David Lindsey - The Color of Night

“Why does your client insist upon anonymity?”

“Why does your client insist upon knowing?”

“Security reasons.”

“The same.”

“Do you have authority to decide this without consulting with your client?”

“Of course.”

Drenner’s prodigious jaw structure rippled with tested patience. “My client,” he said, “is willing to offer, through Mr. Knight, an agreement to buy the drawings at a price of twenty percent above their appraisal value, if they are proven to be genuine Schieles… and if the seller will forgo anonymity.”

Purchas held his tongue, regarding Drenner from under the bushy outcroppings of his eyebrows. The pause was meant to convey an immediate weakening of resolve.

“That would be done in writing?” Purchas asked.

“Yes. I have the authority to do that.”

Purchas looked out at the park across the road, dreary in the rain. He thought long and with gravity. “Would your client,” he said, turning back to Drenner, “be willing to keep the transaction totally confidential, between the two parties? Save Mr. Knight, of course. That would be the next best thing to anonymity for both of them, would it not?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of identification do you require?”

“I’d like to meet the seller, talk with him about how he came in possession of the drawings.”

Purchas was shocked. “Good God, sir. That is impossible.”

“Why?”

Purchas shook his head busily and looked away as if in distaste. “No, no, no. A twenty percent increase in sale price doesn’t buy that sort of thing. My client is not a common ‘celebrity’ who haggles away familiarity with himself to the highest bidder. I am sorry, sir, but that is out of the question.”

Again Drenner, who thought he had been making some headway, showed such frustration at this setback that his jaundiced face flushed, ruddy patches appearing on his cheeks and at the corners of his mouth. It was unpleasant to see.

Purchas thought he had better release some of the pressure before Drenner exploded.

“Mr. Drenner, please, you have to appreciate my position,” he said. “The fact is, the ‘gentleman’ in question here, the seller, is actually a woman.”

Drenner’s eyes bulged slightly, then relaxed. “Really.”

“Yes, really,” Purchas said. “So you see why she is cautious. I’ve represented her family in legal matters for over twenty-two years, and I can assure you your client has nothing to fear from her regarding security. She inherited these drawings from her aunt, an eccentric, a Bohemian, who recently died. She is a widow, in her mid-sixties, a taciturn woman.”

Purchas frowned heavily, his eyebrows lowering like dark clouds over his eyes. “I can assure you,” he concluded, “if your client insists on your ‘interviewing’ her, he should count himself out of the running. A woman of her nature would rather forgo a twenty percent profit than to be dragged into that sort of… merchandising.”

Purchas paused, sighed, and grew grimly sympathetic. “I know that may be difficult for your client, Mr. Stoltz, to understand. But really, sir, this is quite another matter to a woman like that. She simply doesn’t see it the same way as Mr. Stoltz.”

Mara started talking as soon as they pulled away from Carlos Place. She told Strand everything, speaking hurriedly as he drove through the pelting rain to a nearby hotel on Park Lane. He entered the parking garage and wound upward through the lanes until he found a parking place and pulled in.

He took off his chauffeur’s jacket and removed the bow tie and left them both in the car. Together they left the garage and entered the hotel, going up to the room that Strand had taken under the name of one of his passports. There he changed into a suit as Mara continued telling him about the particulars of her conversation with Knight. When he was finished dressing, they left the hotel and took a cab to an Indian restaurant in Knightsbridge, just off Cromwell Road.

After they were seated Mara picked up where she had left off and finished her account of her meeting with Carrington Knight.

“So essentially, you accomplished everything.”

“Almost.”

“Well, the time. But I don’t know how you could have done anything about that. Carrington’s got to talk to Schrade. There’s no way he could know otherwise.”

“But I’ve got to call him tomorrow, make arrangements to take him the documentation. I could start then. Did he reach Mr. Schrade? What was his reaction? Is he coming? And so on like that.”

“Sure, whatever feels right. The timing of Schrade’s arrival is crucial; we’ll have to nail it down. That’s the whole point of it.”

After their drinks came and they ordered dinner, Mara studied him.

“How are you going to do this, Harry?”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

“No.” She shook her head firmly. “I want to know how you’re going to do this.”

He swallowed a sip of his Scotch. “It really would be best if you didn’t know,” he said.

Her eyes flashed. “I’m not impressed by someone wanting to ‘protect’ me, Harry,” she went on. “You know me better than that. This has more to do with you. You’re not doing me any favors. I thought we had this settled.”

She was glaring at him, her anger controlled, but just barely.

He nodded. “Okay,” he said, “you’re right.” He took another drink of his Scotch and deliberately tried to taste every possible element of its savor before he swallowed. Then he went on. “When Schrade comes to London, he stays at one of three places. They’re obvious places for a man like him: Brown’s, Claridge’s, the Ritz. But there will be few opportunities to approach him at any of them.”

“Approach him?”

Strand took a mental deep breath and told her how he planned to kill Schrade. He watched her face as he explained about the saxitoxin, explained the gun, explained the necessity of having to get close to him. She did very well, no shock, no stunned expression, no exclamations. She swallowed once, that was all.

“How… did you decide to do it this way?” she asked. “Why not use something that would give you some distance?”

“A high-powered rifle, a bomb?”

She nodded.

“There’s less risk for me with those devices, but both of them require detailed long-term planning. I knew I wouldn’t have that kind of time.”

“But this way the risk is greater that you’ll…”

“Be killed or caught.”

She had to swallow again and covered it by taking a sip of her Scotch.

He smiled at her. “But I plan to avoid that.”

She couldn’t manage a response.

“Schrade also has favorite restaurants,” Strand went on. He named half a dozen. “I think it’s a good possibility that I can catch him coming in or out of one of these.”

“You said it would make a sound.”

“About like a slap.”

“That’s loud.”

“In a quiet place, yes. But outside in the street it could be done without attracting attention.”

“What about his bodyguard?”

“Schrade uses them in different ways, and I’m lucky there. When he goes to business meetings, legitimate business meetings, there’s only one guard, who accompanies him like a secretary. He’s very understated, in the background. Everybody knows what he is, but it’s no big deal. Important men, at least important men in Schrade’s orbit, are accustomed to seeing their peers with ‘assistants.’ If you didn’t know who Schrade was, you’d think two businessmen.

“When he meets with his illegitimate associates, always in environments quite different from those I’ve just mentioned, he travels with two bodyguards who look like bodyguards, and no one would mistake them for anything else. They’re there to intimidate as well as protect.”