‘There are three Dalís,’ said Pierre after checking the inventory. ‘What’s the subject?’
‘A yellow clock melting over a table.’
‘Oil or watercolour?’ asked Pierre.
‘Oil,’ said Duval as he headed back up the staircase.
‘Got it. And don’t forget your wife’s handbag,’ said Rosenthal.
‘Merde!’ said Duval, who dashed out of the house, nearly colliding with two couriers coming the other way.
He opened the passenger door of the van, grabbed Anna’s handbag, and ran back into the house and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pierre was just a pace behind, clutching the Dalí. Duval caught his breath, opened the door and walked in, assuming a look of concern, while Pierre waited outside in the corridor.
‘And the problem with Béatrice,’ the maid was saying, ‘is that she’s fourteen, going on twenty-three.’
Anna laughed as Duval handed her the bag. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, as she undid the clasp and took out a bottle of pills. ‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, Maria, but could I have a glass of water?’
‘Of course,’ said the maid, bustling into the bathroom.
Anna leapt up, stood on the bed and quickly lifted the Dalí off its hook. She handed it to Duval, who ran to the door and exchanged it with Pierre for the copy, which he passed to Anna seconds later. Their second risk. She just had time to hang it on the hook and fall back down on the bed before Maria reappeared, carrying a glass of water. She found the two of them holding hands.
Anna took her time swallowing two pills, then said, ‘I’m so sorry to be holding you up.’ Her well-trained husband came in bang on cue.
‘Maria, where should I put the package for Mrs Lowell?’
‘Leave it in the hall, and the butler can deal with it when he gets back tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ said Duval, ‘and by the time I return, darling, perhaps you’ll have sufficiently recovered for me to take you home.’
‘I hope so,’ said Anna.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Maria, ‘I’ll stay with madame until you get back.’
‘How kind of you,’ said Duval as he left the room. He was running down the stairs when he spotted Pierre handing the Dalí to a courier. ‘How much longer?’ he asked as he joined Rosenthal in the hall.
‘Five minutes, ten at the most,’ said Rosenthal, as a courier showed him a Pollock. ‘Far side of the drawing room,’ he said without hesitation.
Duval’s eyes never left the bedroom door. He said, ‘Any problems?’
‘I can’t find the blue Warhol of Jackie. It’s too important not to be in one of the main rooms. But you’d better get back upstairs before the maid becomes suspicious.’
Duval walked back upstairs and returned to the bedroom, where the maid was still regaling Anna with tales about her children. He held up five fingers, and as she nodded, he noticed that the Dalí was hanging lopsided.
‘Maria was just telling me, darling, about the trouble she’s been having with her daughter Béatrice.’
‘She can’t be worse than Marcel,’ said Duval, sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘But I thought you told me this would be your first child?’ said Maria, looking puzzled.
‘Dominic has a son by his first wife,’ said Anna quickly, ‘who tragically died of cancer, which I think is one of the reasons for Marcel’s problems.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Maria.
‘I think I’m feeling a little better now,’ said Anna, slowly sitting up and lowering her feet onto the carpet. ‘You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how to thank you.’ She rose unsteadily and, with Maria’s support, began walking slowly towards the door, while Duval knelt on the bed and straightened the Dalí. His third risk. He caught up with them just in time to open the door.
‘I’ll go ahead and make sure the van door is open,’ he said – not part of the well-rehearsed script – and he was only halfway down the stairs when he saw Rosenthal and Pierre still in the hallway.
‘Where’s the Warhol?’ Pierre demanded.
‘To hell with the Warhol,’ said Duval. ‘We’re out of here.’
Pierre left quickly, followed by Rosenthal, cursing under his breath.
When Anna and Maria reached the hallway a few moments later, they found Duval standing by the front door, one hand resting on a crate.
‘Thank you for being so kind to my wife,’ he said. ‘Here’s the package I was asked to deliver, along with a letter for Mrs Lowell.’
‘I’ll see madame gets them both as soon as she returns,’ said Maria.
Duval took Anna gently by the arm and led her out of the house to find the passenger door of the van already open. It was the little details that Rosenthal was so good at.
As the van moved slowly down the drive, Duval wondered if Maria would find it strange that they had used such a large van to deliver one picture.
‘Any problems, Anna?’ said Rosenthal from the back of the van.
‘Other than being pregnant, having two husbands, neither of whom I’m married to, and a stepchild I’ve never even met, nothing in particular.’
‘Remember to drive slowly, Dominic,’ said Rosenthal. ‘We mustn’t forget that we have precious cargo on board.’
‘How thoughtful of you,’ said Anna, touching her stomach.
Rosenthal had the grace to smile, as Anna leant out of the window and waved goodbye to Maria. She waved back, a puzzled look on her face.
35
ALEX
Boston
Alex arrived at the bank so early the following morning that Errol hadn’t yet taken up his post, and the night security guard had to let him in. Someone else who needed to be convinced that he was the new chairman.
He went up in the elevator alone, and when he stepped out into the corridor on the twenty-fourth floor, he was amused to see that Miss Robbins had left her light on. Fuelish, he would tease her. He opened the door, intending to switch the light off, only to be greeted with, ‘Good morning, chairman.’
‘Good morning,’ said Alex, not missing a beat. ‘Have you been here all night?’
‘No, sir, but I wanted to bring the mail up to date before you arrived.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘There’s one letter and a package I thought you ought to see immediately. They’re on the top of the pile on your desk.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alex, curious to discover what Miss Robbins considered interesting. He walked into his office to find the promised mountain of mail awaiting him.
He took the letter from the top of the pile and read it slowly. He then opened the package and stared in disbelief at the real thing. His hands were still shaking as he put it back in the package. He had to agree with Miss Robbins, the letter was interesting, and she’d offered her opinion without knowing what was in the package.
The second letter was from Bob Underwood, a director of the bank who felt the time had come for him to retire, not least because he was seventy. He suggested that the emergency board meeting on Monday morning would be an ideal time to inform the board of his intention. Alex cursed, because Underwood was one of the few people he had hoped would remain on the board. He seemed perfectly satisfied with the ten thousand dollars a year he received as a non-executive director, he rarely claimed any expenses, and you didn’t have to read between the lines of the minutes to realize that he was one of the few board members who was willing to stand up to Ackroyd and his cronies. Alex would have to try and get him to change his mind.
And then his eyes returned to the words, emergency board meeting on Monday morning. Why hadn’t Miss Robbins informed him about that earlier?
There was a gentle tap on the door and Miss Robbins appeared bearing a cup of coffee, black no sugar, and a plate of digestive biscuits. How did she find out what his favourite biscuits were?
‘Thank you,’ said Alex, as she placed a silver tray that must have been one of Lawrence’s family heirlooms on the desk in front of him. ‘May I ask a delicate question, Miss Robbins? You must have a first name?’
‘Pamela.’
‘And I’m Alex.’
‘I’m aware of that, chairman.’