Quick on the Draw Page 6

‘That’s right. He invited me to visit him and his collection if I’m ever in Venice.’

  ‘Cesare did?’ He seemed astonished. ‘Why?’

  I simpered modestly. ‘Because I’m worth it.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, but …’

  ‘I also know quite a bit about some of the painters in his collection.’

  ‘I see.’

  As he moved away, I caught at his sleeve. ‘Sandro, has this happened before? Has stuff gone missing from other houses where your friends have been?’

  He frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Know what a kleptomaniac is?’

  ‘Of course.’ His eyes were suddenly wary, his body poised as though for a blow.

  ‘Is it possible that one of your friends, rich and well-brought-up as they are, might be one?’ I tried to keep my voice neutral.

  To my surprise, his face reddened. ‘No!’ he said explosively, the word sounding like a fired bullet. ‘Certainly not.’ Which I took to mean, ‘Actually, yes.’ It was something I’d have to look into later. But kleptomaniacs don’t usually go on to sell the stuff they’ve lifted. They’re more in the nature of magpies, hoarding the stolen treasure, rather than taking it for monetary gain. There was a royal personage, wasn’t there, the present monarch’s grandmother, or great-grandmother, who was given to helping herself to expensive little objets from the houses of her friends, which her ladies-in-waiting would discreetly return the following day?

  ‘I’ll go along to the pawnshop tomorrow and see if I can dig up any more details,’ I said. ‘Though such places are notoriously close-mouthed about the people who take advantage of their services.’

  ‘They’d have to be, in an upmarket area like the West End.’ Sandro was looking curiously relieved, as though I’d been Hot, or at least Warm, a moment ago, but had now moved towards Cold. Which made me wonder if I should be looking in a different, though related, direction. And also, if I was correct in my assumption, find out which one of his friends was the possible klepto.

  As with an ebbing tide, little pools of conversation were forming and melting into similar but different ones. I saw Katy Pasqualin standing temporarily alone, staring out of one of the tall windows at the cityscape below, and went over to join her.

  ‘Oh, hi, Alex,’ she said, turning to me. Clever to remember my name after one brief introduction, I thought. Then I saw there were tears in her eyes. And one moving slowly down her cheek.

  I frowned. I had been wrong to designate designer scarves and lava or whale-tooth necklaces. Her pretty dress made no statements at all, and her meticulously manicured feet were in ordinary Prada sandals. Ordinary, that is, except for the price. Which I happened to know was well over six hundred quid. Six hundred … say what? ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. As I could have placed bets she would. She brushed at the lone teardrop.

  ‘Something obviously is,’ I said. ‘Do you want to talk about it? Do you need to?’

  ‘It’s not really the right time or place, is it?’

  ‘Is there ever a right time?’

  ‘True.’

  Despite the hair, I’d already marked her down as more mature than her two friends. ‘Boyfriend? Parents? Money?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She placed the back of her index finger under her nose. Sniffed a little. Gave me a damp smile. ‘It’s kind of you to be concerned, but really, it’s nothing.’

  ‘If you say so …’ I moved away, leaving an encouraging smile behind me and wondering what on earth could be responsible for the momentary look of sheer terror I had glimpsed lying behind her tears.

  Was this the first rift in the lute? There were obviously darker forces at play beneath the privileged upbringing. It had been short-sighted of me to think otherwise. Ahead of me was another floral frock, inside which I recognized Bianca. I had been wrong to peg these pretty feminine girls as … well … pretty mindless. They were all far from that. ‘Hey, Bianca,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ She frowned, obviously trying to remember who the heck I was.

  ‘Alex Quick,’ I said. ‘We only had the briefest introduction earlier.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You live in London, don’t you?’ Coming in sideways, so she wouldn’t suspect I was trying to pump her.

  ‘I should hope so. I would hate to have to commute every day.’

  She had a charming accent, not quite foreign, but equally not quite English. ‘So where do you live?’ I asked.

  ‘I share a flat in the City. Before you ask, there are two other people, one of each sex.’ She gave me a shrewd smile, indicating that she knew exactly what I was doing. Did she know why?

  ‘What about Katy? Does she share too?’

  ‘Not on a permanent basis. She has a boyfriend. James something or other, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  Bianca gave an indifferent shrug. Nuff said. Either she didn’t like the boyfriend, or didn’t approve of him. Or both.

  ‘But not Fabio,’ I said. Even to my own ears, I didn’t sound as frank and open as I would have liked.

  ‘Fabio prefers the men,’ Bianca said. She shrugged haughtily. ‘And why not.’ This was a new piece of information, though I couldn’t see that it was necessarily relevant. Nonetheless, I wondered why Sandro had omitted to tell me.

  ‘Did Sandro tell you he and Katy are cousins?’ I asked.

  ‘Probably, since they are.’

  She was a daunting young woman. Although there isn’t much which daunts me, I found myself not daring to ask if she herself had a significant other.

  Edred and Mary joined us. Bianca quickly made an excuse and left.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Lots of very pretty girls,’ Edred said happily.

  ‘Are you going home tonight?’ asked Mary.

  ‘I have to see someone in the morning so I’ll stay here. Shan’t get back to Longbury until lunchtime.’

  ‘Isn’t it time Lena produced that baby?’ my mother said. ‘I saw her last week and she looked as if she was carrying quintuplets.’

  ‘Octuplets,’ said my father.

  ‘Any day now, I should think,’ I said. ‘By the way, just so you know, I’m planning to go to Venice next week for a few days.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Mostly business. But just being in Venice is a pleasure.’

  ‘“Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee,”’ said my father vaguely. ‘“Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.”’

  ‘I wonder what Wordsworth meant by that,’ said Mary.

  ‘Surely it’s obvious.’

  ‘I don’t agree. Why the eldest child? Why Liberty?’

  Uncle Cesare was approaching and I left my parents to their literary wrangling.

  ‘Signorina, please take this.’ He handed me his business card. ‘I am leaving now but I look forward to hearing from you when you arrive in Venice. Until then, ciao.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll definitely be in touch.’

  The next morning, I made my way to the upmarket pawnshop where Sandro had seen his aunt’s ring displayed in the window. I pushed open the door and faced a barrier of shiny stainless-steel rods which extended right across the shop, with a small grille which could be opened set into it. As I approached, a person of some kind appeared behind it. Male? Female? Impossible to say.

  A man in a flat tweed cap was standing to the right of the shop, examining a wall-hung display case containing necklaces hung on pegboard hooks. His back was very pointedly towards me and I wondered if he was someone recognizable, trying to look both inconspicuous and like the sort of punter who was in and out all day, pawning stuff. He didn’t pull it off, really. His behaviour made me determine to linger, once I got outside, to see if his face was familiar.

  ‘Yes?’ said the grille person. I still couldn’t tell what sex he/she/i
t was from the voice.

  ‘I wanted to enquire about a piece of jewellery which was recently handed over as collateral for a loan.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m with the police.’ Put like that, I wasn’t quite impersonating a police officer, was I?

  As far as I could make out, the expression on the other side of the grille was sceptical in the extreme. Pull the other one trembled on its androgynous lips.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t divulge any details at all about our depositors.’ The being leaned forward slightly and glanced at the back of the man examining necklaces. He was standing ramrod straight, tension tightening his shoulder blades. ‘As you can imagine, once we start giving away information of that sort, our reputation for discretion would be destroyed.’

  ‘Could you give me a rough general description? That’s all I need. I’m not trying to track the person down. I just need to know which of three possibilities it might have been.’

  Very quietly, the person wrote on a slip of paper and turned it so I could read it. Come back at 17:30. Speaking clearly, they said, ‘Where theft is concerned, obviously we are more than willing to cooperate with the police as far as we possibly can.’

  ‘But theft is exactly what I’m talking about.’

  ‘We would require much more information about the stolen item or items, and identification of the true owner of the piece. Until then, we have to rigidly respect the privacy of our customers. We can’t start changing the rules every time some inquisitive person wanders in.’

  ‘I can quite see that. But I have photos of the missing object and I’m working on behalf of the owner.’

  ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’ The piece of paper had disappeared.

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Precisely.’ The face receded. ‘So I’m afraid I can’t be of further assistance.’

  ‘Well, thank you anyway. And may I say how much I admire your ethical stance. It must be a great relief for your clients.’

  Outside, I crossed the road and stood looking into the window of a place selling butcher shop equipment. Everything from table-top mincers to wood-block tables, every kind of knife you could think of from cleavers and slicers to boning knives and carvers. There were hooks and steels and bandsaws and weird latex gloves. Fascinating. Across the road, Flat Cap Man came out of the pawnshop and swiftly moved away. At the corner of the street, he removed his cap and sunglasses and headed off round into the next street. All I had time to note was the slim build, the fancy designer shoes and the expensively beautiful overcoat.

  SIX

  The art gallery where Katy Pasqualin was the manager was just off Kensington High Street. I hung around a bit, clocked the shop windows, went into the bookstore directly opposite and glanced through a few of the volumes piled on the front table, at the same time keeping an eye out for Katy emerging for lunch. Of course, for all I knew, she might just bring a sandwich and eat at her desk. Or, given her slim figure, she might skip lunch altogether. But I was betting she’d come out, if only for a change of scene. Otherwise, I’d have to go into the gallery and look at the stuff on display, which would make it a lot more difficult to go into the artless mode I planned, hailing her across the street with phoney spontaneity.

  At five minutes past one, she emerged. She was all business today, in a short brown skirt with a long jacket over it. I wasn’t crazy about the brass buttons. A bag was slung over her shoulder and she was talking on the phone as she passed the bookshop. I dashed after her.

  ‘Katy!’ I carolled, spontaneous as hell. She stopped and looked back.

  ‘Oh … uh … Alex,’ she said. ‘Just a moment.’ Into her phone, she said, ‘Gotta go, hon. Talk later.’

  From which I deduced she was talking to the boyfriend. James Something. ‘Sorry to barge in on you like this,’ I lied, ‘but I was in the bookshop, and saw you go by. Can I buy you a coffee? Or even lunch?’

  ‘That’s very nice of you. Thanks,’ she said.

  We walked to a restaurant nearby. Crowded with braying customers. Smelling of coffee and grated cheese. Several of the brayers lifted their hands and waved at Katy. She smiled back at them. We found a table and set ourselves up with coffee. I had a grilled cheese sandwich. She chose a salade niçoise.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I had to see someone whose office is …’ I gestured vaguely in the direction of the park. ‘And then I saw you.’ I’m a great believer in the lie direct.

  ‘Right.’ She obviously didn’t believe me.

  In which case, I might as well go for the truth direct. ‘It’s absolutely none of my business,’ I said. ‘But you seemed a little upset the other night at Sandro’s. More than that. You seemed scared of something.’

  ‘Scared?’ For a moment, she held my gaze. Then she looked away. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ she said. ‘It is none of your business.’

  I’d have said the same in her place, if some more-or-less stranger had shown up and started probing into my private affairs. ‘Nonetheless,’ I continued. ‘I don’t like to see someone in distress. And as I said last time, if there’s anything I can do …’

  ‘There isn’t.’ She folded a leaf of young spinach against her fork and lifted it to her mouth.

  I took it as an encouraging sign that she hadn’t asked me to fuck off. ‘Is it anything to do with the thefts from Sandro’s uncle’s apartment in Venice?’ I said.

  That got her. She sat abruptly upright, as though a bolt of lightning had struck her. ‘What are you …? What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you know. At least … I think you know something about it.’

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t say you were. I’m only suggesting that you might know someone who is. Perhaps one of your friends.’

  She tightened her lips so hard I could practically see the outline of her teeth under them.

  ‘I can tell that you know what I’m talking about.’ I kept my voice gentle. Conversational. Quite hard for me. ‘The antique ring. The little Botticelli lookalike.’

  ‘Who are you working for?’ She stared wildly around. ‘How do you know about them?’

  ‘Let’s just say I was informed.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Was it Suzy? Or Harry?’

  ‘Heavens above! Were you all in it together?’ I smiled. ‘Sounds like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.’

  Which one of the people at Sandro’s party could have scared Katy so much? Or was it all down to someone else entirely, someone who hadn’t officially been present? Someone she might have caught in the act of stealing something from the Marchese’s collection, and been sworn to secrecy by?

  I thought she was going to stand up, point at me dramatically and order me to leave. Instead, she crumpled. Her spine slid against the back of her chair. ‘Oh God.’ She buried her face in her hands.

  I was about to push a bit harder when a couple of guys in blue-and-white striped shirts and beige linen jackets appeared beside us. One of them glared at me. The other put his hand on Katy’s shoulder and bent down towards her. ‘Everything all right, Kates?’ he said.

  ‘Fine. Just fine, thanks, Edward.’ Katy spoke in a strangled voice and sat up as straight as she could manage.

  ‘We’ll walk you back to the gallery,’ said the glarer.

  ‘I’ll pick up the tab,’ said Edward. ‘As for you, whoever you are …’ He jerked his head at the door of the place. ‘On your bike.’

  Let no one say I can’t take a hint. ‘You know how to get in touch, Katy,’ I said softly. I touched her arm and left. At least she seemed to have friends. I would dearly have liked to know what she was so scared of.

  Katy was the easiest of Sandro’s friends to ‘run into’ without arousing suspicion. I decided to go for Bianca the Banker next, though she’d be much harder to ‘accidentally’ encounter. Since I had the address of th
e financial institution she was employed by, I went down to the City, and found the place. Diving straight in was the best way, I decided. Meet her head on.

  The global headquarters of the company she worked for was housed in an imposing building, its massive front door placed at the top of a shallow flight of stone steps. An equally imposing guy in a top hat and a long green coat strewn with medals was standing in front of the door. I walked up the steps, wondering whether he was going to let me in.

  After a nail-biting couple of seconds, he did. Phew! I walked into an interior of marbled walls, sweeps of stairways and galleries, acres of black and white tiling, an impression of daily polished brass. There were shiny boards on the walls, proclaiming in gilt letters the different departments and corporations housed beneath this august roof. I spotted Bianca’s company, up on the third floor. I could have walked up, but chose to take the lift. Another imposing bloke stood inside, dressed identically to the first one and wearing exactly the same medals. What a coincidence. They must have fought together in the same fields of conflict. Brothers in arms, or what?

  When the lift stopped, I stepped out and walked along the corridor until I came to the office where Bianca, according to Sandro, spent her working days. I looked through the glass panel set into the door. And there she was, one of about twenty people, all beavering away at papers on their desks, or staring at computer screens in front of them.

  I pushed open the door. As one man/woman, they all looked up at me. Bianca recognized me and frowned. What was this woman doing here, someone she’d only met briefly two evenings ago? And why was she – Alex, was it? – beckoning her over? With an apologetic look at the beavers on either side of her, she got up and walked between desks towards me, still frowning. Unless she was ready for a break, I could see this was going to be an abortive meeting.

  No floaty dresses and strappy sandals today. She was wearing a dark-green trouser suit with a girly-pink T-shirt under it. Very plain. Very one of the boys. With just the right touch of femininity. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

  I wanted to say I’d just been appointed the Ann Summers rep for the area, but didn’t think she’d laugh. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ I said humbly. ‘It’s just that Sandro Grainger suggested I get in touch. It’s regarding the dinner party he had in Venice, whenever it was.’