Page 99 of Savage Justice

“Courrier Amazon. Vous avez un colis…” she replies over her shoulder.

“Je n’ai rien commandé. Qu’as-tu acheté maintenant?”

I’m at the far reaches of my schoolboy French now, but I gather he’s not expecting anything, and he thinks she must have been on a spending spree.

The woman examines the package. “Il y a ton nom dessus,” she insists, turning away from me to take the package indoors.

My work here is done. I bob my cap and head for the stairs.

I’m halfway down the first flight when the door above me slams. There are running footsteps. The flashing button on the next landing tells me that the lift call button has been activated. Exactly the reaction I was expecting.

Edouard Montrou has obviously opened his package. We seem to have captured his attention.

I double my pace and beat the lift to the ground floor. I check the lobby before marching across. Luckily, the concierge is still engrossed in his magazine and never sees me leave, which is just as well. From the pavement, I glimpse Mr Montrou, in his pyjamas, burst out of the lift and charge over to his desk.

Mission accomplished. I disappear into the milling crowds of tourists.

“Well?” I demand. I headed straight for Ethan’s office as soon as the chopper touched down on Caraksay.

Ethan doesn’t mess about. “He phoned. A couple of hours ago, in fact.”

Right. Within minutes of receiving my delivery by the sound of it. “He didn’t waste any time. Did he bite?”

“Not yet. But he will. We’re still at the ‘I never take any notice of anonymous tip-offs’ stage.”

“The main thing is, he believes we do have the original.”

“Agreed. And he knows he can have it back if he finds a way to expose the copy in Riyadh. So now, we leave him to it. And we wait.”

Frankie is monitoring the online traffic. The shit has hit the fan, big style.

“The sheikh denied all knowledge of Death of Atalanta when Edouard Montrou contacted him,” he tells us when we gather in the great hall for an update.

The genuine painting still graces the wall above us.

“Well, he would,” Jack observes.

Frankie continues. “But, Montrou has clout, and influence. If he’s saying the sheikh purchased the stolen art thinking it was genuine when in reality his picture is dodgy, then others will listen. The sheikh can deny having the painting all he wants, but he was rattled. Enough to get some crony of his in to take a look.”

“And?”

“The guy confirmed what Montrou was saying, that the sheikh’s Atalanta was fake. He might not have spotted it straight away, but Montrou told him about Marlowe’s ‘tell’ and that was enough.” The slightly miscoloured waves were a snippet Ethan shared in his brief conversation with the art detective. “The sheikh and Borys are hurling insults at each other. The sheikh is accusing Borys of deliberately fobbing him off with a forgery, and Borys is accusing the Saudis of stealing his money.”

“Excellent. We’ll leave them to fight it out.”

“The news is already circulating,” Molly tells us. “The grapevine is buzzing with it. The German police are applying to the Polish government to extradite Borys because they want to question him about the missing original. Their working assumption seems to be that Boris still has it and is trying to sell copies.”

“Even better.” Ethan is grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “I love it when a plan comes together. With any luck they’ll haul in Kristian as well. Whatever, the Kaminskis are out of the dodgy art business. No one will ever trust them again.”

“Was that your objective all along? To discredit your enemy? Not to clear my name?” Molly asks.

“Two birds with one stone,” Ethan replies easily. “I think this calls for a celebration.” He raises his glass of fine malt whisky and salutes the painting on the wall.

Molly is less easily convinced. “I’ll just settle for Death of Atalanta being returned to Nuremberg.”

“All in good time, Miss Lowe.”

“I’ve had a message from Inspector Norris.”

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