The Hogarth Conspiracy (47 page)

“Don't, please don't,” he begged, hardly audible. “I'll do whatever you want.”

“You're right there, Eli. You
will
do whatever I want.” She loosened her stranglehold. “Victor Ballam's just told me that you wanted the Hogarth for yourself, to sell it.”

“I only
said
that. I didn't mean it!” he blustered. “I was trying to keep him off track.”

“Really?” She glanced at the needle. “What track is
that
, you little fucker? What's this you were about to give your patient?” She waved the syringe in front of the doctor's eyes and tightened her grip again. “A vitamin shot?”

He was choking, terrified, his body rigid as Ma Fleet placed the tip of the needle against the side of his neck.

“Make one move and this will go straight into your jugular,” she said, her voice low. “Now, that might not matter; it might be something to help Kit Wilkes's recovery. Or it might matter a lot. So before I jab it in your fucking neck, you tell me: Which
is
it?”

“I …” He gasped, trying to take in a breath. “I … can … explain.”

“You
will
explain, you son of a bitch.”

Slowly she released her grip, and Fountain groped his way to a chair. He sat down, rubbing his neck.

“What's in the needle?” she demanded.

“Stimulant.”

“Stimulant?” Mrs. Fleet jerked her head toward Kit Wilkes. “It's not working, Doctor; he's in a coma.”

“I know, I know. But it should have all worked out.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What?”

“We planned it. Or rather Kit planned it and paid me to go through with it.” He rubbed his throat painfully. “He asked me to keep him sedated.” His voice was dry and his hands trembling as he reached for the bedside pitcher and poured himself a glass of water. “We made an arrangement. Kit called me as soon as he got off Bernie Freeland's jet. He said a Hogarth had been found. Freeland had it, and it was worth a fortune. There was something sensational about it, some story attached. He said everyone would be after it.”

“So?”

“Kit was going to get it, whatever it took, but he wanted to make sure that no one suspected him of being involved. Especially the Russians. He was being greedy, reckless. He could have made a deal with them, but that wasn't Kit's way. I tried to reason with him. Why not go to the Russians? After all, he'd been working with them for months, picking up the slack after Arnold Fletcher had pissed them off. But Kit didn't want them to get the Hogarth.
He
wanted that painting to embarrass James Holden, and he was prepared to do anything to get it.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she was listening. “Go on.”

“Trouble is, Kit always thinks he's smarter than the other guy.” Fountain coughed and took another sip of water before continuing. “He was determined that no one would know he was involved, so all suspicion had to be taken off him. He had to be put out of the running, so to speak. We agreed to make it look like a drug overdose. Everyone knew Kit was a user, so I sedated him and had him hospitalized.”

“You're sure it was Kit Wilkes's idea and not yours?” Her tone was acid.

“It was all his idea!”
Fountain snapped emphatically.

“It was a fucking risky idea.”

“Kit was fixated on getting the painting. I just did what he asked.”

“And it never crossed your mind to get the painting for yourself?”

He paused, then shrugged. “I thought about it, but I couldn't have pulled it off. Kit was the one who had all the contacts. I did what I was asked to do.”

“How long was Wilkes supposed to be in his ‘coma'?”

“Until the dust settled. Then I'd revive him, and he'd make a killing with the painting.”

She was still holding the hypodermic in her hand, tapping it against her palm as she moved closer to the doctor.

“Kit Wilkes had the Hogarth?”

“No; Bernie Freeland had it then. Kit was arranging for it to be stolen in New York.”

“By whom?”

“I don't know,” Fountain replied, his eyes closing as he felt the point of the needle against his neck again. “I
swear
I don't know! That's why I was going to give Kit an injection to wake him up. I've been injecting him for the last few days, but he won't come around. He really is in a coma.”

“You put him there.”

“He asked me to.”

Smiling grimly, Mrs. Fleet looked over to the bed. “Well, thanks to you, it appears that Mr. Wilkes is out of the running forever.” She turned to the doctor. “Are you sure you can't bring him around?”

“I don't know; I've tried
everything
!” he said, panicked, still rubbing his throat. “At first I just thought it was a delayed reaction, that he would revive slowly, but he's never shown any flicker of consciousness.”

Thoughtful now, Charlene Fleet realized how she could get her own back on her treacherous sibling. She might have lost half a million pounds, but her sister would lose her only child.

“I've tried everything to help him, everything.” Fountain sounded desperate.

“And no one else knows?”

Eli Fountain blinked, taking a moment to understand what she was asking.

“No. I'm Kit's doctor. Everyone accepted what I told them. The rest was easy. I paid a nurse to swap the blood test results with another patient, so no one noticed anything to contradict what I said.”

“You know that you'd never practice medicine again if anyone found out what you'd done? Even face a murder charge.”

“I didn't want to murder him; I wanted to help him!”

“You wanted to help
yourself
, Eli. You wanted your share. You wanted what you always want—money. Only this time you've buggered it up. You should have come to me.” Mrs. Fleet went on, her tone now honeyed: “You see what happens when you try to cheat me? I wouldn't have made a mistake like this.”

Dazed, Dr. Fountain kept staring at the body on the bed. “I can't bring him around! I can't wake him up!”

“So finish it.”

He turned to her, eyes bulging behind his glasses, his voice a whisper. “
What
?”

“Finish him off.” She passed him the syringe. “Change the injection; no one will know. End it. You could be doing him a favor. After all, he might be brain-damaged, and even if he isn't and you manage to revive him, it'll be too late for him to get his painting. Someone else has it now.”

Fountain was staring at her, terrified, as she continued.

“I imagine you've lost out on a big commission, Eli, but that's nothing compared to the outcry that would follow the exposure of what you've done. Then again, doctors can always bury their mistakes, can't they?”

“I can't kill him.”

“No?” She passed him the hypodermic and walked to the door, coaxing him into making a choice that would avenge her. “Your decision, Doctor. But if you
do
get Kit Wilkes out of his coma, think about what would happen. He's a vicious, manipulative brat who's made a living out of publicity. You think he'd keep it quiet? He's lost the Hogarth. You revive him and he'll want revenge.”

She paused, goading him with her reptilian smile. “He'll drag your name into every paper and onto every television show. He'll make sure you're pilloried. You'll never see Park Street again, Doctor, never realize that dream of yours to retire as a rich man.” She sighed with fake sympathy. “If you bring him around, Kit Wilkes will have you put away, locked up for the rest of your life. No more women, no more sexual favors, no more luxury. It'll be over. He'll cut your legs from under you, and you know it. But that's only
if
he comes around.”

Fountain glanced at the figure in the bed, then back to Mrs. Fleet.

“I can't do it.”

“Who will know? Only me, and what's one more secret for us to share?” She shrugged. She pointed to the immobile Wilkes. “Don't risk what you have for
that
, Eli. Do it and save yourself.”

Sixty-One

“P
ACK IT IN
,” T
ULLY SAID QUIETLY, “WHILE YOU STILL CAN
.”

“That was bloody awful,” was Victor's response as he pushed his plate aside. “You never could cook, Tully. If that turns out to be my last meal, I've been cheated.” He glanced across the table at his oldest friend. “Ma Fleet paid up.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

Whistling under his breath, Tully nodded, impressed. “You don't think she'll try and get her own back?”

“She'd love to, but how can she? If anything happens to me, it'll all come out. She's angry but not stupid.”

“What about her sister? Or Fountain? You think Mrs. Fleet's going to let them get away with selling her out?”

“Again, she can't do anything. Elizabeth has the upper hand, and Fountain can handle himself.”

Clearing away the plates, Tully flicked on a lamp and sat down, crossing his long legs and resting his head back against the chair.

“This time tomorrow the exchange will be over,” he said quietly, staring up at the ceiling, his glance tracing the plaster center rose. “I want to come with you.”

“No.”

“Okay, I'll put it another way. I
am
coming with you whether you like it or not.” Tully turned his head in Victor's direction. “You need backup. When you hand over to the triads, you'll need someone to get Liza Frith away safely. We'll use my car.”

“Tully—”

“You
need
someone to help you.”

“I was going to say that I'm using my car.” Victor smiled wryly. “And you're right; I could do with you there, but it's too dangerous.”

“You said it was just an exchange. The girl for the painting. A simple swap.”

“I lied.”

Piccadilly, bounded by the famous Circus at one end and Hyde Park Corner at the other, is a center of commerce, of expensive hotels, showrooms, and businesses, that leads to those fashionable streets where artworks are exhibited, exchanged, bought, and sold. Beneath the moneyed gloss, the sweating underside of the art world steams like a dung heap. Along Piccadilly at nightfall, the lamps are lit, the yellow lights of the London taxis move like glowworms in the semidarkness, and the restaurants are full. But the galleries are closed, locked and alarmed for the night.

In one of those galleries, in the Burlington Arcade, Sir Oliver Peters sat in his office, patiently waiting for Victor Ballam. His staff had long since left, and the clock read nine-fifteen. He swallowed a dose of diamorphine, adjusted his silk tie, and checked his reflection in the mirror. All was done, safely gathered up. The loss of half a million pounds was a body blow to a body that already had been beaten into submission, but in that instant Sir Oliver Peters looked in the mirror and smiled.

The doorbell interrupted his thoughts. Oliver let Victor in and relocked the door behind him.

“Did you get it?”

Oliver nodded and ushered Victor into the office. Under the limpid glow from an antique desk lamp, the little painting gazed back at them. Victor picked up the Hogarth and turned it over. On the back was the same slight tear at the corner, the watermark, and the grime of ages darkening the reverse of the canvas. He turned the painting over again and held it for a long moment under the light, the face of Frederick, Prince of Wales, smiling at him. A pleasant face, even—to some—handsome. But not remarkable. Not a face one would imagine capable of toppling a throne or inciting a killing. And not one killing but many. It was in the end just a man's face. The proof of the painter's hubris. The one face William Hogarth should never have painted.

Sighing, Victor slid the picture into the case he had brought with him, zipped it closed, then looked at Oliver.

“Thank you.”

“I couldn't do anything else. Not if I was to live with myself,” he replied, the gray silk of his tie casting an oyster reflection under his jowls. “Are you sure you can handle this alone?”

“It's just an exchange.”

Oliver shrugged, his tone anxious. “And you believe they'll go through with it? That they'll keep their word?”

“I think so.”

“How can you be so sure they won't cheat you?”

“Because they don't want the girl; they want the Hogarth. It's all about cash—currency to keep their business interests running. They're not interested in the painting, and they don't know its history.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Positive,” Victor replied firmly. “They're gangsters, not connoisseurs. If the Russians had gotten the painting, it would have been unfortunate, and if Lim Chang had succeeded, it would have been much more dangerous. These people will just use it to sell to the highest bidder. It's a trust fund for them. A cash cow.” He paused, studying Oliver carefully. “No doubt some Arab will put it in his safe and gloat over it in secret.”