David Lindsey - The Color of Night

“No, of course not. But there’s another problem. All your documentation for the provenance of the drawings was still at my place.”

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah. I’ve got to come up with some forgeries to replace them. Carrington’s not going to offer these to Schrade without documentation. I would’ve had to do this anyway, even if they hadn’t been destroyed, because we’ve got to make sure the paper trail is obscure enough that Carrington can’t easily confirm any of it. If the time is short, if the sale is dependent on a quick negotiation, he’ll forgo his own provenance check and just rely on the documentation rather than risk losing the sale. Also, this way it won’t lead back to you. We have to come up with a new owner for the drawings.”

Mara sipped her coffee. Then she put down the mug and stood and took the towel off her head. Bending over, she fluffed her hair with the towel, then quickly straightened up, flinging her hair back out of her face. Preoccupied, she walked toward the bed, folding the damp towel, matching the corners precisely.

Strand said nothing. She had a lot to think about. He had no doubt she could play the role, run the scam. After all, she had already proven her abilities in that regard. Nearly their entire relationship had revolved around a scenario in which she had expertly demonstrated how capable she was at deception. Her thoughtfulness now was interesting. He guessed that after Mara had been pressed into service by the FIS, she’d been surprised to discover that she had a considerable ability-and liking-for undercover work. He also guessed that, in her innermost being, she must be confused by this. Maybe she had been more insightful than either of them had realized last night when she’d said that this was a strange business and they were strange people to be in it.

She came back to the scaffolding table and sat down. “We have a lot to do and not much time,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Can you get the forgeries done, if we come up with the right background? I mean, do you have time?”

“Yes. I know the people here in London who can do it. If I pay enough money, I can probably get it done in two days.”

“Okay, then I have some ideas for the woman who’s going to see Carrington Knight. If we get that settled this morning, can you get started?”

Strand nodded.

“I’ll go to Paris for the drawings,” she said. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

“It is, yes.”

“There’s not going to be a problem with Leon Gautier releasing them to me?”

“None.”

“Okay. While I’m there I’m going to have to buy some clothes. I don’t have the kind of clothes in my suitcase that this woman wears.”

“There’s another consideration that we might as well address right now,” Strand said. “We want all of this to happen as quickly as possible. I think we ought to put that kind of constraint on the sale if we can, press Carrington to make this happen fast. The point being to get Schrade to London immediately.”

“Knight’s going to want to keep the drawings.”

“That’s right. I would too in his situation. Any dealer at this level would. He’s going to have to examine them closely. He can’t offer them to Schrade-arguably his best client-on a cursory examination. They’ll be safe there. He has the best facilities.”

Mara nodded.

“But,” Strand went on, “we don’t want to leave the forged documentation with him. We can’t risk the possibility that he’ll discover they’re not authentic.”

“Then why have the forgeries worked up?”

“If he asks to see them, you’d better have them. You just can’t leave them with him.” He paused. “You’ll have to play it by ear. See what feels right and play it out.”

The rain roared outside. Corsier stood at the windows and looked across at the Connaught Hotel through the downpour and the dull afternoon light. He saw the windows that he thought were in the suite from which he would identify Schrade’s voice and then watch the explosion. The afternoon was so dark, the street lamps had come on and the street below was glistening with rain and glitter from the lamps, the rain running along the curbs like liquid light.

“All right all right all right,” Carrington Knight chirruped, hustling back into the viewing room with a bottle of champagne and two tall, thin glasses.

Corsier turned around, his heart slamming against his ribs. Knight, dressed in black, was wearing a Tyrian purple necktie and a simpering smile that had a hint of collusion about it. He set the champagne and the two glasses on the library table on a Victorian silver tray. Then he grinned at Corsier, a gray ferret’s grin, and opened his hands to Corsier, inviting him to proceed.

Corsier turned to the table and began undoing the first of two leather carrying cases he had had made in France when this moment was only a glorious anticipation in his mind’s eye. He had ordered the cases the same day he’d bought the frames, measuring them right there and then. They were lined with a chocolate velvet that complemented the leather cases. He knew Knight would notice this. He knew Knight would appreciate it.

Asking Knight to hold the leather case, Corsier reached inside and slowly withdrew the first frame, face up, turning it so that Knight could see it upright from the other side of the table. It was the drawing of the two reclining women.

Corsier’s eyes were fixed on Knight’s face. Knight’s mouth was slack. His eyes darted all over the picture, tonguelike, tasting every line, every stroke of the pencil, every blush of lilac, the slanted glance, the proud pudenda, his eyes greedy and glittering.

“Ohhhh… hhhhhh… Claude! Oh! My! God!”

Corsier let him revel.

“Schiele! Can you believe this?? Look at this…”

Knight raised his round black eyeglasses, resting them on his forehead, and stepped back. He shook his head. He came forward, picked up the heavy frame, and took it to the countertop, where he leaned it against the bookshelves.

Even Corsier’s breast thrilled. In the special lighting in which Carrington placed the drawing, the very soul of Egon Schiele burst into view. The goddamn thing looked-authentic!

Knight whirled around. “The other one!” he said quickly.

They went through the same procedures to remove the second drawing from its leather case, and Knight immediately marched it over to the countertop and leaned it against the bookcases beside the other.

He put one arm across his stomach, rested the elbow of the other on top of its wrist, and put his chin in his hand as he studied them both. He stepped forward, leaned in close, his eyes vacuuming the surface of first one drawing and then the other. He reached up and lowered his eyeglasses to the bridge of his small nose and stepped back, pacing from side to side in front of the pictures, viewing them from different angles. He struck a pose, one leg stretched in front of the other, arms crossed, shaking his head slowly as he marveled, a silver lock of hair falling down over his forehead.

“Well,” he said finally, raising his eyebrows and turning to Corsier with a look of theatrical amazement, “these are really quite beautiful. Convincing. I certainly have no hesitation to bring Wolf into this. The things just look like Schiele. I mean, it’s a hell of a thing to discover Schieles, for God’s sake, isn’t it?”

“I could hardly believe my eyes,” Corsier said.

He decided to grow serious instead of joyous. Knight had always to be tempered. If he were morose or skeptical, one had to pick him up. If he were ebullient, one had to portray studious sagacity. Knight appreciated a certain amount of tension, a certain equilibre.