Page 130 of Hang on St. Christopher

I went inside with the Picassos under my arm. He looked at them and said nothing. I sat down on the sofa in his living room and put the Picassos on the coffee table.

“Cup of tea?” he asked.

“No thanks. Time is of the essence. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“Go on, then.”

“How much to make a couple of copies of these? Really good copies that look like the originals.”

“How much are you willing to pay?”

“How much to do the copies?”

“Shall we say, five hundred quid each?”

“You’re joking. Five hundred for both.”

“Eight hundred for the pair.”

“Let’s split the difference and say seven.”

“Seven-fifty.”

“Done. Can you have them made by the end of the day?”

“Impossible!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide.

“What do you mean, impossible? I’ve seen how fast you work, mate.”

“This is a metal etching, not a painting.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s an engraving onto metal. It’s a whole process. You have to cut the engraving, then do the acid bath, then do the prints themselves. It’s not something you knock out in an afternoon.”

“How long will it take?”

“If you want to get it as close to the originals as possible, I’ll have to experiment with the colors and the process and?—”

“How long?”

“A week.”

I shook my head. There was no way I could hold off Special Branch for a week.

“Could you have it done by tomorrow afternoon if there was an extra hundred quid in it for you? Eight hundred and fifty quid altogether.”

Archie shook his head. But he didn’t say no.

I opened up my wallet and counted out seventeen fifty-pound notes. I put them down on the coffee table in the living room.

“I’d have to work all day and all night,” he said.

I put three more fifties on the coffee table.

“That’s a thousand quid.”

His eyes took on a malevolent glint. “You’re a bad man, Sean Duffy. What are you up to?”

---