Prelude to Terror

  He smiled back and said, “To the best of your ability, what price do you think this painting will fetch?”

  “It should bring a very good price. Ruysdael has been much sought after in recent months.”

  Another woman’s voice interrupted them with, “Please excuse me, Frau Klar. I was told by your attendant over there—” Avril Hoffman gestured vaguely at the thickening crowd of people—that you could answer my question.”

  “And what is that?”

  Grant moved around the easel to the front of the picture. Half listening to Avril’s query, Frau Klar accompanied him. “Certainly not,” she told Avril.

  Avril followed her, not even glancing at Grant. “You mean, all those six eggs—”

  “They are objets d’art, made of the finest enamel, highly decorated,” Frau Klar corrected her. “They form one collection. They cannot be sold separately.”

  Avril looked downcast. “I’m afraid I couldn’t afford all six of them.” She sighed, looking at the Ruysdael. “Beautiful. But everything here is so—so costly.” Then she pointed to the picture on the next easel, from which the thin-faced Flemish banker stared out at a hostile world. “Now, that’s something I wouldn’t have at any price. Just look at him! Old Closed-Lips.”

  Grant pretended to be amused. “Not a bad description.” He paused, and added, “Probably suffered from dyspepsia.”

  Avril laughed, ignoring Frau Klar’s freezing look. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. If I were a policeman, I’d arrest him on sight.”

  “By the way, will the Ruysdael be auctioned quite early?” Grant asked Frau Klar as Avril moved closer to the portrait. She could hear him, even if she seemed fascinated by the banker’s hand gripping his purse of gold coins. “I see it is listed as No. 5A in your catalogue.”

  “Quite early.” Frau Klar was still watching Avril.

  “Perhaps even by eleven thirty?” He had succeeded in bringing Klar’s attention back to him.

  “That’s a little early. But if you are interested in bidding, Herr Grant—the sooner the better. Nicht?”

  Grant covered his surprise, nodded in agreement. She had known his name, had recognised him from a photograph or a description. Their encounter hadn’t been accidental. Keeping him under close watch? For contacts? He paid no more attention to Avril, seemed unaware that she was leaving. He said, “I think it’s time for us to move in, Frau Klar. It is Frau Klar?”

  The blonde nodded, all smiles again, her face as round-cheeked as the carved cherubs on the balcony. She said, very softly, “We’ll meet later, I hope.” She looked around her, her eyes quickly searching the crowd, then glanced up at the balcony. She touched her hair, rearranged a curl.

  Thank God, Grant was thinking, Avril left unnoticed. Old Closed-Lips... Thoughtfully, he joined the stream of people now beginning to flow into the auction room. There was one thing of which he was certain: Avril would never have arrived here unless she brought a desperate warning. Had she understood his?

  * * *

  She had. Avril went straight to the nearest telephone-booth, and called the Embassy. She reached Renwick’s extension as he was pouring his final cup of coffee. “Auction may be over by eleven-thirty,” she reported. “Add ten minutes for signing cheque, another ten or fifteen for packaging, and he will be—”

  “I can add, too,” Renwick cut in. “Leaving now. And you get the hell out as I told you!”

  We just made it, she thought, as she went searching for a taxi. Of course Bob had been trying to juggle parking time (one hour and a half was the limit) with Colin’s estimated departure: twelve thirty until two o’clock had seemed a safe calculation. Now Bob would let Frank know, and all should be well. Lord, she thought, on how little so much depends. I very nearly didn’t get to Klar’s Auction Rooms—damn all traffic jams. And when I did, what did I find? Gudrun Klar blocking every possible approach.

  Partly exhausted with tension, partly euphoric with success, but mostly thinking of Colin Grant about to start bidding for the Ruysdael, Avril was almost home before she remembered to see if anyone had followed her out of the Auction Rooms. Aghast, she twisted round to look out of the taxi’s rear window. She couldn’t tell: the heavy traffic behind her made any guess quite useless. Then she told herself, you weren’t followed: you got out of that place so damn quick, no one had a chance to tail you. You had to call Bob—even if it did slow you up a little. Five minutes’ delay altogether, no more than that.

  She persuaded herself it meant very little, no added danger whatsoever. Nothing to what Colin must be going through right now.

  * * *

  As Grant had expected, there was little serious interest in the auction of items numbered one to five. They were sold off quickly, almost nonchalantly, by Kurt Klar, who was today’s auctioneer. Old Werner Klar, with flowing white hair and furrowed brow, kept appearing and disappearing like an evanescent ghost. He would greet some old friend, speak a few words, move slowly away. Not a happy man, Grant decided; certainly an ailing one. Son Kurt, on the other hand, was fully capable. He was easily identifiable from Renwick’s description—small and paunchy, almost completely bald, quick eyes behind round glasses that gave him an owl-like look, but not wise and old, just ageing and anxious. Gudrun, twenty years his junior, would be enough to keep any husband worried. She wasn’t to be seen in the auction room, although the attendants were present, carrying this object here, taking that one there, all very efficient—and almost too fast for Grant’s comfort. He had his note-book out, pencilling quick calculations on the exchange of Austrian schillings into American dollars, as a guideline once he started bidding. This morning, a slide on the international money market had brought the dollar’s value down to fifteen Austrian schillings and eighty-five groschen. Too unwieldy for instant accuracy; he was no computer. He’d settle for the nearest round figure: sixteen schillings to the dollar. As he worked out a neat table for ready reference, some of the earlier sales became less startling when translated into American terms. Sixteen thousand schillings seemed an alarming figure for a dinner set of Meissen, while one thousand dollars sounded almost reasonable. Grant’s own bidding might reach over the million mark in schillings. He braced himself.

  There was a few minutes’ delay before Number 5A was announced, when a dealer rose to make a brief protest: he had not been aware that a Ruysdael painting was coming up for sale; he requested that its auction be postponed until the end of today’s proceedings, so that he would have time to call his client in Rome for instructions. The protest shocked Kurt Klar: quite impossible, he stated. His refusal shocked the dealer; he started to leave, changed his mind, sat down at the back of the room. Old Papa Klar appeared for a distraught moment, only to vanish into the wings. The stir in the audience, now numbering some seventy people, subsided into a slight murmur, and then silence. Now here it comes, thought Grant, as the Ruysdael was carried on to the platform and Kurt Klar went into his brief introduction. It might have been the small size of the auction room with its skylighted ceiling—probably once an interior courtyard, now roofed over with glass—but he began to feel his temperature rising. He loosened his tie, kept the pencil in his hand for his signals to Klar, and no longer let his attention wander.

  Klar started the bidding at 900,000 schillings. The recalcitrant dealer decided to top that with another 90,000. So, within a couple of minutes, the Ruysdael had already readied 61,875 American dollars. This was going to be a wild downhill sleigh-ride. Klar suggested the equivalent of 67,500, and looked in Grant’s direction. Yes, Grant thought, they have been told who I am. He suppressed a smile and gave a small salute, almost imperceptible. The price kept rising by a steady 90,000 schillings.

  The dealer and two others had dropped out of the bidding by the time the picture was up to 1,500,000 schillings—a flat 100,000 dollars, according to Grant’s rough estimation. Only one man besides Grant was left in the race. He was small and thin, precise in his manner, neat in a conservative suit of navy
blue. By the time the bidding reached 2,400,000 schillings, Grant’s suspicions deepened: the man in the navy suit wasn’t interested in acquiring the Ruysdael—he was simply there to push the price higher and higher.

  To test this suspicion but also to cause a little pain, Grant let the man’s last bid stand for almost a minute before signalling his compliance with the next suggested price. Yes, judging by Klar’s obvious relief, Grant could be right about the competition being offered him. The man, still confident and calm, increased Grant’s bid by another 90,000 schillings. A total of 161,250 dollars. Ridiculous, Grant decided: time to call an end to this charade. Around him, all voices were stilled, and the hot sultry air under the glass roof seemed suffocating. Out of devilment, Grant let the man’s last bid stand for several minutes, while Klar’s voice sharpened as he advanced the price by another 90,000 schillings. “2,670,000 schillings... Do I hear a bid for 2,670,000 schillings?”

  The man in the blue suit had lost his aplomb. He looked almost wildly at Grant, perhaps realising for the first time that he (who possibly made 10,000 dollars a year) could be left holding the Ruysdael at the price of 161,250 dollars. Grant let him sweat for another minute, let Klar’s glare sharpen as his voice rose in desperation. At last Grant raised his pencil. The man in the blue suit rose and quickly left.

  “Sold!” Klar’s voice boomed out as he thumped down on his auctioneer’s bell. “2,670,000 schillings...” And the Ruysdael was carried off the stage.

  Stiffly, Grant got to his feet. I’ve just bought a Ruysdael for almost 167,000 dollars. Correction, correction: allow for all those little groschen...168,454 dollars? Yes, that was the price.

  Anyway, he was thinking as he followed an attendant out of the auction room into a narrow corridor, I made sure the price would rise no higher. It was preposterous as it was. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, readjusted the knot in his tie, and passed through a door that the attendant held open for him with the utmost respect. Most of the people who worked here were complete innocents, he decided; old Klar himself was oblivious to everything around him. Which left son Kurt and Gudrun as willing tools of this conspiracy.

  He found himself in a pleasant office, comfortably furnished with armchairs. The elder Klar was there, studying the Ruysdael, which two porters had propped on an easel. Now, with bows for its new owner, they left for the auction room. Werner Klar shook hands weakly, offered vague congratulations, and, with the furrows deepening in his white face, made his own retreat as the door to an adjacent office opened. Gudrun entered, followed by Gene Marck and an elderly man. None of them looked pleased.

  Marck shook hands, saying with heavy geniality, “So you decided to call a halt to the bidding?”

  “I was getting some very bad vibes. There were daggers at the back of my neck.”

  All three stared at him.

  Grant went on, “That dealer who sat at the rear of the room—I could feel his curiosity sharpening. Possibly he was wondering who was my backer. The higher the price, the more he’d wonder. He’s just the type to track down Basset’s name. In any case, I didn’t call a halt: the opposition collapsed.”

  “I was only joking,” Marck said quickly. “You did very well. Quite a reasonable price, wouldn’t you say?” He watched Grant intently.

  Reasonable, hell. Grant said, “Considering the rising market in paintings, nowadays—” He left it at that, shrugged his shoulders. Nonchalant, totally unsuspecting, that’s me—I hope. Do they buy it?

  All three relaxed a little. Gudrun even smiled.

  “Then let’s get down to business,” Marck said. “Grant, this is Dr. Mittendorf—the treasurer of Mr. Basset’s firm. He will take charge.”

  Mittendorf was a dull and proper man, dressed to match his sombre manner. He was somewhere in his early sixties, Grant guessed, not quite six feet in height, and heavy. His hair was thick and dark, strangely white at the temples. An enormous brow, eyes that were watchful, and lips that were tightly compressed. Definitely Avril’s “Old Closed-Lips”. Grant smiled and shook hands. Mittendorf’s grasp was strong. So was his voice as he spoke a conventional phrase of greeting.

  With no more formalities, Mittendorf crossed over to Werner Klar’s desk and sat down. He produced a chequebook, adjusted the lamp to suit him, and brought out his glasses. Every movement was precise and unhurried. A deliberate man, thought Grant, and moved around the room, pretending a brief interest in old Klar’s treasured mementos.

  “Please sit down,” Mittendorf said as he took out his pen and pulled off its cap.

  “Here!” Gudrun offered an armchair some distance from the desk. “Please?”

  “I’d rather stand, thank you—had enough sitting in that auction room.”

  “Weren’t you comfortable?”

  “It was hot. Those skylights in the ceiling—” He shook his head and smiled again. Mittendorf’s pen was in his hand, his left hand curved around the top of his cheque-book as if to hold it in place. It could also cover the payee’s name as soon as he had written it. Grant kept on moving, seemingly at ease, and came round to the right side of the desk as Mittendorf was about to sign his name.

  “One moment!” Grant interrupted urgently. “I forgot this. Must keep everything legal.” Out of his breast-pocket he whipped the letter he had been sent in New York along with his airline ticket, and passed it quickly to Mittendorf.

  Instinctively, Mittendorf’s left hand was raised from the cheque-book to take Grant’s sudden offering. And Grant had one brief glimpse of the name: Henri Bienvenue. He saw, too, the amount being paid to Henri Bienvenue. It was the equivalent of 250,000 dollars. “Legal?” asked Mittendorf sharply, dropping his pen, using both hands to unfold the sheet of paper, but making sure that his left arm was now resting across the face of the cheque.

  “Yes,” Grant said. That’s my authorisation from Mr. Victor Basset to represent him at the auction. You need it, don’t you, before you sign any cheque?”

  “I do not,” said Mittendorf, his lips now so invisible that there was only one long thin line to indicate his mouth. “This letter should have been given to Frau Klar.” His eyes looked over his glasses with a piercing stare at the astonished American.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Grant took back Basset’s letter, and turned to Gudrun Klar. “I didn’t know,” he excused himself with a smile. “I’m ignorant about these things.” He presented the letter with a small bow. “Now everything is in order. And the Ruysdael?”

  “Yours, for the next few days,” Gene Marck said, breaking his long silence. His face was taut, fine-drawn; either he hadn’t enjoyed last night’s sleep or today had brought new tensions. His bow-tie—red with white dots—would normally have passed muster, except that he had chosen to wear it with a brown pin-striped suit and the effect was not good. Disastrous, Fischer would have said. No colour sense, Lois Westerbrook had stated.

  “How is Miss Westerbrook?” Grant asked casually, as he turned to look at the Ruysdael. Yes, the frame still had that fine incipient crack down its left side; the muslin was the same, mildew and rusted nails intact. There had been no tampering, so far.

  “I thought you could have told me that,” Marck said. “Wasn’t she in touch with you last night?”

  Grant froze, went on studying the painting. “Yes, she telephoned. I thought she was drunk to tell you the truth. Un-gallant of me, perhaps.” He looked directly at Marck. “Does she drink too much?”

  Marck’s tight face relaxed a little. “I’m afraid so. It has been quite a problem.”

  “Too bad,” said Grant. “By the way, what about insurance?” He indicated the Ruysdael. “You’ll attend to it?” He was conscious that Mittendorf, his cheque-signing completed, was listening to every word and watching each gesture.

  “At once.”

  “Then you’d better get on the ’phone. I don’t want an uninsured picture worth more than 168,000 dollars to be left in my charge. How long do I have to stay in Vienna, anyway?”

  Mittend
orf gathered up his pen and cheque-book, rose from the desk. He made his ponderous way to Gudrun Klar. “This is for your firm, Frau Klar: your auction fee, plus expenses for storage, et cetera, et cetera. And this—” he presented a second cheque folded neatly, “is for the previous owner of the painting which your husband auctioned. You will see that he receives it as soon as he arrives in Vienna? Excellent. Good day, Mr. Grant. Good day to you, Mr. Marck. To you, madame.” He bowed over Gudrun’s hand.

  “Your hat—” Gudrun Klar began.

  “In the other office, I believe.” Mittendorf nodded and left. As she was about to follow, Grant stopped her. “Frau Klar, I need something to cover this painting.”

  “Of course.” Only half of her mind was on his request. She looked at the cheques and found they were a good excuse to let her follow Mittendorf into the other office. “First let me lock these safely away. I shall not take long.”

  Marck too seemed ready to leave. He was opening the door for Frau Klar; their eyes met and held, his hand touched hers and lingered. Something was said, softly, gently; Frau Klar became Gudran, aged eighteen and giggling.

  So that’s how he works it, thought Grant: control the woman and she’ll cajole her husband, and you’ll have a venerable firm right under your thumb.

  “I’ll attend to the insurance,” Marck called back, as his arm guided Frau Klar’s waist towards her office.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” said Grant. Nor had Mittendorf, with his well-judged departure, neatly timed. “When do I leave Vienna?”