‘I should be delighted,’ said Jean-Pierre, ‘although actually I have just reserved the picture for Herr Drosser, the distinguished German dealer, at 170,000 guineas.’
‘Very reasonable,’ said James knowingly from the end of the gallery. ‘I think it’s the best Van Gogh I have seen in London since Mademoiselle Revoux and I’m only sorry my house won’t be auctioning it. You’re a lucky man, Mr Drosser. If you ever decide to sell it, don’t hesitate to contact me.’ James handed Stephen a card and smiled at Jean-Pierre.
Jean-Pierre watched James. It was a fine performance. Robin began to take notes in what he hoped looked like shorthand and again addressed Jean-Pierre.
‘Do you have a photograph of the picture?’
‘Of course.’
Jean-Pierre opened a drawer and took out a color photograph of the picture with a typewritten description attached. He handed it to Robin.
‘Do watch the spelling of Lamanns, won’t you? I get so bored with being confused with a French motor car race.’
He turned to Stephen.
‘So sorry to keep you waiting, Herr Drosser. How would you like us to dispatch the picture?’
‘You can send it to me at the Dorchester tomorrow morning, room 120.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Stephen started to leave.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Robin, ‘can I take the spelling of your name?’
‘D.R.O.S.S.E.R.’
‘And may I have permission to quote you in my article?’
‘You may. I am with my purchase very pleased. Good day, gentlemen.’
Stephen bowed his head smartly, and departed. He stepped out into Bond Street and to the horror of Jean-Pierre, Robin and James, Harvey, without a moment’s hesitation also walked out.
Jean-Pierre collapsed heavily on his Georgian mahogany desk and looked despairingly at Robin and James.
‘God Almighty, the whole thing’s a fiasco. Six weeks of preparation, three days of agony, and then he walks out on us.’ Jean-Pierre looked at La Moisson angrily.
‘I thought Stephen assured us that Harvey would stay and bargain with Jean-Pierre. It’s in his character,’ mimicked James plaintively. ‘He’d never let the picture out of his sight.’
‘Who the hell thought up this bloody silly enterprise?’ muttered Robin.
‘Stephen,’ they all cried together, and rushed to the window.
‘What an interesting maquette by Henry Moore,’ said an impeccably corseted middle-aged lady, her hand firmly placed on the bronze loin of a naked acrobat. She had slipped unnoticed into the gallery while the three had been grumbling. ‘How much are you asking for it?’
‘I will be with you in a minute, madam,’ said Jean-Pierre. ‘Oh hell, I think Metcalfe’s following Stephen. Get him on the pocket radio, Robin.’
‘Stephen, can you hear me? Whatever you do, don’t look back. We think Harvey’s only a few yards behind you.’
‘What the hell do you mean he’s only a few yards behind me? He’s meant to be in the gallery with you buying the Van Gogh. What are you all playing at?’
‘Harvey didn’t give us a chance. He walked straight out after you before any of us could continue as planned.’
‘Very clever. Now what am I meant to do?’
Jean-Pierre took over:
‘You’d better go to the Dorchester just in case he is actually following you.’
‘I don’t even know where the Dorchester is,’ yelped Stephen.
Robin came to his rescue:
‘Take the first right, Stephen, and that’ll bring you into Bruton Street; keep walking as straight as you can until you reach Berkeley Square. Stay on the line, but don’t look back or you may turn into a pillar of salt.’
‘James,’ said Jean-Pierre, thinking on his feet not for the first time in his life. ‘You take a taxi immediately to the Dorchester and book room 120 in the name of Drosser. Have the key ready for Stephen the moment he walks through the door, then make yourself scarce. Stephen, are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hear all that?’
‘Yes. Tell James to book 119 or 121 if 120 is not available.’
‘Roger,’ replied Jean-Pierre. ‘Get going, James.’
James bolted out of the gallery and barged in front of a woman who had just hailed a taxi, a thing he had never done before.
‘The Dorchester,’ he hollered, ‘as fast as you can go.’
The taxi shot off.
‘Stephen, James has gone and I’m sending Robin to follow Harvey so he can keep you briefed and guide you to the Dorchester. I’m staying put. Everything else O.K?’
‘No,’ said Stephen, ‘start praying. I’ve reached Berkeley Square. Where now?’
‘Across the garden then continue down Hill Street.’
Robin left the gallery and ran all the way to Bruton Street until he was only 50 yards behind Harvey.
‘Now about the Henry Moore,’ said the well-corseted lady.
‘Screw Henry Moore,’ said Jean-Pierre, not even looking around.
The steel-reinforced bosom heaved.
‘Young man, I have never been spoken to in...’
But Jean-Pierre had already reached the lavatory, and closed the door.
‘You’re crossing South Audley Street now, then continue into Deanery Street. Keep going, don’t turn right or left and don’t whatever you do look back. Harvey is still about 50 yards behind you. I’m a little more than 50 yards behind him,’ said Robin. Passersby stared at the man talking into his little instrument.
‘Is Room 120 free?’
‘Yes, sir, they checked out this morning, but I’m not sure if it’s ready for occupancy yet. I think the maid may still be clearing the room. I’ll have to check, sir,’ said the tall receptionist in the morning suit, which indicated that he was a senior member of the floor staff.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said James, his German accent far better than Stephen’s. ‘I always have that room. Can you book me in for one night? Name’s Drosser, Herr... um... Helmut Drosser.’
He slipped a pound over the counter.
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘That’s Park Lane, Stephen. Look right — the big hotel on the corner straight in front of you is the Dorchester. The semicircle facing you is the main entrance. Go up the steps, past the big man in the green overcoat, and through the revolving door and you’ll find reception on your right. James ought to be there waiting for you.’
Robin was grateful that the annual dinner of the Royal Society for Medicine had been held at the Dorchester last year.
‘Where’s Harvey?’ bleated Stephen.
‘Only 40 yards behind you.’
Stephen quickened his pace, ran up the steps of the Dorchester and pushed through the revolving door so hard that the other residents coming out found themselves on the street faster than they had planned. Thank God, James was standing there holding a key.
‘The lift’s over there,’ said James, pointing. ‘You’ve only chosen one of the most expensive suites in the hotel.’
Stephen glanced in the direction James had indicated and turned back to thank him. But James was already heading off to the American Bar to be sure he was well out of sight when Harvey arrived.
Stephen left the lift at the first floor and found that the Dorchester, which he had never entered before, was as traditional as Claridge’s, its thick royal blue and golden carpets leading to a magnificently appointed corner suite which overlooked Hyde Park. He collapsed into an easy chair, not quite sure what to expect next. Nothing had gone as planned.
Jean-Pierre waited at the gallery, James sat in the American Bar and Robin loitered by the side of Barclays Bank, Park Lane, a mock-Tudor building fifty yards from the entrance of the Dorchester.