“Stealing?”
“Your loony colonel’s going to pinch the lot, Monique—the forgeries, that is. Plain as the nose—er, as a pikestaff. A kid could see that. Dollop a cran full of fakes. Make sure the Repository catalogues them as genuines. then get a mad mob to storm the building, pinch the fakes, and claim on the insurance.” It’s called a spang in our talk, but telling her so would only set her etymology off again. “The insurers’ll naturally investigate the ones left untouched. Which will of course be the authentic genuine lot I earmark, right?”
She was smiling! Summer radiance covered the motor’s interior. I swear she actually emitted light from her eyes like mediaeval saints did. It was really quite dazzling, for somebody evil.
“I’d hoped for something really original,” I went on, though now less shakily. “The only original thing is the way you’ve manufactured the fakes. Immigrants, virtual slaves.”
“I did wonder,” she said. It was all so academic. “You are sympathetic, Lovejoy. You see nothing of what is at stake.”
“I do not care for what is at stake.” I spoke it from an elocution class I’d never attended. I’d got calmer the more amused she’d become. “Your syndicate are mad. You
“We are here, Lovejoy.” The car was pulling in. “Your name is Henry Getty. No relation.”
Getty? “And yours?”
She nearly smiled. “Mrs. Monique Getty. We are married six years, are American, and own the collection we are now depositing.”
Three people advanced to meet us, stylish but sober. The Repository serfs, bright with beams of monetary affection.
“Wait for the chauffeur, Lovejoy.”
Mistake. I’d started to get out unassisted. “Henry, dwoorlink,” I shot back, stung. “My name’s for my friends.”
Best I could manage, as the door opened and we went forward into the great unknown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
« ^ »
Lorela Chevalier,” the woman said, smart as a pin, steady eyes. Not much change out of her, I thought, giving her my innocent millionaire smile and shaking hands. The other two proved mere serfs, oiling ahead to open doors, snapping into squawk-boxes. “Repository Director.”
A woman of few words? I wasn’t too sure I liked such novelties, but showed willing.
“Getty No Relation,” I said, typecast buffoon. “Trade you Henry for Lorela. Deal?”
“How charming!” she exclaimed, but it was very practised and she kept her eyes on Monique. Women spot where power lies. I was instantly relegated, second-division status.
“Madame Getty,” I said lamely, out of it.
“How do you do,” from Monique, no sudden friendships on offer from Monique, thank you.
“Madame. You received our charges, conditions, prerequisites…?”
“Certainly.” We moved gently towards the house, me depressed because they’d slipped into French. Lorela broke off to spout a command in sideways German before continuing handling us. A lovely scoop of a face, the sort you’d trust instantly if she wasn’t in antiques. I was among polyglots, handicapped by being an idiot in my own language let alone everybody else’s.
The house was the carousel one we’d had that garden party in. Except it wasn’t. I bet myself that this one would stay still. A disturbingly similar mansion house, in unsettlingly similar grounds. Copses, statues, lawns, everything within four hundred yards was uncannily similar. Only the sun was angled differently. I inspected the great pile as we strolled chatting along the terrace. Yes, virtually identical. The Commandant had done his groundwork well, down to the shape of the windows, doors, type of brick, even a stone buttress reinforcing the west wing. Typical military: prepare a model, then a precise life-size mock-up of the objective. Then go to war.
“Lovely house, Lorela,” I interrupted. Monique smiled with woman’s complicity at the director. “Been here long?”
“Twenty years,” from Lorela. “The building’s history, cited you’ll recollect on the information we dispatched to you, is rather briefer than first-time visitors usually assume from the exterior.”
“Like many!” I chuckled. “We’ve two or three phoneys too. Right, honey?” I gave Monique a squeeze. She didn’t have me gunned down, but her stare lasered a hole in my skull. “In the Santa Monica Mountains.” I nudged Monique. “Neeky here complains it’s too near J. Paul Getty—you’ve heard of that architectural shambles down those foothills? Everybody’s laughing at it.”
“They are?” Cool, cool Ms Chevalier. “Isn’t it a breathtaking concept? What did they describe it as, a secular monastery?”
I laughed, putting a sneer in. “I’m not being critical, ”Rela, when I say that J. Paul G.’s a cardboard cut-out of the real thing—which real thing is
“Henry,” Monique said sweetly. “Remember what we decided!”
“Right, Moneekee, right!” Buffoon, grinning, winking. I was repellent. “No relation!”
