Crimson Lake

'A dank miasma hung like nature's shroud over the turbid oily waters of the river and the surrounding wharfs. Seven bodies had disappeared into their murky depths the previous night, of which only three had been recovered by the police. A serial killer dubbed 'The Asphyxiator' by the tabloid newspapers was on the prowl again...'

Henry Dickens, ex-Metropolitan police inspector, put the paperback with the lurid cover on the table in front of him, deciding that gothic horror stories were not really his cup of tea. He leaned back in his chair at his new home in Wales and gazed reflectively up at a pale blue sky in which sea gulls were lazily circling. After giving the matter serious consideration, he concluded that they were taking advantage of rising thermals provided by the hot summer sunshine. Looking down, he examined the newly-planted bank of pink and red roses ahead of him. Satisfied that they were completely pest-free, he yawned and stretched, trying hard to achieve that tranquillity of mind which should have come with early retirement but which had so far completely eluded him.

He turned his mind to the brand new track and rolling stock he had bought for the model railway up in the loft. For some reason the hobby he had enjoyed so much when he was working no longer interested him. Even golf had lost its charm.

He sucked disconsolately on an empty pipe, boredom sharpening his desire for the tobacco he had given up when he retired. He was about to walk to the nearby village to buy some, when the mobile telephone on the white wrought-iron table on the patio rang.

The voice of his partner in London said: 'I think we're in business again, Dickens.'

The six-foot two-inch former police inspector and the three-feet eleven-inch ex-correspondence school tutor, George Hamble, otherwise known as 'Dwindle', had opened the Three D private enquiry agency in Leather Lane in the City of London soon after Dickens had retired from the Metropolitan police. Dwindle looked after the office while Dickens was in Wales. But clients were scarce and Dickens was rapidly becoming resigned to the prospect of losing the business in which he and his partner had invested their savings.

'Does the job sound worthwhile?' he asked Dwindle. 'You had better come and find out for yourself?'

'See you at ten o'clock tomorrow, then.'

'Make it nine.'

Dickens put the telephone down. Although it meant rising

at dawn, he felt pleasantly stirred by the prospect of a new adventure in London. But he was a little piqued when his wife, Ingrid, said she would be glad to get him out of the house.

He pointed out reproachfully: 'You were the one who kept urging me to retire.'

She replied with a shrug, lightly fingering his sandy hair,

'Sorry, my love. I just didn't reckon on you being so restless after you gave up work.'

In the course of packing that evening, he brooded over whether to take his pipe, even though he had given up smoking. Then remembering how much his pipe had consoled him in the past when frustrated by mysteries that obstinately refused to unravel, he placed it in his suitcase. As an afterthought, he threw in an empty tobacco pouch.

TWO

Perched uncomfortably on a typist's chair in the cramped office of the D and D agency in Leather Lane, City of London, Dickens glanced at his watch. Their client was already seven minutes late. His partner, sitting behind a leather-topped executive desk, was nervously fingering the keys of a laptop computer with a blank screen, clearly worried in case he had brought Dickens to London on a fool's errand. Earlier, Dwindle had been enthusiastically singing the praises of a young woman, the junior director of a West End art gallery, who had come to the office the previous day asking for help in recovering a stolen painting sometimes referred to among professional art dealers as 'Crimson Lake'. The senior director, a Mr.Gulbenstein, was presently in the South of France.

'She's a ravishing creature by the name of Martha Briggs. For the time being she doesn't want to get the police involved.'

'Why not?' Dickens had enquired, with a frown.

'Her boss suspects that another dealer may be responsible. But he doesn't want to send him to prison.'

'Sounds crazy to me.'

'The world is full of lunatics' Dwindle assured him, cheerfully. 'Gulbenstein recently paid a small fortune for the painting. There is a ten-per- cent reward if we recover it. I made it a condition that we should have sole rights to the reward during the period of our investigation.'

'Good man, Dwindle!' Dickens said, approvingly. 'But you realise it may already be out of the country.'

'If we have to go abroad,' Martha has agreed to pay our travelling expenses'

'You're on first name terms with her already!'

'She's a former model- she's used to being called by her first name'

Just then their client appeared. She was tall, svelte, vaguely oriental in appearance, with full lips and short jet black hair. Her elegant blue and gold cheongsam offered a glimpse of tanned thigh, as she sauntered languidly into the office. She reminded Dickens of an advertisement for Singapore Airlines.

'Sorry I'm late,' she apologised in a slightly cockney accent.

'Don't worry in the least,' Dwindle declared.

He scurried forward with a chair. She sat down, crossing long, slim legs.

Dwindle said: 'This is Henry Dickens, my partner, a former inspector from Scotland Yard.'

With a friendly smile, Dickens said: 'We'll do our best to help you recover this lost painting.'

'It's not lost; it's bloody well been stolen,' Martha replied, sharply.

'From your gallery?'

'From our home. Marcus Gulbenstein and I share a flat.

We've an idea that it was another dealer, Roger Pretty, who did it.'

'Why do you suspect him?'

'Because he has got the needle to Marcus. Recently he's been making a point of going to the same auctions as Marcus and bidding him up.'

'Isn't that normal competition?'

'Normally, yes. But old masters are not his scene. He deals mainly in modern paintings. He just does it for devilment.'

'When will your boss be returning to London.'

'The day after tomorrow.'

'Are you qualified to act on Mr. Gulbenstein' s behalf in this matter?'

'Yes. I have full authority while he is away.'

'Can you tell us anything more about this Roger Pretty'?'

'He's about fifty-five. Tall and slim, an arrogant sod. He and Marcus were at school together. He only became an art dealer recently- he used to be something in the City. Marcus taught him everything he knows about art.'

'When did the robbery occur?'

'The day before yesterday. I didn't contact you straight away, because I had to get in touch with Marcus first and he wasn't available when I telephoned his hotel.'

'What is he doing in France?'

'Attending the funeral of a friend, an artist. Incidentally, Mr. Gulbenstein had asked him recently to make a copy of Crimson Lake for a client.'

A slight tremor passed over Dwindle's face, as Martha uncrossed her long, slender legs. Dickens suddenly remembered his partner's claim that he suffered from a hopeless and incurable passion for tall, long-legged women. He hadn't taken the claim seriously until now, supposing he was making some kind of joke.

'Was the painting insured'?'

'Yes, but we won't be able to claim the insurance money because the painting was only insured while it was in our gallery. It was stolen from the flat where we both live. Marcus had brought it home the night before he went away to attend the funeral. He wanted to study it.'

'For what reason?'

'It was a recent acquisition and he wanted to make some notes for a book he is writing.'

'Why didn't he take it back to the gallery'?'

'He hadn't finished with it.'

'Whereabouts was it in the flat'?'

'Hidden under the floorboards in the hall. We have a special receptacle there. There was only one person who knew about it, apart from myself and Marcus, and that was Roger Pretty. That's why we are certain he took it.'

Dwindle straightened his glasses on his bulbous nose and said: 'You haven't told us anything about the picture so far.'

'It's a study of a statuesque lady holding a baby. The painting is by Jacob Jordaens, a student of Rubens. It measures thirty-three by twenty-six inches.'

'What about its provenance?' Dwindle enquired, sharply.

'Its attribution is faultless.'

Dickens enquired: 'How long have you been in the art business?'

'About three years I used to be a model, but I decided it was time for me to get out. Models grow old, but art goes on for ever.'

'Wise words,' Dickens observed, solemnly. He pulled out his empty pipe from his pocket, sucked on it thoughtfully for a moment, and then said: 'We shall, of course, need you to sign a contract before going ahead.'

'I shall be happy to sign it when it is prepared.'

Dickens enquired: 'When can my partner and I examine your flat?'

'This evening if you like. Say about half-past six. Marcus and I live in Belgravia -Number thirteen Wenslow Gardens.'

'Do you know where Roger Pretty lives?'

'He lives in the same block. Number twenty-five.'

She glanced at her watch and announced that she had to go and meet a client. Dwindle escorted her out to the lift, casting admiring glances up at her.

On his return, Dwindle held up his right hand and said with a wide grin, 'Behold the hand that shook hands with Martha Briggs!'

Dickens said: 'Let's hope she signs the contract.'

Dwindle said solemnly: 'We're going to have to work hard at this one. Nobody offers a reward of that size unless they know it will be very difficult to earn.'

'I wonder if she is in collusion with this Mr. Pretty.'

'Don't you trust anybody, Dickens!'

'Certainly not,' Dickens replied brusquely. 'That's one of the hard lessons I learned in the police. '

After helping Dwindle draw up the contract, he drove to a small hotel into which Dwindle had booked him at Earl's Court. As he stowed his shirts in a chest of drawers in the hotel room, it occurred to him that Dwindle's behaviour towards Martha Briggs had been quite childish. He told himself that he must tolerate his diminutive partner's idiosyncrasies, which he made up for by his occasional flashes of intuitive brilliance.

It was not yet time for dinner, so he sat in an armchair by the window and began his fifteenth reading of a paperback edition of Little Dorrit. He was obsessively fond of the works of his great namesake.

THREE

'Why does Martha Briggs waste herself on an old man like Gulbenstein when she could have a handsome young man like me!'

Dickens at the wheel of his car, smiled absently but didn't bother to reply to Dwindle. He had given up trying to break his habit of whimsical self-deprecation. They were travelling to Belgravia, where Gulbenstein and Martha shared a flat in an Edwardian mansion block.

Shortly after their arrival, Dickens, indicating the oil paintings lining the walls, remarked to Martha: 'You're lucky they didn't steal these as well.'

'They're minor works- worth very little in comparison with the Jordaens. The thief knew what he was after. Jordaens was a painter of considerable stature.'

'You seem very well informed,' Dwindle commented. 'It's my livelihood, Martha replied, seriously.

Dwindle glanced around the spacious living-room, which contained, in addition to the soft furnishings, some fine pieces of early 18th-century French and Dutch inlaid furniture and a Stein way grand piano. Looking up at a painting, he said earnestly, 'Fascinating subject, art. I hope to learn a little more about it while I am on this case. What's this one?'

The painting he had singled out depicted a man in a black cloak emerging from a subterranean passage shrouded in sulphurous gloom.

'That's Orpheus in the Underworld painted by a Pre-Raphaelite artist who studied under Holman Hunt.'

Dickens intervened: 'Ms. Briggs...Martha, would you like to show us where the painting was hidden.'

'Come with me.'

'She led them into the wide hall with a parquet floor and knelt down to remove a Persian rug. The cheongsam stretched tightly over her shapely thighs, as she levered up a cut out section of the floor, beneath which lay a large flat wooden box.

'Only Roger Pretty knew of this hiding place,' she remarked, standing up. 'And he knew how to disarm the burglar alarm. So it's obvious that he has the painting.'

'Art thieves also know their way around security systems,' Dickens mumbled to himself. He then enquired, raising his eyebrows: 'Have you asked Mr. Pretty if he has the picture?'

'I wouldn't talk to that creep for the crown jewels.'

'What do you have against him?'

'I've told you he hates us. He bids against us at auctions and plays tricks on us at every opportunity. He's trying to force Marcus out of business. Ever since he and Marcus had their bust-up he has been doing everything possible to hamper and frustrate us.'

Dwindle said, patiently: 'Why should he buy paintings he doesn't want.'

Martha replied: 'He's enormously rich and can afford to hold a picture for years, whereas Marcus has to have a steady turnover of stock to stay in business. Roger inherited a lot of money and multiplied it many times in the City during the boom years. Marcus introduced him to the art world. Now he seems to want to bankrupt him.'

'Why?' Dickens asked.

Instead of answering, Martha asked if them if they would like a coffee. They sat in capacious silk armchairs as they waited, admiring the high ceilings, the ornate chandeliers and the stiffly-posed religious figures staring at them from the walls.

During her absence Dwindle whispered: 'She's probably going to ask us to steal back the missing painting.' He added eagerly: 'But isn't she lovely! What superb legs! And those high cheekbones!

'Don't get carried away, Dwindle! This is serious business. It could be the making of us.'

Dwindle nodded and whispered: 'She's very young, though, to be in charge of an art gallery. And she has entirely the wrong accent for that kind of business.'

'She's smart enough- that's all that matters. Her boss obviously trusts her.'

Dwindle murmured: 'If I knew how to wield a paintbrush, I would love to paint her. What a beauty!'

Dickens shook his head, disapprovingly.

When Martha returned, he asked her: 'What evidence was there of a break-in when you discovered the painting was missing?'

Handing him a cup of coffee, she replied: 'None whatsoever. Roger Pretty had an opportunity to have keys cut. Marcus let him use this flat on one occasion when he went away on holiday. Roger had sold his house at the time and was waiting for the flat he had bought in this block to be redecorated. '

'They were on very friendly terms?'

'I've told you they've known each other since they were at school.'

'And what broke up the friendship?'

Martha looked disconcerted and then said after a while: 'You could say I did.'

She sipped her coffee, and gazed at Dickens with a challenging air.

'Go on,' he invited her with a reassuring smile. 'Tell us what happened.'

'It's a bit complicated, really. 'I was working for Marcus at the time -- this was before we started to live together. Marcus got very angry when Roger called round one day and tried to persuade me to go and work for him. There was a fracas and although Marcus is a lot smaller, he threw him out into the street.'

She murmured, shaking her head, 'It totally changed my opinion of Marcus. '

'Was Mr. Gulbenstein married?'

'Yes, his wife was in hospital at the time. She has since died. I had no idea until then that he was keen on me.'

'How old is Mr. Gulbenstein? Dwindle enquired, furrowing his brow.

'The same age as Roger Pretty- about fifty-five.'

Dickens said quickly: 'If the police think you've enough evidence to justify your suspicions, they could search Pretty's flat.'

Martha shook her head: 'I've told you- Marcus doesn't want the police involved. But although he hates Roger's guts, he wouldn't want him sent to prison. He couldn't do it to an old friend.'

Dickens said sombrely: 'Then it's going to take a great deal of careful planning to get your painting back. By the way, we shall need a week's advance payment of our expenses, as mentioned in the schedule.'

Martha nodded. 'I'll give you a cheque.'

'Before we start our enquiries would you care to describe Mr. Roger Pretty. '

'He's tall, slim fair-haired. He brushes his hair sideways to disguise the fact that he is going bald. He wears beautiful suits and thinks he's top drawer because he was once married to the daughter of an earl. They divorced ten years ago.'

'Were there any children?'

'One son I believe.'

'And you think Mr. Pretty stole this valuable painting just to get his own back on Mr. Gulbenstein.'

'Absolutely. Marcus and I share that opinion.'

'I should like to meet Mr. Gulbenstein when he comes back from the South of France. '

'Of course. '

The cheque which Martha handed Dickens was signed: Martha Briggs, director Gulbenstein gallery.

She showed them to the door.

Dickens displayed the cheque to Dwindle as they made their way to the car and said mischievously: 'Perhaps you stand a chance with her after all, Dwindle. She obviously likes older men.'

FOUR

Roger Pretty was tall, with a gaunt face, shrewd amber-flecked eyes, a long thin nose and rather hollow cheeks. His thinning hair was regularly dyed to its original straw colour. His grandparents had been Polish immigrants. He had anglicised his name to disguise his origins. His one remaining link with his childhood was Marcus Gulbenstein. He and Gulbenstein had grown up together in North London. They had been close friends, indulging in the usual schoolboy pranks, which included deliberately interfering with their neighbours' radios using home-made radio transmitters, and making unreliable and dangerous fireworks, on one memorable occasion damaging furniture in Gulbenstein' s home. After going to university their paths had diverged.

Roger Pretty now lived alone, having separated recently from his latest girl friend. He was thinking about Marcus Gulbenstein as he shaved with an electric razor. It was Marcus who had introduced him to the international art trade, when he had complained to him after retiring from the City of having too much time on his hands. Somewhat to Gulbenstein's surprise, after a couple of years Roger Pretty had opened his own gallery in Dover Street, specialising in modern art. The gallery almost immediately began making money. Pretty seemed to exercise an almost hypnotic influence over his clients. He subtly praised their good taste and offered assurance that their prospective purchases would rapidly increase in value. He had under contract a number of excellent young artists whose talents he had spotted. Gulbenstein, who concentrated almost exclusively on old masters, couldn't help being impressed by his entrepreneurial skills. But he was undoubtedly a little miffed that a newcomer should so rapidly become successful in the business in which he had spent a lifetime.

When Pretty answered the door-bell, he found two men standing outside- one tall and square-featured, the other tiny and bulbous-nosed. The latter stared up at him unblinkingly.

Clad in a Paisley silk dressing-gown, Pretty enquired politely: 'What can I do for you?'

The tall man wearing a trilby hat said: 'My colleague, Mr. Hamble and I have been retained by the Gulbenstein Art gallery to look into the recent theft of a painting.

'I hope Mr, Gulbenstein doesn't think I'm responsible!' Pretty replied with a careless laugh.

'We're interviewing people in the art world, generally trying to assess their views on how and why this particular painting should have been stolen. We wondered if you would be prepared to give us a moment of your valuable time.'

'Come in, gentlemen, , Pretty said with a disarming smile. He ushered them into a sitting-room, the walls of which displayed a dazzling collection of modem paintings. He added: 'I'm in the middle of shaving. As soon as I have finished, I'll join you.'

'Reminds me of the Tate Gallery,' Dwindle remarked, looking around.

'Must be worth a fortune,' Dickens declared sagely.

'Prints probably,' Dwindle said dismissively, peering up at them.

Dickens, studying a blue smoky nebulae, muttered grimly: 'I know what I like, and this isn't it.'

Dwindle commented about another painting, commented: 'This one's called Brainbox; it looks as though the artist has painted the inside of his own skull. Quite imaginative. ' He added seriously: 'We should get better acquainted with the art world, Dickens. It could provide us with more business.',

Roger Pretty reappeared , now dressed in a beige vicuna suit set off by a brilliant red silk tie.

'Gentlemen, , he addressed them, with a sardonic look. 'Shall we discuss the Jordaens.'

'How did you know it was a Jordaens?' Dickens enquired, suspiciously.

Pretty chuckled.

'Gulbenstein rang me up from the South of France yesterday and accused me of stealing it. I can't think why- he knows I'm not interested in old masters.'

'It's worth a great deal of money.'

'If it has been stolen a picture will fetch only a fraction of its real worth. I presume the loss has been reported to the International Art and Antiques Loss Register.'

'Dickens and Dwindle looked at one another .

Dickens replied: 'We're not sure. Gulbenstein won't be back from the South of France till tomorrow afternoon.'

'Poor old Gulbenstein. '

Pretty gave a little shrug. 'I gather he was attending Lefebre's funeral. Lerebre, by the way, was an interesting character- a very talented copyist who used to sign himself Fiasco. He committed suicide. You may have read about it in the newspapers. Incidentally, did Martha tell you that I tried and failed to get her to work for me.'

'She did say something to that effect' Dickens acknowledged.

'I was sorry she turned my offer down. She's a remarkable and beautiful young lady. She has first-class judgment and is rapidly winning international recognition for her expertise'.

'Can you think of any reason why this particular painting should have been stolen?' Dickens enquired.

'I imagine that the thief saw the name Jordaens and realised that it was valuable. Burglars aren't fools, you know.'

'It was stolen from a secret cache under the floor of the Gulbenstein's apartment. We have been given to understand that you knew about this hiding place.'

Pretty gave him a derisive look.

'Oh, come off it, that doesn't mean that I stole it! Thieves would have no difficulty in guessing where a gallery owner keeps his prize possessions.'

Dickens nodded agreement and said: 'You're quite right. Can you assure us that you had nothing to do with the theft.'

'Of course. Seventeenth-century art has no appeal for me whatsoever.'

After a pause, he added: 'Can 1 offer you coffee or tea, gentlemen'?'

Dwindle replied: 'No thanks, Mr. Pretty. Thank you for talking to us. By the way, we are intrigued by some of your paintings.'

Pretty said with a smile: 'Come into my gallery in Dover Street some time and buy something. Not everything is outrageously expensive.'

He led them to the front door.

'What do you think'?' Dwindle asked Dickens as they strolled towards their car . Instead of answering, Dickens broke into a furious gallop. He had just spotted a traffic warden in the act of putting a ticket on his windscreen. She ignored his protests when he arrived, red-faced and breathing heavily, gave him a withering look, and walked away.

Dwindle said, when he caught up with him: 'Don't worry- the firm will pay the fine.'

'It's still money down the drain,' Dickens grumbled.

He added moodily a few minutes later as he drove back to their office: 'I never had to worry about parking when I was a policeman.'

'You're a private citizen now, Dickens. You must obey the law.'

Dickens grunted.

Sitting in a small cafe in Leather Lane half an hour late, they discussed the new assignment.

Dwindle said thoughtfully: 'Do you think it might be a good idea for us to go to Provence to make some enquiries. The fact that Gulbenstein was attending the funeral of someone who had copied this particular painting suggests a possible connection.'

'Aren't you jumping to conclusions, Dwindle?'

'It would be rather nice to have a little holiday at our client's expense.'

'That is not the right aproach, Dwindle.'

Dwindle exploded into laughter. .'Come off it, Dickens. Let's take a shot in the dark. We have to start somewhere and this is the only clue we have at present..'

FIVE

Gulbenstein was deeply moved as the priest, clad in black soutane and biretta, read the burial service in a sonorous voice. Some doubt had been expressed in clerical circles as to whether it would be appropriate for a suicide to be buried in sacred ground, but the priest had decided to ignore the official verdict. A group of local residents stood by the graveside, mourning their local artist, who had been respected and well liked. Besides his uncanny facility for copying old masters, Lerebre could at will also produce Impressionist, Cubist, Abstract and Primitive works. Piccasso, Braque, Mondrianne, Leger, Rousseau had all been copied so well by his protean brush that even experts had been fooled. Lefebre had a lively sense of humour and loved playing practical jokes on his friends. He especially enjoyed mocking the more outrageous trends in modern art. He had once bought a lavatory bowl from the local builder. Sitting on it with his trousers down, he had announced solemnly, having called in the local press, that this was his own unique contribution to conceptual art.

He had once confessed to Gulbenstein: 'I am just a natural mimic, incapable of originality. ' In spite of this modest assertion a number of his original paintings had found favour with Gulbenstein's clients. There was a popular belief, which he did not

deny, that when he copied the works of dead artists their spirits entered his body and guided his paint brush. A story in Time magazine declared that James Mullon, an artist of considerable repute who lived in California, had once rung up Lefebre at his home in Provence and enquired: ' Are you copying me, you son-of-a-bitch? I can feel the vibes over here. Well, give me a break- I've got an important commission I have to finish.' Lefebre out of consideration for a friend and fellow artist so the story went, had agreed to refrain from finishing his own Mullon-style painting until the California artist had completed his assignment.

The publicity did Lefebre's reputation no harm. He had once taken part in a television program about forgery during the course of which he claimed that his forgeries were of a superior nature because he scrupulously adhered not just to the technique of the artist, but also to the spirit that had animated the original work. He insisted that he was an honest forger who only copied the signature of the original artists when it was required for security reasons. Otherwise, when he created a painting in the style of another artist, or copied one of his works, he signed it with the name 'Fiasco. ' His trade-mark was well known in the art world and his fakes commanded very high prices.

When the funeral service was over, Francesca Orsini, Lefebre's common-law wife and the mother of his daughter, drove Gulbenstein in a battered Renault Five back to the villa she had shared with Gaston. Once his model, she had in recent years built up a considerable reputation as a painter in her own right. She was plump, dark and attractive, but today looked haggard and tearful.

When they arrived at the villa, Francesca invited Gulbenstein to sit in a cane garden chair in the shade. She fetched him a Campari and soda. 'We have not long to talk, , she said, sitting opposite him. 'The others will be here shortly.

'Yes, dear girl,' Gulbenstein replied. 'It's a pity I have to go soon. What can I say to you other than that Gaston will be sadly missed. He made not only his canvases colourful but also everything around him.

Francesca said, taking a deep, shuddering breath, 'I shall get on with my work. That is the best way to deal with grief.'

'Quite right. my dear , , Gulbenstein said, approvingly. 'Perhaps you would like me to arrange an exhibition in London for you.'

Francesca made a helpless gesture.

'All in good time, , Gulbenstein said commiseratingly. He enquired in a low voice shortly afterwards: 'Do you still believe he took his own life?'

Absolutely not. Our local priest has totally ignored the verdict. Gaston was too good a man to leave me with a burden of guilt. He would know I couldn't bear it.'

'But the coroner- ,

'He didn't understand anything!' Francesca said, her eyes flashing angrily.

Gulbenstein said sombrely: 'I don't suppose he completed the last commission I gave him. I would have liked to have kept it as a memento.'

It was just at that moment that the telephone rang and Martha informed Gulbenstein of the theft that had taken place. He immediately acquiesced in her suggestion that they should employ a firm of private detectives.

The first of the cars belonging to the other mourners was arriving in the drive. Gulbenstein kissed Francesca and took his leave, anxious to get back to London . He strode at a rapid pace towards the village, where a taxi was to meet him to take him to Nice airport. As he walked, he thought with some bitterness about the one person who might have guessed that he had taken a valuable painting home for inspection- Roger Pretty. He recalled an occasion when, while sitting in his tiny office in the gallery , he had overheard Pretty trying to entice Martha into becoming a director of his own gallery. He had emerged from his cubby hole and thrown Pretty off the premises.

He had been touched by her loyalty to him. He had few illusions about himself- he was a portly old gentleman with a benign smile and all he had to offer was a profound knowledge of art built up over a lifetime. Roger Pretty, on the other hand, although something of a dilettante, was renowned for his wealth, his high society connections and his way with women.

Ashamed of his uncharacteristic use of violence, Gulbenstein had telephoned Pretty afterwards and said: 'Roger, life is too short to have such a ridiculous row. We're both too old for this sort of thing.'

Roger had snarled. 'No one crosses Roger Pretty and gets away with it and hung up. Venting his spleen now seemed to be Roger Pretty's chief enjoyment. They had both bid for the Jordaens- a minor masterpiece called Crimson Lake, when it came up for auction in Paris. Pretty had dropped out, but not before forcing up the price to an unreasonable level. Gulbenstein, however, aware that a well-known Texan oil billionaire would be willing to pay a still higher price, had gone ahead and bought it. There was no doubt in his mind that Pretty, either out of a desire to make a profit, or perhaps from pure malice at having been outbid, had since stolen the picture.

Gulbenstein then remembered with a pang that his paintings were only insured while in his business premises. As soon as he arrived back in London he telephoned the insurance company, who confirmed the painting was not covered. He knew he was ruined.

SIX

Dwindle pulled the burly figure of Dickens away from the hamburger joint and led him instead towards an expensive restaurant, saying: 'Let's dine in style tonight. '

As they sat down in the restaurant, conveniently situated near Wenslow Gardens, where they were to interview Gulbenstein later that evening, Dwindle remarked: 'Fortune favours the brave, Dickens. A little extravagance will encourage us to work harder to earn the reward.'

Dickens studied the bulky menu in embossed leather and winced at the prices. After ordering onion soup, he remarked: 'Roger Pretty admitted this morning that he has a motive for doing Gulbenstein an injury. But you'd think he would know better at his age than to fight over a woman!'

'Sexual jealousy knows no age barrier,' Dwindle remarked.' She is an altogether magnificent girl'

The wine waiter approached. Dwindle ordered a lager. Dickens, after brooding over the wine list, ordered a Sauvignon de St-Bris and then remarked solemnly: 'So we'll have to work for the time being on the assumption that Pretty stole the painting as an act of revenge because he failed to get it at auction .'

He plunged his spoon into his soup and continued: 'But I can't see why a rich man like him should want to risk his reputation and a possible prison sentence over a painting.

'It's very valuable.'

'He'd be lucky to get twenty-five per cent of its market value if he sold it on the black market.'

Dwindle said: 'I can easily understand, though, why he was angry at being thrown out by Gulbenstein after failing to win the girl.'

'This might be one of those cases where rivals vie with each other over anything and everything however trivial,' Dickens answered. He added portentously: 'It reminds me of a case where two men were operating mobile fish vans on opposite sides of the road. They were both earning a good living. But ...'

Dwindle, in no mood to listen to Dickens' s interminable reminiscences about his police career, interrupted him, saying: 'Pretty may be our chief suspect but it could be anybody- art theft is very widespread these days.'

He took another spoonful of soup.

'This artist friend of Gulbenstein who committed suicide called himself Fiasco,' Dickens said pensively. ' An odd name don't you think.'

'It sounds at least as though he had a sense of humour.'

Dickens sipped his wine and nodded his head, approvingly.

'Go easy on the wine, Dickens. ' Dwindle reminded him sharply. You're going to have to drive shortly.'

Dickens responded wearily: 'I wouldn't have taken you on as a partner if I had known that you were unwilling to drive.'

'Not driving gives me more time to think creatively.'

Irked by Dwindle's assumption that he had the monopoly of brains in the partnership, Dickens shook his head. After a while, he said: 'I am not absolutely convinced by Martha's explanation as to why Gulbenstein refused to call in the police.'

'So what. The fact that the police are not involved gives us a better chance to earn the reward ourselves.. ' Dwindle grinned. 'Let's advertise ourselves: "Whatever the swindle, call in Dickens and Dwindle."

Dickens gave a faint smile. After a while, he said gravely: 'If we are up against something more formidable than simply a petty act of revenge, perhaps we should arm

ourselves.'

'I didn't know you could get hold of firearms, Dickens.'

'No problem for an ex-policeman. But there wouldn't be much point, since you haven't had any firearms training.

'As a matter of fact, one of the first things I did when you proposed forming this partnership was to join a shooting club. So far I have fired a Luger, a Smith and Wesson, a Webley, and a Kalashnikov rifle.'

Iimpressed in spite of himself, at how thoroughly his partner had prepared himself for his new career, Dickens replied condescendingly; 'Better leave gun slinging to the cowboys, Dwindle.'

'A gun would have saved me getting a nasty headache in the Wentworth case.'

'True,' Dickens assented gravely. 'But we're working abroad and we don't want to upset the French police. This time we must both use our heads to find out what happened to- what was it called?- Vermilion Lake.'

'Crimson Lake, Dickens,' Dwindle corrected him, impatiently.

SEVEN

'Did Lefebre seem the kind of man who would commit suicide?' Dickens enquired.

Gulbenstein and Martha, his assistant, were sitting together on a chintz-covered settee in their Belgravia apartment, facing the two detectives.

Gulbenstein replied thoughtfully: 'There is a theory that almost everybody wil become suicidal, if sufficient pressure is applied. But I certainly would have thought Gaston the last person to succumb to such a temptation. He was a very cheerful, outgoing person.'

'You have made it clear that you believe there is a possible connection between his death and the theft of the Jordaens.'

'The facts are these: I bought the painting at an auction in Paris and took it down to Valesque, where Gaston l.efebre and his fellow artist Francesca Orsini live. I stayed with them for a couple of days at their invitation, having requested Gaston to copy the painting. I then telephoned my client in Texas, Joseph Humpel, to let him know that a copy would be available should he wish to buy the painting. I was almost certain that he would decide to purchase Crimson Lake, because he had asked me to keep my eye open for a first-class example of a Jordaens. I was shocked when I telephoned to learn that he had just had a heart attack. But as he was reported on the mend, I was happy enough to instruct Gaston to go ahead and make the copy. His skill in that direction was legendary. He studied the painting while I was there and photographed it extensively. I brought the original back to England with me, because he said he had absorbed enough to go ahead. It was not the first time he had copied a Jordaens. 'Shortly afterwards 1 had a telephone call from Francesca telling me that he had committed suicide. 1 was terribly shocked. The extraordinary thing is that while 1 was attending his funeral Martha telephoned to say that the original painting had disappeared from the safe in the hall.'

Dickens, with a puzzled expression, enquired: 'Why did you ask Lefebre to copy the painting?'

'Humpel has always in the past asked to have a copy made. I was confident that he would want one in this case.'

'Did Lefebre complete it?'

'I can't be sure. All Francesca found in his studio was a charcoal sketch and some enlarged photographs of the original.'

'Can you be absolutely sure it was the original you brought back with you,' Dickens enquired, 'and not a copy that Lefebre made while you were there?'

Gulbenstein shook his head.

'I would discount that possibility entirely. Apart from studying the picture and making extensive notes, he didn't work on it at all during my short stay.'

'What kind of a man is Humpel- the man to whom you intended to sell the picture,' Dwindle enquired.

'Joseph Humpel is a very discerning collector. If someone else offers Crimson Lake to him, he will know that it has been stolen and will inform the police.'

'So who is likely to buy it?'

'There are always unscrupulous people around prepared to keep a stolen painting until the title to ownership has been eroded by the passage of time.'

Dickens said: 'Martha says that you strongly suspect Roger Pretty. I gather he's an old friend of yours.'

Gulbenstein looked uncomfortable. 'Yes. I'm sorry we have had to arrive at the conclusion that he is the culprit. It's particularly painful, because I've known him flr such a long time. When he retired from the City he came to see me. He was at a loss to know what to do next. I suggested he might like to try my profession -he has always had an interest in art. He learned the business side of dealing very quickly, as one might expect. We have had our differences - his taste in art is execrable and he dabbles with modem paintings of doubtful merit. But it was his attempt to entice my assistant from my employment which caused the rift between us. I am reasonably sure he stole the painting, because he is the only person who could have effected an entry with a key. There was no sign of a break-in.'

'Mr. Pretty denies that he stole it,' Dickens pointed out.

'Criminals rarely confess to their misdeeds.'

'Why should he take it, if he can't sell it?'

'Pure malice. That man hates me. His own life is a mess and he would like nothing better than to ruin mine.'

'But why?' Dickens asked, fixing him with a steady eye. Gulbenstein considered the question for a while.

'Jealousy. I have a unique position in the art world to which he could never possibly aspire. He is considered something of an upstart. He has succeeded up till now in making money, but I am sure that his business will eventually collapse.'

Gulbenstein was unable to repress a smile at this gratifying prospect. Martha, however, murmured reprovingly: Roger has his problems as well, you know.'

`Who hasn't got problems? But a man doesn't have to steal!' Gulbenstein exclaimed. He threw an appealing glance at his visitors.

Dwindle then enquired: 'You think he did it because of the row you had with him over Martha?'

Gulbenstein grimaced.

'Yes, he has always fancied himself as a lady-killer. I have successfully raised a family. He divorced his wife and he doesn't get on with his only son. When I threw him out of the gallery on that occasion he swore vengeance. Taking the Jordaens was part of that vengeance. Incidentally, if you don't succeed in getting it back for me, I shall be ruined. The insurance company won't pay because I had it at home.'

Dwindle said soothingly: 'We'll do our best, Mr Gulbenstein. You say that Lefebre was in good form and looking forward to completing the commission you had given him.'

'Yes.'

Dickens intervened: Do you have a photograph of the missing painting?'

Gulbenstein said to Martha: 'Give them a print of the original. It is in the album of seventeenth-century Flemish paintings. '

Martha took an album from one of .the drawers in a tallboy, opened it and held up for Dickens and Dwindle to see an allegorical painting of a plump lady in a green bodice and skirt holding up a fat cherub towards a lake rendered red by a setting sun. In the shadows above the women's head a swarm of angels glide towards a densely-forested island occupying the centre of the picture.

'Jordaens was a pupil of Reubens, , Gulbenstein commented. 'He never achieved the acclaim and riches of his master, Peter Paul Reubens. But some of his devotional paintings are highly thought of. This was one of his best. It was originally named by him: Moses Sees His Destiny, but in art circles it is just called Crimson Lake- a reference to the Red Sea.'

He added: 'You may cut the page out, Martha.'

Martha went to get a pair of scissors.

'You say the painting is worth a great deal of money.'

'The exact amount isn't important- Humpel had said he would be prepared to pay up to my asking price.'

'Are you sure your client is still interested?' Dwindle enquired.

'As sure as one can be sure of anything in this unpredictable world. Yes. He will buy it provided it is undamaged.'

'Do you think he might change his mind?'

Gulbenstein shrugged.

'Joseph Humpel is not the kind of man to change his mind about an intended purchase.'

*

'One of the colours in the paint box I was given when I was a kid was called Crimson Lake,' Dwindle observed as Dickens drove him back to his home in London.

'Strange how even a painting can acquire a nickname. Because I liked to read his works they called me Fictitious Dickens when I was in the police. '

'Dwindle said thoughtfully: 'It is important to find out why Lefebre committed suicide- if he did, that is.'

'People top themselves all the time, Dwindle.'

Dwindle became silent. Dickens's words had triggered a painful memory.

After a while, he said broodingly: 'Yes, but since there's obviously some kind of connection between the theft and the suicide, we shall have to interview Lefebre's common-law wife.'

Dickens brought the car to a halt outside Dwindle's home. Dwindle said almost to himself: 'Perhaps Lefebre didn't commit suicide. Perhaps someone killed him to prevent him making a copy of Crimson Lake.'

Dickens grunted: 'There are any number of possibilities.'

**

The following morning, Dwindle rang up Dickens at his hotel and told him to be prepared to fly to Nice that afternoon to interview Francesca Orsini- Gulbenstein had readily accepted the hypothesis of a possible linkage between the theft of the painting and Lefebre's suicide.

Dwindle then added: 'I have booked three tickets. We have to book in at Heathrow at five-thirty.'

'Why three tickets?'

'Martha Briggs has agreed to come with to interpret. She speaks fluent French.'

'But 1 understood that you speak French, Dwindle.'

Dwindle replied earnestly: 'I have spread my linguistic talents too thinly over a number of languages. We couldn't possibly manage on my pidgin French.'

'I think you just wanted to have the lady with as a companion.'

'It will certainly make the expedition more agreeable.'

'Just remember that you're a married man, Dwindle.'

'Maureen doesn't object to my flirting occasionally with tall, beautiful women. She says it's essential for my self esteem. However, I would like to remind you that Martha Briggs is a highly intelligent young woman. She will be a considerable asset while we make enquiries down there.'

Dickens agreed that it was not a bad idea to have a French-speaking art expert accompany them on their expedition, although he felt aggrieved at Dwindle aranging matters without consulting him.

EIGHT

Gerard Wadny might have become a reasonably successful artist, if he had applied himself -he had studied for some years at a reputable art school. However, in haste to make money he had opened an art gallery in San Francisco soon after graduating. The finance was supplied by a rich girl friend, who became a partner in the venture. But the gallery was located in the wrong part of town and they had both vastly overestimated the willingness of his partner's rich friends and clients to spend their hard-earned money on paintings by comparatively unknown artists. Eventually, Katrina Schneider, disillusioned by the constant drain on her income, declared her intention of closing the business down when the short lease they had taken on the premises expired. She was a thirty-four year old divorcee, who had been given a generous settlement by her former husband.

Gerard was soaping her back in the bath when she made this announcement. He immediately stuffed the sponge into her mouth.'

'Stop it, Gerard, you bastard,' she spluttered.'

'I don't like to hear you talking like that, my darling.'

'Well, you'll have to get used to it. We have lost too much money.'

'Every business loses money at first.'

'In the last six months we've sold three lousy pictures. The profit doesn't even cover the tent.'

'What about The Land of Lullaby?' Gerard had persuaded one of Katrina's friends to buy an abstract he had painted himself.

'She's changed her mind. She's bringing it back.'

'Oh shit! '

'You're too smart for your own good, Gerard. Anyway, I've made up my mind. We're closing down when the lease comes up for renewal.'

Gerard threw the sponge into the marble bath in disgust, walked over to the door, and studied her with a speculative expression. As she got out of the bath, he said: 'Perhaps if we could find a really important painting, honey, it would change our luck.'

Katrina wrapped herself in a short pink towel and remarked as she swept past him: 'That's just an idle dream, baby.'

'Supposing I told you I could get hold of a Modigliani for ten thousand dollars.'

Katrina's voice from the dressing-room, said: 'There's no harm in dreaming.'

'I didn't have the money, so I put it on your Amex card.'

'What are you talking about?'

'A Modigliani -the real thing.'

'Gerard, you're crazy- you know you can't buy one for that price. '

'Well, I did, honey.'

Katrina came out of the dressing-room in her bathrobe, her hair dishevelled, angry with him for wasting her money. Gerard, after playfully wrestling with her, persuaded her to make love. Nevertheless, she remained firm in her intention to end their business relationship. She had harboured doubts for some time about Gerard's honesty. His claim to have acquired a Modigliani confirmed her suspicions. She was a partner in a legal firm and could not afford to be associated with shady dealings of any kind.

At lunch time, when she called in at the Schneider-Wadny gallery, she was surprised to find a nude by Modigliani occupying a central position in the gallery. Gerard was talking to a short stocky, bald man wearing an exquisitely-crafted leather bomber jacket. He was in the act of showing him a newspaper article.

'That was Louis Martis, the film director,' he said nonchalantly when he had gone.

Katrina examined the picture carefully.

He then showed her the headlines in a local newspaper:

'VALUABLE PAINTING FOUND IN BOOT SALE.'

'I don't believe a word of it. '

'You're quite right, honey,' he said soothingly. 'But the truth is I got it for a song. The boot sale claim was a surefire way of getting valuable publicity. This is really going to change things for us.'

'Where did you get the Modigliani?'

'Does it matter?'

'Of course it matters. I don't want to go to jail.'

'You won't have to go to jail. It's the real thing.'

'It looks like a Modigliani. Is it one of his listed painting?'

'No, but it is indubitably his work. He was a notoriously careless individual. Into drugs and so on. My theory is that he gave it to a drug dealer in return for some heroin and it came over in the luggage of some immigrant. Telling the paparazzi that I bought it in a boot sale was a great way of getting us valuable publicity. In fact, I bought the painting in a little gallery in Paris. The owner had no idea what it was.'

Katrina examined the painting carefully. She paused and then said :'It's beautiful but, but ... You're such a liar, Gerard. I can't trust anything you say.'

He replied curtly: 'Okay, I'll take the profit myself.'

'Have you any idea what it will fetch?'

'Enough to set me up in my own gallery and quite a bit to spare.'

'Very well. But I don't want it sold under my name. Is that understood?'

'Perfectly. If Martis buys it, I'll tell him to make out the cheque to me.'

Katrina examined the picture again, her awareness that it must have been obtained dishonestly warring with a desire to recoup her business losses. Before leaving, she enquired: 'Do you have it insured?'

Gerard shook his head.

She pursed her lips, said nothing. turned on her heel and left the gallery.

NINE

The story of a priceless painting discovered by chance lying dusty and neglected in an attic is always guaranteed to hit the headlines. Gerard Wadny proposed to commission a painting from Lefebre, forge the signature of a famous artist and then inform the media that he had come across a forgotten masterpiece. The blaze of publicity surrounding the discovery would inevitably bring an influx of new clients into the gallery, eager to inspect it. Later, when the excitement had died down and his business had been put firmly on the map, he would announce that he had sold the picture for a large sum to an anonymous foreign collector. He had no intention at this stage of defrauding anyone by passing off the copy as the genuine article. His intention was to dispose of it privately abroad, having restored Lefebre's original 'Fiasco' trade mark, recovering his original investment in the process.

He flew to Nice while Katrina was away visiting her father in Arizona, leaving a friend in charge of the gallery, having previously written to Lefebre saying that he intended to call on him. He took a bus to the village of Valesque and stayed in a small hotel called La Peinture- so named because many famous artists had used it as their headquarters during the latter part of the nineteenth century. The following day, having made an appointment by telephone, he walked to the Lefebre residence through a long lane flanked by poplar trees.

Lefebre with his common-law wife, Francesca, lived in a white adobe villa enclosed with high walls, shaded on three sides by tall cypress trees. The fourth side had a view over wooded ground sloping towards the distant Mediterranean. Gerard experienced a thrill of recognition, on seeing a view that had been painted by Van Gogh, Matisse and Gauguin.

Gaston Lefebre had discovered his aptitude for copying early in his career. During his second year at art school a friend commented on how much one of his works resembled a Gauguin he had seen in the Hermitage during a visit to Leningrad. The following week Lefebre painted the same view, this time determined to stamp on it his own style. An English friend said that it was uncannily like the later works of Braque whose technique they had recently been studying. Letebre had exclaimed in disgust: 'What a fiasco!'

'It's a damned good fiasco, Gaston,' his friend had commented. 'Sign it and I'll buy it from you.'

The name' Fiasco' thereafter became his trade mark. In time his paintings became much sought after and earned him a good living. His girl friend, when he complained about losing 'his artistic soul', impressed on him how lucky he was to have a gift capable of feeding him while other artists were starving. Not all his works were exact copies of existing paintings; he sometimes painted pastiches, signing them with his adopted name, Fiasco. He could reproduce the work of old masters and modem artists with equal facility. Several distinguished contemporary artists had paid him the compliment of declaring themselves unable to distinguish their own work from his copies.

An inheritance, together with his earnings, enabled him to live in some style with the model who later became his live-in girl friend, Francesca Orsini. He regretted not having original talent but took his work very seriously. He sometimes wondered whether, if he had not been reasonably well off, he might have been tempted to use his talent for dishonest purposes. Francesca also took up painting and developed a successful career.

Arriving at massive wrought-iron gates overgrown by bougainvillaea, Gerard was startled to hear the words, 'Bienvenu- bienvenu- bienvenu', uttered in a shrill voice. He was being addressed by a large red-and-blue plumed parrot perched inside a large cage dangling under a monkey puzzle tree.

A small, lean man with a tanned bald head walked briskly up the drive and welcomed him with an outstretched hand.

'Monsieur Wadny. Good to see you. How is my friend?'

He mentioned their mutual acquaintance in San Francisco.

Gerard smiled and shook Lefebre's hand.

'He is very well and sends his regards. I've come to see you about a Renoir. I wish to create a stir by putting one in the window of my gallery in San Francisco. Of course, it will bear your signature.'

A that moment a slim young girl with long, rippling tawny hair came out of the front door of the villa. She gave a swift glance at Gerard and declared: 'I heard Babillard.'

'Babillard, our parrot, is our burglar alarm and our door bell!' Lefebre explained. Jeannette, this is Monsieur Wadny from San Francisco. He has come to buy a painting.'

'When Papa does a self-portrait he never knows whether he's Van Gogh or Monet,' she remarked teasingly, as she passed by.

'Nonsense!'

Lefebre, as Jeannette continued towards the gates, said with a smile, 'My daughter has never forgiven me for being a copyist.'

'I hear your own original work is excellent, too,' Gerard remarked, tactfully.

Lefebre said: 'You need three eyes to be a great artist- two to observe the subject and one to assess future trends. I, alas, have only two. But I don't complain. I can paint in almost any style from photographic realism to abstractions. But you want a Renoir it appears. Come inside and look through my books.'

Gerard followed him through the blue front door into the house.

'Does you daughter also paint, Monsieur Lefebre?' he enquired.

'Yes, she is very good. She is working for a magazine in Paris. She prefers a steady income. She is on vacation at the moment. Tomorrow she returns to Paris.'

They passed through a square hall filled with luxuriant plants.

Lefebre apologised, as Gerard brushed aside a large frond. 'Francesca- the girl's mother- she plants so much. Soon there will be no room for human beings in the house!'

He ushered Gerard into a sitting-room with low beige armchairs set around a central rug. A large painting of the view from the window dominated the room. Lefebre invited Gerard to sit down and then, standing with his back to the fireplace, said with an apologetic shrug: 'First of all, my friend, we must talk money. How much do you wish to spend?'

Gerard replied: ' I was thinking of about thirty-five thousand francs.'

Lefebre shook his head, resolutely.

'I cannot do a Renoir for that kind of money. What I paint is indistinguishable from the real thing. My signature, Fiasco, as I am sure you know, commands fees commensurate with my peculiar talent. Certain painters demand much greater concentration than others. To paint a good Renoir- and I am sure you would want only a good one- would take me nearly a month. Is it possibly you would care to choose another artist?'

He handed him an album containing photographs of some famous paintings and the copies he had made.

Gerard glanced through the book, frowning. He had decided that a sensuous Renoir in the gallery window would create something of a sensation. Lefebre offered him a glass of pastis while he considered the problem. Gerard said with a wry smile: 'Do you have a scale of charges?'

Lefebre replied with a serious expression: 'The scale does not necessarily relate to the greatness of the artist. Only to the degree of difficulty in reproducing his work.'

There followed a long discussion on the merits of various artists. Meanwhile, Gerard was thinking furiously about his proposed publicity coup. When Lefebre mentioned the Courtauld collection in London, Gerard suddenly remembered a striking Modigliani nude he had once seen while on vacation. The Italian-Jewish painter had died tragically young during the earlier part of the twentieth- century. He suddenly decided that the artist's biography, with its history of alcoholism and drug abuse, would strike a chord with the residents of modem-day San Francisco when he issued a brochure about the painting. He asked Lefebre if he could paint a similar nude. Some haggling followed. Lefebre pointed out that a visit to London to examine the picture Wadny had in mind would be necessary. They eventually agreed on a price of forty-thousand francs.

Gerard accepted an invitation to stay to lunch. Lefebre said he would prepare something to eat. Francesca, he added, was engaged in putting the finishing touches to a portrait of a civic notable from Nice.

Gerard was trying to read Paris-Match, when a woman wearing a paint-stained smock came into the room. She was about fifty, plump with grey-streaked dark hair and a striking profile.

He introduced himself, adding: 'Gaston is going to copy a Modigliani for me. He has very kindly invited me to stay for lunch.'

Francesca smiled, displaying strong white teeth. 'Good. I am hungry, too. Do come with me into the kitchen. '

Gaston Lefebre, wearing a striped blue-and-white butcher's apron, was preparing omelettes. He bade them sit down at a pine table. Francesca opened a bottle of red wine, as a flurry of steam rose from the frying pan. Gaston shuffled some potatoes around in a pan and then served the meal.

'Delicious!' Gerard commented, as he began to eat. In spite of his disappointment at not being able to acquire a Renoir, he was feeling pleased with himself. He was sure the bold step he had in mind would save the gallery from bankruptcy. He was a gambler by nature. If Katrina disapproved, so much the worse. She could pull out, leaving him in possession of what he was convinced would eventually become a profitable business. He was adept both at ending affairs and starting new ones. His mind turned to the young girl who had passed by him in the garden.

'You are smiling, monsieur,' Francesca said to him.

'Yes,' he responded eagerly, 'I am well pleased.

Monsieur Lefebre has shown me some of his work. He is a remarkable artist.'

'He is very talented,' Francesca remarked pensively. 'He seems to be able to absorb into his being the innermost feelings of the artist on whom he is working. Sometimes when he is painting, he says: "Everything is going well- I am now on automatic pilot".'

'Eat your omelette, woman,' Lefebre said gruffly.

'One should not be too modest about such a remarkable gift,' Gerard said, addressing himself to Francesca.

Lefebre shrugged and pouring out more wine, said: 'I am just a highly-skilled craftsman.'

During the discussion that followed, Francesca pointed out that primitive man had always felt a superstitious reverence for images on walls and suggested that a similar reverence accounted for the vast sums earned by Picasso and Dali.

'I could make a very nice Picasso for you, if you like,' Gaston offered, smiling.

Gerard shook his head. The Modigliani would suit his plan admirably. He was already imagining the effect it would have back home.

After a mug of excellent coffee, he thanked his hosts and announced his intention of walking back to the village. He declined Gaston's offer of a lift and having completed arrangements for payment and shipping the painting, took his leave. The parrot screamed' Adieu' as he passed by.

As he approached the outskirts of the village, he saw Lefebre's daughter on a bicycle treading heavily on the pedals as she came towards him up the steep incline.

'Hi there,' he exclaimed. 'Getting some healthy exercise.'

Yes. I have just collected this bicycle. It was being mended- it had a hole in the tyre.'

'Punctures can be a nuisance.'

Jeannette had stopped cycling and was standing holding the handlebars. Her hands were small and dainty. She was very pretty. He was conscious of having made a favourable impression.

'I hear you live in Paris. 1 may be going there myself soon. It's a great place.'

'It's all right. I have a good job there.'

'What kind of work do you do?'

'I illustrate fashion for a magazine. It is not all that well paid. But 1 like what I do.'

Gerard made a swift calculation. His Amex card was almost up to its limit. But he could just about afford a couple of days in Paris.

'If I turn up in Paris, may I call on you?'

She gave him the telephone number of her apartment. And as an afterthought added her business number. When he got to the hotel, he telephoned the friend who was looking after the gallery and arranged for him to stay on for another three days.

TEN

-283Dwindle said to Martha: 'Napoleon once derisively called us a nation of shopkeepers. Today we're a nation of supermarkets.. .Incidentally, someone once picked me up and planted me in a supermarket trolley, under the impression that I was a child who had lost its mother.'

Martha laughed at his improbable story. They were en route to Nice by air, engaged in an animated discussion about Anglo- French relationships.

Dickens, sitting in the seat row immediately behind them, managed occasionally to capture a glimpse of Martha's smiling face as she responded to Dwindle's banter. He could not suppress a slight suspicion that Dwindle, who had been first at the ticket desk, had organised a seating arrangement that left him out in the cold. To soothe his irritation, he began to read his novel. The rich Dickensian prose, its undercurrent of sad humour, and its trenchant observations on human nature entertained him for a while. But his thoughts kept returning to the pair sitting in front of him. Surprised at the instant rapport that had sprung up between Martha and his partner, he assured himself that he couldn't possibly be jealous of such a tiny man.

He was, however, he told himself, entitled to be irked by Dwindle's persistent air of jaunty confidence regarding their present investigation. Dickens, having followed many false trails during his time in the Metropolitan police, knew exactly what it was like for a promising investigation to come up suddenly against an unyielding brick wall. There was another source of irritation -Dwindle never seemed to appreciate how fortunate he was to be in partnership with a skilled and experienced former police officer. And he seemed to have completely forgotten how, on one notable occasion, Dickens had saved him from an inept suicide attempt. Taking him on as a partner had been a brave step, Dickens considered. But he had shrewdly guessed that Dwindle's sharp intelligence and powers of observation would cancel out the handicap of his size and mercurial personality.

Peering forward again at that moment, Dickens couldn't help experiencing noting with a certain satisfaction that the tonsure in Dwindle's curly grey hair had enlarged recently.

His mind turned again to Martha Briggs. She was certainly a most attractive young woman, apparently very good at her job. It was amazing how totally at ease she seemed to be with Dwindle, laughing at him as if he was the world's funniest comedian. He must remind himself to take Dwindle to task for getting on too familiar terms with their client.

*

Dwindle accepted a meal from the stewardess. It had a faintly musty smell. He placed it gingerly on the tray in front of him. Having put Martha in the right mood for questioning, he now began to enquire about the relationship between Gulbenstein and Roger Pretty. When had she first got to know Pretty, he asked.

'He came into the gallery one day- I thought he wanted to buy a painting. Marcus came out of the office, introduced us and said they had attended the same school. It didn't take long for me to realise that Pretty's interest was in becoming an art dealer himself. He seemed quite well briefed, especially on the work of first-rank modem artists. Later, he accompanied Marcus on overseas trips to various auctions. He brazenly used Marcus to get introductions to leading figures in the international art world. '

Dwindle said: 'So they were buddies until they fell out over you. The only surprising thing about that is that it happened to men in their fifties. I'm still in my thirties. That's my height, of course! '

Martha laughed and said: 'Mr. Hamble-'

'Call me Dwindle. In my former job I kept complaining to my colleagues that I seemed to be "dwindling away". Hence the nickname. '

'Dwindle- I've always liked smaller men you'll be pleased to know- they try harder. Marcus and Roger didn't just fallout over me - it goes a lot deeper than that.'

'You reckon there were other grounds for their quarrel?'

'Yes. Marcus was very generous with his professional knowledge.. He was so confident in his own unique position in the art world that he didn't believe Roger Pretty could offer any kind of competition. After all, he was just a retired stockbroker and in any case had promised that he would confine his attention to modem artists- an area into which Marcus rarely ventured. The trouble first started when they attended an auction together and the bidding became very intense. Marcus was sitting next to Roger and on the other side of Roger was someone obviously very eager to get the painting. Marcus outbid him and then a dispute arose as to whether Marcus had signalled his intention correctly to the auctioneer. The opposing bidder made an unpleasant remark. Roger, who could, and should, have spoken up for Marcus, remained silent.'

'You would hardly think a trifling incident like that could destroy a lifelong friendship.'

'It didn't immediately. Roger Pretty continued to come into the gallery, even though Marcus accused him of showing disloyalty on that occasion. Matters eventually came to a head when Roger tried to persuade me to join him.

'Why didn't you?'

Dwindle gazed at her quizzically.

'I don't like him.'

'You don't have to like someone to take their money. He offered you a better deal.'

'I didn't trust him. Anyway, I still suspect that he stole the Jordaens in a fit of pique.'

'You really believe that?'

'Yes,' Martha said simply.

'Do you mind if I ask what your relationship is to Marcus Gulbenstein?'

'We're the best of friends.'

Martha bestowed on him an enigmatic smile.

Shortly afterwards the aircraft started to descend into Nice airport. Dwindle observed the flaps emerging from the wings, followed by a rumbling sound as the undercarriage came down. Shafts of blinding sunlight entered the cabin as the aircraft banked to make its final approach.

Dwindle murmured as the Airbus came in to land: would you say it is ironic that your boss, whose supreme concern is to ensure the correct provenance of old masters, came to pay his respects at the funeral of a master forger.'

Martha whispered indignantly: 'Gaston Lefebre was a copyist, not a forger. He never sailed under false colours. He always signed his work.'

'Yes, of course,' Dwindle said hastily as the wheels touched the ground, 'I apologise for that unfair slur on his memory.'

ELEVEN

Dickens watched Martha walk towards a telephone booth -she was going to make arrangements to meet Madame Orsini -and then remarked to Dwindle, as they waited for their luggage by

the carousel at Nice Airport, 'You know 1 think we could have just about got by with the smattering of French we have between us.

'I don't think so,' Dwindle said cheerfully. 'We could easily miss something important. Anyway, they speak with a very odd accent in these parts. '

He suddenly saw his suitcase, made a grab for it and found himself being dragged along by its momentum. Dickens clutched at his collar, saving him from further indignity.

'Thanks,' Dwindle exclaimed breathlessly, staggering to his feet, as Dickens retrieved the other two pieces of luggage.

Martha shortly reappeared and announced that she had made an appointment for them to call on Madame Orsini the following morning. They hired a taxi to take them to the village of Valesque, where Gaston Lefebre had lived for many years.

Soon after leaving the brightly-lit, busy streets of Nice the dark shape of the Alpes Maritime in the distance became visible. A few lights were beginning to twinkle on the lower ridges towards which they were travelling.

'Great painting country this, I believe,' Dwindle commented as the taxi entered the village. 'Are you artistic, Martha?'

'Marcus insists that I am, but I get my kicks from admiring works of genius. '

Dickens, sitting in the front seat of the taxi next to the driver, turned round and remarked gravely: 'Let's hope that Madame Orsini has some useful information.'

Martha replied: 'Marcus has spoken to her on the telephone. She says she will only be too happy to tell us all she knows. The official verdict on Letebre's death is suicide.'

'We may be wasting our time, then,' Dickens said, resignedly.

Dwindle commented: 'Not at all. There is a whole lot to play for. We must follow our instinct,'

'Perhaps we should have put tabs on Roger Pretty,' Dickens replied.

Martha said. 'He's a snake in the grass, if ever there was one. If he has got the painting, it's going to be very difficult to get it from him.'

'While it's stashed away it cannot possibly do him any good,' Dwindle remarked.

'He's probably perfectly happy basking in the knowledge that he has deprived Marcus of it,' Martha replied.

'Sounds like a real psychopath,' Dickens said.

'That's not an unfair description.'

The car stopped outside a small hotel with pink adobe walls outside which was an illuminated sign outside the front door: La Peinture. Dickens paid off the driver. They registered at the small entrance desk and went to their respective rooms.

Dickens grumbled about the plumbing when they met later in the dining-room, but brightened up as a delicious aroma floated in from the kitchen.

Speaking slowly in schoolboy French, he asked a fresh-faced young waiter if he knew Monsieur Letebre.

The waiter replied in a torrent of French.

Martha interpreted: 'He said he was a fine gentleman and a splendid artist. His end was as unhappy as it was unexpected. He was looking forward to going hunting with him, as they did every year.'

Dwindle remarked with a complacent air: 'I told you Martha would be indispensable.'

TWELVE

'Some people used to say that Gaston was psychic. How else, they asked, could he have absorbed so completely the spirit of the original artist. But whatever is the truth about zat, 1 know one thing: he would nevair, nevair, nevair have committed suicide.'

Francesca Orsini was a handsome woman with a large, sallow face, a wide brow and a curved imperial roman nose. The mottled flesh of her upper arms shook as she waved them about to emphasize her words. She spoke with immense conviction. Dickens, Dwindle and Martha were sitting with her at a table in the sitting-room the following morning. A strong smell of coffee was coming from the nearby kitchen.

'Dickens, who was experiencing a powerful yearning for coffee, said apologetically: 'We appreciate very much your willingness to see us so soon after your tragic bereavement.'

Looking round the table, he continued: 'We consider that Gaston Lefebre's death may have a connection with the recent theft of a Jordaens painting from Mr. Gulbenstein. Do you know whether the copy he was commissioned to make for Mr. Gulbenstein was ever finished?'

Francesca shook her head. 'I don't even know if he started it. We rarely discussed our work. We had separate studios. 1 worked upstairs. He used the downstairs studio. 'That one.' She pointed to a door. Marcus asked me if the painting had been completed when he came to attend the funeral. I told him I didn't think so- it wasn't in Gaston's studio. He said he would have loved to have it as a memento.'

An awkward silence followed. Martha commented on the splendid view from the window.

Francesca said eagerly: 'Yes, Matisse and Degas and many others have painted that scene. Pointing to an unremarkable picture above the fireplace, she added 'That one is by Gaston.'

'The evidence strongly points to suicide,' Dickens ventured. He looked longingly towards the kitchen, from whence persistent rumblings were coming from the percolator.

'Se coupe le poignet! Non. Non. Non. Jamais! He would nevair have killed himself. He loved life too much.'

Ignoring Dwindle's warning glance, Dickens said earnestly: 'But surely if someone else cut his wrist, it would have first been necessary to render him unconscious.'

'Precisely. That is why the police insist it wasn't murder. They argue that since there was no evidence of drugs in his body, he must have deliberately cut his own wrist. But I am absolutely sure they are wrong. '

'Did he have any enemies?' Dwindle enquired.

'I don't think so. He was a happy man. He loved his family and his work.'

Dickens enquired: 'Can you provide us with a list of his recent clients?'

'If you like, I can look through his notebooks.'

Dwindle enquired curiously: 'Would you like to tell us more about his alleged psychic powers?'

Madame Orsini said with a touch of pride: 'He seemed to be able to totally capture the spirit of another artist when copying a painting. Time magazine once published an article about him, in which they said that he was living proof of the had been completed when he came to attend the funeral. I told him I didn't think so- it wasn't in Gaston's studio. He said he would have loved to have it as a memento.'

An awkward silence followed. Martha commented on the splendid view from the window.

Francesca said eagerly: 'Yes, Matisse and Degas and many others have painted that scene. Pointing to an unremarkable picture above the fireplace, she added 'That one is by Gaston.'

'The evidence strongly points to suicide,' Dickens ventured. He looked longingly towards the kitchen, from whence persistent rumblings were coming from the percolator.

'Se coupe le poignet! Non. Non. Non. lamais! He would never have killed himself. He loved life too much.'

Ignoring Dwindle's warning glance, Dickens said earnestly: 'But surely for someone else to have cut his wrists, it would have first been necessary to render him unconscious.'

'Precisely. That is why the police insist it wasn't murder. They argue that since there were no drugs in his body, he must have deliberately cut his own wrist. But I am absolutely sure they are wrong. '

'Did he have any enemies?' Dwindle enquired.

'I don't think so. He was a happy man. He loved his family and his work.'

Dickens enquired: 'Can you provide us with a list of his recent clients?'

'If you like, I can look through his notebooks.'

Dwindle enquired curiously: 'Would you like to tell us more about his alleged psychic powers?'

Madame Orsini said with a touch of pride: 'He seemed to be able to totally capture the spirit of another artist when copying a painting. Time magazine once published an article about him, in which they said that he was living proof of the possibility of reincarnation.'

Martha interjected: 'Someone once said that the Rubens copies he made were more like Rubens than some genuine Rubens. '

Francesca said eagerly: 'Yes, he used to study the artist he was going to copy for weeks sometimes months. He would read numerous books about him. Only when he had thoroughly absorbed the character and the style of the painter would he start to work. He always did detailed research on the kind of oils and pigments that the artists used. He familiarised himself with their canvases and other painting surfaces and went to great pains to obtain similar ones. In the case of Jordaens he was already familiar with the artist's temperament and methods, having copied one before.'

Francesca paused to take out a packet of Gitanes from her purse. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and went on rapidly: 'Excuse my smoking, but I am upset. Not only did Gaston absorb the style of an artist he was copying, but he seemed to understand his personality. It was almost as though by some kind of strange power he could bring the artist back to life.'

Dwindle asked gently: 'Do you believe that spirits can inhabit another human body?'

Francesca replied, drawing deeply at her cigarette, 'It sounds implausible, but then so at one time did hypnotism.'

Dickens then asked: 'Did he take any medication?'

Francesca gave a vigorous shake of the head. She continued eagerly: 'However, you must not think that Gaston was alone in possessing this remarkable gift for bringing back to life the geniuses of the past. There is a musician -I forget his name -who can compose in the manner of Mozart, Rossini, Beethoven, quite effortlessly.'

Dwindle said quietly: 'I know the man you mean. Unfortunately, none of his compositions have been considered worthy of concert hall performances.'

'Francesca pointed out with a faint smile: 'That was also said of the early works of Beethoven. I can truly say this- that Gaston's work was almost indistinguishable from the real thing. Even when he created an original in the style of another artist he was capable of fooling the artist himself into the belief that it must be one of his own works. I have seen it happen. Excuse me, I must get the coffee.'

Dwindle said to Dickens as she disappeared into the kitchen,: 'It may be that Lefebre had his wrist cut while he was unconscious. But as Francesca says, there is no evidence to support that theory. We'll ask her to show us around the place afterwards. '

Francesca returned shortly with mugs of coffee and a glazed apple tart. Dickens and Martha declined to eat. Dwindle, however, tucked in with gusto, leaving a pattern of crumbs around his mouth. He then wiped his mouth energetically with a handkerchief and said cheerfully: 'Mysteries always make me hungry. The void in my brain seems to create a corresponding void in my stomach.'

'And does the apple tart help you fill it, Monsieur Dwindle?' Francesca enquired, smiling.

'It does indeed. That exquisite taste has made my brain go into overdrive. I am sorry to have to ask you so many questions. But can you tell us now whether Monsieur Lefebre went out on the day he died?'

Francesca thought for a while, smoke gently issuing from her mouth. She answered in a sad voice: 'I have been asked all these questions before by our local detectives... The answer is yes -he went into the village in the morning and had drinks with an old friend. Later, he returned with his friend and his friend's mistress. They were discussing some minor changes to a painting Gaston had done for them.'

'Was he in good spirits?'

'Yes, but he did say he was worried about Jeannette, our daughter, who was staying with us at the time. He loved her a great deal.'

'Why was he worried about her?'

'She had told us she was thinking of marrying, but refused to say who the young man was.'

'Did you have any idea?'

'No, she would never discuss her love affairs with us.'

'Is it possible that Gaston knew?'

'If he did he didn't tell me. He was just generally concerned about her. We didn't talk about it much. After a light meal we both went to our studios to work. But Gaston announced that he had difficulty in concentrating and walked down to the village. He was away for about an hour.'

'Did he seem any different when he came back?' Dwindle asked, his head on one side.

'He seemed bad-tempered. I remember asking him if he had been drinking again. He replied: "Only one glass of Calvados."'

Francesca paused and -then continued: 'I asked him if anything had upset him. He replied: "I think Jeannette is considering marrying someone completely unsuitable." He said nothing more. But as he went into his studio, he muttered something about a voice from the past. I assumed he was referring to one of the artists permanently resident in his head.'

Dwindle enquired; 'Do you have any idea who it was that Monsieur Lefebre was referring to in relation to your daughter?'

Francesca said: 'I didn't think of it at the time, but while she was staying with us she had been arguing with her father about a young American who had behaved badly towards Gaston. She tries to excuse his action. But I did not think of this in connection with a possible marriage. I was sure she would only consider to marry a Frenchman.'

Dickens said: 'It would be helpful if we could inspect the room where Monsieur Lefebre met his death.'

Francesca opened the door that led to the studio from the sitting-room. It was a large room, neat and tidy except for one paint-spattered area near the window through which the morning sun was shining. A pair of easels stood beside a stack of shelves packed with paints and pigments, bottles of various kinds and containers holding paint brushes.

'Can you show us exactly where Monsieur Lefebre's body was found'?' Dickens enquired.

Francesca pointed to the floor in front of the two easels.

'His body was lying down there. One easel was overturned. '

'Why were there two easels'?'

'Sometimes when he was copying a painting, the original stood on one while he copied it on the other. On this occasion there was only one painting.'

Dickens asked: 'Who found the body'?'

'Our maid -she was working late that night. She screamed and I came running in. It was terrible. There was blood all over the floor. He had bled to death.'

'Did the police express surprise about the absence of a suicide note?' Dwindle enquired. He stared up at her with a preoccupied expression.

'No. They say suicides frequently fail to leave a message. But I do not believe them. Wouldn't you leave a suicide note if you intended to kill yourself.?' she enquired.

'I did once,' Dwindle murmured, almost inaudibly.

'I am certain Gaston would have left a note out of consideration for me. That is why I cannot possibly believe in the suicide theory.'

'Dwindle said thoughtfully: 'If he was murdered, we must try to establish a motive.'

Francesca said with a shuddering sigh: 'I cannot possibly think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him.'

A tour of the rest of the villa followed. They were shown four rooms upstairs, one of which was used by Francesca as a studio. In marked contrast to the one they had just inspected, it was untidy, spattered with paint and strewn with the tools of her trade. It bore all the hallmarks of an unruly, tempestuous personality. In another bedroom, used by the couple's daughter Jeannette when she visited them, there were posters of Pop stars and a large photograph of her wearing shorts and a teeshirt on the beach at Juan-Les-Pins. The room overlooked a half-an-acre garden, beyond which lay a sweeping view of richly forested hills.

Dwindle stood on a chair and leaned over the window sill. Directly below him he could see an oval swimming pool surrounded by a flag-stoned patio. The rectangular lawn was enclosed by shrubberies of flowering hibiscus and oleanders.

Francesca led them down to inspect the garden. In one corner on the extreme right of the swimming pool Dwindle noticed a garden shed half-hidden by a large frangipani shrub.

'That's where you keep your garden tools I presume, he remarked to Francesca.

'Yes. Occasionally we store canvases in there.'

'May I have a look?'

'Go ahead. It is not locked.'

Dwindle opened the door of the wooden shed and peered into the gloomy interior. There was a lawn-mower and a hedgecutter. One side was stacked with canvases, frames and wooden surfaces of various kinds. While Dickens, Martha and Francesca continued their leisurely walk around the garden, Dwindle poked around. After a while they heard a shout of excitement. Dwindle reappeared, holding in his hand a framed painting of a woman and a chubby baby gazing across a red lake towards a distant land.

Martha came running towards him and exclaimed with surprise: 'This is the missing Jordaens. You have earned your reward already!' She examined the signature and said: 'This is it all right.'

'Or is it perhaps the copy Lefebre made?' Dickens, who had just arrived, suggested, cautiously.

Martha scrutinised it again.

'Do you know it is impossible to tell, even though it bears the Jordaens signature. Gaston Lefebre, as we know, was capable of fooling the experts. Normally, he would have signed it Fiasco. However, on occasions, when the owner of the original requested it, he would forge the signature.'

'What about the frame?' Dwindle enquired. 'Does that tell you anything?'

Martha examined it carefully. After a while, she said: 'It looks very much like the nineteenth-century frame in which the original was set when we stowed it under the floor in the flat. But they are very common, so I can't be sure.'

Francesca said: 'I had no idea that Gaston had completed the picture.'

'How long did it normally take him to copy a painting?'

Dickens enquired.

'It varied considerably,' Francesca replied. 'Some pictures would take him months. Some only a few days. It would entirely depend on his feeling for the artist concerned and the particular composition. Of course, he had copied a Jordaens once before, so it is possible that he completed it quickly and without much trouble. But why should he have hidden it in the garden shed?'

She thought for a moment, her wide brow furrowed in puzzlement and then said: 'But it must be the copy. How could the original which was stolen from Marcus' s flat in London possibly have got here.'

As they considered this question, Dwindle, standing in front of them still holding the canvas, smiled broadly and said: 'Well, we can be reasonably sure there are only two Crimson Lakes. We have found one- all that remains now is to find the other one.'

THIRTEEN

The detectives and Martha declined Francesca' s invitation to stay for lunch. They arranged to continue the discussion later that afternoon. After returning to La Peinture they seated themselves at a table outside under a blue-and-white striped awning. A young, swarthy waiter with the moustache of a Mexican bandit emerged from the front door and handed Martha the lunch menu. After a rapid exchange in local patois, she handed the menu to Dickens and said: 'He recommends le plat du jour- lamb cutlets.

Dickens replied gruffly: 'That'll do fine. How about you, Dwindle?'

Dwindle said something to the waiter in halting French.

Martha commented: 'Your French is quite good, Dwindle. I think you brought me down here on false pretences.'

'It's very limited. Outside the areas of food and drink I miss all the finer points of conversation. '

The waiter then enquired in English: 'Would you like some wine?'

They all laughed.

'No wine... We must keep our wits about us,' Dwindle replied, earnestly.

After a pause, he said, nodding profoundly, 'I suspect we have here the elements of an eternal triangle.'

Dickens said eagerly: 'You mean you suspect Francesca of having a lover?'

'No. I was thinking of us. Two men and one beautiful girl working together on a case can be highly dangerous.'

He rolled his eyes lasciviously in the direction of Martha and made a Groucho Marx gesture of smoking a cigar.

Dickens rebuked him sharply: 'That's enough, Dwindle.' And went on: 'I do hope you'll excuse my partner, Ms Briggs.'

Martha smiled and replied: 'There's is nothing to excuse. I'm flattered.'

'You see, Dickens,' Dwindle said with an impish smile. 'I can't help it if women find me irresistible. Fate compensates us little 'uns by granting us extra sex appeal. '

Dickens responded by shaking his head.. After reminding himself to rebuke Dwindle later that evening for his unprofessional behaviour, he said thoughtfully: 'We ought to study the hotel register. Some of Lefebre's clients may have booked in here. What is your opinion as to whether the painting we found this morning is the original or a copy, Ms Briggs?'

'Call me Martha,' she replied, impatiently. 'I simply can't be certain. Lefebre's work was so near to perfection that even a panel of experts could take several months to decide. Marcus sometimes put a secret identifying mark on the back of important paintings when he thought we would be holding them for any length of time. But on this occasion he neglected to do so because he already had a buyer. '

Dickens then said wryly: 'If it is so difficult to decide whether it is real or forged, how, if and when it becomes due to us, shall we be able to claim the reward?'

Martha shrugged.

'It does now seem certain that there are two paintings called The Crimson Lake in existence -one real and the other a perfect copy. When we have found both, Marcus will be only

THIRTEEN

The detectives and Martha declined Francesca' s invitation to stay for lunch. They arranged to continue the discussion later that afternoon. After returning to La Peinture they seated themselves at a table outside under a blue-and-white striped awning. A young, swarthy waiter with the moustache of a Mexican bandit emerged from the front door and handed Martha the lunch menu. After a rapid exchange in local patois, she handed the menu to Dickens and said: 'He recommends le plat du jour- lamb cutlets.

Dickens replied gruffly: 'That'll do fine. How about you, Dwindle?'

Dwindle said something to the waiter in halting French.

Martha commented: 'Your French is quite good, Dwindle. I think you brought me down here on false pretences.'

'It's very limited. Outside the areas of food and drink I miss all the finer points of conversation. '

The waiter then enquired in English: 'Would you like some wine?'

They all laughed.

'No wine... We must keep our wits about us,' Dwindle replied, earnestly.

After a pause, he said, nodding profoundly, 'I suspect we have here the elements of an eternal triangle.'

Dickens said eagerly: 'You mean you suspect Francesca of having a lover?'

'No. I was thinking of us. Two men and one beautiful girl working together on a case is sure to invite trouble.'

He rolled his eyes lasciviously in the direction of Martha and made a Groucho Marx gesture of smoking a cigar.

Dickens rebuked him sharply: 'That's enough, Dwindle.' And went on: 'I do hope you'll excuse my partner, Ms Briggs.'

Martha smiled and replied: 'There's is nothing to excuse. I'm flattered.'

'You see, Dickens,' Dwindle said with an impish smile. 'I can't help it if women find me irresistible. Fate compensates us little 'uns for being small by granting us extra sex appeal. '

Dickens responded by shaking his head disapprovingly.. After reminding himself to rebuke Dwindle later for his unprofessional behaviour, he said thoughtfully: 'We ought to study the hotel register. Some of Lefebre's clients may have booked in here. What is your opinion as to whether the painting we found this morning is the original or a copy, Ms Briggs?'

'Call me Martha,' she replied, impatiently. 'I simply can't be certain. Lefebre's work was so near to perfection that even a panel of experts could take several months to decide. Marcus sometimes put a secret identifying mark on the back of important paintings when he thought we would be holding them for any length of time. But on this occasion he neglected to do so because he already had a buyer. '

Dickens then said wryly: 'If it is so difficult to decide whether it is real or forged, how, if and when it becomes due to us, shall we be able to claim the reward?'

Martha shrugged.

'It does now seem certain that there are two paintings called The Crimson Lake in existence -one real and the other a perfect copy. When we have found both, Marcus will be only too happy to hand over the reward.'

Dwindle interjected: 'I feel fairly confident now that we shall find the other one. And it is beginning to look as though Lefebre was murdered.'

'How can you be so certain?' Martha enquired.

A delicious aroma from the food which had just arrived diverted Dwindle's attention from her question. Meanwhile, Dickens, his spirits raised by the mention of the reward, ignored his partner's advice and ordered a bottle of wine.

There was silence during the meal. When they had finished the main course, Dickens ordered strawberries and ice cream. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and said portentously to Martha: 'Answer this question - if two paintings are so alike that even the experts cannot tell them apart, how can one possibly be worth more than the other?'

'It all comes back to correct attribution,' she answered. 'A purchaser has bought the copyright that originally belonged to the person who created a work of art. He is entitled to keep it until he sells it or gives it away. But the copyright is degraded when a forger makes a copy and attempts to pass it off as the real thing.'

Dwindle commented. 'It seems especially odious when an artist does this to a fellow artist.'

Martha replied impatiently: 'The art world isn't the only one that suffers from dishonesty. Computer software is pirated, designer labels are copied, currency is forged... It's a world-wide problem.'

Dwindle said solemnly: 'A wit once said that blackmail gives crime a bad name. It would seem that forgery also gives art a bad name.'

'What about signed prints?' enquired Dickens, thinking about the ones his wife had bought for their home. 'Isn't that a kind of forgery?'

Martha declared: 'No. In the case of prints the artist has given his permission for copies to be made. In effect he has divided the copyright in order to guarantee himself a better return for his labours.'

'So what's the difference?' Dwindle enquired.

'If a man himself deliberately dilutes the value of his own copyright, it is okay. It only becomes a crime when someone else does so without his permission.'

Dwindle suddenly held a strawberry motionless in front of him, taking a surreptitious sight on Martha's belt, above which four inches of taut white midriff had caught his attention. He was reflecting sadly that when he stood beside her his chin only came up to her navel.

Martha broke in on his reverie: 'In the case of signed prints the artist is, in effect, selling his signature. But when a copy of a painting is passed off as the original, it diminishes the value of the genuine article. Lefebre, as you know, always signed his forgeries Fiasco. But we cannot assume yet that the painting you found this morning is the original, because there were circumstances when he broke this rule and signed it with the signature of the original artist. He did this for people who wanted to keep the originals in a safe place - people in whom he had absolute confidence. Joseph Humpel, the man for whom the copy of Crimson Lake was intended, is an example.'

'Surely,' Dwindle said, 'It is possible with modern methods to determine once and for all whether a picture is genuine. '

'Not really. Some of the greatest paintings in some of the world's most prestigious art galleries and museums have turned out to have doubtful attribution. If the forgery is crude, all kinds of things will give it away. But Gaston Lefebre was an expert among other things at selecting canvases and subjecting them to an artificial ageing process. He was also extremely clever at simulating old pigments and materials. He knew a great deal about dendrology and kept a store of very old wood for use where painting had been done on a wooden surface. In some cases he painted over genuine old canvases where the quality of the original painting was so poor that it wasn't worth restoring.'

Dwindle interjected: 'But why did he learn these techniques? What was the point, if it was only intended to deceive. '

Martha replied: 'Because there was a demand for it by the owners of originals who wanted to protect their investments. And there are other people, who cannot afford an original and who like to have what you might like to call 'original forgeries'. Nothing wrong with that provided the copyist clearly indicates what it is. In Lefebre's case, except in the circumstances I have told you about, they were invariably signed Fiasco.'

'I would sign mine Toulouse-Lautrec,' Dwindle said, tongue-in-cheek.

'Stop being so self-pitying, Dwindle,' Dickens remarked, caustically.

'Self pity happens to be my strongest card, Dickens,' Dwindle replied, indignantly. 'You mustn't deprive me of it.'

He gave Martha a lecherous wink which made her explode with laughter.

After lunch, as they approached the gates of the Lefebre villa, the red-and-blue parrot in its cage greeted them with a high-pitched cry of 'Bienvenu.'

Francesca was sitting at a garden table. She announced, as they approached: 'I have taken the precaution of hiding the painting Monsieur Dwindle found in the attic. You will know where to find it if anything happens to me.'

-283'Have you any reason to suppose you are in any danger, Madame?' Dickens enquired.

She waved her hands histrionically. 'There are plenty of criminals in this part of the world who would murder for a postcard let alone a painting Do you wish to go inside to talk?'

'Out here will do fine,' Dickens said, looking up at the peaceful blue sky.

When they were all seated, Francesca enquired: 'So what is the next step?'

'Did you manage to obtain a list of Gaston Lefebre's recent customers?' Dickens enquired

'Yes. I have found his notebook and made out a list.'

'We'll check it against the guest list at La Peinture,' Dickens said, as Francesca handed him a sheet of paper containing a list of fifteen names. He folded the sheet and placed it in the pocket of his lightweight jacket.

Dwindle enquired: 'Do you mind if I glance at that list, Dickens?'

Dickens handed it to him. Dwindle studied the list for a while and said to Francesca: 'Can you confirm that Monsieur Lefebre was showing no signs of worry or depression before he died?'

Francesca thought for a while and answered hesitatingly: 'No. But with one qualification: his mood was sometimes affected by the life of the artist whose work he was copying. He was a very sensitive man.'

'Did he travel at all?' Dwindle enquired.

'He visited our daughter occasionally in Paris - she works as an illustrator in a fashion magazine. Sometimes he travelled to a museum or an art gallery to study the original of a painting of which a copy had been requested.'

'Would you describe again Monsieur Lefebre's activities on the day he died.'

'He worked, as usual, in the morning. In the afternoon he met an old friend in the village for drinks. He and his friend and his friend's mistress came back here to inspect a painting that Gaston had done for them. They had coffee and afterwards Jacques Mendes and Madelaine gave my daughter a lift into the village. She intended to catch a bus to the nearest railway station at Aix to go back to Paris.'

'What time did the bus leave?'

'About two-thirty.'

'When was the last time Monsieur Lefebre went abroad?'

'He visited London in April.'

'That is right,' Martha joined in. 'He called in to see us at our London flat.'

'And was he in good spirits at the time?' Dwindle asked Martha.

'He appeared to be. We had a very pleasant evening.'

'Did he have any hobbies or recreational occupations outside of painting?' Dwindle asked Francesca.

'He kept himself fit by cycling. He swam every day in our pool.. .And he used to try to teach the parrot to talk. He had great rapport with that bird. He often said it was interesting to think that the parrot would outlive him by many years ...'

Francesca seemed about to break down. Making an obvious effort to compose herself, she said huskily: 'I must not let myself be upset. He had a good life.'

Martha replied in French: 'Francesca, you are incredibly brave. Thank you for seeing us again. We'll telephone you tomorrow. I am sure Messieurs Dickens and Dwindle have much to discuss concerning what you have said.'

They declined Francesca' s offer to take them back to the village in her car.

As they passed through iron gates almost hidden under a mass of vegetation, the parrot called 'Adieu...Adieu...Adieu.'

Dwindle commented: 'That bird has a strong provencale accent. '

Dickens said: 'Do you think this business of Lefebre having some kind of psychic communication with the artist whose work he was copying is of any significance?'

'The important thing is not whether he was psychic, but rather perhaps whether he himself believed he was,' Dwindle replied, solemnly'

'What exactly are you getting at, Dwindle?'

'Simply this: finding out how Lefebre's mind worked might give us a clue as to how he died.'

FOURTEEN

Dwindle, standing by Martha outside her bedroom door, looked up at her and said with a pleading expression: 'Do you mind if I come in for a moment?' Dickens, who was about to enter the adjoining bedroom, paused as Dwindle added in a stage whisper: 'After all, I'm too small to create even a whiff of scandal. '

Martha stood aside to let him enter. When they were both inside, she said a little crossly, standing with her back against the closed door, 'Dwindle, you are becoming a crashing bore on the subject of your size.'

'Please, forgive me,' Dwindle responded contritely. 'But how can I help it- the world constantly reminds me of my size. Think of the saying: "When good little meets good big, good big always wins". And that idiot, Napoleon, who said: "God always favours the big battalions." There is simply no end to it.'

Napoleon was very small himself,' Martha remarked, scathingly. 'Anyway, what exactly did you want?'

Dwindle whispered: 'I wanted to sow a tiny seed of doubt in Dickens's mind.' He glanced round the bedroom. It was a replica of his own room with pine-wood wardrobes, a dressing-table, two cane chairs and a double bed covered with a coarse white counterpane.

'But why?' Martha asked, frowning.

Dwindle settled into one of the chairs and said conversationally: 'You must be used to staying at much better places than this. But the nearest decent hotel the travel agent

could offer us was in Nice.'

'I've no complaints. Will you please tell me why you want to upset your partner?'

'I'm conducting an experiment.'

Martha went to the dressing-table mirror and began wiping off her lipstick. Turning to Dwindle, a tissue in her hand, she said: 'You and he are always bickering. How do you manage to work together.'

'The rivalry makes us try harder,' Dwindle declared with conviction. 'Of course we do have our little points of difference. Dickens believes that because he's six-feet two

inches tall and has had a lifetime of experience in the police he has a right to be the dominant partner. I get my own back occasionally when he misses the obvious. But generally speaking the competition keeps us both on our toes. He will not fail to have noticed, for example, that I came into your room and I shall thoroughly enjoy it tomorrow when he accuses me of committing an indiscretion.'

'You're like a couple of kids,' Martha commented. She lay down on the bed, with her hands behind her head, and gazed up at the ceiling Dwindle left his chair, climbed on to the bed and sat at the end.

'That's a delightful bellybutton,' he observed, noting the gap between her tank top and her trousers. 'I can tell people's future from their bellybuttons,' he added solemnly.

'Really? What's going to happen?'

'You are going to be propositioned immorally by a dwarf.'

'Dwindle, you are funny! What did you do before you became a private detective?'

'I taught philosophy in a correspondence school. The school closed down. Tell me how you came to work for Marcus Gulbenstein. '

'He attended a fashion show with his wife and sent a message asking to speak to me. They invited me to have dinner with them afterwards. I was already very interested in art, having bought a few paintings when I was flush for money. I happened to mention that it was getting harder and harder all the time to find work modelling, and he asked me if I would like to be his assistant. A few months later I joined the firm. I went to live with him about six months after his wife died.'

'He's far too old for you. You need a younger man like me'

'You don't happen to be one of the world's greatest

experts on seventeenth-century art.'

'True. But I am an expert on navels. I shall be happy to pass all my knowledge about bellybuttons onto you in return for one small favour.'

'And that is?' As she waited for the answer, Martha placed her hands straight down by her side and began vigorously exercising her shoulders.'

'First of all tell me why you choose to live with Gulbenstein. '

Martha suddenly stopped exercising.

'My shrink says it's because my father was ineffectual and my mother was a drunken bitch. But there's a simpler answer - Marcus is enormously enthusiastic about art and he succeeded in passing on his enthusiasm to me -can you understand that?. .And I suppose I felt sorry for him.'

'Do you usually sleep with men because you feel sorry for them?'

Martha smiled enigmatically and said: 'I guess I'm the original whore with the heart of gold. The difference being that I whore after beautiful paintings. Mind you, I suppose there's not much difference between that and whoring after diamonds.'

Dwindle replied: 'I can hardly blame Roger Pretty for trying to steal you from Gulbenstein.'

'I was sorry to have been the means of breaking up such a long friendship. But they don't have much in common. Roger Pretty treats paintings like stocks and shares. In addition to which he's a terrific snob.'

'Why did you turn down the generous deal he made you?' Martha made a moue of distaste.

'I just don't like him. And my distrust has since been amply confirmed by the fact that he stole the Jordaens from Marcus.'

'You are convinced, if he did it, that his motive was spite. '

'I can't think of any other reason. He doesn't even like classical paintings.'

'Perhaps he likes the prices they command.'

'He doesn't need money. He's enormously rich.'

'What about this person to whom Gulbenstein intended to sell the picture. You don't think that he sent someone over to steal it?'

'He's a multi-billionaire. He would have no need to stoop to such methods.'

Dwindle, suddenly turning his profile towards Martha, rested his chin on his hand and enquired: 'Do I resemble Rodin's famous sculpture: The Thinker?'

'Le philosophe shall we say.'

'The French revere their philosophers; we laugh at them.'

Probably a healthier attitude. Dickens admits, though, in his more generous moments that the rigorous intellectual habits of my former profession help occasionally in my detective work.

Not that it has been of much use so far in this present case.'

Martha said thoughtfully: 'Well, applying your sceptical habits to the present situation, do you give any credence at all to the theory that Lefebre was able to get in touch with the spirits of the dead.'

'It provided excellent publicity and no doubt helped him to get commissions.'

'Marcus says he was a genius in his own field.'

'Perhaps someone killed him because of his occult powers.' Dwindle added with a cynical leer: 'The suggestion that Lefebre was visited by the spirit of the dead painters raises an interesting question: now that he is dead will his spirit enter another living artist, enabling him to create first class forgeries?'

'Lefebre was that rare thing an honest forger. He was in great demand. '

'I suppose if he made the art lovers examine their consciences he did a useful job.'

Martha sat up.

'What do you mean, Dwindle?'

'He has probably given a salutary shock to the art world. His career and the confusion he sometimes inadvertently created demonstrated that paintings should be literally priceless - that is to say, without price tags. Art should enlighten and inspire, not a store of value. Art dealers debase art by defining it solely in terms of money.'

'That's not true,' Martha said defiantly.

'How can you be impartial when you're in the business?

'You tell me how it is that, when two objects are so much alike that even an expert cannot tell them apart, one may be considered worth millions and the other a mere pittance?'

' A derivative can never be worth as much as an original.'

'Even though they are so much alike that they are to all intents and purposes they are the same thing?'

'It is always possible to differentiate between two paintings.. But I agree it is not an exact science.'

'You admit that sometimes attributions prove to be wrong.'

'It's unfortunate, but it does happen sometimes. However, Marcus says you can't alter the basic law of supply and demand. If enough people sincerely believe that a painting is genuine, that in itself is sufficient to make it valuable. People worship at a sacred shrine because they believe it to be sacred and they don't welcome attempts to prove it otherwise. So it is with paintings. Mistakes are sometimes made, but just because there are human errors doesn't make the whole system wrong.'

'So what are people paying for when they buy a rare and valuable painting.?'

'The rarity of perceived genius.'

'You may or may not have noticed,' Dwindle said apologetically after a short pause, 'that I am really trying hard to arrive at the truth. Now answer this: if identical twins with exactly similar skills painted identical pictures is it possible that one can be worth more than the other?'

Martha replied spiritedly: 'Yes, why not. There is a flaw in your premise. No two paintings are alike- not even those of identical twins. Twins differ in subtle ways, even when their physical characteristics are the same. Incidentally , I have been through all these arguments many times before with Marcus, so it is unlikely that you will be able to defeat me.'

Dwindle laughed loudly.

'That's OK. I am simply trying to find out what is at stake with the two paintings we are dealing with. I was hoping you would be able to enlighten me somewhat about the motives of all the people concerned. We'll discuss it again some other time.'

Dwindle then added in a conspiratorial whisper: 'Now we come to that small favour I was going to ask of you - do you mind if I make a noise?'

'What kind of a noise?'

'I want to jump up and down and shake the bed.'

'What on earth for?'

'To give Dickens the impression that we are making violent and passionate love.'

'Dwindle, have you gone mad?'

'Yes I have.'

He continued with an imploring smile: 'I must do it to Dickens just this once. I have another reason which I won't divulge just yet. But I assure you it will make him even more desperate to solve this case. I beg you for that reason to let me jump up and down on the bed.'

He gazed at Martha appealingly.

Martha started laughing. Interpreting her laughter as assent, Dwindle began jumping energetically up and down on the bed.

The wistful expression which crossed Martha's face, as he continued to bounce as though on a trampoline raised a distant hope in Dwindle that perhaps one day he might even genuinely get to make love to her.

He said: 'Go on. Sound as you're in the throes of extreme passion. '

This outrageous suggestion made Martha laugh out loud.

'Go on!' Dwindle urged Martha. spreading his arms out and bouncing higher and higher, 'Laugh louder. Have an orgasmic explosion of the first water.' He pulled a funny face.

Which made Martha laugh ecstatically and caused Dickens, lying in bed in the adjoining room, to stir uneasily.

FIFTEEN

Marcus Gulbenstein wandered around his flat, estimating the value of his paintings. They were for the most part second-rate works that had occupied too much valuable space in his gallery. It was doubtful if they would command one tenth of the price of the missing Jordaens. He would be bankrupt soon, if Dickens and Dwindle failed to find the missing painting,.

He wondered if he was being punished for allowing another woman to enter his life so soon after his wife's death. Nevertheless, at the moment he found Martha's absence quite unendurable. He had at first been favourably impressed by her intelligence and eagerness to learn. Later, by her kindness during his wife's illness. Having learned all about her background, he felt pity for the hardships and insults she had endured as a child. Finally, when she took temporary refuge in his home, he tried, but totally failed, to stop himself from falling in love with her.

There's no fool like an old fool, he told himself, bitterly. But the temptation had been overwhelmingly strong. Quite apart from her stunning physical beauty, Martha, until the disappearance of Crimson Lake, had brought him nothing but good luck. When he was away she ran the business with superb efficiency. Her elegance and beauty gave his art gallery glamour and prestige. He had been amazed at how assiduously she had studied art and how quickly she learned. Her cockney accent intrigued customers and gave an up-to-date image to a gallery which specialised in old masters. He again berated himself for penny-pinching in such a vital area as insurance. But the possibility of Roger Pretty abusing his trust simply hadn't occurred to him.

The detectives' suggestion of a possible link between the theft of the Jordaens and the murder of Gaston Lefebre certainly seemed worth pursuing, which was why he had readily acquiesced in their suggestion that Martha should accompany them to Provence. Pouring himself out a small glass of brandy, he tried to persuade himself that it was foolish to worry about the future. He could always earn a living. He had written one highly-praised book on seventeenth-century European art and perhaps would write another. He could act as consultant to wealthy collectors. He wouldn't starve.

His mind reverted to Roger Pretty. They had attended the same school, had studied together and shared adolescent confidences. Pretty, he now remembered, had been his best man when he got married. During his speech he had said something like: 'Marcus has a particularly refined aesthetic sense, which shows in his choice of a wife. She is as lovely as any painting he has ever bought. Art seems to attract lovely women. I hope my art collection will eventually do the same for me.' It had, too. Pretty had married a beautiful heiress. But his marriage hadn't lasted long. Since then he had lived with a succession of girlfriends. It was no doubt his recent period of enforced celibacy that had tempted him to try to take Martha from him. Thwarted in his aim, he had apparently decided to avenge himself in a particularly spiteful way.

However, Gulbenstein reflected, there had always been an element of childish rivalry between them. Pretty's success in making a fortune in the City had been balanced in Gulbenstein's eyes by the fame and status he had achieved as an art dealer. Pretty had married high up the social scale, but had failed in his marriage. Report had it that he was estranged from his only son. Gulbenstein, on excellent terms with his three married sons, reckoned that he had made a better job of running his life than his former friend. But the balance would certainly change, if Pretty succeeded in ruining him. Even so, in spite of his deep anger he couldn't help regretting the end of a lifelong friendship.

When Roger Pretty had first opened his gallery in Dover treet, Gulbenstein had, in a spirit of friendship, eased his path in many ways, even to the extent of recommending his gallery to clients interested in acquiring modem works of art. But ignoring the debt of gratitude he owed, Pretty had apparently decided to take a devious and subtle revenge for his failure to seduce his assistant.

Gulbenstein felt humbly grateful to Martha for turning down Pretty's offer. She was a find in a million- a clever young woman brought up by parents who had no notion whatsoever of her intellectual potential. But he was realistic enough to know that the time must come when she would find someone of her own age. In the meantime she was his comforter, his business partner and the only person in the world on whom he could depend. He poured himself out another glass of brandy and told himself that since Pretty had declared war on him, he would fight him with every available weapon.

SIXTEEN

'Do you have the list of Lefebre's clients?' Dickens asked Dwindle.

They were seated at a table on the small terrace outside the hotel the following morning, waiting for the waiter to serve them breakfast.

'1 don't think so,' Dwindle replied, looking vaguely puzzled. He shoo-ed away a small white dog about to relieve itself against a corner of the tablecloth.

'1 gave you the list yesterday afternoon.'

'Did you? I don't remember...I'm feeling rather tired this morning.' Dwindle yawned and stretched, lazily.

'You shouldn't get tired when we're on an important case,' Dickens replied, ill-humouredly.

'Aren't I entitled to relax after that outstanding success I enjoyed yesterday with a beautiful lady?'

Dickens eyed him suspiciously and then enquired: 'What lady?'

With a blandly innocent look, Dwindle replied: '1 am referring to the lady holding up the infant Moses as he regards the Promised Land. Don't you think finding her was a stroke of genius on my part?'

'Yes, but how many other Crimson Lakes are we going to have to discover before we can be sure we've got the real one?'

'1 doubt if there are more than two... Ah, I have just remembered. That list of clients Francesca gave us is upstairs in my jacket pocket.'

Martha appeared in the doorway of the hotel at that moment, dressed in a long white and gold-edged kaftan. She descended the stone steps in a regal manner, sat down between the two men and smiled brightly at each one in turn.

' Bonjour, mes amis. Are we going to solve this case soon?'

'We have made some significant progress.' Dickens assured her. 'Our theory of a connection between the theft of the painting at your flat and Lefebre's untimely death seems to have been completely vindicated.'

Dwindle interjected: 'Unfortunately, we don't know which painting it is we have found.'

'The one you found does bear the Jordaens signature,' Martha pointed out.

Dickens said with a thoughtful air: 'Yes, but if that is the original, why should anyone bring it all the way from England and leave it where it could be so easily found? '

Dwindle said: 'For the moment we can't be certain which one it is. But it has occurred to me that whoever put it there must have been familiar with the layout of both the villa and the garden.'

'Perhaps Lefebre left it there himself,' Martha suggested.

Dwindle replied: 'If he did, it must be the copy, because the original was not stolen until after he had died. But if he finished making the copy, and we can't be certain that he did, why should he want to hide it?.. Unless, perhaps, having raised its perceived value by forging the Jordaens signature, he hid it there as a safety measure.'

Martha said: 'He normally forged the artist's signature only after getting a written request from the owner. Marcus had informed him who the new owner would be. It does seem possible that in this case he broke his own rule and hid it, in case it should fall into unauthorised hands.'

A young, fresh-faced waiter placed croissants, orange juice and coffee before them.

Martha asked him to repeat the order. She then informed Dickens and Dwindle that she had just spoken to the proprietor of the hotel and he had promised that the hotel register would be made available for their inspection later that morning. She added: 'We shall soon know if any of the people who appeared on the list Francesca gave us have stayed here.'

'I'll get the list of Lefebre's clients,' Dwindle said.

He raced up the stone steps and soon reappeared, carrying a piece of paper, which he handed to Martha.

She began reading in a subdued voice: ' Madelaine Vautois: Un modele nu pour Jacques Mendes en maniere de Dali.

'A new model?' Dickens enquired.

'A nude model,' Dwindle corrected him.'

Martha continued in English: 'Madame Gallier from Cannes requesting a lake surrounded by trees in the manner of Monet. '

She looked up and added: 'It says: September with a question mark after it,' and added: 'That presumably was when he hoped to complete the assignment,'

'Go on,' Dickens commanded.

'Monsieur Bernard Jago. Portrait of his deceased mother. photograph to be supplied.

'Monsieur Alexandre Ney- in the style of Jacques Louis David -military scene.

'Mr. Wadny- Modigliani. Terms agreed.'

Martha looked up and said: 'That was the assignment he was working on in April when he came to have dinner with us.'

She continued reading from the list. But Dwindle suddenly lost interest in the names. He gulped down the remains of his orange juice, announced that he was going to see Francesca and began walking briskly along the white dusty road flanked by poplars that led towards the villa.

Dickens said to Martha in an amused tone: 'He's like a hound dog on the trail when he gets an idea. But he's probably chasing up a blind alley. Perhaps we should go inside and check if any of these people stayed in the hotel.'

*

'Bienvenu ...'

The parrot's shrill voice greeted Dwindle, as he arrived at the gates of the villa. He now regretted having rushed so precipitately from the breakfast table, realising that he could have obtained the necessary information over the telephone. Perspiration was pouring down his face, as he continued towards the front door. He was met by Francesca, wearing paint-stained jeans and tee-shirt.

'Ah, Monsieur Dwindle, what is it you want?' I heard Babillard calling.

'Mes apologies, Madame. We were going through the list of Monsieur Lefebre's clients. One name stuck in my mind. I wondered.. .'

'You look very hot. Would you care for a cold drink,

Monsieur Dwindle?'

'It would save my life, Madame Orsini.'

'Why don't you call me Francesca?'

He gave an embarrassed cough.

'Because you call me Monsieur Dwindle.'

'Ah, I did not understand. Is Dwindle not your name?' Dwindle shook his head.

'It is just...what everyone calls me.'

'Do sit down, Dwindle. I shall be back soon.'

Dwindle sat on one of the garden chairs and remembered too late that the French word for nickname was 'sobriquet'. He mopped his brow and then fanned himself with his handkerchief. A blackbird called from the top of a cypress tree. An airplane drifted past in the clear blue sky above.

Francesca returned, carrying a glass of cool lemonade. She had changed into a loose-fitting bright yellow dress. Dwindle disposed of the drink rapidly, wiped his face and said: 'What does the name Wadny mean to you?'

'Gerard Wadny? He is an American with an art gallery in California. He wanted Gaston to make him a painting in the style of Renoir. But he settled for a Modigliani instead.'

'Why did he change his mind?'

'He could not afford a Renoir. Gaston had a scale of charges.'

'What was he like?'

'Young- perhaps twenty-two or so. Quite good looking with a splendid head of fair hair. '

'Sounds young to own an art gallery.'

'Americans of any age always seem to have a lot of money.'

'Did Gaston complete the commission?'

'Yes.'

'You said you had visitors on the day Gaston died.'

'Yes, a friend of Gaston called in with his lady friend late that morning to examine a painting he had made of her.'

'What time were they here?'

'Between twelve and two as far as I remember.'

'What was the last time you saw Gaston?'

'About eight o'clock in the evening. We had a light meal..Afterwards, he went into his studio.'

'And you discovered his body at what time?'

'At about ten-thirty. '

'Did anybody call between eight and ten-thirty?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, I have been asked this question many times. I remember the parrot called once during that period, but it was a false alarm. I went down from my studio to answer the door, but there was no one there.'

'Is there another method of entry into the house?'

'Gaston's studio is equipped with a sliding door.'

'So it is possible that someone called in to see Lefebre during that time.'

'Yes, but I heard no noise. One would expect to have heard voices.'

'Where did Gaston normally keep the razor with which he is supposed to have killed himself?'

'It was kept in his studio. He used it sometimes to trim canvases. '

'Did you hear the parrot call out, signalling that someone had departed?'

'No.'

'May I see the painting that these people came to examine?'

'Of course. '

Francesca led him into the downstairs studio and showed him the painting. Called Les Petits Choux, the painting was in the surrealist style, amazingly like a Dali, but was signed Fiasco.

Dwindle studied it and after declaring his admiration for Lefebre's extraordinary skill, enquired: 'How on earth did he do it?'

Francesca shook her head ruefully'Some people said that his inspiration came from above.

'And what did the great man himself think?'

Francesca thought for a moment and clasping her shoulders with her hands as though she felt cold, said: 'He did believe that he was inhabited by the spirit of the painter whose work he was copying. He experienced at times an uncanny sense of deja vu. It was like a reprise of someone else's life, he once told me, as vivid and real as though filmed on video tape. His gift was sometimes a burden to him and he would take a few drinks to lighten the load. He was something of a mystic. I remember him saying that the definition of an angel was one in whom the good qualities of other personalities had been subsumed into a greater, more harmonious whole. Renoir, he said, painted like an angel... Gaston was capable of feeling the driving force of the original artist, usually as a happy emanation of the creative spirit, but at other times as something more desperate -an attempt to obtain compensation for lack of love and recognition. The world, he used to say, is full of both happy and unhappy painters. Rubens he regarded as an example of the former, Modigliani as an example of the latter.'

'Why Modigliani?'

'Oh, he led a very unhappy life. He was a drug abuser. He died of tuberculosis. His wife committed suicide on the day of his funeral.'

'Sounds pretty ghastly,' Dwindle commented. 'Anyway, thank you for the drink. 'I must go now. Our conversation has been very useful.'

'I am glad to have been of some assistance.'

The telephone rang at that moment. Dwindle told Francesca to answer it and said that he would let himself out.

The parrot seemed to be fast sleep. But, as Dwindle tiptoed silently past, he heard a shrill voice calling after him: 'Adieu...Adieu...Adieu.'

SEVENTEEN

The guest register revealed that only two of Lefebre's clients had booked in at La Peinture during the previous six months. Wadny had booked in the previous April; Jacques Mendes, a client and friend of Lefebre from Cannes, had booked in on the day that Lefebre had been murdered.

Dickens, after thanking the proprietor, said to Martha: 'The Wadny visit was too long ago to be of any significance. Would you care to find out from Francesca what she knows about Mendes?'

Dickens waited impatiently, as Martha spoke to Francesca on the telephone. At last Martha put down the telephone and said: 'Jacques Mendes and Gaston Lefebre were friends -they served together in the French army in Algeria many years ago. Later, Mendes became very rich renting yachts to holidaymakers and dealing in mooring rights. Recently, he asked Lefebre to paint Madelaine Vautois, his girlfriend, in the manner of Salvador Dali. The end result was a picture called Les Petits Choux. For some reason Mendes wanted some minor changes in the painting. He arrived at the hotel on the morning that Gaston Lefebre died. He and Lefebre had drinks in the hotel and in another bar in the village. Later, Mendes's girl friend arrived and they all went to the villa to discuss the required changes, which unfortunately were never made because of Lefebre's death later that night. Mendes and his girl friend had intended to stay here in the hotel, but they went back to Cannes instead. Jacques Mendes, incidentally, was so shocked when he learned what happened that he has still not collected his picture.'

Mendes found out and killed him,' Dickens suggested.

'Contrary to popular belief models do not invariably sleep with the artists who paint them. If there were such an obvious motive for murder, you can be sure the French police would have spotted it.'

'Nevertheless,' Dickens said obstinately. 'I think Jacques Mendes should be questioned.'

'Sexual jealousy doesn't sound very likely to me,' Martha commented, dryly.

Her remark for some reason reminded Dickens of the sounds he had heard in the adjoining bedroom the previous night. He found the idea of Dwindle making love to Martha not only bizarre but also intensely irritating. It wasn't jealousy, he assured

himself. But it was natural to ask why such a good-looking girl should prefer tiny Dwindle to himself. Dwindle's conduct, which could only be described as completely unprofessional, reflected badly on the partnership. Quite apart from that, he felt entitled to be very angry, having had his sleep disturbed by what had sounded suspiciously like energetic copulation. In a slightly strained voice he said: 'Would you ask the proprietor if any of the staff who were on duty during the afternoon of the day that Lefebre died saw anything suspicious.'

The proprietor responded to the questionwith a torrent of French.

Martha interpreted: 'He heard no disturbance himself. The proprietor says Lefebre was well liked, a man of whom France could truly be proud. He had had several drinks with Monsieur Mendes before Madame Vautois, his beautiful girl friend, arrived from Cannes and then he joined them in the bar. There was a discussion about a painting. Later that afternoon, as he has told the French police many times, they all went to the Lefebre villa. Mendes returned with his girl friend to the hotel and they left soon afterwards.

'Pour returner á Cannes?' Dickens ventured.

'Oui, monsieur. '

The thought occurred to Dickens that the couple, instead of going to their announced destination, might have gone instead to the villa and murdered Lefebre.

'C'etait la demiere fois que vous avez vu Monsieur'Lefibre?' Dickens enquired, stretching his knowledge of French to its absolute limit.

The proprietor pursed his lips judiciously. After a few moments he replied in French, giving a little flourish with his hands.

'What did he say?' Dickens asked Martha impatiently.

'He says Monsieur Lefebre put in a brief appearance at the hotel that afternoon but only stayed a short while.'

He and Martha had just ordered coffee, after seating themselves outside the hotel for a further discussion, when the small, stocky figure of Dwindle came swaying towards them.

He exclaimed with a grin, as he sat down: 'll fait tres chaud, n 'est-ce-pas?'

'Yes. How did you get on?'

I discovered an interesting fact.'

'Go on,' Martha said.

'Lefebre's daughter left the villa that afternoon in Mendes's car with the intention of catching a train to Paris from Aix-en-Provence.'

'And you think that could be significant?'

'It could be.'

Two coffees arrived.

'Un autre café pour le petit homme,' Dwindle instructed the waiter. The waiter wheeled back quickly into the hotel.

When he returned, his face expressionless, he handed Dwindle a cup of coffee and a small glass of Grand Marnier, muttering something in heavily accented French.

'He says it takes a big man to make a joke about himself. The liqueur is on the house,' Martha translated.

'Bon santé et merci, , Dwindle shouted after the retreating waiter. Clearly embarrassed, he drank the liqueur in one gulp, and then coughed, his face turning red.

Martha announced: 'I am going to telephone Marcus to tell him what's going on. He will be delighted to learn that we have discovered a Jordaens, even if it is a fake.'

'Will he come down to examine it do you think?' Dickens enquired.

'Not yet. One of us has to stay in London to look after the gallery.'

'Of course.'

'Perhaps 1 should go back soon,' Martha said solemnly..

'After Dwindle's amazing demonstration of fluent French 1 think my services are no longer required. '

'Please don't go yet, Martha,' Dwindle implored her, holding out his arms. 'I need you here, mon petit choux.. .Ah' he paused. 'That reminds me- the painting that Lefebre did of the girl friend of one of his former comrades-in-arms is called Les Petits Choux. Francesca told me about it while 1 was there. Lefebre depicted Madelaine Vautois as a lady wearing a white dress with the bodice open. Her left breast is a pomegranate and her right one is a milk gourd spraying milk onto a vista of soft brown soil evenly sprinkled with small cabbages into which she is sinking up to her waist. Hence the title. Jacques Mendes asked Lefebre to make the pomegranate seeds more prominent. The painting is extraordinarily like a Dali, but is, of course, signed Fiasco.'

Martha said thoughtfully, looking at Dickens: 'Henry here is suspicious of Mendes. But if he returned to Cannes that night he has a cast-iron alibi.'

'You're picking up the jargon rapidly,' Dwindle remarked, po-faced and continued: 'What do you say, Dickens?'

'I think it might be worth my while to interview this gentleman. Martha, will you come along with me to interpret.'

'Shouldn't Dwindle come as well? She looked enquiringly at Dwindle.

Dwindle shook his head and said: 'I have other plans.'

When Martha returned, Dwindle enquired, 'How are things back home?'

Martha paused, before answering: 'Marcus is very pleased that you have discovered a Jordaens look-alike, which he is convinced is the copy Lerebre made. He is not surprised that it bears the Jordaens signature, knowing it was intended for a reputable collector. 1 have told him 1 intend to stay down here for another couple of days.'

'Good,' said Dwindle. 'When do you intend to go to Cannes. '

'As soon as possible,' Dickens replied. 'And what will you do during our absence, Dwindle?'

Dwindle thought for a moment and then said quietly: 'I think I should get to know the staff of the hotel a little better. '

EIGHTEEN

Gulbenstein was studying the portrait of his dead wife in his bedroom. It seemed to be reproaching him for his infidelity to her memory. He pleaded that the charge was unfair. He had been completely faithful during thirty-two years of marriage. The only cause for jealousy he had ever given her had been his life-long affair with art- an enthusiasm he now shared with Martha.

He had offered her accommodation in his flat shortly after his wife had died, when she arrived at work in a tearful state one day after walking out on her current boyfriend. He had supposed it would be a very temporary arrangement.. But she had stayed longer than he expected and the longer she remained the more he enjoyed her company. Realising that he must soon lose her, he consoled himself with the thought that they worked together like two horses in harness. Remembering the old French saying that nothing is as permanent as the temporary, he tried to pretend that she might stay indefinitely. After all, it suited both parties, their shared passion for art helping to bridge the enormous difference in their ages. They slept in separate bedrooms, but Martha had come to him on two memorable occasions. The first time she had whispered to Gulbenstein: 'I miss the sex I had with my boyfriend.' Gulbenstein doubted whether he had pleased her. It had been better the second time. He still fervently hoped for a third.

A letter had arrived from his solicitor that morning advising him that the insurance company would strongly contest his claim. Nevertheless, now that he had received Martha's telephone call, and it had been established that the copy of Crimson Lake had been completed by Lefebre, he felt more optimistic about the prospects of recovering the original.

It had been Martha's idea to hire the detectives- another example of her practical common sense. It was obvious that the painting the detectives had found was a copy, even though it bore the Jordaens signature. No one who had stolen an enormously valuable painting would take it to the South of France and leave it where it could be so easily discovered. Lefebre would normally only forge the signature of the original artist after being instructed to do so by a reputable customer. However, since he had been informed in advance that the Jordaens painting was going to Joseph Humpel for whom he had made copies before, he must have assumed that Humpel would require a forged signature so that the original could be placed in a bank vault.

Marcus Gulbenstein was still convinced that it was Roger Pretty who had stolen the original. Only four people in the world knew about the hiding place under the parquet flooring in the hall of his flat: himself, Martha, Roger Pretty and a carpenter who had originally installed the container- a long-serving employee of a reputable security firm. He trusted Martha implicitly. She had proved her complete trustworthiness by turning down Roger Pretty. On several occasions Pretty had proved his capacity for vindictiveness and so he must be the culprit.

Gulbenstein now wondered if he would be prepared to do some kind of a deal. He was willing to approach him, even though he knew Pretty would do everything in his power to embarrass him. The reason for his sudden hostility towards him he had never quite been able to fathom. It was clearly nothing to do with money. He could buy Gulbenstein many times over. Envy probably played a part. Roger Pretty was considered something of a parvenu in the world of art whereas Gulbenstein was widely respected and enjoyed an international reputation for his judgment and erudition. It must rankle with him that Gulbenstein' s opinion was sought by the rich and famous in many countries. Still, with bankruptcy hanging over him, Gulbenstein, shaving his pudgy face that morning, decided that whatever the reason Pretty had for behaving like an absolute shit, the best way forward would be to try and persuade him to return the missing picture.

As soon as he arrived at work that morning he telephoned Pretty's Dover Street gallery.

'Hello, Roger', he called, 'your old friend Gulbenstein speaking. '

'Marcus! It's been a long time.'

The clipped accent that Pretty had acquired in recent years made Gulbenstein feel uncomfortable.

'Have you forgiven me for throwing you off the premises?' he enquired.

'I don't bear grudges, old chap. I'll admit I was very keen to employ that lovely assistant of yours. How is she, by the way?'

'Very well. Her beauty is matched only by her intelligence.'

'Now you understand why I was so keen to get her! But no hard feelings, eh?'

'None whatsoever. I was thinking we ought to get together some time.'

'I'm glad you feel that way. We go back a long time. Remember when you told your mother you wanted to become a radio ham and she said ham wasn't kosher!'

They both laughed at this recollection and then Gulbenstein said: 'Where can we meet for a talk?'

Pretty suggested the Carlton Club.

'Do they serve fish?'

'They'll serve anybody,' Pretty replied, facetiously.

They agreed to meet at one o'clock the next day.

Pretty had been proposed for the Carlton Club by his former father-in-law. He often derided the painters whose portraits of former statesmen lined the walls of the club, in order to make adverse comparisons with the work of his own proteges. In this way he sometimes gained commissions for portraits on which he earned a percentage.

He instructed the uniformed doorman to conduct his friend into the bar when he arrived. Gulbenstein, however, declined Pretty's offer of a drink, and Pretty led him into the dining-room.

He said solemnly when they were seated: 'Sorry about the loss of your Jordaens. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, to lose a painting from a gallery is a nuisance; to lose it from one's own home is a disaster. I hear on the grapevine that it was not insured.'

'My solicitor is working on it,' Gulbenstein replied, with a show of indifference. 'But I'd love to get my hands on the villain who stole it.'

'No doubt. Have the police any theories?'

'I have asked them not to get involved for the time being while I pursue my own private enquiries.'

'Presumably it was taken by a gang of art thieves.'

'I have another theory,' Gulbenstein replied, looking grim.

A waitress took their order. Gulbenstein ordered soup followed by Dover sole.. Pretty ordered a prawn cocktail and lamb chops.

When the waitress had gone, Roger Pretty said with a grin: 'You no doubt remember that I had the keys to your flat. I hope you don't think I carried out the burglary.'

'Why should you do that,' Gulbenstein asked.

'Exactly, Marcus.' Pretty added earnestly: 'I'm hardly likely to risk imprisonment in order to steal a Jordaens... A Jackson Pollock might have been different,' he added jocularly.

'The Jordaens is very valuable,' Gulbenstein observed.

'Not enough to tempt a man of my means,' Pretty replied with a smile.

Gulbenstein replied reflectively: 'I remember you saying once that marrying a rich woman would be as easy as falling off a log.'

'Did I say that? I can say now with the benefit of hindsight that divorcing one is even easier.'

'You were always too successful with the ladies, Roger. How is your son?'

'He's okay. Yes, one has had one's fair share of women,' Pretty gave a reminiscent grin. 'Although one regrets the ones who got away, including the delectable Martha.'

'She is in Provence at the moment visiting the widow of Gaston Lefebre. One of the detectives who went with her has found a copy of the missing Jordaens that Lefebre had been working on shortly before he died.'

'Really!' Pretty looked surprised. And then he added: 'Had the copy gone astray as well as the original?'

'Some doubt existed as to whether Lefebre had, in fact, completed it. But the detectives found it in a garden shed.'

'Artists keep their paintings in all kinds of odd places. One of the chaps I have under contract keeps his in the bathroom ....So you retained a private agency to investigate, Marcus. Very sensible.'

'Yes, I'm determined to get it back.'

'It is probably abroad somewhere now,' Pretty opined, 'and won't perhaps come to light for another thirty years. Still, you never know your luck.'

There was silence as they continued eating and then Gulbenstein remarked: 'This could put me out of business you know.'

Pretty looked up and said with evident surprise: 'The loss of one painting could put you out of business, Marcus. I thought you were worth a fortune.'

'1 have always made a good living dealing in pictures, but never more than that. When 1 acquire a prized work I often take it home for a couple of days to make notes for the catalogue and for the book I intend to write. Joseph Humpel was interested in acquiring this particular painting. Now it has gone, my debts considerably exceed my assets.'

He looked accusingly at Pretty.

Roger Pretty stroked his narrow chin. 'What can I say ...except that I'm sorry.' He then added with a sly grin: 'Just supposing- we are talking in purely hyperthetical terms- just supposing by some fluke I obtained information about its whereabouts, would you consider exchanging it for Martha Briggs?'

He gave a half-suppressed guffaw

His narrow jaw dropped when Gulbenstein replied angrily: 'How dare you talk about her as though she is some sort of commodity. She wouldn't work for you if you offered her the Paul Getty museum.'

Roger Pretty laughed. 'Don't take me seriously, Marcus. 1 was only kidding.'

He signalled to the waitress.

When he had ordered coffee, he said: 'Marcus, you haven't changed. You seem as simple and naive as when we were boys together. First of all, there is no prospect of my obtaining any information about your Jordaens. And secondly, you're far too naive about Martha Briggs. Did you know she once nearly dragged a member of this club into the mire. If I wanted to buy her from you, I could. But I'll spare you the embarrassment for the moment because I think you have enough trouble on your plate. '

Gulbenstein stood up and said contemptuously: 'Pretty, you're a rotten shit. You haven't changed a bit in all the years I've known you.'

He left an excessively large tip for the waitress and stalked out.

Later, sitting in his office, he tried hard to analyse why Roger Pretty had acted in such a provocative manner. He remembered an occasion when, at the age of nine, they had climbed a tree in the local park. He had asked for Pretty to come to his aid when he was losing his grip on a branch. Pretty had laughed at him and refused. The man's nature hadn't changed he told himself. Pretty had probably stolen the painting, in order to use it as a bargaining counter to help him wrest Martha from his grasp -something he would never allow. But, of course, he was reconciled to the probability that one day he would lose her to a younger man. When that happened, as it must eventually, he hoped he would accept the situation with dignity.

NINETEEN

Martha confirmed the arrangement with Mendes and said to Dickens after putting the phone down: 'Mendes speaks perfect English. Do you still want me to come with?'

'Two heads are always better than one.'

'Okay,' she said resignedly. 'I suppose it will be nice to see Cannes again.'

The owner of the only service station in the village rented them car at an extortionate rate and they set out for Cannes. After a while, Dickens glanced at his passenger and enquired casually: 'What do you make of my partner?'

'A lovely man,' Martha pronounced.

'He's very knowledgeable. How did you and he become partners?'

'By chance. He was investigating a case in which I was also interested. He has a good brain, but I find his obsession with his size somewhat irritating at times.'

'Wouldn't you be self-conscious, if you were small?'

'I suppose so...'

With what sounded to Dickens like a reminiscent laugh, Martha then said: 'But he certainly makes up for it with his forceful personality.'

Dickens glanced sideways at her beautifully-moulded features. Dwindle had once confided that if he were granted one wish it would be to sleep with the tallest women in the world. It seemed that he was seriously trying to fulfil that ambition.

He trod on the accelerator, pushing the little car to its limits. The soft top was down. The rush of air made Martha feel chilly. She pulled the cardigan resting on her shoulders more closely around her.

'My partner once told me that dwarfs were very popular with the ladies in royal courts in bygone days. Do you think that could be true?' Dickens asked with a smile.

'Why not?' Martha murmured in reply.

Dickens commented: 'I was a little concerned at the way he succeeded in embarrassing the waiter yesterday.'

'It wasn't important,' Martha replied, dismissively. She went on: 'Why do you want to interview Mendes? Is it because you believe Lefebre may have given him cause for jealousy?'

'No. I want to see him because he was one of the last persons to see Lefebre before he died. I'm really just information-gathering. You can accumulate a thousand facts in this business, all but one of them useless. But that single, apparently insignificant, fact can turn out to be of supreme importance. I hope I don't sound pompous,' he added anxiously.

Martha made no reply. She had just noticed the lights of Cannes coming into view in the half light. Once in the town Martha directed Dickens to a parking place she remembered from previous visits. They walked across to the harbour where yachts lay at their moorings and began studying their names. Soon, they came to Le Chat, the comparatively modest-sized boat Mendes had mentioned to Martha. They were greeted at the gangway by a middle-aged man with closecropped grey hair and furrowed cheeks.

When they had introduced themselves, Jacques Mendes stood aside on the narrow gangway, to allow them to pass, and led them into a small bar adjoining the main stateroom. He offered them drinks.

Martha requested a mineral water, Dickens a malt whiskey.

Mendes aplogised for the absence of servants, as he handed them their glasses. 'This boat is going out tomorrow. I have a business renting yachts. I am acting as caretaker because my regular man is on holiday. My home is over there'. He pointed to a large, well-lit apartment block. 'Madelaine is cooking a meal for us in the galley at the moment. She is very capable.'

He poured out a glass of white wine for himself and said solemnly to Dickens, who had perched himself on a stool anchored to the floor: 'I understand you are a private detective trying to find a missing picture. What exactly can I do for you?'

Dickens said: 'You were one of the last people to see Gaston Lefebre alive. He is supposed to have committed suicide. Could you tell us did he seemed depressed?'

Jacques Mendes replied impatiently: 'I have been asked all these questions before by the local police. The answer is no. He was completely normal. Quite happy, in fact.'

'I am sorry to be a nuisance,' Dickens apologised. 'But as a private detective I have no access to the official reports. However, I have grounds for believing that the death of Gaston Lefebre may have some association with the theft of an important painting in London recently. We found a copy of the missing painting made by Gaston Lefebre at his villa. '

That is a very interesting development,' Mendes responded poltely. I have been deeply shocked by Gaston's death. Mendes then said: 'Ah, here is Madelaine. She has been working hard.'

An attractive plump blond woman appeared in the doorway, wearing a large green apron over trousers and a cream-coloured peasant blouse. There was a faint pink flush on her cheeks.

'Madelaine,' Mendes said, 'this is Martha and Mr. Dickens. '

Dickens growled: 'Call me Henry,' and managed to touch the tips of Madelaine's outstretched fingers just as they were withdrawn.

'You 'ave come about the tragedy,' Madelaine said, pouting bright red lips. 'Gaston was a brilliant artist and such a good man. We miss him very much. We 'ave yet to collect the painting he did of me. Fantastic. It is exactly like a Dali. Impossible to tell the difference.'

'Gaston and I had an excellent relationship,, Mendes added sombrely. 'I knew him from my army days. He did many paintings for my business. Many Renoirs and Matisses and Chagalls to impress my clients. I always warn them to be very careful of the paintings when they are partying. They don't bother to examine the signature and think they are going to sea with the real thing!'

He laughed and then said: 'Les Petits Choux, the painting he did for us, was intended for my own apartment. I must collect it soon from Francesca. How is she, by the way?'

'Very sad,' Dickens reported. 'But she does not believe

Lefebre killed himself. She is very anxious to find his killer.'

'Yes, of course. I understand. It was a bitter blow for her.'

Mendes then enquired from Madelaine: 'When will the dinner be ready?'

'It is ready now.'

Dickens and Martha followed Mendes into an adjoining state room illuminated by two elaborate chandeliers and half a dozen matching wall lights. There were several paintings on the walls, standing out against panelling of shining rosewood. Suddenly, Dickens gave a cry of surprise.

'What is it?' Mendes enquired, anxiously

'One of your paintings- it is a Jordaens- Crimson Lake -the painting we are looking for.'

'Oh, that! I'm sorry to have to disappoint you. That is a study of Crimson Lake Gaston gave me as a compensation for being kept waiting so long for my Dali. If you look closely you will see it is just a daub.'

Dickens stood up and examined the painting. 'Yes. I see now- it's a rough sketch.'

Mendes went on: 'Usually, he destroyed his studies. But I was admiring what he had done during a sitting with Madelaine and he said: 'You can send that one out to sea, if you like, Jacques. So naturally, I took it. Some of the people who hire out this yacht would not know the difference between a Leger and a Madonna poster! '

Madelaine, having discarded her apron, served a starter of marinated herring and beans.

Dickens enthusiastically praised its tangy flavour. During the meal which followed he said to Mendes: 'You were present at Valesque on the last day of Gaston Lefebre's life. Is there anything you can possibly think of that might help us?'

Mendes frowned, as he poured out more wine.

'Not really. Gaston and I had a pleasant time. We took some wine at La Peinture and had drinks in another bar before Madelaine arrived. She was delayed because she had to visit her couturier in Nice. We talked about old times in the army. I remember Gaston saying that recently he had seen very vividly the face of an old comrade who had been killed by a sniper in Algiers. It upset him.'

'Do you think there was anything in the theory that Lefebre was psychic. I gather one of the magazines made it a feature story.'

'He was very amused. Said it did his reputation no harm.' Martha commented: 'Marcus often said that Gaston Lefebre was psychic. '

Dickens glanced up at the sketch of the Jordaens and said: 'My partner has a theory that the discussion about whether Lefebre had psychic powers or not is irrelevant; the important thing is whether he believed it himself.' He looked enquiringly at Jacques Mendes, who was opening a cigarette packet.

Mendes carefully lit a Gaulois with a gold lighter and replied: 'Gaston joked about it, but that may possibly have been out of modesty.. He was certainly hyper-sensitive to atmosphere. 1 remember once we were billeted in a villa in Algiers during the rebellion and he said: 'I don't like this place. 1 can feel bad vibrations. But, of course, at that time we were all very nervous. '

Madelaine placed a tray of pastries on the table.

Mendes went on thoughtfully: 'On the whole 1 think that Gaston did believe he had such powers, although -' he shrugged -'perhaps it was because so many people assured him that he was psychic... When he was painting the Dali he kept saying that Dali's wife exercised an extraordinary influence over her husband and this would come out in the painting he did of Madelaine. Sure enough she does look a little like Dali' s wife. Better looking, though,' he added, smiling at Madelaine.

'Perhaps it was just part of his stock-in-trade as a copyist,' Martha commented shrewdly.

'I do not think so,' Mendes replied, frowning. 'He was too honest to resort to such tricks.'

While they were eating the delectable pastries that Madelaine had served, Dickens asked Mendes if Lefebre was epileptic.

'Why do you ask?'

Dickens rubbed his chin.

'It has been conjectured that someone might have cut Lefebre's wrist while he was unconscious, in order to make it look like suicide. '

'It sounds far fetched. Did the police check for fingerprints? '

'Unfortunately, this is one of the problems of being a private detective. We have not had access to the official records. Francesca is convinced he did not commit suicide.

What do you think?'

Mendes said gruffly: 'He loved life too much to want to end it.'

Martha enquired: 'Did it ever worry him that he was a copyist and not an original artist?'

Mendes replied: 'When we were discussing the changes I wanted made to the Dali painting, he remarked that although he was considered more of a craftsman than an artist, he understood only too well the agony of those condemned to give birth to an original vision. He mentioned an artist he had been working on recently. He had an Italian sounding name- what was it?' He turned towards Madelaine.

She replied: 'Modigliani' .

Mendes continued: 'Gaston said of him: "How that man must have suffered. His subjects all look as though they have been stretched on the rack of human misery. The result both repels and fascinates." It cannot be denied that he had an uncanny knack of getting inside the minds of the artists whose work he copied. It was an extraordinary feat.'

'When you had explained the changes you wanted made to the painting, what happened next?' Dickens enquired.

Mendes gave a small shrug and said: 'We said goodbye to Francesca -she was up in her own studio. Before that Jeannette, their daughter, had asked for a lift to the bus station. So she came with us and we left her there. I think she might have had a boy friend, because through the driving mirror I saw a young man come and speak to her.'

'About what time was this?' Dickens asked. 'Two-thirty?' He looked at Madelaine for confirmation and she said: 'Yes, about two-thirty.'

'And then?' Dickens asked.

'Madelaine motored back to Nice. We had intended to stay the night in La Peinture, but the lady who had altered Madelaine's dress was going away for a fortnight and she wished to collect it. I returned to Cannes in my own car.'

Dickens and Martha thanked Madelaine Vautois and Jacques Mendes for their hospitality and drove back to Valesque.

TWENTY

Gerard Wadny was standing in his San Francisco gallery, examining with a jaundiced air an inferior painting submitted by an acquaintance.

'I wouldn't put it in a public washhouse,' he remarked to Katrina, who had just come in- he had failed to notice her angry expression.

'What the hell have you been up to, Gerard?'

She held out a letter from Lefebre in which the artist declined Wadny's request for him to make another copy of the Modigliani he had exhibited in his gallery. Lefebre in his letter accused Wadny of abusing his trust by exhibiting the Modigliani as an original.

Gerard grabbed the letter, stuffed it into his inside pocket and said: 'Okay, so I fooled the newspapers into believing I had found a valuable painting in a boot sale. But look what it has achieved! There was simply no other way we could have got out of financial trouble.'

'You do realise, Gerard, you have committed a criminal offence. '

'You're the only person who can put me in jail. If you do, I'll swear you were a party to it.'

'Who have you sold the Modigliani to? You had better own up, otherwise I'll personally indict you on criminal charges. '

'Do you think I'm mad enough to try to pass off a faked picture as an original?'

'Isn't that exactly what you have done.'

'No, honey. I pulled off a fantastic publicity coup. But when the excitement died down, I changed the signature on the picture back again to Fiasco and sold it to someone in Venezuela as a painting in the style of Modigliani. I wrote to Lefebre, explaining exactly what happened and asked him for a replacement. '

'I explained that it was all due to a misunderstanding.'

'Why ask him to paint another version of the same picture?'

'I like it. I was going to give it to you. It looks exactly like you when you're getting out of the bath.'

'Gerard, you are an incorrigible liar. I'm quitting. You can collect your personal belongings from my apartment as soon as you like.'

He sat on a chair beside the painting he had been examining, wearing a downcast expression. Pointing to it, he said: 'Just look at it this way, darling. This work is shit. But if it had the name Raoul Dufy on it, it would be worth a fortune. People pay huge sums for a canvas simply because of the name. The art business is now, like everything else, corrupted by the advertising industry. With a million bucks spent on promotion and publicity any artist's meaningless squiggles can be worth a king's ransom. So why pick on me just because I claimed to have picked up a valuable painting in a boot sale? Nobody has suffered. All that has happened is that this guy from Venezuela is getting an excellent copy of a Modigliani at a bargain price.'

He stood up and tried to kiss her, but she shrank away.

He responded by saying angrily: 'To hell with it, then! If you want to split it's okay with me.' And he added shrewdly: 'I guess it's that damned legal training of yours that has made you so suspicious. It has totally ruined our relationship.'

Katrina Schneider refused to be won over. She was genuinely nervous that her professional reputation might be endangered by Wadny's dubious manoeuvres.

The separation was fairly amicable. Gerard Wadny kept the slender assets of the gallery and it was agreed that he could carry on trading under his own name. He bore not the slightest ill will towards Katrina. In fact, he was rather pleased that he could now go it alone. He had a replacement for her in mind.

He had sold the Modigliani as an original to the Venezuelan oil millionaire, having bribed an 'art expert' to certify there existed a ninety-per-cent probability that the painting was genuine. Leaving open this area of doubt, Gerard Wadny believed, would be a sufficient defence in a court of law against any charge of deliberate fraud. However, still nervous about this possibility, he then conceived another idea. If his Venezuelan client could be persuaded to lock up his priceless painting in a bank vault and exhibit a copy in his home, the chances of the fraud ever being discovered would be even further reduced. He telephoned him offering to sell him a copy of the Modigliani at a modest price, suggesting that this would reduce his insurance premiums. The suggestion was accepted.

In spite of Lefebre's refusal to comply with his request for a copy of the Modigliani nude, he decided, having other business in Europe, to visit Jeannette. Leaving a friend in charge of the gallery, he flew to Paris via London.

TWENTY -ONE

As soon as Dickens and Martha had left for Cannes, Dwindle telephoned the railway station at Aix-en-Provence, in order to enquire about the times of the trains for Paris on the day that Lefebre had died. With the aid of a French/English phrase book, he eventually succeeded in obtaining the information he needed. Later, he telephoned his school teacher wife in London.

'How are you, sweetheart?' he enquired cheerfully, when she answered the phone.

'I'm fine. I have a load of papers to mark. Are you on the track of this missing painting?'

'We've found a copy. It's a hopeful sign. We may be onto something.'

'And how is Henry Dickens?'

'He has gone with Martha Briggs to see somebody in Cannes. Meanwhile, I'm following up some ideas of my own.'

'You sound quite confident.'

'It's a funny business this. Being a private eye has this in common with philosophy- one keeps coming up against uncertainties and misleading half-truths.'

'You used to say philosophy would eventually solve the mystery of life. '

'That was when I was young and hopeful. But I enjoy what I am doing -there is at least a chance of finding an elegant solution to the current problem.'

'Well, at least you sound cheerful.'

'Of course, darling. Why shouldn't I be. I have a six-foot slim, beautiful, charming young goddess down here acting as my interpreter.

'Are you having another of your squalid affairs, darling'?'

'1 hate to admit the truth, but the answer is yes. The lady in question cannot resist me.'

'Okay, George, 1 shall have to resign myself to a period of private grief until you get over it.'

'I'll never get over this one, Maureen, my sweet. File for divorce, immediately.'

'What grounds'? The usual- adultery, I suppose.'

'That'll do, nicely honey. My fifty-fifth adultery with irresistibly seductive tall women. This one is an ex-model. Honey, would you keep a copy of the Sunday Times

supplement. They are doing a review of a book about Freddie Ayer.'

'1 thought you weren't keen on him.'

'I'm not. I'm keen on the reviewer. She's six feet two inches tall.'

'When are you coming home.'

'It's too early to say yet. I'm about to interview some of the staff at the hotel where we are staying.'

'Okay. I wish you luck. Goodbye.'

Dwindle put the phone down and wondered how he could survive if Maureen, ever lost patience with his endless blathering about tall women.

He returned to the hotel desk and asked the proprietor if he could question any member of the staff who had been on duty the day that Lefebre had died.'

'Certainly, monsieur.'

'How about Pierre- le garcon qui porte la grande moustache. He speaks English.'

'Oui, monsieur. But you appear to speak French.'

Je le parle comme une vache parle espagnole. When can 1 talk to him'?'

'He will be on duty in an hour.'

To pass the time while he was waiting, Dwindle lay on his bed, dwelling on the latest events. The rather childish joke he had played on Dickens the previous night had resulted from a theory he had conceived, which would need to be substantiated before he could either mention it to his partner or follow it any further. He had noted that Jeannette, when she had left her parent's home to go to Aix-en-Provence, had left herself several hours to spare before catching the night train to Paris. Part of that time, he deduced, might have been spent in La Peinture.

After an hour had elapsed, he went in search of Pierre and found him in the kitchen in earnest conversation with a whitecoated, pale-faced chef. A gust of hot steam greeted Dwindle as he opened the door.

'Monsieur?' Pierre looked questioningly at Dwindle. 'Pardon me for intruding. You speak English?'

'A leetle.'

'Do you mind coming outside. I have a couple of questions I should like to ask concerning Monsieur Lefebre.'

'Oui, Monsieur. '

The waiter whispered to the chef and joined Dwindle outside in the corridor.

'Thank you for the drink you bought me yesterday. '

Pierre gestured with his hands. 'I understand how sometimes you must feel. I have a friend who is- well- a little bigger than you. But still, you know, still very small.'

Realising his gaffe he began to stutter an apology.

Dwindle interrupted him with a grin, implying forgiveness: 'You know Jeannette, Gaston Lefebre's daughter.'

'Yes, of course.'

'Did she come into the hotel on the day that Lefebre died.'

Pierre frowned.

'Yes'

'By herself'!'

'She was with a young man- a fair-haired young American. '

'Was Gaston Lefebre also in the hotel while they were here.'

Pierre's face set into a mask.

'Monsieur, I cannot say anything about that.' His voice had a pleading tone. 'It is a matter of honour I promised.'

'To whom did you make this promise?'

'To Gaston Lefebre.'

Dwindle said solemnly: 'But he is dead. I approve of your desire to keep your word. But it cannot hurt him if you speak now. You have a duty to the living. Do you believe he committed suicide?'

'What difference does it make?'

'It matters a great deal- to Francesca Orsini and to Jeanette herself. To many people. It even reflects on this whole community, including the priest who chose to bury him in the sacred part of the cemetery. He, in particular, would be delighted to have his decision vindicated.. I believe Gaston Lefebre was murdered. In the name of justice, Pierre, tell me if you heard a quarrel between the young couple and Gaston Lefebre on the day he died.'

Pierre said a little shamefacedly: 'Yes. Monsieur Lefebre had some drinks here with a friend in the morning. The friend had booked a room intending to stay here that night, but later he changed his mind. It was common knowledge in the village that Jeannette had a lover who was staying at a pension during the week that she spent with her parents. Everyone knew except her parents. Jeannette learned from Lefebre that his friend no longer had a use for the room he had booked, and so she and the young American used it that afternoon. I think Lefebre must have suspected something, because later on he walked down here from the villa and recognised her voice while in the hotel. There was a terrible scene. He strongly disapproved of this American lover of hers. '

'And the local police did not get to hear of this?'

'We had all been sworn to silence about this by Monsieur Lefebre, who was deeply hurt by what had happened.'

'Do you know why he disapproved of the American?'

'No, monsieur. He seemed- 'ow you say- quite a nice guy.'

'Did they come to blows at all?'

'No. Just a lot of shouting. Then the American and Jeannette left.'

'Do you know the American's name?'

'I think his name was Gerard.'

'Do you think he came back afterwards and murdered Monsieur Lefebre?'

'What difference does it make what I think? The verdict was suicide.'

Dwindle thanked Pierre and returned to his room to ponder on this latest information. Later, after dining in the hotel, he went to bed early. He was wakened briefly by the sound of Martha saying goodnight to Dickens in the corridor outside.

TWENTY-TWO

'So what did you learn from Monsieur Jacques Mendes?' Dwindle asked Dickens.

'Not a great deal,' Dickens replied.

They were sitting outside the hotel the following morning in warm sunshine, waiting for breakfast. White cumulo-nimbus clouds were billowing up in the distance, threatening thunderstorms later in the day. Dwindle, feeling something against his hand, looked down and discovered that it was the cold nose of the white dog who appeared every morning seeking scraps. He absently fondled its ear.

Dickens had just seen Martha emerge from the front door of the hotel. He waited until she had joined them before continuing: 'We did, however, learn that Lefebre, although he denied having paranormal powers, was intensely interested in the lives of the artists whose work he copied. Mendes mentioned one of them called Modigliani.'

'That's the one he was working on when he died,' Dwindle said eagerly. 'He made a copy for an American called Wadny. It's in Lefebre's notes. Wadny, incidentally, was here in this village at the time of Lefebre's death.'

Dickens commented cheerfully: 'It looks as though we may be onto something. Just in case Wadny killed Lefebre, we had better enquire about the extradition arrangements between France and the USA.'

Dwindle responded mildly: 'Dickens, capturing a murderer is not our chief interest. We are here to find a valuable missing painting by a seventeenth-century artist called Jordaens.'

'Yes,' Dickens responded, impatiently. 'I know that. But there might well be a connection.'

'I am sure there is,' Dwindle answered, jutting out his jaw, 'But you are jumping to conclusions far too quickly. You remind me of the American sanitary engineer in Tel A viv during the Gulf war who flushed the toilet just as a missile exploded nearby and then complained about the noise made by Israeli plumbing systems.'

Martha, who had been listening intently, said to Dwindle: 'How can you be so sure there is a connection?'

'I'll tell you when my suspicions have been confirmed. But not just yet, in case I should turn out to be wrong. I don't want you to lose faith in me.'

'How could I possibly lose faith in you!' Martha said in a seductive voice, stroking his hand, 'After what happened between us.'

Dickens's gaze uneasily shifted from Martha to Dwindle and back again to Martha. Smiling brightly, she ordered coffee and brioches from the fresh-faced waiter and then said to Dickens: 'He came into my bedroom and told me some amusing stories. I hope you didn't think we are having an affair.'

'Of course not,' Dickens replied, shaking his head vigorously.

Dwindle wagged his finger at him and said accusingly: 'Does that mean you think I am incapable of pleasuring this delightful young lady?'

'I didn't say that,' Dickens said, in an exasperated tone. 'But may I remind you that we are here to do a professional job, not to make jokes in doubtful taste.'

The waiter placed their order on the table.

Dwindle, breaking his brioche, said with a smile: 'Nothing we have discussed has been outside our professional concerns. The noises that Martha and I made the other night were simply intended to prove that the walls of this hotel are thin and conducive to eavesdropping. 1 learned from Pierre, the waiter with the moustache, that Lefebre's daughter, Jeannette, and Wadny were here in the hotel together, using a room that Mendes had booked but did not use. Lefebre must have suspected something, because he called in here, recognised his daughter's and Wadny's voices while they were making love and quarrelled with Wadny. Worried about the scandal it might cause, Lefebre extracted a promise from the hotel staff that they would not talk about it. As a result they didn't even tell the French police when they were making enquiries.'

Martha asked curiously: Do you think Francesca knows anything about this?'

Dwindle replied: 'I doubt it. Lefebre would not have wanted to have upset her.'

Dickens asked: 'What were his objections to Wadny?'

Dwindle said soberly: 'That we have yet to find out. But as I remarked before, our job is to find a missing Jordaens not solve a murder mystery. We can get a little more information about Wadny by getting in touch with Jeannette. I suggest we do that up at the villa, when we have briefed Francesca... Why are you looking so glum, Dickens?'

Dickens waved vaguely with his arms. 'I was just wondering if, when we have completed our part of the investigation, the French police will be able to pin the murder on Wadny.'

'Dickens, you are a private detective now, not a policeman.'

'Old habits die hard,' Dickens said, regretfully. They continued eating in silence.

After breakfast Dickens rang up his wife at their home in Wales.

'How are you, love?'

'Fine. I had an early morning weeding session in the garden. There was a heavy rain shower last night. How are you getting along?'

'We think we've solved a murder, but we haven't found the missing picture.'

'That doesn't help much.'

'That's right. But Dwindle is sure there is a connection.'

'Clever fellow your partner. Just do as he says, Henry, and you won't. go far wrong. '

'He's not all that clever, Ingrid,' Dickens said irascibly. 'And he lacks the invaluable experience I accumulated during my long police career.'

'You may have a point there,' Ingrid conceded. 'But philosophers can see further than us mere mortals. When are you coming home?'

Nettled by the fulsome praise his wife awarded Dwindle, Dickens replied curtly: 'Soon. I'll be in touch.'

TWENTY -THREE

The parrot failed to welcome Dwindle and his companions as they passed through the leaf-laden gates of the villa. Dwindle asked Francesca, who was waiting for them by the front door, what was wrong. She pointed out that .the cage was covered by a black shawl.

'Is he ill?' Dwindle asked.

'No, he was squawking a great deal in the night, so I covered him up. I think he misses Gaston. There is no one to teach him new words, as Gaston used to do, and it has upset his nervous system. They are creatures of habit like all of us.'

She walked over to the cage and removed the shawl. The bird blinked lazily at the bright sunshine and shifted its feet uneasily on its perch.

'Who's a pretty boy, then?' Dwindle called to the parrot.

It cocked its head on one side and squawked approvingly.

'He'll keep you there all day,' Francesca said. 'Come into the house.'

When they were seated at the table in the sitting-room, Francesca enquired: 'Have you any theory as to what happened to the real Jordaens that was stolen in London?'

Dickens cleared his throat and said: 'Not exactly. But our theory of a connection between Lefebre's death and the disappearance of the painting has been considerably strengthened.'

'Practically confirmed,' Dwindle interjected. 'Francesca, I hope this will not upset you, but did you know that your daughter was having an affair with a young American called Gerard Wadny?'

Francesca grimaced. She twisted her fingers together and said after a moment: 'I am not sure if it was exactly an affair. The young man owns an art gallery in San Francisco. They have been friends since he came to see Gaston about a painting for his gallery. 1 believe he went to Paris subsequently and took Jeannette out once or twice.'

'Were you aware that he was here in the village at the time Jeannette was staying with you?'

Francesca pursed her lips and shook her head. She said grimly after a long pause: 'I didn't know. But it explains why she kept going into the village with one excuse after another. Yet another puncture, some special kind of jam she liked and so on.'

Dwindle enquired; 'Why didn't she invite him to your house?

'Because she knew that Gaston would not have him here under any circumstances.'

'What had he done to upset him?'

'He asked Gaston to produce a painting and then he fooled the newspapers in San Francisco into thinking that it was genuine. Subsequently, he sold it. I believe he sold it as a Fiasco, but once your trust has been breached one can never be sure. Anyway, Gaston was not amused at having his painting passed off as genuine even for a publicity stunt. Wadny wrote apologising profusely and asked Gaston to make another copy to exhibit in his gallery. At first he refused, but then Jeannette telephoned from Paris and said she would not come home unless Gaston complied with Wadny's request. So he gave in. But he did not like the young man. He thought him an ignorant upstart ... Are you sure he was staying down here when Gaston was killed? Gaston never told me. Perhaps he didn't know either. Or if he did, perhaps he was too upset to tell me. Do you think Wadny may be responsible for Gaston's death?'

'We must not jump to conclusions,' Dwindle replied solemnly. 'But it would help if we could telephone your daughter and discuss the matter with her.'

Francesca replied: 'Perhaps it would be better if I spoke to her first. I am shocked that she kept Gerard Wadny's presence in the village from me- from both of us. But, of course, she knew it would upset Gaston. He was naturally extremely sensitive concerning his reputation. He was dedicated to making accurate reproductions in the spirit of the original painter. Marcus Gulbenstein, incidentally, once advised Gaston to write a book about the creative methods of great artists, because he seemed to understand their thought processes. so well.'

'Do you know whether he was engaged in copying a Modigliani on the day he died?' Dickens asked.

'Yes, how did you know that? It was on an easel that was knocked down near his body.'

'Jacques Mendes informed us that Gaston Lefebre had a great sympathy for Modigliani.'

'Yes, he felt intensely sorry for the suffering he endured. He told me once that in recreating one of his paintings he felt his suffering very deeply. '

'Modigliani suffered from tuberculosis, I believe,' Dickens commented.'

Dwindle said: 'Yes, and he was a drug addict. He died in 1920 at the age of thirty-six. His wife committed suicide on the day of his funeral. '

Dickens nodded and said solemnly: 'It goes to show that drug abuse is not just a modem problem.'

'Human beings have played around with drugs for thousands of years,' Dwindle commented. 'It's sad, though to think that had he lived today his tuberculosis could have been cured But he would have probably still starved in his garret- the eternal fate of artists. Aren't we lucky, Dickens,' he added jovially, 'that all we have to do to earn a living is to find their mislaid paintings.'

Dickens frowned and said: 'So where do we go from here'?'

Dwindle said to Francesca: 'Would you please ring your daughter in Paris'? I think it is possible that she might come up with some useful information about Wadny. We might find out more about why he quarrelled with Gaston in the hotel on the

day Gaston died.'

Francesca stood up and crossed her arms. She then said in a strained voice: 'I am going now to the telephone. But I hate to upset my daughter. The young man seemed quite charming and affable the time he came here to see Gaston. Obviously, if he came down here to be with her while she was on her vacation, he must be in love with her. My daughter will not say anything to incriminate him. But if you like I will ask her exactly what happened. '

She left the room.

Martha said: 'I suppose 1 should not criticise you gentlemen -you obviously know what you are doing. But I fail to see how probing into the private affairs of this young couple is going to help us find the Jordaens. The only thing it is likely to do is cause a further rift between Jeannette and her mother.'

'Ah, but we must check on Wadny, if he was here the day Letebre died,' Dickens said.

Martha said in an impatient whisper, 'We have not engaged you to investigate a murder. You are supposed to be looking for an important painting called Crimson Lake. The fact that this young man happened to be in the village on the day of Letebre's death may have nothing to do with the disappearance of Crimson Lake in London, which incidentally is likely to bankrupt our gallery. We can't afford to waste time and money on an irrelevant murder hunt.'

'We did find the copy of Crimson Lake in the garden shed,' Dickens pointed out.

Martha shrugged impatiently.

'It's the real one we need. Where, oh where, is that vital instinct for sniffing out the truth that you private detectives are supposed to have?'

She gave a despairing laugh.

Dickens and Dwindle resembled for a moment two schoolboys caught out in some misdemeanour.

Suddenly, Dwindle laughed.

Martha looked at him questioningly.

He said: 'Did you ever hear that folky old saying: "For want of a nail, the horse was lost; for want of a horse, the rider was lost; for want of a rider, the battle was lost; For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost; and ALL for want of a nail?'"

'What are you getting at, Dwindle?' Dickens enquired impatiently.

'For want of a simple connection this investigation could easily be lost. Fortunately, I have established one in my mind between the death of Gaston Lefebre and the missing Jordaens.'

'Would you care to enlighten us?'

'Not just yet. Let's first wait to hear what Francesca has been able to discover from her daughter.'

As they waited heavy clouds gathered overhead and the room darkened. Shortly afterwards there was a loud clap of thunder.

TWENTY -FOUR

During Gerard Wadny's flight back to San Francisco, a priest sitting next to him pointed through the cabin window to the sea far below and posed the following question: 'If a wooden sailing ship called the Saucy Sue sails the Atlantic and during the voyage every one of its planks is replaced by a supply ship, is she still the Saucy Sue when she arrives in port?'

Gerard replied doubtfully: 'I'm not sure. I suppose it is.'

The priest said, with a complacent smile, 'It's not an entirely academic question. You see, the cells in our bodies change every seven years, but we still assume that we are the same person.'

Gerard discouraged further conversation by reading his newspaper. But as he did so he reflected that the question had some bearing on his own state, because every cell in his body seemed to have been transformed and transfigured as a result of falling in love with Lefebre's daughter. Luckily for him Jeannette Orsini -she had taken her mother's name- reciprocated his feelings. Her girl friends however, warned her against becoming involved with an American who lived six-thousand miles away and she tried, without success, to put him out of her mind.

He wrote a series of amusing letters to her from San Francisco about the people who came into his gallery. Although his letters tried to give the impression that he was tough, worldly and unsentimental, she sensed his lack of inner confidence and wanted to help him regain it. He had made some impromptu sketches while they were together and she was convinced that he had genuine artistic talent which could be developed with her encouragement.

He was convinced that she possessed every virtue. Even her thrift, which amounted at times almost to meanness, seemed a strength that would counter-balance his own extravagance. They made frequent telephone calls to each other. He told her- without mentioning that he had passed it off as an original- that her father's copy of the Modigliani had generated immense interest in his gallery. Eventually, he declared his love for her in quaint, broken French which made Jeannette howl with laughter but still left her deeply touched.

He announced that he would come and see her, mentioned a date and then disappointed her at the last minute, pleading pressure of business. A month later, however, he made another appointment and arrived at her flat in Gennevilliers laden with flowers, perfume and chocolates. One of her flatmates was away at the time. He asked the other girl, Fleur, who worked as a translator for Reuters, if he could treat her to a night in the fabulously expensive Hotel Crillon.

Jeannette protested in front of her friend: 'What are you trying to do! Go and stay at the hotel yourself.'

'Cherie, I will if- you'll come with me. I don't want to waste the few precious hours we have together. I want to absorb your presence. I want to inhale you. I want to look at you and discuss our life together. That will take all the time until Fleur comes back.'

The two girls went into a huddle in Fleur's bedroom. Fleur whispered; 'Is he serious? It costs a fortune to stay at the Crillon! Anyway, I wouldn't leave you. It wouldn't be fair.'

Jeannette replied laughingly; 'I have a good idea -we'll both go and stay there and leave him here.' Then she added seriously: 'It's quite all right. He's perfectly harmless. He's one of my father's clients. Take the money and enjoy a night of luxury.'

Fleur returned to the sitting-room and announced that she was willing to accept the arrangement. Gerard handed her the money. She thanked him, stayed the night with her boy friend and spent the money on clothes. Gerard had guessed this would happen and didn't mind in the least.

Jeannette, although by now a fairly sophisticated Parisienne, felt shy when Fleur left them. Gerard took off his jacket and sat on the two-seater, pastel-coloured leather settee she and her flatmates had recently clubbed together to buy. He patted the adjoining cushion, inviting her to sit beside him.

She replied: 'No, first I will make you a little meal. Then we can talk. Thank you for the flowers and chocolates. You are very kind, but you spend too much money.'

'Money has no meaning for me now that I have met you.' He tried saying this in French, gave up the attempt and then repeated it in English.

Jeannette, who spoke fairly fluent English, replied banteringly: 'To speak of money in that disrespectful tone is a blasphemy. It is impossible to live without money. Who wants to starve? But that reminds me: how can you afford to come all this way just to see me for a few hours?'

'I'm on business. I had to stop off in London about a painting. It's all tax deductable.'

'What was this painting in London?'

'I'll talk about it later.'

Jeannette disappeared into the tiny kitchen and made him a delicious meal, using up all the foodstuffs that the girls had intended for the weekend. Afterwards, when Gerard had reestablished himself on the settee, replete with food and still muzzy from lingering jet lag and several glasses of wine, she came over and kissed him. He pulled her onto his knee and said: 'Gee, honey. You're the greatest!'

Studying the light dusting of freckles and the hint of gently swelling white bosom at the neck of her neat silk blouse, he went on: 'I'd love to take you straightaway into your bedroom and make love to you until morning, but I won't. Instead we'll talk and get everything settled.'

She stroked his cheeks with both hands and said: 'What do you mean by settled, cheri?'

'I want to marry you.'

She laughed. 'Marriage! That's very old-fashioned. My parents never married.'

'Well, I'm old-fashioned. I want you for keeps.'

'Have you had many romances? '

'Lots of one-night stands and three what you might call affairs. But now I want to settle down with one woman: you.'

'I am like you. But no one-night stands. I lived with a boy friend for three months. But I gave him up.'

'What was wrong with him?'

'He claimed to be an artist but he couldn't paint.'

Gerard laughed. 'Was that the only reason? I went to art school, too, but found I couldn't make a living at it.'

'It takes a long time for an artist to make his name. I gave up this man because he seemed only too happy to live on my salary.'

'What was he like in bed?'

'Not so bad. But I have no comparisons, so what does it matter?'

She ruffled his hair playfully.

'And what about you. Was your last lover good in bed?'

Gerard frowned.

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Was she awful?'

'No. She was a partner in my gallery. We split up. Now it's all mine.'

'Breaking up a business partnership must be worse than splitting with a lover. What went wrong?'

Gerard replied: 'I did a foolish thing, honey. Your father painted a Modigliani pastiche for my gallery. He signed it Fiasco. My partner at the time was threatening to pull out because we were so short of money, so I forged Modigliani' s signature and told the newspapers that I had bought it for a few dollars in a boot sale. They love a good story and the resultant publicity gave the gallery a terrific boost.'

'That was terrible. My father would never forgive you.'

'I know that, sweetheart. I feel very badly about it. I have since got rid of the painting.'

'You sold it as a Fiasco, I hope.'

He replied: 'I don't want to talk about it now, honey. But I have a good idea -how would you like it if I opened a gallery here in Paris?'

'Oh, that would be marvellous, Gerard.' She cupped his face in her hands and stared down at him with wide-open amber eyes.

'But it would take a fearful amount of money.'

'I could sell my gallery in San Francisco.'

'And would that fetch enough money do you think?'

Gerard kissed her hands. 'I don't think so. But I'm sure we can work something out. Will you marry me?'

Jeannette removed herself from his knees to get the box of chocolates. Having put one in his mouth, she chose one for herself and nestled down beside him. Placing a loose cushion behind her head, she said thoughtfully: 'Do you know something: it wouldn't work. Marriage and business and, possibly, children. Neither of us is mature enough for such a plan to succeed.'

'Rubbish. I have already been in business, so I know all about the pitfalls. '

'Yes and look at what it has done for you. Turned you into a criminal- well, almost a criminal.'

'You are quite right. I am a criminal but I intend to make amends. '

'Oh, Gerard. I know you're not really a criminal.'

She suddenly flung her arms around him, engaging him in a passionate embrace that astonished him. His desire became so great that he picked her up and carried her along the corridor.

'Which is your bedroom?' he asked huskily.

She did not answer, but lay in his arms. her mouth open, gazing at him, stupefied.

He repeated his question: 'Which is your bedroom.'

'It doesn't matter which one. Just hurry!'

TWENTY -FIVE

When Gerard awoke the following morning, he found Jeannette fast asleep, breathing gently and rhythmically, beside him. He admired her tranquil face set in a nest of abundant tawny hair. Desire rose in him again, as he studied the contours of her body and her shapely limbs. It's a pity I have upset her father, he told himself. But I'll sort things out with him. This is the girl who will give me stability and perhaps a family -the one I have been waiting for all my life.

He lay for a while listening to the gentle sound of her breathing. Soon he became aware of the chirping of birds and the distant hum of the Paris early morning traffic. Doubts arose in his mind about the feasibility of his plan to come and live in Paris. He had paid off the debts of the gallery with the money the Venezuelan had paid him for the Modigliani. He would have liked to buy back the painting in order to put his relationship with Jeannette's father on a proper footing. But he knew he could not possibly afford to do so. His gallery in San Francisco, although now almost solvent, was worth very little. As for running a gallery here in Paris, until it started to make money he would have to live on Jeannette's income. He didn't want to suffer the fate of her previous lover. He told himself that something would turn up to solve his difficulties. Jeannette stirred, woke up and pulled the sheet around her.

'Don't cover yourself, honey, Gerard said. ' I just love looking at you.'

She smiled shyly and said: 'What time is it?'

'Time doesn't matter today. We have all the time in the world to make love.'

'I must have breakfast first. I'm hungry.'

'Ten minutes, cherie,' Gerard conceded. 'Then faites vite! you must come back to bed. I am hungry for you.'

'Tigre!' Jeannette exclaimed and ran to the bathroom.

Gerard smiled fondly, admired her retreating figure and then relapsed again into a half-sleep against the background of the noisy dawn chorus.

When Jeannette came back again a few minutes later with hard-boiled eggs, rolls and coffee, he said: 'Listen to the Sparrow's Opera.'

'They sound like nightingales when you are in love,' Jeannette replied. She climbed back into bed.

Gerard peeled one of the eggs and rolled it playfully round Jeannette's breasts as she began to eat. She laughed and pulled Gerard towards her. They made love, blissfully unaware that their bodies were becoming encrusted in egg and bread crumbs.

Later, as they sat drinking luke-warm coffee, Jeannette asked him: 'Were you serious when you spoke about coming to live in Paris?'

'Completely. But I'll have to improve my French. Would you help?'

'Of course. But how will you make a living?'

'I'd like to open a gallery in Paris, but it won't be easy raising the money.'

'We would need to rent a shop in a fashionable quarter of town. The rents are enormously high.'

'Do you have any useful connections?'

-283'A few. Not many. What was this painting you saw in London?

'I would prefer not to talk business just now. It is you I want to talk about.'

'How long will you be in Paris?'

'I can stay a few days. I've left someone in charge of the gallery.'

'There is a problem. I had promised my parents to stay with them for a week. I had booked a rail ticket to Aix-enProvence tomorrow. Shall I cancel it?'

As Gerard hesitated, she said: 'Why not come down with me?'

'Your father is very angry with me for putting one of his paintings on show as the real thing.'

'1'11 explain that you were under pressure. You could stay in the village until I have made things right with him. Then you can come and stay with us.'

'Okay. If you think it is possible... As a matter of fact I wanted your father to make another copy of the painting he did for me. Do you think you could persuade him?'

'1'11 telephone him and say I won't come unless he does.'

'Honey, you're great.'

Jeannette stood up and said: 'Let's go and shower off all this mess.'

Gerard stood up, put his arms round her and said with a playful grin: 'I've a much better idea.' Making enthusiastic noises of appreciation, he began to lick the crumbs off her lithe body with his tongue.

TWENTY-SIX

Jeannette spent a considerable proportion of the next two days on the telephone, trying to placate her father's anger over Gerard's misuse of his painting. She explained that it had been part of a publicity stunt designed to rescue his business and that he was deeply sorry for what he had done. She thought it prudent at this stage not to reveal that Gerard was staying with her. By threatening to cancel her visit, she eventually succeeded in persuading her father to make another copy of the Modigliani.

She promised Gerard that as soon as possible she would break the news to her parents that they intended to marry. Confident that Jeannette would succeed in reconciling the differences between himself and her father, Gerard accompanied her on the train to Aix-en-Provence. On arrival, he hired a car and drove to Valesque. Here, they parted company. Gerard booked a room in a local pension, hoping that he would soon be made welcome at the villa.

He was a shallow and incurable optimist rather than a dyed-in-the-wool villain, who found it all too easy to bend the rules and persuade himself that no real harm would result from his dealings. After all, the Venezuelan tycoon who had bought the faked Modigliani was perfectly happy with his purchase. He knew that part of the money he had paid to Wadny had been used to purchase the certificate of attribution. Meanwhile, Wadny was covered against any possible future charge of fraudulent misrepresentation. He had been promised a good price for a flawless Fiasco copy because it would enhance the value of the painting. Who would bother to exhibit on the walls of his house an acknowledged fake unless the original he boasted that he owned and kept in his bank vault was genuine?

Wadny's luck seemed to be in. His unfailing charm and good nature seemed to bringing about the kind of miracle he needed so badly. Soon afterwards one of the wealthy clients he had got to know as a result of his publicity coup came into the gallery and declared his interest in purchasing a painting by a seventeenth or eighteenth-century Dutch or Flemish master. Wadny flew to Europe, stopping over in London on his way to Paris. A few more missions such as this and he reckoned he would be able to open a gallery in France and keep the one in San Francisco as well! Success was a ball which you had to keep spinning just as fast as it would go.

He spent his first day in Provence sketching the countryside. As he worked, he wondered how Jeannette was progressing with the task of persuading her parents to welcome him into the family. He now regretted not having wholeheartedly devoted himself to his calling. He had allowed himself to be diverted into business activities, making the excuse to himself that he needed to earn money. But from now on all this would change. Jeannette would inspire him to become a genuine artist.

She rang him up at his lodgings and told him that so far she had not mollified her parents sufficiently to break the news of their engagement. Her father had reminded her with some bitterness that he had only agreed to complete the painting for Gerard because of her threat to cancel her visit. She was sure he would eventually come round. Meanwhile she would find excuses to come into the village every day so that they could see each other.

Gerard decided that in the event of being recognised by Lefebre or Francesca he would tell them the truth; namely that he was very much in love with their daughter and would marry her and take her back to San Francisco if they withheld their approval. The threat of taking her away he considered would put him in a powerful position. In the meantime he could afford to be patient and wait for Jeannette's campaign on his behalf to succeed.

On the third day Jeannette found her father working on the copy of the Modigliani-type nude in his studio. She had still not succeeded in changing his attitude towards Gerard. Lefebre didn't hear her come in. As he stood back to examine the canvas, he grunted something, apparently completely unaware of her presence.

Jeannette said: 'What are you doing?

'I am remembering Modigliani. What is it you want?' he enquired.

She paused and then said: 'Why did you never marry my mother?'

Lefebre shrugged and said: 'I offered to many times. She always refused because she believes it is a bourgeois institution designed to keep women in thrall and deprive them of their property.'

'After the example you have given me, then, you won't be surprised if I decide to live with someone.'

'I would prefer to see you married to a solid citizen -someone who would look after you and work hard to keep a family. '

'Supposing I told you that I have found someone who answers to that description.?'

'Who is he?'

Lefebre stared at her steadily for half a minute. He had already guessed she was referring to Gerard Wadny. He then said with deep sarcasm: 'How can you describe as a solid citizen someone who has forged a signature on a painting?'

'Papa, he was desperate at the time. He only did it because his partner was pulling out, leaving him without financial support.'

'That is no excuse for criminal behaviour. I still don't understand why he wants this copy. Did he sell the other one?'

'I presume so. His gallery in San Francisco has become very successful as a result of the publicity coup your painting helped him pull off. He says it was your genius for copying that made the whole thing possible. He is sorry for what he has done and is anxious to make amends.'

'How can he make amends for damaging my reputation?'

'He has done no such thing. It was just a publicity coup. You know the Americans. Everything is a marvel one day and forgotten the next.'

'I don't trust the man. Once a thief always a thief.'

'He is not a thief! He is a young man desperately trying to make a living in a very difficult field.'

'If he can't make a go of it, he should turn to something else. He shouldn't resort to deception.'

'Papa, as it happens he is a very accomplished artist- I have seen some of his work- but he doesn't think he is good enough, which is why he runs an art gallery.'

'Modigliani didn't give up. He stuck to his vision in the face of poverty and despair. That is what true art is all about.'

Jeannette was about to tell her father that his own career fell short of such high standards. Instead, she gave him a scornful look and withdrew. She informed her mother that she was going on an errand into the village to the shoe repairer.

Babillard squawked a staccato series of 'Adieus' as she passed through the gates.

TWENTY -SEVEN

Francesca returned from the telephone conversation with her daughter in Paris, looking unhappy.

Dickens said in a kindly voice; 'Do sit down. Has your daughter been able to throw any light on what happened?

'Yes, apparently Gerard Wadny was staying in the village without our knowledge all the time she was down here. He is in Paris with her at the moment. She says they are going to get married. She is obviously keen to protect him. But she does admit that- '

'Go on,' Dickens urged gently.

'Jeannette has admitted that there was a row when Gaston recognised both her voice and that of Gerard coming from one of the bedrooms when he was on his way to the lavatory in La Peinture. He challenged the man to come out and during the unpleasant scene that followed called Wadny a liar and a thief. I remember when Gaston came back home that afternoon, he was very distraught. But he said nothing to me about what had happened. He obviously didn't want to upset me. After all, if your child is having an affair with someone you don't like, what can you do? But how could one expect Gaston to have tolerated this man in the circumstances! He must have regarded him as totally beyond redemption.'

Dwindle said: 'On the night that Gaston died you said Babillard squawked 'Bienvenu', but not' Adieu'. Perhaps this suggests that someone came in to the villa by the front gate but found another way out?'

'Yes, that is possible,' Francesca said, frowning. 'There is a small gate at the end of the garden.'

'And last night you said the parrot was squawking so much you had to cover it up. Do you suppose there might have been an intruder.'

Francesca paused before answenng 'Yes, but no one came in to the house.'

'You would not have heard the intruder if, for example, he was investigating the garden shed.'

'You mean,' Martha interjected, 'that someone may have been trying to retrieve the copy of Crimson Lake last night.'

Dwindle replied: 'We don't know yet if it is the original or the copy. But thanks to Francesca' s good sense in putting it in the attic it has not been stolen.'

'Francesca, , Martha said with an encouraging smile. 'Would you mind if 1 took the painting to London? 1 will, of course, give you a receipt and arrange for in-transit insurance.'

'Of course, Martha. Shall we agree that a hundred thousand francs would represent its value.'

'Better make it ten million,' Dwindle said with a grin. Just in case it's the real thing..'

Martha gave Dwindle a reproving glance and then asked: 'Is there anything more we can usefully do down here?'

Dickens replied with a preoccupied expression: 'I think it might be worthwhile to examine the earth around the garden shed for footprints.'

Dwindle then said with a gleam in his eye. 'And I think we should fly to Paris and interview Wadny.'

Dickens reminded him: 'We are in a foreign country. We must tread very carefully.'

Dwindle shrugged.

'No harm in asking him a few questions. If he cuts and runs, we'll know he has something to hide. But talking to him may help to clear up this mess. Francesca, would you mind asking your daughter where we can contact her boy friend?'

Francesca announced, after returning from making the telephone call: 'I have talked to Gerard Wadny. I explained to him that you are two British private detectives trying to trace a missing Jordaens. He is willing to meet you at my daughter's apartment to discuss that particular issue with you. But he said he is unwilling to discuss the Modigliani Gaston painted for him.'

Dickens said with a certain relish: 'Good! 1 shall be happy to put him through the mill.'

Dwindle wagged a finger at him and said: 'No rough stuff, Dickens.'

Dickens replied with a hurt look: 'Except on one occasion when I was completely justified, 1 have never-'

Dwindle interrupted him impatiently: 'All right, Dickens. Spare us the image of the saintly policeman. Let's make arrangements to fly to Paris.' Turning to Martha, he added: 'I suppose you will want to return directly to London.'

'As a matter of fact 1 have been invited to call on some old friends in Paris.' She winked at Dwindle and said: 'Shall we sit together on the aircraft again?'

Dwindle replied, straight-faced: 'Yes, Let's leave poor old Dickens out in the cold.'

Dickens gave a shrug, indicating that he thought his partner's joke was wearing a little thin. But to his surprise he later found himself once again sitting behind them in the Airbus. Philosophically, he took out his Little Dorrit paperback and began reading the much-thumbed pages.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Gulbenstein was too amazed to give any coherent response. His legs seem to buckle underneath him. He mumbled something and replaced the receiver. The situation was becoming farcical. TWO Jordaens were to be returned to him the following day! Presumably, one of them was the missing painting. Sheer happiness at the prospect of being reunited with Martha, however, dominated his sense of relief at no longer being under the threat of bankruptcy.

He poured himself out a measure of brandy, savouring the warmth it sent swirling around his body.

Then his mind returned to the puzzle of the missing pictures. If the theory he had held all along was correct, Roger Pretty had stolen the Jordaens from his apartment, using a key copied during the period when he had occupied the flat. That being the case, he was almost certainly returning the original. Martha had announced that she was bringing back the copy that Gaston Lefebre had made before his tragic death. It followed from this that the detectives Martha had employed from the Three D Agency, had no valid claim to the reward. But- and this puzzled him deeply- what on earth had happened to induce Roger Pretty to return the painting? The possibility then occurred to him that he might be trying to pass off another expertly-made copy. If that were the case, it would be a fitting challenge to his erudition and skills and he would relish exposing it as such.

It was always very difficult to fathom out other people's motives. He and Roger Pretty, although they came from similar backgrounds, were cut from very different cloths. Pretty had shown he was a man without principles. Still, in the event that he was not again trying to pull the wool over his eyes, and if he was reimbursed for the trouble and expense in trying to recover the lost Jordaens, he would be prepared to let bygones be bygones.

His mind turned to Martha. He decided to welcome her back by decorating the apartment with masses of red roses. Was he too old for such a romantic gesture? NO, emphatically NO, came the resounding answer. He would celebrate her return by sending her the most important message it was possible to send a woman. And if she laughed at him for behaving like a foolish old man, well and good. Because if the truth were known he wanted her much more than the painting.

TWENTY-NINE

Martha parted from the detectives at Le Bourget. She had arranged to meet some former colleagues from the couturier house for whom she had once modelled. Dickens and Dwindle travelled by taxi to Jeannette's apartment, situated in northern Paris on the third floor of a modem high-rise apartment block. The front door opened almost as soon as they announced themselves on the entry video-phone.

Dwindle insisted on ignoring the lift and they climbed the stairs. A tall young man with even features and well-groomed fair hair was waiting for them on the third landing. He invited them into a small cluttered sitting-room.

'The girls are out at work,' he said. 'I understand you wish to ask me some questions.'

Dickens said with a patient air: 'We have been charged by a Mr. Gulbenstein in London with the task of finding a painting by the seventeenth-century artist Jacob Jordaens which was stolen recently from his London home. The late Gaston Lefebre had been commissioned by Mr. Gulbenstein to make a copy of this painting. We found it in a shed in his garden.'

Gerard Wadny shrugged and said: 'What has this to do with me?'

Dwindle intervened: 'Jeannette has informed us that you were in the village the night he died.'

'So were several hundred other people.'

With a slightly menacing air, Dickens continued: 'During the course of our investigation we photographed footprints around the garden shed in which the painting was found. If they match the soles of your shoes, you could find yourself in a

French prison.'

Wadny lightly fingered his hair with one hand and replied with a nervous expression: 'I hope you appreciate that I am an American citizen and that I am giving you this interview of my own free will. You have absolutely no right whatsoever to question me.'

Dickens grimly: 'The French police won't be as gentle when they question you.'

'Why should the police be interested? Lefebre committed suicide. '

'They will be very interested when we tell them that we have reason to believe that you were involved in the theft of a valuable painting in London.'

'I haven't stolen anything and I didn't kill Gaston Lefebre. I only agreed to talk to you to please Jeannette and her mother.' He paused and then added: 'That is as much as I am prepared to say.'

Dwindle intervened sharply: 'Do you know where the original Jordaens is at this moment?'

'How the hell should I know?'

'Because the English art dealer who stole the painting from Marcus Gulbenstein happens to be your father.'

Gerard Wadny shivered violently.

After a moment he asked: 'How did you know?'

Dwindle replied airily: 'Oh, we private eyes have our sources of information. Now let's get down to business. We want you to tell us all you know about how the late Gaston Lefebre met his death and how the Jordaens painting commonly known as Crimson Lake got into the garden shed.'

Wadny picked up a packet of Gitanes lying on a coffee table, extracted a cigarette and lit up with a trembling hand. He coughed heavily and explained in a hoarse voice: 'I don't usually smoke... I'll tell you everything I know. I didn't kill Gaston Lefebre. But I ask you to keep what 1 say private and confidential.'

Dwindle said: 'You have our assurance on that point.'

Wadny stubbed out the barely-smoked cigarette in a glass ashtray and continued: 'It happened like this. I have an art gallery in San Francisco. Gaston Lefebre painted a fake Modigliani for me to exhibit in my gallery, which I subsequently sold. Lefebre got to hear that I had exhibited it as an original and was very angry. I had fallen in love with his daughter, and so I came to Paris to see her and later went down with her to Valesque, hoping to put things right. She didn't inform her parents that I was staying in the village. First, she wanted to convince her father that I wasn't such a bad guy. Unfortunately, he came into the hotel where we had taken a room and heard our voices coming from one of the bedrooms. There was an unholy row. But I didn't hold it against him -I still wanted to make peace with him for Jeannette's sake. So I decided later that evening to go up to the villa and talk to him.

'When I arrived at the villa, I went round the side entrance. The sliding door of his studio was open and I stood for a while because I could hear him talking. At first I thought he had a visitor, but when I peeped in I discovered that he was alone. He was standing in front of a Modigliani. A copy of Jordaen's Crimson Lake stood on another easel. I am not completely fluent in French, but I understood what Lefebre was saying. He had an open razor in his hand and was staring at the Modigliani -the one, incidentally, I had commissioned -as if he was hypnotised. He was talking to the painting as if it were alive. It was weird. Absolutely weird. He kept flourishing the razor, saying something like: " Amedeo Modigliani, you poor wretch, you sweat your heart out trying to earn a living. You are desperate- desperate for food, for love, for air. people begrudge you every mouthful of food you eat, every breath you take..." He was crying, tears were running down his cheeks. He flicked the open razor across his own throat, as if he was about to commit suicide and then growled: "Give them the blood they demand, Amedeo. Let them have your blood." He was using the intimate "tu" ...

'I shall never know to this day whether he actually intended to commit suicide. It didn't occur to me at the time that he was trying to recapture Modigliani's despair. Jeannette has since told me that he often worked in this way, totally immersing himself in the personality of the original artists, trying to reproduce the feelings they expressed in their art.

'But it looked to me as if this half-mad guy was about to cut his throat. I ran forward to take away the razor and grappled with him. His eyes had a glazed look. I don't think he recognised me. There was a terrific struggle. He must have believed that he was Modigliani fighting his old enemy, Death. We fell over, knocking the easels down. The razor cut my hand just below my thumb. Blood spurted onto the copy of the Jordaens. And then quite suddenly Lefebre collapsed and fell onto the floor.

I was bleeding badly too and I was terrified at what had happened. There was blood everywhere, most of it on the Jordaens, which was lying on the floor. I didn't realise that the razor had cut Lefebre' s wrist. I started running back to the village. When I was halfway there, I decided that I had better return and check on his condition. When I got back to the villa he was dead. I panicked when I realised that the blood on Crimson Lake was my own and that it might incriminate me, so I hid it in the shed outside.

Dwindle then said: 'And you tried to recover the painting the night before last.'

Wadny said in a melancholy voice: 'Yes, it seemed a dreadful waste of a good painting, so I flew down here. I needed money very badly to get married. One of my clients in California happened to mention that he would pay a very high price for a Dutch or Flemish masterpiece of that period. I was going to sell it to him. He added miserably: 'But now I suppose I shall go to prison. '

Dickens and Dwindle looked at each other. Dwindle said after a moment: 'You may feel reassured when we tell you that the assignment we have been given is not to solve a murder but to retrieve a stolen painting. What happened between you and Lefebre that night is entirely your affair. Jeannette and her mother must decide whether to challenge the coroner's verdict on the cause of his death. Thank you for answering our questions. '

Dickens looked down at Dwindle. Dwindle looked up at Dickens.

'Time to go,' they said in unison.

THIRTY

After their interview with Gerard Wadny, Dickens and Dwindle travelled by taxi to a hotel in Montmartre. On the way, Dickens commented: 'That was very smart of you -spotting the relationship between Wadny and Pretty. How on earth did you do it?'

'1'11 tell you later. I have something else on my mind at the moment.'

Dickens said, complacently: 'I reckon we did a pretty good job squeezing the truth out of him.'

'We were probably just lucky, finding him in a confessional mood.'

'Don't make light of our victory Dwindle.'

'We haven't won an unqualified success yet, Dickens, Dwindle reminded him. 'The question of whether we shall earn the reward is still very much in doubt.'

'Still, we've made great progress. I suggest we celebrate by going out to see the sights.'

Dwindle shook his head and said: 'I have to meet someone.'

Having again contrived to sit next to Martha during the flight from Nice to Paris, he had whispered mischievously into her ear after they were airborne: 'That heavenly experience the other night, my love, I shall remember for the rest of my life.'

Martha laughed. 'It doesn't take much to satisfy you, Dwindle. A few harmless bounces and you're away.'

'A platonic bounce with the one you love can be ecstatic. The earth may not have moved for you, for me it was sheer bliss.'

'Stop being silly, Dwindle.'

'Martha, to you it may seem a joke,' Dwindle continued, earnestly. 'But for me it was a dream come true- it was like making passionate love on a trampoline to the most b-b-beautiful long-legged girl in the world.'

'Dwindle, behave yourself! I wouldn't have agreed to let you wangle Dickens into a separate seat row if I had suspected that you were going to take advantage of the situation.'

'Forgive me, Martha. But nothing can ever wipe out the memory of that night! Inexpressible harmonies were sounding in my poor little body and vibrating to the far corners of the universe.'

Martha grabbed his arm and whispered fiercely: 'Shush!

Dwindle whispered in response: 'The captain is about to make an announcement: "If you look at seat row J you will see a dwarf and a goddess who once had the most heavenly bonk. Unfortunately, the goddess has conveniently forgotten that it ever happened."'

Martha pleaded as she laughed: ' Please, please ,Dwindle, that's enough.'

Suddenly, in a more serious tone, he whispered:. A much quoted French philosopher said: "I think therefore I am." I think I have made love to you, therefore to all intents and purposes, it happened. Martha, my beloved, we are now forever bound together by a precious memory of bouncing bedsprings. Dickens overheard the whole episode, so it must be true.'

'Dwindle,' Martha said firmly, 'I forbid you ever to mention it again.'

'Not another word, except.. .except there was once a centipede with a wooden leg who went ninety-nine bonk, ninety-nine bonk, ninety-nine bonk. He must have been one very tired centipede.'

'Dwindle, stop making me giggle!'

'Okay. Okay. I promise never to mention it again. Incidentally, you can take satisfaction from the fact that your heroic and noble sacrifice on that occasion undoubtedly helped us solve this very difficult case.'

The stewardess handed Dwindle a cup of coffee.

He took a sip and then suddenly pleaded: 'Martha, can I see you this evening?'

'What on earth for?'

'It will make un petit homme very, very happy.'

'I am having dinner with some friends at Maxims.'

'And afterwards?'

'I'm going back to the Holiday Inn.'

Dwindle looked woebegone for a moment, but suddenly brightened up and said:

'Will you meet me afterwards?'

Martha replied after a pause: 'Where and at what time?'

'At Concorde, that's the nearest Metro station, around eleven. I'll escort you back to your hotel.'

Martha nodded reluctant agreement. Amused as she was by Dwindle's drolleries, she was a concerned at the serious note that had entered the conversation. She cast her mind around for a means to discourage him in as gentle a way as possible. An idea suddenly occurred to her as the announcement was made that they were about to land at Le Bourget.

Martha whispered to Dwindle: 'Do you remember asking me about a painting in our flat?'

'Which one?'

`The one painted by Holman Hunt's disciple.

'Yes what of it?'

The wheels touched the ground at that moment. The roar from reverse thrust drowned out Martha's answer.

The aircraft taxied in.

Before they separated at the airport, Dwindle again anxiously reminded Martha of their agreement to meet later that evening..'

Martha replied: 'Yes, eleven o'clock in the Underground'

Concorde Metro. OK, my love, see you there.'

THIRTY -ONE

Martha wished to curb Dwindle's passion for her in as kindly a way as possible To this end she had formed a plan. But she wasn't sure of he had caught onto the connection between the English word Underground she had used and the Pre-Raphaelite painting in Gulbenstein' s flat entitled Orpheus in the Underworld. Orpheus lost his beloved Eurydice as a punishment for looking back at her as she followed him to freedom in the Underworld She thought Dwindle might get the oblique message, and think more kindly of her, if they parted in similar fashion.

He arrived early at Concorde Metro station and paced anxiously up and down outside, waiting for Martha to appear. Light rain began to fall, forcing him to take shelter inside the entrance. In his overheated state, he mistook another tall young woman for her as she approached in the rain. It wasn't until the woman was almost upon him that he recognised that she was dark-skinned and lacking in the careless chic of an ex-model.

Conscience-stricken about his infatuation with tall women, he told himself that it wasn't his fault he yearned for Juno-esque woman like Martha, whose height compensated for his diminutive size. But he couldn't help admitting that ,when all was said and done, this was a rather feeble excuse. Maureen, he would be the first to admit, looked after him with fanatical devotion and catered for his every whim.

Still, he told himself, a gnat is entitled to regret not having been born an elephant. My craving for a tall woman is based on a biological imperative to ensure a balance in nature. If tall women always insisted on marrying tall men the human race would grow to the sky. That nature appears to provide a compensating mechanism has provided me with this heaven-sent opportunity. Although, I suppose that if, in the first place, I had married someone very tall, I wouldn't now be suffering this perpetual torment.

He scuttled back to the entrance and again scanned the street for Martha. Suddenly her voice came from from behind him: 'Don't look round, Dwindle.'

Resisting a strong impulse to disobey, he exclaimed: 'What's going on?'

'We're on our way to Republique- that is the nearest station to my hotel- but I shall stay behind you all the time. When we get to the hotel, we shall make love. For real this time. Isn't that what you want?

Dwindle, his face burning with embarrassment, replied:

'Okay. I can't deny it. But why can't I look at you?'

'That must remain a secret. I guarantee you will eventually understand. Have you got your ticket?'

'Yes.'

'En avant, mon petit homme. '

He moved put his ticket into the slot that open the mechanical barrier. As he went through, he asked himself whether her reference to him as 'little' was intended as an. insult or an endearment? It must be the latter, he thought, since she had promised to sleep with him. His heart began to beat painfully. Trying to control his emotions, he scurried forward and entered the passage-way marked: Vincennes.

A surge of optimism lifted his spirits. Was he not about to enjoy the fulfilment of his lifelong dream of going to bed with a woman of majestic proportions possessing all the qualities that he lacked? Tonight would be the night of all nights. He continued walking at a smart pace, Martha's musky perfume teasing his nostrils seductively, as they traversed the windy corridor.

He trotted down some steps onto the almost deserted platform and waited.

The only other traveller, a large handsome black man clad in jeans, trainers and wearing a black silk blousson decorated with red and yellow triangles, was strolling just ahead of them. He was at least twice Dwindle's height.

Dwindle turned his head slightly and was immediately warned by Martha: 'Look round at your peril, Dwindle.'

'Isn't he more your style?'

'Who- him? I don't fancy him in the least.'

'Because he's black?'

'No. I like black men, but I have an even more overwhelming passion for small philosophers with powerful imaginations. '

'Don't make fun of me, Martha?'

'I'm deadly serious. You're a lovely man.'

'Then why can't I look round.'

'It's forbidden.'

'There must be a reason.'

'Suppose I told you that I was only four feet high.'

Dwindle said ashamedly: 'I suppose that would put me off. But you are five feet eleven.'

'I'm afraid your answer suggests to me that your love is rather less than perfect.'

Before he could collect his thoughts a train pulled into the station. Martha's voice, sounding slightly muffled, said: 'Go to the left of the carriage and I will go to the right. You are forbidden to look at me. Get out when we get to Hotel De Ville and I will follow you onto the platform.'

He caught a glimpse of her, her face swathed in an Hermes scarf, sitting further along the carriage next to a young woman with a child on her lap. He turned his eyes resolutely away, regretting having admitted to her that he would rapidly lose interest in her if she were short. How foolish to have jeopardised paradise for the sake of telling a white lie. Still, he would apologise when they got out at the next station. He would

tell her that he would love her even if she was only four inches high.. .No, that sounded a too implausible, even to himself.

He got out of the train at Hotel De Ville and stood still on the platform as the train drew away.

Without turning his head, he said: 'Martha, are you still there'?'

'Yes, Dwindle. I'm just behind you.'

'I can't help myself, Martha. I can't help having this fanatical obsession with tall women. But of all the tall women I have ever met you are the only one who has filled me with such longing.'

'I'm very flattered, Dwindle.' Martha replied. She added in a flat tone: 'Look for the line to Mairie de Lilas and get out at Republique.'

He began walking in the direction she had indicated, listening intently to the sound of her footsteps behind him. Arriving at the platform, he felt a slight pressure and looking down saw her black-gloved hand on his right shoulder.

He said seriously: 'Can't we dispense with this charade, Martha. I want to look at you.'

'If you do, it will be the end of our romance.'

'But I must see you!'

He turned round. Martha was smiling down at him. She looked as adorable as he had imagined. He grimaced and said; 'That's ruined everything. But I can still beg you to have a drink with me in the hotel?'

Martha smiled graciously. 'That's a lovely idea.'

The penny had eventually dropped. He knew now that he must suffer the fate of Orpheus.

*

Dwindle remained subdued while they drank white wine in the hotel bar. In the taxi on the way home he silently cursed the Greeks for having invented the legend, but consoled himself with the thought that Martha always laughed so wholeheartedly at his jokes. In a kinder world they might even have become lovers.

His mind turned towards the case of the missing painting. The fees he and Dickens had earned from their investigation so far had covered their outlay, but there was little in the way of profit. Only the reward for recovering the painting could provide adequate compensation for their trouble. It appeared that they so far they had only managed to locate the copy of Crimson Lake that Wadny had tried to steal from Lefebre's garden shed. The fact that he had a customer for it suggested that it must be the original. But Gerard Wadny had shown himself to be less than honest and he may have intended to pass off as an original what he knew full well to be a fake.

Nevertheless, Dwindle felt hopeful that matters might still turn out to their advantage. If he was unlucky in love, he might at least turn out to be lucky in his role as a detective. Anyway, reverting again to Martha, it was probably the hot weather in Provence that had affected his emotions. It was easier to be faithful in a cold climate. A graph of infidelity plotted against latitude would make an amusing talking point. He laughed at the thought and in so doing felt halfway cured.

THIRTY -TWO

Sitting opposite Jeannette in a bistro, a short distance from the apartment block where she lived, Gerard repeated to her the story he had told the two British detectives.

'Do you mean to say,' Jeannette exclaimed in horror, 'that you killed my father!'

Gerard winced and replied: 'Of course not. How can you think that! He looked as if he was going to commit suicide. I tried to stop him.'

'What gave you the impression he was about to commit suicide?'

'He was slashing wildly about with a razor. He seemed totally out of his mind.'

'My father often behaved oddly when he was working. It was his way of getting into the mind of the artist he was copying.'

'What happened was terrible, but it was just a fearful accident- I've had nightmares about it ever since. I had gone there to explain things to your father. I was cut, too, in the struggle. Look!' He showed her a half-healed scar at the base of his thumb.

Jeannette was silent for a while. Then she asked: 'Do you think we should tell my mother what happened?'

'That is up to you. If the truth ever gets out, I shall have to face trial. But I'm prepared to do it because I know I am innocent. '

Jeannette said: 'It hurts my mother very much that he is supposed to have killed himself.'

'I'm willing to tell her exactly what happened and then let her make the decision as to whether to inform the authorities.'

'Even at the risk of going to jail?

'Yes,' Gerard answered without hesitation. 'I'll do it because I love you.'

Jeannette, looked pensive. After a long pause she said: 'Perhaps it would be best to leave things as they are.

Gerard nodded and then said solemnly: 'We agreed to be honest with each other right from the start -right?'

'Yes, Gerard.'

'Then while we are at it I have another confession to make. The picture your father painted for me which I used to get publicity for my gallery I eventually sold as a genuine Modigliani. '

Seeing the alarmed expression on Jeannette's face, he went on rapidly: 'It is not quite as bad as it sounds. The man I sold it to had guessed that it was an expertly-made copy. There are quite a number of forged Modiglianis on the market. He said to me if you can find someone to authenticate it, I'll give you twenty-thousand dollars. I made a deal with someone I knew, an ex-curator of a museum who is a junky and always desperate for money. The painting is now back in Venezuela. I needed the money to pay the rent.'

Jeannette burst into tears and stormed out of the cafe into the rain. In seconds her thin dress was soaked. Gerard threw some francs onto the table, rushed out after her and caught up with her under a lamppost. The orange light distorted her anguished face, as she pummelled his chest furiously with her fists, shouting: 'Gerard, that is the worst possible crime you could have committed- worse than killing my father. To commit a blatant act of fraud like that is absolutely unforgivable. Go away! Go away! I never want to see you again.'

She fled towards the apartment block where she lived. Gerard ran after her, caught her by the shoulders and spun her around.

'Listen,' he shouted, his face distorted with anguish, 'I have something else to tell you. I'll get that painting back, I promise I will.'

'How can you possibly do that?' Jeannette asked in a subdued tone.

He wiped first her wet face, and then mopping his own brow, said: '1'11 explain how ...During the fracas in your father's studio, my blood got onto a painting. I was frightened that it would incriminate me and took it outside and hid it in the garden shed. My father and I have been very distant with each other since my parents divorced. But when I telephoned him and told him what had happened, he promised to get me out of trouble. The change in his attitude amazed me and we've become good friends since. He has plenty of money. He'll buy back the Modigliani and that will enable us to make a fresh start.'

In a desolate tone, Jeannette said: 'You are a liar, a thief and a murderer all rolled into one. How can I possibly marry you?'

She started to walk away, but as the distance between them increased, she thought at least he has voluntarily confessed all his misdeeds. His honesty proves that he loves me. She slowed her pace.

Shortly afterwards he caught up with her, took her hand and they walked on together.

THIRTY -THREE

A stewardess poured out coffee for Dickens and Dwindle as they flew back to London. Dickens took a sip of coffee and then said: 'What were you up to in Paris last night, Dwindle? Doing

a round of the night spots?'

'No. I had a date with Martha.'

'Making violent love again, Dwindle?'

'No,' Dwindle replied, straight-faced. 'It was very gentle this time.'

Dickens made a noise in his throat, expressing a mixture of disbelief and disapproval.

He said after a while: 'In future, Dwindle, when you come across important clues, you must share them with me.'

'Of course,' Dwindle replied meekly.

'I am referring to the discovery you made that the art dealer in London who stole Crimson Lake was, in fact, Wadny's father. How did you arrive at that conclusion?'

'His name is Pretty- Roger Pretty. Wadny means Pretty in Polish- it was the original family name. Gerard changed his name back to Wadny when he went to America with his mother. I suppose it was his way of showing disapproval after his parents had divorced.'

'I didn't know you could speak Polish.'

'I told you that I have a smattering of a number of languages. '

'Why didn't you point this out to me,' Dickens said reprovingly: 'The terms of our agreement specifically say that we should not withhold information from each other.'

'It was pure speculation on my part at that stage. I knew that Wadny means 'Pretty' in Polish. But just think how foolish I would have looked, though, if I had mentioned it to you and Gerard had turned out not to be Roger Pretty's son.'

Dickens looked doubtful. He wagged his head from side to side in slow motion, to indicate that he was not entirely placated.

*

As soon as they landed, Dickens telephoned Gulbenstein's apartment. He was relieved when Martha answered.

'Dickens here,' he announced. Dwindle and I have just arrived at Heathrow. Naturally we're eager to find out whether the Jordaens painting Dwindle found is a copy or the genuine article. '

Martha said: 'Something very strange has happened. Roger Pretty appears to have had a change of heart. He rang Marcus yesterday morning and told him he had come into

possession of the painting stolen from our flat. He's arriving at the gallery at four-thirty this afternoon to return it to him.'

Dickens's heart sank. He glanced at his watch. It was four o'clock.

'Okay. Tell Mr. Gulbenstein that we're on our way to witness this remarkable event. Expect us soon after five.'

'Dwindle, he said, despondently as soon as he put down the telephone, 'Roger Pretty has returned the stolen Jordaens. It looks as though we have lost the reward.'

Dwindle replied cheerfully: 'All is not lost yet, Dickens. Let's go and find ourselves a taxi.'

**

Gulbenstein meanwhile was pacing slowly up and down his gallery. He was in no mood to compromise with a man who had responded to acts of kindness by trying to seduce his assistant, maliciously bidding him up at auctions and stealing one of his most valuable paintings. Now Roger Pretty had the infernal cheek to expect gratitude for returning his own property. Marcus Gulbenstein was in no doubt what to do. Apart from issuing a writ to obtain restitution for his financial loss, he would inform his network of clients all over the world that Roger Pretty was an unscrupulous rogue who should on no account to be trusted.

At four-thirty the tall figure of Roger Pretty emerged from a black taxi. He was wearing a panama hat at a jaunty angle and carrying a large brown paper parcel. Gulbenstein, portly and balding, glowered at him as he approached the door of his gallery. But in spite of his determination to prevail against Pretty, he couldn't help feeling a twinge of self-doubt.

'I see you have decided to disgorge your ill gotten gains, Roger,' he said caustically, as he entered the gallery.'

Pretty gently rested the parcel against a Victorian chaiselongue and replied coolly: 'You had better check that it's in good condition.'

Gulbenstein carefully unwrapped the packing and placed the picture on an easel by a blank space on one of the gallery walls. He examined it carefully: 'It seems in good condition,' he said cautiously. 'I shall give you my definitive verdict on it shortly. '

Roger Pretty smiled and said joshingly: 'Don't tell me that Marcus Gulbenstein, the famous expert on seventeenth-century art, can't immediately tell an original from a fake. Look, it's signed Jacob Jordaens. It must be the real thing!'

Martha arrived shortly afterwards carrying a similar parcel, which Gulbenstein ordered her to unwrap. An identical picture emerged, which also bore the Jordaens signature. Gulbenstein hung it on the wall besides the easel and said: 'Okay, Roger Pretty. You have the chutzpah to call yourself an art expert. You tell me which is a Fiasco and which is the genuine Jordaens.'

Ignoring him, Roger Pretty murmured to Martha:' Young lady, you look incredibly beautiful today!'

Martha grimaced, turned to Gulbenstein and announced: 'I'm going into the office to do the accounts, darling. Call me if you need me.'

Pretty looked crestfallen.

Gulbenstein briefly studied the two pictures. They seemed totally alike. Was it his imagination, or did the area of water in one seemed a trifle more crimson than the other? Feeling confused, he said accusingly: 'I hope you realise that by stealing my painting you have forfeited every shred of credibility and trust reposed in you by your customers. I intend to let the whole world know what happened.'

Roger Pretty threw his panama hat on the chaise-Ionge and said contemptuously: 'What exactly are you accusing me of, Marcus?'

'My lawyers will let you know in due course,' Gulbenstein retorted:

'But I've given you back the painting,' Pretty pointed out. 'What are you complaining about?'

At that moment, Dwindle and Dickens arrived in the gallery.

Gulbenstein waved to them and continued heatedly: 'This is what I am complaining about. Apart from nearly being made bankrupt, I have had to employ two private detectives to travel to the South of France in search of the missing painting. They found this one hidden away- a copy made by Gaston Lefebre.'

He pointed to the painting on the wall.

Dwindle intervened: 'Mr. Gulbenstein, I believe you may be mistaken. He addressed the other dealer: 'Mr. Pretty, would you care to explain why you stole the picture and what happened subsequently.'

Roger Pretty jutted out his narrow chin and glared down at Dwindle.

'Very well, if you insist. The sequence of events went like this. My son, whom I hadn't seen for years, rang up from Provence sounding very distressed. He told me how he had struggled with that madman Lefebre, trying to prevent him from committing suicide, and how he had subsequently died. He told me that the Jordaens in the studio was covered with his own blood and might lead to a murder charge. To protect him I borrowed the original, flew down to Provence, substituted it for the copy and flew back to England the same day. The one I have just returned- the one on the easel- is, in fact, the copy Lefebre made. '

Gulbenstein , taken aback by this explanation, was silent for a moment and then remarked inconsequentially: 'I thought your son was in America, Roger.'

Roger Pretty gave a thin smile and replied. 'He has his own art gallery in San Francisco. But he also travels. He added sarcastically: 'There are such things as airplanes.'

Gulbenstein trying furiously to gather his confused thoughts, commented: 'I'm relieved to know that you are at least capable of showing loyalty to your own son, Roger.' He paused and continued: 'Taking that into consideration, I shall refrain from taking legal action against you for theft. But on one condition -that is, that you compensate me for all the money I have spent trying to recover the Jordaens.'

Dwindle interjected: 'Of course, that must also include the reward money.'

Roger Pretty nodded, his face completely expressionless.

He produced his cheque book, and signalled impatiently in dumb show that he was waiting to be informed of the amount. Gulbenstein, after consulting Martha in the office, returned shortly and named the sum required. Pretty wrote out the cheque. However, before signing it, he asked Gulbenstein to withdraw so that he could have a private conversation with the two detectives.

He whispered to them: 'My son has told me that he recently sold a painting to a customer in Venezuala with a doubtful attribution. I need someone with oceans of tact to go out there and buy it back. In consideration of my offering you this delicate assignment, would you gentlemen be prepared to reduce the reward money.'

Dickens and Dwindle shook their heads in unison.. Roger Pretty said philosophically: 'Ah, well, it was worth a try.'

He signed the cheque handed it to Dickens and said with a charming smile: 'On further reflection, I think I shall ask you to go ahead and do that little job for me, anyway.'

Postscript

Gerard Wadny and Jeannette Orsini eventually married. There seems a good chance that Gerard, a weak individual but not an unmitigated rogue, will be redeemed by the good sense of Jeannette, a practical and down-to-earth Parisienne. She has a well-founded belief that fate will shower its blessing on them as long as they continue to remain on friendly terms with Gerard's wealthy papa. She continues to work for her fashion magazine. Gerard meanwhile has taken up painting professionally in Paris with the modest ambition of following in the footsteps of the late Gaston Lefebre. He hopes one day to become an honourable and respected art copyist.

Bonne chance, Jeannette et Gerard!

*

When Marcus Gulbenstein and his treasured assistant Martha returned to their Belgravia apartment, Marcus poured out drinks and exclaimed: 'Phew! What a relief! So it was that thieving rascal Roger Pretty, after all, who stole Crimson Lake. By the way, I rang Joseph Hempel and told him there was some blood on the copy as a result of an unfortunate accident. He has instructed me to have it cleaned, but is only too happy to go ahead and buy both the original and the copy. '

Marcus- the roses- they are marvellous! ' Martha declared enthusiastically.

Gulbenstein looked up in pretended surprise. There were red roses on every flat surface and scattered across the soft furnishings. Individual blooms were peeping out from behind the frames of the oil paintings.

He answered, imperturbably: 'Good. I'm glad you like them.'

'You are an incurable romantic, Marcus. Did you miss me while I was away.'

'That is the greatest understatement ever made. I felt bereft of everything that made life worth living. But,' an anguished expression crossed his face, 'I have decided that the best present I can give you is to ask you to go and look for a younger man.'

Martha looked deeply hurt.

'What do you mean?'

'You can continue to work for me, of course, and keep your shares in the gallery. But for God's sake go and have a good time. Be happy.'

'But I am happy here, Marcus.'

'You'd could be a lot happier if you were living with someone twenty years younger.'

Martha walked over, sat on Gulbenstein' s lap and kissed the tip of his nose.

'You have forgotten one thing, Marcus.'

He stirred under the weight of her seductive body and said: 'What is that?'

'Self interest, darling. If I stay with you I will gain absolutely free all the wisdom, judgement and expertise I shall need when I eventually run my own gallery.'

'I didn't say I would cancel our agreement.'

'But if I left you, someone else might worm their way into your affections. So if you don't mind, I think I'll stay.'

Gulbenstein grinned and said: 'Okay, but it may be a long time before you inherit this gallery. I feel as fit as a flea now that you're back.'

Martha kissed him again. This time on the mouth.

Back in their sparsely furnished office in Leather Lane, Dickens said: 'Now that we have the reward money, do you think we should rent better premises?

Dwindle replied: 'I don't think so. Private detectives at their best when they wear shabby raincoats and occupy down-at-heel offices. It reassures clients that their money is not being wasted. I could do with a more powerful computer, mind you. That, and possibly a new brass plate on the door, is all we need. We shouldn't be extravagant; it may be months before we get another worthwhile assignment.'

'I have that little job in Venezuala.'

'I think I should go on that one. I have a smattering of Spanish. '

'This is a job which needs someone with physical presence.'

'The partnership agreement says we are both equal.'

'Be realistic, Dwindle. I have had a lot more experience in these matters than you.'

'Perhaps. But I'm the one who usually solves the problems. '

We shall leave them in the middle of their argument.