False Impression

Once the temporary chauffeur had dropped Anna back at the Seiyo, she couldn’t wait to check out—she picked up her key from reception and ran up the stairs to her room on the first floor. She sat on the end of the bed and called Arabella first. She sounded wide awake.

“A veritable Portia,” was Arabella’s final comment after she had learned the news. Which Portia, Anna wondered, Shylock’s nemesis, or Brutus’s wife? She unclasped her gold chain, unfastened the leather belt, kicked off her shoes, and finally slipped out of her dress. She exchanged her more formal attire for a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Although checkout was at noon, she still had enough time to make one more call. Anna needed to plant the clue.

The ringing tone continued for some time before a sleepy voice answered.

“Who’s this?”

“Vincent.”

“Christ, what time is it? I must have fallen asleep.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve heard my news.”

“You’ve sold the painting?”

“How did you guess?”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“Congratulations. So where are you going next?”

“To pick it up.”

“And where’s that?”

“Where it’s always been. Go back to sleep.”

The phone went dead.

Tina smiled as she drifted back to sleep. Fenston was going to be beaten at his own game for once.

“Oh, my God,” she said out loud, suddenly wide awake.

“I didn’t warn her that the stalker is a woman and knows she’s in Tokyo.”

36

FENSTON STRETCHED AN arm across the bed and fumbled for the phone as he tried to keep his eyes shut.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Vincent’s just made a call.”

“And where was she calling from this time?” asked Fenston, his eyes suddenly wide open.

“Tokyo.”

“So she must have seen Nakamura.”

“Sure has,” said Leapman, “and claims she’s sold the painting.”

“You can’t sell something that you don’t own,” said Fenston, as he switched on the bedside light. “Did she say where she was going next?”

“To pick it up.”

“Did she give any clue as to where that might be?”