“Name the price, you bastard!” one of the men said, and the others laughed clubbily.
The tall man obliged, whispering. The one who had asked looked staggered.
“You’re kidding!”
More laughter. The tall man began to turn, taking his leave of the group. Larry stepped nearer, ready to print the face on his brain.
The man turned. He surveyed the room. His tanned body was fit and he wore a silk shirt, fawn trousers, and slip-on leather sandals. The hair was as dark as Larry remembered. Was it Edward Myers? The cheekbones, the mouth, they were the same, weren’t they? But there was something different about the nose. Something had been done to his features, almost perfecting the face. Larry licked his lips, sweating, sure he was right, the nose had been straightened, that was it. His hands clenched with nerves, and he thought, “Come on, come on, look this way, let me see your eyes, come on...” The man flicked looks around the crowded gallery, but had still not turned full face toward Larry. He saw someone smile, say something and Larry craned forward, heard the deep voice, and then a soft laugh, but still he could not be one hundred percent sure, yet everything inside him willed this handsome, elegant man to be Myers. Then, at last, he turned, although still not looking directly at Larry, but to someone just past Larry’s left shoulder, and at last he saw the eyes. They were not as dark or as black as he remembered, in fact they were much clearer, were they blue? Larry’s breath caught in his throat. Was he wrong? Could he be mistaken? And still he stared intently as the man kept up a slow, steady appraisal of room. He gradually moved further into the throng of people, and Larry became a bit edgy in case, just in case it was Myers and he would recognize him, and then it happened, somebody said something to him and Larry saw the dark head lower, as if listening to the woman who was pointing out a painting; he seemed to give the woman his total attention, but his eyes roamed the room, they weren’t blue, but dark green, and then the man calling himself Philip Von Joel threw back his head and laughed.
It was him! It was Eddie Myers! No mistake, no question of error! The laugh had given him away.
Larry prepared to turn sharply aside, now even more afraid that he might be recognized, and his whole body was shaking with nerves. Von Joel looked as if he was about to walk directly toward Larry, when Charlotte stepped close to him and whispered something in his ear. Von Joel’s face tightened with a fleeting moment of anger, then that fixed smile returned as he looked across the gallery at a group of paintings, each with a red dot beside it. Charlotte moved back to discuss a purchase as the pretty Spanish girl, Lola, draped herself around Von Joel’s shoulder, standing on tiptoe to kiss his neck.
Larry slipped back, using the crowd for cover, keeping his eyes on Von Joel. Lola moved away. Von Joel turned in Larry’s direction and almost stepped up against him. He put his empty glass on the wine table and squared his shoulders, preparing to circulate, then moved off to the opposite side of the room.
Larry put his back to the crowd and whipped out his handkerchief. Draping it over his fingers he used it to pick up Von Joel’s glass. Susan appeared at her side.
“What are you doing?”
He nearly dropped the glass.
“Shut up!” he snapped.
He turned around sharply, the glass covered, ready to go in his pocket. Susan, no longer entirely sober, continued to gape at him.
“What do you think you’re doing, Larry?”
He felt like belting her. Instead he dropped the glass into his pocket and simultaneously started moving to the door. Susan came after him, whining all the way.
Outside he began to move faster, throwing back terse answers to her questions.
“You’re sending the glass to London? Is that what you’re saying? Larry? Will you listen to me?”
“I’m not sending the glass. I don’t have to. It’s got his prints on it, they’ll lift them here, then send them to London.”
“I don’t believe you!” Susan yelped. “It’s bloody stupid!”
Larry glanced around as a car swept past them. It was Von Joel’s Corniche. He was at the wheel, with Charlotte and Lola sitting in the back. He was laughing at something.
“It’s him,” Larry grunted. “He’s had his face done, but that’s Eddie Myers, all right. Same voice. Same laugh.”
“They’ll be laughing at you!” Susan told him bitterly, trying to catch up.
Comisario Dominguez made an imposing police officer. He was heavy in the shoulders and chest, tawny and hirsute, the kind of man born not simply to be a policeman, but to be a senior policeman. His physical presence was modified by slow, careful movements and an obvious thoughtful streak. For an entire minute after examining the official files on Philip Von Joel, he sat staring at a point on his desk just beyond the papers, his hard, bright eyes far away.
Abrupdy he looked up. Larry nearly jumped.
“He has been here four years,” the Comisario said. His accent was more of an adornment to his English than a flaw. He waved his hand over the documents. “Papers, everything in order.” Folding his hands he added, “He is a wealthy resident.”
“Yes, I know that, and I appreciate your help.” Larry wiped sweat from his forehead with the side of his hand. “But because he’s only been here four years he is not protected by the extradition laws, which state that until someone has lived here for five or more years, the British police are entitled to—”
“That is correct,” Dominguez interrupted, “but nevertheless I will require substantial evidence to warrant his arrest and subsequent extradition. If he is, as you believe, using false documents, then it is obviously an offense by our law, and if such is the case, it will be my duty to arrest him for questioning.”
A uniformed officer came in and approached the desk. He and the Comisario conferred in whispers. Larry wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Time always galloped when you felt you hadn’t much of it to spare.
When the officer left, Dominguez tilted his head at Larry and did a one-shoulder shrug.
“We have, senor, only a part print. Left thumb and left index finger. I will have them faxed to Scotland Yard.”
“He’s got a powerful speedboat,” Larry said, hearing his words echo in the grubby little room, realizing how irrelevant the remark must sound. “It’s imperative we don’t tip him off,” he added.
Dominguez glared at him.
“He also owns a Monterey, on permanent mooring at Puerto Banus.” Dominguez blinked once, his eyes unwavering. “You know, senor, this could be very embarrassing. Until we hear from London I suggest we wait.” He tilted his head again. “Do I make myself clear? Stay away from him.”
At eleven-thirty in the morning it was easy to comply with the Comisario’s wishes. As the day wore on, however, and no word came from Scotland Yard, Larry got jumpy. Clear thinking gave way to groundless speculation. It began to seem that the target was too far away from the action; where exactly was he? Did anybody actually know? Was someone watching him? Did he have friends in the local police who were keeping him notified of developments? Was the bugger possibly, even now, making a run for it?
By three o’clock Larry was on the road outside Von Joel’s villa, squashed into the hedge, his rented Suzuki jeep parked a couple of hundred yards down the lane. From where he stood he could see the dogs, two young boxers, chasing each other around the grounds, and once, for just a moment, he caught sight of the Spanish girl, Lola. There was no sign of the master of the house.
Larry waited and sweated. Insects nibbled his skin. Cramp took gradual possession of his legs and back.
At a minute to four the Corniche glided up to the gates. Larry wiped his eyes, took a hard look, and felt a swell of relief. Von Joel was at the wheel, and he didn’t look the least bit worried, or angry, or even upset. In fact he appeared to be smiling.