"Jenson's," he said without identifying himself. "Make sure everything is sanitized, Jenson included. No, we've changed that… We want Reilly alive, see what else he knows."
4
London, Old Bond Street
A bell tinkled as Lang entered the shop, a room about twenty feet by twenty. Oils and watercolors shouldered each other for space on the simple plaster walls. Regiments of dark-wooded furniture paraded in orderly ranks and files, dividing the room into squares as neat as any formed by the British infantry. There was a smell of lemon oil.
He heard footsteps on the wooden plank floor and a curtain at the back was brushed aside. A short man in a dark suit came out, his hands clasping each other as though he were washing them. A long, pale face was topped by lifeless dark hair shot with silver. His smile revealed teeth crooked enough to make an orthodontist salivate.
"Mornin', sir," he said in an accent Lang would have attributed to Jeeves the butler. "I help you or you jus' browsin'?"
"Mr. Jenson?" Lang asked.
There was a furtive flicker of the eyes, the look of someone in need of an escape route. Lang would have bet Mr. Jenson had unhappy creditors.
"An' who might you be?" he wanted to know, his tone more defensive than curious. Lang smiled, trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible. "A man looking for information." The caution in Jensen's voice was not dispelled. "An' what sort of information would that be?"
Lang admired a highboy, running a hand across mahogany drawers inlaid with satinwood. He pulled out the Polaroid, using the marble top of a commode to smooth out the creases. "I was wondering if you could tell me where you got this?"
Jenson made no effort to conceal his relief Lang wasn't there as a bill collector."Some bloody estate or winding-up sale, I'd imagine. Not some place where you can't likely get another if it's genre religious work you fancy."
"I'm a lawyer," Lang explained, his hand still on the cool marble on which the small photo lay. "I have a client to whom the origins of the painting shown there could be very important."
As Jenson inspected the snapshot, his eyes narrowed, giving his long face the appearance of a fox scenting a hen house. "Don't usually keep records of art sold lyin' about. Space considerations, and all that, y'know. Have to look it up, check my books. That'll take a spot of time, if you take my meaning."
Lang did. "I, my client, that is, would expect to pay you for your time, of course."
Jenson treated Lang to that picket-fence-in-bad-repair grin again. "I'll have it for you"-he produced a pocket watch-"after lunch. You come 'round a coupla hours from now."
5
London, St. James An hour and a half later
Lang had lunch wrapped in newspaper at a fish and chips take-away. It wasn't the best meal available, but it was the quickest. Which meant he had time to kill. Wiping the grease from his chin with a thin paper napkin, he entered the nearby Burlington House, home of the Royal Academy of Arts, where he spent half an hour staring with total lack of comprehension at the current visiting exhibition of abstract art.
Best Lang could tell, there were two schools displayed here. First were the splattists, distinguishable by paint applied by flinging it in the general direction of the canvas or whatever surface was involved. The paint splattered as it hit, forming shapes and patterns dictated by centrifugal force and gravity rather than design. The other was the smearists, artists who preferred to glob paint at random and then smear it into whorls, lines or anything else as long as it was not in a recognizable form. Then there were the truly avant-garde, who defied definition by simply coloring the canvas a single, uniform color.
All works that very much resembled the result of Jeff's efforts with finger paints at age three.
Jeff and Janet. For the last few days, Lang had concentrated on finding their killer rather than dwelling on the emptiness their deaths had left in his life. His fists clenched. By God, he would find the unknown They. He would have vengeance.
A schoolmarmish woman, her white hair gathered in a bun, gave him a frightened look and scurried away, turning her head to make sure he wasn't following. Lang realized he had spoken out loud.
Conceding he was no culture vulture and that contemporary art was beyond his ken, Lang retreated to the sculpture promenade to admire a Michelangelo relief.
After the abstractionists, it was just that: a relief.
As he started back towards Old Bond Street, it stopped misting. The sky was a little lighter with a hint if not· a promise of sunshine to come. Umbrellas were now furled, used as walking sticks or carried underarm.
Once again, the bell tinkled his entrance. Lang busied himself inspecting the furniture as he waited for Jenson to come out from behind his curtain. Machined rather than planed surfaces and cast rather than forged nails betrayed most pieces as reproductions, reflections of revivals of the past century: a Savonarola chair, its fish-rib back more likely made for the fashions of the 1920s rather than fifteenth-century Florence; an Irish Chippendale table from the craze of the fifties, its claw feet matching more perfectly than could have been done by any eighteenth-century craftsman.
Lang soon grew tired of the game and checked his watch. He had been waiting ten minutes. Jenson had to have heard the bell. Perhaps he was in the midst of a lengthy phone conversation.
"Mr. Jenson?" Lang called.
No response.
The man had to be there. He wouldn't have left his shop unlocked.
Lang called again with the same result. He was getting a little angry at the man's rudeness. Lang crossed the room and pulled back the curtain. Two naked bulbs, the low-wattage sort the English prefer, hung from the ceiling. Dust-speckled light created an archipelago of shadows around tables, chairs and chests, all in various states of repair. Ornate but empty picture frames, some large enough for life-size portraits, leaned against furniture with a haphazardness at odds with the order of the showroom. The dimness and the dark spots gave Lang the creeps.
To his right; light seeped around a door. An office, no doubt. No wonder Jenson hadn't heard him enter with the door shut. Lang made his way over, using touch as much as sight to avoid his shins colliding with some very unforgiving wood.
Lang reached the door and knocked. "Mr. Jenson?" Receiving no response, he knocked again, this time harder. The door swung open.
Lang had often heard the smell of blood described as coppery. To him it was reminiscent of the taste of steel, a smell like the taste of your tongue running across the blade of a knife. However it smelled, there was blood everywhere.
Jenson sat at an old rolltop desk that was swamped in papers. Were it not for the blood, he could have been napping, head tipped against the back of a chair. Blood covered his shirt, his jacket arid his trousers. Blood formed puddles on the desk and covered the bare planks of the floor. Blood was splattered across the wall in a display not unlike the art exhibition. An oozing gash separated Jenson's chin from his throat. Eyes not yet dull gazed in surprise into the darkness of the ceiling.
Next to the desk, a safe yawned open, a trickle of papers spilling onto the floor. More papers were scattered across the desk and floor, some already reddish as the fibers sponged up the fluid of Jenson's life. It looked as if, in a final fit, Jenson had taken every scrap of paper he could find and tossed them into the air.
Lang leaned the umbrella against a wall and touched the back of his_ hand to Jenson's slack jaw. The skin was still_ warm. Jenson hadn't been dead very long. Lang glanced nervously around the room. The killer could well have been hiding in those shadows on the other side of the door. Moving to face that way, he hurriedly sifted through the papers on the desk.