“Yes.”
“It was an auctioneer’s hammer. The painting is going under the hammer. That means, when it’s sold, the auctioneer will hit down with the hammer.”
“Yes!”
“Well, Charon’s going to swap the real hammer with the one we saw. That must have been what they were talking about. The fake hammer will make some sort of electrical contact…”
Tim’s eyes lit up. “You mean… Charon’s going to electrocute the auctioneer?”
“No. It must be a bomb. The hammer will detonate it. That’s how he plans to kill Kusenov. The moment the painting is sold, the whole place will be blown sky high!”
The bus slowed down again. This time it was another bus-stop and the oldest woman in the world was waiting to get on. Worse still, she had about fourteen shopping bags with her. It would take all day. Quarter to two. If the bus moved off at once and didn’t stop again we might just make it. But the traffic was as thick as ever. I made a decision.
“We’ll run,” I said.
“What — all the way?” Tim cried.
But I was already moving. We had fifteen minutes, and a bus that was going nowhere. This was clearly not the time for a chat.
Sotheby’s main auction house is in New Bond Street, right in the middle of Mayfair. If you ever find yourself in the area, don’t try to go window-shopping. You won’t even be able to afford the window. It’s at number thirty-five, just one more smart door among all the others.
As we spun round the corner from Oxford Street and staggered down the last hundred metres, I could hear the chimes of clocks striking two. There was no security in sight on the door. Kusenov had to be there. The auction had begun. But Mr Waverly must have thought he was safe.
I reached the door, but even as my hand stretched out to push it open I was struck by a nasty thought. If there was a bomb — and I was pretty sure there was — it could go off at any time. The moment the auctioneer struck his hammer, that would be it. Did I really want to go inside? I glanced at Tim who must have had much the same thought. He was standing on the pavement, kicking with his heels as if they’d somehow got glued to the surface.
“We have to go in,” I said.
“Nick…”
I left him out there. I’d made up my mind. I had to stop the auction. He could do as he pleased.
The auction house was busy that day. There were people moving up and down the stairs and along the corridor which must have led to a secondary auction room. Somebody pushed past carrying an antique doll, a label still attached to its leg.
Someone else went the other way with a bronze-framed mirror. For a moment I caught sight of my own reflection. I looked tired and bedraggled.
And young. Would they even allow a fourteen-year-old into the auction?
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen…”
The voice crackled over an intercom system that had been installed above the reception desk. It was a plummy voice — the sort that belongs to someone who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Maybe Sotheby’s were auctioning that, too. “Lot number one is by a painter who made an explosive impact on surrealism in Europe,” it went on. “Salvador Dali. It is entitled ‘The Tsar’s Feast’ and is painted in oils on canvas. I shall open the bidding at?100,000.”
I turned to Tim who had decided to come in after all. He was standing next to me. “It’s begun…” I said.
“Where?” he asked.
I looked around. “Upstairs.”
But Mr Waverly hadn’t completely relaxed his guard on Boris Kusenov. MI6 might not be involved any more, but he had handed the case over to the police and before we’d even reached the first step two uniformed officers had moved out of an alcove to block our way.
“Now where do you think you’re going?” one of them asked.
“?200,000…” The first bid had been made. I heard it over the intercom.
I tried to push forward. “I want to go to the auction…” I explained.
“Bit young for that, aren’t you?” The second policeman laughed. “Run along, sonny. It’s adults only.”
“You don’t understand.” I was speaking through gritted teeth. “You’ve got to let me pass…”
“?300,000 to the gentleman from Moscow.”
“You heard what I said.” The second policeman wasn’t laughing any more. He was blinking at me with small, unintelligent eyes. I knew the sort. If he was reincarnated as an ape, it would be a step up.
“Please…” Tim muttered. “We want to see Mr Grooshamov.”
“Boris Kusenov,” I corrected him. “He’s in danger.”
“What danger?” the first policeman asked.
The intercom crackled into life. “?400,000 to the lady in the front row.” Then immediately, “Back to the gentleman from Moscow.?500,000. Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve got to get up there,” I insisted. “Kusenov is in danger. We’re all in danger. The whole place is going to go up.”
“I think you’d better come with us,” the first policeman said.
“?600,000 to the gentleman at the back.”
“Go with you where?” I asked.
“Down to the station.”
“?700,000 to Mr Kusenov.”
“This is hopeless!” I wanted to tear my hair out. There were maybe only seconds left. And I’d had to come up against PC Plod and his best friend, Big Ears. There was only one thing left to do. It was the oldest trick in the book — but I just hoped they hadn’t read the book. I pointed up. “Look!” I shouted.
The two policemen looked up. So did Tim.
I pushed my way through and on to the first stair. One of the policemen grabbed me. I broke free, then pushed him hard. He lost his balance and fell on to the second policeman. Tim was still looking up, wondering what I’d pointed out. But then both policemen collided with him and all three of them fell down in a tangle. The staircase was free. I bounded up.
“?750,000 to the young lady…”
The top of the stairs was blocked by two attendants who were coming down with an antique sofa. I skidded down onto my back and slithered underneath it. One of the attendants called out to me but I ignored him. I just hoped they would block the staircase enough to delay the two policemen below.
“?850,000 to Mr Kusenov.?900,000. Back to you, Mr Kusenov…”
I could hear the bidding but I couldn’t see the auction room. There was a large, square room hung with faded watercolours and prints but it was empty. Then I noticed an archway on the other side. I ran through, my feet pounding on the frayed carpets. At last I had arrived.
“?950,000 to Mr Kusenov. Do I have any advance on?950,000?”
I burst into the auction room and took everything in with one glance.
“Going once…”
There was the canvas itself, “The Tsar’s Feast”, that had started all the trouble by bringing Kusenov to England in the first place. It was bigger than I had imagined it, standing in a gold frame on an easel right at the front of a raised platform. An assistant stood next to it.
Then there was the auctioneer, a tall thin man in a three-piece suit. He was standing behind an ornate wooden desk. He was holding the white antique hammer in his hands.
There were about two hundred people in the gallery, all crammed together in narrow rows running across its width. Kusenov was sitting in the middle of them. He was everything I’d imagined he would be: grey hair, granite face, small, serious eyes, suit. That’s the thing about the Russians. They always look so… Russian.
Kusenov had been given a police guard — and if I hadn’t recognized him I’d have known him from the company he kept. Chief Inspector Snape was sitting on one side of him. A bored-looking Boyle was on the other. Why, I wondered, had they been chosen? The long arm of the law? Or the longer arm of coincidence? Either way it
