The Loo Sanction

along screw up my work?'

'I don't see why. You only need a couple of minutes, using your technique.'

'Ah, then you know what my technique is?'

'I've had a couple of days to figure it out. Only one possibility. You get a good fake. You mutilate it, break in, and swap it for the original. Everyone assumes there's been an act of vandalism—not a theft. The fake is repaired with care, and if anyone ever notices a blemish, it's put down to the repair job.'

'Precisely, my son! And, though I say it who shouldn't, there's a touch of genius in it. I nicked my share of paintings in the past ten years this way.'

'And that accounts for the rash of vandalism in British museums.'

'Not quite. In one case a real vandal broke in and damaged a painting, the heartless son of a bitch!'

Jonathan waited a moment before asking, 'Well? Can I go with you?'

MacTaint clawed meditatively at the scruff on his scalp. 'I suppose so. But mind you, if there's trouble, it's devil take the hindmost. I love you like a son, Jon. But I wouldn't do porridge even for a son.'

'Great. What time do I meet you on Tuesday night?'

'About ten, I suppose. That will give us time for a few short ones before we go.'

'You're a good man, MacTaint.'

'True enough. True enough.'

Because it was handier, Jonathan went to his Mayfair flat to make a pattern of calls to selected art reviews and critics who create British taste. His approach differed slightly, but only slightly, as he covered the range from The Guardian to Time and Tide. In each case he introduced himself, and there was the inevitable catch in the conversation as the person on the other end of the line realized to whom he was speaking. Jonathan began by assuming the critic had heard that a Marini Horse was in the country and was going up for auction within a week. He smiled as the critic inevitably responded that he had indeed heard something of this. What he was seeking, Jonathan said, was reliable verification of the rumor that the Horse would bring between three and five million in the bidding. After a pause, the critic said he wouldn't be surprised—not a bit surprised. Their initial flush of pleasure at being consulted by Jonathan Hemlock inevitably gave way to the public school whine of superior knowledge. Jonathan knew the type and expected their self-esteem to expand to fill any space he left for it.

He made a point of mentioning each time that the mossbacks of the National Gallery had pulled off quite a coup in securing the Marini Horse for a one-day exhibition just before it went off to the auction room, but he assumed the critic already knew all about that. The critic knew all about that, and several of them intimated that they had had some modest part in the arrangements. Each conversation ended with pleasantries and regrets for not having got together for lunch—a social hiatus Jonathan intended to fill in at the first opportunity.

As he dialed each new number, Jonathan pictured the last man hastily thumbing through reference volumes, taking rapid notes and frowning importantly.

In his mind Jonathan could see the prototypical article, some version of which would appear in a score of major and minor papers the day after tomorrow. 'It has long been the opinion of this writer that the innovative work of Marini has suffered from a lack of study and recognition in England. But it is to be hoped that this gap will be closed by a forthcoming landmark event that I have been following closely: the public auction of one of Marini's characteristic bronze Horses. Unless I miss my guess, the Horse will bring something in the neighborhood of five million, and although this figure may surprise the reader (and some of my colleagues, I am sorry to say), it is no surprise at all to the few who have followed the work of this modern sculptor whose genius is only now coming into full recognition.

'It is particularly telling that the National Gallery, not distinguished by its innovative imagination, has arranged to place the Marini Horse on display for one day before it is sold and—who knows—possibly lost to England forever. Etc. Etc.'

Jonathan's finger was tender with dialing by the time he had finished his list of two-step opinion leaders. But he made one further call, this one to fforbes-Ffitch at the Royal College of Art.

'Jonathan! How good of you to call! Just a moment. Let me clear the decks here, so I can talk to you.' fforbes-Ffitch held the telephone away from his mouth to tell his secretary that he would continue his dictation later.

'Now then, Jonathan! Good Lord! I'm up to my ears. No rest for the wicked, eh?'

'Nor for the poorly organized.'

'What? Oh. Oh, yes.' He laughed heavily at the jest, to prove he had gotten it. 'One thing is certain: The men higher up certainly cleave to the adage that the only way to get a job done is to give it to a busy man. My desk's awash with things that have to be done yesterday. Oh, say! So sorry I didn't see you after that lecture here the other day. A smashing success. Sorry about the mix-up in topics. But I think you landed on your feet. And I have to admit that it was a bit of a feather in the cap to get you there. Never hurts to know who to know, right?'

'It was about feathers and caps that I wanted to talk.'

'Oh?'

'You've been after me to do that series of lectures in Stockholm.'

'I have indeed! Don't tell me you're weakening?'

'Yes. That is the quid. And there's a quo. You're a trustee of the National Gallery, aren't you?'

'Yes. Youngest ever. Something to do with the government attempting to project a 'with-it' image. Does what you want have something to do with the Gallery?'

'Let's get together and talk about it this afternoon.'

'Lord, Jonathan. Don't know that I can. Calendar bulging, you know. Here, let's see what I can do.' Holding the phone only a little away from his mouth, fforbes-Ffitch clicked on his intercom. 'Miss Plimsol? What do I look like for this afternoon? Over.'

A voice told him he had a conference coming up in ten minutes, then he had arranged to take a business drink with Sir Wilfred Pyles at the club.

'A drink with Sir Wilfred?' fforbes-Ffitch repeated, in case Jonathan had not heard. 'What time is that? Over.'

'Four o'clock, sir.'

'Sixteen hundred hours, eh? Right. Over and out Jonathan? What do you say to a drink at my club at sixteen forty-five hours?'

'Fine.'

'You know the club, don't you?'

'Yes, I know it.'

'Right, then. See you there. Been grand chatting with you. Let's hope everyone benefits. Ta-ta.'

Just as Jonathan set the phone back on its cradle, it rang under his hand, and the effect of the coincidence was a little rattling.

'Jonathan Hemlock.'

'Hey, long time no see, man. Until Miss Coyne checked in with me a couple of hours ago, we didn't know what had happened to you.'

'I'm fine, Yank. Why are you calling?'

'I've been trying to get you for two hours. But your line was always busy. What's up, doc?'

'You can tell the Vicar that things are moving along.'

'Great. But you can tell him yourself. Tonight. Things are coming to a head. He wants to have a little confab with you. Can do?'

'Miss Coyne mentioned that to me. Where?'

'At the Vicarage.'

'All right. I'll drive out. Probably get there six or seven in the evening.'

'Roger-dodger. Oh, by the way. Sorry I wasn't able to get through to those MI-5 guys in time.'

'That's all right. I took care of them.'

'Yes, I know. The man at MI-5 had me on the carpet. Two of the guys are still in hospital.'

'They probably need the rest.'

'I thought it would be best if we didn't mention this to the Vicar. No use getting his bowels in an uproar. You