False Impression

“Oh yes,” said Anna, with a smile. “I well remember your suggestion that Fenston had convinced you that I was worth five hundred dollars a day.”

“You have taken advantage of an old man,” said Nakamura with a smile, “but I shall not go back on my word.”

Krantz thought she heard a door close, and without giving Wellington a second look returned quickly to the balcony. She needed the use of her knife to secure entry into the next room. She moved stealthily across the floor, coming to a halt at the end of another four-poster bed. She switched on the flashlight, expecting to be greeted by a blank wall. But not this time.

The insane eyes of a genius stared at her. The insane eyes of an assassin stared back.

Krantz smiled for the second time that day. She climbed up onto the bed and crawled slowly toward her next victim. She was within inches of the canvas when she unsheathed her knife, raised it above her head, and was about to plunge the blade into the neck of Van Gogh, when she remembered what Fenston had insisted on if she hoped to collect four million rather than three. She switched off her flashlight, climbed down from the bed onto the thick carpet, and crawled under the four-poster. She lay flat on her back and waited.

As Arabella and her guests strolled out of the drawing room and into the hallway, she asked Andrews if Brunswick and Picton had returned.

“No, m’lady,” the butler replied, “but there are a lot of rabbits about tonight.”

“Then I shall go and fetch the rascals myself,” muttered Arabella and, turning to her guests, added, “Sleep well. I’ll see you both at breakfast.”

Nakamura bowed before accompanying Anna up the staircase, again stopping occasionally to admire Arabella’s ancestors, who gazed back at him.

“You will forgive me, Anna,” he said, “for taking my time, but I may not be given the opportunity of meeting these gentlemen again.”

Anna smiled as she left him to admire the Romney of Mrs. Siddons.

She continued on down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the Van Gogh room. She opened the bedroom door and switched on the light, stopping for a moment to admire the portrait of Van Gogh. She took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe, placing the rest of her clothes on the sofa at the end of the four-poster. She then turned on the light by the side of the bed and checked her watch. It was just after eleven. She disappeared into the bathroom.

When Krantz heard the sound of a shower, she slid out from under the canopy and knelt beside the bed. She cocked an ear, like an attentive animal sniffing the wind. The shower was still running. She stood up, walked across to the door, and switched off the bedroom light, while leaving on the reading light by the side of the bed. She pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed away from the lamp and climbed carefully in. She took one last look at the Van Gogh, before neatly replacing the blanket and cover over her head and finally disappearing under the sheet. Krantz lay flat and didn’t move a muscle. She was so slight that she barely made an impression in the half light. Although she remained secreted

under the sheets, she heard the shower being turned off. This was followed by silence. Anna must have been drying herself, and then she heard a switch being flicked off—the bathroom light, followed by the sound of a door closing.

Krantz extracted the knife from its tailor-made sheath and gripped the handle firmly as Anna walked back into the bedroom. Anna slipped under the covers on her side of the bed and immediately turned on one side, stretching out an arm to switch off the bedside light. She lowered her head onto the soft goose-feather pillow. As she drifted into those first moments of slumber, her last thought was that the evening could hardly have gone better. Mr. Nakamura had not only closed the deal, but offered her a job. What more could she ask for?

Anna was drifting off to sleep when Krantz leaned across and touched her back with the tip of her forefinger. She ran the finger tip down her spine and onto her buttocks, coming to a halt at the top of her thigh. Anna sighed. Krantz paused for a moment, before placing her hand between Anna’s legs.

Was she dreaming, or was someone touching her, Anna wondered, as she lay in that semiconscious state before falling asleep. She didn’t move a muscle. It wasn’t possible that someone else could be in the bed. She must be dreaming. That was when she felt the cold steel of a blade as it slipped in between her thighs. Suddenly Anna was wide awake, a thousand thoughts rushing through her mind. She was about to throw the blanket back and dive onto the floor, when a voice said quietly but firmly, “Don’t even think about moving, not even a muscle; you have a six-inch knife between your legs, and the blade is facing upward.” Anna didn’t move. “If you as much as murmur, I’ll slit you up from your crotch to your throat, and you’ll live just long enough to wish you were dead.”

Anna felt the steel of the blade wedged between her thighs and tried hard not to move, although she couldn’t stop trembling.

“If you follow my instructions to the letter,” said Krantz, “you might just live, but don’t count on it.”

Anna didn’t, and knew that if she was to have the slightest chance of survival, she would have to play for time. “What do you want?” she asked.

“I told you not to murmur,” repeated Krantz, moving the knife up between Anna’s thighs until the blade was a centimeter from the clitoris. Anna didn’t argue.

“There is a light on your side of the bed,” said Krantz. “Lean across, very slowly, and turn it on.”

Anna leant over and felt the blade move with her as she switched on the bedside light.

“Good,” said Krantz. “Now I’m going to pull back the blanket on your side of the bed, while you remain still. I won’t be removing the knife—yet.”

Anna stared in front of her, while Krantz slowly pulled the covers back on her side of the bed.

“Now pull your knees up under your chin,” said Krantz, “slowly.”

Anna obeyed her order, and once again felt the knife move with her.

“Now push yourself up onto your knees and turn to face the wall.”

Anna placed her left elbow on the bed, pushed herself up slowly onto her knees, and inched around until she was facing the wall. She stared up at Van Gogh. When she saw his bandaged ear, she couldn’t help remembering the last act Krantz had performed on Victoria.

Krantz was now kneeling directly behind her, still gripping firmly onto the handle of the knife.