False Impression Read online

  “The only good thing to come out of this,” said Anna, “is that we can transfer the original frame back onto the masterpiece.”

  “But what shall we do with him?” asked Arabella, gesturing toward the impostor. The butler gave a discreet cough. “You have a suggestion, Andrews?” inquired Arabella. “If so, let’s hear it.”

  “No, m’lady,” Andrews replied, “but I thought you would want to know that your other guest is proceeding up the drive.”

  “The man clearly has a gift for timing,” said Arabella, as she quickly checked her hair in the mirror. “Andrews,” she said, reverting to her normal role, “has the Wellington Room been prepared for Mr. Nakamura?”

  “Yes, m’lady. And Dr. Petrescu will be in the Van Gogh room.”

  “How appropriate,” said Arabella, turning to face Anna, “that he should spend his last night with you.”

  Anna was relieved to see Arabella so quickly back into her stride and had a feeling that she might prove a genuine foil for Nakamura.

  The butler opened the front door and walked down the steps at a pace that would ensure he reached the gravel just as the Toyota Lexus came to a halt. Andrews opened the back door of the limousine to allow Mr. Nakamura to step out. He was clutching a small square package.

  “The Japanese always arrive bearing a gift,” whispered Anna, “but under no circumstances should you open it in their presence.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Arabella, “but I haven’t got anything for him.”

  “He won’t expect something in return. You have invited him to be a guest in your house, and that is the greatest compliment you can pay any Japanese.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Arabella, as Mr. Nakamura appeared at the front door.

  “Lady Arabella,” he said, bowing low, “it is a great honor to be invited to your magnificent home.”

  “You honor my home, Mr. Nakamura,” said Arabella, hoping she’d said the correct thing.

  The Japanese man bowed even lower, and when he rose came face-to-face with Lawrence’s portrait of Wellington.

  “How appropriate,” he said. “Did the great man not dine at Wentworth Hall the night before he sailed for Waterloo?”

  “Indeed he did,” said Arabella, “and you will sleep in the same bed that the Iron Duke slept in on that historic occasion.”

  Nakamura turned to Anna and bowed. “How nice to see you again, Dr. Petrescu.”

  “And you too, Nakamura-san,” said Anna. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

  “Yes, thank you. We even landed on time, for a change,” said Nakamura, who didn’t move as his eyes roamed around the room. “You will please correct me, Anna, should I make a mistake. It is clear that the room is devoted to the English school. Gains borough?” he queried, as he admired the full-length portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. Anna nodded, before Nakamura moved on “Landseer, Morland, Romney, Stubbs, but then, I am stumped—is that the correct expression?”

  “It most certainly is,” confirmed Arabella, “although our American cousins wouldn’t begin to understand its significance. And you were stumped by Lely.”

  “Ah, Sir Peter, and what a fine-looking woman—” he paused “—a family trait,” he said, turning to face his host.

  “And I can see, Mr. Nakamura, that your family trait is flattery,” teased Arabella.

  Nakamura burst out laughing. “With the risk of being taken to task a second time, Lady Arabella, if every room is the equal of this, it may prove necessary for me to cancel my meeting with those dullards from Corus Steel.” Nakamura’s eyes continued to sweep the room, “Wheatley, Lawrence, West, and Wilkie,” he said, before his gaze ended up on the portrait propped up against the wall.

  Nakamura offered no opinion for some time. “Quite magnificent,” he finally said. “The work of an inspired hand—” he paused “—but not the hand of Van Gogh.”

  “How can you be so sure, Nakamura-san?” asked Anna.

  “Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” replied Nakamura.

  “But everyone knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear,” said Anna.

  Nakamura turned and smiled at Anna. “And you know only too well,” he added, “that Van Gogh painted the original while looking in a mirror, which is why the bandage ended up on the wrong ear.”

  “I do hope that someone is going to explain all this to me later,” said Arabella as she led her guests through to the drawing room.

  52

  KRANTZ RETURNED TO the shop at 2 P.M., but there was no sign of the proprietor. “He’ll be back at any moment,” the assistant assured her without conviction.

  “Any moment” turned out to be thirty minutes, by which time the assistant was nowhere to be seen. When the owner did eventually show up, Krantz was pleased to see that he was carrying a bulky plastic bag. Without a word being spoken, Krantz followed him to the back of the shop and into his office. Not until he’d closed the door did a large grin appear on his fleshy lips.

  The proprietor placed the carrier bag on his desk. He paused for a moment, then pulled out the red outfit Krantz had requested.

  “She may be a little taller than you,” he said with a half apology, “but I can supply a needle and thread at no extra charge.” He began to laugh but ceased when his customer didn’t respond.

  Krantz held the uniform up against her shoulders. The previous owner was at least three or four inches taller than Krantz but only a few pounds heavier; nothing—as the proprietor had suggested—that a needle and thread wouldn’t remedy.

  “And the passport?” asked Krantz.

  Once again the proprietor’s hand dipped into the carrier bag, and, like a conjuror producing a rabbit out of a hat, he offered up a Soviet passport. He handed over the prize to Krantz and said, “She has a three-day layover, so she probably won’t discover that it’s missing until Friday.”

  “It will have served its purpose long before then,” Krantz said, as she began to turn the pages of the official document.

  Sasha Prestakavich, she discovered, was three years younger than her, and eight centimeters taller with no distinguishing marks. A problem that a pair of high-heeled shoes would solve, unless an overzealous official decided to carry out a strip search and came across the recent wound on her right shoulder.

  When Krantz reached the page where Sasha Prestakavich’s photo had once been, the proprietor was unable to disguise a satisfied smirk. For his next trick, he produced from under the counter a Polaroid camera.

  “Smile,” he said. She didn’t.

  A few seconds later an image spewed out. A pair of scissors appeared next, and the proprietor began to cut the photograph down to a size that would comply with the little dotted rectangle on page three of the passport. Next, a dollop of glue to fix the new holder in place. His final act was to drop a needle and thread into the carrier bag. Krantz was beginning to realize that this was not the first occasion he had supplied such a service. She placed the uniform and the passport back in the carrier bag, before handing over eight hundred dollars.

  The proprietor checked the wad of notes carefully.

  “You said a thousand,” he protested.

  “You were thirty minutes late,” Krantz reminded him, as she picked up the bag and turned to leave.

  “Do come and visit us again,” suggested the proprietor as she retreated, “whenever you’re passing through.”

  Krantz didn’t bother to explain to him why, in her profession, she never saw anyone twice, unless it was to make sure they couldn’t see her a third time.

  Once she was back on the street, she only had to walk for a couple of blocks before she came across the next shop she required. She purchased a pair of plain, black high-heeled shoes—not her style, but they would serve their purpose. She paid the bill in rubles and left the shop carrying two bags.

  Krantz next hailed a taxi, gave the driver an address, and told him the exact entrance where she wished to be dropped off. When the cab drew up by a side door ma