False Impression Read online

  The first thing she saw was a man dressed in a dinner jacket. He was on his feet, a glass of champagne in one hand as if proposing a toast. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but then she wasn’t interested. Her eyes swept that part of the room she could see. At one end of the table sat a lady in a long silk dress with her back to the window, looking intently at the man delivering the impromptu speech. Krantz’s eyes rested on her diamond necklace, but that wasn’t her trade. Her specialty was two or three inches above the sparkling gems.

  She turned her attention to the other end of the table. She almost smiled when she saw who was eating pheasant and sipping a glass of wine. When Petrescu retired to bed later that night, Krantz would be waiting for her, hidden in a place Petrescu would least expect to find her.

  Krantz glanced toward the man in the black tailcoat who had opened the door to let the dogs out. He was now standing behind the lady wearing the silk gown, refilling her glass with wine, while other servants removed plates and one did nothing more than scrape crumbs from the table into a silver tray. Krantz remained absolutely still while her eyes continued to move around the room, searching for the other throat Fenston had sent her to cut.

  “Lady Arabella, I rise to thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I have much enjoyed trout from the River Test, and pheasant shot on your estate, while in the company of two remarkable women. But tonight will remain memorable for me for many other reasons. Not least, that I will leave Wentworth Hall tomorrow with two unique additions to my collection—one of the finest examples of Van Gogh’s work, as well as one of the most talented young professionals in her field, who has agreed to be the CEO of my foundation. Your great-grandfather,” said Nakamura, turning to face his hostess, “was wise enough in eighteen eighty-nine, over a century ago, to purchase from Dr. Gachet the self-portrait of his close friend, Vincent Van Gogh. Tomorrow, that masterpiece will begin a journey to the other side of the world, but I must warn you, Arabella, that after only a few hours in your home, I have my eye on another of your national treasures, and this time I would be willing to pay well over the odds.”

  “Which one, may I ask?” said Arabella.

  Krantz decided that it was time to move on.

  She crept slowly toward the north end of the building, unaware that the massive cornerstones had been an architectural delight to Sir John Vanbrugh; to her they formed perfectly proportioned footholds to the first floor.

  She climbed up onto the first-floor balcony in less than two minutes and paused for a moment to consider how many bedrooms she might have to enter. She knew that while there were guests in the house there was no reason to think any of the rooms would be alarmed, and because of the age of the building, entry wouldn’t have caused much difficulty for a burglar on his first outing. With the aid of her knife, Krantz slipped the bolt on the window of the first room. Once inside, she didn’t fumble around for a light but switched on a slimline pen flashlight, which illuminated an area about the size of a small television screen. The square of light moved across the wall, illuminating picture after picture, and although Hals, Hobbema, and Van Goyen would have delighted most connoisseurs’ eyes, Krantz passed quickly over them in search of another Dutch master. Once she had given cursory consideration to every painting in the room, she switched off the torch and headed back to the balcony. She entered the second guest bedroom as Arabella rose to thank Mr. Nakamura for his gracious speech.

  Once again Krantz studied each canvas, and once again none brought a smile to her lips. She quickly returned to the parapet, as the butler offered Mr. Nakamura a port and opened the cigar box. Mr. Nakamura allowed Andrews to pour him a Taylor’s 47. When the butler returned to his mistress at the other end of the table, Arabella declined the port, but rolled several cigars between her thumb and forefinger before she selected a Monte Cristo. As the butler struck a match for his mistress, Arabella smiled. Everything was going to plan.

  56

  KRANTZ HAD COVERED five bedrooms by the time Arabella invited her guests to join her in the drawing room for coffee. There were still another nine rooms left to consider, and Krantz was aware that not only was she running out of time, but she wouldn’t be given a second chance.

  She moved swiftly to the next room, where someone who believed in fresh air had left a window wide open. She switched on her flashlight, to be greeted by a steely glare from the Iron Duke. She moved on to the next picture, just as Mr. Nakamura placed his coffee cup back on the side table and rose from his place. “I think it is time for me to retire to bed, Lady Arabella,” he said, “in case those dull men of Corus Steel feel I have lost my edge.” He turned to Anna. “I look forward to seeing you in the morning, when we might discuss over breakfast any ideas you have for developing my collection, and perhaps even your remuneration.”

  “But you have already made it clear what you think I am worth,” said Anna.

  “I don’t recall that,” said Nakamura, looking puzzled.

  “Oh yes,” said Anna, with a smile. “I well remember your suggestion that Fenston had convinced you that I was worth five hundred dollars a day.”

  “You have taken advantage of an old man,” said Nakamura with a smile, “but I shall not go back on my word.”

  Krantz thought she heard a door close, and without giving Wellington a second look returned quickly to the balcony. She needed the use of her knife to secure entry into the next room. She moved stealthily across the floor, coming to a halt at the end of another four-poster bed. She switched on the flashlight, expecting to be greeted by a blank wall. But not this time.

  The insane eyes of a genius stared at her. The insane eyes of an assassin stared back.

  Krantz smiled for the second time that day. She climbed up onto the bed and crawled slowly toward her next victim. She was within inches of the canvas when she unsheathed her knife, raised it above her head, and was about to plunge the blade into the neck of Van Gogh, when she remembered what Fenston had insisted on if she hoped to collect four million rather than three. She switched off her flashlight, climbed down from the bed onto the thick carpet, and crawled under the four-poster. She lay flat on her back and waited.

  As Arabella and her guests strolled out of the drawing room and into the hallway, she asked Andrews if Brunswick and Picton had returned.

  “No, m’lady,” the butler replied, “but there are a lot of rabbits about tonight.”

  “Then I shall go and fetch the rascals myself,” muttered Arabella and, turning to her guests, added, “Sleep well. I’ll see you both at breakfast.”

  Nakamura bowed before accompanying Anna up the staircase, again stopping occasionally to admire Arabella’s ancestors, who gazed back at him.

  “You will forgive me, Anna,” he said, “for taking my time, but I may not be given the opportunity of meeting these gentlemen again.”

  Anna smiled as she left him to admire the Romney of Mrs. Siddons.

  She continued on down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the Van Gogh room. She opened the bedroom door and switched on the light, stopping for a moment to admire the portrait of Van Gogh. She took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe, placing the rest of her clothes on the sofa at the end of the four-poster. She then turned on the light by the side of the bed and checked her watch. It was just after eleven. She disappeared into the bathroom.

  When Krantz heard the sound of a shower, she slid out from under the canopy and knelt beside the bed. She cocked an ear, like an attentive animal sniffing the wind. The shower was still running. She stood up, walked across to the door, and switched off the bedroom light, while leaving on the reading light by the side of the bed. She pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed away from the lamp and climbed carefully in. She took one last look at the Van Gogh, before neatly replacing the blanket and cover over her head and finally disappearing under the sheet. Krantz lay flat and didn’t move a muscle. She was so slight that she barely made an impression in the half light. Although she remained secreted