Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page A

along with the treasurer of Allied Electronics—who was authorised to write the two necessary cheques, one to the auctioneer (for his fee) and the other to the listed seller of the picture (using the seller’s new identity, of course). Grant, as the purchaser, would receive all the necessary documents, along with Marck’s telephone number in case of some unexpected difficulty. Emergency use only.
    Fifth: Basset wanted the Ruysdael. At any cost. Grant was to remember that, and bid accordingly.
    “That’s everything, I think,” Marck said, rising from his chair. “Quite clear?”
    Grant had listened in total silence, making sure he missed nothing in the quick flow of words. His memory was good, better still when he used it visually. He’d make a resumé of Marck’s instructions as soon as he got home, while they were still fresh in his memory. Once written down and read, he would remember them. But I’ll destroy my notes, he promised silently, studying Marck’s alert face. One thing was certain: Marck had added considerable volubility to his watch-and-listen attitude of three years ago. “Why two cheques?” Grant asked. “I thought art galleries took charge of the entire payment, deducted their commission, and sent the rest of the money to the seller of the painting.”
    “In New York, yes. In Vienna?”
    That silences me, thought Grant. I don’t know the regular routine in payments abroad. All I know is what usually happens here.
    “Mr. Basset prefers to pay the auctioneer’s fee when the seller is a friend who needs every dollar his picture can bring him. Hence the two cheques.”
    “Very thoughtful of Basset.”
    “He can afford to be. Anything else?”
    “Yes,” Grant said. “I’d like to examine the Ruysdael before the auction.”
    “It is being kept out of sight—you can understand the need for that.”
    “I do. But I’d like to make sure it isn’t a fake. If I have any doubts, I’ll call in an expert. I know him well. He can be trusted. Discretion is part of his job.” He had startled them both, no doubt about it. “We could use that private office you mentioned—keep the whole thing under wraps.”
    Marck said coldly, “We have already had expert advice on the painting. It is no fake.” His quick smile appeared, warm and engaging. “Your suggestion was good, but we really do think of all the possibilities.”
    You certainly do, thought Grant. They shook hands. “So,” Marck was saying now, “you have friends in Vienna? That’s nice.”
    “One or two—if they are still there. It has been a few years since my last visit.”
    Marck nodded, and made his way to the door. “Good night, Lois,” he said, almost as an afterthought.
    “I have to leave, too,” said Grant, rising to his feet. “Good night, Miss Westerbrook. And why don’t you come to Vienna?” She was indeed looking as though she had been left out in the cold.
    “Stay for another drink.” She sounded almost urgent.
    “Sorry. Some other time, I hope.” He shook hands and was out of the opened door. Marck was drawing ahead of him, walking fast. I get it, thought Grant: all these security-minded boys with their fixations. Who’s to see us in this empty corridor?
    He marked time by lighting a cigarette, and let Marck take the first elevator down. The second one came almost immediately and descended without another stop, so that when he reached the ground floor he could see Marck heading for the double glass doors on to Park Avenue. He made his way slowly past a collection of baggage and cardboard boxes cluttering an otherwise elegant lobby, and pushed both doors open for himself—the doorman was too engrossed in conversation with the chauffeurs of three black Cadillacs strung along the kerb. The rank was empty of taxis. Grant had to step out into the street to hail a cab. And up there, crossing Park Avenue at 64th Street, was Gene Marck. He looked like a man who knew where he was going. But with his direction, first