dig?'
'Whatever.'
'Okeydoke. Hang in there.'
Jonathan hung up. Talking to Yank always filled him with bone-deep fatigue—like the prospect of going shopping with a woman.
Then one oblique consolation to all this occurred to him. Whatever happened, he had ten thousand pounds from Strange—about twenty-five thousand dollars made at the cost of a few hours of telephoning. The trick was, living to spend it.
fforbes-Ffitch's club was only a short walk up from Claridge's, not far from Jonathan's Mayfair flat. It was typically clubby: a good address for taking lunch; a large and comfortable dining room with stiff linen and conversation, where one was served by nanny waitresses with skins the color and texture of the Yorkshire puddings they foisted upon you; the carafe wine was decent; and there were heavy comfortable leather chairs in the lounge for taking coffee and brandy, and for being seen chatting with people who wanted to be seen chatting with you. As an institution, it shared the catholic British problem of not being what it used to be. There simply wasn't the money floating about to support such monuments to gentle leisure since British socialism, failing in its efforts to share the wealth, had devoted itself to sharing the poverty.
The ostensible criteria for club membership were relations with the world of art and letters, but there were more critics than painters, more publishers than writers, more teachers than practitioners. Typically correct in bulk and shoddy in detail, it was the kind of place that prided itself on an excellent Stilton soaked in port, but served white pepper. The members wore suits, the fine material and careless fitting of which bespoke London's better tailors, but they wore short socks that displayed rather a lot of shiny, pallid shin as they sat sprawled in the lounge.
fforbes-Ffitch was just saying good-bye to Sir Wilfred when the part-French hostess conducted Jonathan into their company.
'Ah! There you are, Jonathan. Sir Wilfred, may I present Jonathan Hemlock? He's the man I was just mentioning—'
'Hello, Jon.'
'Fred.'
'Damned if it doesn't seem that everybody in London is devoted to the task of introducing us. Makes me wonder if there was something faulty in our first acquaintance.'
'Oh.' fforbes-Ffitch was crestfallen. 'You've met, then.'
'Rather often, really,' Sir Wilfred said. 'We've just been chatting, fforbes-Ffitch and I, about your going to Stockholm to do that series of lectures for him. You will have my commission's fiscal support. Delighted you have decided to do it, Jon.'
'It isn't settled yet.'
'Oh?' Sir Wilfred raised his eyebrows at fforbes-Ffitch. 'I'd rather got the impression it was.'
'I'm sure we'll be able to work it out,' f-F said quickly, with an offhand gesture.
'Say, may I have a word with you, Jon? You wouldn't mind, would you?'
'Not at all,' fforbes-Ffitch said. He stood smiling politely at the silent men, then with a sudden catch he said, 'Oh! Oh, I see. Yes. Well, I'll order a couple of drinks then.' He departed for the bar.
Sir Wilfred drew Jonathan toward the deep-set windows that overlooked the street. 'Tell me, Jon. Are you quite all right? I am speaking of this Maximilian Strange business, of course.'
'Don't worry, Fred. There's nothing going on. It was a false alarm.'
Sir Wilfred examined Jonathan's eyes closely. 'Well, let's hope so.' Then his manner relaxed and brightened. 'Well, now I must be off.'
'The demands of business?'
'What? Oh. No. The demands of dalliance, actually. Take care.'
Jonathan found fforbes-Ffitch sitting rigidly on the front edge of a deep lounge chair in a quiet corner. He was making much of being a busy man kept waiting, frowning and checking his watch. 'You might have told me you knew Sir Wilfred,' he complained, as Jonathan sat across from him. 'Saved me a touch of embarrassment.'
'Nonsense. Embarrassment becomes you.'
'Oh? Really? No, you're having me on.'
'Look, I don't want to take too much of your valuable time.'
fforbes-Ffitch appreciated that. 'Right. Got another appointment at seventeen thirty hours.'
'Roger. Then let's get to it.' Jonathan made his case quickly. f-F was obviously committed to gaining credit by persuading Jonathan to undertake the lecture series in Sweden. In fact, he had rather overstated Jonathan's willingness to Sir Wilfred. OK. Jonathan would do the lectures if in return f-F would use his influence as a trustee of the National Gallery to persuade them to display the Marini Horse publicly the day before it was auctioned off.
'Oh, I don't know, Jonathan. A privately owned object in the Nat? Never been done before. Has all the characteristics of a publicity trick. I just don't know if they'll go along with it.'
'Oh, I was hoping your influence would be sufficient to swing it.' Jonathan's instinct for the jugular proved correct.
'I may be able to, Jonathan. Certainly give it a bash.'
'You might mention in your argument that half the art reviewers in England will be mentioning in their papers that the piece will be on display at the Gallery. Your fellow trustees wouldn't want to disappoint the taxpaying public, to say nothing of making fools of the critics, none of whom are too friendly with what they describe as the reactionary practices of that elite group.'
'How on earth could the newspapers be saying such a thing?'
Jonathan lifted his palms in an exaggerated shrug. 'Who knows where they get their wild ideas?'
fforbes-Ffitch looked long and very slyly at Jonathan. 'This is your doing, isn't it?' he accused, shaking a finger.
'You see right through me, don't you? No use trying to con a con.'
fforbes-Ffitch nodded conspiratorially. 'All right, Jonathan. I think I can assure you that the other trustees will listen to reason. But not without a battle. And in return, you owe me one lecture tour. I know you'll love Stockholm.'
True to club routine, the drinks arrived just as they had risen to leave.
Maggie sat on the edge of an oaken bench beside the hearth, unmindful of the glass of port beside her. The focus of her soft unblinking attention was the languets of flame that flickered deep within the log fire, but the attitude of her body and her half-closed eyes indicated that she was looking through the fire into something else. Daydreams, perhaps.
Leaning against a bookcase in the Vicar's study, Jonathan watched the play of light in her fine autumnal hair. The unlit side of her face was toward him, and her profile was modeled by an undulating band of firelight along the forehead and nose. Subtle shifts of color from the flames were amplified in her hair, now accenting the amber, now the copper.
A gust in the stormy night drafted through the chimney, flaring the embers with a bassoon moan, and breaking her fragile concentration. She blinked and inhaled like someone awakening, then she turned and greeted him with a slight smile.
'Boyoboy, it's sure raining cats and dogs,' Yank said from across the room where he had been nursing a funk and dealing heavy blows to the Vicar's port supply. He had been set off his feed earlier that evening while they were dining at the Olde Worlde Inn. They had been served lamb couscous, and someone had jokingly mentioned that they owed the feast to governmental indecision. The Feeding Station had been preparing a victim to be found dead in Algiers, but there had been a change in plans. Yank had blanched and left the room. Until this banal meteorological observation, he had been uniquely silent, and the forced energy in his voice indicated that he was not completely over the crisis of disgust.
'Sorry to keep you waiting.' The Vicar entered with a drawn and preoccupied air. His gray face and the lifeless hang of his jowls and wattle over his ingrown celluloid dog collar attested to days of tension and strain, as did the intensification of his nervous wink. 'At least I see you have found the port. Good.' He lowered himself
