collection. He is a much coveted artist these days. Very popular.” He paused. “Mr. Schrade is an ardent collector of this man’s work, just as he is of Klimt’s.”
She turned and squared herself to Knight. “This was planned, then, having my drawings here with the Schieles?”
“Yes and no. It’s the damnedest coincidence I’ve ever experienced in all my years in the business.” Knight’s eyes widened theatrically. He told her briefly of how he had come by the Schieles, skimming over the facts.
“So, this Mr. Schrade was coming to London anyway, then, to see Mr. Blanchard’s drawings?”
“Indeed. Only…” Knight shrugged his shoulders in a way to indicate a delicate matter. “Only Mr. Blanchard is offering these drawings anonymously, as you are. I can’t say that happens too often, either-back to back, that is.”
Mara nodded. Claude Corsier was selling drawings to Schrade? Incredible. Actually, it seemed too incredible. She couldn’t understand what was going on here, nor could she possibly imagine why something was going on here. She couldn’t gather together enough logical pieces of the puzzle to propose any scenarios at all.
Knight stepped back, pleased with himself. A lock of his white hair sagged over his forehead, and his eyes twinkled from behind his round black eyeglasses.
“So then, we should hurry. You’ve brought the documentation?”
“Actually, no,” Mara said.
Knight frowned. Worry, concern, horrible imaginings, and a little fear instantly embedded themselves in the pale flesh gathering across his broad forehead. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have the documentation,” Mara said. “I received a communication from Mr. Cao early this morning. There’s been a change in plans in Hong Kong. Mr. Cao does not want to sell.”
“What? Does not want to sell?”
“That’s correct.”
Knight almost staggered. He looked at the portfolio on the table with disbelief.
“Does he want some other arrangement with me? Would he like to talk about it? I can assure you, Mr. Schrade will buy these. And he will pay the very highest price. You were absolutely correct in that, Ms. Paille.”
“It has nothing to do with anything here, Mr. Knight. Mr. Cao lives in his own world. What he does and how he does it often have nothing at all to do with anything, except what is in his head. I’ve worked for him for so long, I’ve become-almost-acclimated to these sudden reversals.”
“Why, this is appalling,” Knight said. “He, you, could hardly have asked for a more convenient, a more serendipitous circumstance than what you have here. Everything has come together absolutely without plan… so extraordinary.”
The telephone rang. Knight flinched and looked around at it, and Mara quickly checked her watch. God.
Knight looked at Ms. Paille, held his hand up tentatively as if to freeze the moment, started to speak but didn’t, and picked up the telephone.
“Hello, this is Carrington.” He listened, his dark brow lightening in polite ingratiation. “Oh, yes, absolutely… Of course not… No, no, no, not at all… Absolutely. Very good, very good… Yes, good-bye.”
He put down the receiver and looked at Ms. Paille, concern returning to his expression. “That was Mr. Schrade. He’s in a traffic jam. He’ll be a little late, probably another fifteen minutes.”
“Good,” she said. “Good. That just gives me time to be out of your way.” She moved to the portfolio and began closing it up.
Knight blanched. “Ms. Paille, do you suppose it would be possible for me to talk to Mr. Cao? Perhaps he doesn’t understand the extraordinary- ”
“I’m afraid that would be entirely impossible,” Mara said, clasping the portfolio as she rallied every nerve in her body to remain in control. She was horrified that Schrade was still alive. What had happened to Harry? She was nearly faint with anxiety. Carrington Knight was talking urgently, but she heard nothing he was saying. She was fighting nausea. God, Schrade was so close.
Knight was coming around the opposite end of the table to meet her. He had put both hands together prayerfully, holding them in front of his chest, gesturing with them, rocking them back and forth. “These sorts of opportunities are rare, really, because Schrade is the premier individual collector of these artists…”
Somehow she moved unhurriedly, gracefully, even spoke calmly, though she had no idea what she was saying, and eventually she found herself being accompanied by a loquacious Knight down the long turn in the staircase. She had entered headlong into that surreal and common dream in which quick flight in the face of peril was impossible, in which her own legs plowed with slumberous torpor through the thick surf of her panic.
How much time had elapsed? She had no idea. How long had Knight tried to persuade her before they headed for the staircase? How long had it taken them to descend to where they were now? The foyer that occupied the space between the bottom of the stairs and the front door was generous but not grand, yet in her illusory flight it seemed an encompassing sea of indigo silk.
Knight opened the cloakroom door, and she turned her back to him and felt her raincoat on her shoulders. She slipped her arms into the sleeves as Knight, she only vaguely realized, was flattering her, his oily, clever manner grasping at her, trying desperately to hold her with his words.
Where was her driver?
He was ill. She had come in a cab.
Oh, then he should call one.
No, no need to call a cab, she said. There were always those parked across the street in front of the Connaught. Oh, but he could call, he would call. She wouldn’t have to cross the street in the rain. Not at all. It was nothing. She said things, appropriate things.
There were parting words.
She took the umbrella from him and started to open it when the doorbell rang.
She did not flinch but looked up calmly.
Knight tittered. Don’t worry, don’t worry, he would pretend she was simply a client leaving, it happened all the time, there was nothing to worry about, it wasn’t necessary to introduce her, it was just business.
She was suddenly composed. The surreal passed, and the present came into focus. She faced the opening of the door with a singular clarity of mind.
She wondered how Schrade would react. He knew her face as readily as he knew his own. He knew all about her. But he wouldn’t be expecting to see her. That, at least, would be a surprise.
Knight was as oblivious as a butterfly.
He stepped in front of her and opened the door.
A man burst in, sending Knight sprawling flat on his back on the parquet floor and sliding six feet before he stopped at the foot of the Persian stairs.
CHAPTER 62
Strand was dripping wet, his arm stretched out, pointing the pistol at a dumbfounded Carrington Knight.
“Wolf Schrade,” he demanded, short of breath, his lungs burning.
“Wha…?” Knight scrambled up against the last tread on the stairs and gaped, trying to collect his ability to think, to speak.
“Where’s Schrade?”
“He’s not here,” Mara blurted.
Strand looked around at her. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped.
They stared at each other. Silence.
Mara said, “Schrade’s not here… He called… he’s late, traffic…”
“Jeffrey?” Strand looked up the stairs.
“I haven’t seen him.”
Strand turned to Knight, who choked, “Not here…”
“Who is here?” Strand’s raincoat was shedding streams of water that puddled around his feet.
“Only us,” Mara said. She was standing with her arms pressed to her chest, a gesture of holding on, of
