Cloak of Darkness

  Renwick walked over to the room where Lorna Upwood lay. He unlocked the door, threw it open. “In here,” he said, and stood aside.

  Marchand signed to two of his men to follow, and entered the room. He didn’t stay long. He came out, visibly shaken. He even did some explaining himself. “We brought a stretcher. That was what delayed us.” He looked at Stefan, at Barney. His voice hardened. “Are these the men responsible?”

  “This one.” Claudel released Stefan to the grip of two husky fellows. “And a woman. You’ll find her on the hill behind the house.”

  “We found her. Are you positive she was part of this...” Marchand didn’t finish, glanced back at the room. He couldn’t believe it.

  “Quite positive,” Renwick said. “If it’s evidence you need, you’ll find a bloodstained dress in her room. Its blood will match the victim’s.”

  Marchand nodded. “What about that one?” He looked at Barney.

  “His revolver.” Renwick offered it. “His bullet.” He pointed to the wall.

  Marchand signed to two men in police uniform. “Arrest all three. You know the arrangements.”

  One of the policemen was examining Barney. “This one can hardly walk.”

  “Make him!”

  Renwick drew Marchand out of ear shot. “The house must be cleared. Quickly. They are expecting a visitor to stay overnight.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know. But he’s important. You’ll find a complete change of clothes waiting for him in the front bedroom. Also a stack of money in the bureau’s top drawer.”

  Marchand looked at Renwick. “You can leave police business to me,” he said with a touch of acid in his voice. “We shall have the house cleared. Quickly. My men are quite capable, I assure you. But next time they’d prefer more action and less cleaning up.”

  Renwick accepted that rebuke with a nod.

  “And what are your plans now, my friend? Sit out on a hillside and wait until this important but unknown visitor arrives?”

  “Why don’t you join us?” There was a smile in Renwick’s eyes.

  Marchand gave him another sharp look, began detailing his men.

  Renwick followed Claudel downstairs, passed through a crowded kitchen where the woman sat handcuffed to a chair. “Quite capable,” Claudel quoted. “And more of them, too.”

  Renwick nodded. “How’s the arm?”

  “Just beginning to remember it.” Strange: he had forgotten the pain when he lunged at Stefan. There was nothing like real danger to distract the mind.

  For a few moments they stood outside the closed door, breathed deeply of the cool clean air. Then, in silence, they started up the slope to the trees behind the chalet.

  Renwick looked at his watch. Ten-fifteen. Almost two hours to wait... In Washington, another afternoon would be ending. And Nina? If only, he thought, I could get back to the inn, set up the transmitter, ask London what they’ve heard. But this is where I stay, wait out an arrival—it could come before midnight—nothing can be taken for granted—nothing. Not even Nina’s safety.

  Claudel halted at a group of firs where they would be protected from the sharp breeze and sporadic moonlight. “Okay?” he asked.

  Renwick dropped onto the ground, his back against a tree trunk, his eyes on the path below them that led from the road to the chalet. “Okay,” he said. But his face was taut. He tried to forget what had happened to Lorna Upwood, forced himself to concentrate on the Plus List she had hidden in a poste restante at Zurich. He should have felt excitement, even elation. All he could feel was exhaustion and worry. Worry about Basset Hill. About Nina. He had seen one hideous sample of what Klaus could do to someone he had abducted. I’ll get him, he vowed. Before he wreaks any more harm, I’ll get him.

  17

  In Washington, it had been another hot Saturday afternoon. Nina had spent most of it in the shaded porch of Colin Grant’s house, working at her easel, trying to imitate the simple lines and delicate colours of the Dutch exteriors which had fascinated her in the Basset Museum.

  At half-past four she put aside brushes and palette—they had been supplied, like the easel, by Grant. Her interest in painting had delighted him, had created a sudden and warm friendship between them. The three days here would have been relaxed and pleasant if only she could stop worrying about Bob, if only she could telephone him, write to him. Tim MacEwan, looking the part of the security expert who was checking the museum’s precautions against thieves, had brought her two reports from London. Bob was well. Bob sent his love. But, she wondered now as she went upstairs to change from her smock into something clean and cool for her daily visit to the museum, where was Bob? London never told her that. And if Tim MacEwan knew, he wasn’t telling, either.

  Quickly, she washed and dressed. She brushed her blond hair, left it loose for a few minutes. The she replaced the dark-brown wig, added fresh coral lipstick, and put on her renovated sunglasses. Mac had brought them from Washington yesterday: dark lenses had been exchanged for a light colour, enough to dim blue eyes but less faddish when worn indoors. Mac, she told herself, was—in some ways—much like Bob: he thought of everything. So did Pierre. A special breed—careful, watchful. Yet that didn’t mean they could escape danger. Look at Pierre, for instance, with that knife wound in his arm. Of course, if he hadn’t trained himself to be careful and watchful, he could have been killed.

  “Don’t even think of that!” she warned herself. “Don’t!” She stared at herself in the mirror, forced her mind away from danger and death, concentrated on the girl who looked back at her. Not bad, she decided, just a little too serious at this moment. The eyeglasses emphasised it, of course. But they did change her appearance; so did the dark hair. Reassured, Mrs. John Smith—here on a brief vacation while her husband finished some business in Pittsburgh—ran downstairs.

  She didn’t use the front entrance. Mac had suggested that the back door, leading to the drying yard behind the garage and then through Mrs. Trout’s vegetable patch, made a less noticeable exit. From there she reached the narrow gate on the boundary line of Grant’s small property and entered the nursery, where a gardener worked on rows of seedlings and tender plants to replace, eventually, any wilting flowers in the museum’s gardens and hallway. Today it was Jim’s turn to be there at five o’clock—by arrangement with Mac, of course. They exchanged cheerful good days and a sentence about the weather. Then she skirted the side of the museum to reach its impressive portico.

  The guard, standing at the top of its steps, gave a friendly greeting. So did the two guards on duty inside the main hall. She was accepted, she thought, and was even more reassured. Mr. Grant’s cousin, the art student, who paid her daily visit around five o’clock when the crowd of visitors had thinned. The sketchbook and pencils she carried weren’t questioned. Neither was her habit of sitting before certain paintings, nor the notes and sketches she made.

  She entered the gallery where the Dutch masters were displayed. Large, cool, perfectly lit, with elegant benches covered in green velvet, it attracted most visitors to the museum. Several were still here, slowly wandering, stopping, sitting. Voices were hushed, footsteps were soft, watching this peaceful scene, a guard stood at ease by the gallery’s wide entrance.

  Nina chose her favourite bench. Nothing ridiculous about coming here to memorise the curve of a line, the balance of a composition. If Matisse, when young, could visit the Louvre every day for ten years to study its paintings—even copied them at an easel, right there and then—who was to say it was ridiculous? Training his eye, teaching himself, admitting he was an apprentice. Well, thought Nina, I’ll never be a Matisse but this is something I love. She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice Mac, who came to have a word with the guard—his usual practice around five o’clock these last three days. She didn’t even see Colin Grant making a quiet tour of inspection along with one of the museum’s trustees.

  But her concentration was broken when two girls sat down beside her. “I’m de
ad,” said one. “My feet—these floors. Oh, this bench feels wonderful!”

  Her friend, a pretty face with blond hair falling to her shoulders, looked at Nina’s sketchbook and then at the painting hanging before her against an ivory wall. “Is that Vermeer?”

  “No. Van Ruysdael.”

  “I thought the Vermeers were here.”

  “On the opposite wall—the Dutch interiors are over there. Here, there are the paintings of exteriors.”

  The blonde looked puzzled, glanced over her shoulder. Her friend said, “Just sit here for a few minutes, Peg. We’ve seen enough for one afternoon anyway.”

  “I’ve got it!” Peg said. “Some painted what they saw in a room, some painted what they saw from a room. Is that it?”

  “Well—” began Nina, but Peg’s interest had ended as quickly as it had begun. She was talking to her friend about plans for this evening, and Nina went back to sketching. Difficult to concentrate with Peg’s voice, light and subdued though it was, chattering away about Jeff and the discothèque they had visited last night. Nina bent her head, tried to concentrate on a long, low, sweeping view of the Rhine.

  A young man entered the gallery. His seersucker suit, freshly donned that morning, was crumpled with the heat and as forlorn as he was. He paused, looked down the length of the room. He was of medium height, slight in build, his face undistinguished, his appearance ordinary except for his hair. It was thick and heavy. Uses a blower, thought the guard in disgust—his own hair was cropped close. Then the guard remembered: this guy had been here earlier today, gone through all the museum. Why back again? He was beginning to walk along one row of paintings—the Vermeers. Casing the gallery? The man looked harmless enough, and yet art thieves were clever, could send in a scout, someone to take notice and report. The guard frowned, watching carefully.

  Josh Grable noticed the girl with long blond hair who was sitting across the hall between two others, a redhead and a brunette. He continued past the Vermeers, halted at the end of the gallery, gathered his thoughts.

  For the last four days every lead he had been given had ended in failure. First, the lawyer Danford in New York; then the lawyer Rosen in Washington. Down to the Maryland shore: no Renwick staying at her father’s usual summer home; no O’Connell, either—it was said he was lecturing in Boston. A check at his house in Georgetown, just to make sure. But no O’Connell or wife there, no Renwick, either. House closed for the summer. Then last night, a long message from Geneva, urgent enough to be delivered through the embassy. Information from official files on Renwick show association, possibly close relationship, with Colin Grant in Austria. Grant now director of Basset Museum near Washington. CIA member known to have met Renwick in Washington, Thursday. Renwick reported in Amsterdam, Friday. Nina Renwick not in Amsterdam, not in London. Basset Hill? Investigate and report immediately.

  That message had troubled Grable. The amount of information given him by Geneva seemed to emphasise he had better succeed this time. Yet to him it appeared to be a wild, a ridiculous assignment, bound to lead to another failure. Only—he had to admit—the reference to “official files” was impressive. Geneva obviously put heavy weight on that information. Whose “official files” anyway? Straight from KGB? Better make this last effort to trace the Renwick woman, he had decided, even if he thought it was another false lead. So that morning early he tracked down the museum and reached its gates as it opened.

  He had explored the museum, then its grounds, checked every small building, told some inquisitive guards he was a reporter writing an article on Basset Hill, was told in turn (by a gardener) that Grant’s house on the estate was occupied only by himself and his housekeeper. Grable had seen the housekeeper, an elderly white-haired woman, when he strolled around the hedge that protected Grant’s place from museum visitors. He had observed Grant himself in his office in the main building— door open to everyone. Grant’s secretary was a woman, and so were two of his assistants. But none was near twenty-three years old or five feet four inches in height, or had long blond hair and blue eyes.

  Now, on this final tour of the museum, Grable—tired, hungry, and thirsty—stood watching, wondering, waiting for the blonde sitting on the bench to turn her head, let him see her face. (The snapshot of Nina Renwick, given him in New York, was two years old, but it showed a vivacious girl with a bright smile.) Then he saw the museum director walking slowly down the gallery along with an elderly man, passing in front of the bench where the three girls sat, stopping just there to discuss one of the paintings on the wall. Colin Grant turned to look at the girls—definitely a friendly look. The blonde spoke to him, laughed as Grant nodded and walked on with the elderly man, stopping to examine another picture. That’s it, thought Grable: the blonde knew him. If Grable actually had been born and brought up in America, he might have been less certain: the spontaneous exchange between strangers was something beyond his experience. That’s it, he thought again. He began walking to the bench.

  Tim MacEwan had finished his appointed round to make sure the guards had nothing further to report. There had been talk this early afternoon when he had returned from business in Washington about a journalist who had been spending a day at Basset Hill. But reporters did visit this estate, did wander around trying to dig up some story on old man Basset, whose millions had created the museum. Wealthy eccentrics made good copy, and safe copy, too, when they were dead. Once more, MacEwan was standing at the entrance to the Dutch masters’ gallery, making his last check on Nina. The guard said, “He’s back again. Casing the museum. Don’t like it.”

  “Where?”

  “Just crossing the floor. Seersucker suit. See? He’s more interested in the layout than in the painting. Been looking around him all day.”

  “I heard reports about him. A journalist—” MacEwan broke off. The man’s face was clearly in view at last. It was almost similar to the composite drawing that had been shown MacEwan at the FBI building this morning. By God, it was Grable! Grable—stopping just behind the bench where Nina sat. “Don’t let him out of the museum! Pass the word!” The guard left. MacEwan spoke into his small transmitter, reached the nursery gardener. “Take action! Tell Neill to bring a couple of men. Fast! We’ve got someone he’s looking for.” MacEwan pocketed the transmitter, began walking slowly toward Nina.

  She had closed the sketchbook as Colin Grant reached her, was ready to exchange a word with him. But Peg, the irrepressible blonde with a quick eye for a good-looking man, assumed his glance was for her. “Isn’t this place divine? I just love these Dutch exteriors, don’t you?” It was a charming gush, a sweet come-on. Grant gave a polite nod, walked on. Peg laughed to cover her disappointment. She was not the type, thought Nina, to feel embarrassment. Peg began talking once more with her friend. “Who is he, d’you think? I told you we’d meet the most interesting people here. No, don’t go yet. He’s looking this way.” And Colin Grant was indeed looking back— at the man who bad ended his slow step at Nina’s bench.

  Nina was deciding to leave: it was obvious that Peg and her foot-weary friend were going to stay. Suddenly a voice behind her said, “Mrs. Renwick!”

  Nina almost jerked around, caught herself in time, sat still, her eyes on van Ruysdael’s Rhine.

  “Mrs. Renwick—how are you?”

  Peg turned with a swing of loose blond hair. “Just fine, thank you. But would some other name do?”

  Grable stared into her large brown eyes, stepped back in confusion. “Excuse me,” he said, and retreated. Anger surged. A fool’s errand. I knew it, I knew it, he told Geneva silently. I didn’t fail. You did. You and your reliable information from official files. The Renwick girl is nowhere near Basset Hill, nowhere.

  A red-haired man caught his arm above the elbow. “This way, if you please,” MacEwan said softly. “No, don’t struggle. You wouldn’t win.” There were now three guards at the gallery entrance.

  “But why—what have I—”

  “Just routine.” MacEwan led him wi
th a firm grip into the main hall. Two of the guards walked on Grable’s other side. Ahead was the museum’s front door. “No, no, I wouldn’t try that,” the quiet Canadian’s voice said. “The men outside have been alerted, too. In here!” They had stopped at the secretary’s office, empty at this hour.

  “But what have I done? I’m a reporter. I’m writing a story on—”

  “Tell us the story. We’re interested.” MacEwan tightened his grasp, urged him over the threshold. “You can sit there.” MacEwan pointed to a chair beside the desk, released Grable. The guards entered, closed the door. “I’m the security inspector. We’ve reason to believe that an attempted robbery of valuable paintings is being planned. Today you’ve been seen wandering around. Why?”

  Grable’s relief broke into a stream of words. “I told you— I’m researching a story about Basset and his museum.”

  “What newspaper?”

  “I’m freelance.” Grable had recovered. His voice was normal. No more indignation, no more anger. “I write for magazines; trade papers, too.”

  “Tell us all about it,” MacEwan said, his light-blue eyes expectant. “We have plenty of time.” Plenty, he thought. Joe Neill would need forty-five minutes at least to arrive here.

  Grable looked at his watch. “But I haven’t. I have an important dinner engagement tonight. At seven o’clock. In Washington. So you start your questions, and I’ll answer them. I must leave in fifteen minutes.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “But you can’t keep me here. You’ve no reason to—”

  “A threatened robbery gives us every reason.”

  “Do you think one man could plan such a theft?” asked Grable sarcastically. Such idiots—overzealous fools.

  “No. But one man could check out our security arrangements.”

  Grable was all innocence again. “Is that what you think I was doing? I was only walking around, getting the atmosphere of this place. All part of the story’s background.”