False Impression Read online

  He sat alone in the darkness and waited patiently.

  Fenston was considering a loan application from a Michael Karraway, who wanted to borrow fourteen million to invest in a group of provincial theaters. He was an out-of-work actor with few stage credits to his name. But to his credit he had an indulgent mother, who had left him a Matisse, View from the Bedroom, and a thousand-acre farm in Vermont. Fenston studied a transparency of a young nude looking out of a bedroom window and decided that he would instruct Leapman to draw up a contract.

  Fenston tossed the application to one side and began thumbing through the latest Christie’s catalog. He paused at a reproduction of Matisse’s Dancer Before a Mirror, but turned the page once he had seen the low estimate. After all, Pierre de Rochelle had supplied him with a Degas, The Dancing Instructor, at a far more reasonable price.

  He continued to study the prices of each picture, a smile regularly appearing on his lips, when he realized how much his own collection was increasing in value. He glanced up at the clock on the corner of his desk: 7:43 P.M. “Shit,” he said, aware that if he didn’t hurry he was going to be late for his own speech at the bankers’ dinner. He picked up the catalogue and walked quickly to the door. He entered a six-digit code on the pad next to the light switch, stepped out into the corridor, and closed his door. Eight seconds after he’d locked it, he heard the security grilles slam into place.

  On the ride down in the elevator, Fenston was fascinated to see the low estimate for Caillebotte’s Street Sweepers. He had acquired the larger version for half that price from a client he had recently bankrupted. When the doors slid open, he walked quickly across to reception and signed himself out: 7:48 P.M.

  As he strolled through the lobby, he could see his driver waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. He kept his thumb stuck in the catalog as he climbed into the backseat. He was annoyed when he turned the next page and came across Van Gogh’s Reapers in the Field, low estimate, $27 million. He swore. It wasn’t in the same class as the Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the driver, “but are you still going to the bankers’ dinner?”

  “Yes, so we’d better get a move on,” said Fenston, and he turned another page of the catalog.

  “It’s just that . . .,” said the driver, picking up a gold-embossed card from the passenger seat.

  “That what?” said Fenston.

  “That the invitation says dinner jacket.” He turned and passed the card back to his boss.

  “Shit,” said Fenston, dropping the catalog onto the seat beside him. Tina would normally have put out his dinner jacket rather than leave it hanging in the closet. He jumped out of the car, even before his driver could open the back door, and took the steps up to the entrance of the building two at a time, quickly bypassing reception, not bothering to sign back in. He hurried toward a waiting elevator and pushed the button for the thirty-second floor.

  When he stepped out of the elevator, the first thing he noticed as he walked down the corridor was a beam of light coming from under his office door. He could have sworn he’d switched the light off after he’d set the alarm, or had he become so engrossed in the catalog that he simply forgot? He was about to enter the code on the pad by his door, when he heard a noise coming from inside.

  Fenston hesitated, wondering who it could be. He didn’t move as he waited to find out if the intruder was aware of his presence. They didn’t stir, so he retraced his steps, slipped into the adjoining office, and quietly closed the door. He sat down in his secretary’s chair and began to look for the switch; Leapman had alerted him to the fact that Tina could observe everything that was taking place in his office. After searching for some time, he located the switch under the desk. He flicked it across and the little screen in the corner lit up, giving him a clear view of the interior of his office. Fenston stared in disbelief.

  Leapman was sitting at his desk, a thick file open in front of him. He was slowing turning the pages, sometimes stopping to study an entry more carefully, while occasionally extracting a sheet, laying it on the table, and photographing it with what looked like a high-tech camera.

  Several thoughts flashed through Fenston’s mind. Leapman must be collecting material so that he could at some later date blackmail him. He was peddling information to a rival bank. The IRS had finally put the squeeze on him, and he’d made a deal to sacrifice his boss in exchange for immunity. Fenston settled for blackmail.

  It soon became clear that Leapman was in no hurry. He had obviously chosen this particular time with some thought. Once he had finished one file, he methodically returned it to its place and selected another. His routine didn’t alter: search slowly through the contents of the file, select certain items to study more carefully, and then occasionally extract a page to be photographed.

  Fenston considered his alternatives before finally settling on something he considered worthy of Leapman.

  He first wrote down the sequence of events that would be required to ensure he wasn’t caught. Once he was confident that he had mastered the order, he flicked up a switch to stop all outgoing or incoming calls from his office. He sat patiently at his secretary’s desk until he saw Leapman open another thick file. He then slipped back into the corridor, coming to a halt in front of his office. Fenston went over the order in his mind and, once he was satisfied, stepped forward. He first entered the correct code, 170690, on the pad by the door, as if he was leaving. He then turned his key in the lock and silently pushed open the door no more than an inch. He then immediately pulled it closed again.

  The deafening alarm was automatically set off, but Fenston still waited for eight seconds until the security grilles had clamped firmly into place. He then quickly entered last week’s code, 170680, opened the door a second time, and immediately slammed it closed.

  He could hear Leapman running across the room, clearly hoping that by entering the correct code he could stop the alarm and cause the grilles to slide back into the ceiling. But it was too late, because the iron grilles remained resolutely in place and the overpowering cacophony continued unabated.

  Fenston knew that he had only seconds to spare if he was to complete the sequence without being caught. He ran back to the adjoining office and quickly scanned the notes he’d left on his secretary’s desk. He dialed the emergency number for Abbott Security.

  A voice announced, “Duty officer, security.”

  “My name is Bryce Fenston, chairman of Fenston Finance.” He spoke slowly, but with authority. “The alarm has been triggered in my office on the thirty-second floor. I must have entered last week’s code by mistake, and I just wanted to let you know that it’s not an emergency.”

  “Can you repeat your name, sir?”

  “Bryce Fenston,” he shouted above the noise of the alarm.

  “Date of birth?”

  “Twelve six fifty-two.”

  “Mother’s maiden name?”

  “Madejski.”

  “Home zip code?”

  “One zero zero two one.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fenston. We’ll get someone up to the thirty-second floor as quickly as possible. The engineers are currently responding to an incident on the seventeenth floor, where we have someone stuck in an elevator, so it might be a few minutes before they get to you.”

  “No hurry,” said Fenston casually, “there’s no one else working on this floor at the moment, and the office won’t open again until seven tomorrow.”

  “It’s sure not going to take us that long,” the guard promised him, “but with your permission, Mr. Fenston, we’ll change your category from emergency to priority.”

  “Okay by me,” shouted Fenston above the deafening noise.

  “But there will still be an out-of-hours call-out charge of five hundred dollars.”

  “That sounds a bit steep,” said Fenston.

  “It’s standard in a case like this, sir,” came back the duty officer’s reply. “However, if you were able to report t