The steering! I gazed at him in horror. Then I gulped. ‘It’s a good thing you didn’t mention that on the Corniche. Whatever speed we had been travelling at, I’d have jumped ship.’
‘That’s why I didn’t mention it.’ He jerked the steeringwheel right and left. ‘Look. Hardly any resistance,’ he said. ‘I think this old crate has had its day. Still, no harm done if bloody hairy.’
We sat there, listening to the engine ticking over into silence. Luc roused himself.
‘Come on. Let’s get in. Have you got your key card? You open the gate and I’ll bring the bags.’ He tapped the steering wheel. ‘I’ll get someone to tow this death-trap away in the morning.’
‘Why not ask Tom to take it to the garage?’ I said naughtily. ‘That’s one way of getting rid of him.’
Luc laughed. ‘I might at that.’
We clambered out of the car and got in through the gate, me leading the way when, halfway up the steps to the front door of the Villa Matisse, I realised I’d left my phone on the dashboard.
‘Give me the car keys,’ I said, grabbing them from Luc’s hand. ‘I’ll catch you up.’
Scooting back up the steps ten seconds later, I was following in Luc’s wake through the door when just across the threshold he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, so suddenly I bumped into his back.
‘What the—?’ I began, and broke off as I realised hewas staring through the open doors into the salon as if transfixed. Turning my head, I followed Luc’s gaze and saw what he was seeing.
‘Tom?’ he said quietly. ‘What are you doing?’
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s one of the abiding mysteries of mankind that in this sort of situation, we all promptly ask what someone is doing despite it being immediately and blindingly obvious precisely what that person is doing. In Tom’s case, it could not have been plainer. He was standing in the salon holding one of the Matisse pictures, which he had evidently just removed from the wall. And while, of course, not to his credit, Tom seemed to appreciate this point himself.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ he replied, looking almost amused. ‘I’m stealing your paintings, of course.’
Slowly putting our bags down on the floor, Luc straightened up and took a step forwards.
‘Tom,’ he said again. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool.’
I peered past Luc into the salon. Not all the lights were on, but you could see only too clearly the results of Tom’s enterprise to date. It was the last of the Matisse cut-outs he was holding, the worn, gilt frames of the others now empty of their images, propped against the side of the sofa nearest to him. On the sofa itself, a clutch of crackedcanvases or thick paper mounts – I know not which – were rolled up, their ends roughly tied with string and looking for all the world like a clutch of giant’s sausages.
Carefully, in an almost finicky way, Tom put down the picture he had been holding, at which point I saw what else he was holding. As Luc took another step forwards, I dropped the car keys and grabbed hold of the back of his jacket with both hands.
‘Luc!’ I screamed. ‘Don’t! He’s got a knife!’
‘Well spotted, Madam Cook,’ drawled Tom and laughed, an evil little falsetto laugh that sent a shiver down my spine. He waved the knife in the air. I recognised it. It was the chef’s knife from the Villa Matisse kitchen, a classic Sabatier with a pearly white handle and about twenty centimetres in length.
‘Tom, you’d better put the knife down,’ Luc said, not pleading or ordering but as though he was offering advice, his voice calm, unruffled, almost genial. I marvelled at his composure. For my part, I was beginning to feel extremely frightened. Then the next moment, I nearly passed out.
‘Sure, I’ll put it down.’ Tom chucked the knife onto the sofa only to draw something from a pocket of his scruffy Barbour and wave that in the air. ‘This do you instead?’
He was waving a gun.
My legs turned to water. I couldn’t speak. I could not believe what was happening. All I knew was that I had to hang on to Luc’s jacket if only for my own support. The three of us were silent for a moment, arrested in motion like some photo still from a crime film:Scene One, the Heist. Then, with a sudden shaft of fear, I rememberedNicole. Had this moron done something to her? It seemed that Luc had the same thought at the same moment.
‘Where’s Nicole, Tom?’ he asked, still speaking in an almost chatty sort of way, surprising me until I realised he was doing his damnedest not to antagonise the man.
‘Nicole?’ Tom gave a scornful grunt. ‘Oh, the stupid little ninny has scarpered, run away, legged it, you know.’
I breathed a silent sigh of relief. ‘Perhaps that’s just as well.’ Luc nodded. Standing behind him, I couldn’t see his expression but Tom, watching him, must have seen something in his face because for the first time he looked disconcerted, nervous even.
‘I wasn’t going to hurt her,’ he whined.
‘Of course you weren’t.’ Luc gestured at the scene in the salon. ‘But can we talk about this sensibly now, Tom? I’m sure we can work something out. We’re all friends here.’
This was a mistake. As I watched Tom’s mouth turn ugly with fury, I knew Luc had made a mistake, what might turn out to be a fatal mistake. The skin of his pockmarked cheeks redly engorged, Tom screamed at him, spittle drooling from his twisted lips.
