from him, taped up the protective covering. “The Fabricants paid you to get this painting back? Why would you bother? Hadn't you already been paid for the original theft?”

“You don't understand. Now the painting's mine.”

Melrose was amazed. “This was your fee?”

She hoisted the painting under her arm. “Not originally, no. I'm recompensing myself for having to steal it once again and, of course, for taking care of Mr. Pitt. Sebastian said the man was about to expose him.”

It was one of the few times in his life he had ever felt blind with rage. He took a step toward her and heard a small, sharp
click
, like a twig breaking.

But it wasn't her gun.

“I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

Diane's voice stopped both of them. Dana whirled toward the French door. Diane fired, holding the gun straight out, single-handed and tilted
like some teenage shooter. She missed and hit the drinks table, splintering the Stoli vodka.

“Shit!”
she said.

The woman fired twice, shattering the wall sconce and the Tiffany lamp. The room went black.

“Diane!” yelled Melrose, amidst the rush of rain and running footsteps. “Are you all right?”

It took only a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark and to find a working lamp. He pulled the cord, and mellow light flooded that part of the room. Where the woman had stood, she no longer was.

“She rushed right by me!” said Diane.

Melrose had come up beside her, and both of them stood staring out into the rain. Diane stood now with one arm across her breast, the other, elbow bent and gun pointed at the stars.

“You're holding that gun like a martini. Put it down.”

“Speaking of which”—she looked towards the broken bottles—“if that was the
last
of your vodka, I'll shoot myself. Just a figure of speech, Mildred.” She dropped the revolver into Melrose's hand and made for the sideboard where the bottles were. “Who was that dreadful woman, anyway?” she asked, in a tone that was much less interested in the person than turning up another bottle of vodka. She was kneeling and rooting in the bottom of the sideboard, shoving bottles around. “Melrose, you
don't
try and get by with only one
bottle?”

There were times, thought a dazzled Melrose, Diane's languor was a blessing. He was astonished that she'd moved so quickly. “My God, Diane!” Melrose went to her, pulled her up, and gave her a huge hug. “How did you manage to figure out that obscure message about Mildred?”

Diane raised a polished eyebrow. “Mildred? Oh, it wasn't that, exactly. No, it's in your horoscope, Melrose:
Danger awaits in the guise of a new friendship. Don't answer the door
. Well, I knew it wasn't
Mildred
you'd let in. Ah, here's one at the back! And the vermouth. Good. Care for a drink?” She measured vodka and a whisper of vermouth into a pitcher and stirred. “Where's the ice?” She found some in a bucket and put cubes in a squat glass. “I expect I'll have to take it on the rocks. Ugh.”

“Just make yourself at home, Diane.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting down in Melrose's favorite wing chair, martini and cigarette as firmly in place as her gun had been. “You never told me who she was. I must say, though, that she's got good taste in clothes.”

“I don't know who she is. I'm calling the Northants police.”

“Bit late for that. But what was she
doing
here? Honestly, Melrose.” It was as if he'd been awfully careless in forgetting to screen the people he let in.

“Collecting a painting.”

Diane's painted eyebrow rose fractionally. “Painting?” Her eyes roved the room in something like meditation and then snapped back to Melrose, standing with the telephone. “Not
my
painting, don't tell me!”

“ 'Fraid, so. Hello, hello?” He spoke into the receiver. “Listen, there's been an accident—well, more an incident here.” He gave the constable the information, hung up, and dialed New Scotland Yard. Jury wasn't there, nor did they know where he was. Melrose got Wiggins, told him what had happened in short, succinct sentences, dropped the receiver back in the cradle. “A drink, a drink.” He splashed three fingers of whisky into a glass and plopped down on the sofa. “My God.” He was going for the cigarette box when he remembered. “Diane. Why'd you call me, anyway?”

Both her eyebrows went up now. “The pager. You called my pager, remember?”

Melrose slid down on his spine. “Thank God I did.” He flashed her a smile. “You were brilliant.”

“Yes, but
next
time, Melrose, be first through the door, will you?”

It was his eyebrows that rose now. “I thought I was.”

J
ury fought his way upwards through currents that beat him back, would not relinquish their hold. As he drifted back and down, he felt he didn't want them to. Drifting beneath the surface was better, was, indeed, pleasant.

He had a dream; he was at a fun fair. Wiggins was astride a yellow horse on the merry-go-round. Chief Superintendent Racer was at the top of the big wheel, stuck against a black and starless sky. Melrose Plant had rushed Jury's dodgem car, given it a good crack, and knocked Jury out onto the floor. He was lying there with the cars wheeling around him, but in no danger. The cars came close, then receded like waves. He lay there until the cat Cyril jumped on his chest and put its paws over his eyes. He could not shake Cyril off.

Jury woke in the Redcliffe Gardens flat, saw that it was dark, and turned his head to look at his watch. He'd been out for nearly seven hours. It was morning—black morning, but morning nevertheless. He had a pulsing headache but seemed to have suffered no other ill effects.

She'd left the phone in working order, thank God. He called New Scotland Yard and told them to issue an All Points. He hadn't much hope of her turning up at Heathrow or Victoria, not after seven hours, but who knew for certain? She'd had plenty of time to leave the country. God knows she certainly had a passport.

He called Fulham headquarters and got Ron Chilten, who told him he and Wiggins had tried every number they could think of to get hold of him and where in hell had he been?

Wiggins got on the line and told him that Mr. Plant had called several hours ago and told Wiggins about the woman. He was all right, now. No damage done except the painting was gone.

 • • • 

Ilona Kuraukov had been wearing her fur and a long string of Russian amber beads when she opened the door of the Chelsea house to Jury and Wiggins. It was as if she'd expected them. Now, Ilona Kuraukov sat in the Fulham station smoking a cigarette, Wiggins and Jury sitting across from and beside her, the tape running. Sebastian Fabricant was in another room with Chilten and his sergeant.

“Neither Nikolai nor Ralph knew anything about this,” she said.

“How could Rees not know? He painted them,” said Jury.

“He painted four of them and only thought he'd painted the fifth. For heaven's sake, I'm a painter too. Do you really think it would be difficult to mimic Ralph's ‘style' in those paintings? Sebastian, of course, would be able to tell, but not Nicky. So leave him alone. Please.”

Please
, yes, but it sounded more like a soft-spoken order than a plea.

She went on. “I will certainly say this for your country—before you kill a king, you try him. But in Russia? The czars were murdered by gangsters. Nicholas, Alexandra, their children were executed by the Cheka, nothing but gangsters. Russia was always run by gangsters until Stalin died.”