The Color Of Night (46 page)

Mara nodded. Claude Corsier was selling drawings to Schrade? Incredible. Actually, it seemed too incredible. She couldn’t understand what was going on here, nor could she possibly imagine why
something
was going on here. She couldn’t gather together enough logical pieces of the puzzle to propose any scenarios at all.

Knight stepped back, pleased with himself. A lock of his white hair sagged over his forehead, and his eyes twinkled from behind his round black eyeglasses.

“So then, we should hurry. You’ve brought the documentation?”

“Actually, no,” Mara said.

Knight frowned. Worry, concern, horrible imaginings, and a little fear instantly embedded themselves in the pale flesh gathering across his broad forehead. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t have the documentation,” Mara said. “I received a communication from Mr. Cao early this morning. There’s been a change in plans in Hong Kong. Mr. Cao does not want to sell.”

“What? Does
not
want to sell?”

“That’s correct.”

Knight almost staggered. He looked at the portfolio on the table with disbelief.

“Does he want some other arrangement with me? Would he like to talk about it? I can assure you, Mr. Schrade
will
buy these. And he
will
pay the very highest price. You were absolutely correct in that, Ms. Paille.”

“It has nothing to do with anything here, Mr. Knight. Mr. Cao lives in his own world. What he does and how he does it often have nothing at all to do with anything, except what is in his head. I’ve worked for him for so long, I’ve become—almost—acclimated to these sudden reversals.”

“Why, this is appalling,” Knight said. “He, you, could hardly have asked for a more convenient, a more serendipitous circumstance than what you have here. Everything has come together absolutely without plan… so extraordinary.”

The telephone rang. Knight flinched and looked around at it, and Mara quickly checked her watch. God.

Knight looked at Ms. Paille, held his hand up tentatively as if to freeze the moment, started to speak but didn’t, and picked up the telephone.

“Hello, this is Carrington.” He listened, his dark brow lightening in polite ingratiation. “Oh, yes, absolutely… Of course not… No, no, no, not at all… Absolutely. Very good, very good… Yes, good-bye.”

He put down the receiver and looked at Ms. Paille, concern returning to his expression. “That was Mr. Schrade. He’s in a traffic jam. He’ll be a little late, probably another fifteen minutes.”

“Good,” she said. “Good. That just gives me time to be out of your way.” She moved to the portfolio and began closing it up.

Knight blanched. “Ms. Paille, do you suppose it would be possible for me to talk to Mr. Cao? Perhaps he doesn’t understand the
extraordinary—
”

“I’m afraid that would be entirely impossible,” Mara said, clasping the portfolio as she rallied every nerve in her body to remain in control. She was horrified that Schrade was still alive. What had happened to Harry? She was nearly faint with anxiety. Carrington Knight was talking urgently, but she heard nothing he was saying. She was fighting nausea. God, Schrade was so close.

Knight was coming around the opposite end of the table to meet her. He had put both hands together prayerfully, holding them in front of his chest, gesturing with them, rocking them back and forth. “These sorts of opportunities are rare, really, because Schrade is
the
premier individual collector of these artists…”

Somehow she moved unhurriedly, gracefully, even spoke calmly, though she had no idea what she was saying, and eventually she found herself being accompanied by a loquacious Knight down the long turn in the staircase. She had entered headlong into that surreal and common dream in which quick flight in the face of peril was impossible, in which her own legs plowed with slumberous torpor through the thick surf of her panic.

How much time had elapsed? She had no idea. How long had Knight tried to persuade her before they headed for the staircase? How long had it taken them to descend to where they were now? The foyer that occupied the space between the bottom of the stairs and the front door was generous but not grand, yet in her illusory flight it seemed an encompassing sea of indigo silk.

Knight opened the cloakroom door, and she turned her back to him and felt her raincoat on her shoulders. She slipped her arms into the sleeves as Knight, she only vaguely realized, was flattering her, his oily, clever manner grasping at her, trying desperately to hold her with his words.

Where was her driver?

He was ill. She had come in a cab.

Oh, then he should call one.

No, no need to call a cab, she said. There were always those parked across the street in front of the Connaught. Oh, but he could call, he would call. She wouldn’t have to cross the street in the rain. Not at all. It was nothing. She said things, appropriate things.

There were parting words.

She took the umbrella from him and started to open it when the doorbell rang.

She did not flinch but looked up calmly.

Knight tittered. Don’t worry, don’t worry, he would pretend she was simply a client leaving, it happened all the time, there was nothing to worry about, it wasn’t necessary to introduce her, it was just business.

She was suddenly composed. The surreal passed, and the present came into focus. She faced the opening of the door with a singular clarity of mind.

She wondered how Schrade would react. He knew her face as readily as he knew his own. He knew all about her. But he wouldn’t be expecting to see her. That, at least, would be a surprise.

Knight was as oblivious as a butterfly.

He stepped in front of her and opened the door.

A man burst in, sending Knight sprawling flat on his back on the parquet floor and sliding six feet before he stopped at the foot of the Persian stairs.

Strand was dripping wet, his arm stretched out, pointing the pistol at a dumbfounded Carrington Knight.

“Wolf Schrade,” he demanded, short of breath, his lungs burning.

“Wha… ?” Knight scrambled up against the last tread on the stairs and gaped, trying to collect his ability to think, to speak.

“Where’s Schrade?”

“He’s not here,” Mara blurted.

Strand looked around at her. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped.

They stared at each other. Silence.

Mara said, “Schrade’s not here… He called… he’s late, traffic…”

“Jeffrey?” Strand looked up the stairs.

“I haven’t seen him.”

Strand turned to Knight, who choked, “Not here…”

“Who
is
here?” Strand’s raincoat was shedding streams of water that puddled around his feet.

“Only us,” Mara said. She was standing with her arms pressed to her chest, a gesture of holding on, of controlling at least herself in this volatile moment.

Strand turned on her. “This is no concern of yours, lady. Get out of here.”

She slowly tilted her head to one side. “No…” It was a plea, not a refusal.

“Get out!” Strand yelled.

“Oh, no, please don’t do this. I can’t… I won’t.”

“Get
out
!” Strand screamed this time, furious with her, frantic to get her out of there, to get it under control before Schrade arrived. He glanced at Knight, whose eyes were darting back and forth between them. Even in his confusion he was beginning to calculate the meaning behind Mara’s surprising refusal to flee a shocking, dangerous situation.

“You go with me,” she said emphatically, “or I don’t go at all.”

Strand looked at her. She knew very well what she had just done. With that one sentence she had taken them past the turning point. When it was all over, Knight would remember those words. Knight was a witness. It was one thing to kill Schrade… It was over.

“Christ,” Strand said, looking at her. His shoulders sagged. God, what had he done in that fatal moment on Bond Street, when, even against his will, something in his unconscious had frozen his fingers on the trigger of the pistol? He turned to Knight.

“Get up, Carrington.”

This time Knight recognized something familiar in the voice. His eyes narrowed, then he rolled over like a large, awkward child and got to his feet, standing defensively against the newel post.

Strand turned back to Mara. “Okay,” he said, “okay, that’s it, then. It’s over.”

In that instant he could see in her face that she was relieved, that although she had committed herself to him, it had been a commitment she had made in spite of her own deepest feelings, not because of them. God, he didn’t care anymore, he just wanted to be away from it all. He wanted it to be over, and he wanted them to be together and gone and away from it all, even if only for a little while. He would worry about Schrade later. He would treat him the same way most people treated their inevitable last hour of life, by ignoring it entirely until they were unavoidably face to face with it. Why the hell did he think he should be any different?

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. He dropped his arm and turned to Knight. “It’s a long story, Carrington.”

“Harry
Strand
?!”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“
Bloody
hell, Harry… what’s… A
mask
?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Harry.” Mara interrupted him. “There’s something else. Claude Corsier is alive, and he was just here.”

Strand turned. “He was here?”

“He left just a little while ago. He was already here when I came in. He’d brought two Schiele drawings, new ones that he’d unearthed somewhere. That’s why Schrade’s coming here, not because of my drawings. It was a coincidence, the drawings. Claude left half an hour ago.”

“Coincidence.” He knew there was no coincidence. He turned back to Knight. “What’s going on here, Carrington?”

Knight, stammering, speaking in bursts, quickly spilled out the story of Corsier and his drawings. In his agitation he confused the sequence of the story and went back to explain and then doubled back again to pick up loose ends. He could hardly speak at all. Though he could not even come close to imagining what was happening here, he knew that he had got caught up in an intrigue that was far beyond his world and his experience. And he knew that it was sinister.

“This is not a coincidence,” Strand said to Mara.

“But how could Claude know…”

“The timing, maybe. Probably. No one could have known about us and the drawings, our schedule. But the Schieles…” He looked at Knight. “The anonymity…” He was talking to himself, thinking out loud. “We’ve all sold to Schrade. We all know what he wanted. What he coveted. I could have chosen Schiele. Claude could have chosen the others. Either way…”

“God, Harry.” Mara was following him. She saw it all taking shape, too.

“Carrington,” Strand said, “Claude knew Schrade was coming this morning? He knew the time?”

“Of course. Yes, yes.”

The doorbell rang.

Everything in Strand’s mind turned inside out.

“Carrington!” he snapped, again pointing the gun at the art dealer. “Get over here.”

Knight looked as though he were going to faint, as though if he let go of the newel post, he would fall down.

“Get over here!”

Knight came over, his face pasty.

Strand looked at Mara. “Get around the corner, out of sight.”

“Harry, there’s got to be another door, a back door…”

“Yes, yes, there’s a back door.” Knight had stopped in the middle of the entry, suddenly hopeful that this could all be made to go away, literally, through a back door. “Oh, please, yes, the back door.”

“Get around the corner,” Strand commanded Mara, his mind suddenly jumping track, changing agendas. He waved at Knight, who cowered over to him like a threatened lapdog. Strand grabbed him, speaking hoarsely.

“Just answer the door and get him inside. If you do anything, if you try to run, I’ll step outside and blow off the back of your head. Open the door, but step back, don’t leave my sight.” He looked at the petrified Knight. “Do you understand?”

Knight nodded.

“Hold yourself together just long enough to play the part. Okay?”

The doorbell rang again.

Knight nodded vigorously.

“Just get him inside,” Strand repeated, stepping back behind the door.

Knight was massaging his hands and whispering to himself, “Shit shit shit shit.” He ran his fingers through his silver locks, shifting his weight repeatedly from one foot to the other in a little mambo. He looked at Strand nervously and punched the button for the electric lock on the door. When it clacked, he opened the door.

“Wolf ! Wolf ! Good of you… good of you… Come in, come in…” He backed away from the door, stretching out his right arm in a magnanimous gesture of welcome.

Wolfram Schrade was inside.

Strand closed the door and in the same movement put the pistol to the back of Schrade’s neck before he had a chance to react.

“Be very careful,” Strand said.

Schrade froze.

“I’ll explain the gun,” Strand said, remaining out of sight behind Schrade, his left hand on top of Schrade’s left shoulder. “It contains a neurotoxin. If it breaks the skin, you’re dead. In less than a minute. There’s no ‘wounding’ with this.”

Silence.

Knight was standing between Schrade and the stairs, his mouth hanging open stupidly.

“Harry Strand,” Schrade said in his heavily accented English, recognizing the voice.

“Is your driver parked in front?” Strand asked.

“Yes.”

Strand took his left hand off Schrade’s shoulder, reached back without turning around, and punched the electric lock.

“We’re going to get away from the door,” Strand said. “Upstairs.”

They stepped forward, and Schrade caught Mara’s figure in his peripheral vision as she waited inside the gallery doorway. He turned to look at her. He stopped.

“Mara Song.” He said it as if he were ticking off the names on a list.

“Mara Song?” Knight was completely adrift.

Strand pressed the gun into Schrade’s neck again, and they all started up the winding staircase.