″What′s to be done?″ Sammy said disconsolately.
″Beats me.″
″If the people won′t take their money from him, weʹll have to.″
″Oh yes?″
″Tom, be serious! Why not?″
He put his arm around her. ″Sure, why not? We′ll steal his paintings, sell them for a million quid, and build a housing estate. We′ll sort out the details in the morning. Kiss me.″
She lifted her mouth to his, and broke away quickly. ″I mean it, Tom.″
He looked at her face for a moment. ″Stone the crows, I think you do,″ he said.
III
JULIAN LAY AWAKE. THE late-August night was unpleasantly warm. The bedroom windows were open, and he had thrown the duvet off the bed, but he was still sweating. Sarah lay with her back to him on the far side of the wide bed, her legs spread in a striding position. Her body gleamed palely in the weak dawn light, and the shadowy cleft of her buttocks was a mocking invitation. She did not stir when he got out of bed.
He took a pair of underpants from a drawer and slipped into them. Closing the bedroom door softly behind him, he went across the hall, down a half flight of stairs, and through the living room to the kitchen. He filled the electric kettle and plugged it in.
The words on the postcard which he had read the previous night in Samantha′s living room were repeated again and again inside his head, like a pop tune which refuses to be forgotten. ″Iʹm off to Poglio to find a lost Modigliani.″ The message had burned its add way into his brain. It was that, more than the heat, which had kept him awake ever since.
He had to go after the lost Modigliani. It would be exactly what he needed—a real find. It would establish his reputation as a dealer and attract flocks of people to the Black Gallery. It was not in line with gallery policy, but that did not matter.
Julian put a teabag into a mug and poured boiling water into it. He poked disconsolately at the floating bag, submerging it with a spoon and watching it rise again to the surface. The Modigliani was his golden opportunity, and he could see no way to snatch at it.
If he could find the picture, Lord Cardwell would put up the money to buy it. Sarah′s father had promised that, and the old fool could be trusted to keep his word. But he would not fork out a penny on the basis of a postcard from a scatty girl. And Julian did not have the money to go to Italy.
The tea had turned a thick brown color, and a hard-water scum was forming on the surface. He took it over to the breakfast bar and sat on a high stool. He looked around the kitchen, at the dishwasher, the split-level cooker that was only used for boiling eggs, the washing machine, the freezer, and the host of smaller electric toys. It was maddening to be near so much wealth and unable to use it.
How much would he need? Airfare, hotel bills, perhaps a little bribery ... Everything depended upon how long it took him to catch up with the woman who signed herself D. A few hundred pounds—perhaps a thousand. He had to have the money.
He turned possibilities over in his mind as he sipped his tea. He could steal some of Sarah′s jewelry and pawn it. That might get him in trouble with the police. Did pawnbrokers demand proof of ownership ? Probably the good ones did. No, that was out of his field. Forging one of her checks was more his style. But she would find out about that even sooner. And in both cases, it would be too risky to raise the kind of amount he needed.
He would have to find something she would not miss. Something easily negotiable and worth a lot of money.
He could drive to Italy, he realized. He had looked up Poglio in the gazetteer—it was on the Adriatic, in Northern Italy. He could sleep in the car.
But then he would find it difficult to look smart if any careful negotiations were required. And he would still need money for gas, and meals, and bribes.
He could tell her he was driving to Italy, and then sell the car. Then she would discover his deception as soon as he returned—just when he wanted her father to fork out. So, he could say the car had been stolen.
That was it. He could say the car had been stolen—and sell it. She would want to notify the police, and the insurance company. But he could tell her he had dealt with all that.
Then there would have to be a delay, while the police were supposedly looking for it. The insurance company could take months to fork out. By the time Sarah realized it was all a deception, Julian′s reputation would be established.
He was determined to give it a try. He would go out and find a suitable garage. He looked at his wristwatch. It was 8:30. He went back to the bedroom to put on his clothes.
He found the log-book in a drawer in the kitchen, and the car keys where he had left them last night.
He ought to do something to make it all look convincing. He found a sheet of paper and a blunt pencil, and wrote a note to Sarah. ″Have taken the car. Will be out all day. Business. J.″
He left the note next to the coffeepot in the kitchen, and went down to the garage.
It took him more than an hour to get through the West End and the City and along the Mile End Road to Stratford. Traffic was heavy and the road was hopelessly inadequate. When he reached Leytonstone High Road he found a rash of used car lots: in shop fronts, on bomb sites, at gas stations, spilling onto the sidewalks.
He chose a largish one on a corner. There was a young-looking Jaguar out front, and plenty of late-model quality cars in the yard at the side. Julian drove in.
A middle-aged man was washing the windshield of a big Ford. He wore a leather hat and a short coat open at the front. He walked over to Julian carrying his rag and bucket of water.
″You′re an early bird,″ he said pleasantly. He had a heavy East End accent.
Julian said: ″Is the boss around?″
The man′s manner chilled perceptibly. ″Speaking,″ he said.
Julian indicated the car with a wave of his hand. ″What price would you offer me for this?″
″Trade-in?″
″No, cash.″
The man looked again at the car, made a sour face, and shook his head from side to side. ″Very hard to get rid of, these,″ he said.
″It′s a beautiful car,″ Julian protested.
The man kept his skeptical face. ″What is she, two-year-old?″
″Eighteen months.″
The car dealer walked slowly around, examining the bodywork. He fingered a scratch in the door, looked closely at the fenders, and felt the tires.
″It′s a beautiful car,″ Julian repeated.
″That may be, but it don′t mean I can sell it,″ the man said. He opened the driver′s door and got behind the wheel.
Julian felt exasperated. This was ridiculous. He knew very well the dealer could sell the Mercedes in the trade if not on his own lot. It was just a question of how much the man would pay.
″I want cash,″ he said.
″I haven′t offered you shirt buttons for it yet, mate,″ the dealer replied. He turned the ignition key and the engine fired. He turned it off, let the engine die, and turned it on again. He repeated the process several times.
″The mileage is very low,″ Julian offered.
″But is it right?″
″Of course.″
The man got out of the car and shut the door. ″I don′t know,″ he said.
″Do you want to drive it?″
″Nah.″
″How the hell can you tell what it′s worth without driving it?″ Julian burst out.
The man remained cool. ″What business you in?″
″I own an art gallery.″
″Right, then. I′ll stick to motors and you stick to bleed′n paintings.″