box, an executive penholder made of red plastic (a present from the children?), a photograph of a woman—and a small rubber stamp.
Peter?s eyes fastened on the stamp. It was stained with red ink at its rubber base, and the knob was of polished wood. He tried to read the back-to-front words of the stamp, but could only make out the name of the firm.
It was almost certain to be what he wanted.
His fingers itched to snatch it up and stuff it into his pocket, but he was certain to be seen. Even if he did it while the backs of the others were turned, the stamp might be missed immediately afterward. There had to be a better way.
When Meunier spoke Peter gave a guilty start. ?You may leave this here,? the man said. His nod was dismissive.
Peter wheeled the dolly out through the door, and the two of them returned to their packing room.
He spent two more days trying to figure out a way to get at the stamp on Meunier?s desk. Then a better idea was handed to him on a plate.
The old man was sitting at his desk, filling out one of the forms, while Peter sipped a cup of coffee. The old man looked up from his work to say: ?Do you know where the stationery supplies are??
Peter thought fast. ?Yes,? he lied.
The old man handed him a small key. ?Fetch me some more forms—I have almost run out.?
Peter took the key and went. In the corridor he asked a passing messenger boy where the supply room was. The boy directed him to the floor below.
He found it in an office which seemed to be a typing pool. He had not been there before. One of the typists showed him a walk-in cupboard in a corner. Peter opened the door, switched on the light, and went in.
He found a ream of the forms he wanted straightaway. His eye roamed the shelves and lit on a stack of headed notepaper. He broke a packet and took out thirty or forty sheets.
He could not see any rubber stamps.
There was a green steel cabinet in the far end of the little room. Peter tried the door and found it locked. He opened a box of paper clips, took one, and bent it. Inserting it in the keyhole, he twisted it this way and that. He began to perspire. In a moment the typists would wonder what was taking him so long.
With a click that sounded like a thunderclap the door opened. The first thing Peter saw was an opened cardboard box containing six rubber stamps. He turned one over and read the impression underneath.
He translated: ?Certified at Meunier, Paris.?
He suppressed his elation. How could he get the thing out of the building?
The stamp and the headed paper would make a suspiciously large package to take past the security men at the door on the way home. And he would have to conceal it from the old man for the rest of the day.
He had a brainwave. He took a penknife from his pocket and slid its blade under the rubber bottom of the stamp, working the knife from side to side to dislodge the rubber from the wood to which it was glued. His hands, slippery with sweat, could hardly grip the polished wood.
?Can you find what you want?? a girl?s voice came from behind his back.
He froze. ?Thank you, I have them now,? he said. He did not look around. Footsteps retreated.
The rubber came away from the bottom of the stamp. Peter found a large envelope on a shelf. He put the notepaper and the thin slice of rubber into the envelope and sealed it. He took a pen from another box and wrote Mitch?s name and address on the envelope. Then he closed the steel cupboard door, picked up his ream of forms, and went out.
At the last minute he remembered the bent paper clip. He went back into the store, found it on the floor, and put it in his pocket.
He smiled at the typists as he left the office. Instead of going back to the old man, he wandered around the corridors until he met another messenger boy.
?Could you tell me where I take this to be posted?? he asked. ?It?s air mail.?
?I?ll take it for you,? the messenger said helpfully. He looked at the envelope. ?It should have air mail written on it,? he said.
?Oh dear.?
?Don?t worry—I?ll see to it,? the boy said.
?Thank you.? Peter went back to the packing department.
The old man said: ?You took a long time.?
?I lost my way,? Peter explained.
Three days later, in the evening at his cheap lodging house, Peter got a phone call from London.
?It came,? said Mitch?s voice.
?Thank Christ for that,? Peter replied. ?I?ll be home tomorrow.?
Mad Mitch was sitting on the floor of the studio when Peter arrived, his fuzzy ginger hair laid back against the wall. Three of Peter?s canvases were stood in line on the opposite wall. Mitch was studying them, with a frown on his brow and a can of Long Life in his hand.
Peter dumped his holdall on the floor and went over to stand next to Mitch.
?You know, if anyone deserves to make a living out of paint, you do,? said Mitch.
?Thanks. Where?s Anne??
?Shopping.? Mitch heaved himself to his feet and crossed to a paint-smeared table. He picked up an envelope which Peter recognized. ?Clever idea, ripping the rubber off the stamp,? he said. ?But why did you have to post it? ?
?No other way to get the stuff out of the building safely.?
?You mean the firm posted it??
Peter nodded.
?Jesus. I hope no one happened to notice the name on the envelope. Did you leave any other giveaway clues??
?Yes.? Peter took the can from Mitch and drank a long draft of the beer. He wiped his mouth on his forearm and handed the can back. ?I had to give Charles Lampeth?s name as a reference.?
?Did they check it??
?I think so. Anyway, they insisted on a referee they knew and could telephone.?
Mitch sat on the edge of the table and scratched his stomach. ?You realize you?ve left a trail like the bloody M1.?
?It?s not that bad. It means they probably could trace us, given time. Even then they couldn?t prove anything. But what matters is they can?t catch up with us before we?re finished. After all, we only want a few more days. ?
?If everything goes to plan.?
Peter turned away and sat on a low stool. ?How did your end go??
?Great.? Mitch brightened up suddenly. ?I swung it with Arnaz—he?s going to finance us.?
?What?s in it for him?? said Peter, curious.
?A laugh. He?s got a great sense of humor.?
?Tell me about him.?
Mitch swallowed the rest of the beer and threw the can accurately into a bin. ?He?s somewhere in his thirties, half-Irish and half-Mexican, brought up in the USA. Started selling original paintings out of the back of a truck in the Midwest when he was about nineteen. Made money hand over fist, opened a gallery, taught himself to appreciate art. Came over to Europe to buy, liked it and stayed.
?He?s sold his galleries now. He?s just a kind of intercontinental art entrepreneur—buys and sells, makes a pile, and laughs at the mugs all the way to the bank. A moderately unscrupulous bloke, but he feels the same about the art scene as we do.?
?How much money has he put up??
?A thousand quid. But we can have more if we need it.?
Peter whistled. ?Nice guy. What else have you pulled off??
