Richard Jury: The Stargazey Part 34

"I didn't know him."

"Did you kill him? Because whoever the h.e.l.l did it is just too d.a.m.ned b.l.o.o.d.y cool."

"There was only one question. I answered it."

"You're going to shoot me; I won't be able to tell anyone."

"What makes you think I'd shoot you, Richard?"

"Somehow it's the impression I've been getting," Jury said dryly. Literally, dryly. His mouth felt as if it had never known saliva.

She smiled. "I don't think I could. You're too-" She glanced away for a moment, almost as if looking at him were painful.

"You're not going to shoot me?" Jury couldn't help it; he laughed. "My G.o.d, you put something in that drink, didn't you?"

"Nothing much. Just enough to keep you quiet for a few hours. It'll hit you hard, fast. Wait."

"Someone who takes the kind of chances you take, love, is bound to be brought down."

"Then it should be by you, don't you think?"

For some reason, the voice of Carole-anne came to him: Is that one of your compliments, then?

He smiled, had to sit down before he fell. "Is that a compliment?"

Her hand was on the doork.n.o.b, the gun lowered, but fractionally. "Perhaps. I don't give many."

"You wouldn't have much b.l.o.o.d.y chance to. To walk into a men's club, simply pull out a stiletto, and stab one of the members. You must be handsomely paid, Kate."

"I don't do it for the money, not anymore."

"What then?"

"For the rush."

She was gone.

It hit him. Hard.

46.

Melrose was considering getting out a knife and attacking the top layer himself-sandpaper, Rees had said. His curiosity was killing him. But the damage he might inflict made him too nervous to try. He wished he hadn't given Ruthven and Martha the evening off; he had no one to cajole or complain to. He couldn't get hold of Richard Jury-talk about somebody who should have a pager. Remembering Diane's, he leafed through his little address book and found the number and dialed. When he'd called her from London, he'd told her he was hiring a car, and she had sympathized with him for having to drive a cheaper Mercedes.

The doorbell sounded its soothing treble note, and Melrose would almost have been glad to see Agatha at the moment. Indeed, he opened the door with the expectation he'd see her and took an involuntary (and he imagined unfriendly) step back when he saw the woman standing there.

She smiled. "Mr. Plant?" She removed her wallet from her purse and held it out so that he could see-he supposed-some identification. "I'm Posy."

While he stood there staring, she smiled and c.o.c.ked her head, as if waiting for the penny to drop.

Light dawned. "Oh, Trueblood! I completely forgot he told me he knew someone who could help me with a painting."

She nodded. "Mr. Trueblood rang me up."

"Come in, come in! You're from Northampton, then?"

"That's right. No, thanks, I'll keep my coat on-I've been getting chills all day. Hope it's not flu. What an absolutely gorgeous house." She stood in the center of the big marble hallway, turning slowly around. "You have some lovely paintings here. Is that a Stubbs?" She nodded toward a study of mares and foals.

Melrose wasn't even sure. "More or less. Listen, the painting I want you to look at, it's in here, in the living room." He showed her the way. "What I need isn't precisely art restoration, but more getting the top layer off."

"That's quite a tricky operation. There are solvents, of course, but one has to be quite a good technician to do that."

Melrose had moved to the armoire, behind which he'd set the painting. "Are you?"

"Good? Oh, yes." She laughed.

He smiled and pulled out the painting, which he lugged over to a wooden settee against which he leaned it. "I don't think it's a case for solvents."

"This is the candidate for restoration?" She regarded it silently. Then she said, trying not to laugh, "Can't understand why you want to get the top layer off."

Trueblood was supposed to have sent him an art restorer, not a stand-up comedienne. "Neither can I." They both laughed.

She asked, "Well, but what is it?"

"Snow. Russia. Siberia, according to the artist. Run your hand over the surface." As she did so, he said, "Sandpaper. The chap who painted this has a technique of putting a thin layer of sandpaper over the canvas underneath."

She nodded. "I've heard of that. Makes for interesting texture." She had been kneeling in front of the painting and now rose to her feet. "So it's not removing the white paint, but the sandpaper, right?"

"Isn't that easier?"

"Decidedly." She opened the leather satchel she'd placed on the wooden bench and removed what look like a jeweler's loupe. This she positioned in her right eye and bent her head close to the painting, again running her hand over it.

Melrose couldn't think why she'd want it magnified. "It's nothing but a solid square of white; what detail do you think you'll see that way?"

"Um. It's not the paint I'm examining, but the texture and the thickness." She opened her eye wide and let the loupe fall into her hand, then turned the painting and ran her fingers down the side. "It's whatever's under the sandpaper you're interested in?"

He nodded. "Another painting. Although I'm not really certain."

"Let's have a look." Out of the satchel this time she pulled what looked like a sc.r.a.ping knife, the sort house painters use. She applied this to the lower corner and very carefully pried off the layer of sandpaper, about two square inches of it.

Melrose knelt down beside her and looked. "Yes. I don't see anything. Take off some more."

"I'll have to do this slowly; I'm afraid of damaging the canvas. Do you think it's valuable?"

"It's caused enough trouble to be priceless."

She smiled. Very carefully, she continued to remove the upper layer until she'd freed over a quarter of the painting's surface. She stopped. "Why would anyone do this?" She rose from her crouch and looked at him curiously.

Melrose did not want to tell her, so he settled for, "It's my Uncle Soames. He's quite addled these days."

"Really?" She reached into the satchel again.

Melrose, trying to make out what looked like a signature, said, "Couldn't that be the name of the original painter?"

"I'd say so."

"How did you-" He turned and saw the gun pointed at him. He was speechless.

"Sorry, Mr. Plant." Quite pleasant she was about this, adding, "Now, if you'll just stand back there"-she motioned with the gun-"I'll simply pack up everything and be off."

Melrose had backed away and was more shocked than frightened. "Who in h.e.l.l are you?"

"It's not important." She was dropping things back into the satchel.

"How did you know I had the painting?"

"Well, somebody took it from the Fabricant Gallery. And you're really the only possibility as far as we knew."

" 'We'?"

"Ilona and Sebastian. You and your painter friend-"

Melrose forgot the gun. "Listen, leave Bea Sloc.u.m alone; she's straight out of this." The ringing of the telephone, which sounded to Melrose's ears more like a shriek, cut him off.

"Answer it!" she hissed. "Before it wakes your staff."

Thank the lord Ruthven and Martha had gone out. Why didn't she realize he was staffless? He'd opened his own door, after all. The gun was jammed against his ribs. "Pick it up; hold the receiver so I can hear."

Oh, wonderful, was his fleeting thought. If she listens to the other person, how do I get a message through? It's Jury! Make it Richard Jury, please G.o.d! Let it be Jury! He can read minds.

"Melrose? Melrose? What did you want?"

Diane! h.e.l.l's bells. How can I get a message through? "Diane . . . darling! Thanks for calling, love."

A brief pause while Diane must have been trying to work out endearments he'd never used with her. Then she spoke, rather tentatively. "Yes, I-"

Don't let her talk. Don't talk, Diane! Melrose could feel the warm breath of the executioner on his cheek. He could also feel the gun. "Listen, Diane. Dear. I knew you'd want to hear right away about Mildred." Diane was stony silent. Dear G.o.d, was it possible that Diane could pick up on something from his side? "She's not doing well, darling, not at all."

Silence. And then Diane responded. "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry, darling. What's wrong this time?"

My G.o.d! Diane Demorney was thinking, thinking on her feet! "I'm really afraid it's near the end, Diane."

"How dreadful, dear."

"Yes. I wondered if you could possibly go round to her place. You know, it's on the Northampton Road. Go round and see to her, poor old soul."

"Yes, of course. I'll start straightaway."

"Remember, though, how skittish she is. Don't let her hear your car or she'll have another attack."

The gun dug. "Diane, I have to ring off."

Melrose hung up. Where was she? At the Jack and Hammer? At home? As long as she wasn't in Sidbury, she could get here in minutes.

The gun directed him back to the living room. "I asked about Beatrice Sloc.u.m. Is she all right?"

"Presumably. I haven't seen her." She had removed plastic wrapping paper from the satchel and began the awkward process of covering the painting with one hand.

"How did you find me?"

"Your friend Superintendent Jury mentioned a friend of his wanting an art renovator. His friend the ex-earl, he said. It was only the work of a moment finding an aristocrat who lived in Northants who had surrendered his t.i.tles."

"But Trueblood. How did you know him?"

"I never heard of him. You're the one who brought him up."

In silence he watched, feeling helpless, as she slowly covered the painting and then, with only the occasional glance away from him, taped up the protective covering. "The Fabricants paid you to get this painting back? Why would you bother? Hadn't you already been paid for the original theft?"

"You don't understand. Now the painting's mine."

Melrose was amazed. "This was your fee?"

She hoisted the painting under her arm. "Not originally, no. I'm recompensing myself for having to steal it once again and, of course, for taking care of Mr. Pitt. Sebastian said the man was about to expose him."

It was one of the few times in his life he had ever felt blind with rage. He took a step toward her and heard a small, sharp click, like a twig breaking.

But it wasn't her gun.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Diane's voice stopped both of them. Dana whirled toward the French door. Diane fired, holding the gun straight out, single-handed and tilted like some teenage shooter. She missed and hit the drinks table, splintering the Stoli vodka.

"s.h.i.+t!" she said.

The woman fired twice, shattering the wall sconce and the Tiffany lamp. The room went black.

"Diane!" yelled Melrose, amidst the rush of rain and running footsteps. "Are you all right?"

It took only a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark and to find a working lamp. He pulled the cord, and mellow light flooded that part of the room. Where the woman had stood, she no longer was.

"She rushed right by me!" said Diane.

Melrose had come up beside her, and both of them stood staring out into the rain. Diane stood now with one arm across her breast, the other, elbow bent and gun pointed at the stars.