Джеймс Чейз - You're Dead Without Money

‘ “Leave it to me,” Elliot said. “I’ll fix it,” knowing he hadn’t a hope in hell of fixing anything. “What’s with your people, Jack? Twenty thousand is peanuts.”

‘The bank manager agreed but said his people were pressing him. “So let’s reduce it by half, Don.”

‘Elliot said he would fix it and left.

‘The Rolls coupe had been delivered the previous week: it was the only car of its kind in the City. Elliot had been offered it ahead of anyone else and he just couldn’t resist taking it, knowing the car agent wouldn’t press him too hard for payment. He found this magnificent car did a great deal to bolster up his sagging credit. He had only to drive up in the car to one of the stores or to his tailor for credit to be immediately granted.

‘Then one day, his Japanese majordomo informed him his stock of whisky and gin was running low and reminded him that he was throwing a big cocktail party the following evening. Elliot got a shock when Fred Bailey who ran the liquor store asked him to settle his last account.

‘ “This has been running now for six months, Mr. Elliot,” Bailey explained apologetically. “It’s six thousand dollars. Could I ask you...?”

‘Elliot gaped at him. He had no idea the parasites who he entertained had soaked up six thousand dollars’ worth of drink over a period of six months.

‘ “I’ll send you a cheque,” he said airily. ‘Right now, Fred, I want four cases of Scotch and five of gin... the usual. Get them over to my place by this afternoon, will you?”

‘Bailey hesitated. Then looking out of the window at the Rolls, he reluctantly nodded. No one owning a car like that, he reasoned to himself, could be short of money.

‘ “Okay, Mr. Elliot, but let me have that cheque. My people are pressing me.”

‘Elliot now realized time was running out for him. Back at the villa, he got out all the bills waiting payment and spent a bleak afternoon totalling them up. He found, give or take, he owed around $70,000 and this didn’t include the Rolls.

‘He sat back, worried, looking around the luxuriously furnished living room. During his moneymaking days, he had bought modern paintings, expensive pieces of sculpture and among other things a collection of jade that had set him back in the region of $25,000. He had bought all this stuff from Claude Kendrick who I have already mentioned.’ Barney paused to finish his beer, then squinted at me. ‘You remember I mentioned Claude Kendrick?’

I said I remembered and that Joey Luck had said Kendrick was one of the top fences in the City.

Barney nodded approvingly.

‘That’s correct. I’m glad you’re keeping close to me, Mr. Campbell. You know something? There’s nothing more discouraging to a guy with his ear to the ground than to talk to a deaf audience.’

That, I said, I could understand.

There was a pause while Sam brought another beer, then Barney began talking again.

‘This is the moment to bring Claude Kendrick on the scene because he played a role in the Larrimore stamp steal.’ Barney hitched himself forward. ‘Let me give you a picture of Kendrick. He was a tall, massively built queer of around sixty years of age and he wore an ill-fitting orange wig and pale pink lipstick. He was as bald as an egg and wore this wig just for the hell of it. When he met one of his lady clients he would raise the wig lite you would raise your hat — strictly a character, you understand, Mr. Campbell? He was fat.’ Barney slapped his enormous belly. ‘Not the way I’m fat, you understand. My fat is good hard fat, but his was soft fat and that’s no good to anyone. He had a long thick nose and little eyes and what with all this fat covering his face and this long snout he looked like a dolphin but without a dolphin’s nice expression. Although he looked comic and acted comic, he was a top expert in antiques, jewellery and modern art. His gallery was crammed with outstanding objets d’art and collectors came from all over the world after a bargain.’ Barney grinned. ‘They got what they wanted, but never a bargain.

‘Apart from this flourishing business, Kendrick was also a fence. He became a fence by force of circumstances you might say. Important clients came to him wanting some special art treasure that wasn’t for sale. Their offer was so big, Kendrick couldn’t resist He found a couple of smooth operators who stole what was wanted and the collectors paid and kept whatever it was in their private museums for their eyes only. Some of the steals Kendrick organized would make your hair stand on end. He once organized the steal of a priceless Ming vase from the British Museum and that nearly got him into real trouble, but that’s another story and I won’t go into that now. I just want you to get the photo of how Kendrick operated.

‘Apart from being a successful fence, he supplied most of the rich creeps living here with top class works of art. He had a way with him that inspired confidence. People sniggered about his orange wig and his make-up, but they came to him and were glad to have his advice. He had a team of beautiful boys who were experts in decor and he was always fixing and refixing people’s homes.

‘When Elliot built his villa, he had gone to Kendrick who had arranged the decor and had unloaded a mass of art — if you can call it that — on him as well as this jade collection, plus a lot of other stuff at very fancy prices.

‘Elliot decided he could well do without the jade and come to that, all the freakish paintings that covered the walls of his living room. He was now in desperate need for ready cash — not to pay his bills: these would have to wait — but to pay his staff and keep himself and this seemed to him to be the way of getting it.

‘After some hesitation, because he knew once you offered something for sale the word could get around you were in financial trouble, he drove down to Kendrick’s gallery.’

Louis de Marney, Kendrick’s head salesman, came forward as Elliot entered the gallery.

Louis was thin and willowy and could be any age from twenty-five to forty. His long thick hair was the colour of sable and his lean face, narrow eyes and almost lipless mouth made him look like a suspicious rat.

‘Ah, Mr. Elliot... so good to see you again,’ he gushed. ‘Are you better now? Splendid... splendid. I was utterly shattered when I heard of the accident. Did you get my letter? I wrote... who didn’t? But you look so well! How wonderful!’

‘Claude around?’ Elliot asked abruptly. He hated being gushed over and specially by a queer.

‘Of course... a little occupied. You know how it is? Dear Claude works himself to death. Is there something I can do... something I can show you, Mr. Elliot?’ The small eyes were probing, the lipless mouth revealed white teeth in a smile that didn’t reach the eyes.

‘I want Claude,’ Elliot said. ‘Hurry it up, Louis. I’m busy too.’

‘Of course... a tiny moment.’

Elliot watched him weave his way gracefully down the long aisle that led to Kendrick’s reception room. Kendrick refused to call this room in which he did all his big deals an office: a vast room with a picture window looking on to the sea, sumptuously furnished with some of the most impressive and expensive antiques that Claude possessed with paintings worth a fortune hanging on the silk covered walls.

While he waited, Elliot moved uneasily around the vast gallery examining the various objets d’art set out temptingly in glass cases. During the three minutes he waited he spotted several things he felt the urge to buy, but he knew Kendrick never gave credit no matter how important the client.

Louis minced towards him.

‘Please come... Claude is so happy! You know, Mr. Elliot, you have been neglecting us. It must be four months since you have visited us.’