David Lindsey - The Color of Night

Mara was sitting on the edge of their bed, fastening the buckle on her shoes, when she decided to go on to Knight’s immediately even though she would be a little early. The decision was a result partly of a nagging sixth sense and partly of anxiety. She was worried sick about Strand, her mind generating an endless chain of scenarios about what he was doing and what was happening to him, none of them good. She couldn’t help it. That none of these scenarios was hopeful was depressing, which she feared would adversely affect the way she had to handle herself within the next hour.

The sixth sense was, naturally, more difficult to deal with. It was, simply, a discomfiting tug at the back of her mind that was so persistent, it seemed foolish to ignore it.

She stood up and smoothed her dress, a dove gray wool knit that fell to her ankles. She stepped to the windows and regarded her faint reflection. There was no full-length mirror in the bare town house. She entertained the idea of wearing a belt and finally decided against it, preferring a sleeker look. Her stockings were bone, her shoes matched the dove gray of the dress. She had taken the single braid of her hair and coiled it in a complicated chignon. A single black pearl drop dangled from each ear.

After calling for the cab and slipping on her long black raincoat, she stood at the windows and looked down at the street. Whatever was going to happen to them was already in motion and couldn’t be stopped or turned back or undone. She did not feel good about it, and the fact that she was not optimistic filled her with an enormous sadness.

The black cab came down Chesterfield Hill, emerging slowly from the fog and the drizzle. Suddenly she was angry, furious at herself and at the weakness of her feelings. She wheeled around from the windows and started down the stairs.

When the doorbell rang, Carrington Knight was surprised. He glanced at his watch and stepped to the windows to look down.

“A cab?” He turned with a puzzled frown to Claude Corsier, who was sitting in one of the armchairs, balancing a cup of tea on a saucer. “I don’t have any idea who that is. Excuse me a moment.”

At the landing he pushed a button to unlock the front door and started down the curving staircase.

Upon reaching the ground floor, he crossed the foyer and opened the front door.

“Oh, good Lord, Ms. Paille.”

“I’m sorry I’m early,” she said, stepping inside. “I hope this isn’t inconveniencing you.”

“Oh, my goodness, no, no, no, not at all,” he said, ushering her inside. “Let me take your coat.” He relished looking at her as she turned her back to him and let the raincoat slip off her shoulders. What an exquisite neck, Knight thought, the little wisp of dark hair there at the nape. The supple wool knit fit the woman like a kiss.

“Listen,” Knight said, his mind jittering with a way to handle this awkward circumstance as he hung her coat in the closet, “there’s a gentleman upstairs, another collector and dealer. He’s actually just on his way out, but if you don’t mind, I’d like him to meet you, and to quickly look at your collection.” He could not, on the spur of the moment, think of any other way to get them around each other now that Corsier had stayed a little too long and she had come a little too early.

“Certainly,” she said, “I’d love to meet him.”

Corsier was waiting for them when they topped the last step on the landing. Knight introduced her to Corsier, whom he presented as Mr. Blanchard, an impromptu fabrication that Corsier accepted as smoothly as if they had rehearsed it.

Corsier, regal as always, bowed slightly from the waist and took her hand. He did not kiss it, although he looked as if he wanted to. Like Knight, Corsier was a connoisseur of beauty in its endless variations. Everything, even beauty, existed within a continuum, and a beautiful woman was certainly at the highest end of the scale. Ms. Paille was no less stunning today than she had been two days before.

Well aware of their tight schedule, Knight quickly retrieved Cao’s drawings from the vault and, while keeping up a rapid-fire, though oblique, explanation of Ms. Paille’s situation, placed the portfolio on the library table and opened it with a precious manner.

He stepped back. Claude Corsier silently studied the Balthus encased in the first leaf. Then he methodically went through the portfolio without hurrying, much to Knight’s increasing agitation. Occasionally Corsier leaned forward to examine a drawing more closely, his nose nearly touching it. At last he straightened and turned around.

“Ms. Paille, you are in possession of a very handsome collection here. I’m sure you know that.”

“Mr. Knight has made me aware,” she said.

Corsier elaborated on his thoughts about each of the drawings, turning to look at one of them now and again. Knight could see that the old bear found Ms. Paille to be a bright brush stroke of beauty, eliciting his most charming manner.

After consulting his watch, Corsier excused himself, pleading obligations elsewhere. He took Ms. Paille’s hand once again with a shallow bow.

Knight walked him down the stairs to the door.

“Are you going to offer those drawings to Schrade, too, Carrington?” Corsier asked softly, pausing in the foyer.

“I think I am, yes.”

“You should. What a remarkable collection.”

He walked to the cloak closet and took out his raincoat. “You know, Carrington, you should keep them in the vault until the very last moment, until the Schiele deal is completed. Bring them out just before he’s about to leave.”

“Don’t worry.” Knight smiled. “I’m going to squeeze the most out of the Schieles. I won’t let the drawings compete. They are a completely separate situation and negotiation-altogether.” He handed Corsier his umbrella.

Corsier smiled also. “Thank you, Carrington.” He turned to the door. “Oh, the woman, Ms. Paille. Is she going to stay for the meeting?”

“No, I think not. Definitely not.”

“Good,” Corsier said. He turned and walked out the door, putting up his umbrella. He descended the front steps and disappeared around the corner on Carlos Place.

9:15

He looked at his watch. He had been sitting in the foyer, with yet another cup of coffee, for more than half an hour. Mara would be getting ready to leave for Carrington’s in a cab. He guessed that Schrade would wait to come down at the last minute and go straight to his Mercedes. Still, he had come early in case Schrade had an earlier agenda.

Schrade rounded the corner from the elevators, his pace deliberate, his back straight, and headed into the front hall. He was alone, no Howard. Was Howard waiting in the restaurant for him? In the front hall out of Strand’s view? Strand quickly left some money beside his coffee cup and followed Schrade, glancing around for Howard.

Just as he got to the sidewalk, Schrade was getting into the backseat of the Mercedes. Alone. Moving without hurrying, Strand stepped across and got into one of the waiting cabs along the street.

As he had done the previous night, he leaned forward and gave the driver a large note.

“I need to follow the Mercedes discreetly, ” he emphasized.

“Yes… yes, sir.” The driver’s eyes boggled at the size of the note as he digested the instructions. “Oh, right, sir.” He was suddenly alert, responsible, ready. He flipped on his windshield wipers and pulled out into the traffic of Brook Street.

“The driver’s going to be watching for this sort of thing.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

He seemed to. He allowed traffic to get between them, then quickly crowded up close as they approached Bond Street, where all the traffic had to turn right in the direction of Piccadilly. He let the Mercedes move up again several car lengths. The traffic muddled along. These few blocks were something of a bottleneck. Bond Street was not a through street at this point, being interrupted by a pedestrian court a few blocks ahead, after which it began again and went on to Piccadilly. Traffic slowed here since it was forced to turn into side streets or continue on a contorted series of turns to get back to Bond. The Mercedes remained in the left lane, then it pulled to the curb and stopped.