Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“Now I want you to turn the picture around so that it’s facing me,” said Krantz, “and don’t take your eye off the knife.” She pulled back the blade from her throat and raised it above her head. While Anna turned the picture round, Krantz kept the knife in line with her favorite part of the anatomy.

“Grip the frame firmly,” said Krantz, “because your friend Mr. Van Gogh is about to lose more than his left ear.”

“But why?” cried Anna, unable to remain silent any longer.

“I’m glad you asked,” said Krantz, “because Mr. Fenston’s orders could not have been more explicit. He wanted you to be the last person to see the masterpiece before it was finally destroyed.”

“But why?” Anna repeated.

“As Mr. Fenston couldn’t own the painting himself, he wanted to be sure that Mr. Nakamura couldn’t either,” said Krantz, the blade of the knife still hovering inches from Anna’s neck. “Always a mistake to cross Mr. Fenston. What a pity that you won’t have the chance to tell your friend Lady Arabella what Mr. Fenston has in mind for her.” Krantz paused. “But I have a feeling he won’t mind me sharing the details with you. Once the painting has been destroyed — so unfortunate that she couldn’t afford to insure it, such a false economy, because that’s when Mr. Fenston will set about selling off the rest of the estate until she has finally cleared the debt. Her death, unlike yours, will be a long and lingering one. One can only admire Mr. Fenston’s neat and logical mind.” She paused again. “I fear that time is running out, both for you and Mr. Van Gogh.”

Krantz suddenly raised the knife high above her head and plunged the blade into the canvas. Anna felt the full force of Krantz’s strength as she sliced through Van Gogh’s neck, and with all the power she could muster, Krantz continued the movement until she had completed an uneven circle, finally removing the head of Van Gogh and leaving a ragged hole in the center of the canvas. Krantz leaned back to admire her handiwork and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. She felt she had carried out her contract with Mr. Fenston to the letter, and now that Anna had witnessed the whole spectacle, the time had come for Krantz to earn the fourth million.

Anna watched as Van Gogh’s head fell onto the sheet beside her, without a drop of blood being spilt. As Krantz sat back to enjoy her moment of triumph, Anna brought the heavy frame crashing down toward her head. But Krantz was swifter than Anna had anticipated and was able to quickly turn, raise an arm, and deflect the blow onto her left shoulder. Anna jumped off the bed as Krantz cast the frame to one side and pushed herself back up. Anna managed to rise and even take a step toward the door before Krantz leaped off the bed and dived at her, thrusting the tip of the blade into her leg as Anna attempted another step. Anna stumbled and fell, only inches from the door, blood spurting in every direction. Krantz was only a pace behind as Anna’s hand touched the handle of the door, but it was too late. Krantz was on her before she could turn the handle. She grabbed Anna by the hair and pulled her back down onto the floor. Krantz raised the knife above her head, and the last words Anna heard her utter were: “This time it’s personal.”

Krantz was about to perform a ceremonial incision when the bedroom door was flung open. Not by a butler carrying a cup of cocoa, but by a woman with a shotgun under her right arm, her hands and shimmering silk gown covered in blood.

Krantz was momentarily transfixed as she looked up at Lady Victoria Wentworth. Hadn’t she already killed this woman? Was she staring at a ghost? Krantz hesitated, mesmerized, as the apparition advanced toward her. Krantz didn’t take her eyes off Arabella, while still holding the knife to Anna’s throat, the blade hovering a centimeter from her skin.

Arabella raised the gun as Krantz eased slowly backward, dragging her quarry across the floor toward the open window. Arabella cocked the trigger. “Another drop of blood,” she said, “and I’ll blow you to smithereens. I’ll start with your legs, and then I’ll save the second cartridge for your stomach. But I won’t quite finish you off. No, I can promise you a slow, painful death, and I will not be calling for an ambulance until I’m convinced there’s nothing they can do to help you.” Arabella lowered her gun slightly and Krantz hesitated. “Let her go,” she said, “and I won’t fire.” Arabella broke the barrel of her gun and waited. She was surprised to see how terrified Krantz was, while Anna remained remarkably composed.

Without warning, Krantz let go of Anna’s hair and threw herself sideways out of the open window, landing on the balcony. Arabella snapped the barrel closed, raised the gun and fired all in one movement, blowing away the Burne-Jones window and leaving a gaping hole. Arabella rushed over to the smouldering gap and shouted, “Now, Andrews,” as if she was ordering a beat at a pheasant shoot to commence. A second later, the security lights floodlit the front lawn so that it looked like a football field with a single player advancing toward goal.

Arabella’s eyes settled on the diminutive black figure as she zigzagged across the lawn. Arabella raised the gun a second time, pulled the butt firmly into her shoulder, took aim, drew a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. A moment later Krantz fell to the ground, but still somehow managed to crawl on toward the wall.

“Damn,” said Arabella, “I only winged her.” She ran out of the room, down the stairs, and shouted long before she reached the bottom step, “Two more cartridges, Andrews.”

Andrews opened the front door with his right hand and passed her ladyship two more cartridges with his left. Arabella quickly reloaded before charging down the front steps and onto the lawn. She could just about make out a tiny black figure as it changed direction toward the open gate, but Arabella was beginning to make ground on Krantz with every stride she took. Once she was satisfied that Krantz was within range, she came to a halt in the middle of the lawn. She raised her gun and nestled it into her shoulder. She took aim and was about to squeeze the trigger when, out of nowhere, three police cars and an ambulance came speeding through the gates, their headlights blinding Arabella so that she could no longer see her quarry.

The first car screeched to a halt at her feet, and when Arabella saw who it was that climbed out of the car, she reluctantly lowered her gun.

“Good evening, Chief Superintendent,” she said, placing a hand across her forehead as she tried to shield her eyes from the beam that was focused directly on her.

“Good evening, Arabella,” replied the chief superintendent, as if he had arrived a few minutes late for one of her drinks parties. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“It was until you turned up,” said Arabella, “poking your nose into other people’s business. And how, may I ask, did you manage to get here so quickly?”

“You have your American friend, Jack Delaney, to thank for that,” said the chief superintendent. “He warned us that you might require some assistance. So we’ve had the place under surveillance for the past hour.”

“I didn’t require any assistance,” said Arabella, raising her gun again. “If you’d given me just a couple more minutes, I’d have finished her off and been quite happy to face the consequences.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said the chief superintendent, as he returned to his car and switched off the headlights. The ambulance and the other two police cars were nowhere to be seen.

“You’ve let her get clean away, you fool,” said Arabella, raising her gun for a third time, just as Mr. Nakamura appeared by her side in his dressing gown.