Prunella was paid. She was flushed, exulting.
“You know, Lovejoy,” she said, transported. “I’m on a high! I’m flying! The girls back at the agency would never believe me.”
“Will never, Prunella,” I warned. “Confidentiality. Besides—”
“Yes?” she breathed.
I thought, what the hell. I might never get out of this. “Would you care to stay for supper, Prunella?”
“Supper? Oh, yes!” It’s the one way to guarantee silence. As guarantees go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
« ^ »
FOUR o’clock in the morning I sent Prunella home—pedantically reporting the fact on the phone to a somnolent Tye, to show scrupulous observance of the syndicate’s rules. He was narked, but it gave me the chance to give Prunella instructions about collecting an envelope from a certain international airline. I gave her the flight number.
“I’m depending on you, darling,” I told her wide eyes. “It’s life or death. Bring it when I send for you.”
“Oh, Lovejoy! Nobody’s ever depended on me!”
I tried to look disturbed, exalted. I was knackered. “I love you darling, okay?” But that didn’t sound quite right. There’s more to okays than meets the ear.
That was two incoming envelopes, Prunella and Magda. I rang the syndicate number.
“Morning, Gina. Lovejoy. I’m leaving New York this morning on the jet. What guards do I have?”
She made the plumping noises of a woman rudely wakened, tried to unthicken her voice into day.
“Tye’ll decide. Where to?”
“I’ll be hacking the New York auction houses in a very few days from now. Meantime, I’m flying to six different states.”
“You’ve already raised the necessary sum, Lovejoy?”
“You might need an edge, love.” I left space for her to explain why now suddenly we needed less money, but she said nothing. Well, suffering women have a right to privacy. “My list’s at reception.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Courier it to me. Now.”
Christ, I thought. She’s in greater difficulties than I’d guessed. I streaked to my room, wrote out a list of addresses culled from the public library, and gave it to the motorcycle maniac. Ten minutes flat.
A word about hotel night staff. They love things to do. I gave them five minutes to settle down, then remembered something very vital, and made them get a second courier. I sent him to the Benidormo with a note to Magda, to hurtle back with her signature as proof. I tipped them, said both couriers should go on the one bill, please, for simplicity’s sake. That way, I’d be the only person who knew about Magda and Zole tagging along. Then I roused Tye and told him we were moving.
By nine o’clock we were in the air, heading south in slanting sunshine over the biggest, loveliest land God ever lowered to earth.
THE entourage included Tye, two bulky goons called Al and Shelt who sat with knees apart and literally ate non-stop, peanuts, tiny savouries, crisps, popcorn. I’m making them sound friendly, but I’d never seen such menace in all my life. And a brisk stewardess, Ellie, all cold eyes and no repartee. The pilot Joker, his pal Smith, and that was us.
Is America superb, or isn’t it? Its hotels can get couriers, any hour. A pilot, would you believe, accepts that business considerations are enough! It all seems so normal that you start wondering why the whole world can’t be just the same. On the Continent you get the exhausted glance at the watch, vague assurance that maybe sometime… In England the pilot—assuming you could speak to such a lordly technocrat—would ask what’s so special about your business that it can’t be changed to suit his convenience…
The coffee was superb, drinks were there, and I could have had a film shown if I’d wanted. A suitcase of clothing was provided, I learned.
So what was wrong?
I concentrated. I’d sent out for two books and nine magazines before breakfast. And got them! I wasn’t sure how my plan would stand up to stress, but I was beginning to have an idea whose side I was on.
“Tye?” I said about one o’clock. “Can I get a message sent to the ground?”
“Anywhere, ten seconds.”
“Time the US upped its performance,” I said. “Joke, joke.”
The lassie swished up, poised for duty. I sighed. There’s only a limited amount of efficiency a bloke can take. I put a brave face on it, and asked her to get a print-out of Manhattan’s auction dates, and anything she could muster on George F. Mortdex.
“And send word that we’re arriving for prospective interview with him or his deputy, from London, please.”
“What name are you going under, Lovejoy?” Tye asked.
“Mine,” I said. “But we may not become friends.”
He said nothing, but passed his goons a slow glance. They nodded. I swallowed. Maybe I’m unused to allies.
“IS this a ranch, Mr Verbane?”
He beamed, walking ahead in his handmade tweeds, crocodile shoes. We followed his perfume trail.
“We use domicile hereabouts, Lovejoy. Virginia thinks ranch infra dig, y’know?”
He was effete, even bubbly.
The estate—all right, domicile—was not vast, certainly not much bigger than Rutlandshire. Noble trees, vast undulating fields with white fences and pale roads curling into the distance. It was beautiful countryside, which always gets me down. The house was the size of a hamlet. Civilization lurked within.
Swimming pool, tables on lawns, awning against the sunshine thank God, lovely white wood and orange tiles, ornate plasterwork in the porches. George F. Mortdex was worth a dollar or two.
Mr Verbane offered me and Tye seats on a verandah where servants were waiting to fuss. He accepted a tartan shawl round his knees. I avoided Tye’s sardonic look, smiled and said I’d rough it without a blanket.
“We don’t often get unexpected visitors,” Verbane said. “We’re so remote from civilization.”
A couple of gorgeous figures splashed in a pool nearby. Gardeners were trimming beyond. Grooms led horses along the river which incised the spreading lawn.
“I had hoped to see Mr Mortdex himself.”
Verbane sighed, all apology. “That’s out of the question. He’s so old now, always works alone. I have to manage all his personal affairs.” He smiled, waved to the girls. “Though it’s an absolute slog. Racing’s such a terrible obligation. You’ve no idea.”
“Responsibility’s a killer,” I agreed.
“That’s so right!” he cried, his self-pity grabbing any passing sympathy. “I’m sometimes drained. How marvellous that you understand!”
“Like antique prices.”
He smiled roguishly. “I knew it! You’re an antique dealer!”
I smiled back. “Antique dealers give antiques a bad name. Like boozers give booze.”
He passed glittering compliments to the waitresses over the drinks. He’d insisted on madeleines. I had a few, though cakes that little go nowhere and it was over an hour since we’d left the plane.
“I absolutely adore negotiating, Lovejoy!” He yoo-hooed to a sports car arriving at the stables. A lady in a yellow hat waved. I’d never seen such friendliness. I felt in a procession. “What’ll we negotiate about?”
“Mr Mortdex’s collections,” I said. “Their falling valuation —”
He sat up, focusing his attention.
“Falling? You’re misinformed, Lovejoy. There isn’t a collection that has withstood fluctations better than Mr Mortdex’s. I select and buy, on an absolutely personal basis.”
The tea was rotten cinnamon stuff. “I mean Wednesday.”
He was a moment checking his mind. I knew he was desperate to dash indoors screaming for the computer, but he was perfect so couldn’t be found wanting. Finally he swallowed pride, that costly commodity. “What happens next Wednesday?”