Prelude to Terror Read Free Page B

Carfield, smooth of face and manners? There he was, instructing the waiters on the subjects of drinks. (“Keep it down to one apiece, we don’t want champagne sloshed all over the carpet.”) Next, telling Miss Haskins to leave those flowers where they were, and why weren’t they white roses as ordered? After that, fussing over the invitation list with the girl (the prettiest one, naturally, with the sincere smile all primed to welcome) whom he was installing at the entrance-desk with two polite young men from the junior staff to make sure invitation cards were produced and collected. I’m the only man in the room, thought Grant, who isn’t in dark suit, dark tie. What the hell am I doing here, anyway? He edged away, but not quite in time. Or perhaps Carfield had had him in his sights all along.
    “Colin! Good to see you. Glad you decided to come. What do you think of it all?”
    “Very impressive.” If it weren’t for the pictures in this lower gallery, Raeburn with his pink-cheeked girls, Turner with the Thames on fire, some lesser English School landscapes with billows of green elms and summer skies, the place would look like a funeral parlour.
    Carfield paid a long moment’s attention to Grant’s light grey summer-weight suit, then eyed the pale blue shirt and dark red tie. “There will be a lot of the media here. The Times and the Post, a couple of magazines. TV reporters too—some girl for the eleven o’clock news. I think you should handle them.”
    “They’ll need more than one drink apiece.”
    Carfield didn’t seem to hear that. “We’ll let Seldov deal with the old ladies. I’ll be with Mr. Schofeld.”
    “Of course,” Grant murmured. Carfield looked at him sharply. “When is he due?”
    “At six. You’ll stay until the end?”
    That’s an order, thought Grant. He smiled, hid a sudden attack of depression, and repeated, “Of course.”
    Carfield nodded his approval, and even extended some of it to the light grey suit. It was of excellent worsted material and well cut. Probably belonged to Grant’s more affluent days in Washington. “Could be worse,” he observed, and looked round at the progress of his preparations. “But where’s Seldov?”
    “Upstairs. Judging the lights.”
    “In the Dali room?” Carfield’s voice rose slightly. “I want them left exactly as we decided this morning.” He was already half-way to the staircase.
    At least, thought Grant, we’ll all have some peace down here for the next ten minutes or so. He walked over to the small group of staff members, gathered together in the frozen huddle of waiting. “Who’s for tennis?” he asked, and raised a smile from four of them, polite disapproval from two. (Future Carfields?) That was the trouble around here: everyone so damned polite, all customer-trained. Didn’t anyone look at the far end of the gallery and see a Rembrandt, a possible Velazquez, a definite Rubens on the wall outside Maurice Schofeld’s most private office, and feel something beyond a price tag and an impressive name? Now come on, he told himself: some of them must, or why spend their lives here? Never underestimate a man because he dresses like an undertaker.
    He felt the pull to the Velazquez, unauthenticated or not, and drifted towards the end wall for the rest of the waiting time.
    * * *
    There was a scattering of prompt arrivals, a slight clotting of the stream by half-past five. These were the wise ones, able to examine the Dali drawings before the explosion of visitors made viewing impossible. To be seen, however, was perhaps as important as to see. Most of them followed the guard’s directions and trooped upstairs. But there were always some who would decide they’d do that when they were good and ready, fortified by a glass of champagne which was to be served on the ground floor. One of Carfield’s useless precautions to keep the Dali room unsloshed, thought Grant as he waited glassless (staff rules) for a member of the media