Wright put down his bag and opened it. He took out an infrared lamp, turned it on, and beamed it at the tiny photoelectric cell embedded in the woodwork. With his free hand he took out a tripod, set it under the lamp, and adjusted its height. Finally he put the lamp gently on the tripod. He stood up.
Tom took the key from under the vase and opened the gallery door.
Julian lay awake listening to Sarah′s breathing. They had decided to stay the night at Lord Cardwell′s house after the dinner party. Sarah had been sound asleep for some time. He looked at the luminous hands of his watch: it was 2:30 A.M.
Now was the time. He pulled the sheet off him and sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His stomach felt as if someone had tied a knot in it.
It was a simple plan. He would go down to the gallery, take Lampeth′s Modigliani, and put it in the trunk of the Cortina. Then he would put the fake Modigliani in the gallery and come back to bed.
Lampeth would never know. The pictures were almost identical. Lampeth would find that his was a fake, and assume that Julian had had the real one all along.
He put on the dressing gown and slippers which had been provided by Sims, and opened the bedroom door.
Creeping around a house at the dead of night was all very well in theory: one thought of how unconscious one would be of anyone else doing it. In reality it seemed full of hazards. Suppose one of the old men got up for the lavatory? Suppose one fell over something?
As he tiptoed along the landing Julian thought of what he would say if he were caught. He was going to compare Lampeth′s Modigliani with his own—that would do.
He reached the gallery door and froze. It was open.
He frowned. Cardwell always locked it. Tonight, Julian had watched the man turn the key in the door and put it in its hiding place.
Therefore someone else had got up in the middle of the night to go to the gallery.
He heard a whispered: ″Damn!″
Another voice hissed: ″The bloody things must have been taken away today.″
Julian′s eyes narrowed in the darkness. Voices meant thieves. But they had been foiled: the pictures were gone.
There was a faint creak, and he pressed himself up against the wall behind a grandfather clock. Three figures came out of the gallery. One carried a picture.
They were taking the real Modigliani.
Julian drew in his breath to shout—then one of the figures passed through a shaft of moonlight from a window. He recognized the famous face of Samantha Winacre. He was too astonished to call out.
How could it possibly be Sammy? She—she must have wanted to come to dinner to case the joint! But how had she got mixed up with crooks? Julian shook his head. It hardly mattered. His own plan was awry now.
Julian thought fast to cope with the new situation. There was no longer any need to stop the thieves—he knew where the Modigliani was going. But his own plan was completely spoiled.
Suddenly he smiled in the darkness. No, it was not spoiled at all.
A faint breath of cold air told him the thieves had opened the front door. He gave them a minute to get away.
Poor Sammy, he thought.
He went softly down the stairs and out of the open front door. He opened the trunk of the Cortina quietly, and took the fake Modigliani out. As he turned back to the house, he saw a rectangle cut in the glass of the dining room window. The window was open. That was how they had got in.
He closed the car trunk and went back into the house, leaving the front door open as the thieves had. He climbed to the gallery and hung the fake Modigliani where the real one had been.
Then he went to bed.
He woke early in the morning, although he had slept very little. He bathed and dressed quickly, and went to the kitchen. Sims was already there, eating his own breakfast while the cook prepared the meal for the master of the house and his guests.
″Don′t disturb yourself,″ Julian said to Sims as the butler rose from his seat. ″I′m off early—I′d just like to share your coffee, if I may. Cook can see to it.″
Sims piled bacon, egg and sausage onto his fork and finished the meal in one mouthful. ″When one is up early, the rest soon follow, I find, Mr. Black,″ he said. ″I better lay up.″
Julian sat down and sipped his coffee while the butler went away. The shout of surprise came a minute later. Julian had been expecting it.
Sims came quickly into the kitchen. ″I think we′ve been burgled, sir,″ he said.
Julian faked surprise. ″What?″ he exclaimed. He stood up.
″A hole has been cut in the dining room window, and the window is open. I noticed this morning that the front door was open, but I thought Cook had done it. The gallery door was ajar, too—but Mr. Lampeth′s painting is still there.″
″Let′s have a look at this window,″ said Julian. Sims followed him across the hall and into the dining room.
Julian looked at the hole for a moment. ″I suppose they came for the pictures, and were disappointed. They must have decided the Modigliani was worthless. It′s an unusual one—they might not recognize it. First thing is to phone the police, Sims. Then rouse Lord Cardwell. Then begin checking the house to see whether anything at all is missing.″
″Very good, sir.″
Julian looked at his watch. ″I feel I ought to stay, but I′ve an important appointment. I think I′ll go, as it seems nothing has been taken. Tell Mrs. Black I will telephone later.″
Sims nodded and Julian went out.
He drove very fast across London in the early morning. It was windy, but the roads were dry. He was guessing that Sammy and her accomplices—who presumably included the boyfriend he had met—would keep the painting at least until today.
He stopped outside the Islington house and jumped out of the car, leaving the ignition keys in. There were too many assumptions and guesses in this plan. He was impatient.
He banged hard on the knocker and waited. When there was no reply for a couple of minutes, he banged hard again.
Eventually Samantha came to the door. There was ill-concealed fear in her eyes.
″Thank God,″ Julian said, and pushed past her into the house.
Tom stood in the hall, a towel around his waist. ″What the hell do you think you′re doing, barging—ʺ
″Shut up,ʺ Julian said crisply. ʺLet′s talk downstairs, shall we?″
Tom and Samantha looked at one another. Samantha gave a slight nod, and Tom opened the door to the basement stairs. Julian went down.
He sat on the couch and said: ″I want my paint . ing back.″
Samantha said: ″I haven′t the faintest idea—ʺ
″Forget it, Sammy,″ Julian interrupted. ″I know. You broke into Lord Cardwell′s house last night to steal his pictures. They were gone, so you stole the one that was there. Unfortunately, it wasn′t his. It was mine. If you give it back to me I won′t go to the police.″
Silently, Samantha got up and went to a cupboard. She opened the door and took out the painting. She handed it to Julian.
He looked at her face. It was almost haggard: cheeks drawn, eyes wide with something which was neither anxiety nor surprise, hair uncared-for. He took the picture from her.
A sense of relief overwhelmed him. He felt quite weak.
Tom would not speak to Samantha. He had been sitting in the chair for three or four hours, smoking, gazing at nothing. She had taken him the cup of coffee Anita made, but it lay cold, untouched, on the low table.
She tried again. ″Tom, what does it matter? We shan′t be caught—he promised not to go to the police. We′ve lost nothing. It was just a lark, anyway.″