The Silence of the Night Read online

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t take that attitude.’

  ‘There’s no point in paying —’

  ‘There’s no point in not paying,’ she declared. ‘Really, I wish I could understand you, David.’

  I didn’t want to be understood, humoured, gently assisted along a smooth path paved with fivers. I wanted to do something, and if I could acquire a wife on the way, letting me get on doing it, well life might be worth something. Men’s lib, kind of thing.

  I was about to explain this to her, when there was the double pip of a horn from behind, the throb of a happy engine, and the red Porsche swept past in a haze of hot tarmac. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but Elsa leaned over and gave him a double pip back.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ I said.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because I’m driving, which means I’m in charge. And that means of everything.’

  She sat away from me, then said: ‘Did you know, you can be very masterful, David. And very unpleasant.’

  It was not a good start to what should have been a pleasant day. We did not get to go motoring together very often, usually me driving over to her place in Shropshire, or she to my little flat in Birmingham. We’d play a few records, have a few drinks. Nothing serious.

  This was all too darned serious for my liking.

  ‘It’s such a pity,’ she said, after a while. ‘I was sure you’d do a good job of this security business.’

  ‘I haven’t had much time,’ I said patiently. ‘And anyway, it was your idea.’

  ‘It’s as I said, let them keep their silly old job in the police force. You don’t need them.’

  ‘I need something.’

  ‘I don’t have to work.’

  ‘I can’t sit on my lazy, fat behind and let the world roll by.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I meant my behind.’

  ‘I get the point.’

  ‘My behind being fat. Elsa, yours is a beautiful —’

  ‘All right. Watch the road, David.’

  I drove on. Twenty miles, then I said: ‘I haven’t started yet.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘The job. The security. The show goes on, you know, and with the place as it is they’ll be queueing up to empty it. Furniture vans parked in the drive at night, taking it in turn to load up with Gainsboroughs.’

  She giggled. I felt better. ‘So we’ll just order the alarm stuff I need, and then I’ll get a spare solenoid switch,’ I decided.

  ‘David, you can’t do it yourself.’

  ‘I’ve soiled my hands before. The Rover’s an easy job. You’ll see.’

  She pouted. ‘It’s so ... undignified. Besides, I shan’t feel I can trust it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean ... David, as a policeman you’re wonderful. But really ... I’ll ask Martin to look at it.’

  There was a café up ahead. I drew into the forecourt violently, screamed to a halt, killed the engine.

  ‘Would you care for a coffee?’

  ‘If you say so, David.’ She got out. ‘We really ought to get you another car. Your driving in this is getting quite erratic.’

  That Oxford was going to last me a long time. Under careful fingers it was going to keep running, was going to be the official vehicle of Dave Mallin — Investigations. And there’d be an advert in the paper, so that I could choose my own jobs, not have influential friends load me with ridiculous jobs in the middle of a crowd of nuts ...

  ‘Perhaps Martin can find you something,’ she suggested. ‘Part exchange.’

  ‘Two coffees,’ I said, and the girl behind the counter looked at me strangely.

  My driving was immaculate all the way into Birmingham. We spoke very little, just admiring the scenery. But in the city I was in my own territory, and the very first Rover agency we came to, I drove in.

  ‘Be a minute.’

  When I came back I tossed the box into the back seat. ‘Solenoid switch,’ I said, and she gave me one of her looks, under her eyelashes, lips pursed in a funny kind of smile.

  Next stop: French and Greene. There I ordered an array of alarm systems, a crate of invisible ray things, and a special they’d just perfected that went off if you sweated within ten yards. Early delivery, I said. Very urgent. And send the bill to Hillary Keane.

  ‘One more, and that’s it,’ I told her, and headed for Handsworth.

  Artie Dolman was a sort of friend of mine. That’s to say, I hadn’t arrested him one time when I might have done, because anybody who buys a Van Gogh in a back street in Birmingham deserves all he gets. And in gratitude he’d done me a favour. Elsa didn’t know it, but my Dürer was one of Artie’s better efforts. But his speciality was Van Goghs, and by that time there were probably more Dolmans than Van Goghs around. And Artie Dolman could reconstitute a broken T’ang vase so that you’d merely think the glazing was faintly crazed. After all, he’d probably made a few, himself, in his spare time.

  When we got there he was practising his Modigliani style. (‘The market’s wide open,’ he told me later.) He wiped the paint from his fingers and stuck out his hand.

  ‘Mr Mallin! I heard you landed some trouble at headquarters.’

  ‘Nothing much,’ I assured him. ‘Artie, I’ve got a job for you.’

  He bustled us into his studio, which was a back room looking out on a tiny yard. The false impression was that Artie was poor. He was looking in admiration at Elsa, noticed her wedding ring.

  ‘Well ... congratulations.’

  ‘Not yet, Artie. Here, have a look at this.’

  I gave him the bag of pieces, not meeting Elsa’s eyes. The ring was Geoff Forbes’s, not mine, and Geoff had been my best friend, his wealth, when he’d been alive, not harming our relationship. But Elsa had not noticed. She was far too busy looking round the walls, her breathing nearly stopped. Monet nudged Manet, Degas, Pissarro, Cézanne. He was pretty good on all the Impressionists.

  ‘He’s best on Van Gogh,’ I said.

  ‘Modigliani,’ he corrected, looking up from his bench. ‘I’m getting him just fine, now. Where did you get this, Dave?’

  The formality had gone. His little, screwed-up face was alive with interest.

  ‘It belongs to a Hillary Keane. It’s a T’ang, supposed to be very rare. Can you do it?’

  ‘Genuine hard paste porcelain’s difficult,’ he said. ‘It’s like glass. Yes, I can do this. T’ang, did you say?’

  He got out a magnifier, and peered earnestly at the pieces. Then he looked up. ‘You’re having me on, Dave.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  He grinned. ‘It’s good. Oh, I’ll give you that. When it was all in one piece, you’d maybe get the experts arguing about it. Maybe. But when it’s broken you can look at the edges. Genuine T’ang’s like glass, Dave. This is a soft paste fake. It’s probably no more than twenty years old.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Elsa. ‘It couldn’t be.’ But then her eyes went round the walls. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m certain. D’you want me to work on it, Dave? I mean, it’ll be worth maybe a couple of quid.’

  I thought about that. ‘Can you prove it?’ He looked hurt. ‘No, I mean, something on paper.’

  ‘It’d take time.’

  ‘We may not have it.’

  ‘I could send a bit to the Oxford University Research Laboratory. They’re doing work on there to luminescence testing, and they can tell to a few years how old it is. But no need for that, Dave. Get anybody to look at an edge, just anybody.’

  Elsa was tugging at my sleeve. ‘But what does it mean?’

  It meant, amongst other things, that I’d have to call in at my flat. I was busy making up my mind. ‘Just stick it together, Artie, it’ll look good on my mantelpiece. You needn’t trouble to do a special job of it.’

  ‘Now Dave!’

  And I saw I’d hurt him. Artie just couldn’t do a non-special job. I grinned, slapped him on the shoulder, and
we left.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Elsa plaintively, as we got in the car.

  What she was trying not to believe was that one of her friends — and one such as Hillary Keane — could have been in possession of something faked. It was a though a Marks and Spencer label had been found inside her latest Balmain. Something like shock was setting in.

  I said: ‘If Artie Dolman says it —’

  ‘That horrible little man!’

  ‘Horrible?’

  ‘Calmly producing all those forgeries!’

  Well now, it wasn’t the sort of topic you really need in the middle of Birmingham’s rush traffic. As far as I could see, if Artie could turn out Van Goghs as good as Van Gogh, that made Artie at least as clever as Van Gogh. At least. Because after all Van Gogh hadn’t been trying, because the style was natural to him, whereas Artie had had to learn it. And they’re only for looking at, aren’t they? I was aware, though, somewhere in the back of my mind, that this was not the point, that they were not for looking at, but for buying and selling. A capital investment. And this subject was one that I had best avoid, with Elsa.

  ‘He doesn’t do it calmly,’ I said. ‘He does it in a creative frenzy.’

  And that kept her quiet all the way to the flat.

  It was close to the city centre, and had been convenient for Central Office. As I’d about decided to resign, anyway, its convenience now had to be related to any office I might acquire for my private enquiry agency. So I still held a protective affection for it, though I must admit it wasn’t much to get excited about. It had two rooms, and my kitchen in a kind of cupboard into which they’d squeezed a narrow sink and a rudimentary cooker. It was hardly the sort of place Elsa would admire, though she hadn’t actually said so up to now.

  ‘Why are we coming here?’ she asked as we got out of the car.

  A couple of things; my gun, and something I wanted to get settled.

  ‘I’ve got Adrian Boult’s new recording of the Brahms 4th. I thought you’d like to hear it.’

  That we’d be prepared to sit around, in the middle of a murder case, with hot news of a fake T’ang burning for release, was hardly feasible. But you can toss things like that to Elsa.

  ‘In the afternoon?’ she said in surprise.

  She led the way up the stairs, looked back at me. ‘I suppose you’ve still got the same old record player!’

  Considering that my stereo hi-fi was my prized possession, that was hitting a bit low. It was going to have to manage a few years.

  ‘I’ve bought a new stylus,’ I told her.

  She smiled. ‘When’s your birthday, David?’

  And that put me off straightaway. She was quite capable of sending along a few hundred pounds’ worth of Sansui.

  I opened the window to let in a bit of traffic fug, and got out the new disc. ‘Detectives don’t have birthdays,’ I said. ‘They have deathdays.’

  While she was listening to it I made some coffee, though there was only powdered milk, and at least she didn’t criticise Sir Adrian. I sneaked into the bedroom, fished the thirty-two Colt automatic from under my shirts, and slid it into my pocket. Elsa hadn’t realised all the implications yet, but a fake T’ang, to me, and a murdered Frazer, all of a sudden got together and spelt trouble. I’d been bewitched by a large helping of paltry motives into a feeling of exasperated lethargy. There’d been nothing real about it. But now Alice was facing the looking glass, and the image staring back was a little hoary and disturbing.

  She said: ‘I don’t think I like the first movement so much.’

  ‘I prefer the last,’ I agreed. ‘Look, Elsa, do you really have to come back to Killington? Your place is only an hour away.’

  The touch of the gun in my hand was what had done it. Like a soldier off to war, I’d gone all protective, and at the same time I felt an urgent desire to tie-down the relationship with my woman. Mine? You can see how mixed-up I was getting.

  ‘Of course I’m coming back.’ Her eyes were large, questioning. ‘You don’t think this business of the vase —’

  ‘No, no. But you only intended to stay over the weekend, anyway.’

  ‘Things have changed. And there’s the Rover up there.’

  And I couldn’t drive two cars. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Martin could get it sent here, of course,’ she suggested.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘And get it put right.’

  ‘I’ve already bought the switch.’

  ‘That was silly of you. You know you can’t afford to throw money away.’

  ‘But I expect to make quite a bit out of your friend Keane,’ I pointed out, perhaps a bit sarcastically. ‘And anyway, I’ve got plans.’

  She tried to laugh at my plans, but I must have been looking very serious because she only achieved a smile. ‘Oh come on, David, that needn’t be necessary.’

  The hi-fi turned itself off, and I hadn’t heard a note of the last couple of minutes. ‘In what circumstances would it not be necessary, Elsa?’

  And she turned her head away. ‘If you’d be sensible,’ she whispered.

  Sensible and ask her to marry me? ‘I don’t want to be in a situation where it wouldn’t be necessary,’ I said, moving around a little, not looking at her.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve worked ... all my life. It is my life. If a man hasn’t got something he can do, something he can do better than anybody else, in his own particular way ...’

  ‘Can you do it better than anyone else?’ she asked, tossing her head. ‘Is that what you mean? Do you believe you can go out and beat them all at it, these people with their established agencies and all their organisation? You must be very confident ... or foolish.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘It’s simply a matter of proving how good you are. Do you always have to compete, David?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! All life’s a competition, and when you get to the stage where you give up, say all right you win, I’m retiring, then you’re finished. I don’t want to be finished.’

  ‘We seem to be discussing different things,’ she said flatly, reaching for her handbag. ‘What I had in mind could hardly be called a finish.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. No please, Elsa. Let me say it. I’ve got to have something to lay on the line — to offer.’

  ‘Such nonsense.’

  ‘To be able to take on something, do a reasonable job of it, look back on it and say, I did that. It’s mine.’

  ‘We’d better wash the cups before we go. It’ll be solid if you leave it.’

  She stood up and smoothed her dress. What a time to show me her figure!

  ‘Maybe I’m too big-headed,’ I said, desperate now. ‘Maybe it’s because it’s built into me, this blasted detection business. But I can’t just turn my back on it.’

  ‘Well David,’ she said, her head on one side, ‘I’m sure I don’t see why you couldn’t. I mean, men do have hobbies. Do it as a kind of mental exercise. Peter Wimsey always seemed very happy, to me. And contented.’

  ‘We will,’ I said, ‘return to Killington Towers, and I will show you — prove to you — that I’m not completely useless. However much you seem to want me to become useless.’

  And she went stiffly out on to the landing and waited while I gave the cups a quick swill to retard the solidifying. I could’ve sworn I heard her say: ‘Hardly flattering, David, even to yourself.’

  Then, on the way back, perversely, I suppose, to show me just what a prize I was prepared to reject, she was so pleasant, so divertingly amusing, that I almost forgot that I had bad news for Hillary Keane.

  We found him in the Grand Hall, contemplating a Reynolds with pleasure, and I wasted no time. ‘When did you buy the T’ang?’

  ‘Some years ago,’ he said. ‘It’s not a family heirloom, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘And it’s been authenticated?’

  ‘Well of course. I’m not a complete
fool.’ He turned and smiled at Elsa. ‘A nice trip, my dear?’

  ‘The trip,’ she said, ‘was enjoyable. But Hillary, we’ve got some serious news.’

  He smiled gently. ‘I’m used to it.’

  I told him. ‘That T’ang was a fake.’

  He did not at once speak. His calm eyes went from one to the other. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A friend of mine. He could not have been mistaken. He told me the pieces were soft paste, whatever that is.’

  ‘If it was soft paste, he could of course recognise it at once,’ he agreed. ‘But if, my dear fellow, it had been soft paste, so would everybody else. The file test is quite rudimentary, and I assure you that my T’ang was quite genuine.’

  ‘Perhaps your file wasn’t too genuine.’

  ‘Mine?’ He took me quite seriously. ‘I wouldn’t have put a file to it. But there was no need. I sent it to Oxford. They’ve got a laboratory there ...’

  ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘And they tested it. Oh, I do assure you, quite genuine. T’ang Dynasty. They certified it. I’ve got their certificate, if you’d like to see it.’

  So we went into his study and he showed it to me, and there could be no argument with the scientific test that dated Keane’s T’ang at around AD 750.

  I said: ‘It’s dated three months ago,’ and he looked at me with a slow, dawning horror. ‘We’d better ring the super.’

  ‘But what can it mean?’ Elsa asked.

  ‘Well, on the face of it I’d say it means that the vase Hillary had certified was not the one that was broken last night.’

  I don’t think either of them realised the significance of those five words: on the face of it.

  But Hillary chose to interpret them in his own individual way, and jumped to the conclusion that somebody had switched vases on him sometime between the certificate and the previous night. It was this version he allowed to circulate.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The news seemed to stream through the house like a shock wave, and an atmosphere of hushed gloom fell upon the place. Whereas a smashed T’ang had generated sorrow, and the death of Frazer a sort of hysterical self-criticism, the discovery that the Grand Hall had been housing a fake produced nothing less than horror.