?A million, all told.?
Wright?s sandy eyebrows lifted. ?I tell you what—if Mandingo backs it, I?m in.?
?Great. Let?s go see him.?
They left the pub and crossed the road to where a new, mustard-colored Citroen was parked on a double yellow line. As Wright opened the door, a bearded old man in a stained overcoat came up. Wright gave him some money and got in.
?He looks after the warden for me,? Wright explained as he pulled away. ?You know what the Bible do say: ?Do not muzzle the ox that grindeth the corn.? Wardens are oxen.?
Tom tried to figure out why the quote was relevant as Wright guided the car south and west. He gave up when they stopped in a narrow street in theater-land, near Trafalgar Square.
?He lives here?? Tom said in surprise.
?He does well for himself. ?Lo, how the wicked are raised up!? He should be rich, the percentage he takes.? Wright got out of the car.
They went down a narrow street and into a nondescript entrance. An elevator took them to the top floor of the building. There was a spyhole in the door Wright knocked on.
It was opened by a dark-skinned young man in matador pants, a loud shirt, and beads.
Wright said: ?Morning, Mandingo.?
?Hey, man, c?mon in,? said Mandingo. He waved them in with a slim hand from which a long cigarette drooped.
The flat was luxuriously decorated in red and black, and cluttered with expensive furniture. The costly electric toys of a man who has more money than he knows how to spend were scattered around: a spherical transistor radio, one large color TV and another portable one, a digital dock, a mass of hi-fi equipment, and an incongruous antique telephone. A pale blonde girl wearing sunglasses lounged in a deep armchair, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She nodded at Wright and Tom, and negligently flicked ash on the deep-pile carpet.
?Hey, man, what gives?? Mandingo asked as they sat down.
Wright said: ?Tom here would like you to finance a little blagging.?
Tom thought how disparate the two men were, and wondered why they worked together.
Mandingo looked at him. ?Tom Copper, ain?t it? So you fancy yourself as a draftsman. Last I heard you was kiting.?
?This is a big job, Mandingo.? Tom was resentful. He did not like to be reminded of his days as a petty check-forger.
?Give, give.?
?You read in the papers about Lord Cardwell?s art collection??
Mandingo nodded.
?I?ve got an in.?
Mandingo pointed at him. ?I am impressed. Maybe you?ve come a long way, Tom. Where is it kept??
?His house in Wimbledon.?
?I don?t know if I can fix the police that far out.?
?No need,? said Tom. ?There are only thirty paintings. I?ll have the whole thing sussed out beforehand. Bill here is working with me. The job will take maybe quarter of an hour.?
Mandingo looked thoughtful. ?A million sobs, in fifteen minutes. I like that.? He stroked the blonde girl?s thigh absently. ?So what?s the deal? You?ll want me to supply a van and a couple of laborers; to store the hot stuff; and to find a market for it.? He was talking to himself, thinking aloud. ?It?ll go to the States. I?ll get maybe half a million for it if I do it slowly. Probably take a couple of years to get rid.? He looked up. ?Okay. I?ll take fifty percent: you split the other half between you. Bear in mind it?ll take a while for the money to come in.?
?Fifty percent?? Tom said. Wright put a restraining hand on his arm.
?Leave it, Tom. Mandingo?s taking the big risk—storage.?
Mandingo spoke as if he hadn?t heard. ?There?s something else. You?re asking me to put my men at risk, lay out money, find storage—even just talking to you I lay myself open to a conspiracy charge. So don?t do the job unless you?re absolutely certain. If you cock it up—well, just leave the country before I get my hands on you. Failures are bad for my reputation.?
Wright stood up, and Tom followed suit. Mandingo showed them to the door.
He said: ?Hey, Tom, what?s your in to that house??
?I?m going there to dinner. See you.?
Mandingo laughed uproariously as he shut the door.
PART FOUR
The Varnish
?I think I know what it is like to be God.?
I
THE REPORTER SAT AT his desk in the newsroom, thinking about his career. He had nothing better to do because it was Wednesday, and all decisions made by his superiors on Wednesday were reversed on Thursday morning; therefore he had adopted a policy of never actually working on Wednesdays. Besides, his career offered much food for thought.
It had been a short and spectacular one, but there was little substance beneath the glittering surface. He had joined a small weekly in South London after leaving Oxford, then he had worked for a news agency, then he had managed to get this job on a quality Sunday paper. It had taken him less than five years.
That was the glitter: the dross was that it had been worthless. He had always wanted to be an art critic. That was why he had suffered the weekly in order to learn his trade, and put up with the agency in order to prove his competence. But now, after three months on the Sunday paper, he had realized that he was at the end of a very long queue for the art critic?s comfortable chair. There seemed to be no more shortcuts.
The story he was to do this week involved pollution of a reservoir in South Wales. Today, if anyone asked, he was making preliminary inquiries. Tomorrow the pollution story would have shifted to a beach on the Sussex coast, or something. Whatever happened the job had not the remotest connection with art.
A fat file of newspaper clippings in front of him was marked: ?Water—Pollution—Reservoirs.? He was reaching to open it when the phone rang. He diverted his hand to the receiver.
?Newsdesk.?
?Have you got a pencil ready??
Louis Broom frowned. He had taken many crank phone calls in five years of journalism, but this approach was a new one. He opened the desk drawer and took out a ballpoint and a pad.
?Yes. What can I do for you??
The answer was another question. ?Do you know anything about art??
Louis frowned again. The man did not sound much like a crank. The voice was steady and unhysterical, and there was none of the breathless intensity which normally characterized screwball telephoners.
?As it happens, I do.?
?Good. Listen carefully, because I won?t repeat anything. The biggest fraud in the history of art was perpetrated in London last week.?
Oh dear, thought Louis, it is a crank. ?What is your name, sir?? he said politely.
?Shut up and make a note. Claypole and Company bought a van Gogh called
