Picture You Dead

88

Tuesday, 5 November

Stuart Piper looked at his watch: 10.06 p.m. He was sitting on his sofa in the Hidden Salon, feeling distinctly on edge. And when he was edgy he got angry. And when he got angry he got drunk, which made him even more angry. As he was now.

Where the hell was that fool Kilgore? He should have been here a good hour ago by his reckoning. Had it all gone to rat-shit? Everything at the moment seemed to have gone to rat-shit. Like the police sniffing around a bit too much. Like this damned cigar which wasn’t drawing properly. And like the fire in the grate that wasn’t burning properly tonight, either. Had his fool of a housekeeper laid it badly?

Even the candles in the two candelabras did not seem to be as bright or steady as normal. They were flickering and it was annoying him.

Even his blasted cognac tasted rank tonight.

He clicked the Dupont lighter and held the flame to the end of his Cohiba Esplendidos, sucking hard. But it was like trying to suck air through a vacuum. Reaching for his silver cutter, he clipped off a further piece of the tip and tried again. Still no joy.

In a fit of temper, he stood up and tossed the £60 cigar into the open fire, went over to the humidor and selected another one. He clipped it, lit it, and drew hard. Better but still not great. No cigar, he thought, humourlessly, too angry to even smile at his private joke.

Clamping the fresh Cohiba in his mouth, he picked up the tall bellows beside the grate and pumped some life into the fire, watching his discarded cigar burn for some moments. Then he sat back down and looked at his phone, tempted to call Kilgore to find out what the hell was happening. But they’d agreed radio silence, and he figured if things had gone tits up, it wouldn’t be smart to have a traceable call.

He sat back down on the edge of the sofa and drank some more cognac, draining the glass. Restless, he stood up again, went over to the drinks cabinet, feeling a little woozy, and refilled it to a much higher level than usual. And took a large gulp of it as he sat back down, momentarily closing his eyes and wincing against the sharp burn in his throat.

Then he took several hard puffs on the cigar until a reassuring red glow and halo of grey ash appeared. As he did so he felt a draught of cold air; the candles all guttered in unison, and he heard a sound behind him.

The door was open, and Robert Kilgore came through, a broad beam on his face, holding a package encased in bubble wrap.

‘What’s kept you?’ Piper demanded.

Kilgore held up the package. ‘Doing what you asked me to do, sir. Mission accomplished!’ He propped the package gently against the wall where the other three Fragonards were hung, above, then looked back at Piper proudly. ‘I think you’re going to be a very happy man, sir.’

‘That’s for me to decide, I don’t need you telling me, Bobby.’ He puffed again on his cigar and took another gulp of his brandy. ‘So, let me see.’

Kilgore gave him a smile that irritated him, then, seemingly in no hurry, fished a pack of Camels from his pocket and shook a cigarette from the pack. He jammed it between his lips, produced a plastic lighter from another pocket and lit it. ‘I could sure use a drink,’ he said, nodding at Piper’s glass, then taking a long drag of his Camel.

‘Would you mind putting that out, please, Bobby?’ Piper said sharply.

Kilgore held the cigarette up with a puzzled expression. ‘I’m sorry, boss, you’re smoking, I figured—’

Piper stood up, abruptly, then swayed on his feet and nearly fell backwards down onto the sofa. Shit, he was very definitely a little bit drunk, he realized. Actually, more than a little bit. Stabilizing himself, he strode unsteadily over to Kilgore, snatched the cigarette from his fingers, carried it over to the coffee table and crushed it out in the ashtray. ‘I don’t want that cheap thing polluting my Havana. Understand?’

Kilgore looked at him warily. ‘I’m sorry, boss.’

‘The picture?’

Kilgore pulled away the bubble wrap, lifting the small, framed painting clear, and handed it proudly to Piper. ‘It’s sure going to look just fine in that gap,’ he said.

Piper did not reply. He was holding the painting under the light of the chandelier, examining it carefully. Then, setting it down on one of the sofas, propping it against a cushion, he switched on the torch app of his phone and spent several minutes examining every detail of it, without commenting.

‘Looks pretty original to me, I’d say, and the original frame,’ Kilgore said quietly. He’d seen the boss’s drunken tantrums before. Truth was he was getting pretty fed up with the way the boss treated him.

Piper turned to the reverse and began an equally scrupulous inspection under the torch beam.

Kilgore watched.

‘This came from the Kiplings’ home?’ Piper asked.

‘Well, not exactly, sir. I do also have the one that was in their home, which is an obvious fake.’ He then explained where Harry Kipling had been storing this one.

Piper continued to study the reverse in silence. Suddenly, to Kilgore’s utter surprise, his boss hurled the painting to the floor. ‘You moron,’ Piper shouted. ‘You total and utter moron!’

Kilgore frowned. ‘I’m sorry, sir, what do you mean?’

Piper glared at him. ‘What do I mean? I thought you were an art expert! This is not an original, it’s a fake. It’s a fake, for God’s sake, man!’