Supposing when I’d sold a picture to a man from England and robbed him, and got my picture back again, I then sold it to someone from America. And then robbed him, and got it back, and so on round and round.
Suppose I sold a picture to Maisie in Sydney, and got it back, and started to sell it again in Melbourne... My supposing stopped right there, because it didn’t fit.
If Maisie had left her picture in full view it would have been stolen like her other things. Maybe it even had been, and was right now glowing in the Yarra River Fine Arts, but if so, why had the house been burnt, and why had Mr Greene turned up to search the ruins?
It only made sense if Maisie’s picture had been a copy, and if the thieves hadn’t been able to find it. Rather than leave it around, they’d burned the house. But I’d just decided that I wouldn’t risk fakes. Except that... would Maisie know an expert copy if she saw one? No, she wouldn’t.
I sighed. To fool even Maisie you’d have to find an accomplished artist willing to copy instead of pressing on with his own work, and they weren’t that thick on the ground. All the same, she’d bought her picture in the short-lived Sydney gallery, not in Melbourne, so maybe in other places besides Melbourne they would take a risk with fakes.
The huge bulk of the hotel rose ahead of me across the last stretch of park. The night air blew cool on my head. I had a vivid feeling of being disconnected, a stranger in a vast continent, a speck under the stars. The noise and warmth of the Hilton brought the expanding universe down to imaginable size.
Upstairs, I telephoned to Hudson Taylor at the number his secretary had given me. Nine o’clock on the dot. He sounded mellow and full of good dinner, his voice strong, courteous and vibrantly Australian.
‘Donald Stuart’s cousin? Is it true about little Regina being killed?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘It’s a real tragedy. A real nice lass, that Regina.’
‘Yes.’
‘Lookee here, then, what can I do for you? Is it tickets for the races?’
‘Er, no,’ I said. It was just that since the receipt and provenance letter of the Munnings had been stolen along with the picture, Donald would like to get in touch with the people who had sold it to him, for insurance purposes, but he had forgotten their name. And as I was coming to Melbourne for the Cup...
‘That’s easy enough,’ Hudson Taylor said pleasantly. ‘I remember the place well. I went with Donald to see the picture there, and the guy in charge brought it along to the Hilton afterwards, when we arranged the finance. Now let’s see...’ There was a pause for thought. ‘I can’t remember the name of the place just now. Or the manager. It was some months ago, do you see? But I’ve got him on record here in the Melbourne office, and I’m calling in there anyway in the morning, so I’ll look them up. You’ll be at the races tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘How about meeting for a drink, then? You can tell me about poor Donald and Regina, and I’ll have the information he wants.’
I said that would be fine, and he gave me detailed instructions as to where I would find him, and when. ‘There will be a huge crowd,’ he said, ‘But if you stand on that exact spot I shouldn’t miss you.’
The spot he had described sounded public and exposed. I hoped that it would only be he who found me on it.
I’ll be there,’ I said.
8
Jik called through on the telephone at eight next morning.
‘Come down to the coffee shop and have breakfast.’
‘O.K.’
I went down in the lift and along the foyer to the hotel’s informal restaurant. He was sitting at a table alone, wearing dark glasses and making inroads into a mountain of scrambled egg.
‘They bring you coffee,’ he said, ‘But you have to fetch everything else from that buffet.’ He nodded towards a large well-laden table in the centre of the breezy blue and sharp green decor. ‘How’s things?’
‘Not what they used to be.’
He made a face. ‘Bastard.’
‘How are the eyes?’
He whipped off the glasses with a theatrical flourish and leaned forward to give me a good look. Pink, they were, and still inflamed, but on the definite mend.
‘Has Sarah relented?’ I asked.
‘She’s feeling sick.’
‘Oh?’
‘God knows,’ he said. ‘I hope not. I don’t want a kid yet. She isn’t overdue or anything.’
‘She’s a nice girl,’ I said.
He slid me a glance. ‘She says she’s got nothing against you personally.’
‘But,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘The mother hen syndrome.’
‘Wouldn’t have cast you as a chick.’
He put down his knife and fork. ‘Nor would I, by God. I told her to cheer up and get this little enterprise over as soon as possible and face the fact she hadn’t married a marshmallow.’
‘And she said?’
He gave a twisted grin. ‘From my performance in bed last night, that she had.’
I wondered idly about the success or otherwise of their sex life. From the testimony of one or two past girls who had let their hair down to me while waiting hours in the flat for Jik’s unpredictable return, he was a moody lover, quick to arousal and easily put off. ‘It only takes a dog barking, and he’s gone.’ Not much, I dared say, had changed.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘There’s this car we’ve got. Damned silly if you didn’t come with us to the races.’
‘Would Sarah...’ I asked carefully, ‘... scowl?’
‘She says not.’
I accepted this offer and inwardly sighed. It looked as if he wouldn’t take the smallest step henceforth without the nod from Sarah. When the wildest ones got married, was it always like that? Wedded bliss putting nets over the eagles.
‘Where did you get to, last night?’ he said.
‘Aladdin’s cave,’ I said. ‘Treasures galore and damned lucky to escape the boiling oil.’
I told him about the gallery, the Munnings, and my brief moment of captivity. I told him what I thought of the burglaries. It pleased him. His eyes gleamed with humour and the familiar excitement rose.
‘How are we going to prove it?’ he said.
He heard the ‘we’ as soon as he said it. He laughed ruefully, the fizz dying away. ‘Well, how?’
‘Don’t know yet.’
‘I’d like to help,’ he said apologetically.
I thought of a dozen sarcastic replies and stifled the lot. It was I who was the one out of step, not them. The voice of the past had no right to break up the future.
‘You’ll do what pleases Sarah,’ I said with finality, and as an order, not a prodding satire.
‘Don’t sound so bloody bossy.’
We finished breakfast amicably trying to build a suitable new relationship on the ruins of the old, and both knowing well what we were about.
When I met them later in the hall at setting-off time it was clear that Sarah too had made a reassessment and put her mind to work on her emotions. She greeted me with an attempted smile and an outstretched hand. I shook the hand lightly and also gave her a token kiss on the cheek. She took it as it was meant.
Truce made, terms agreed, pact signed. Jik the mediator stood around looking smug.
‘Take a look at him,’ he said, flapping a hand in my direction. ‘The complete stockbroker. Suit, tie, leather shoes. If he isn’t careful they’ll have him in the Royal Academy.’