Part 9 (2/2)

But is it right?

Of course.

The man got out of the car and shut the door. I dont know, he said.

Do you want to drive it?

Nah.

How the h.e.l.l can you tell what its worth without driving it? Julian burst out.

The man remained cool. What business you in?

I own an art gallery.

Right, then. Ill stick to motors and you stick to bleedn paintings.

Julian controlled his temper. Well, are you going to make me an offer?

I suppose I could give you fifteen hundred for it, doing you a favor.

Thats ridiculous! It must have cost five or six thousand new! There was a flash of triumph in the dealers eyes at that. Julian realized he had given away the fact that he did not know the original price of the car.

The dealer said: I suppose it is yours to sell?

Of course.

Got the log-book? Julian fished it out of his in side pocket and handed it over.

The dealer said: Funny name for a bloke, Sarah.

That's my wife. Julian took out a card and handed it over. This is my name.

The man put the card in a pocket. Pardon me asking, but she does know youre selling it?

Julian inwardly cursed the mans canniness. How could he guess? No doubt he figured that for an art dealer to come to the East End to sell a nearly new Mercedes for cash there must be something faintly underhanded going on.

He said: My wife died recently.

Fair enough. The dealer obviously did not believe the story. Well, Ive told you what its worth to me.

I couldnt let it go for much less than three thousand, Julian said with a show of determination.

Ill say sixteen hundred, and that's my top price.

Julian decided he was expected to haggle. Twofive, he said.

The dealer turned his back and began to walk away.

Julian panicked. All right, he called out. Two thousand.

Sixteen-fifty, take it or leave it.

Cash?”

What else?

Julian sighed. Very well.

Come into the office.

Julian followed the man across the yard and into the old shop building which faced the main road. He sat at a battered wooden desk and signed a sale certificate while the dealer opened an old iron safe and counted out 1,650 in used five-pound notes.

When he made to leave, the dealer offered a handshake. Julian snubbed him and walked out. He was convinced he had been robbed.

He walked west, looking out for a taxi. He let the unpleasant encounter drift out of his mind, to be replaced by cautious elation. At least he had the money-1,65O in fivers! It was plenty for his trip. He felt as if he had already started out.

He went over the story he would tell Sarah. He could say he had been to see the decorators-no, it had better be someone she did not know. An artist who lived in Stepney. What was his name? John Smith would do-there must be plenty of real people called John Smith. He had gone into the house, and when he had come out an hour later the car had been stolen.

A cab came up behind him and flashed by, empty. Julian whistled and waved but it did not stop. He resolved to be more alert.

It struck him that Sarah might ring the police while he was away. Then the cat would be out of the bag. He would have to give her the name of a nonexistent police station. A taxi came toward him, and he hailed it.

He stretched out his legs in the back of the cab, and wriggled his toes inside his shoes to ease the soreness from walking. All right, suppose Sarah rang Scotland Yard when she discovered the station did not exist. They would tell her, eventually, that her car had not been reported stolen at all.

The whole scheme appeared more and more foolhardy as he approached home. Sarah might accuse him of stealing her car. Could you be charged with stealing from your wife? What about all that stuff in the marriage service-all my worldly goods I thee endow, or something? And there was a charge of wasting police time.

The taxi went along Victoria Embankment and through Westminster. The police would not bother to prosecute in a marital quarrel, Julian decided. But enough harm would be done if Sarah realized what he was up to. As soon as she did, she would tell her father. Then Julian would be out of favor with Lord Cardwell at the crucial moment when he might need money to buy the Modigliani.

He began to wish he had never thought of selling the car. What had seemed a brainwave early that morning now looked like wrecking his chances of a find.

The taxi stopped outside the gla.s.s-walled house, and Julian paid the cabbie with one of the thick pile of fivers he had got from the garage man. As he walked up to the front door he tried desperately to think of a better yarn to tell his wife. Nothing came.

He let himself quietly into the house. It was only just after eleven oclock-she would still be in bed. He made no noise as he entered the living room and sat down. He eased off his shoes and sat back.

It might be better to go straight to Italy, now. He could leave a note saying he would be away for a few days. She would a.s.sume he had taken the car. When he came back he could spin her some tale.

Suddenly he frowned. Since he came in a small noise had been tugging at the sleeve of his mind, demanding attention. He concentrated on it now, and his frown deepened. It was a kind of scuffling noise.

He sorted it into its components. There was a rustle of sheets, a m.u.f.fled creak of bedsprings, and a panting. It was coming from the bedroom. He guessed Sarah was having a nightmare. He was about to call out to wake her; then he remembered something about not waking people suddenly when they were dreaming. Or was that sleepwalking? He decided to look at her.

He walked up the half-flight of stairs. The bedroom door was open. He looked in.

He stopped dead in his tracks, and his mouth fell open in surprise. His heart beat very fast in shock, and he could hear a rus.h.i.+ng noise in his ears.

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