Don Pedro followed him across the gallery, counting the red dots, but waited until the office door was closed before repeating his question.
“How much have you taken so far?”
“A little over a hundred and seventy thousand pounds on the opening night, and this morning a gentleman called to reserve two more pieces, the Bonnard and an Utrillo, which will take us comfortably over two hundred thousand pounds. We’ve also had an inquiry from the National Gallery about the Raphael.”
“Good, because I need a hundred thousand right now.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Mr. Martinez.”
“Why not? It’s my money.”
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for several days, but you’ve been away shooting in Scotland.”
“Why can’t I have my money?” demanded Martinez, his tone now menacing.
“Last Friday we had a visit from a Mr. Ledbury of the Midland Bank, St. James’s. He was accompanied by their lawyer, who instructed us to pay any monies raised from this sale directly to the bank.”
“He doesn’t have the auth
ority to do that. This collection belongs to me.”
“They produced legal documents to show that you had signed over the entire collection, with every piece listed individually, as security against an agreed loan.”
“But I repaid that loan yesterday.”
“The lawyer returned just before the opening yesterday evening with a court order restraining me from transferring the money to anyone other than the bank. I feel I must point out to you, Mr. Martinez, that this is not the way we like to conduct business at Agnew’s.”
“I’ll get a letter of release immediately. When I return, I expect you to have a check for one hundred thousand pounds waiting for me.”
“I look forward to seeing you later, Mr. Martinez.”
Don Pedro left the gallery without shaking hands or uttering another word. He walked briskly in the direction of St. James’s, with his Rolls-Royce following a few yards behind. When he reached the bank, he strode in and headed straight for the manager’s office before anyone had the opportunity to ask him who he was, or who he wanted to see. When he reached the end of the corridor, he didn’t knock on the door, but barged straight in, to find Mr. Ledbury seated behind his desk dictating to a secretary.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Martinez,” Ledbury said, almost as if he’d been expecting him.
“Get out,” Don Pedro said, pointing at the secretary, who quickly left the room without even glancing at the manager.
“What game do you think you’re playing, Ledbury? I’ve just come from Agnew’s. They’re refusing to hand over any money from the sale of my personal art collection, and say you’re to blame.”
“I’m afraid it’s no longer your collection,” said Ledbury, “and it hasn’t been for some considerable time. You’ve clearly forgotten that you assigned it to the bank after we extended your overdraft facilities yet again.” He unlocked the top drawer of a small green cabinet and took out a file.
“But what about the money from my sale of the Barrington’s shares? That netted over three million.”
“Which still leaves you with an overdraft—” he flicked through a few pages of the file—“of seven hundred seventy-two thousand four hundred and fifty pounds at close of business last night. In order not to put you through this embarrassment again, let me remind you that you also recently signed a personal guarantee, which includes your home in the country and number forty-four Eaton Square. And I must advise you that, should the sale of your art collection fail to cover your current overdraft, we shall be asking you which of those properties you wish to dispose of first.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can, Mr. Martinez, and if necessary, I will. And the next time you want to see me,” said Ledbury as he walked across to the door, “perhaps you’d be kind enough to make an appointment through my secretary. Let me remind you, this is a bank, not a casino.” He opened the door. “Good day, sir.”
Martinez slunk out of the manager’s office, down the corridor, across the banking hall and back on to the street, to find his Rolls-Royce parked outside waiting for him. He even wondered if he still owned that.
“Take me home,” he said.
When they reached the top of St. James’s, the Rolls-Royce turned left, drove down Piccadilly and on past Green Park station, from which a stream of people was emerging. Among them was a young man who crossed the road, turned left and headed toward Albemarle Street.
When Sebastian entered Agnew’s gallery for the third time in less than a week, he only intended to stay for a few moments to collect Jessica’s picture. He could have taken it when the police had accompanied him back to the gallery, but he’d been too distracted by the thought of Sam locked up in a cell.
This time he was distracted again, not by the thought of rescuing a damsel in distress, but by the quality of the works of art on display. He stopped to admire Raphael’s La Madonna de Bogotá, which had been in his possession for a few hours, and tried to imagine what it must be like to write out a check for £100,000 and know it wouldn’t bounce.