“So what do you intend to do now?”
Hart voiced the question softly, almost casually, as if it didn’t matter that much, but Dillon felt the cold fingers of old, run up and down his spine like a piano player: it mattered a great deal… to them both. Hart had thrown down the gauntlet and would deal with it either way.
Dillon walked slowly around the room, eventually fixing his gaze on the life-size crystal skull positioned on its pedestal in the centre.
“I report back. I’m no further forward and, like you say, I’m presuming too much on a cursory glance. In reality, it really doesn’t matter. Because without sending a team of experts down here to examine it properly, it’s merely speculation as to whether it’s the genuine painting or not, as you say.”
“It obviously matters to whoever sent you. Was he a Dutchman?”
“No. Not the person who asked me to look into it. Who asked him I have absolutely no idea”
“Are you a private detective?”
“Most definitely not.”
“And yet you’re acting for someone of influence. So you must be known to that person and the way you handled it the other day, and are handling it even now, suggests to me that you are well used to gathering information. You must be someone special and that puts a different complexion on things.”
“It’s not what I’d normally be asked to do,” Dillon said. “But on this occasion, I’m helping a friend out as a favour.”
“Well, whoever you are. I now have you on record, I’ll see if I can hunt you down.”
Dillon grinned. “I noticed the CCTV, very elaborate.” He took one last look round and headed for the air-lock.
“One thing, though. Why are you so bothered?”
“Because I don’t like people poking their noses into my private affairs. You may have found a way to give my home ‘the once over’, as they say. And yes, I did notice the way in which you were paying particular attention to the alarm system.”
“Far too sophisticated for me.”
And then, as he was just about to leave the air-lock: “You must do what you feel you must, Mr. Hart. But I do appreciate your inviting me in. Quite an education.”
Hart led the way down the sweeping staircase, and as he reached the front door said, “Be under no illusion, you’ll get a different kind of lesson if I see or hear of you again. I’ve been straight with you, and open. So this had better end here and now.”
Dillon went outside, turned, and said, “That sounds very much like a threat, Mr. Hart.”
“A promise, Mr. Dillon.”
Dillon noticed the change in tone again. Once more he felt that he was getting nearer to the real Charlie Hart, but immediately thought why he should be thinking like that. Was Hart putting on an act all through? And in a peculiar way Dillon was actually thinking that they had some sort of affinity. Almost as though they had something in common.
“Why don’t you simply call the police?” Dillon prompted.
“You’re goading me, Mr. Dillon. Is that what you want?”
“Well, if I had nothing to hide and was as innocent as you appear to be, that’s what I’d most likely do.”
“Like you say, would most likely do. But I think you would take care of it yourself, which is exactly what I intend to do. It’s what I’ve always done.”
Hart walked outside and stood at the top of the steps watching Dillon walk to the Porsche. As he started to open the door, Hart called down to him.
“I rather think that you and I have much in common. There was a point in my life when I could have done with a friend like you. But I had to look out for myself. I still do. I’m very good at it, so let’s go our separate ways, shall we? I really hope we don’t meet again.”
Dunstan didn’t know what to say. He was sitting in Dillon’s spacious living room, drinking a mature single malt whisky rather than his usual gin and tonic.
Eventually, he said, “It was a bit of a bullish approach, wasn’t it? Not exactly subtle. I mean, it’s a bit early to have already burnt your bridges with Hart; wouldn’t you agree?” He sounded bitterly disappointed.
Dillon replied, but kept his voice casual. “After reading Hart’s file it looked like the best course of action to take. And you know me better than most — tip-toeing around the bushes is definitely not my style. To my way of thinking, it was the only way to push this thing forward and I think I’ve managed to do just that. He’s not denying that the Vermeer could be the original that was stolen from the Boston museum, and even concedes that it most likely passed through many hands before it reached him. In fact, he hasn’t denied anything at all. What more do you want? If the Americans want it back, let them go through the appropriate legal channels. But I doubt very much that they’d get anywhere. And anyway, doing it my way has kept your expenses down.”
“So on the surface Hart is clean?”
Dillon looked surprised. “I thought you wanted me to look into the Vermeer, not the man. He’s an enigma.”
“In what way?”
“Well if I knew that, he wouldn’t be one, would he?” Dillon said incredulously, and handed Havelock the firm’s invoice for his services. His eyebrows went up and he whistled at the amount.
“I say, this is a bit steep, isn’t it?” Havelock asked.
“If you want the best, you have to pay for it. And if you don’t like it, then use someone else.”
Havelock folded the invoice and put it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.“I mean, all you did was phone the man, and then drive down to Dorset and harass him. Anyone could have done that.”
Dillon smiled wickedly.
“But not as creatively as I did. That takes a special kind of talent and a bare-faced nerve. That’s what you’re paying for, Dunstan. But, if you’re going to quibble over what the firm has charged you then it’ll be the last time that they, or I, work for you.”
Havelock grimaced, and pulled out his cheque book.
“A cheque will do nicely for the amount you owe the firm. But I’ll have my personal bonus in cash, please. Tomorrow will do. And I take it you won’t be wanting me to proceed any further with this matter?” Dillon asked.
Havelock got up and helped himself to another generous measure of Dillon’s fine single malt whisky. Whatever they thought about each other, both men always pushed aside their differences whilst a guest in each other’s home. Havelock especially felt at home in Dillon’s penthouse; it was one place he could be himself and talk without having to worry whether their conversations were being recorded or listened to by certain eavesdroppers.
“I think you should go to Delhi,” he said casually and returned to his seat.
Dillon looked at Havelock, had heard him, but still blurted out, “Why India?”
“That is where Delhi is located.”
“No, I don’t think much to that idea. Not this time, Dunstan.”
“A pity.” Havelock glanced at his watch.
“I really must be getting back. I promised that I’d call back into the office before the end of the day.”
He stood up and finished his drink in one gulp as if it were lemonade.
“You’re not interested in the Vermeer painting at all, are you? Well, maybe a little. But you’re more interested in the man himself, and thought I’d continue because he intrigued me.”
“Well, he obviously doesn’t, does he?” Havelock put his empty glass down.
“Not sufficiently enough for me to fly to India on one of your whims. I’m sorry, Dunstan, but you’ve not really sold this one to me yet.”
“Oh well, I’ll be off then. If you have a change of mind, let me know.”
Dillon’s mobile phone started to ring. He answered it as Havelock stood by the door of the private lift that serviced the penthouse.
“Dillon.”